  Produced by Al Haines. FLOWER O' THE HEATHER A STORY OF THE KILLING TIMES BY ROBERT WILLIAM MACKENNA AUTHOR OF "THE ADVENTURE OF DEATH," "THE LONDON FIRST EDITION ...... October, 1922 Printed in Great Britain by TO JAMES MACKENNA, C.I.E., I.C.S. CONTENTS CHAPTER
FLOWER O' THE HEATHER CHAPTER I ON DEVORGILLA'S BRIDGE It is a far cry from the grey walls of Balliol College to the sands at Dumfries, and there be many ways that may lead a man from the one to the other. So thought I, Walter de Brydde of the City of Warwick, when on an April morning in the year of grace 1685 I stood upon Devorgilla's bridge and watched the silver Nith glide under the red arches. I was there in obedience to a whim; and the whim, with all that went before it--let me set it down that men may judge me for what I was--was the child of a drunken frolic. It befell in this wise. I was a student at Balliol--a student, an' you please, by courtesy, for I had no love for book-learning, finding life alluring enough without that fragrance which high scholarship is supposed to lend it. It was the middle of the Lent term, and a little band of men like-minded with myself had assembled in my room, whose window overlooked the quadrangle, and with cards, and ribald tales, and song, to say nothing of much good beer, we had spent a boisterous evening. Big Tom had pealed five score and one silvery notes from Christ Church Tower, and into the throbbing silence that followed his mighty strokes, I, with the fire of some bold lover, had flung the glad notes of rare old Ben's "Song to Celia." A storm of cheers greeted the first verse, and, with jocund heart, well-pleased, I was about to pour my soul into the tenderness of the second, when Maltravers, seated in the window-recess, interrupted me. "Hush!" he cried, "there's a Proctor in the Quad, listening: what can he want?" Now when much liquor is in, a man's wits tend to forsake him, and I was in the mood to flout all authority. "To perdition with all Proctors!" I exclaimed. "The mangy spies!" And I strode to the window and looked out. In the faint moonlight I saw the shadowy figure of a man standing with face upturned at gaze below my window. The sight stirred some spirit of misrule within me, and, flinging the window wide, I hurled straight at the dark figure my leathern beer-pot with its silver rim. The contents struck him full in the face, and the missile fell with a thud on the lawn behind him. There was an angry splutter; the man drew his sleeve across his face, and stooping picked up the tankard. In that moment some trick of movement revealed him, and Maltravers gasped "Zounds! It's the Master himself." And so it proved--to my bitter cost. Had I been coward enough to seek to hide my identity, it would have been useless, for the silver rim of my leather jack bore my name. Thus it came to pass that I stood, a solitary figure, with none to say a word in my behoof before the Court of Discipline. I felt strangely forlorn and foolish as I made obeisance to the President and his six venerable colleagues. I had no defence to offer save that of drunkenness, and, being sober now, I was not fool enough to plead that offence in mitigation of an offence still graver: so I held my peace. The Court found me guilty--they could do none other; and in sonorous Latin periods the President delivered sentence. I had no degree of which they could deprive me: they were unwilling, as this was my first appearance before the Court, to pronounce upon me a sentence of permanent expulsion, but my grave offence must be dealt with severely. I must make an apology in person to the Master; and I should be rusticated for one year. I bowed to the Court, and then drew myself up to let these grey-beards, who were shaking their heads together over the moral delinquencies of the rising generation, see that I could take my punishment like a man. The Proctor touched me on the arm; my gown slipped from my shoulders. Then I felt humbled to the dust. I was without the pale. The truth struck home and chilled my heart more than all the ponderous Latin periods which had been pronounced over me. The Court rose and I was free to go. Out in the open, I was assailed by an eager crowd of sympathisers. Youth is the age of generous and unreasoning impulses--and youth tends ever to take the side of the condemned, whatever his offence. Belike it is well for the world. I might have been a hero, rather than a man disgraced. "So they have not hanged, drawn, and quartered you," cried Maltravers, as he slipped his arm through mine. "Nor sent you to the pillory," cried another. I told the crowd what