Читать книгу Where the Golden Eagle Soars - W E Johns - Страница 6

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As soon as lunch was finished Malcolm took Frank to his room and there persuaded him to change into some spare clothes of his own, which were, he advised, more serviceable for the river and the hill.

“This is the same tweed Donald was wearing, and also, if I’m not mistaken, Duncan the gillie,” observed Frank.

“That’s right,” confirmed Malcolm. “Like most lodges we have our own tweed—that is, of our own pattern. It’s made at a little mill not far away. The fleeces are from local sheep. The natural oil is left in instead of being washed out, as it so often is down south, with the result that it’s practically waterproof.”

“What’s the idea of having your own particular pattern?”

“It’s an old custom, originally intended I think, for recognition. No one else is allowed to have our pattern, and the same with the other lodges. I know them all for miles around, so if I see a man, even if I don’t recognize him, which is unlikely, I know where he works or where he’s staying. Anyone seeing you in that tweed you’re wearing will know at once where you are staying. Our stockings are also made of local three-ply wool. Mrs. Macdonald knits mine. You need hard stuff for this country. Here’s a pair of spats for you. You won’t want them today but you’ll need them when we go to the hill.”

“Why?”

“They cover the tops of your shoes and prevent bits of heather and stuff getting in. You must have your feet comfortable. I have mine made specially long, half-way up the calf, as a precaution against snake bite.”

Frank stared: “Say! Don’t tell me you have snakes here?”

“Only adders. They’re not very big but they can be dashed venomous. I’ve never known a man die from a bite but he can be pretty sick for a long time. We once had a stalker who was bitten on the hand. He put his hand on a rock to pull himself up a bank and a snake was lying on it. He was in hospital for nearly a year and lost all his hair. If you were bitten far out on the hill I doubt if you’d get home. That’s why, when I go out alone, I always leave word exactly where I’m going. Apart from snakes all sorts of accidents can happen. We used to have two spots very bad for snakes but my father got rid of most of ’em. I seldom see one now.”

“How did you get rid of ’em?”

“By putting some goats on the hill.”

“What do the goats do?”

“Smell ’em out, stamp on ’em and then eat them.”

“You don’t say!”

“Dogs and sheep are the worst sufferers. They may die. A dog can run over one and a grazing sheep can be bitten on the nose. A friend of my father’s who lives on the Isle of Mull, where the adders can be bad, gave him the tip. Susan, my spaniel, has been bitten. I thought she was dead. She recovered, but she was a very sick dog for weeks. Old Sheila, her mother, knows all about snakes. I think dogs have an instinct about them. I’m pretty sure they can smell them. When I see old Sheila jump sideways like a cat I know what’s in front of her.”

“What do you do?”

“Kill the snake. I’ve no time for the beastly things. I always carry a phial of permanganate crystals with a little razor-sharp blade in it to cut the puncture. If you’re quick most of the poison will run out with the blood. By the way, our goats are still on the hill. They’ve grown enormous, with magnificent heads. They’ve gone quite wild, of course, but they’re harmless.”

Frank looked at himself in the mirror and agreed that the neutral-coloured shirt Malcolm had lent him was less conspicuous than the one in which he had arrived. “At home,” he said, “as I told you, it’s the practice to wear bright colours when hunting in the woods. That’s to avoid being accidentally shot, although even then it sometimes happens.”

“It seems to me, Frank,” answered Malcolm seriously, “that some of your people ignore the first rule of the gun, which is never to pull the trigger until you can see clearly what you’re shooting at. I had a good example of that only the other day. Taking the twenty-two rifle I was out after a rabbit to feed the dogs when I saw a roe bolt from a field of roots and take cover in a thick patch of young silver birch scrub. As I’ve said, there’s only one thing to do with a deer that takes to raiding crops. Standing behind a tree I waited for it to come out. Presently I saw a bush shake and that told me, or I thought it told me, exactly where it was. I had raised the rifle ready for the shot when out stepped a little girl, John Coutt’s daughter from down the road. She told me she’d been sent to fetch a parcel from the station and had taken a short cut through the wood and across the railway lines, which was naughty of her. I go cold even now when I think of how close she came to being shot. That shows what can happen.”

