THE _ROWAN'S_ LIGHT
Dick's cuts were not deep and he joined his companions at supper. One
of the windows was open and the smell of peat smoke came in, while the
noise of Ewes water running down the glen mingled pleasantly with the
bleating of sheep. The room, however, was illuminated by electric
light and a row of sepia drawings hung on the wall.
"There's something distinctive about the Border," Whitney remarked;
"but there's one thing that strikes me. In old English
cities--Chester, for example--there are streets that look as they did
in Queen Elizabeth's reign; but the Scottish towns you've shown me
might have been built forty years ago."
Andrew smiled.
"The reason lies in our national character. We're utilitarian and
don't allow sentiment to interfere with progress. As soon as a
building gets out of date, we pull it down. Our past lives in the
race's memory and we don't need to keep it embodied in stone."
He turned to Dick, who had been unusually quiet.
"It's lucky you didn't get worse hurt. Did you see the car's number?"
Dick hesitated a moment.
"No-o. The plate was covered with mud."
"But there has been no rain," Whitney objected. "I was near the gate
when the driver swerved, and I couldn't see any reason for his doing
so."
"He may not have noticed the loose stones until he was close to them,
and then lost control of the steering because he was startled; or
perhaps the wheels skidded on the loose metal," Andrew suggested.
"It's curious," Whitney persisted, "because if the fellow's nerve had
given way he would have gone over the motorcycle and into the gate.
Anyhow, he didn't lose control, because he straightened her up the
moment Andrew threw you back."
"His nerve did not give way," said Dick.
Andrew looked hard at him.
"You know something. What is it, Dick?"
"I know the car," Dick said grimly; "but it isn't nice to think your
own friends came near killing you."
"You're sure?"
"Positive. I thought I recognized the hum she makes on the top gear,
and when I was close behind them at the bottom of the glen, I saw the
tail-lamp had a cracked glass and a dinge in the top. It isn't a
coincidence that our lamp's like that. I remember when Watson dropped
it."
"Staffer certainly wouldn't lose control of his steering."
"No," said Dick; "he's as steady as a rock. So's Watson. You don't
often find a lowland Scot of his type jumpy."
Whitney lighted a cigarette and leaned back, watching the others.
"Staffer was going to Glasgow," Andrew argued.
"Yes; the hydraulic ram that pumps our water had broken down and he
meant to see the makers. He told me he might not be back for a few
days."
"But would he return by Edinburgh? Had he any business there?"
"None that I know of; we deal with Glasgow. I wanted him to come up to
Edinburgh not long ago, but he wouldn't. Said he didn't know anybody
in the place and there was nothing to do."
"After all, you may have been mistaken about the car."
"Oh, no," said Dick; "but we'll talk about something else. I don't
like to think that Staffer nearly finished me--and he wouldn't feel
happy about it. Of course he didn't recognize us; and, on the whole, I
think we'd better not mention it to him."
"I agree with you," Whitney said; and they planned to ship the damaged
machine to Hawick and to walk back across the hills.
On their return to Appleyard, Whitney watched Staffer closely when
Dick explained that they had been delayed by an accident in the glen
at Teviot-head. He showed only a polite interest in the matter, and
when Whitney talked about Edinburgh, he remarked that he found the
city disappointing and seldom visited it.
A few days later, they all sat on the terrace one calm evening when
Watson came back with the car and gave Dick and Staffer some letters.
"From Murray," Dick announced when he had opened his. "They're going
to search the Colvend country next Thursday, and he suggests that we
might like to join, though he hints that he's not allowed to give us
much information."
"What does he expect to find?" Staffer asked. His tone expressed
indifference, but Whitney suspected that it covered a keen interest.
"He doesn't say. Somebody working a wireless installation, I imagine."
"And is Thursday particularly suitable for that kind of thing?"
"It's Dumfries' early-closing day. They can get a lot of motorcyclists
then. Murray states that the coast and moss-roads will be watched."
"You ought to go," Elsie interposed. "Mr. Whitney would enjoy a day
upon the heather."
"An opportunity for combining a pleasant excursion with a patriotic
duty!" Staffer remarked. "Well, the high ground from Bengairn to Susie
Hill will need some searching. No doubt, they'll push across the moors
toward Black Beast?"