my punishment was to be. "A scurrilous shame," muttered a sympathiser. "What's the old place coming to? They want younger blood in their Court of Discipline. Sour old kill-joys the whole pack of them: nourished on Latin roots till any milk of human kindness in them has turned to vinegar." I forced a laugh to my lips. "As the culprit," I said, "I think my punishment has been tempered with mercy. I behaved like a zany. I deserve my fate." "Fac bono sis animo: cheer up," cried Maltravers, "the year will soon pass: and we shall speed your departure on the morrow, in the hope that we may hasten your return." I went to my rooms and packed up my belongings, sending them to the inn on the Banbury Road, where on the morrow I should await the coach for Warwick. Then I made my way to the Master and tendered him my apology. He accepted it with a courtly grace that made me feel the more the baseness of my offence. The rest of the day I spent in farewell visits to friends in my own and other colleges--and then I lay down to rest. Little did I think, as I lay and heard the mellow notes of Big Tom throb from Tom Tower, that in a few weeks I should be lying, a fugitive, on a Scottish hill-side. The future hides her secrets from us behind a jealous hand. Morning came, and I prepared to depart. No sooner had I passed out of the College gateway than I was seized by zealous hands, and lifted shoulder high. In this wise I was borne to the confines of the City by a cheerful rabble--to my great discomfort, but to their huge amusement. The sorrow they expressed with their lips was belied by the gaiety written on their faces, and though they chanted "Miserere Domine" there was a cheerfulness in their voices ill in keeping with their words. When we came to the confines of the City my bearers lowered me roughly so that I fell in a heap, and as I lay they gathered round me and chanted dolorously a jumble of Latin words. It sounded like some priestly benediction--but it was only the reiterated conjugation of a verb. When the chant was ended Maltravers seized me by the arm and drew me to my feet: "Ave atque vale, Frater: Good-bye, and good luck," he said. Others crowded round me with farewells upon their lips, the warmth of their hearts speaking in the pressure of their hands. I would fain have tarried, but I tore myself away. As I did so Maltravers shouted, "A parting cheer for the voyager across the Styx," and they rent the air with a shout. I turned to wave a grateful hand, when something tinkled at my feet. I stooped and picked up a penny: "Charon's beer money," shouted a voice. "Don't drink it yourself,"--at which there was a roar of laughter. So I made my way to The Bay Horse, sadder at heart, I trow, than was my wont. The follies of youth have a glamour when one is in a crowd, but the glamour melts like a morning mist when one is alone. I seated myself in the inn parlour to await the coach for Warwick, and as I sat I pondered my state. It was far from pleasing. To return disgraced to the house of my uncle and guardian was a prospect for which I had little heart. Stern at the best of times, he had little sympathy with the ways of youth, and many a homily had I listened to from his sour lips. This last escapade would, I knew, be judged without charity. I had disgraced my family name, a name that since the days when Balliol College was founded by Devorgilla had held a place of honour on the college rolls. For generations the de Bryddes had been alumni, and for a de Brydde to be sent down from his Alma Mater for such an offence as mine would lay upon the family record a blot that no penitence could atone for or good conduct purge. So my reception by my guardian was not likely to be a pleasant one. Besides there was this to be thought of: during my last vacation my uncle, a man of ripe age, who had prided himself upon the stern resistance he had offered all his life to what he called the "wiles of the sirens," had, as many a man has done, thrown his prejudices to the winds and espoused a young woman who neither by birth nor in age seemed to be a suitable wife for him. A young man in love may act like a fool, but an old man swept off his feet by love for a woman young enough to be his granddaughter can touch depths of foolishness that no young man has ever plumbed. So, at least, it seemed to me, during the latter half of my vacation, after he had brought home his bride. She was the young apple of his aged eye, and there was no longer any place for me in his affections. I turned these things over in my mind, and then I thought longingly of my little room at Balliol. To numb my