Читать книгу The Raiders: Being Some Passages In The Life Of John Faa, Lord And Earl Of Little Egypt - Samuel R. Crockett - Страница 13

THE BOAT WAS coming quickly in, and I could see that Mistress Allison, who had the steering, knew nothing at all of the matter, so that the boat, in spite of the efforts of the rowers, was in danger of being carried past the landing-place on the northward side where the beautiful beaches of shell-sand are.

Now, though I wished the whole crew far enough, yet I did not want a drowning match on the Rathan heuchs, so I ran down alone, the better to pilot them in. The lads had fled; and, indeed, their room was better than their company. Only little Jerry MacWhirter sat calmly finishing his perspective drawing on the hilltop.

‘Tell my mither I’ll be doon the noo!’ he cried after me as I ran. But I thought he was joking, and went on without reply.

At last the keep grated on the beach, and I pulled the boat ashore. Even as I did so the daft Maxwell lass that I was so angry with unshipped her oar, put her hand on my shoulder, and leaped on the shingle like a young goat. The two old wives were speechless with black anger.

‘Good-day to you, Mistress Allison and Mistress MacWhirter, and to you, May Maxwell,’ I said, lifting my bonnet to each, and speaking as I ought, just to show that I was none so rough and landward.

‘Guid-day to ye, Adullam!’ says she; but the two old wives said neither ‘Fair-guid-e’en’ nor ‘Fair-guid-day’, but only sat and gloomed and better gloomed. I stood at the side of the boat to offer them a hand; but Mistress Allison waved me away, and asked the great stot of a farm lad that was at the oar to jump out and help them ashore.

‘No, an’ I’ll no, eyther!’ said that youth, pleasantly. ‘Wull Maxwell said that I was to bide by the boat – an’ so I’ll bide. Ye can loup!’

So help he would not. But he was willing to give his reasons.

‘Wull is my maister, an’ he’s a man to be mindit, I’m tellin’ ye!’ he said, and that was all they could get out of him.

So the old wives, who could have eaten all they liked of me with pleasure and ease, had perforce to accept my helping hand to get them out of the boat, which had grounded high on the shell-sand and now coggled upon an uneven keel.

‘Think on the honour o’t, Mistress Allison,’ cried that randy lass May Maxwell, standing with her hands on her sides and her elbows crooked out in a fashion of her own. (I cannot think what made me notice these things, for I fair hated the lass.) ‘Think,’ says she, ‘on the honour of being handed oot by a laird on his ain grund, or raither a prince in his ain kingdom, for a’ this isle will belong to his lordship. Ye’re a big woman the day, Mistress MacWhirter!’ And she pretended to look about grandly, as though taking in a prospect of wide dominions.

But never a word said I out loud, but in to myself I kept saying, ‘Ill-tongued hizzy!’ And that I said over and over.

But she was not yet done and went on, ‘Is’t a captain or a general ye are, Adullam? My memory’s failin’. I think ye mentioned it the last time ye were ower by at Craigdarroch. Or is it nothing less than to be a king that’ll serve ye? My faith,’ she added, looking round, ‘I’m thinkin’ that your standing airmy’s a’ run awa’!’

She laughed elvishly here, though I, that am as full of appreciation of humour as any man, could see nothing whatever to laugh at.

‘Here’s the standing airmy, Mistress May Mischief!’ cried Jerry MacWhirter, upstanding as bold as brass on the edge of the sea cliff which rose above the white sands of the bay.

‘Guid mornin’ to ye, mither,’ he said, lifting his blue bonnet politely; ‘and my service to you, Mistress Allison. Your son Andrew sent his love till ye.’

‘Ye impudent vaigabond!’

At the word both of the women made a rush at him with so angry a countenance that, though a man grown, with (some) hair on my face, I gave back a pace myself. But as for little Jerry, he never turned a hair, but only sat down on the edge of the cliff, looking now at the group and now at his drawing. It was as pretty as a play.

‘Dinna be in a hurry, mither,’ he said; ‘it’s bad for the disjeestion; an’ this bank’s ower steep for twenty stone, Mistress Allison. Try roon to the left. There’s a bonnier road there.’

