Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated), page 179
Presently the hush grew deeper, and from the tent a man came. I could not see him clearly, but the flickering light told me that he was very tall, and that, like the Indians, he was naked to the middle. He stood behind the altar, and began some incantation.
It was in the Indian tongue which I could not understand. The voice was harsh and discordant, but powerful enough to fill that whole circle of hill. It seemed to rouse the passion of the hearers, for grave faces around me began to work, and long-drawn sighs came from their lips.
Then at a word from the figure four men advanced, bearing something between them, which they laid on the altar. To my amazement I saw that it was a great yellow panther, so trussed up that it was impotent to hurt. How such a beast had ever been caught alive I know not. I could see its green cat’s eyes glowing in the dark, and the striving of its muscles, and hear the breath hissing from its muzzled jaws.
The figure raised a knife and plunged it into the throat of the great cat. The slow lapping of blood broke in on the stillness. Then the voice shrilled high and wild. I could see that the man had marked his forehead with blood, and that his hands were red and dripping. He seemed to be declaiming some savage chant, to which my neighbours began to keep time with their bodies. Wilder and wilder it grew, till it ended in a scream like a seamew’s. Whoever the madman was, he knew the mystery of Indian souls, for in a little he would have had that host lusting blindly for death. I felt the spell myself, piercing through my awe and hatred of the spell-weaver, and I won’t say but that my weary head kept time with the others to that weird singing.
A man brought a torch and lit the brushwood on the altar. Instantly a flame rose to heaven, through which the figure of the magician showed fitfully like a mountain in mist. That act broke the wizardry for me. To sacrifice a cat was monstrous and horrible, but it was also uncouthly silly. I saw the magic for what it was, a maniac’s trickery. In the revulsion I grew angry, and my anger heartened me wonderfully. Was this stupendous quackery to bring ruin to the Tidewater? Though I had to choke the life with my own hands out of that warlock’s throat, I should prevent it.
Then from behind the fire the voice began again. But this time I understood it. The words were English. I was amazed, for I had forgotten that I knew the wizard to be a white man.
“Thus saith the Lord God,” it cried, “Woe to the bloody city! I will make the pile great for fire. Heap on wood, kindle the fire, consume the flesh, and spice it well, and let the bones be burned.”
He poked the beast on the altar, and a bit of burning yellow fur fell off and frizzled on the ground.
It was horrid beyond words, lewd and savage and impious, and desperately cruel. And the strange thing was that the voice was familiar.
“O thou that dwellest upon many waters,” it went on again, “abundant in treasures, thine end is come, and the measure of thy covetousness. The Lord of Hosts hath sworn by Himself, saying, Surely I will fill thee with men as with caterpillars... “
With that last word there came over me a flood of recollection. It was spoken not in the common English way, but in the broad manner of my own folk ... I saw in my mind’s eye a wet moorland, and heard a voice inveighing against the wickedness of those in high places... I smelled the foul air of the Canongate Tollbooth, and heard this same man testifying against the vanity of the world... “Cawterpillars!” It was the voice that had once bidden me sing “Jenny Nettles.”
Harsh and strident and horrible, it was yet the voice I had known, now blaspheming Scripture words behind that gruesome sacrifice. I think I laughed aloud. I remembered the man I had pursued my first night in Virginia, the man who had raided Frew’s cabin. I remembered Ringan’s tale of the Scots redemptioner that had escaped from Norfolk county, and the various strange writings which had descended from the hills. Was it not the queerest fate that one whom I had met in my boyish scrapes should return after six years and many thousand miles to play once more a major part in my life! The nameless general in the hills was Muckle John Gib, once a mariner of Borrowstoneness, and some time leader of the Sweet-Singers. I felt the smell of wet heather, and the fishy odours of the Forth; I heard the tang of our country speech, and the swirl of the gusty winds of home.