pain I called for a tankard of ale. As I did so my eye was caught by a picture upon the wall. It was a drawing of my own college, and under it in black and staring letters was printed: "Balliol College, Oxford. Founded by the Lady Devorgilla in memory of her husband John Balliol. The pious foundress of this college also built an Abbey in Kirkcudbrightshire and threw a bridge over the Nith at Dumfries. Requiescat in pace." A sudden fancy seized me. Why need I haste me home? Surely it were wiser to disappear until the storm of my guardian's wrath should have time to subside. I would make a pilgrimage. I would hie me to Dumfries and see with my own eyes the bridge which the foundress of Balliol had caused to be built: and on my pilgrimage I might perchance regain some of my self-respect. The sudden impulse hardened into resolution as I quaffed my ale. Calling for pen and paper I proceeded to write a letter to my uncle. I made no apology for my offence, of which I had little doubt he would receive a full account from the college authorities; but I told him that I was minded to do penance by making a pilgrimage to Devorgilla's bridge at Dumfries and that I should return in due time. As I sealed the letter the coach drew up at the door, and I gave it to the post-boy. With a sounding horn and a crack of the whip the coach rolled off, and, standing in the doorway, I watched it disappear in a cloud of dust. Then I turned into the inn again and prepared to settle my account. As I did so I calculated that in my belt I had more than thirty pounds, and I was young--just twenty--and many a man with youth upon his side and much less money in his purse has set out to see the world. So I took courage and, having pledged the goodman of the house to take care of my belongings against my return, I purchased from him a good oak staff and set out upon my journey. Thus it was that a month later I stood, as I have already told, upon the bridge at Dumfries. A farm cart, heavily laden, rolled along it, and lest I should be crushed against the wall I stepped into the little alcove near its middle to let the wagon pass. It rattled ponderously over the cobbled road and as it descended the slope towards the Vennel Port there passed it, all resplendent in a flowing red coat thrown back at the skirt to display its white lining, the swaggering figure of a gigantic soldier. He stalked leisurely along the bridge towards me, and as he passed I looked at him closely. His big, burnished spurs clanked as he walked and the bucket tops of his polished jack-boots moved to the bend of his knees. From his cocked hat a flesh-coloured ribbon depended, falling upon his left shoulder, and touching the broad cross-strap of his belt, which gripped his waist like a vice, so that he threw out his chest--all ornate with a blue plastron edged with silver lace--like a pouter pigeon. In his right hand he carried a supple cane with which ever and anon he struck his jack-boot. Behind him, at a prudent distance, followed two boys, talking furtively, lip to ear. As they passed me I heard the one whisper to the other: "Liar! It's the King richt eneuch. My big brither tellt me, and he kens!" "It's naething o' the kind," said the other. "I'll hit ye a bash on the neb. He's only a sergeant o' dragoons," and without more ado the lads fell upon each other. What the issue might have been I cannot tell, for, hearing the scuffle behind him, the sergeant turned and began to retrace his steps. At the sound of his coming the combatants were seized with panic; their enmity changed to sudden friendship, and together they raced off towards the town. The sergeant descended upon me, and tapping me on the chest with the butt of his stick, said: "You're a likely young man. What say you to taking service wi' His Majesty? It's a man's life, fu' o' adventure and romance. The women, God bless them, canna keep their een off a sodger's coat. Are ye game to 'list? There are great doings toward, for the King wants men to root out the pestilent Whigs frae the West country. Will ye tak' the shilling?" The suggestion thus flung at me caught me at unawares. I turned it over rapidly in my mind. Why not? As a soldier, I should see some of the country, and if the worst came to the worst I had money enough in my belt to buy myself out. Moreover I might do something to redeem myself in the eyes of my uncle--for had not the de Bryddes fought nobly on many a stricken field for the King's Majesty. So, without more ado, I stretched out my hand, and the King's shilling dropped into it. "Come on," said the sergeant brusquely, "we maun toast the King