“You would have shot the deer because it was at the farmer’s roots, I suppose.”

“Not entirely. One deer might not do a great deal of damage, but the trouble is this. Once a deer finds its way through or over a fence put there to keep it out, it will not only come back every night but it will lead others out—more and more of them, until the entire crop of turnips or kale, intended to feed the farmer’s stock in the winter, is wiped out. Obviously, that mustn’t be allowed to happen, so the buck or stag that thinks it’s smart has to pay the penalty.”

“In other words, it’s the gang leader that you go for.”

“Exactly. Believe me, I don’t enjoy killing things, but here it has to be done or life would become impossible. I have less compunction about it when the culprit, bird or animal, is itself a killer, killing for no reason other than sheer blood lust.”

“What about the deer? What do they eat when the snow’s on the ground?”

“They can manage. Unless the snow is frozen hard over a long period they can cut their way with their hooves to the moss and grass underneath. The result of that is, everything on the hill follows the deer to feed on the patches of heather they’ve exposed.”

“But foxes don’t eat heather.”

“True enough, but the rabbits and hares and birds do, so the foxes and stoats must follow them for food.”

Frank nodded. “I get it. Talking of heather I’ll tell you something. When I got my first glimpse of the heather a queer feeling came over me that I’d seen it all before. Instead of being in a strange country I felt I’d come home.”

“Naturally. A Scot, which you are, really, never gets the heather out of his blood. Well, now you’re all fixed up for clothes come and have a look at my den. It’s in the turret. No one except me is allowed to touch anything there.”

He led the way to a rather small, circular room, with three windows facing in different directions. “From here I can see both the river and the hill,” he remarked.

On the threshold Frank stopped and burst out laughing. “What an unholy mess!” he exclaimed.

“It may look like that to you, but I can put my hand on anything in a jiffy,” returned Malcolm, indignantly.

Frank surveyed the room with amused interest.

There was hardly an inch of wall space that was not occupied by something: pelts, skins, feathers, looped fishing lines, coils of wire, leather belts, rope, cord, photographs, sketches of animals and birds, and various odds and ends not so easy to identify. Some shelves carried rows of books, jars, bottles and boxes. Leaning against the walls were joints of fishing rods, gaffs, nets, some lengths of ash saplings and a variety of walking-sticks.

There were three pieces of furniture: an old cane easy chair, a kitchen chair and a well-stained deal table littered with such things as fishing reels, bottles of oil, tools, odd feathers and pieces of fur.

“What the dickens is all this stuff,” Frank wanted to know.

“This is where I work,” Malcolm pointed out.

“Doing what?”

“Remember, we’re a long way from any shop, so I do my own repairs, mostly to fishing gear. I make my own tackles and dress my own flies. Apart from anything else, in a river like ours, full of old trees and rocks, on which to get hooked up, you could spend a small fortune on tackle. I think half the fun of fishing is making your own stuff. It gives you something to do on a wet day and there’s extra pleasure in inventing something which works. Apart from saving money I produce exactly what I want, and knowing what the thing’s made of can be sure it won’t let me down. Nothing is more infuriating than to lose a good fish because your tackle breaks. I start with the best stuff. Take hooks, for instance. If a hook is made of steel that’s been over tempered it may snap. If it’s too soft it will straighten out and you’ve lost your fish. I use Swedish iron. You can’t beat it.”

“What can I smell?”

“Probably amylacetate.”

“What do you use that for?”

“Making cellulose—that is, liquid celluloid. It’s indispensable for all sorts of things, particularly baits. Yesterday I made up a few golden sprats in case we get a spate while you’re here. Fly isn’t much use when the river is big and black. Don’t ask me why a salmon prefers a golden sprat, which is something it can never have seen before, to a silver one, of which it must have seen millions in the sea.” Malcolm took from a test tube rack a shining bright little golden fish, impaled lengthways by a knitting needle. “If I bought this bait, made up, in a shop, it would cost several shillings, and I might lose it on a rock first cast. That’s not funny. This one cost me less than a farthing. What I do, at the beginning of the season, is buy half a pound of sprats from the fishmonger. They’re silver then, of course. I dip them in aquaflavine to turn them gold. Then I dip them in cellulose to make them tough. The cellulose costs next to nothing. I buy two penn’orth of amylacetate. In it I dissolve a small piece of celluloid—actually a chip or two off an old tooth brush. So, for a few pence I have enough baits to last me a year. To buy them would cost pounds.”

