working in her garden I stopped for a chat. After asking after her
mother and things in general, the conversation turned on Bildy. Robina
praised him highly.
"He's as biddable as a bairn," she declared. "He carries a' the water
for us frae the spring, an' takes oot the coo, an' fetches her hame as
weel as I could masel'. He's nae tribble to us whateever!"
She then launched into details concerning Bildy which were very
entertaining, and gave much amusement to Val over our dinner. It
appeared that the poor fellow had formed a most reverential opinion of
the priest on his first visit to our church for Mass. On his return
home he sat by the fire smiling delightedly and murmuring to himself.
They did not catch what he said, but after repeated questioning Robina
found that he was quite pleased with the "chapel."
"An' yon mon!" he exclaimed. "Isna' he dressed fine? Wha's yon mon
wi' the fine dress?"
"Yen's the priest," explained Robina. "Father Fleming, he's callit."
"Father Fleming! Father Fleming!" repeated Bildy over and over again,
as though to familiarize himself with the sound of it.
"Aye, aye! He's the boy! He can gab, canna' he? He's the boy to tell
us what to dee!" he continued in his broad Scots.
"It's extraordinary how well he behaves at Mass--or at any rate during
the sermon," said Val when he heard the story. "I wish some others
were as good!"
That reminded me of another anecdote. After one or two Sundays, Bildy
had got familiar with the church, and was inclined to gaze about more
than Robina approved of. She therefore took it upon herself to
instruct him upon the sacred character of the place, and to threaten to
keep him at home if he did not behave better.
"Remember, Bildy," she said as they started next Sunday, "it's the
hoose o' God ye're goin' tee. Ye musna' glower aboot! Juist sit ye
still an' look straicht at Father Fleming a' the time."
After that his manner was irreproachable. But one Sunday, as Penny was
leaving the church after Mass, she caught sight of Bildy furiously
shaking his fist--at her, she thought! So she mentioned the fact
quietly to Robina, who promised to investigate the matter. It turned
out that poor Bildy had so thoroughly assimilated her instructions as
to the requisite behavior in church that he had been silently reproving
what he thought irreverence. He had seen a crofter whom he knew very
well dozing during the sermon, and had "wagged his fist" at
him--righteously indignant.
"Sleepin' i' the hoose o' God!" cried Bildy. "Yon's nae the place to
sleep in! I waggit my fist, an' I sair fleggit him!"
Bildy evidently congratulated himself on having so successfully "sore
frighted" the delinquent that he would never dare to behave so badly
again.
Bildy's respect for Val never waned. He never caught sight of the
priest, even at some little distance, but his hand flew up to his cap
in salutation, and remained there until Val had seen him and had
returned his salute. This would happen if he saw Val at a window of
our house just the same as when outside.
Penny took quite a motherly interest in the poor afflicted fellow.
Whenever he came on any errand from the Lamonts he was always given a
piece of cake or fruit--anything sweet, for he had a child's taste.
But although Bildy was supremely delighted, he seldom said more than
"thank you, Ma'am!" I once suggested that she should refer to Val, and
the experiment was successful in opening Bildy's mouth. After that the
conversation would almost invariably run thus:
"Did you see Father Fleming on Sunday, Bildy?"
"Aye, aye! He's the boy! Father Fleming's the boy!"
Next to the old widow, Bildy loved the cow. She was his particular
charge, and he was soon on intimate terms with her. Not only did he
carry on familiar conversations with her, on his part, but it appeared
that the cow made him her confidant in return. If he began to murmur
something to himself as he sat by the chimney corner, they would
inquire what he was talking about. It was generally arrant nonsense
that he told them. Once Robina asked:
"Wha tellit ye that rubbish, Bildy?"
"The coo," he gravely answered.
On a damp, misty morning he had gone out as usual to drive the cow out
to the meadow to graze. Widow Lamont, from her place opposite the
window, noticed that they did not pass out in the customary way, and
notified the fact to Robina. The latter accordingly ran out at once to
inquire the reason of the delay. She found Bildy quietly fastening the
door of the byre before returning to the house.
"Ye havna' fetched oot the coo!" she exclaimed. "Gae in an' drive her
oot, Bildy!"