at my expense," and he led the way to the Stag Inn near the Vennel Port. In the inn-parlour he called for drinks, and ogled the girl who brought them. We drank to His Majesty--"God bless him:" and then the sergeant, after toasting "The lassies--God bless them," became reminiscent and garrulous. But ever he returned to wordy admiration of a woman: "I tell ye," he said, "there's no' the marrow o' the Beadle o' St. Michael's dochter in the hale o' Dumfries; an' that's sayin' a lot. The leddies o' the King's Court--an' I've seen maist o' them--couldna haud a candle tae her." He threw a kiss into the air; then he drank deeply and called for more ale. "By the way," he said, "what dae ye ca' yersel'?--and whaur did ye get sic legs? They're like pot-sticks, and yer breist is as flat as a scone. But we'll pu' ye oot, and mak' a man o' ye." "My name is de Brydde," I replied, ignoring his criticisms of my person. "De Brydde," he repeated. "It sounds French. Ye'd better ca' yersel' Bryden. It's a guid Scots name, and less kenspeckle. Pu' yer shouthers back, and haud up yer heid." Two dragoons entered the tavern, and the sergeant was on his dignity. "Tak' this recruit," he said, "to heidquarters, and hand him ower to the sergeant-major. He's a likely chiel." I rose to accompany the men, but the sergeant tapped me on the shoulder: "Ye've forgotten to pay the score," he said. "Hey, Mary," and the tavern maid came forward. The King's shilling that was mine paid for the sergeant's hospitality. It's the way of the army. So I became Trooper Bryden of Lag's Horse. CHAPTER II TROOPER BRYDEN OF LAG'S HORSE After the cloistered quiet of Balliol I found my new life passing strange. Sir Robert Grierson of Lag, our Commanding Officer, was a good soldier, a martinet and a firm believer in the power of the iron hand. He was, we knew, held in high favour by the authorities, and he had been granted a commission to stamp out, by all means in his power, the pestilent and bigoted pack of rebels in Dumfriesshire and Galloway who called themselves Covenanters. He was quick of temper, but he did not lack a kind of sardonic humour, nor was he without bravery. A King's man to the core, he never troubled his mind with empty questionings; his orders were to put down rebellion and to crush the Covenanters, and that was enough for him. My fellow-troopers interested me. Some of them were soldiers of fortune who had fought upon the Continent of Europe--hard-bitten men, full of strange oaths and stranger tales of bloody fights fought on alien soil. In their eyes the life of a soldier was the only life worth living, and they held in contempt less bellicose mortals who were content to spend their days in the paths of peace. Of the rest, some were Highlanders, dreamy-eyed creatures of their emotions, in which they reined in with a firm hand in the presence of any Lowlander, but to which they gave free vent when much liquor had loosened their tongues. Brave men all--from their youth accustomed to hardship and bloodshed--fighting was as the breath of their nostrils. To me, accustomed to the milder ales of England, their capacity for the strong waters of the North was a revelation. They could drink, undiluted, fiery spirits of a potency and in a quantity that would have killed me. I never saw one drunk; and at the end of an evening of heavy indulgence there was not a man among them but could stand steady upon his feet and find his way unaided back to billets. So far as I could see the only effect of their potations was that after the fourth or fifth pot they became musical and would sing love-songs in the Gaelic tongue with a moisture gathering in their eyes like dewdrops. After that they tended to become theological, and would argue angrily on points of doctrine too abstruse for me to follow. The Lowlanders were a curious mixture of sentimentality and sound common-sense. They carried their drink less well than the Highlanders, but they too were men of unusual capacity--at least to my way of thinking--and always passed through a theological phase on their way to a condition of drunkenness. I do not know whether my companions found as much interest in studying me as I derived from observing them. Probably they pitied me, as the Highlanders did the Lowlanders. I had not been born in Scotland: that, in their eyes, was a misfortune which almost amounted to a disgrace. My incapacity to rival them in their potations, and my inability to take part in their theological discussions, made them regard me with something akin to contempt. Once I overheard a Highlander whisper to a Lowlander, "Surely she iss