"Murray doesn't say, but it's probable. I don't know whether the
military authorities have the spy mania; but if there is any ground
for suspicion, it can do no harm to draw the Galloway moors. What do
you think, Andrew?"
"I'd try the hills farther east."
"About Eskdale, of course?" Staffer said with ironical humor.
"Well," Andrew replied, "I don't claim much strategical knowledge, but
if we take it for granted that a hostile force could be landed on our
east coast--"
"Rosyth's being a naval station would make that difficult. But go on."
Beginning rather awkwardly, Andrew worked out a supposititious plan of
campaign, and to Whitney, who had just been over the ground, it
seemed a very good one. The scheme he outlined certainly appeared
practical; and Whitney saw that Staffer was more interested than he
pretended, and that his objections were designed to draw Andrew on.
Both showed a knowledge of military needs and history; and when
Staffer mentioned Cromwell's retreat on Dunbar, Whitney thought
Andrew's defense of his favorite route across, instead of around, the
Lammermuirs was good. He noted that Staffer did not claim as much
local knowledge; indeed, he thought he was careful not to do so.
"I'm not convinced that we have much to fear, but you have worked the
thing out very well," he said at last. "Have you thought that the War
Office might find something to interest them in your views?"
Andrew flushed.
"They're probably bothered enough by amateur strategists," he replied.
"Of course, I may be all wrong; but if there really did seem any need
for it, I'd try to get somebody with influence to put my ideas before
them."
Staffer folded a letter he had been reading, and looked at his watch.
"I must send off a telegram," he said, and left them.
"Well, Andrew, are we going on this spy hunt?" Whitney asked. It
sounded promising to him.
"I could take the boat to Rough Firth. Then we might go on to Wigtown
Bay, where you could see your people. Will you come, Dick?"
"Yes--as far as Rough Firth; but I don't know about the rest. Small
boat sailing needs an acquired taste. You have to get used to eating
half-cooked food and sleeping among wet sails. On my last cruise,
drops from a deck-beam fell on my face all night when it rained.
Andrew's hardier than I am, and no doubt truer to the old strain; but
while the Annandale Johnstones did many reckless things, they had
generally sense enough to stick to dry land."
They made the necessary arrangements, and a few days later the _Rowan_
went down the Solway with the strong ebb-tide. The shoals were
beginning to show above the sand-filled water when she drifted past a
point fringed by low reefs and boulders, at Criffel's southern foot.
Whitney guessed its distance as about three miles, and took a compass
bearing at Andrew's order. The coast turned sharply west at the point,
and the mountain, sloping to meet it, broke down into a wall of cliffs
that rose, grim and forbidding, from the beach. At one place, a gap in
the wall suggested a river mouth. There was not much wind, the sky was
hazy, and on the port hand a stretch of gray water ran back to the
horizon. It looked like open sea; but the strong rippling in the
foreground indicated that the tide was running across thinly-covered
banks.
"I should have liked a breeze," Andrew said. "If we bring her around,
the ebb will sweep us past the mouth of the Firth. There's not much
water on the sands ahead, but we ought to get a fathom, if I can find
the Barnhourie gut. Keep her as she's going, Dick, with the knoll
ashore on the bowsprit-end, while I look at the chart."
Andrew went below and Whitney turned to Dick.
"Do you know this gut?" he asked.
"I remember something about it, but they keep changing. See what depth
there is."
Whitney found six feet, and looked around as he heard the topsail
flap. The _Rowan_ was sailing upright, but going very fast, with the
current eddying about her. Wreaths of sand came up to the surface and
went down again.
"Keep her full," he said. "She's luffing off her course."
"It's possible. The tide's strong and she's not steering well. I dare
say there's enough water everywhere, but Andrew must find the gut: he
feels he has to do the proper thing. He's made like that."
"We'll take no chances," Whitney answered; and ran to the scuttle.
"Pull up the board and come on deck!" he shouted to Andrew.
In a few moments Andrew's head appeared; and after a glance round, he
swung himself up and jumping aft took the helm from Dick.
"Ready with the head-sheets!" he ordered. "We'll come round."
She began to turn and then suddenly stopped, with a rush of sandy
water boiling about her stern. Andrew seized an oar, but could not
push her off, and she sank on one side until the water flowed along
the lower deck-planks.
"She's fast," Whitney said. "Where are we?"