“What are these bits of fur and feather, and the reels of silk?”

“For making flies. They’re another expensive item if you have to buy them. I invent my own patterns. I have one, which I call Glenarder Fancy, which is a real killer. Why pay five or six shillings for a fly when you can make one in a few minutes for less than a penny?”

Frank smiled sadly. “I wouldn’t like to tell you how much I’ve spent on fishing tackle.”

“I’ll cure you of that nonsense,” promised Malcolm, confidently.

Frank picked up an ash stick about six feet long with a crook at the top end. “What’s this thing?”

“That’s what we call a cromach. It has a dozen uses on the hill.”

“Such as?”

“If you fall in a hole you can reach up with the crook and pull yourself out. You can use it to steady yourself going down a steep bank. You can pull down things that are out of reach—oh, all sorts of things. But we’ve been here long enough. Let’s go out and see the girls—that is, my dogs. This is a place for a day when the river is unfishable.”

“Is it sometimes like that?”

“You’ll be surprised.”

A few minutes later, having left the house by the side door, Malcolm stopped outside a long wooden outbuilding. “This is the gun-room,” he announced. “Everything for the hill is kept in here. It’s really Donald’s department. He keeps the guns clean, checks the cartridges, and so on. We might as well look inside as we’re here.”

He pushed open the door and they went in.

The room was a large one. From pegs on the walls, adorned with roebuck horns, deer antlers and other trophies, hung canvas and leather game bags, cartridge bags, gun cases, boxes of cartridges, belts, binoculars, a telescope and other sundry equipment. On a green baize-covered bench were bottles of oil, rags, tow and cleaning rods, both wood and steel. Racked on the wall in a glass case were several guns and rifles.

“That pair of twelve-bores at the end with the seven millimetre deer rifle belonged to my father,” said Malcolm. “I use the rifle occasionally, but for small game I use the point two-two or the twenty-bore. You can get a bit gun-weary on a long day with the heavier stuff. When we go camping I shall only take those two to give us something for the pot. There’s no need for us to live entirely out of cans. My cooking may be a bit rough but one can’t be too particular on the hill. I keep utensils permanently at the hut. It’s miles from anywhere. I don’t suppose anyone has been near the place since I walked out in the spring. Even Donald doesn’t go there more than about once a year, and I don’t blame him. It’s a fair hike over some rough going. That’s why it’s such a wonderful place for wild life. The creatures are never disturbed.”

“How far is it?”

“Only about seven or eight miles.”

“How long do you reckon to stay there?”

“As long as we feel like it. Say a week or ten days at least.”

“When do we start?”

“I thought the day after tomorrow.”

“We shall have heavy loads to carry, I imagine.”

“Oh no. Jeanie will haul most of the stuff there.”

“Who’s Jeanie?”

“Our garron. Like Donald she’s getting a bit up in the tooth but she can still do the trip.”

“What’s a garron?”

“It comes from the Gaelic word gearran. A small, rough sort of hill pony. They’re at home in this sort of country, where an ordinary horse would get bogged, break a leg, or do something silly. Let’s go and have a word with her. She’s in the paddock behind the kennels.”

“You don’t have the dogs in the house?”

“No. They’re both healthier and happier in their own quarters. Of course, the kennels are well fixed up, under cover and off the ground, with fresh straw every few days. Straw keeps dogs clean, and they love it because they can dig beds in it.”

When Malcolm opened a gate behind the gun-room a thick-coated pony threw up her head, whinnied, and walked forward. “Hello Jeanie, old girl,” said Malcolm, stroking her nose. “Feel like doing some work? All right, all right, I can see you,” he went on, turning to where two springer spaniels were clawing at the bars of their kennel. One was black and white with brown eyebrows. The other was liver and white with a freckled muzzle. He opened the iron gate and the dogs gambolled out, stumpy tails wagging. “The black and white is Sheila; the other is Susan, her daughter. All right, that’s enough,” he went on sharply, turning to the dogs. “Sit!”