a feckless creature," and I guessed with a feeling of abasement that he was speaking of me. On the whole, they treated me with a rude kindliness, doing all they could to make me acquainted with the elements of the rough-and-ready discipline which was the standard of the troop, and protecting my ignorance, whenever they dared, from the harsh tongue of the sergeant-major. We were mounted men, but our weapons were those of foot-soldiers. Our horses, stout little nags, known as Galloways, were simply our means of conveyance from place to place. If we had been called upon to fight, we should probably have fought on foot, and we were armed accordingly, with long muskets which we bore either slung across our shoulders or suspended muzzle-downwards from our saddle-peaks. Equipped for rapid movement, we carried little with us save our weapons: but under his saddle-flap each dragoon had a broad metal plate, and behind the saddle was hung a bag of oatmeal. When we bivouacked in the open, as many a time we did, each trooper made for himself on his plate, heated over a camp fire, a farle or two of oat-cake, and with this staved off the pangs of hunger. It was, as the sergeant had said, a man's life--devoid of luxury, compact of hardship and scanty feeding, with little relaxation save what we could find in the taverns of the towns or villages where we halted for a time. In my ignorance, I had thought that when we set out from Dumfries to march through Galloway we should find, opposed to us somewhere, a force of Covenanters who would give battle. I had imagined that these rebels would have an army of their own ready to challenge the forces of the King: but soon I learned that our warfare was an inglorious campaign against unarmed men and women. We were little more than inquisitors. In the quiet of an afternoon we would clatter up some lonely road to a white farm-house--the hens scattering in terror before us--and draw rein in the cobbled court-yard. Lag would hammer imperiously upon the half-open door, and a terrified woman would answer the summons. "Whaur's the guid-man?" he would cry, and when the good-wife could find speech she would answer: "He's up on the hills wi' the sheep." "Think ye," Lag would say, "will he tak' the Test?" "Ay, he wull that. He's nae Whig, but a King's man is John,"--and to put her words to the proof we would search the hills till we found him. When found, if he took "The Test," which seemed to me for the most part to be an oath of allegiance to the King, with a promise to have no dealings with the pestilent Covenanters, we molested him no further, and Lag would sometimes pass a word of praise upon his sheep or his cattle, which would please the good-man mightily. But often our raids had a less happy issue. As we drew near to a house, we would see a figure steal hastily from it, and we knew that we were upon the track of a villainous Covenanter. Then we would spur our horses to the gallop and give chase: and what a dance these hill-men could lead us. Some of them had the speed of hares and could leap like young deer over boulders and streams where no horse could follow. Many a sturdy nag crashed to the ground, flinging its rider who had spurred it to the impossible; and if the fugitive succeeded in reaching the vast open spaces of the moorland, many a good horse floundered in the bogs to the great danger of its master, while the fleet-footed Covenanter, who knew every inch of the ground, would leap from tussock to tussock of firm grass, and far out-distance us. Or again, we would learn that someone--a suspect--was hiding upon the moors, and for days we would search, quartering and requartering the great stretches of heather and bog-land till we were satisfied that our quarry had eluded us--or until, as often happened, we found him. Sometimes it was an old man, stricken with years, so that he could not take to flight: sometimes it was a mere stripling--a lad of my own age--surrounded in his sleep and taken ere he could flee. The measure of justice meted to each was the same. "Will ye tak' the Test?" If not--death, on the vacant moor, at the hands of men who were at once his accusers, his judges, and his executioners. Sometimes when a fugitive had refused the Test, and so proclaimed himself a Covenanter, Lag would promise him his life if he would disclose the whereabouts of some others of more moment than himself. But never did I know one of them play the coward: never did I hear one betray another. Three minutes to prepare himself for death: and he would take his bonnet off and turn a fearless face up to the open sky. And then Lag's