His mother’s tongue got vent.

‘Ye sorra’ and vexation,’ she cried, ‘ye disgrace to a’ oor hoose, that was aye decent grocers! Wait till I get ye hame. I’ll wile ye hame wi’ the strong hand, my lad, and lay on ye wi’ a stout stick when I get ye there. Ye shall suffer for this if there’s hazel oil in Dumfries, gibin’ an’ jeerin’ at your ain blood-kin.’

Little Jerry had a piece of paper on his knee, and he made marks on it with a callevine as if he were drawing a map. I admired greatly to see him.

‘Na, mither,’ he said; ‘nae ill word did I ever speak to you, or aboot you. I did but advise ye for your health no to excite or overexert yersel’, for, as ye ken, Doctor Douglas tells ye that it’s ill for the bowel complaint. But my respects to my stepfaither the Doctor. I hope ye left him weel.’

‘I tell ye that as sure as my name’s Sarah MacWhirter, ye’ll get sic a lickin’ as ye’ll no get ower for a month when ye come back to Dumfries. I’ll get the burgh hangman to attend to ye, gin I haena the strength o’ airm to gar ye lowp mysel’.’

At this fearful threat I looked for Jerry to lower his colours, but he seemed more than usual calm, and turned his head sideways to look this way and that at his map, like a wild bird on a bough when it is not sure about you.

‘Na, mither, lickin’s dune noo! It’s a’ by wi’,’ says he; ‘so it’s no for me to say whether or no yer name’s properly Sarah MacWhirter or Sarah Douglas. I wasna at either o’ your waddin’s – at least, that I mind o’ – but whether or no, strap, taws, birk, an’ hazel, are a’ by wi’; and I’ll come nae mair hame till ye promise to let me alane.’

‘Ye ken, richt weel, ye vaigabond, that ye wad be let alane. Aye, an’ made muckle o’ gin ye wad consent to be a decent grocer in the Wynd, an’ succeed yer faither in the shop.’

‘Na, mither, I’ll never be grocer nor yet chandler. The provision line is a guid trade, but it’s no for me. I was aye that hungrysome that I wad eat a’ the profits. I wad cadge keel first, mither, like Silver Sand. Can ye no let me alane?’

His mother and Mistress Allison, quite aghast at the turn affairs were taking, had retreated, and were for making their way up the cliff by themselves. May Mischief had gone back again to the boat, and was lifting something heavy out of it. I went down to help her, for I never could abide to see a woman do man’s work, even if I had reason to dislike her, as I had right good reason to do this lass from Craigdarroch; though, to tell truth, I had some better reasons also to think well of her, as I owned to myself, remembering the night by the tomb of the MacLurgs in the kirkyard of Kirk Oswald.

Then I heard little Jerry say from his post on the top of the cliff, ‘Might I trouble ye, Mistress Allison, juist to stan’ still till I get your figure drawed? It disna look bonny withoot the head, especially as I hadna aneuch paper to mak’ your feet.’

I began to see that though Jerry might be an exceedingly useful ally with the tongue, his answers, though soft enough to satisfy Solomon himself, were not such as to turn away wrath. On the contrary, if the two ladies were angry when they came seeking their sons on my island, Jerry had made them ten times worse now.

All this time I was helping May Maxwell out of the boat with something heavy, wrapped in a white cloth. Whatever it was it gave out a rare good smell to me, who had breakfasted some hours before on plain flounders tramped on the flats at three in the morning.

Overhead the two good dames were labouring upward, Mistress Allison crying as she went: ‘Andra! Jock! Wait till I catch ye!’

This mode of address struck me as, to say the least of it, unwise, and as one might say injudicious.

On the hillside Mistress MacWhirter made ineffective swoops at her erring son, who evaded her as easily as a swallow gets out of the way of a cow.

‘And, my certes,’ cried the good dame, exceedingly irate, ‘you are michty wasterfu’, my laddie! What for are ye wearin’ your best claes, I wad like to ken?’

‘Because I hae nae better!’ said her obedient son, for all the answer that was requisite.

The reasoning was excellent. Had he had better, he would have had them on. He had done his best.

