HOW A MILLER STROVE WITH HIS OWN MILL-WHEEL
I lay that night on the bare moors, with no company save the birds, and
no covering save a dry bush of heather. The stars twinkled a myriad
miles away, and the night airs blew soft, and I woke in the morning as
fresh as if I had lain beneath the finest coverlet on the best of linen.
Near me was a great pool in a burn, and there I bathed, splashing to my
heart's content in the cold water. Then I ate my breakfast, which was
no better than the remnants of the food I had brought away with me the
day before from Smitwood; but I gulped it down heartily and hoped for
something better. There will be so much complaining, I fear, in my tale
ere it is done, that I think it well to put down all my praise of the
place and the hours which passed pleasingly.
By this time I was on a little plateau, near the great black hill of
Coomb Dod, a place whence three streams flow--the Camps Water and the
Coulter Water to the Clyde, and the burn of Kingledoors to Tweed. Now
here had I been wise I should at once have gone down the last-named to
the upper waters of Tweed near the village of Tweedsmuir, whence I might
have come without danger to the wilder hills and the Cor Water
hiding-place. But as I stayed there desire came violently upon me to go
down to the fair green haughlands about the Holmes Water, which is a
stream which rises not far off the Kingledoors burn, but which flows
more to the north and enters Tweed in the strath of Drummelzier not
above a few miles from Barns itself and almost at the door of Dawyck.
There I knew was the greater danger, because it lay on the straight line
between Abington and Peebles, a way my cousin Gilbert travelled often in
those days. But I was not disposed at that moment to think of
gradations of danger; and indeed, after my encounter on the previous
afternoon, I was in a haphazard, roystering mood, and would have asked
for nothing better than a chance of making holes in my cousin or his
company.
Now in Holmes Water glen there dwelled many who would receive me gladly
and give me shelter and food if I sought it. There were the Tweedies of
Quarter and Glencotho, kin to myself on the mother's side, not to speak
of a score of herds whom I had dealings with. But my uppermost reason
was to see once more that lovely vale, the fairest, unless it be the
Manor, in all the world. It is scarce six miles long, wide at the
bottom and set with trees and rich with meadows and cornland, but
narrowing above to a long, sinuous green cleft between steep hills. And
through it flows the clearest water on earth, wherein dwell the best
trout--or did dwell, for, as I write, I have not angled in it for many
days. I know not how I can tell of the Holmes Water. It tumbles clear
and tremulous into dark brown pools. In the shallows it is like
sunlight, in the falls like virgin snow. And overall the place hangs a
feeling of pastoral quiet and old romance, such as I never knew
elsewhere.
Midday found me in the nick of the hill above Glencotho debating on my
after course. I had it in my mind to go boldly in and demand aid from
my kinsman. But I reflected that matters were not over-pleasant between
us at the time. My father had mortally offended him on some occasion
(it would be hard to name the Tweedside gentleman whom my father had not
mortally angered), and I could scarce remember having heard that the
quarrel had been made up. I knew that in any case if I entered they
would receive me well for the honour of the name; but I am proud, and
like little to go to a place where I am not heartily welcome. So I
resolved to go to Francie Smails, the herd's, and from him get direction
and provender.
The hut was built in a little turn of the water beneath a high bank. I
knocked at the door, not knowing whether some soldier might not come to
it, for the dragoons were quartered everywhere. But no one came save
Francie himself, a great, godly man who lived alone, and cared not for
priest or woman. He cried aloud when he saw me.
"Come in by," he says, "come in quick; this is nae safe place the noo."
And he pulled me in to the hearth, where his mid-day meal was standing.
With great good-will he bade me share it, and afterward, since he had
heard already of my case and had no need for enlightenment thereon, he
gave me his good counsel.