voice--breaking in upon the holy silence of the moorland like a clap of thunder in a cloudless sky--"Musketeers! Poise your muskets! make ready: present, give fire!" and another rebel would fall dead among the heather. The scene used to sicken me, so that I could hardly keep my seat in the saddle, and in my heart I thanked God that I was judged too unskilful as yet to be chosen as one of the firing party. That, of course, was nothing more than sentiment. These men were rebels, opposed to the King's Government, and such malignant fellows well deserved their fate. Yet there began to spring up within me some admiration for their bravery. Not one of them was afraid to die. Sometimes, of a night, before sleep came to me, I would review the events of the day--not willingly, for the long and grisly tale of horror was one that no man would of set purpose dwell upon, but because in my soul I had begun to doubt the quality of the justice we meted out. It was a dangerous mood for one who had sworn allegiance to the King, and taken service under his standard: but I found myself beginning to wonder whether the people whom we were harrying so mercilessly and putting to death with as little compunction as though they had been reptiles instead of hard-working and thrifty folk--as their little farms and houses proved--were rebels in any real sense. I had no knowledge, as yet, of what had gone before, and I was afraid to ask any of my fellows, lest my questioning should bring doubt upon my own loyalty. But I wondered why these men, some gone far in eld and others in the morning of their days, were ready to die rather than say the few words that would give them life and liberty. Gradually the light broke through the darkness of my thoughts, and I began to understand that in their bearing there was something more than mere disloyalty to the King. They died unflinching, because they were loyal to some ideal that was more precious to them than life, and which torture and the prospect of death could not make them forswear. Were they wrong? Who was I, to judge? I knew nothing of their history, and when first I set out with Lag's Horse I cared as little. I had ridden forth to do battle against rebels. I found myself one of a band engaged in the hideous task of exercising duress upon other men's consciences. The thought was not a pleasant one, and I tried to banish it, but it would come back to me in the still watches when no sound was audible but the heavy breathing of my sleeping companions,--and no sophistry sufficed to stifle it. Day after day we continued our march westward through Galloway, leaving behind us a track of burning homesteads, with here and there a stark figure, supine, with a bloody gash in his breast, and a weary face turned up to the eternal sky. The sky was laughing in the May sunshine: the blue hyacinths clustered like a low-lying cloud of peat-smoke in the woods by the roadside, and the larks cast the gold of their song into the sea of the air beneath them. The whole earth was full of joy and beauty; but where we passed, we left desolation, and blood and tears. As the sun was setting we rode down the valley of the Cree, whose peat-dyed water, reddened by the glare in the sky, spoke silently of the blood-stained moors which it had traversed in its course. A river of blood: a fitting presage of the duties of the morrow that had brought us to Wigtown! CHAPTER III BY BLEDNOCH WATER Sharp and clear rang out the bugle notes of the reveille, rending the morning stillness that brooded over the thatched houses of Wigtown. We tumbled out of our beds of straw in the old barn where we had bivouacked--some with a curse on their lips at such a rude awakening, and others with hearts heavy at the thought of what lay before us. To hunt hill-men among the boulders and the sheltering heather of their native mountains was one thing: for the hunted man had a fox's chance, and more than a fox's cunning: but it was altogether another thing to execute judgment on two defenceless women, and only the most hardened among us had any stomach for such devil's work. Inured to scenes of brutality as I had become, I felt ill at ease when I remembered the task that awaited us, and, in my heart, I nursed the hope that, when the bugle sounded the assembly, we should learn that the prisoners had been reprieved and that we could shake the dust of Wigtown from our feet forever. It was a glorious morning: and I can still remember, as though it were yesterday, every little event of these early hours. I shook the straw from my coat and went out. There was little sign of life in the street except