Mr. Standfast

J >> John Buchan >> Mr. Standfast

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At tea I led the talk to my own past life. I yarned about my
experiences as a mining engineer, and said I could never get out of
the trick of looking at country with the eye of the prospector. 'For
instance,' I said, 'if this had been Rhodesia, I would have said there
was a good chance of copper in these little kopjes above the town.
They're not unlike the hills round the Messina mine.' I told the
captain that after the war I was thinking of turning my attention to
the West Highlands and looking out for minerals.

'Ye'll make nothing of it,' said the captain. 'The costs are ower
big, even if ye found the minerals, for ye'd have to import a' your
labour. The West Hielandman is no fond o' hard work. Ye ken the
psalm o' the crofter?

__O that the peats would cut themselves,
The fish chump on the shore,
And that I in my bed might lie
Henceforth for ever _more!'

'Has it ever been tried?' I asked.

'Often. There's marble and slate quarries, and there was word o'
coal in Benbecula. And there's the iron mines at Ranna.'

'Where's that?' I asked.

'Up forenent Skye. We call in there, and generally bide a bit.
There's a heap of cargo for Ranna, and we usually get a good load
back. But as I tell ye, there's few Hielanders working there. Mostly
Irish and lads frae Fife and Falkirk way.'

I didn't pursue the subject, for I had found Demas's silver-mine.
If the _Tobermory lay at Ranna for a week, Gresson would have time
to do his own private business. Ranna would not be the spot, for
the island was bare to the world in the middle of a much-frequented
channel. But Skye was just across the way, and when I looked in
my map at its big, wandering peninsulas I concluded that my guess
had been right, and that Skye was the place to make for.

That night I sat on deck with Gresson, and in a wonderful starry
silence we watched the lights die out of the houses in the town, and
talked of a thousand things. I noticed - what I had had a hint of
before - that my companion was no common man. There were
moments when he forgot himself and talked like an educated gentleman:
then he would remember, and relapse into the lingo of Leadville,
Colorado. In my character of the ingenuous inquirer I set him
posers about politics and economics, the kind of thing I might have
been supposed to pick up from unintelligent browsing among little
books. Generally he answered with some slangy catchword, but
occasionally he was interested beyond his discretion, and treated me
to a harangue like an equal. I discovered another thing, that he had
a craze for poetry, and a capacious memory for it. I forgot how we
drifted into the subject, but I remember he quoted some queer
haunting stuff which he said was Swinburne, and verses by people I
had heard of from Letchford at Biggleswick. Then he saw by my
silence that he had gone too far, and fell back into the jargon of the
West. He wanted to know about my plans, and we went down into
the cabin and had a look at the map. I explained my route, up
Morvern and round the head of Lochiel, and back to Oban by the
east side of Loch Linnhe.

'Got you,' he said. 'You've a hell of a walk before you. That bug
never bit me, and I guess I'm not envying you any. And after that,
Mr Brand?'

'Back to Glasgow to do some work for the cause,' I said lightly.
'Just so,' he said with a grin. 'It's a great life if you
don't weaken.'

We steamed out of the bay next morning at dawn, and about
nine o'clock I got on shore at a little place called Lochaline. My kit
was all on my person, and my waterproof's pockets were stuffed
with chocolates and biscuits I had bought in Oban. The captain
was discouraging. 'Ye'll get your bellyful o' Hieland hills, Mr
Brand, afore ye win round the loch head. Ye'll be wishin' yerself
back on the _Tobermory.' But Gresson speeded me joyfully on my
way, and said he wished he were coming with me. He even
accompanied me the first hundred yards, and waved his hat after me
till I was round the turn of the road.

The first stage in that journey was pure delight. I was thankful to
be rid of the infernal boat, and the hot summer scents coming
down the glen were comforting after the cold, salt smell of the sea.
The road lay up the side of a small bay, at the top of which a big
white house stood among gardens. Presently I had left the coast
and was in a glen where a brown salmon-river swirled through
acres of bog-myrtle. It had its source in a loch, from which the
mountain rose steeply - a place so glassy in that August forenoon
that every scar and wrinkle of the hillside were faithfully reflected.
After that I crossed a low pass to the head of another sea-lock, and,
following the map, struck over the shoulder of a great hill and ate
my luncheon far up on its side, with a wonderful vista of wood and
water below me.