Both dogs obeyed instantly.

“I see they’re well trained,” said Frank.

“Of course. A disobedient dog would merely be a nuisance: It would do more harm than good. As I’ve already told you, dogs here have a job to do.”

“Do you train them yourself?”

“As far as training is needed. Actually, pups learn most of their business from the mother, although much, I fancy, is instinct coming from generations of doing the same thing in the same place. Old Sheila wouldn’t stand for any nonsense from Susan when she was young and apt to get excited. If Susan did anything wrong, or failed to obey an order, her mother would give her a smart snap, as much as to say, behave yourself.”

The two dogs had jumped on their bench and the boys sat on each side of them.

“I could tell you some tales about dogs,” went on Malcolm. “They’re wonderful friends. I’m sure they understand a lot more than many people suppose, and I could give you a good example of that. I reckon old Sheila knows the meaning of at least thirty words. I regard her more as another human being than an animal. Why not? After all, dogs have been the friends of man since history began, and probably before that. Yes, after thousands of years together men and dogs have got to know each other pretty well. It’s a pity men aren’t always as conscientious about their work. I know every dog around here for miles, and they all know me. We have long conversations together when they’re at home. But not on the hill. Oh no. If I meet one looking for a stray sheep and speak to it by name there’s no tail wagging or anything like that. He’ll throw me a glance as much as to say, ‘not now; can’t you see I’m working?’ ”

Malcolm glanced at his watch. “In exactly an hour from now, if you look at that farm on the fringe of the heather you’ll see Gordon’s four dogs go streaking up the hill. They’re off to bring in the cows for milking. The cows may have wandered miles away. Nobody tells the dogs to go. They know the time and they know exactly what to do. Gordon may not even be at home.”

“Jolly good.”

“No, that’s normal dog behaviour here. In winter time I could show you a sight that would astonish you. Twenty or more dogs sitting outside the village school waiting for the younger children to come out.”

“Why?”

“To shepherd them home, of course. Some of the kids live miles away across the heather, far from any road. Duncan had to walk six miles to school across the open moor, crossing the river on stilts. What an outcry there’d be if children down south had to do that! Yet the very fact that they have to do that makes their education an achievement and they often finish at a university. But as I was saying, when it gets dark early, or a blizzard is blowing, a child could easily lose its way, or maybe fall over a cliff. The dogs see to it that doesn’t happen. They sort out their own children and escort them home.”

“Are you kiddin’?”

“Certainly not. If a dog arrived home without its charge the parents would know something was wrong and make a search. In fact, I’ve known that happen.”

“Were the dogs trained to do that?”

“Apparently not. It started many years ago. As I understand it the dogs started by going a little way to meet the children. The distance they went became longer and longer until at last they went all the way to school with them. Then they took to going to meet them. Now pups learn the business from their mothers. It must have been sheer instinct in the first place that told the dogs that what the children were doing was dangerous.”

“I call that wonderful,” said Frank.

“Trust a dog to know what to do.”

“What was that tale you were going to tell me about a dog?”

“It’s a bit harrowing.”

“I can take it.”

“Very well. Remember, this is true, every word of it.”

“Three years ago,” began Malcolm, “we employed a trapper to keep the vermin down. His name was Stuart Campbell. He lived in one of our cottages. He had a dog, a labrador, named Ben. They were both getting on in years. I’d known them since I was able to toddle. You never saw one without the other. For years and years, summer and winter, they ranged together over hills where a man is seldom seen, where the eagles soar and the only sound is the scream of a mating vixen or the belling of the stags in the autumn gloaming. You can imagine the understanding and affection that grew up between them. One might say each was the world to the other. Stuart was a big, rugged Highlander, and Ben was as tough as his master, as indeed he had to be to roam the hills day after day whatever the weather, summer shine or winter storm. Stuart had never married. His mother kept house for him. She was what we call a thrawn woman, hard-working, as a woman here has to be.”