for the dragoons hurrying about their tasks. My horse, tethered where I had left him the night before, whinnied a morning greeting as I drew near. He was a creature of much understanding, and as I patted his neck and gentled him, he rubbed his nose against my tunic. I undid his halter and with a hand on his forelock led him to the watering trough. The clear water tumbled musically into the trough from a red clay pipe that led to some hidden spring; and as my nag bent his neck and dipped his muzzle delicately into the limpid coolness, I watched a minnow dart under the cover of the green weed on the trough-bottom. When I judged he had drunk enough I threw a leg over his back and cantered down the street to the barn where we had slept. There, I slipped the end of his halter through a ring in the wall, and rejoined my companions who were gathered round the door. We had much to do; there was harness to polish, bridles and bits to clean, and weapons to see to--for Sir Robert was a man vigilant, who took a pride in the smartness of his troop. "It's a bonnie mornin' for an ugly ploy," said Trooper Agnew, as I sat down on a bench beside him with my saddle on my knees. From his tone I could tell that his heart was as little in the day's work as mine. "Ay, it's a bonnie morning," I replied, "too bonnie for the work we have to do. I had fain the day was over, and the work were done, if done it must be." "Weel, ye never can tell: it may be that the women will be reprieved. I've heard tell that Gilbert Wilson has muckle siller, and is ready to pay ransom for his dochter: an' siller speaks when arguments are waste o' wind." He spat on a polishing rag, and rubbed his saddle vigorously. "They tell me he's bocht Aggie off: and if he can he'll buy off Marget tae. But there's the auld woman Lauchlison: she has neither siller nor frien's wi' siller, and I'm fearin' that unless the Royal Clemency comes into play she'll ha'e tae droon." "But why should they drown?" said I, voicing half unconsciously the question that had so often perplexed me. "Weel, that's a hard question," replied Agnew, as he burnished his bit, "and a question that's no for the like o' you and me to settle. A' we ha'e to dae is to carry oot the orders of our superior officers. We maunna think ower muckle for oorsel's." I was already well acquainted with this plausible argument, and indeed I had heard Lag himself justify some of his acts by an appeal to such dogma; but I was not satisfied, and ventured to remonstrate: "Must we," I asked, "do things against which our conscience rebels, simply because we are commanded to do so?" Agnew hesitated for a moment before replying, passing the end of his bridle very deliberately through a buckle, and fastening it with care. "Conscience!" he said, and laughed. "What richt has a trooper to sic' a thing? I've nane noo." He lowered his voice--and spoke quickly. "Conscience, my lad! Ye'd better no' let the sergeant hear ye speak that word, or he'll be reporting ye tae Sir Robert for a Covenanter, and ye'll get gey short shrift, I'm thinkin'. Tak' the advice o' ane that means ye nae ill, and drap yer conscience in the water o' Blednoch, and say farewell tae it forever. If ye keep it, ye'll get mair blame than praise frae it--and I'm thinkin' ye'll no' get ony promotion till ye're weel rid o't." "Whit's this I hear aboot conscience?" said Davidson, a dragoon who was standing by the door of the barn. "Oh, naething," said Agnew. "I was just advising Bryden here to get rid o' his." "Maist excellent advice," said Davidson. "A puir trooper has nae richt to sic a luxury. Besides, it's a burden, and wi' a' his trappings he has eneuch to carry already." He paused for a moment--looked into the barn over his shoulder and continued: "To my way o' thinkin', naebody has ony richt to a conscience but the King. Ye see it's this way. A trooper maun obey his officers: he has nae richt o' private judgment, so he has nae work for his conscience to do. His officers maun obey them that are higher up--so they dinna need a conscience, and so it goes on, up, and up till ye reach the King, wha is the maister o' us a'. He's the only body in the realm that can afford the luxury: and even he finds it a burden." "I'm no surprised," interjected Agnew. "A conscience like that maun be an awfu' encumbrance." "Ay, so it is," replied Davidson. "They do say that the King finds it sic a heavy darg to look after his conscience that he appoints a man to be its keeper." Agnew laughed. "Does he lead it about on a chain like a dog?" he asked. "I canna tell you as to that," replied Davidson, "but it's mair