All that morning I was very happy, not thinking about Gresson
or Ivery, but getting my mind clear in those wide spaces, and my
lungs filled with the brisk hill air. But I noticed one curious thing.
On my last visit to Scotland, when I covered more moorland miles
a day than any man since Claverhouse, I had been fascinated by the
land, and had pleased myself with plans for settling down in it. But
now, after three years of war and general rocketing, I felt less
drawn to that kind of landscape. I wanted something more green
and peaceful and habitable, and it was to the Cotswolds that my
memory turned with longing.

I puzzled over this till I realized that in all my Cotswold pictures a
figure kept going and coming - a young girl with a cloud of gold hair
and the strong, slim grace of a boy, who had sung 'Cherry Ripe' in a
moonlit garden. Up on that hillside I understood very clearly that I,
who had been as careless of women as any monk, had fallen wildly in
love with a child of half my age. I was loath to admit it, though for
weeks the conclusion had been forcing itself on me. Not that I didn't
revel in my madness, but that it seemed too hopeless a business, and I
had no use for barren philandering. But, seated on a rock munching
chocolate and biscuits, I faced up to the fact and resolved to trust my
luck. After all we were comrades in a big job, and it was up to me to
be man enough to win her. The thought seemed to brace any courage
that was in me. No task seemed too hard with her approval to gain
and her companionship somewhere at the back of it. I sat for a long
time in a happy dream, remembering all the glimpses I had had of
her, and humming her song to an audience of one black-faced sheep.

On the highroad half a mile below me, I saw a figure on a
bicycle mounting the hill, and then getting off to mop its face at the
summit. I turned my Ziess glasses on to it, and observed that it was
a country policeman. It caught sight of me, stared for a bit, tucked
its machine into the side of the road, and then very slowly began to
climb the hillside. Once it stopped, waved its hand and shouted
something which I could not hear. I sat finishing my luncheon, till
the features were revealed to me of a fat oldish man, blowing like a
grampus, his cap well on the back of a bald head, and his trousers
tied about the shins with string.

There was a spring beside me and I had out my flask to round
off my meal.

'Have a drink,' I said.

His eye brightened, and a smile overran his moist face.

'Thank you, sir. It will be very warrm coming up the brae.'

'You oughtn't to,' I said. 'You really oughtn't, you know.
Scorching up hills and then doubling up a mountain are not good for
your time of life.'

He raised the cap of my flask in solemn salutation. 'Your very
good health.' Then he smacked his lips, and had several cupfuls of
water from the spring.

'You will haf come from Achranich way, maybe?' he said in his
soft sing-song, having at last found his breath.

'Just so. Fine weather for the birds, if there was anybody to
shoot them.'

'Ah, no. There will be few shots fired today, for there are no
gentlemen left in Morvern. But I wass asking you, if you come
from Achranich, if you haf seen anybody on the road.'

From his pocket he extricated a brown envelope and a bulky
telegraph form. 'Will you read it, sir, for I haf forgot my spectacles?'

It contained a description of one Brand, a South African and a
suspected character, whom the police were warned to stop and
return to Oban. The description wasn't bad, but it lacked any one
good distinctive detail. Clearly the policeman took me for an innocent
pedestrian, probably the guest of some moorland shooting-box,
with my brown face and rough tweeds and hobnailed shoes.

I frowned and puzzled a little. 'I did see a fellow about three
miles back on the hillside. There's a public-house just where the
burn comes in, and I think he was making for it. Maybe that was
your man. This wire says "South African"; and now I remember
the fellow had the look of a colonial.'

The policeman sighed. 'No doubt it will be the man. Perhaps he
will haf a pistol and will shoot.'

'Not him,' I laughed. 'He looked a mangy sort of chap, and he'll
be scared out of his senses at the sight of you. But take my advice
and get somebody with you before you tackle him. You're always
the better of a witness.'

'That is so,' he said, brightening. 'Ach, these are the bad times!
in old days there wass nothing to do but watch the doors at the
flower-shows and keep the yachts from poaching the sea-trout. But
now it is spies, spies, and "Donald, get out of your bed, and go off
twenty mile to find a German." I wass wishing the war wass by, and
the Germans all dead.'

'Hear, hear!' I cried, and on the strength of it gave him
another dram.

I accompanied him to the road, and saw him mount his bicycle
and zig-zag like a snipe down the hill towards Achranich. Then I
set off briskly northward. It was clear that the faster I moved
the better.
As I went I paid disgusted tribute to the efficiency of the Scottish
police. I wondered how on earth they had marked me down.
Perhaps it was the Glasgow meeting, or perhaps my association
with Ivery at Biggleswick. Anyhow there was somebody somewhere
mighty quick at compiling a _dossier. Unless I wanted to be bundled
back to Oban I must make good speed to the Arisaig coast.

