Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated), page 730
‘Well, Gidden, how have ye come’t on at Peebles?’
‘Very weel, very weel, Jamie, considering the folk that were there,’ said Gideon.
‘Are ye bidin’ here a’ nicht? Come awa’ in, come awa’ in,’ said the host.
‘No, no man, I just want a glass o’ ale; I’ve to be at the Crook the nicht.’
‘Ye should hae been sooner on the road then, Gidden.’
Gideon looked out at the gathering dusk and reflected that the landlord’s observation was true.
‘What in the world’s that noise, Jamie? I thocht ye kept a quieter hoose.’
‘It’s a party o’ dragoons frae Embro’, Gidden. I wish folk like them came oftener. It would be a blessing for this inn. Lord save us, but they’ve drunk an awfu’ quantity o’ yale the day.’
‘What do ye think they’re here for, lad? I’ve heard o’ naething lately.’
‘Oh, they winna tell that. But there’s something brewing up the muirs, that we’ll hear tell o’ afore long.’ The ale had meantime been brought, and Gideon quenched his thirst.
‘Well, guid day, Jamie. I maun off, if I’ve to get to the Crook the nicht.’
He mounted his horse and rode slowly down the village street. He crossed the bridge of Tweed and turned up the river. No sooner had he got out of sight of the village than he changed his slow walk into a gallop. The mention of soldiers had brought the name of Yeddie before his mind. Since his adventure on the Edinburgh road, he had heard little about Yeddie. He kept the events of that night a profound secret, but on making enquiries in a way which would excite no suspicion he found that Yeddie was but little at home. Moreover he had heard of great robberies in the Lothians and Clydesdale, and from the descriptions which he got of the chief actors in them he had but little doubt that Yeddie was one. Now when he heard of the dragoons’ expedition into so remote a part of the country, he instinctively guessed that they had traced him nearer home. With that thought a resolution was formed in his mind. He would get the start of them and warn their victims. How to do it he did not know but he had an idea that if he once got up into the moors he would meet Yeddie. There was only one road up the river and at this time of the year, in a wild part of the country the dragoons would likely keep to it. There is no analysing the motives of some men. What could induce a sober respectable man like Gideon to strain every nerve and even risk his own life to shield a notorious highwayman, is a mystery. But in the most prosaic of men there is always some strain of the romantic. Here in this sober inn-keeper, the Border strain derived from his reiving ancestors, the tendency to defend any breaker of the law at the risk of his own neck, comes out.
The night was now getting darker, and he was some four miles up the water from Stobo. Still he had not met a soul, not even a shepherd or a ploughman, everything was as quiet as a Sabbath morning.
In a little while he saw a great dark mass looming before him, which he knew was the spur of the hill on which Tinnis castle stands, formerly the home of the Tweedies. Here the road for the Crook left the main path, so here Gideon came to a standstill. Perhaps the soldiers had no thought of Yeddie. Perhaps they meant to go to Broughton or Biggar; or perhaps their expectations were wrong, and the object of their pursuit was not there. At any rate he would go home, he couldn’t do anything more. Just then far down the valley he heard the sound of horses’ feet; ‘these were the soldiers,’ thought he, he would wait for them and watch them pass before he went home. Up the brown hillside along the rocky pathway he directed his horse’s steps, till he came to a small plateau from which he could command a full view of the valley. Here he dismounted from his mare and let her graze while he himself sat down on a boulder close by. From the road they could not have been distinguished from boulders, although on account of the moonlight they could see up and down the valley almost to Stobo. The night grew chilly, and Gideon began to feel cold perched up on that hillside. He remembered that he had left his plaid at Stobo, and he called himself a fool for his madcap haste.