"On the Barnhourie tongue of the Mersehead bank," replied Andrew,
throwing down the oar. "I meant to run through the gut between them."
He turned to Dick. "You're a hundred yards off your course."
"That's the tide's fault. Shall we take the sail off her?"
Andrew thought for a moment.
"Yes. I don't know about laying out an anchor. The flood runs pretty
fast here; but we'll see when the sands are dry."
They lowered the canvas and then went below to cook a meal. This took
them some time, for the floor and lockers slanted awkwardly, as the
boat listed over, and when they went on deck again the light had begun
to fade. Whitney was astonished at the transformation. What had looked
like open water when he went below, was now a waste of sloppy sand
that ran back as far as he could see. It was, however, pierced by a
broad channel, from which a depression, filled with shallow pools, cut
through the bank and ended in a lagoon not far off. This was evidently
the gut Andrew had meant to navigate. The cliffs round the bay, to the
westward, were losing their sharpness of outline; but two or three
blocks of houses and a tower on the rocky point showed black above the
level strip behind them.
"That's Southerness; they'll light up, soon," Andrew said. "I know one
of the light-keepers and I'll walk across and ask him about the
entrance to Rough Firth. There's a flock of duck up the channel, Jim,
and you might get a shot at them from the dinghy when it's a bit
darker. Will you stay on board, Dick?"
"Not much! There's nothing more melancholy than sitting alone in a
stranded boat. I'll go with Jim."
Andrew went below and trimmed the anchor-light; then fastened it
firmly to the forestay, and set off across the sands. Half an hour
later, Dick and Whitney carried the small, folding dinghy to the
channel and pushed her off. The current was now slack and they made
progress until Dick shipped his oars and, kneeling down, took up the
small hand paddles; but he let her drift for a few moments while they
looked about. It was dark and the shore-line had faded, but some
distance up the channel a small black sail was visible across the
bank, and a steady bright beam marked the Southerness lighthouse.
Half-seen birds were wading about the water's edge, but Dick said
these were oyster-catchers and not worth powder and shot. A curlew's
wild whistle fell from overhead and the cry of a black-backed gull
came out of the obscurity like a hoarse laugh. It was rather dreary;
and their clothes and the dinghy were getting damp; so, dipping the
paddles, Dick drove the boat ahead.
After a while they distinguished a cluster of small dark objects some
distance in front, and made toward them cautiously. The ducks did not
seem to get much plainer, and Whitney thought they were swimming away.
Stopping a few minutes to allay suspicion, Dick paddled again; but the
ducks vanished as they crept on. Then he turned in toward the bank and
pushed the craft along the bottom, hoping the dark background would
hide their approach. Presently they saw the ducks again and Whitney
raised his gun.
There was a red flash, smoke blew into his face, and the air was
filled with the clamor of startled wildfowl. Still, they had heard a
splash and Dick got out the oars and rowed ahead. As he picked up a
floating mallard, they heard a flutter and knew there was a crippled
duck not far off. Rowing out into the stream, they saw it rise
awkwardly from the water. Whitney fired, and missed. After this, they
spent some time in trying to get into range before he brought down
the bird. Then they ran the dinghy ashore and Dick landed with his
gun.
"I'll walk up the bank and try the soft places about the pools," he
said. "If I don't turn up soon, it will be because I've gone back to
the _Rowan_."
Whitney lighted his pipe while he waited to allow the birds to recover
from their alarm, but he had to strike several matches because his
hands were wet, and he was annoyed to find that he had not many left.
It was very dark, and a cold wind was blowing. Whitney lay down on the
floorings, for shelter and to hide the glow of his pipe. The birds
were quiet, but a dull, throbbing roar came out of the distance, and
he supposed it was the splash of the surf on the seaward edge of the
shoals. When his pipe was empty, he got up, intending to step
overboard and drag the dinghy down to the receding water; but he found
that this was not needful, as the ebb had nearly run out. Paddling up
the channel he heard the whistle of curlew, and for a time followed
the invisible birds. He could not get a shot, and, deciding that he
had had enough, he laid down the paddles. Hitherto, he had been
looking ahead, but when he put the oars in the crutches he was facing
aft.
Grasping the oars firmly, he looked for the twinkle of the _Rowan's_
light. In his surprise he almost dropped an oar. The _Rowan_ had
disappeared.