Presently the road fell to a gleaming sea-loch which lay like the
blue blade of a sword among the purple of the hills. At the head
there was a tiny clachan, nestled among birches and rowans, where a
tawny burn wound to the sea. When I entered the place it was
about four o'clock in the afternoon, and peace lay on it like a
garment. In the wide, sunny street there was no sign of life, and no
sound except of hens clucking and of bees busy among the roses.
There was a little grey box of a kirk, and close to the bridge a
thatched cottage which bore the sign of a post and telegraph office.

For the past hour I had been considering that I had better
prepare for mishaps. If the police of these parts had been warned
they might prove too much for me, and Gresson would be allowed
to make his journey unmatched. The only thing to do was to send a
wire to Amos and leave the matter in his hands. Whether that was
possible or not depended upon this remote postal authority.

I entered the little shop, and passed from bright sunshine to a
twilight smelling of paraffin and black-striped peppermint balls. An
old woman with a mutch sat in an arm-chair behind the counter.
She looked up at me over her spectacles and smiled, and I took to
her on the instant. She had the kind of old wise face that God loves.

Beside her I noticed a little pile of books, one of which was a
Bible. Open on her lap was a paper, the __United Free Church _Monthly.
I noticed these details greedily, for I had to make up my mind on
the part to play.

'It's a warm day, mistress,' I said, my voice falling into the broad
Lowland speech, for I had an instinct that she was not of the Highlands.

She laid aside her paper. 'It is that, sir. It is grand weather for the
hairst, but here that's no till the hinner end o' September, and at
the best it's a bit scart o' aits.'

'Ay. It's a different thing down Annandale way,' I said.

Her face lit up. 'Are ye from Dumfries, sir?'

'Not just from Dumfries, but I know the Borders fine.'

'Ye'll no beat them,' she cried. 'Not that this is no a guid place
and I've muckle to be thankfu' for since John Sanderson - that was
ma man - brought me here forty-seeven year syne come Martinmas.
But the aulder I get the mair I think o' the bit whaur I was born. It
was twae miles from Wamphray on the Lockerbie road, but they
tell me the place is noo just a rickle o' stanes.'
'I was wondering, mistress, if I could get a cup of tea in
the village.'

'Ye'll hae a cup wi' me,' she said. 'It's no often we see onybody
frae the Borders hereaways. The kettle's just on the boil.'

She gave me tea and scones and butter, and black-currant jam, and
treacle biscuits that melted in the mouth. And as we ate we talked of
many things - chiefly of the war and of the wickedness of the world.

'There's nae lads left here,' she said. 'They a' joined the Camerons,
and the feck o' them fell at an awfu' place called Lowse. John and
me never had no boys, jist the one lassie that's married on Donald
Frew, the Strontian carrier. I used to vex mysel' about it, but now I
thank the Lord that in His mercy He spared me sorrow. But I wad
hae liked to have had one laddie fechtin' for his country. I whiles
wish I was a Catholic and could pit up prayers for the sodgers that
are deid. It maun be a great consolation.'

I whipped out the _Pilgrim's _Progress from my pocket. 'That is the
grand book for a time like this.'

'Fine I ken it,' she said. 'I got it for a prize in the Sabbath School
when I was a lassie.'

I turned the pages. I read out a passage or two, and then I
seemed struck with a sudden memory.

'This is a telegraph office, mistress. Could I trouble you to send a
telegram? You see I've a cousin that's a minister in Ross-shire at
the Kyle, and him and me are great correspondents. He was writing
about something in the_Pilgrim's _Progress and I think I'll send him a
telegram in answer.'

'A letter would be cheaper,' she said.

'Ay, but I'm on holiday and I've no time for writing.'

She gave me a form, and I wrote:

__ochterlony. Post Office, Kyle. - Demas will be at his mine
within the week. Strive with him, lest I faint by the _way.

'Ye're unco lavish wi' the words, sir,' was her only comment.

We parted with regret, and there was nearly a row when I tried
to pay for the tea. I was bidden remember her to one David
Tudhole, farmer in Nether Mirecleuch, the next time I passed by Wamphray.

The village was as quiet when I left it as when I had entered. I
took my way up the hill with an easier mind, for I had got off the
telegram, and I hoped I had covered my tracks. My friend the
postmistress would, if questioned, be unlikely to recognize any
South African suspect in the frank and homely traveller who had
spoken with her of Annandale and the_Pilgrim's _Progress.