I came up the path in the sunlight, carrying the Maxwell lass’s packet under my arm, and mighty weighty it seemed to be. It was very hot underfoot with the sun reflected from the rocks. It was a clear, coppery sky overhead.

‘What are ye gaun to say to them?’ May Maxwell asked, looking across atme inaway that I thought kindlier.

‘That I do not ken,’ said I; ‘I was thinkin’ o’ lettin’ them get it a’ their ain way for the sake o’ peace.’

‘Man, Adullam, for a lad that sets up to be a general, ye hae little contrivance aboot ye. That’s a’ weel eneuch for a while, an’ when there’s but yin o’ them. But there’s twa auld wives’ tongues here, an’ it’s a’thegither useless, for as sune as the breath o’ yin gaes oot, the ither yin ’ll tak’ up the tale, and the deevin’ will juist be eternal.’

‘But what will I do then, May Maxwell?’ said I.

‘Misca’ their bairns to their face. Misca’ them for a’ the sornin’ tinklers – the lazy, ill-contrivin’ loons i’ the country. Gin that disna gar their mithers change their tunes, my name’s no May Maxwell.’

‘Your name’s May Mischief, I see that weel!’ I said, roguishly.

‘What, ho, Adullam!’ she cried, making a pretty, mocking mouth, ‘this will never do. Twa o’ a trade will never agree. Dinna you set up to be waggish, like oor dog Toss that tried to play cat’s tricks on the lip o’ the boiler an’ fell amang the pig’s meat. Na, na, Adullam, stick to your generalin’ and captainin’. Did ye ever hear o’ the calf that tried to be humorsome?’

‘No,’ said I, ‘and fewer of your gibes.’ For indeed it was no time for tales.

‘“Weel,” said the farmer body to the calf, “I ettled ye for a keeping quey, but a coo wi’ a sense o’ humour is a thing that I canna hae aboot the hoose. The last yin ett a’ the wife’s half-year’s washin’. I’ll e’en hae to see what kind o’ veal ye’ll mak.” So the humorsome calf deed suddenly. It’s a lesson to ye,’ said Mistress May, coming quickly to the end of her parable.

This, as all may see, was ever the way that she jeered at me, and I cannot think how it was that I was not more angered. Maybe it was because she was but a little supple bit thing, like the least of my fingers with a string tied round the middle of it.

When we two got up to the house we went directly into the kitchen. There we found the two dames standing in the middle of the floor, and, as one might say, each turning about on her own pivot, and sniffing loudly on the nose of contempt. I could hardly keep from laughing out loud. I looked to May Maxwell to see if she was at it already. I made sure that, as she saw humour in so many things, she would find this vastly amusing.

But I was never more mistaken. Her little nose was more in the air than usual. I always meant to tell her when she was going on to me that her nose turned up at the end. I never did, however, chiefly because I did not believe that she would have cared a pin if I had said it.

But her advice was worth the trying.

The kitchen, which had an oaken settle down one side of it, had also two box-beds let into the wall, and, in addition, two hammocks hanging for those of us who preferred the swinging beds. Now none of these beds were made, though the linen was clean enough, for Silver Sand took it over to a decent wife in the village of Orraland every three weeks to be washed. The bachelor ways of the house of Rathan did not admit of such a freit as bed-making. It was to us a vain thing. We rose up, and we heaved our coverings over the foot of the bed; or we left them lying on the floor beneath the hammock where they had slipped off. When we got in we drew them over us again. This was our bed-making. But in the two elder women, and even in May Mischief, this innocent and pleasing habit occasioned a new and more bitter indignation.

‘And this is the place that ye hae wiled my Andra and my Johnnie to, puir lads!’ cried Mistress Allison, her twenty stone of bulk shaking with indignation and the difficulties of the ascent.

‘Will ye please to take seats, my ladies?’ said I, standing as politely as I could with my hat in my hand, for I was in my own house.

The two dames looked at me, then at one another. Finally they seemed to make up their minds to seat themselves. This they did, each in her own manner. Mistress Allison took hold of a chair on which some books and drawings of little Jerry’s were laid. As she tilted it forward these slid to the floor. The good lady let herself drop into it as a sack of flour drops on the ground when the rope slips.