From his watch-tower he saw the soldiers moving like snails along the road. ‘Ah,’ thought Gideon, ‘they are near somebody, they are going cautiously.’ Now they were not half a mile distant but still they kept at the same slow pace. Sometimes when the mind of a man is most intent upon anything, some trivial thing or other comes in and distracts his attention. Gideon happened to look up at the sky and there he saw a flock of birds flying, which he knew by their flight to be wild geese. Then he fell to wondering why so few wild geese had come to the moors this year. He remembered the sport he had had in his younger days, stalking these same birds in the marshy ground beside the Tweed at three o’clock on a frosty winter morning. He remembered the peculiar cry with which they rose; but at this point his ornithological memories were rudely interrupted by a gunshot from the valley. Up he sprang and looked down; he saw a confused mass of men standing in different attitudes on the road; another man fleeing on foot towards Stobo, and another man on horseback galloping up in the opposite direction. Gideon’s attention was divided between watching this man and soothing his horse, now terrified by the number of shots. He saw several men ride in pursuit of him; then the fugitive’s riding began to get peculiar; he swayed backwards in his saddle, and finally dropped off at the point where the mountain path left the main road while his horse galloped on. ‘He kens the path,’ said Gideon to himself, ‘he’ll be up here in five minutes.’ He watched the pursuers ride after the riderless horse and then looked down among the brackens through which the footway ran. For some minutes he saw and heard nothing except the cries of troopers, and the sound of their horses’ feet. Then he heard the brackens in front of him rustle and Yeddie’s head and shoulders emerged from among them. The look of fear which crossed his face when he saw a man, was immediately changed to one of joy as he recognised Gideon.
The latter bent over and grasped his arms and pulled him up beside him. The thin stream of blood which trickled down from below Yeddie’s left shoulder, together with his slow and painful breathing, showed that he was badly wounded.
‘O, Gidden,’ he gasped, ‘we saw ye pass and let ye go on. But, fuies that we were, we took the dragoons for drovers, and -I doubt they’ve done for me.’
‘Na, na, Yeddie, I’ll get ye off yet. But ye see the end your ill doings hae brocht ye to. Man, man, could ye no hae bidden at hame, instead of ridin’ and reivin’ ower a’ the country?’
A groan from the wounded man was the only answer.
‘I’ll no preach to ye my puir lad; ye’re punished enuch.’
By this time the soldiers had discovered the ruse and were retracing their steps. Gideon felt that there was no time to be lost. Carefully he placed Yeddie on his mare’s back, and mounted behind him, putting one arm around his body to support him. Then he rode slowly up the path till he reached the brow of the hill overhanging Drumelzier Burn. Up that glen and over the back of Glenheurie Rig lay Talla. If once he got there he knew that no trooper could reach them. But the way was long and dangerous and the burden was heavy for his mare. Now a shout arose from below, which told that his pursuers had discovered the track. This renewed his resolution. He rode quickly down the broken pathway into the glen. Thus began the ride which is famous in Upper Tweeddale. The country people still speak of Gideon Scott’s Ride as something uncanny. The mare also, which carried two men ten miles over a rough country, still enjoys a reputation in the stories of the district.
Gideon knew that if the mare could but keep up, he would never be overtaken, for the dragoons must needs ride very slow, since they had no knowledge of the windings of the road. Moreover, he felt that if he could not get to Talla, and dress Yeddie’s wound, Yeddie would die. On the crest of the hill ere he started he had wrapped a portion of his plaid over the wound, but the blood kept coming through the cloth and dropping on his hand. No sound came from the wounded man except an occasional groan when the motion of the mare hurt him.
