Sim bent over the meal ark and plumbed its contents with his fist. Two
feet and more remained: provender--with care--for a month, till he
harvested the waterside corn and ground it at Ashkirk mill. He
straightened his back better pleased; and, as he moved, the fine dust
flew into his throat and set him coughing. He choked back the sound
till his face crimsoned.
But the mischief was done. A woman's voice, thin and weary, came from
the ben-end. The long man tiptoed awkwardly to her side. "Canny,
lass," he crooned. "It's me back frae the hill. There's a mune and a
clear sky, and I'll hae the lave under thack and rape the morn. Syne
I'm for Ninemileburn, and the coo 'ill be i' the byre by Setterday.
Things micht be waur, and we'll warstle through yet. There was mair
tint at Flodden."
The last rays of October daylight that filtered through the straw
lattice showed a woman's head on the pillow. The face was white and
drawn, and the great black eyes--she had been an Oliver out of
Megget--were fixed in the long stare of pain. Her voice had the high
lilt and the deep undertones of the Forest.
"The bairn 'ill be gone ere ye ken, Sim," she said wearily. "He canna
live without milk, and I've nane to gie him. Get the coo back or lose
the son I bore ye. If I were my ordinar' I wad hae't in the byre,
though I had to kindle Ninemileburn ower Wat's heid."
She turned miserably on her pillow and the babe beside her set up a
feeble crying. Sim busied himself with re-lighting the peat fire. He
knew too well that he would never see the milk-cow till he took with
him the price of his debt or gave a bond on harvested crops. He had
had a bad lambing, and the wet summer had soured his shallow lands.
The cess to Branksome was due, and he had had no means to pay it. His
father's cousin of the Ninemileburn was a brawling fellow, who never
lacked beast in byre or corn in bin, and to him he had gone for the
loan. But Wat was a hard man, and demanded surety; so the one cow had
travelled the six moorland miles and would not return till the bond was
cancelled. As well might he try to get water from stone as move Wat by
any tale of a sick wife and dying child.
The peat smoke got into his throat and brought on a fresh fit of
coughing. The wet year had played havoc with his chest and his lean
shoulders shook with the paroxysms. An anxious look at the bed told
him that Marion was drowsing, so he slipped to the door.
Outside, as he had said, the sky was clear. From the plashy hillside
came the rumour of swollen burns. Then he was aware of a man's voice
shouting.
"Sim," it cried, "Sim o' the Cleuch ... Sim." A sturdy figure came
down through the scrog of hazel and revealed itself as his neighbour of
the Dodhead. Jamie Telfer lived five miles off in Ettrick, but his was
the next house to the Cleuch shieling. Telfer was running, and his
round red face shone with sweat.
"Dod, man, Sim, ye're hard o' hearing. I was routin' like to wake the
deid, and ye never turned your neck. It's the fray I bring ye. Mount
and ride to the Carewoodrig. The word's frae Branksome. I've but
Ranklehope to raise, and then me and William's Tam will be on the road
to join ye."
"Whatna fray?" Sim asked blankly.
"Ninemileburn. Bewcastle's marching. They riped the place at
cockcrow, and took twenty-six kye, five horse and a walth o'
plenishing. They were seen fordin' Teviot at ten afore noon, but
they're gaun round by Ewes Water, for they durstna try the Hermitage
Slack. Forbye they move slow, for the bestial's heavy wark to drive.
They shut up Wat in the auld peel, and he didna win free till bye
midday. Syne he was off to Branksome, and the word frae Branksome is
to raise a' Ettrick, Teviotdale, Ale Water, and the Muirs o' Esk. We
look to win up wi' the lads long ere they cross Liddel, and that at the
speed they gang will be gey an' near sunrise. It's a braw mune for the
job."
Jarnie Telfer lay on his face by the burn and lapped up water like a
dog. Then without another word he trotted off across the hillside
beyond which lay the Ranklehope.
Sim had a fit of coughing and looked stupidly at the sky. Here was the
last straw. He was dog-tired, for he had had little sleep the past
week. There was no one to leave with Marion, and Marion was too weak
to tend herself. The word was from Branksome, and at another time
Branksome was to be obeyed. But now the thing was past reason. What
use was there for a miserable careworn man to ride among the swank,
well-fed lads in the Bewcastle chase? And then he remembered his cow.
