The Short Stories of John Buchan (Complete Collection). Buchan John
often I wonder how it was possible that I could be here the day. But the Lord’s very gracious, and he works in a queer way. For it so happened that Ebie Blackstock, whae had left Gledsmuir an hour afore me and whom I thocht by this time to be snorin’ in his bed at the Head o’ the Hope, had gone intil the herd’s house at the Waterfit, and had got sae muckle drink there that he was sweered to start for hame till aboot half-past twal i’ the night. Weel, he was comin’ up the burnside, gae happy and contentit, for he had nae wife at hame to speir about his ongaeings, when, as he’s telled me himsel, he heard sic an uproar doon by the Black Linn that made him turn pale and think that the Deil, whom he had long served, had gotten him at last. But he was a brave man, was Ebie, and he thinks to himsel that some fellow-creature micht be perishin’. So he gangs forrit wi’ a’ his pith, trying to think on the Lord’s Prayer and last Sabbath’s sermon. And, lookin’ ower the edge, he saw naething for a while, naething but the black water wi’ the awfu’ yells coming out o’ ‘t. Then he made out something like a heid near the side. So he rins doon by the road, no ower the rocks as I had come, but round by the burnside road, and soon he gets to the pool, where the crying was getting aye fainter and fainter. And then he saw me. And he grips me by the collar, for he was a sensible man, was Ebie, and hauls me oot. If he hadna been geyan strong he couldna hae dune it, for I was a deid wecht, forbye having a heavy man hanging on to me. When he got me up, what was his astonishment to find anither man at the end o’ my airm, a man like a corp a’ bloody about the heid. So he got us baith out, and we wae baith senseless; and he laid us in a safe bit back frae the water, and syne gaed off for help. So bye and bye we were baith got hame, me to my house and Mr. Airthur up to the Lodge.”
“And was that the end of it?” I asked.
“Na,” said the shepherd. “I lay for twae month there raving wi’ brain fever, and when I cam to my senses I was as weak as a bairn. It was many months ere I was mysel again, and my left airm to this day is stiff and no muckle to lippen to. But Mr. Airthur was far waur, for the dad he had gotten on the rock was thocht to have broken his skull, and he lay long atween life and death. And the warst thing was that his faither was sae vexed about him that he never got ower the shock, but dee’d afore Airthur was out o’ bed. And so when he cam out again he was My Lord, and a monstrously rich man.”
The shepherd puffed meditatively at his pipe for a few minutes.
“But that’s no a’ yet. For Mr. Airthur wad tak nae refusal but that I maun gang awa’ doon wi’ him to his braw house in England and be a land o’ factor or steward or something like that. And I had a rale fine cottage a’ to mysel, wi’ a very bonny gairden and guid wages, so I stayed there maybe sax month and then I gaed up till him. ‘I canna bide nae longer,’ says I. ‘I canna stand this place. It’s far ower laigh, and I’m fair sick to get hills to rest my een on. I’m awfu’ gratefu’ to ye for your kindness, but I maun gie up my job.’ He was very sorry to lose me, and was for giein’ me a present o’ money or stockin’ a fairm for me, because he said that it was to me he owed his life. But I wad hae nane o’ his gifts. ‘It wad be a terrible thing,’ I says, ‘to tak siller for daein’ what ony body wad hae dune out o’ pity.’ So I cam awa’ back to Standlan, and I maun say I’m rale contentit here. Mr. Airthur used whiles to write to me and ca’ in and see me when he cam North for the shooting; but since he’s gane sae far wrang wi’ the Tories, I’ve had naething mair to dae wi’ him.”
I made no answer, being busy pondering in my mind on the depth of the shepherd’s political principles, before which the ties of friendship were as nothing.
“Ay,” said he, standing up, “I did what I thocht my duty at the time and I was rale glad I saved the callant’s life. But now, when I think on a’ the ill he’s daein’ to the country and the Guid Cause, I whiles think I wad hae been daein’ better if I had just drappit him in.
“But whae kens? It’s a queer warld.” And the shepherd knocked the ashes out of his pipe.
STREAMS OF WATER IN THE SOUTH
“Like streams of water in the South
Our bondage, Lord, recall.”
I
This is all a tale of an older world and a forgotten countryside. At this moment of time change has come; a screaming line of steel runs through the heather of Noman’s-land, and the holiday-maker claims the valleys for his own. But this busyness is but of yesterday, and not ten years ago the fields lay quiet to the gaze of placid beasts and the wandering stars. This story I have culled from the grave of an old fashion, and set it down for the love of a great soul and the poetry of life.
It was at the ford of the Clachlands Water in a tempestuous August, that I, an idle boy, first learned the hardships of the Lammas droving. The shepherd of the Redswirehead, my very good friend, and his three shaggy dogs, were working for their lives in an angry water. The path behind was thronged with scores of sheep bound for the Gledsmuir market, and beyond it was possible to discern through the mist the few dripping dozen which had made the passage. Between raged yards of brown foam coming down from murky hills, and the air echoed with the yelp of dogs and the perplexed cursing of men.
Before I knew I was helping in the task, with water lipping round my waist and my arms filled with a terrified sheep. It was no light task, for though the water was no more than three feet deep it was swift and strong, and a kicking hogg is a sore burden. But this was the only road; the stream might rise higher at any moment; and somehow or other those bleating flocks had to be transferred to their fellows beyond. There were six men at the labour, six men and myself, and all were cross and wearied and heavy with water.
I made my passages side by side with my friend the shepherd, and thereby felt much elated. This was a man who had dwelt all his days in the wilds and was familiar with torrents as with his own doorstep. Now and then a swimming dog would bark feebly as he was washed against us, and flatter his fool’s heart that he was aiding the work. And so we wrought on, till by mid-day I was dead- beat, and could scarce stagger through the surf, while all the men had the same gasping faces. I saw the shepherd look with longing eye up the long green valley, and mutter disconsolately in his beard.
“Is the water rising?” I asked.
“It’s no rising,” said he, “but I likena the look o’ that big, black clud upon Cairncraw. I doubt there’s been a shoor up the muirs, and a shoor there means twae mair feet o’ water in the Clachlands. God help Sandy Jamieson’s lambs, if there is.”
“How many are left?” I asked.
“Three, fower,—no abune a score and a half,” said he, running his eye over the lessened flocks. “I maun try to tak twae at a time.”
So for ten minutes he struggled with a double burden, and panted painfully at each return. Then with a sudden swift look up stream he broke off and stood up. “Get ower the water, every yin o’ ye, and leave the sheep,” he said, and to my wonder every man of the five obeyed his word, for he was known for a wise counsellor in distress.
And then I saw the reason of his command, for with a sudden swift leap forward the Clachlands rose, and flooded up to where I had stood an instant before high and dry.
“It’s come,” said the shepherd, in a tone of fate, “and there’s fifteen no ower yet, and Lord knows how they ‘ll dae’t. They ‘ll hae to gang roond by Gledsmuir Brig, and that’s twenty mile o’ a differ. ‘Deed, it’s no like that Sandy Jamieson will get a guid price the morn for sic sair forfochen beasts.”
Then with firmly gripped staff he marched stoutly into the tide till it ran hissing below his armpits. “I could dae’t alane,” he cried, “but no wi’ a burden. For, losh, if ye slippit, ye’d be in the Manor Pool afore ye could draw breath.”
And so we waited with the great white droves and