TELLS OF A DARK HOUR--AND OF A GREAT AWAKENING
Tidings we had upon the morrow in plenty, but no great certainty, for
Rumour, many-mouthed, roamed the country-side, and each mouth had a
different tale to tell. One thing was sure--_part_ of each army had
vanquished _part_ of the other; that is to say, Mar’s left wing was
put to flight by Argyle’s right, while his centre column had routed
Argyle’s left. That it was a well ordered battle no man on either side
dare affirm, and the confusion, the bad discipline, and the lack of
strategic skill on the part of the insurgents, prevented the Earl of
Mar, whose numbers were by far the larger, from recording a complete
victory over the Government troops. Had he even returned to give
battle on the morrow all might have been well; but owing partly to the
desertion of many of the Highlanders from his ranks, partly to the
lack of victuals, and a little, I fear, to dissensions among his chief
officers, he remained inactive, and gradually drew off towards Perth,
claiming the victory on his part, and leaving Argyle to proclaim it on
his own.
In the meantime, on this dark Monday, we heard heavy enough tidings
from time to time. Some were said to be dead who were only taken
prisoners, and others were thought safe whose corpses were found upon
the field. Upwards of eighty officers and gentlemen were lodged as
prisoners in Stirling Castle, while many also on the other side were
carried off to Perth. We heard in the course of the day with real
sorrow, of the death of the gallant young Earl of Strathmore, and of
the brave Chief of Clanranald; and how, sore wounded, that fine old
hero, my Lord Panmure, was a prisoner. Many other ill tidings came to
us, for, as you know, we had friends on both sides in the battle; and
all day long the house was besieged by people of the poorer sort, with
some tale to tell of death or disaster, of loss by battle, or by the
thieving soldiers, making requests for meal or meat, clothing or money,
or merely to pour into my Lady Alva’s ears some incident of harrowing
importance.
Soon after the noon-day dinner, little Charles called me to see a troop
of some five hundred horse which were passing the house, going in the
direction of Dunblane; and my lady desiring to know who they were, went
cautiously to the gate, accompanied by her son and myself, and looked
at the officers who passed to see if she might find any friends among
them. Several went by without her recognising them, but at last came
one who was well-known to her, namely, my Lord George Murray, who upon
seeing my lady, saluted and came forward to speak with her. From him
we learned that he, with the Laird of Inveruitie, had received orders
to march from Burntisland with their battalions to join the Earl of
Mar between Auchterarder and Stirling. They had come with what speed
they could, but owing, I believe, to some delay in the message being
delivered, they were arriving, as my lady told them, “a day behind the
Fair.” Lord George questioned us eagerly upon what had taken place, and
hoped that yesterday’s battle might only be the first of the campaign.
He would not stop for refreshment, even though the servants were now
appearing with jugs of small beer and bottles of claret, but must press
on, as he said, in order to reach headquarters, wherever these might
be, before the dusk fell. As my lady drew back she asked a question
which I had so longed to put myself, that when the words fell from her
lips I was startled by the quick throb of my heart.
“Pray, is our friend, Captain Anthony Fleming, in your company?” she
said. “We should like to salute him kindly.”
Lord George was already riding off, and looked back to answer her.
“Fleming? Anthony Fleming?” he called out. “No, madam, he left
Burntisland on a special mission to my Lord Mar a week since, and is
in all probability over there now with the army. Adieu.”
And the heavy horses went thudding and pounding past us, and for no
reason at all my heart sank low, and the blood ebbed in my cheeks.
“Poor Anthony!” murmured my lady, as we turned away, “God grant he has
come safe out of it!”
I could neither answer nor look at her, for all at once it seemed to me
I saw my friend lying wounded, or perhaps dead, out there on the frozen
morass. So clearly I pictured his face turned up to the sky, his kind
eyes closed to all earthly light for ever, his strong arm lifeless by
his side, that it seemed to me like a prophetic vision, or like the
strange knowledge of current events, which the Highlanders call “second
sight.” I shivered with a sort of fear, and having entered the house
crept away upstairs to the nursery, where little Hal was playing, and
my good Phemie sat placidly spinning, as if no such things as battles
had ever been heard of. I sat myself down on the floor beside her, as
I was used to do as a bairn, and leaned my head against her while I
listened to the drowsy humming of the wheel. She stopped for a moment
to lay her kind hand upon my hair.
“What ails my lamb the day?” she said, tenderly, and at the touch and
tone, so truly motherly, the tears rose in my eyes and dropped down
into my lap. Harry, who had stopped playing, came running up, and
putting his soft arms round my neck, bade me “not to greet.”