It was about nine o’clock at night when he started on his ride; ere they reached Talla the light was beginning to appear over the grey hills of Holmes Water. Many times the mare had stumbled, twice she had sunk in a bog and was extricated by Gideon with great difficulty. Her knees and legs were bleeding from contact with sharp rocks, her wind was almost gone and her eyes shone like blood in her head. Gideon also was sore spent between the labour of supporting his burden and assisting the horse. As for Yeddie, he had fallen into a sort of stupor; he lay resting on Gideon’s arm, with a face as pale as death in strange contrast to his blood-drenched plaid. The troopers had long since fallen off. Weary, jaded and well nigh dead, the horse and its two riders stopped at the door of the small shepherd’s hut at Talla. Gideon, though scarce able to stand from fatigue, managed to undo the door and carry Yeddie in. He placed him on the bed and tottered out to see to his horse. But the mare had looked after herself. She had dragged herself to the stream’s edge and was now lying drinking great draughts of water and resting her weary limbs. Then he went back and sat down in a chair by Yeddie’s bed. A great sleep came over him and completely overpowered him. For five hours he slept and then he was wakened by the mare, who had come in to the hut in search of food. He arose and found some oats for her. Then he rummaged about and got some cold mutton for himself. Then and not till then he remembered Yeddie. He found a flask of brandy on a shelf, and succeeded in forcing some of it between his lips. In time Gideon succeeded in getting him out of the death-like stupor into which he had fallen. He went down to the stream for water, and dressed his wound, which had now stopped bleeding, as well as he could. Yeddie lay perfectly still watching Gideon’s operations.
‘I doubt I’m done for, Gidden,’ said he.
‘Na, na, I saved your life afore and I think I’ll get ye roond this time.’
‘I’ve a bullet in my breast, Gidden; there’s nae hope for me, lad. I’m done for this time.’ Then he burst out, ‘O, I’ll never dae’t noo, I’ll never dae’t noo. I dinna care a whistle for death, if I just had finished it.’
‘Whisht, man, whisht,’ said Gideon, but he saw with a sinking heart the signs on Yeddie’s face which told too clearly of death.
Then Yeddie spoke, ‘Gideon, ye’ve been a guid friend to me, and I have just one mair thing to ask ye. I am going to tell ye something which you’ll promise me never to tell to anyone.’ (Gideon noticed that Yeddie had dropped the Tweeddale dialect and spoke, as he thought, more like a gentleman than a shepherd.) He promised what he required.
‘Ye’ve heard,’ said the dying man, ‘of the Tweedies of Drumelzier, who used to be great folks in this countryside?’
‘Ay, ay,’ said Gideon. ‘They were awfu’ folk, they keepit a’ Tweedside under their feet.’
‘Well, my name is Adam Tweedie, and I am the last of the line. My grandfather had to sell the estates, and my father was a lawyer in Edinburgh. I was brought up to succeed him, but I had little love for the work. I had heard of the doings of my ancestors, and I resolved to do my best to get back the family possessions. When my father died I kept on his business, for my first idea was to make a fortune as a lawyer. But when I saw that I was not fitted to do anything of the kind, I gave up the idea and looked out for something else. Then I fell in with some wild fellows of my own age who first put the idea into my head of taking to the road. The upshot was that I sold the business and came up to Talla, where I had still this sheep farm belonging to me. I stayed in this cottage and with three other companions whose names I cannot tell, I became a -, call it highwayman, it was no better. Jamie Morrison, the lawyer in Edinburgh, was my banker; he thought I made the money from my farms. If I had lived another year, I would have accomplished my work; but it will never be done now.’
Yeddie’s voice now became faint and his breathing more difficult. ‘I can trust you to tell no one, Gideon. I would’na’ like folk to know that the last of the clan came so low, though it was the trade of my forebears. Ye might do me the last favour of carrying news of my death to the laird of Mossfennan; he’ll tell the others.’ His voice failed him and he was silent.
Gideon sat in silence by his bed till the short day faded into night and then Yeddie died. Gideon arose and went down the valley to Mossfennan. Along with the laird he returned next morning and buried the dead man and then rode home alone with a heavy heart.
The Far Islands
Blackwood’s, 1899
Lady Alice, Lady Louise,
Between the wash of the tumbling seas —
I
WHEN BRAN THE Blessed, as the story goes, followed the white bird on the Last Questing, knowing that return was not for him, he gave gifts to his followers. To Heliodorus he gave the gift of winning speech, and straightaway the man went south to the Italian seas, and, becoming a scholar, left many descendants who sat in the high places of the Church. To Raymond he gave his steel battle-axe, and bade him go out to the warrior’s path and hew his way to a throne; which the man forthwith accomplished, and became an ancestor in the fourth degree of the first king of Scots. But to Colin, the youngest and the dearest, he gave no gift, whispering only a word in his ear and laying a finger on his eyelids. Yet Colin was satisfied, and he alone of the three, after their master’s going, remained on that coast of rock and heather.