She would be hirpling with the rest of the Ninemileburn beasts on the
road to the Border. The case was more desperate than he had thought.
She was gone for ever unless he helped Wat to win her back. And if she
went, where was the milk for the child?
He stared hopelessly up at a darkening sky. Then he went to the
lean-to where his horse was stalled. The beast was fresh, for it had
not been out for two days--a rough Forest shelty with shaggy fetlocks
and a mane like a thicket. Sim set his old saddle on it, and went back
to the house.
His wife was still asleep, breathing painfully. He put water on the
fire to boil, and fetched a handful of meal from the ark. With this he
made a dish of gruel, and set it by the bedside. He drew a pitcher of
water from the well, for she might be thirsty. Then he banked up the
fire and steeked the window. When she woke she would find food and
drink, and he would be back before the next darkening. He dared not
look at the child.
The shelty shied at a line of firelight from the window, as Sim flung
himself wearily on its back. He had got his long ash spear from its
place among the rafters, and donned his leather jacket with the iron
studs on breast and shoulder. One of the seams gaped. His wife had
been mending it when her pains took her.
He had ridden by Commonside and was high on the Caerlanrig before he
saw signs of men. The moon swam in a dim dark sky, and the hills were
as yellow as corn. The round top of the Wisp made a clear mark to ride
by. Sim was a nervous man, and at another time would never have dared
to ride alone by the ruined shieling of Chasehope, where folk said a
witch had dwelt long ago and the Devil still came in the small hours.
But now he was too full of his cares to have room for dread. With his
head on his breast he let the shelty take its own road through the
mosses.
But on the Caerlanrig he came on a troop of horse. They were a lusty
crowd, well-mounted and armed, with iron basnets and corselets that
jingled as they rode. Harden's men, he guessed, with young Harden at
the head of them. They cried him greeting as he fell in at the tail.
"It's Long Sim o' the Cleuch," one said; "he's sib to Wat or he wadna
be here. Sim likes his ain fireside better than the 'Bateable Land'."
The companionship of others cheered him. There had been a time, before
he brought Marion from Megget, when he was a well kenned figure on the
Borders, a good man at weaponshows and a fierce fighter when his blood
was up. Those days were long gone; but the gusto of them returned. No
man had ever lightlied him without paying scot. He held up his head
and forgot his cares and his gaping jackets. In a little they had
topped the hill, and were looking down on the young waters of Ewes.
The company grew, as men dropped in from left and right. Sim
recognised the wild hair of Charlie of Geddinscleuch, and the square
shoulders of Adam of Frodslaw. They passed Mosspaul, a twinkle far
down in the glen, and presently came to the long green slope which is
called the Carewoodrig, and which makes a pass from Ewes to Hermitage.
To Sim it seemed that an army had encamped on it. Fires had been lit
in a howe, and wearied men slept by them. These were the runners, who
all day had been warning the dales. By one fire stood the great figure
of Wat o' the Ninemileburn, blaspheming to the skies and counting his
losses. He had girded on a long sword, and for better precaution had
slung an axe on his back. At the sight of young Harden he held his
peace. The foray was Branksome's and a Scott must lead.
Dimly and stupidly, for he was very weary, Sim heard word of the enemy.
The beasts had travelled slow, and would not cross Liddel till sunrise.
Now they were high up on Tarras water, making for Liddel at a ford
below the Castletown. There had been no time to warn the Elliots, but
the odds were that Lariston and Mangerton would be out by morning.
"Never heed the Elliots," cried young Harden. "We can redd our ain
frays, lads. Haste and ride, and we'll hae Geordie Musgrave long ere
he wins to the Ritterford, Borrowstonemoss is the bit for us." And
with a light Scott laugh he was in the saddle.
They were now in a land of low hills, which made ill-going. A
companion gave Sim the news. Bewcastle and five-score men and the
Scots four-score and three. "It's waur to haul than to win," said the
man. "Ae man can take ten beasts when three 'ill no keep them.
