OF OUR WANDERINGS AMONG THE MOORS OF CLYDE
If there had been haste before in our journey there was the more now,
when in a few hours the countryside would be alive with our foes. I
hurriedly considered in my mind the course of events. In three hours'
riding the soldiers, all stark as they were, would come to Abington, and
in three more the road to Douglasdale would be blocked by a dozen
companies. It was no light thing thus to have set the whole hell's byke
in Clydesdale buzzing about my ears.
We were not long in reaching the cave. Here to my joy I found Marjory
all recovered from her fright, and the wound hurting her no more than a
pin's scratch. When I spoke of immediate progress she listened gladly
and was for setting out forthwith. I did not tell her of the soldiers'
discomfiture, for I knew that she would fall to chiding me for my
foolhardiness, and besides she would have more dismal fears for my
future if she knew that I had thus incensed the military against me.
It was with much regret that I bade farewell to Master Lockhart and the
old man; nor would they let me go without a promise that if I found
myself hard pressed at any time in the days to come I would take refuge
with them. I was moved by the sight of the elder, who laying his hand
on my lady's head, stroked her fair golden hair gently and said, "Puir
lass, puir lass, ye're no for the muirs. I foresee ill days coming for
ye when ye'll hae nae guid sword to protect ye. But lippen weel to the
Lord, my bairn, and He'll no forsake ye." So amid the speaking of
farewells and well-wishes we rode out into the green moors.
How shall I tell of that morning ride? I have seen very many days in
April now, for I am a man aging to middle life, but never have I seen
one like that. The sky was one sheet of the faintest blue, with delicate
white clouds blown lightly athwart it. The air was so light that it
scarce stirred the grass, so cool that it made our foreheads as crisp
and free as on a frosty winter's day, so mild that a man might have
fancied himself still in the Low Lands. The place was very quiet save
for a few sounds and these the most delectable on earth--the cries of
sheep and the tender bleating of young lambs, the rise and fall of the
stream, the croon of rock pigeons, and the sterner notes of curlew and
plover. And the grass was short and lawnlike, stretching in wavy ridges
to the stream, seamed with little rush-fringed rills and patched with
fields of heath. Only when we gained the edge had we any view of
country, and even then it was but circumscribed. Steep fronting hills,
all scarred with ravines; beyond, shoulders and peaks rising ever into
the distance, and below us the little glen which holds the head waters
of Tweed.
We crossed the river without slacking rein, for the water scarce reached
above our horses' pasterns. And now we struck up a burn called the
Badlieu, at the foot of which was a herd's shieling. The spirit of the
spring seemed to have clean possessed Marjory and I had never seen her
so gay. All her past sorrows and present difficulties seemed forgotten,
and a mad gaiety held her captive. She, who was for usual so demure,
now cast her gravity to the winds, and seemed bent on taking all the
joys of the fair morning. She laughed, she sang snatches of old songs,
and she leaped her horse lightly over the moss-trenches. She stooped to
pluck some early white wind-flowers, and set some in her hair and some
at her saddle-bow.
"Nay, John," she cried, "if you and I must take to the hills let us do
it with some gallantry. It is glorious to be abroad. I would give
twelve months of sleepy peace at Dawyck for one hour of this life. I
think this must be the Garden of Perpetual Youth in the fairy tale."
The same mad carelessness took hold on me also. Of a sudden my outlook
on the world changed round to the opposite, and the black forebodings
which had been ever present to distress me, seemed to vanish like dew
before the sun. Soon I was riding as gaily as she; while Nicol, as he
ran with great strides and unfaltering breath, he too became
light-hearted, though to tell the truth care was not a commodity often
found with him.
Soon we had climbed the low range which separates the Clyde glen from
the Tweed and turned down the narrow ravine of the burn which I think
they call Fopperbeck, and which flows into the Evan Water. Now it would
have been both easier and quieter to have ridden down the broad, low
glen of the Medlock Water, which flows into Clyde by the village of
Crawford. But this would have brought us perilously near the soldiers
at Abington, and if once the pursuit had begun every mile of distance
would be worth to us much gold. Yet though the danger was so real I
could not think of it as any matter for sorrow, but awaited what fate
God might send with a serene composure, begotten partly of my habitual
rashness and partly of the intoxication of the morn.
We kept over the rocky ravine through which the little river Evan flows
to Annan, and came to the wide moorlands which stretch about the upper
streams of Clyde. Here we had a great prospect of landscape, and far as
eye could see no living being but ourselves moved in these desolate
wastes. Far down, just at the mouth of the glen where the vale widens
somewhat, rose curling smoke from the hamlet of Elvanfoot, a place soon
to be much resorted to and briskly busy, since, forbye lying on the
highway 'twixt Edinburgh and Dumfries, it is there that the by-path goes
off leading to the famous lead mines, at the two places of Leadhills and
Wanlockhead. But now it was but a miserable roadside clachan of some
few low huts, with fodder for neither man nor beast.
As we rode we looked well around us, for we were in an exceeding
dangerous part of our journey. To the right lay Abington and the lower
Clyde valley, where my sweet cousin and his men held goodly fellowship.