“What exactly do you mean by thrawn?”

“Tough. Dour. Grim. A bit aggressive, perhaps, as a result of the hard life. Well old age is not to be denied, and the day came, when Ben was fourteen, which is a good age for a dog, when his strength began to fail. He could no longer walk the hill. All he could do was lie beside the peat fire and dream away the hours with one ear cocked to catch the footstep of Stuart returning. That was when the trouble began.

“Stuart’s mother began to grumble, saying the dog stank, which was probably true. It was time he was put down, that is, put to sleep for good. But this was something Stuart could not bring himself to do. Kill his best, indeed, his only friend, he could not; and so the time went on, the thrawn old widow grumbling more and more and Stuart shrinking from that act of Cain which is the price some have to pay for what their dog has given them.

“At last the day came when Stuart could stand the bickering no longer. He had been on the hill all day. He had just come in and started his supper when his mother set on him again about the dog. Springing to his feet in a passion he shouted: ‘Dinna fesh yoursel’, woman. When I’ve had my bite I’ll tak the gun to him.’ Upon this, as Stuart recollected afterwards, the dog looked steadily at him for a moment and then walked out of the door.

“Well, when Stuart had finished his meal he took his gun from the corner where it stood and putting in a cartridge called Ben by name. For the first time in fourteen years there was no response. Stuart went outside and called again. Still no answer. He searched the byre and the peat shed; he went up the hill, calling; but of the dog there was no sign. Neither Stuart, nor any other man, ever set eyes on Ben again.

“Stuart came to me in the gun-room and told me what had happened; and as he told his tale he shook with sobs that seemed to be tearing his heart to pieces. Which shows what a dog can do to a man, and a big strong man at that. He knew what had happened. So did I. Old Ben had understood, and had done his master his last service. He knew perfectly well what Stuart had said and what he intended to do. That was more than he could stand and he had taken his own way out to save them both the agony.”

“What do you think he did?” asked Frank, huskily.

“I had no doubt about it. Neither had Stuart. Ben had crept away into the hills he had so often walked with his beloved master, and there, in some lonely corrie, he had lain down to die. You know, Frank, I sometimes think dogs understand men better than some people understand dogs.”

“Is Stuart still with you?”

“No. His mother died and he left the district. And I know why. He couldn’t get Ben out of his mind. Every time he walked the hill he’d see Ben there walking beside him. That’s why he went.”

“Where did he go?”

“I have no idea. He went without a word. Highlanders are like that. They’re a queer breed. They hate saying goodbye. It takes another Highlander to understand why they do things. We replaced Stuart with a man from the Western Isles. He only stayed a week. Do you know why he went back home?”

“No.”

“Because he missed the mewing of the seagulls. The next man had been a stalker. He’d been born in a cottage on the high tops, among the deer. He left us because he said he couldn’t stand the trees. They made him feel shut in. He took another job as stalker on the high ground where in winter he’d be shut in for weeks on end.”

“He must have been crazy to choose that sort of life.”

“It’s all a matter of how and where you’re brought up. People here think folk who live in cities must be out of their minds. They can’t understand it.” Malcolm nudged Frank’s arm and pointed to a croft on the fringe of the moor. Behind it, four small black and white animals were streaking through the heather up the hill, fanning out as they went.

“There go Gordon’s dogs to bring home the cattle, as I told you,” he said. “Notice how they take different routes. When one spots the cattle he’ll call the others and they’ll work them home together. They don’t need a watch to tell them the time.”

“I guess there are two sorts of people in the world,” observed Frank, “those who understand and appreciate dogs, and those who don’t.”

“How right you are,” agreed Malcolm. “To me, dogs are people. Of course, the close relationship and understanding here between a man and his dog is partly due to the conditions. Some dogs rarely see anyone except their masters. Keepers, shepherds, stalkers, and so on, lead lonely lives, and with no one else to talk to except their dogs, week after week and month after month, summer and winter, the animals become almost human. They get to know every word, and even the slightest signal. But let’s go in and have some tea.”