There'll be bluidy war on Tarras side ere the nicht's dune."
Sim was feeling his weariness too sore for speech. He remembered that
he had tasted no food for fifteen hours. He found his meal-poke and
filled his mouth, but the stuff choked him. It only made him cough
fiercely, so that Wat o' the Ninemileburn, riding before him, cursed
him for a broken-winded fool. Also he was remembering about Marion,
lying sick in the darkness twenty miles over the hills.
The moon was clouded, for an east wind was springing up. It was ill
riding on the braeface, and Sim and his shelty floundered among the
screes. He was wondering how long it would all last. Soon he must
fall down and be the scorn of the Border men. The thought put Marion
out of his head again. He set his mind on tending his horse and
keeping up with his fellows.
Suddenly a whistle from Harden halted the company. A man came running
back from the crown of the rig. A whisper went about that Bewcastle
was on the far side, in the little glen called the Brunt Burn. The men
held their breath, and in the stillness they heard far off the sound of
hooves on stones and the heavy breathing of cattle.
It was a noble spot for an ambuscade. The Borderers scattered over the
hillside, some riding south to hold the convoy as it came down the
glen. Sim's weariness lightened. His blood ran quicker; he remembered
that the cow, his child's one hope, was there before him. He found
himself next his cousin Wat, who chewed curses in his great beard.
When they topped the rig they saw a quarter of a mile below them the
men they sought. The cattle were driven in the centre, with horsemen
in front and rear and flankers on the braeside.
"Hae at them, lads," cried Wat o' the Ninemileburn, as he dug spurs
into his grey horse. From farther down the glen he was answered with a
great shout of "Branksome".
Somehow or other Sim and his shelty got down the steep braeface. The
next he knew was that the raiders had turned to meet him--to meet him
alone, it seemed; the moon had come out again, and their faces showed
white in it. The cattle, as the driving ceased, sank down wearily in
the moss. A man with an iron ged turned, cursing to receive Wat's
sword on his shoulder-bone. A light began to blaze from down the
burn--Sim saw the glitter of it out of the corner of an eye--but the
men in front were dark figures with white faces.
The Bewcastle lads were stout fellows, well used to hold as well as
take. They closed up in line around the beasts, and the moon lit the
tops of their spears. Sim brandished his ash-shaft, which had weighed
heavily these last hours, and to his surprise found it light. He found
his voice, too, and fell a-roaring like Wat.
Before he knew he was among the cattle. Wat had broken the ring, and
men were hacking and slipping among the slab sides of the wearied
beasts. The shelty came down over the rump of a red bullock, and Sim
was sprawling on his face in the trampled grass. He struggled to rise,
and some one had him by the throat.
Anger fired his slow brain. He reached out his long arms and grappled
a leather jerkin. His nails found a seam and rent it, for he had
mighty fingers. Then he was gripping warm flesh, tearing it like a
wild beast, and his assailant with a cry slackened his hold. "Whatna
wull-cat..." he began, but he got no further. The hoof of Wat's horse
came down on his head and brained him. A splatter of blood fell on
Sim's face.
The man was half wild. His shelty had broken back for the hill, but
his spear lay a yard off. He seized it and got to his feet, to find
that Wat had driven the English over the burn. The cattle were losing
their weariness in panic, and tossing wild manes among the Scots. It
was like a fight in a winter's byre. The glare on the right grew
fiercer, and young Harden's voice rose, clear as a bell, above the
tumult. He was swearing by the cross of his sword.
On foot, in the old Border way, Sim followed in Wat's wake, into the
bog and beyond the burn. He laired to his knees, but he scarcely
heeded it. There was a big man before him, a foolish, red-haired
fellow, who was making great play with a cudgel. He had shivered two
spears and was singing low to himself. Farther off Wat had his axe in
hand and was driving the enemy to the brae. There were dead men in the
moss. Sim stumbled over a soft body, and a hand caught feebly at his
heel. "To me, lads," cried Wat. "Anither birse and we hae them
broken."
But something happened. Harden was pushing the van of the raiders up
the stream, and a press of them surged in from the right. Wat found
himself assailed on his flank, and gave ground. The big man with the
cudgel laughed loud and ran down the hill, and the Scots fell back on
Sim. Men tripped over him, and as he rose he found the giant above him
with his stick in the air.