Even now they would be buckling saddle-straps, and in two hours would be
in the places through which we were now passing. To the left was the
long pass into Nithsdale, where half a score of gentlemen did their best
to instil loyalty into the Whigs of the hills. I hated the land to that
airt, for I had ever loathed the south and west countries, where there
is naught but sour milk and long prayers without a tincture of gentrice
or letters. I was a man of Tweeddale who had travelled and studied and
mingled among men. I had no grudge against sheltering with the
Tweedside rebels, who were indeed of my own folk; but I had no stomach
for Nithsdale and Clydesdale rant and ill fare. Had not necessity
driven me there I vow I should never have ventured of myself; and as I
rode I swore oftentimes that once I were free of my errand I would seek
my refuge in my own countryside.
And now we were climbing the long range which flanks the Potrail Water,
which is the larger of the twin feeders of Clyde. Now we turned more to
the north, and skirting the wild hills which frown around the pass of
Enterkin, sought the upper streams of the Duneaton Water. I cannot call
to mind all the burns we crossed or the hills we climbed, though they
have all been told to me many a time and again. One little burn I
remember called the Snar, which flowed very quietly and pleasantly in a
deep, heathery glen. Here we halted and suffered our horses to graze,
while we partook of some of the food which the folk of the Cor Water had
sent with us. Now the way which we had come had brought us within seven
miles of the dragoons' quarters at Abington, for it was necessary to
pass near them to get to Douglasdale and Smitwood. But they had no clue
to our whereabouts, and when they set forth against us must needs ride
first to the Tweed valley.
Here in this narrow glen we were in no danger save from some chance
wandering soldier. But this danger was the less to be feared, since if
Gilbert had any large portion of his men out on one errand he would be
sure to set the rest to their duties as garrison. For my cousin had no
love for lax discipline, but had all the family pride of ordering and
being obeyed to the letter. So we kindled a little fire by the
stream-side, and in the ashes roasted some eggs of a muirfowl which
Nicol had picked up on the journey; and which with the cheese and the
cakes we had brought made a better meal than I might hope for for many
days to come. We sat around the fire in the dry heather 'neath the
genial sun, thanking God that we were still alive in the green world and
with few cares save the frustrating of our foes. Marjory was somewhat
less cheerful than in the morning, partly from the fatigue of riding,
which in these waste places is no light thing, and partly because
anxiety for my safety and sorrow at our near parting were beginning to
oppress her. For herself, I verily believe, she had no care, for she
was brave as a lion in the presence of what most women tremble at. But
the loneliness of a great house and the never-appeased desire for
knowledge of my safety were things which came nearer so rapidly that I
did not wonder she lost her gaiety.
"Oh, what will you do alone in these places?" she said. "If you had but
one with you, I should be comforted. Will you not let Nicol accompany
you?"
Now when my lady looked at me with melting eyes and twined her hands in
her eagerness, it was hard to have to deny her. But I was resolved that
my servant should abide at Smitwood to guard her and bring me tidings if
aught evil threatened.
"Nay, dear," I said, "that may not be. I cannot have you left with an
old man who is helpless with age and a crew of hireling servants. I
should have no heart to live in the moors if I had not some hope of your
safety. Believe me, dear, I can very well defend myself. My skill of
hillcraft is as good as any dragoon's, and I have heard folk say that I
am no ill hand with a sword. And I know the countryside like the palm
of my own hand, and friends are not few among these green glens. Trust
me, no ill will come near me, and our meeting will be all the merrier
for our parting."
I spoke heartily, but in truth I was far from feeling such ease of mind.
For my old cursed pride was coming back, and I was beginning to chafe
against the beggarly trade of skulking among the moors when I had a fine
heritage for my own, and above all when I was a scholar and had thoughts
of a peaceful life. I found it hard to reconcile my dream of a
philosophic life wherein all things should be ordered according to the
dictates of reason, with the rough and ready times which awaited me,
when my sword must keep my head, and my first thought must be of meat
and lodging, and cunning and boldness would be qualities more valuable
than subtle speculation and lofty imagining.
In a little we were rested and rode on our way. Across the great moors
of Crawfordjohn we passed, which is a place so lonely that the men in
these parts have a proverb, "Out of the world and into Crawfordjohn."
We still kept the uplands till we came to the springs of a burn called
the Glespin, which flows into the Douglas Water. Our easier path had
lain down by the side of this stream past the little town of Douglas.
But in the town was a garrison of soldiers--small, to be sure, and
feeble, but still there--who were used to harry the moors around
Cairntable and Muirkirk. So we kept the ridges till below us we saw the
river winding close to the hill and the tower of Smitwood looking out of
its grove of trees. By this time darkness was at hand, and the last
miles of our journey were among darkening shadows. We had little fear
of capture now, for we were on the lands of the castle, and Veitch of
Smitwood was famed over all the land for a cavalier and a most loyal
gentleman. So in quiet and meditation we crossed the stream at the
ford, and silently rode up the long avenue to the dwelling.