“She’s sorry about the battle, Phemie,” said the dear little fellow,
“and the poor shotted soldiers and the hurt horse and all. How glad I
am that my papa is not in Scotland--he would have been in the fight,
and perhaps have got shotted too.”
The baby speech, and the loving clasp of the little arms, comforted me
strangely, and when a few minutes later I heard my lady’s voice calling
me, I ran downstairs quite cheerful again, and asked what I could do
for her. She stood in the hall with a basket in her hand, and Charles
beside her wrapped in his winter cloak.
“I have heard but now, Barbara,” said she, “that Alison Macdonald, the
herd’s wife, is sick and in need of some comforts. She is alone in bed
in the hut, but the key is hid in the thatch (you are tall and can
reach it). So many are coming and going that I cannot spare one of the
servants to send to her, yet I cannot let the poor woman starve, for
her husband, you know, went to Dunfermline on an errand this morning,
and cannot be back till late. I fear the snow will shortly be coming
down heavily, so, although I scarce like to ask you to go a yard from
the house to-day, if you keep to the road till you come to the glen,
I do not think any one will molest you. ’Twill not take more than
half-an-hour, going and returning, and my brave little Charles will be
your protector.”
“Why, yes, Cousin Barbara,” cried the child smiling, “I will not let
anyone touch you, and I am to carry the can of broth.”
The herd’s bothie stood about half-way up a small glen that lay
parallel with and next to the Silver Glen. The stream which ran through
it was a mere trickle, except when a great rain flooded the hills, and
the trees and shrubs were mostly stunted and of little beauty. I left
the house with few misgivings for the road was quiet, and if there were
any fugitives hiding from the soldiers of Argyle they would, we knew,
keep to the hills and not frequent the highways.
We met no soul on our short journey, and found the poor woman, as my
lady had said, alone in the hut and very thankful to see us. I did
what I could for her comfort: built up the fire of coal and peat till
it glowed cheerfully upon the hearth, gave her some of the broth, and
under her directions placed the other things within her reach. Then
promising that someone should come to her in the evening, in case her
husband might be detained, we left her much cheered, and locking the
door again, departed.
It was now about four of the clock, and evening was approaching. In
the glen it was darker because of the close growing trees, and we were
obliged to walk carefully for the path was steep and narrow. A slight
snow had fallen, and the frost held the ground like iron. Among the
grasses at the edge of the burn were fringes of ice, though the running
water itself was not yet frozen. A chill wind had sprung up and was
moaning among the almost leafless trees.
Suddenly little Charles, whose hand I held, stopped short, and
shrinking nearer to me pointed, and whispered,
“What is that, cousin?” I looked, and my heart stood still, for lying
on the snowy ground a little way from the path, and half hidden by a
low-growing bush, was the body of a man. My first impulse was to run,
as far and as fast as possible from the dreaded object; but my second,
I am glad to say, conquered my first, and bidding Charles stay where he
was, I stepped over the frozen grass, and bending down, examined the
recumbent figure. He was lying on his back, with his face upon his arm
as if he slept, but it was turned towards me, and with a sharp cry I
sprang back. Charles, in whom curiosity was ever greater than fear, ran
to my side and seized my hand.
“Is he dead, cousin? Is it a soldier? Oh, Heavens! ’tis Captain
Anthony,” and without a pause the boy dropped on his knees and shook
the shoulder nearest him with both hands.
“Charles, Charles!” I cried, “stop for pity’s sake! Perhaps the poor
man is dead. Oh, what shall we do if he is?”
“He is not dead, cousin,” cried Charles. “He lives, I am sure of it.
See, his chest moves as he breathes. But he is very cold, and oh look!
there is blood upon his coat.”
Half sick with terror I looked where he pointed. The officer had been
wounded on the shoulder, and his sleeve being saturated with blood had
frozen as stiff as a board. I touched his face, it was cold and very
white, but sure enough I could see the feeble rise and fall of his
chest, and I knew that Charles was right. A moment’s reflection showed
me what I must do.
“Would you be afraid, dear Cha, to run to the house alone,” I said,
“and tell them to bring men to carry Mr. Fleming down. They must bring
a board of some kind for he is badly wounded. Go straight to my lady
and tell her the poor gentleman is unconscious--_unconscious_, Charles,
will you remember that word? Say that Barbara is watching beside him;
she will know what to order. Can you do this, my dear?”
The little lad looked up in my face, then down the lonely path that was
quickly growing darker, then at the wounded soldier in the grass.
“Ay, Cousin Barbara, I can. Am I not your protector?” he said.
“You are!” I cried, as I kissed him, “my brave protector and kind
helper. And remember, dearest Cha, you are going to save Captain
Anthony’s life.”