The soft mulberry gloaming of the west coast was beginning to
fall on the hills. I hoped to put in a dozen miles before dark to the
next village on the map, where I might find quarters. But ere I had
gone far I heard the sound of a motor behind me, and a car slipped
past bearing three men. The driver favoured me with a sharp
glance, and clapped on the brakes. I noted that the two men in the
tonneau were carrying sporting rifles.

' Hi, you, sir,' he cried. 'Come here.' The two rifle-bearers -
solemn gillies - brought their weapons to attention.

'By God,' he said, 'it's the man. What's your name? Keep him
covered, Angus.'

The gillies duly covered me, and I did not like the look
of their wavering barrels. They were obviously as surprised as myself.

I had about half a second to make my plans. I advanced with a very
stiff air, and asked him what the devil he meant. No Lowland Scots
for me now. My tone was that of an adjutant of a Guards' battalion.

My inquisitor was a tall man in an ulster, with a green felt hat on
his small head. He had a lean, well-bred face, and very choleric blue
eyes. I set him down as a soldier, retired, Highland regiment or
cavalry, old style.

He produced a telegraph form, like the policeman.

'Middle height - strongly built - grey tweeds - brown hat -
speaks with a colonial accent - much sunburnt. What's your name, sir?'

I did not reply in a colonial accent, but with the hauteur of the
British officer when stopped by a French sentry. I asked him again
what the devil he had to do with my business. This made him
angry and he began to stammer.

'I'll teach you what I have to do with it. I'm a deputy-lieutenant
of this county, and I have Admiralty instructions to watch the
coast. Damn it, sir, I've a wire here from the Chief Constable
describing you. You're Brand, a very dangerous fellow, and we
want to know what the devil you're doing here.'

As I looked at his wrathful eye and lean head, which could not
have held much brains, I saw that I must change my tone. if I
irritated him he would get nasty and refuse to listen and hang me
up for hours. So my voice became respectful.

'I beg your pardon, sir, but I've not been accustomed to be
pulled up suddenly, and asked for my credentials. My name is
Blaikie, Captain Robert Blaikie, of the Scots Fusiliers. I'm home on
three weeks' leave, to get a little peace after Hooge. We were only
hauled out five days ago.' I hoped my old friend in the shell-shock
hospital at Isham would pardon my borrowing his identity.

The man looked puzzled. 'How the devil am I to be satisfied
about that? Have you any papers to prove it?'

'Why, no. I don't carry passports about with me on a walking
tour. But you can wire to the depot, or to my London address.'

He pulled at his yellow moustache. 'I'm hanged if I know what
to do. I want to get home for dinner. I tell you what, sir, I'll take
you on with me and put you up for the night. My boy's at home,
convalescing, and if he says you're pukka I'll ask your pardon and
give you a dashed good bottle of port. I'll trust him and I warn you
he's a keen hand.'

There was nothing to do but consent, and I got in beside him
with an uneasy conscience. Supposing the son knew the real Blaikie!
I asked the name of the boy's battalion, and was told the 10th
Seaforths. That wasn't pleasant hearing, for they had been brigaded
with us on the Somme. But Colonel Broadbury - for he told me his
name - volunteered another piece of news which set my mind at
rest. The boy was not yet twenty, and had only been out seven
months. At Arras he had got a bit of shrapnel in his thigh, which
had played the deuce with the sciatic nerve, and he was still
on crutches.

We spun over ridges of moorland, always keeping northward,
and brought up at a pleasant white-washed house close to the sea.
Colonel Broadbury ushered me into a hall where a small fire of
peats was burning, and on a couch beside it lay a slim, pale-faced
young man. He had dropped his policeman's manner, and behaved
like a gentleman. 'Ted,' he said, 'I've brought a friend home for the
night. I went out to look for a suspect and found a British officer.
This is Captain Blaikie, of the Scots Fusiliers.'

The boy looked at me pleasantly. 'I'm very glad to meet you, sir.
You'll excuse me not getting up, but I've got a game leg.' He was
the copy of his father in features, but dark and sallow where the
other was blond. He had just the same narrow head, and stubborn
mouth, and honest, quick-tempered eyes. It is the type that makes
dashing regimental officers, and earns V.C.s, and gets done in
wholesale. I was never that kind. I belonged to the school of the
cunning cowards.