"Ye maunna bide a meenute here," he said. "I'll pit up some cauld braxy
and bread for ye, for it's a' I have at this time o' year. Ye maun get
oot o' the glen and aff to the hills wi' a' your pith, for some o'
Maister Gilbert's men passed this morn on their way to Barns, and
they'll be coming back afore nicht. So ye maun be aff, and I counsel ye
to tak the taps o' the Wormel and syne cross the water abune the Crook,
and gang ower by Talla and Fruid to the Cor. Keep awa' frae the Clyde
hills for ony sake, for they're lookit like my ain hill i' the lambin'
time; and though it's maybe safer there for ye the noo, in a wee it'll
be het eneuch. But what are ye gaun to dae? Ye'll be makkin' a try to
win ower the sea, for ye canna skip aboot on thae hills like a paitrick
for ever.
"I do not know," said I; "I have little liking for another sea journey,
unless all else is hopeless. I will bide in the hills as long as I can,
and I cannot think that the need will be long. For I have an inkling,
and others beside me, that queer things will soon happen."
"Guid send they dae," said he, and I bade him good-bye. I watched him
striding off to the hill, and marvelled at the life ne led. Living from
one year's end to another on the barest fare, toiling hard on the barren
steeps for a little wage, and withal searching his heart on his long
rounds by the canon of the book of God. A strange life and a hard, yet
no man knows what peace may come out of loneliness.
Now had I taken his advice I should have been saved one of the most
vexatious and hazardous episodes of my life. But I was ever
self-willed, and so, my mind being set on going down the Holmes vale, I
thought nothing of going near the Wormel, but set off down the bridle
way, as if I were a King's privy councillor and not a branded exile.
I kept by the stream till patches of fields began to appear and the
roofs of the little clachan. Then I struck higher up on the hillside
and kept well in the shade of a little cloud of birk trees which lay
along the edge of the slope. It was a glorious sunny day, such as I
scarce ever saw surpassed, though I have seen many weathers under many
skies. The air was as still and cool as the first breath of morning,
though now it was mid-afternoon. All the nearer hills stood out
clear-lined and silent; a bird sang in the nigh thicket; sheep bleated
from the meadow, and around the place hung the low rustle of the life of
the woods.
Soon I came to a spot above the bend of the water near the house called
Holmes Mill. There dwelt my very good friend the miller, a man blessed
with as choice a taste in dogs as ever I have seen, and a great Whig to
boot--both of which tricks he learned from a Westland grandfather.
Lockhart was his name, and his folk came from the Lee near the town of
Lanark to this green Tweedside vale. From the steading came the sound
of life. There was a great rush of water out of the dam. Clearly the
miller was preparing for his afternoon's labours. The wish took me
strongly to go down and see him, to feel the wholesome smell of grinding
corn, and above all to taste his cakes, which I had loved of old. So
without thinking more of it, and in utter contempt for the shepherd's
warning, I scrambled down, forded the water, and made my way to the
house.
Clearly something was going on at the mill, and whatever it was there
was a great to-do. Sounds of voices came clear to me from the
mill-door, and the rush of the water sang ever in my ears. The miller
has summoned his family to help him, thought I: probably it is the
lifting of the bags to the mill-loft.
But as I came nearer I perceived that it was not a mere chatter of
friendly tongues, but some serious matter. There was a jangling note, a
sound as of a quarrel and an appeal. I judged it wise therefore to keep
well in the shadow of the wall and to go through the byre and up to the
loft by an old way which I remembered--a place where one could see all
that passed without being seen of any.
And there sure enough was a sight to stagger me. Some four soldiers with
unstrung muskets stood in the court, while their horses were tethered to
a post. Two held the unhappy miller in their stout grip, and at the back
his wife and children were standing in sore grief. I looked keenly at
the troopers, and as I looked I remembered all too late the shepherd's
words. They were part of my cousin's company, and one I recognised as
my old friend Jan Hamman of the Alphen Road and the Cor Water.
The foremost of the soldiers was speaking.
"Whig though you be," said he "you shall hae a chance of life. You look
a man o' muscle. I'll tell you what I'll dae. Turn on the sluice and
set the mill-wheel gaun, and then haud on to it; and if you can keep it
back, your life you shall hae, as sure as my name's Tam Gordon. But gin
you let it gang, there'll be four bullets in you afore you're an hour
aulder, and a speedy meeting wi' your Maker. Do you wish to mak the
trial?"