With that he darted off, and left me alone in the darkling glen with
my wounded friend and my anxious thoughts. I chafed his lifeless hands
to bring some warmth to them, but with little result. I tried to raise
his head, and succeeded in moving it a little and straightening out
his unwounded arm; but the pallor of his face alarmed me much, for I
knew not how long he had been lying there, nor how far his strength had
ebbed. Oh, for a fire, for a surgeon, for brandy!
At that thought I rose to my feet, and unwinding the plaid from my head
and shoulders, I folded it over the unconscious man, and, regaining
the path, began running up the glen as fast as the steepness and
slipperiness of the way permitted. For among the comforts sent to
Alison Macdonald, I had seen a little flask of the French brandy which
my lady kept to dole out as medicine, and some of that brandy I was
bound to have. I startled the poor woman half out of her wits by my
abrupt entrance, but a few hurried words explained the matter, and she
earnestly besought me to take the flask with me as the poor soldier
needed it more than she. This I refused to do, but, pouring about half
the contents into a cup, I locked the door once more, and for the
fourth time retraced the narrow path.
It was some time before I succeeded in forcing a little of the spirit
between the poor pale lips, but in spite of the trembling of my hands
(caused as much by nervousness as by the cold), I persevered, and was
at last made happy by the knowledge that some had been swallowed.
Anxiously I continued my ministrations, too much occupied with my
task to have room for thought, and at last to my intense joy the eyes
opened, and the lips seemed to form some inaudible words. Had he
recognised me I wondered, did he know who was so eagerly tending him,
would mine be the first name he uttered on regaining consciousness?
Again I held the cup to his lips, and this time he drank more freely.
As the life-giving cordial went down he stirred a little, and opening
his eyes again vaguely, he murmured, “Mistress Betty Sinclair.”
Now at this date it is easy to smile at the shock of dismay these
words caused me, but at the time I remember very well ’twas no matter
for smiling. It struck me with a kind of sad irony, that I had looked
upon this gentleman as my peculiar property. I had found him in dire
straits, I had ministered to him with my own hands, I had perhaps
brought him back to life, and for what? To hear him, with his first
conscious thought, call for Betty Sinclair! I sat by his head on the
chilly ground, too numb to feel the cold. I still chafed his hands,
and offered him brandy, but it was done _with a difference_. The warm
feeling of motherly protection, which moves a maid towards the man who
attracts her, had fled. I would nurse him and watch him, and save him
if I could, but it was to be for another, and as I thought thereon, I
wept.
Ah, foolish Barbara! thus to torture herself because of three little
words. Where was her reason gone, her modesty, her pride? For full five
minutes, I verily believe, they had fled from the stronghold of her
mind, and during that period she abandoned herself to cold despair and
helpless, gnawing jealousy.
The sound of steps and voices in the distance brought me to myself. I
wiped the tears from my face, and redoubled my efforts with so much
success that by the time the men approached, Captain Fleming was well
enough to notice them, though of me he did not seem to be aware. Mr.
Rose, and John Harley, Allan the shepherd, and Thomas, one of the
stablemen, bearing a stretcher between them, came hurriedly up the
glen, and with kind haste and skilful hands lifted the wounded man upon
it. Mr. Rose carried a warm cloak which had been given him by my lady
for the soldier’s use, but on catching sight of Barbara shivering in
her house-dress he wrapped it round her shoulders, leaving her plaid
where she had placed it.
Just as they were starting Captain Fleming made an effort to speak, and
Mr. Rose bent down to listen.
“Whaur are we takin’ ye, sir? Just to Alva Hoose, whaur my leddy waits
tae pit ye tae bed. You bide quiet, Mr. Fleming, ye’re in guid hands,
and will be well cared for.”
With a sigh of satisfaction the sick man closed his eyes, but as I
walked soberly in the rear of the procession I was not able to see his
face.
My lady was too anxious as to the state of her unbidden guest to do
more than lay her hand on my shoulder with a, “Well done, Barbara!”
that warmed my heart. But upstairs in the nursery, to which I was
at once dragged by Charles, we were regarded as hero and heroine by
Phemie and little Hal. There I was treated to all sorts of petting and
cossetting, to words of praise and wonder, to hot spiced wine, and a
warm bath for my feet. So that, ere ten minutes had passed, I had well
nigh forgotten my lonely vigil in the glen, and was ready to laugh at
Harry’s wee face as he listened excitedly to his brother’s chatter. He
told us of his quick run home, and how frighted he was at the dark;
and how he had taken the grunting of a pig for a Highlander calling
him, and had raced all the faster past the stye; and how Devon, the
watch-dog, had seemed to know his step, for he stopped barking and
crawled back into his kennel, and let my brave protector run straight
in at the door.