"Na, na," replied he, solemnly shaking his head. "She says it's ower
cauld the day. She'll bide inside."
Bildy's hero-worship of my brother increased as time went by. He
regularly came to Mass, and obedient to Robina's instructions sat still
and looked "straicht at Father Fleming." On one particular Sunday,
when we had a priest staying with us (an old friend of Val's), the
latter invited him to preach. This did not suit Bildy at all. After
Mass he walked home alone, not waiting for Robina, who was chatting
with her neighbors outside the church, and showed by his manner that
something was amiss. Widow Lamont put down her book, in which she had
been piously reading her "Prayers for Mass," and accosted him with the
usual formula:
"Weel, Bildy, what kind o' preachin' had ye the day?"
But the answer was not that which they took a simple pleasure in
drawing from him usually. Bildy began to bite his hand--a trick he had
when annoyed.
"That's nae preachin'," he cried indignantly. "Yon monnie canna'
preach! Wha's the reason Father Fleming canna' preach the day? Eh!"
(with withering contempt.) "Sic a monnie preach!"
The diminutive, in Bildy's phraseology, implied depreciation; that was
why he stigmatized a regular six-footer as a "monnie."
When Doddy came to Ardmuirland, Bildy discovered his real vocation!
Doddy--or, in English, Georgie--was the orphan child of Robina's
sister. His father had married a second wife and had gone out to
Canada, and Widow Lamont had insisted upon having the little chap with
her; for his father and step-mother were both Protestants, and Doddy
stood little chance of being reared in the faith of his baptism. So
the man agreed, and undertook to pay a trifle weekly for the child's
keep, until he could earn something for himself.
Doddy was almost a baby--not more than four, and quite small of his
age; but he soon discovered that he had a slave at his beck and call in
the spellbound Bildy. The man seemed to worship the little fellow.
Whenever Bildy was free from his ordinary occupations he was playing
with Doddy, as though they were both children--with this difference:
Doddy was always the tyrant, and Bildy the submissive subject.
It was a proof of the man's absolute harmlessness that he never so much
as touched any one who angered him. Sometimes other children,
attracted by Doddy, would come to join in the games, and often drove
poor Bildy away. He would slink off, the picture of misery, and make
his way home, biting his hand--his only sign of displeasure.
When Doddy was five, and had to attend school, Bildy would watch with
the utmost patience the road by which the child had to return, until he
caught sight of the tiny figure in the distance; then he would run to
meet Doddy with every demonstration of joy, pick him up, set him on his
shoulder, and amble off up the hill to the cottage.
Bildy had been about six years in Ardmuirland, and had become a
favorite with every one. The poor fellow was so unfeignedly pleased to
receive any little notice from any one that all accosted him kindly,
and no one in the district would have dreamed of causing him
unhappiness. Doddy had grown into a sharp little lad of seven, and was
no longer so dependent upon Bildy for companionship. Yet Bildy did not
relinquish altogether his post of guardian, but kept a wary eye upon
the movements of his little master, ready at all times to do his
bidding.
Winter set in that year unusually early. At the beginning of December
earth and water were bound in the chains of a very hard frost. Nothing
could more delight the heart of a schoolboy, and those of Ardmuirland
were in their element. There was a small, shallow pond close by the
schoolhouse, and there they were able to slide and sport about to their
hearts' content. But children are changeful. When the frost had
lasted more than two whole weeks, the little pond was not exciting
enough. There was a mountain lake about a mile farther on, a much
larger piece of water. Thither the more adventurous spirits determined
to go one holiday afternoon. Doddy, who was precocious for his years,
made up his mind to go too, proud in being the companion of much bigger
boys. Unluckily, none of the parents of the boys had any idea of the
proposed adventure; had they known, the project would have been sternly
prohibited. It is possible that the young adventurers knew this and
kept the matter quiet.
But Doddy's faithful guardian had watched the boy steal off, to be met
by five or six others, and followed them at a distance. He did not
venture to join the party openly, fearing to be driven off
ignominiously, as he often had been before on other occasions. By the
time he reached them they had been some half-hour at the lake, and had
most of them ventured cautiously to try the bearing power of the ice.