In the half-hour before dinner the last wisp of suspicion fled
from my host's mind. For Ted Broadbury and I were immediately
deep in 'shop'. I had met most of his senior officers, and I knew all
about their doings at Arras, for his brigade had been across the
river on my left. We fought the great fight over again, and yarned
about technicalities and slanged the Staff in the way young officers
have, the father throwing in questions that showed how mighty
proud he was of his son. I had a bath before dinner, and as he led
me to the bathroom he apologized very handsomely for his bad
manners. 'Your coming's been a godsend for Ted. He was moping
a bit in this place. And, though I say it that shouldn't, he's a dashed
good boy.'

I had my promised bottle of port, and after dinner I took on the
father at billiards. Then we settled in the smoking-room, and I laid
myself out to entertain the pair. The result was that they would
have me stay a week, but I spoke of the shortness of my leave, and
said I must get on to the railway and then back to Fort William for
my luggage.

So I spent that night between clean sheets, and ate a Christian
breakfast, and was given my host's car to set me a bit on the road. I
dismissed it after half a dozen miles, and, following the map, struck
over the hills to the west. About midday I topped a ridge, and
beheld the Sound of Sleat shining beneath me. There were other
things in the landscape. In the valley on the right a long goods
train was crawling on the Mallaig railway. And across the strip of
sea, like some fortress of the old gods, rose the dark bastions and
turrets of the hills of Skye.

CHAPTER SIX
The Skirts of the Coolin

Obviously I must keep away from the railway. If the police were
after me in Morvern, that line would be warned, for it was a barrier
I must cross if I were to go farther north. I observed from the map
that it turned up the coast, and concluded that the place for me to
make for was the shore south of that turn, where Heaven might
send me some luck in the boat line. For I was pretty certain that
every porter and station-master on that tin-pot outfit was anxious
to make better acquaintance with my humble self.

I lunched off the sandwiches the Broadburys had given me, and
in the bright afternoon made my way down the hill, crossed at the
foot of a small fresh-water lochan, and pursued the issuing stream
through midge-infested woods of hazels to its junction with the
sea. It was rough going, but very pleasant, and I fell into the same
mood of idle contentment that I had enjoyed the previous morning.
I never met a soul. Sometimes a roe deer broke out of the covert,
or an old blackcock startled me with his scolding. The place was
bright with heather, still in its first bloom, and smelt better than the
myrrh of Arabia. It was a blessed glen, and I was as happy as a
king, till I began to feel the coming of hunger, and reflected that
the Lord alone knew when I might get a meal. I had still some
chocolate and biscuits, but I wanted something substantial.

The distance was greater than I thought, and it was already
twilight when I reached the coast. The shore was open and desolate
- great banks of pebbles to which straggled alders and hazels from
the hillside scrub. But as I marched northward and turned a little
point of land I saw before me in a crook of the bay a smoking
cottage. And, plodding along by the water's edge, was the bent
figure of a man, laden with nets and lobster pots. Also, beached on
the shingle was a boat.

I quickened my pace and overtook the fisherman. He was an old
man with a ragged grey beard, and his rig was seaman's boots and a
much-darned blue jersey. He was deaf, and did not hear me when I
hailed him. When he caught sight of me he never stopped, though
he very solemnly returned my good evening. I fell into step with
him, and in his silent company reached the cottage.

He halted before the door and unslung his burdens. The place
was a two-roomed building with a roof of thatch, and the walls
all grown over with a yellow-flowered creeper. When he had
straightened his back, he looked seaward and at the sky, as if to
prospect the weather. Then he turned on me his gentle, absorbed
eyes. 'It will haf been a fine day, sir. Wass you seeking the road
to anywhere?'

'I was seeking a night's lodging,' I said. 'I've had a long tramp
on the hills, and I'd be glad of a chance of not going farther.'

'We will haf no accommodation for a gentleman,' he said gravely.

'I can sleep on the floor, if you can give me a blanket and a bite
of supper.'

'Indeed you will not,' and he smiled slowly. 'But I will ask the
wife. Mary, come here!'

An old woman appeared in answer to his call, a woman whose
face was so old that she seemed like his mother. In highland places
one sex ages quicker than the other.

'This gentleman would like to bide the night. I wass telling him
that we had a poor small house, but he says he will not be minding it.'

She looked at me with the timid politeness that you find only in
outland places.

'We can do our best, indeed, sir. The gentleman can have Colin's
bed in the loft, but he will haf to be doing with plain food. Supper
is ready if you will come in now.'

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