than likely, for it maun be a rampageous sort o' beast whiles." "And what if it breaks away," asked Agnew, laughing again, "and fleshes its teeth in the King's leg?" "Man," said Davidson, "ye remind me: the very thing ye speak o' aince happened. Nae doot the keeper is there to haud back his conscience frae worrying the King, but I mind readin' that ane o' the keepers didna haud the beast in ticht eneuch, and it bit the King. It had something to dae wi' a wumman. I've forgotten the partic'lers: but I think the King was auld King Hal." "And what happened to the keeper?" asked Agnew. "Oh, him," replied Davidson. "The King chopped his heid off. And that, or something like it, is what will happen to you, my lad," he said, looking meaningly at me, "if Lag hears ye talk ony sic nonsense. If thae damnable Covenanters didna nurse their consciences like sickly bairns they would be a bit mair pliable, and gi'e us less work." I would gladly have continued the conversation, but we were interrupted by the appearance of the cook, who came round the corner of the barn staggering under the weight of a huge black pot full of our morning porridge. "Parritch, lads, wha's for parritch?" he called, setting down his load, and preparing to serve out our portions with a large wooden ladle. We filed past him each with our metal platter and a horn spoon in our hands, and received a generous ladleful. The regimental cook is always fair game for the would-be wit, and our cook came in for his share of chaff; but he was ready of tongue, and answered jibe with jibe--some of his retorts stinging like a whip-lash so that his tormentors were sore and sorry that they had challenged him. Soon the last man was served and all of us fell to. When our meal was over there was little time left ere the assembly sounded. As the bugle notes blared over the village, we flung ourselves into our saddles, and at the word turned our horses up the village street. The clatter of hoofs, and the jingle of creaking harness brought the folks to their doors, for the appeal of mounted men is as old as the art of war. We were conscious of admiring glances from many a lassie's eye, and some of the roysterers among us, behind the back of authority, gave back smile for smile, and threw furtive kisses to the comelier of the women-folk. Near the Tolbooth Sir Robert awaited us, sitting his horse motionless like a man cut out of stone. A sharp word of command, and we reined our horses in, wheeling and forming a line in front of the Tolbooth door. There we waited. By and by we heard the tramp of horses, and Colonel Winram at the head of his company rode down the other side of the street and halted opposite to us. Winram and Lag dismounted, giving their horses into the charge of their orderlies, and walked together to the Tolbooth door. They knocked loudly, and after a mighty clatter of keys and shooting of bolts the black door swung back, and they passed in. We waited long, but still there was no sign of their return. My neighbour on the right, whose horse was champing its bit and tossing its head in irritation, whispered: "They maun ha'e been reprievit." "Thank God for that," I said, out of my heart. But it was not to be. With a loud creak, as though it were in pain, the door swung open, and there came forth, splendid in his robes of office, Sheriff Graham. Followed him, Provost Coltran, Grier of Lag, and Colonel Winram. Behind them, each led by a gaoler, came two women. Foremost was Margaret Lauchlison, bent with age, and leaning on a stick, her thin grey hair falling over her withered cheeks. She did not raise her eyes to look at us, but I saw that her lips were moving silently, and a great pity surged up in my breast and gripped me by the throat. Some four paces behind her came Margaret Wilson, and as she passed out of the darkness of the door she raised her face to the sky and took a long breath of the clean morning air. She was straight as a willow-wand, with a colour in her cheeks like red May-blossom, and a brave look in her blue eyes. Her brown hair glinted in the sunlight, and she walked with a steady step between the ranks of horsemen like a queen going to her coronal. She looked curiously at the troopers as she passed us. I watched her coming, and, suddenly, her big child-like eyes met mine, and for very shame I hung my head. Some twenty yards from the Tolbooth door, beside the Town Cross, the little procession halted, and the town-crier, after jangling his cracked bell, mounted the lower step at the base of the cross and read from a big parchment: |
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