The long frost had made this quite safe in most parts; but, unluckily,
the lads were not aware that there were other portions where rising
springs prevented the water from freezing much, if at all. As long as
they kept near to the place upon which they had first set foot all was
well; but security made them venturesome. They started a game of
shinty, and threw themselves into the sport with fervor.
Bildy, partly hidden behind the bushes which skirted the water, watched
the game with interest, his eyes on his beloved Doddy. Suddenly, while
he looked on, Doddy disappeared, and a shout of terror arose from the
other boys, who were too full of fear to do much toward helping the
unfortunate child, though one or two slid down prostrate and tried to
crawl to the hole into which Doddy had fallen, in order to help him out
with their sticks.
It remained for Bildy to come to their assistance. With a frightened
cry the man rushed over the ice to the spot, and regardless of the
cautions which the others shrilled at him, plunged into the water.
Doddy had fallen in where there was only very thin ice around the edge
of an open sheet of water. Luckily, it was shallow for a man, though
it covered the child. Bildy managed to seize the boy and rose up
gasping from the pool, holding Doddy aloft. He seated the frightened
child on his shoulder, and was able to keep half his own body out of
the water. Thus they remained till help came in the shape of one or
two farm-servants, who had been summoned by the screams of the boys.
It was not a difficult matter to get the two out of the water safely;
indeed, any one more sensible than poor Bildy could have lifted the
child onto thicker ice, after wading some paces in the water. Both
were shivering with cold and drenched with water, which froze on their
clothes during their hurried progress home to bed.
The after-effects were not serious, as far as Doddy was concerned. He
got a severe cold, but nothing worse--not taking into account the
castigation administered with a good-will by his "auntie." With poor
Bildy it was different. He had been in the ice-cold water far longer
than the boy, and a serious attack of pneumonia was the result. The
poor fellow had probably little stamina. He did not rally, even when
the climax seemed to have been successfully passed, but grew weaker
every day.
"Robina Lamont wants me to go to that poor fellow," Val said one day.
"She wants me to do what I can for him, as the doctor gives no hope of
recovery. I can baptize him conditionally, of course, and I am
starting now. Would you like to come, Ted?"
I was most anxious to accompany him, and we set out at once for the
Lamonts' cottage.
Bildy looked frightfully wasted; his face was the color of parchment,
and his brown eyes looked enormously large and startlingly bright. But
what touched me more than his emaciated appearance was the wonderful
expression of emotion which shone from those large eyes as we appeared
at the bedside; they looked at Val with the yearning affection that one
sees sometimes in a faithful dog. The poor fellow put out his white,
wasted hand to Val with evident delight.
"Bildy's been wearyin' for ye, Father," said Robina. "He's often cried
out for Father Fleming."
The dying man's eyes were proof that she spoke truly.
The short ceremony was soon over, and after some prayers for the sick
man we took our leave. For the few days that he lingered after that,
the visit of the priest--twice every day and sometimes oftener--was the
culminating point of satisfaction for poor Bildy.
I was there with Val when the end came. Bildy passed away quite
peacefully while we joined in the prayers for the dying; a calm smile
was on his face, and some vision of delight before his wide-open eyes,
which it is not for mortals to attempt to fathom.
"Poor fellow!" exclaimed Val, as we took our way home; "life has held
little of happiness for him. Indeed, one can hardly call it life in
the full sense of the word; it was mere existence, as far as we can
see."
"Let's hope that life has begun for him at last," I said reverently.
"I have little doubt of that," replied the priest.
VII
SMUGGLERS
"My enemy's dog,
Though he had bit me, should have stood that night
Against my fire."
(_"King Lear"--Act IV, Sc. 7._)
"Aebody kent Davie Forbes wes tarrible at the smugglin'," said Willy.
We had been discussing the _pros_ and _cons_ of illicit
distilling--known inland as "smuggling"--and I found that Willy agreed
with the general opinion of the district that the only harm in it was
the penalty due "'gin ye get foond oot by the gauger." He assured me
that in his young days the practice was widespread. This had brought
us to Davie Forbes and his persistence in escaping government dues, and
led on to the narrative which I here set down in intelligible English.