But in a second all thought of mirth was gone, and a deep solemnity fell upon me. God had assuredly directed my path, for He had brought the two of us together over the widest spaces of earth. I had no fear of the issue. I should master Muckle John as I had mastered him before. My awe was all for God’s mysterious dealing, not for that poor fool posturing behind his obscene sacrifice. His voice rose and fell in eldritch screams and hollow moans. He was mouthing the words of some Bible Prophet.
“A Sword is upon her horses, and upon her chariots, and upon all the mingled people that are in the midst of her, and they shall become as women. A Sword is upon her treasures, and they shall be robbed; a drought is upon her waters, and they shall be dried up; for it is the land of graven images, and they are mad upon their idols.”
Every syllable brought back some memory. He had the whine and sough in his voice that our sectaries prized, and I could shut my eyes and imagine I was back in the little kirk of Lesmahagow on a hot summer morn. And then would come the scream of madness, the high wail of the Sweet-Singer.
“Thus saith the Lord God: Behold, I will bring a King of kings from the north, with horses and with chariots, and with horsemen and companies and muck people. He shall slay with the sword thy daughters in the field... “
“Fine words,” I thought; “but Elspeth laid her whip over your shoulders, my man.”
“... With the hoofs of his horses shall he tread down all thy streets. He shall slay thy people by the sword, and thy strong garrisons shall go down to the ground... And I will cause the music of thy songs to cease, and the sound of thy harps shall no more be heard.”
I had a vision of Elspeth’s birthday party when we sat round the Governor’s table, and I had wondered dismally how long it would be before our pleasant songs would be turned to mourning.
The fires died down, the smoke thinned, and the full moon rising over the crest of the hills poured her light on us. The torches flickered insolently in that calm radiance. The voice, too, grew lower and the incantation ceased. Then it began again in the Indian tongue, and the whole host rose to their feet. Muckle John, like some old priest of Diana, flung up his arms to the heavens, and seemed to be invoking his strange gods. Or he may have been blessing his flock — I know not which. Then he turned and strode back to his tent, just as he had done on that night in the Cauldstaneslap...
A hand was laid on my arm and Onotawah stood by me. He motioned me to follow him, and led me past the smoking altar to a row of painted white stones around the great wigwam. This he did not cross, but pointed to the tent door, I pushed aside the flap and entered.
An Indian lamp — a wick floating in oil — stood on a rough table. But its thin light was unneeded, for the great flood of moonshine, coming through the slits of the skins, made a clear yellow twilight. By it I marked the figure of Muckle John on his knees.
“Good evening to you, Mr. Gib,” I said.
The figure sprang to its feet and strode over to me.
“Who are ye,” it cried, “who speaks a name that is no more spoken on earth?”
“Just a countryman of yours, who has forgathered with you before. Have you no mind of the Cauldstaneslap and the Canongate Tollbooth?”
He snatched up the lamp and peered into my face, but he was long past recollection.
“I know ye not. But if ye be indeed one from that idolatrous country of Scotland, the Lord hath sent you to witness the triumph of His servant, Know that I am no longer the man John Gib, but the chosen of the Lord, to whom He hath given a new name, even Jerubbaal, saying let Baal plead against him, because he hath thrown down his altar.”
“That’s too long a word for me to remember, Mr. Gib, so by your leave I’ll call you as you were christened.”
I had forced myself to a slow coolness, and my voice seemed to madden him.
“Ye would outface me,” he cried. “I see ye are an idolater from the tents of Shem, on whom judgment will be speedy and surprising. Know ye not what the Lord hath prepared for ye? Down in your proud cities ye are feasting and dicing and smiling on your paramours, but the writing is on the wall, and in a little ye will be crying like weaned bairns for a refuge against the storm of God. Your strong men shall be slain, and your virgins shall be led captive, and your little children shall be dashed against a stone. And in the midst of your ruins I, even I, will raise a temple to the God of Israel, and nations that know me not will run unto me because of the Lord my God.”
I had determined on my part, and played it calmly.
“And what will you do with your Indian braves?” I asked.
“Sharon shall be a fold of flocks, and the valley of Achor a place to lie down in, for my people that have sought me,” he answered.