The blow fell, glancing from the ash-shaft to Sim's side. Something
cracked and his left arm hung limp. But the furies of hell had hold of
him now. He rolled over, gripped his spear short, and with a swift
turn struck upwards. The big man gave a sob and toppled down into a
pool of the burn.
Sim struggled to his feet, and saw that the raiders were beginning to
hough the cattle One man was driving a red spear into a helpless beast.
It might have been the Cleuch cow. The sight maddened him, and like a
destroying angel he was among them. One man he caught full in the
throat, and had to set a foot on breast before he could tug the spear
out. Then the head shivered on a steel corselet, and Sim played
quarterstaff with the shaft. The violence of his onslaught turned the
tide. Those whom Harden drove up were caught in a vice, and squeezed
out, wounded and dying and mad with fear, on to the hill above the
burn. Both sides were weary men, or there would have been a grim
slaughter. As it was, none followed the runners, and every now and
again a Scot would drop like a log, not from wounds but from dead
weariness.
Harden's flare was dying down. Dawn was breaking and Sim's wild eyes
cleared. Here a press of cattle, dazed with fright, and the red and
miry heather. Queer black things were curled and stretched athwart it.
He noticed a dead man beside him, perhaps of his own slaying. It was a
shabby fellow, in a jacket that gaped like Sim's. His face was thin
and patient, and his eyes, even in death, looked puzzled and
reproachful. He would be one of the plain folk who had to ride,
willy-nilly, on bigger men's quarrels. Sim found himself wondering if
he, also, had a famished wife and child at home. The fury of the night
had gone, and Sim began to sob from utter tiredness.
He slept in what was half a swoon. When he woke the sun was well up in
the sky and the Scots were cooking food. His arm irked him, and his
head burned like fire. He felt his body and found nothing worse than
bruises, and one long shallow scar where his jacket was torn.
A Teviotdale man brought him a cog of brose. Sim stared at it and
sickened: he was too far gone for food. Young Harden passed, and
looked curiously at him. "Here's a man that has na spared himsel'," he
said. "A drop o' French cordial is the thing for you, Sim." And out
of a leathern flask he poured a little draught which he bade Sim
swallow.
The liquor ran through his veins and lightened the ache of his head.
He found strength to rise and look round. Surely they were short of
men. If these were all that were left Bewcastle had been well avenged.
Jamie Telfer enlightened him. "When we had gotten the victory, there
were some o' the lads thocht that Bewcastle sud pay scot in beasts as
weel as men. Sae Wat and a score mair rade off to lowse Geordie
Musgrave's kye. The road's clear, and they'll be back ower Liddell by
this time. Dod, there'll be walth o' plenishin' at the Ninemileburn."
Sim was cheered by the news. If Wat got back more than his own he
might be generous. They were cooking meat round the fire, the flesh of
the cattle killed in the fight. He went down to the nearest blaze, and
was given a strip of roast which he found he could swallow.
"How mony beasts were killed?" he asked incuriously, and was told
three. Saugh poles had been set up to hang the skins on. A notion
made Sim stagger to his feet and go to inspect them. There could be no
mistake. There hung the brindled hide of Marion's cow.
Wat returned in a cloud of glory, driving three-and-twenty English
beasts before him--great white fellows that none could match on the
Scottish side. He and his lads clamoured for food, so more flesh was
roasted, till the burnside smelt like a kitchen. The Scots had found
better than cattle, for five big skins of ale bobbed on their saddles.
Wat summoned all to come and drink, and Harden, having no fear of
reprisals, did not forbid it.
Sim was becoming a man again. He had bathed his bruises and scratches
in the burn, and Will o' Phawhope, who had skill as a leech, had set
his arm and bound it to his side in splints of ash and raw hide. He
had eaten grossly of flesh--the first time since the spring, and then
it had only been braxy lamb. The ale had warmed his blood and
quickened his wits. He began to feel pleased with himself. He had
done well in the fray--had not young Harden praised him?--and surly Wat
had owned that the salvage of so many beasts was Sim's doing. "Man,
Sim, ye wrocht michtily at the burnside," he had said. "The heids
crackit like nits when ye garred your staff sing. Better you wi' a
stick than anither than wi' a sword." It was fine praise, and warmed
Sim's chilly soul. For a year he had fought bitterly for bread, and
now glory had come to him without asking.