Davie was a fine, hearty specimen of a Scottish crofter, whose
appearance did not tally with his acknowledged seventy-nine years; for
his handsome, ruddy face, framed by white whiskers, and crowned with
abundant, curly white locks, showed scarcely a wrinkle. He was
stalwart and straight, too, as many a man twenty years his junior would
dearly love to be.
Davie's wife had been dead many years at the date of this story; his
only daughter, Maggie Jean, was housekeeper for him and her two
unmarried brothers, Jock and Peter. Like many of his fellows who might
have to support a widowed mother or other helpless relatives, he had
not married until rather late in life. Consequently, Maggie Jean, the
youngest of the family, was a strapping lass of thirty, and Jock, the
eldest, a "lad" of thirty-six; for an unmarried man in our
neighborhood, be it known, is a lad till he becomes decrepit!
The family residence of the Forbes stood about half-way up Ben
Sgurrach, the highest hill in the district, and the house was at least
1,000 feet above the sea. It was sheltered from the east wind by a
clump of scarecrow-looking pine trees, and a spur of barren rock rose
behind it on the north. I could imagine those trees, though I have
never seen them; we have some such in our little wood behind the
presbytery. Gaunt-looking figures they are indeed! Some have been
twisted into uncouth shapes by adverse winds; others stand draped in
veritable garments of gray lichen--weird and shaggy. The latter, seen
in the dusk, are calculated to terrify a chance comer who might find
himself in their neighborhood; for he would probably mistake them for
goblins.
A copious spring of excellent water and several convenient crevices in
the surrounding rocks made Davie's place an excellent site for a still.
His son Jock was occupied with odd jobs provided for him as handy man
at a shooting lodge not far from the foot of the hill, where he tended
the garden and looked after the pony at ordinary times, and acted as
gillie when the shooting season came round. Peter did most of the work
on the croft, lower down the hill; for David himself was getting past
arduous labors, though he directed the distilling, in which Peter, and
occasionally Jock, did the greater part of the work. Much of the
barley for the still grew on their own land, where also they raised
corn for their own oatmeal and for Maggie Jean's chickens, as well as
turnips for her "coo." The customers for whiskey were many; for owing
to its innocence of government duty it was cheaper than could be got
from a merchant, while for quality it was renowned. Davie was a past
master in the art of distilling, and the secluded nature of his
storehouses enabled him to keep it until its rawness had worn off with
age.
Many a tale was told of Davie's adventures in his contraband trade. In
days when he was young and strong revenue officers would scour the
hills with a small band of soldiers in their company, the better to
over-awe the country folk. On one such occasion Davie had the
misfortune to be apprehended in his house, when off his guard; for he
was well known to the preventive men of the district, who had long been
seeking to trap him. They had tracked him from his still, which they
then took charge of, and surrounded his house to prevent escape. But
Davie was too wary for them in the end. He feigned submission, and got
his old mother to bring out refreshments for the party within the
house, and went himself to the door with glasses and whiskey for the
two soldiers on guard there. But they never tasted their dram; Davie
was the renowned wrestler of the neighborhood, and in a second or two
he had tripped up both men and had made off for some secret
hiding-place in the hills before the party inside, aroused by the cries
of the sentinels, were able to understand what had happened. Both the
unfortunate soldiers had been so badly bruised by their fall on the
flagstones near the doorway that they were unable to rise without help.
At another time he was still more successful. The revenue officers and
their escort surprised his house at midnight, and demanded admission in
the King's name. Old Jeandy, his mother, who was then alive, made as
much difficulty as possible in getting the door open in order to give
Davie time to conceal himself. But he did better than hide in the
house. Springing out of bed, he actually broke a hole through the
"divets" or turfs of the thatch, and creeping through it, climbed down
outside, just as his adversaries, certain of capturing their prize,
were mounting the ladder which led to his bed-chamber. When the
exciseman saw the empty bed he cried with an angry oath:
"Here's the nest--still warm; but the bird's awa'!" The "bird" had
flown to a more hidden place of retirement under cover of the darkness!