“A bonny spectacle,” I said. “Man, if you dare to cross the Border you will be whipped at a cart-tail and clapped into Bedlam as a crazy vagabond.”
“Blasphemer,” he shrieked, and ran at me with the knife he had used on the panther.
It took all my courage to play my game. I stood motionless, looking at him, and his head fell. Had I moved he would have struck, but to his mad eyes my calmness was terrifying.
“It sticks in my mind,” I said, “that there is a commandment, Do no murder. You call yourself a follower of the Lord. Let me tell you that you are no more than a bloody-minded savage, a thousandfold more guilty than those poor creatures you are leading astray. You serve Baal, not God, John Gib, and the devil in hell is banking his fires and counting on your company.”
He gibbered at me like a bedlamite, but I knew what I was doing. I raised my voice, and spoke loud and clear, while my eyes held his in that yellow dusk.
“Priest of Baal,” I cried, “lying prophet! Go down on your knees and pray for mercy. By the living God, the flames of hell are waiting for you. The lightnings tremble in the clouds to scorch you up and send your black soul to its own place.”
His hands pawed at my throat, but the horror was descending on him. He shrieked like a wild beast, and cast fearful eyes behind him. Then he rushed into the dark corners, stabbing with his knife, crying that the devils were loosed. I remember how horribly he frothed at the mouth.
“Avaunt,” he howled. “Avaunt, Mel and Abaddon! Avaunt, Evil-Merodach and Baal-Jezer! Ha! There I had ye, ye muckle goat. The stink of hell is on ye, but ye shall not take the elect of the Lord.”
He crawled on his belly, stabbing his knife into the ground. I easily avoided him, for his eyes saw nothing but his terrible phantoms. Verily Shalah had spoken truth when he said that this man had bodily converse with the devils.
Then I threw him — quite easily, for his limbs were going limp in the extremity of his horror. He lay gasping and foaming, his eyes turning back in his head, while I bound his arms to his sides with my belt. I found some cords in the tent, and tied his legs together. He moaned miserably for a little, and then was silent.
* * * * *
I think I must have sat by him for three hours. The world was very still, and the moon set, and the only light was the flickering lamp. Once or twice I heard a rustle by the tent door. Some Indian guard was on the watch, but I knew that no Indian dared to cross the forbidden circle.
I had no thoughts, being oppressed with a great stupor of weariness. I may have dozed a little, but the pain of my legs kept me from slumbering.
Once or twice I looked at him, and I noticed that the madness had gone out of his face, and that he was sleeping peacefully. I wiped the froth from his lips, and his forehead was cool to my touch.
By and by, as I held the lamp close, I observed that his eyes were open. It was now time for the gamble I had resolved on. I remembered that morning in the Tollbooth, and how the madness had passed, leaving him a simple soul. I unstrapped the belt, and cut the cords about his legs.
“Do you feel better now, Mr. Gib?” I asked, as if it were the most ordinary question in the world.
He sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Was it a dwam?” he inquired. “I get them whiles.”
“It was a dwam, but I think it has passed.”
He still rubbed his eyes, and peered about him, like a big collie dog that has lost its master.
“Who is it that speirs?” he said. “I ken the voice, but I havena heard it this long time.”
“One who is well acquaint with Borrowstoneness and the links of Forth,” said I.
I spoke in the accent of his own country-side, and it must have woke some dim chord in his memory, I made haste to strike while the iron was hot.
“There was a woman at Cramond... “ I began.
He got to his feet and looked me in the face. “Ay, there was,” he said, with an odd note in his voice. “What about her?” I could see that his hand was shaking.
“I think her name was Alison Steel.”
“What ken ye of Alison Steel?” he asked fiercely. “Quick, man, what word have ye frae Alison?”
“You sent me with a letter to her. D’you not mind your last days in Edinburgh, before they shipped you to the Plantations?”
“It comes back to me,” he cried. “Ay, it comes back. To think I should live to hear of Alison! What did she say?”