The thin, spare, irascible Mistress MacWhirter took out of her swinging under-pocket a large India-red kerchief. Then she carefully dusted the chair, turning it bottom upward in a way which betrayed a rooted distrust of everything in the Rathan. May Mischief simply took a good look at the window-sill, set the palms of her hands flat upon it at her sides, and hopped up like a bird, but backwards.

Now the lads Andrew and Johnny Allison, with Rab Nicoll, their cousin, were hid at the end of the hallan, where the passage led from the back door out upon the moor. They were therefore perfectly within earshot.

As soon as Mrs Allison got her breath she began, ‘Noo, Maister Paitrick Heron, could ye tell me by what richt ye keep my laddies here, that should be serving in their father’s shop and rinnin’ their mither’s messages – you that caa’s yersel’ a laird? A bonny laird, quo’ he, to wile awa’ decent folk’s bairns frae their ain door cheek to his ramshackle hoose, an’ keep them there – a wheen puir bits o’ boys to cut his firewood, and leeve in this fearsome-like hole.’

‘Aye,’ cried the shriller voice of Mistress MacWhirter, ‘and I’ll e’en pit yin to that. It was him an’ nae ither that pat my Jerry, that was aye a guid lad, past the grocering.’

‘Thank ye, mither; your obedient servant, Jerry MacWhirter,’ put in the little rascal from the outside somewhere.

‘Ye are a regairdless hound, a black sheep in my bonny flock, a––’

‘Puir lad that you an’ my stepfaither lickit till he was black and blue, but that ye’ll lick nae mair on this side o’ the grave!’ cried Jerry from the doorway, showing his witty, comical face round the corner.

I thought it was time now to try May Mischief ’s advice.

‘Have ye said all that ye wad like to say?’ I said, looking from one to the other.

Neither of them spoke, knitting their brows and glooming past one another out at the window. The lassie Maxwell, whom I gave a look at before I began, to see how she was taking the matter, had her fingers plaited together over her knee, holding it a little up and dangling her foot as she listened, innocent as pussy-bawdrons thinking on the cream-jug.

‘Now, listen to me,’ said I, very slow and calm, and speaking as English as I could; ‘I have a question or two to put to you both. In the first place, did I ask or invite your sons to come to this my house on the Rathan Isle? As far as I ken they cam’, every one of them, without ever so much as a “By your leave!” They hae been here, a pack of idle vagabonds, eating me out of house and home for the better part of two months. What the better am I of that? They have finished a side of pig for me amang them. I’ll be sending ye in a bonny account, Mistress Allison, for they’re braw eaters, juist like yersel’.’

At this Mistress Allison fidged in her seat as though something was rendering her uneasy. Things were not going just so well. It was one thing for her to abuse her jewels, but quite another to sit and hear an enemy give her sons the rough side of his tongue. Mistress May Maxwell looked on from her perch on the window-sill, but said never a word. Butter would not have melted in her mouth.

‘And as for your son, Mistress MacWhirter, four times I have had to expel him out of my house for ill-bred conduct––’

‘Five! Tell the truth when ye are at it, though ye be a laird!’ corrected little Jerry from the door. ‘I stand upon my rights. Five, by Macmillan’s cup!’1

‘And I declare that I will no longer harbour such a nest of rogues and vagabonds on this Isle of Rathan,’ said I; ‘there has been no peace since any of the names of Allison and MacWhirter came hither. More nor that, I am fully persuaded that they are a’ hand in glove with notorious Freetraders, such as Yawkins and Billy Marshall. And for aught that I ken they may be art and part in supplying undutied stuff to various law-breaking, king-contemning grocers and even baillies. I am resolved that I’ll lodge informations with the officers of His Majesty’s Preventive forces and get the reward.’

When I had finished I took a glint of my eye at May Mischief to see how she was taking it. I was rather proud of that last bit about the smuggling myself, and I thought that she would see the humour of it too, but instead I saw that she was both pale and of a frowning countenance. Then I minded that the Maxwells of Craigdarroch, all the seven big sons of them, and even the dour Cameronian father, were said to be deeper in the Gentle Traffic, as it was called, than any others in the locality.