In later years Davie was not much molested by the representatives of
the excise. A gauger was indeed stationed in a town ten miles distant,
but he was elderly, and not over energetic. He would make a formal
visit now and again to suspected districts, and content himself with a
few casual inquiries. As a matter of fact, he was personally quite
inadequate to the task of searching for illicit stills in a district of
such abundant hidden recesses.
But there was a change of front when the old officer retired and a
young and energetic man succeeded him. A "new broom" is eulogized in
proverb; and Mr. Michael Bonar, being new to his district, and a man of
youth and determination, boasted that he meant to sweep away the taint
of smuggling from the neighborhood of Ardmuirland, which bore a bad
name in that respect.
The boast of the incautious gauger was repeated far and wide, and a
strong spirit of opposition was aroused. Many a wary practitioner
began to devise cunning means of concealment, and to invent traps to
catch their adversary and turn him into ridicule. Davie Forbes was not
behindhand in making remote preparations for the ganger's certain visit
to him. But it was then mid-winter, and if Bonar was the canny man
that he was said to be, there would be little fear of any attempted
search for Davie's implements and stores before spring had set in. So
the Forbes family congratulated themselves upon the security of their
airy nest, and would smile grimly when the name of Bonar was mentioned.
The gauger was, it is true, canny, but his youth made him perhaps a
trifle too venturesome. He was not unused to climbing, and had scaled
many a mountain more imposing than Ben Sguarrach; but it was not in
winter; forgetfulness of that trifling circumstance led to his
discomfiture. Ben Sguarrach was indeed no pleasant place in wintry
weather. Its open spaces were swept by icy blasts; snow often drifted
to unparalleled depths, and made the ascent dangerous to those who were
not familiar with the mountain in its more peaceful aspects.
To Bonar's ardent mind the season of the year seemed likely to assist
rather than hinder him. Days were short; nights were dark (if the moon
should happen to be unpropitious), but they were long. No work was
possible at such a time in a mountain distillery, and stores could not
be shifted so readily as in summer time. So he determined to bide his
opportunity and make a secret visit to Davie Forbes' dwelling, just to
reconnoiter. He would thus be enabled to form his plan of campaign for
a more bold attack.
Unfortunately, the gauger did not thoroughly know the people he had to
deal with or he would have made allowance for their clannish devotion
to each other's interests. Every one recognized him as a public enemy,
and however politely he might be treated public sympathy was on the
side of his opponents. He might flatter himself that he was keeping
his intentions and movements absolutely secret, yet it was impossible
not to take some one or other into his confidence; thus it came about
that tidings of his intended visit flew to Davie at least a week before
his attempt.
In consequence of this fact, all incriminating evidence was carefully
concealed by the old man and his sons, and it would have taken a
sharper man than Bonar--intelligent as he was--to discover any traces
of illicit distilling in the neighborhood of their house. There was
one suspicious feature only; a large eighteen-gallon barrel, full of
something--whatever the liquid might be--was barely covered by
peat-turfs heaped over it under the shelter of the end wall of the
byre. But it had not been overlooked; arrangements had been made in
its regard, should circumstances demand its more thorough concealment,
otherwise it must not be disturbed. For--if the truth must be
told--that particular cask contained the store of whiskey which Davie
had been carefully preserving for his last act of hospitality; it was
for the entertainment of those who would attend his funeral. Who,
indeed, was able to provide refreshment for the crowd of mourners who
would surely assemble on such an occasion, if not Davie, whose
"whuskey" was renowned in the whole countryside?
Bonar had the good sense to keep from every one the actual date of his
intended visit, lest tidings should reach the Forbes. He fixed upon a
night when there would be an early rising moon to light him. On the
morning of the day he made all his preparations very carefully. In
view of an absence of some hours, he provided himself with a good
packet of sandwiches and a flask of spirits. He then set out for
Fouranbuie Inn, a dreary hostel about four miles distant from the foot
of the mountain. There he made a substantial meal, and about four in
the afternoon started on his quest. He had resolved to ride off from
the inn on his bicycle, ostensibly toward a village farther on; then to
dismount at the foot of Ben Sgurrach, and, hiding his machine in some
bushes, to start the climb as dusk fell. Jock, as he had found out,
was accustomed to approach from another direction when returning from
work.