Now the task was hopeless from the commencement, for big though a man
be, and the miller was as broad and high a man as one may see in
Tweeddale, he has no chance against a mill-race. But whether he thought
the thing possible or whether he wanted to gain a few minutes' respite
from death, the man accepted and took off his coat to the task. He
opened the sluice and went forward to the wheel.
Soon the water broke over with a rush and the miller gripped a spoke
like grim death. For a moment the thing was easy, for it takes some
minutes for the water to gather body and force. But in a little it
became harder, and the sinews on his bare arms began to swell with the
strain. But still he held on valiantly and the wheel moved never an
inch. Soon the sweat began to run over his face, and the spray from the
resisted water bespattered him plentifully. Then the strain became
terrible. His face grew livid as the blood surged to his head, his
eyeballs stood out, and his arms seemed like to be torn from their
sockets. The soldiers, with the spirit of cruel children, had forgot
their weapons, and crowded round the wheel to see the sport.
I saw clearly that he could not hold out much longer, and that unless I
wanted to see a friend butchered before my eyes I had better be up and
doing. We were two resolute men; I armed and with considerable skill of
the sword, he unarmed, but with the strength of a bull. The most
dangerous things about our opponents were their weapons. Could I but
get between them and their muskets we could make a fight for it yet.
Suddenly as I looked the man failed. With a sob of weariness he loosed
his hold. The great wheel caught the stream and moved slowly round, and
he almost fell along with it. His tormentors laughed cruelly, and were
about to seize him and turn back, when I leaped from the loft window
like some bolt from a clear sky.
My head was in a whirl and I had no thought of any plan. I only knew
that I must make the venture at any cost, or else be branded in my soul
as a coward till my dying day.
I fell and scrambled to my feet.
"Lockhart," I cried, "here man, here. Run."
He had the sense to see my meaning. Exhausted though he was, he broke
from his astonished captors, and in a moment was beside me and the
weapons.
As I looked on them I saw at a glance where our salvation lay.
"Take these two," I said, pointing to the muskets. "I will take the
others."
I cleared my throat and addressed the soldiers. "Now, gentlemen," said
I, "once more the fortune of war has delivered you into my hands. We,
as you perceive, command the weapons. I beg your permission to tell you
that I am by no means a poor shot with the musket, and likewise that I
do not stick at trifles, as doubtless my gallant friend Master Hamman
will tell you."
The men were struck dumb with surprise to find themselves thus taken at
a disadvantage. They whispered for a little among themselves.
Doubtless the terrors of my prowess had been so magnified by the victims
in the last escapade to cover their shame that I was regarded as a
veritable Hector.
"Are you the Laird of Barns?" said the leader at last, very politely.
I bowed.
"Then give us leave to tell you that we are nane sae fond o' the
Captain, your cousin," said he, thinking to soothe me.
"So much the worse for my cousin," said I.
"Therefore we are disposed to let you gang free."
"I am obliged," said I, "but my cousin is my cousin, and I tolerate no
rebellion toward one so near of blood. I am therefore justified,
gentlemen, in using your own arms against you, since I have always
believed that traitors were shot."
At this they looked very glum. At last one of them spoke up--for after
all they were men.
"If ye'll tak the pick o' ony yin o' us and stand up to him wi' the
sma'-sword, we'll agree to bide by the result."
"I thank you," I said, "but I am not in the mood for sword exercise.
However, I shall be merciful, though that is a quality you have shown
little of. You shall have your horses to ride home on, but your arms you
shall leave with me as a pledge of your good conduct. Strip,
gentlemen."
And strip they did, belt and buckler, pistol and sword. Then I bade
them go, not without sundry compliments as one by one they passed by me.
There were but four of them, and we had all the arms, so the contest was
scarcely equal. Indeed my heart smote me more than once that I had not
accepted the fellow's offer to fight. The leader spoke up boldly to my
face.
"You've gotten the better o' us the noo, but it'll no be long afore
you're gettin' your kail through the reek, Master John Burnet."
At which I laughed and said 'twas a truth I could not deny.