It was May who spoke first, and her words had a little tremor in them. ‘I wad hae ye ken, Laird Heron,’ she said, ‘that there are many decent men who do not allow that King George has any right to say “Ye shallna brew yersel’ a drap o’ comfort or bring a barrel from the Isle withoot my leave, according to the ancient custom of your fathers,” and yet who have no trokings or comradeship with Yawkins, the Marshalls, and their like.’

She still sat on her perch upon the window-sill, but she did not swing her feet any more. Indeed she leant forward a little anxiously.

‘Mistress May,’ says I, ‘I’m obligated to you for your word. Indeed it would ill become my father’s son to think any such thing. Far be it from me to meddle with decent folk that have their living to get. But what I’m speakin’ of is a very different maitter, here are three or four idle loons coming and sorning on me for months––’

‘Three!’ put in Jerry from the door; ‘I work hard!’ says he.

‘Aye, so does the deil,’ answered I, dryly, for all his work was only slabbering with paint.

The two old ladies stood up together, as you have seen the sentries of a line of geese picking worms and gellecks on the sand, stretch their necks at a sound of alarm.

‘I wad he ye learn, you that miscaa’s my sons, Andra’ and John, that they are decent lads, come of decent people, burgher folk, and your faither’s son wull never be like them.’

‘God forbid!’ said I.

‘Nane o’ your taunts,’ she said. ‘I’m sure nane o’ my lads wull bide a day longer in this house when I tell them what language ye put upon them, puir ill-guided, innocent young things.’

May Mischief seemed to incline her ear, tipping it a little to the side as if to listen. I knew well what was the matter. She was nearest to where these rascals, Andrew, John, and Rab were hid at the back of the hallan-end. I could distinctly hear that loon Rab laughing myself.

‘There’s rats in this hoose, I’ll be bound! Ouch, I see yin!’ she cried, following something with her eye along the dark of the passage as if terrified. ‘Mistress Allison, tak’ care; I doot it’s run in aboot your coaties!’ she cried, pointing at the threatened territory with her finger.

That good dame rose once more with greater agility from her seat than one might have expected from twenty stone weight.

‘Dinna tell me lees, lassie,’ she cried, switching her tails about with great fervour.

By mischance she whisked a ball of grey wool, which we had for darning our stockings, out from under her. It bounded away into the dark passage. The ladies caught a waft of it with the tails of their eyes.

‘Save us!’ cried both of them together, springing upon one chair and clutching one another. ‘There’s a nest o’ them.’

May Mischief by this time was standing on the windowsill as terrified as the rest.

‘Patrick Heron, tell me the truth,’ she cried, with her eyes like coals; ‘tell me the truth – are there rats in this house?’

‘Plenty of them,’ quoth I; ‘they come on to the table at supper-time.’

Now this is a great mystery, for in all else a braver lass never breathed. This I will say, and I should know. She gave me a look that might have bored a hole in an inch board, and drew her skirts very close about her ankles. It is my belief that she started the noise about the rats for mischief, as she does all things; but had gotten a glisk of the grey thing that louped from Mistress Allison’s petticoat into the darkness of the door. Then the terrors that she had prepared for others came home to herself. At this moment through the dark passage at the back there came a noise of scufflings and squeakings such as rats make, and a terrible white beast, with long, scaly tail and red eyes, bounded across the floor past the two stout dames standing on the chair and ran beneath the window-sill upon which the young woman was standing. A treble-tongued and desperate scream went up.

‘Now I’ll bid ye guid afternoon, ladies!’ I said.

‘No, no!’ cried Mistress Allison. ‘I’ll tak’ back every word I said, laird – I wull indeed. I spoke hastily – I own it.’

‘Good-day to you, Mistress MacWhirter,’ I said, quietly, lifting my cap from the table.

There was more squeaking and scuffling, and, I fear, the sound of muffled laughter in the passage. I was only afraid now lest the rogues should overdo the matter, so I made haste to be going.

‘Maister Heron, Maister Heron,’ cried Mistress MacWhirter, ‘my boy can bide here for ever gin he likes. I’se never say a word to hinder him.’

