The Short Stories of John Buchan (Complete Collection). Buchan John

drove the beasts to a little knoll, which stood somewhat above the meadow, and there they stood, cattle and man, in the fellowship of misfortune. They had been as wild as peat-reek, and had suffered none to approach them, but now with some instinct of peril they stood quietly by his side, turning great billowy foreheads to the surging waste. Upward and nearer came the current, rising with steady gurgling which told of great storms in his hills and roaring torrents in every gorge. Now the sound grew louder and seemed almost at his feet, now it ceased and nought was heard save the dull hum of the main stream pouring its choking floods to the sea. Suddenly his eyes wandered to the lights of his house and the wide slope beyond, and for a second he mused on some alien trifle. Then he was brought to himself with a pull as he looked and saw a line of black water not three feet from the farthest beast. His heart stood still, and with awe he reflected that in half-an-hour by this rate of rising he would be with his Maker.

      For five minutes he waited, scarce daring to look around him, but dreading each instant to feel a cold wave lick his boot. Then he glanced timorously, and to his joy it was scarce an inch higher. It was stopping, and he might yet be safe. With renewed energy he cried out for aid, till the very cattle started at the sound and moved uneasily among themselves.

      In a little there came an answering voice across the dark, “Whae’s in the laigh meedy?” and it was the voice of the herd of Clachlands, sounding hoarse through the driving of the stream.

      “It’s me,” went back the mournful response.

      “And whae are ye?” came the sepulchral voice.

      “Your ain maister, William Smail, forewandered among water and nowt beast.”

      For some time there was no reply, since the shepherd was engaged in a severe mental struggle; with the readiness of his class he went straight to the heart of the peril, and mentally reviewed the ways and waters of the land. Then he calmly accepted the hopelessness of it all, and cried loudly through the void,- -

      “There’s nae way for’t but juist to bide where ye are. The water’s stoppit, and gin mornin’ we ‘ll get ye aff. I ‘ll send a laddie down to the Dow Pule to bring up a boat in a cairt. But that’s a lang gait, and it ‘ll be a sair job gettin’ it up, and I misdoot it ‘ll be daylicht or he comes. But haud up your hert, and we ‘ll get ye oot. Are the beasts a’ richt?”

      “A’ richt, William; but, ‘od man! their maister is cauld. Could ye no fling something ower?”

      “No, when there’s twae hunner yairds o’ deep water atween.”

      “Then, William, ye maun licht a fire, a great muckle roarin’ fire, juist fornenst me. It ‘ll cheer me to see the licht o’ ‘t.”

      The shepherd did as he was bid, and for many minutes the farmer could hear the noise of men heaping wood, in the pauses of wind and through the thicker murmur of the water. Then a glare shot up, and revealed the dusky forms of the four serving-men straining their eyes across the channel. The gleam lit up a yard of water by the other bank, but all midway was inky shadow. It was about eight o’clock, and the moon was just arisen. The air had coldened and a light chill wind rose from the river.

      The farmer of Clachlands, standing among shivering and dripping oxen, himself wet to the skin and cold as a stone, with no wrapping save his plaid, and no outlook save a black moving water and a gleam of fire—in such a position, the farmer of Clachlands collected his thoughts and mustered his resolution. His first consideration was the safety of his stock. The effort gave him comfort. His crops were in, and he could lose nothing there; his sheep were far removed from scaith, and his cattle would survive the night with ease, if the water kept its level. With some satisfaction he reflected that the only care he need have in the matter was for his own bodily comfort in an autumn night. This was serious, yet not deadly, for the farmer was a man of many toils and cared little for the rigours of weather. But he would gladly have given the price of a beast for a bottle of whisky to comfort himself in this emergency.

      He stood on a knuckle of green land some twenty feet long, with a crowd of cattle pressing around him and a little forest of horns showing faintly. There was warmth in these great shaggy hides if they had not been drenched and icy from long standing. His fingers were soon as numb as his feet, and it was in vain that he stamped on the plashy grass or wrapped his hands in a fold of plaid. There was no doubt in the matter. He was keenly uncomfortable, and the growing chill of night would not mend his condition.