Men were drawn by lot to drive the cattle, and others to form a
rearguard. The rest set off for their homes by the nearest road. The
shelty had been recovered, and Sim to his pride found himself riding in
the front with Wat and young Harden and others of the Scott and Elliot
gentry.
The company rode fast over the green hills in the clear autumn noon.
Harden's blue eyes danced, and he sang snatches in his gay voice. Wat
rumbled his own praises and told of the raid over Liddel. Sim felt a
new being from the broken man who the night before had wearily jogged
on the same road. He told himself he took life too gravely and let
care ride him too hard. He was too much thirled to the Cleuch and tied
to his wife's apron. In the future he would see his friends, and bend
the bicker with the rest of them.
By the darkening they had come to Ninemileburn, where Harden's road
left theirs. Wat had them all into the bare dwelling, and another skin
of ale was broached. A fire was lit and the men sprawled around it,
singing songs. Then tales began, and they would have sat till morning,
had not Harden called them to the road. Sim, too, got to his feet. He
was thinking of the six miles yet before him, and as home grew nearer
his spirits sank. Dimly he remembered the sad things that waited his
homecoming.
Wat made him a parting speech. "Gude e'en to ye, Cousin Sim. Ye've
been a kind man to me the day. May I do as weel by you if ever the
fray gangs by the Cleuch. I had a coo o' yours in pledge, and it was
ane o the beasts the Musgraves speared. By the auld law your debt
still stands, and if I likit I could seek anither pledge. But there'll
be something awin' for rescue-shot, and wi' that and the gude wark
ye've dune the day, I'm content to ca' the debt paid."
Wat's words sounded kind, and no doubt Wat thought himself generous.
Sim had it on his tongue to ask for a cow--even on a month's loan. But
pride choked his speech. It meant telling of the pitiful straits at
the Cleuch. After what had passed he must hold his head high amongst
those full-fed Branksome lads. He thanked Wat, cried farewell to the
rest, and mounted his shelty.
The moon was rising and the hills were yellow as corn. The shelty had
had a feed of oats, and capered at the shadows. What with excitement,
meat and ale, and the dregs of a great fatigue, Sim's mind was hazy,
and his cheerfulness returned. He thought only on his exploits. He
had done great things--he, Sim o' the Cleuch--and every man in the
Forest would hear of them and praise his courage. There would be
ballads made about him; he could hear the blind violer at the Ashkirk
change-house singing--songs which told how Sim o' the Cleuch smote
Bewcastle in the howe of the Brunt Burn--ash against steel, one against
ten. The fancy intoxicated him; he felt as if he, too, could make a
ballad. It would speak of the soft shiny night with the moon high in
the heavens. It would tell of the press of men and beasts by the
burnside, and the red glare of Harden's fires, and Wat with his axe,
and above all of Sim with his ash-shaft and his long arms, and how
Harden drove the raiders up the burn and Sim smote them silently among
the cattle. Wat's exploits would come in, but the true glory was Sim's.
But for him Scots saddles might have been empty and every beast safe
over Liddel.
The picture fairly ravished him. It carried him over the six miles of
bent and down by the wood of hazel to where the Cleuch lay huddled in
its nook of hill. It brought him to the door of his own silent
dwelling. As he pushed into the darkness his heart suddenly sank...
With fumbling hands he kindled a rushlight. The peat fire had long
gone out and left only a heap of white ashes. The gruel by the bed had
been spilled and was lying on the floor. Only the jug of water was
drained to the foot.
His wife lay so still that he wondered. A red spot burned in each
cheek, and, as he bent down, he could hear her fast breathing. He
flashed the light on her eyes and she slowly opened them.
"The coo, Sim," she said faintly. "Hae ye brocht the coo?"
The rushlight dropped on the floor. Now he knew the price of his
riding. He fell into a fit of coughing.