‘Thank ye, mither,’ cried that youth from the door; ‘ye micht send me half a dozen pairs o’ socks when ye gang hame, just for a keepsake.’

On the window-sill May Mischief was standing, the graven image of apprehension.

‘Guid e’en to ye, Mistress Maxwell,’ said I.

The pet white rat, which the rascals in the passage had let loose from its box, gave a squeak of terror underneath. They had pinched its tail before they let it loose. This was more than enough for the young Amazon on the window-sill.

‘Oh, Pat Heron,’ she cried, ‘dinna gang and leave me! Oh, I see the horrid beast! Dinna, Pat, an’ I’ll never caa ye “Adullam” again. Mind the kirkyard o’ Kirk Oswald.’

I made as if to prove hard-hearted, and set one foot past the other in the direction of the door. Then, without a word or a look to forewarn me of her intention, she launched herself from the sill of the window and caught me about the neck.

‘Keep that beast off me, Patrick!’ she cried, clasping me tight.

How we found ourselves outside in the still, silent rebuking sunshine after all this noisy riot, I never could tell. But before I knew where I was May Maxwell broke out on me in anger – she that had taken me soundly and honestly about the neck but a moment before. There is no end to the mystery of woman. Inside the wives were screaming both together; and then, for a change, turn about.

‘Think shame o’ yersel’, ye great hulk; ye think it clever to fley a wheen silly weemenfolk. When I get time I’ll tell ye what I think o’ ye. Gang in and stop them.’

Mistress Allison was crying ‘Murder!’ and ‘Thieves!’ time about without pausing a moment. May Maxwell looked so imperative and threatening that I went in again at once. I had meant to remind her that the matter was her own suggestion, and that she herself had begun about the rats. But her anger and her imagination were working so handsomely that I did not dare. Besides, it is no use casting up anything to a woman. She can always put ten to the back of anything you say. My father often said so.

So I went in.

No sooner was I within the dark kitchen than Mistress Allison, perhaps impelled by that terrible thing example, did as the Maxwell lass had done, and dropped upon my neck. I was under no illusions whatever this time as to the manner in which I found myself on the ground. Mistress Allison is no featherweight. But ultimately at the long and last I got them out, and on the green bank outside I gave them some refreshment. Then I went into the house and brought the evil callants out to make their peace and my own.

‘I hae catched the rat,’ cried little Jerry, ‘but it was at the peril of my life. See here!’ He showed red teeth-marks on his arm.

His mother screamed in mixed fear and admiration. ‘Oh, my laddie, hoo durst ye? A ratton’s bite is poisonous!’

‘D’ye think I’m carin’ for that, mither, when I can do onything to help ye?’

He passed the limb round for inspection impartially, as though it belonged to someone else. There were certainly tooth-marks upon it, but they were broad and regular. I, who had seen many a rat bite, knew what the young scoundrel had done as well as if I had seen him do it. Round the corner he had set his own teeth in his arm. Then he had rubbed the place hard for a moment to drive away the blood from under the skin. So the tooth marks now stood out with alarming distinctness. It would not have imposed upon a man for a moment, but it did well enough with women.

Thus peace was arranged.

But not one of them would venture back into the terrible house of Rathan; which was a most strange and unaccountable thing, for in after days I saw with my own eyes one of these same fearful women-folk loading muskets for the fighters under a hot fire with the greatest coolness, yet at the mention of a white rat with red eyes any of them to the end of her days would have got out upon the housetop and screamed. The Almighty made all things very good without doubt, but He left some mighty queer kinks in woman. But then the whole affair of her creation was an after-thought.

When finally they rowed away with the morose keeper of the boat that evening all was kindliness and amity. May Mischief undid the great white parcel I had helped her to carry up from the boat. It was an immense pie with most toothsome, flaky crust. To look at it made our mouths water.

‘That’s no rat-pie!’ she said, for all good-bye.

And the strange thing is, that from that day, though I was long in owning it to myself and abused her as much as ever to other people, I liked the lass none so ill in my heart.

1 A communion cup of ancient silver belonging to Macmillan of Balmaghie, the first Cameronian minister, to which a special sanctity was attached by the country folk.