      Some ray of comfort was to be got from the sight of the crackling fire. There at least was homely warmth, and light, and ease. With gusto he conjured up all the delights of the past week, the roaring evenings in market ale-house, and the fragrance of good drink and piping food. Necessity sharpened his fancy, and he could almost feel the flavour of tobacco. A sudden hope took him. He clapped hand to pocket and pulled forth pipe and shag. Curse it! He had left his match- box on the chimney-top in his kitchen, and there was an end to his only chance of comfort.

      So in all cold and damp he set himself to pass the night in the midst of that ceaseless swirl of black moss water. Even as he looked at the dancing glimmer of fire, the moon broke forth silent and full, and lit the vale with misty glamour. The great hills, whence came the Gled, shone blue and high with fleecy trails of vapour drifting athwart them. He saw clearly the walls of his dwelling, the light shining from the window, the struggling fire on the bank, and the dark forms of men. Its transient flashes on the waves were scarce seen in the broad belt of moonshine which girdled the valley. And around him, before and behind, rolled the unending desert waters with that heavy, resolute flow, which one who knows the floods fears a thousandfold more than the boisterous stir of a torrent.

      And so he stood till maybe one o’clock of the morning, cold to the bone, and awed by the eternal silence, which choked him, despite the myriad noises of the night. For there are few things more awful than the calm of nature in her madness—the stillness which follows a snow-slip or the monotony of a great flood. By this hour he was falling from his first high confidence. His knees stooped under him, and he was fain to lean upon the beasts at his side. His shoulders ached with the wet, and his eyes grew sore with the sight of yellow glare and remote distance.

      From this point I shall tell his tale in his own words, as he has told it me, but stripped of its garnishing and detail. For it were vain to translate Lallan into orthodox speech, when the very salt of the night air clings to the Scots as it did to that queer tale.

      “The mune had been lang out,” he said, “and I had grown weary o’ her blinkin’. I was as cauld as death, and as wat as the sea, no to speak o’ haein’ the rheumatics in my back. The nowt were glowrin’ and glunchin’, rubbin’ heid to heid, and whiles stampin’ on my taes wi’ their cloven hooves. But I was mortal glad o’ the beasts’ company, for I think I wad hae gane daft mysel in that muckle dowie water. Whiles I thocht it was risin’, and then my hert stood still; an’ whiles fa’in’, and then it loupit wi’ joy. But it keepit geyan near the bit, and aye as I heard it lip-lappin’ I prayed the Lord to keep it whaur it was.

      “About half-past yin in the mornin’, as I saw by my watch, I got sleepy, and but for the nowt steerin’, I micht hae drappit aff. Syne I begood to watch the water, and it was rale interestin’, for a’ sort o’ queer things were comin’ doun. I could see bits o’ brigs and palin’s wi’oot end dippin’ in the tide, and whiles swirlin’ in sae near that I could hae grippit them. Then beasts began to come by, whiles upside doun, whiles soomin’ brawly, sheep and stirks frae the farms up the water. I got graund amusement for a wee while watchin’ them, and notin’ the marks on their necks.

      “‘That’s Clachlands Mains,’ says I, ‘and that’s Nether Fallo, and the Back o’ the Muneraw. Gudesake, sic a spate it maun hae been up the muirs to work siccan a destruction!’ I keepit coont o’ the stock, and feegured to mysel what the farmer-bodies wad lose. The thocht that I wad keep a’ my ain was some kind o’ comfort.

      “But about the hour o’ twae the mune cloudit ower, and I saw nae mair than twenty feet afore me. I got awesome cauld, and a sort o’ stound o’ fricht took me, as I lookit into that black, unholy water. The nowt shivered sair and drappit their heids, and the fire on the ither side seemed