“Just this. That John Gib was a decent man if he would resist the devil of pride. She charged me to tell you that you would never be out of her prayers, and that she would live to be proud of you. ‘John will never shame his kin,’ quoth she.”
“Said she so?” he said musingly. “She was aye a kind body. We were to be married at Martinmas, I mind, if the Lord hadna called me.”
“You’ve need of her prayers,” I said, “and of the prayers of every Christian soul on earth. I came here yestereen to find you mouthing blasphemies, and howling like a mad tyke amid a parcel of heathen. And they tell me you’re to lead your savages on Virginia, and give that smiling land to fire and sword. Think you Alison Steel would not be black ashamed if she heard the horrid tale?”
“‘Twas the Lord’s commands,” he said gloomily, but there was no conviction in his words.
I changed my tone. “Do you dare to speak such blasphemy?” I cried. “The Lord’s commands! The devil’s commands! The devil of your own sinful pride! You are like the false prophets that made Israel to sin. What brings you, a white man, at the head of murderous savages?”
“Israel would not hearken, so I turned to the Gentiles,” said he.
“And what are you going to make of your Gentiles? Do you think you’ve put much Christianity into the heart of the gentry that were watching your antics last night?”
“They have glimmerings of grace,” he said.
“Glimmerings of moonshine! They are bent on murder, and so are you, and you call that the Lord’s commands. You would sacrifice your own folk to the heathen hordes. God forgive you, John Gib, for you are no Christian, and no Scot, and no man.”
“Virginia is an idolatrous land,” said he; but he could not look up at me.
“And are your Indians not idolaters? Are you no idolater, with your burnt offerings and heathen gibberish? You worship a Baal and a Moloch worse than any Midianite, for you adore the devils of your own rotten heart.”
The big man, with all the madness out of him, put his towsy head in his hands, and a sob shook his great shoulders.
“Listen to me, John Gib. I am come from your own country-side to save you from a hellish wickedness, I know the length and breadth of Virginia, and the land is full of Scots, men of the Covenant you have forsworn, who are living an honest life on their bits of farms, and worshipping the God you have forsaken. There are women there like Alison Steel, and there are men there like yourself before you hearkened to the devil. Will you bring death to your own folk, with whom you once shared the hope of salvation? By the land we both have left, and the kindly souls we both have known, and the prayers you said at your mother’s knee, and the love of Christ who died for us, I adjure you to flee this great sin. For it is the sin against the Holy Ghost, and that knows no forgiveness.”
The man was fairly broken down. “What must I do?” he cried. “I’m all in a creel. I’m but a pipe for the Lord to sound through.”
“Take not that Name in vain, for the sounding is from your own corrupt heart. Mind what Alison Steel said about the devil of pride, for it was that sin by which the angels fell.”
“But I’ve His plain commands,” he wailed. “He hath bidden me cast down idolatry, and bring the Gentiles to His kingdom.”
“Did He say anything about Virginia? There’s plenty idolatry elsewhere in America to keep you busy for a lifetime, and you can lead your Gentiles elsewhere than against your own kin. Turn your face westward, John Gib. I, too, can dream dreams and see visions, and it is borne in on me that your road is plain before you. Lead this great people away from the little shielings of Virginia, over the hills and over the great mountains and the plains beyond, and on and on till you come to an abiding city. You will find idolaters enough to dispute your road, and you can guide your flock as the Lord directs you. Then you will be clear of the murderer’s guilt who would stain his hands in kindly blood.”
He lifted his great head, and the marks of the sacrifice were still on his brow.
“D’ye think that would be the Lord’s will?” he asked innocently.
“I declare it unto you,” said I. “I have been sent by God to save your soul. I give you your marching orders, for though you are half a madman you are whiles a man. There’s the soul of a leader in you, and I would keep you from the shame of leading men to hell. To-morrow morn you will tell these folk that the Lord has revealed to you a better way, and by noon you will be across the Shenandoah. D’you hear my word?”