In the third generation from Colin, as our elders counted years, came one Colin the Red, who built his keep on the cliffs of Acharra and was a mighty sea-rover in his day. Five times he sailed to the rich parts of France, and a good score of times he carried his flag of three stars against the easterly Vikings. A mere name in story, but a sounding piece of nomenclature well garnished with tales. A mastermind by all accounts, but cursed with a habit of fantasy; for, hearing in his old age of a land to the westward, he forthwith sailed into the sunset, but three days later was washed up, a twisted body, on one of the outer isles.
So far it is but legend, but with his grandson, Colin the Red, we fall into the safer hands of the chroniclers. To him God gave the unnumbered sorrows of story-telling, for he was a bard, cursed with a bard’s fervours, and none the less a mighty warrior among his own folk. He it was who wrote the lament called ‘The White Waters of Usna,’ and the exquisite chain of romances, ‘Glede-red Gold and Grey Silver.’ His tales were told by many fires, down to our grandfathers’ time, and you will find them still pounded at by the folk-lorists. But his airs — they are eternal. On harp and pipe they have lived through the centuries; twisted and tortured, they survive in many song-books; and I declare that the other day I heard the most beautiful of them all murdered by a band at a German watering-place. This Colin led the wanderer’s life, for he disappeared at middle-age, no one knew whither, and his return was long looked for by his people. Some thought that he became a Christian monk, the holy man living in the sea-girt isle of Cuna, who was found dead in extreme old age, kneeling on the beach, with his arms, contrary to the fashion of the Church, stretched to the westward.
As history narrowed into bonds and forms the descendants of Colin took Raden for their surname, and settled more firmly on their lands in the long peninsula of crag and inlets which runs west to the Atlantic. Under Donald of the Isles they harried the Kings of Scots, or, on their own authority, made war on Macleans and Macranalds, till their flag of the three stars, their badge of the grey-goose feather, and their on-cry of’Cuna’ were feared from Lochalsh to Cantire. Later they made a truce with the King, and entered into the royal councils. For years they warded the western coast, and as king’s lieutenants smoked out the inferior pirates of Eigg and Toronsay. A Raden was made a Lord of Sleat, another was given lands in the low country and the name Baron of Strathyre, but their honours were transitory and short as their lives. Rarely one of the house saw middle-age. A bold, handsome, and stirring race, it was their fate to be cut off in the rude warfare of the times, or, if peace had them in its clutches, to man vessel and set off once more on those mad western voyages which were the weird of the family. Three of the name were found drowned on the far shore of Cuna; more than one sailed straight out of the ken of mortals. One rode with the Good Lord James on the pilgrimage of the Heart of Bruce, and died by his leader’s side in the Saracen battle. Long afterwards a Raden led the western men against the Cheshire archers at Flodden, and was slain himself in the steel circle around the king.
But the years brought peace and a greater wealth, and soon the cold stone tower was left solitary on the headland, and the new house of Kinlochuna rose by the green links of the stream. The family changed its faith, and an Episcopal chaplain took the place of the old mass-priest in the tutoring of the sons. Radens were in the’15 and the’45. They rose with Bute to power, and they long disputed the pride of Dundas in the northern capital. They intermarried with great English houses till the sons of the family were Scots only in name, living much abroad or in London, many of them English landowners by virtue of a mother’s blood. Soon the race was of the common over-civilised type, graceful, well-mannered, with abundant good looks, but only once in a generation reverting to the rugged northern strength. Eton and Oxford had in turn displaced the family chaplain, and the house by the windy headland grew emptier and emptier save when grouse and deer brought home its fickle masters.