“And what did you do when I left you, Cousin Barbara?” he cried. “Were
you terrible frighted without me?”
Whereupon I had to add my chapter to the tale, and relate my
adventures with the brandy, receiving great credit from Phemie for my
thoughtfulness, as I had probably, she said, saved the poor gentleman’s
life.
“And did he not open his eyes and see you?” asked Hal, “and say, ‘Fank
you, Mistress Barbara?’”
“Indeed he did not, Harold Beaux-yeux!” said I. “Poor Barbara was not
even noticed.”
“But did he say nuffin at all?” persisted the child.
I rose up laughing, for the foolish mood had passed, and lifted the boy
in my arms.
“Oh, yes, he did,” I cried. “He asked for your Aunt Betty Sinclair.”
“Eh!” said Phemie grimly, “another of ’em!”
And though this mysterious utterance pricked my heart, I laughed again,
and joined in a game of romps with the children.
But half an hour afterwards I stood outside a closed door, with my
head against the panel, listening hungrily for a sound from within.
The stillness terrified me, for I thought he must be dead. I longed to
lift the latch and go in, but modesty and fear forbade me. How long I
stood there I know not, but footsteps behind me in the passage made me
turn my head, to see my lady approaching with a cup in her hand. She
had not, as I was glad to know, perceived my attitude, and took it for
granted that I had but just come. She signed to me to open the door,
and we entered the room together. By the light of a dimly burning taper
I caught sight of the form upon the bed. His head was bandaged, for
there was a scalp wound under the hair which had started bleeding, and
this made the pallor of his face more ghastly; his eyes were closed. I
stole into the shadow of the curtain, and watched my lady as she bent
over the bed and raised him on her arm to hold the cup of broth to his
lips. He was not asleep, and thanked her gratefully as he drank it.
“Are you in pain?” she asked, gently.
“It will pass,” he answered in a weak voice, but cheerily. “’Twas worse
upon the hillside.”
“Mr. Peck, who is a clever surgeon, says you must not talk,” said my
lady; “but if you have anything upon your mind, he thinks it will ease
you to tell me if you are able.”
His next words startled me, prepared as I was.
“Is your sister Mistress Betty Sinclair, in the house with you, madam?”
he asked.
“Nay,” said my lady, “she is still at Dysart. Have you aught you wish
me to tell her?”
“’Twas your brother, the Master,” went on Mr. Fleming, “that told me
she was here. He writ her a letter after the battle, a few lines only,
thinking she and you, madam, would be anxious to know of his safety.
When he found me wounded, he very kindly said that if I could find my
way here I should be well cared for, and could join the army again in a
few days when a little recovered from my wound. He gave me the letter,
telling me to deliver it to Mistress Sinclair if she were here, or to
you, madam, if she were not. He directed me how to come in order to
avoid the enemy, but a small body of dragoons espied and chased me,
and though I escaped them by great good luck, my horse was caught by
a stray bullet, and shortly after the poor beast stumbled and fell,
to rise no more. I came on foot, but missed my way in the dark and
wandered far, and I know not how many hours I had been on the hillside
when your searchers found me. The letter, madam, is in the inner pocket
of my tunic, and that is all my task accomplished, save to offer my
heartfelt apologies for giving you so much trouble.”
Now this lengthy speech was faltered out, sentence by sentence, as the
poor man’s strength allowed, but my lady waited patiently, believing
rightly that when the tale was told his mind would be more at ease.
Upon its conclusion she assured him that his apologies were unnecessary
at such a time, and at his request she found the letter he had suffered
so much in bringing.
As for me, only one thing at that moment seemed important--the strange
exclamation in the glen was accounted for. He had been bidden to find
Betty Sinclair, and naturally her name came first to his lips. How
simple it was! Already my heart felt lighter, and as my lady moved to
the door after bidding her patient try to sleep, I slipped from the
shadow of the curtain and passed close to the bed. For one moment I
paused and looked down upon him, and our eyes met. Oh! the glad light
that sprang into his as he recognised me.
“Barbara!” he whispered, and that was all; but the word was so fraught
with tender gladness that my heart vibrated like a harp-string touched
to music, and I could scarce restrain my tears. I held out my hand
impulsively, and for a lingering moment our fingers touched. What magic
lay in that brief handclasp not even the wisest of the ancients, I
believe, could explain, but in the twinkling of an eyelid it changed
my life for me. With a smile and a backward glance I passed on, and
an instant later I was standing outside the door, a heedless girl no
longer, but a glad, startled, loving, anxious woman.