_XI--The Crack of Thunder_
It is fine how the spur of danger, especially danger to somebody else,dear if not near, helps a man's spirits upward. The blood flows morequickly in him, his hand is surer, his brain works better. He feelsthat the die has been cast, that nothing more matters, except thereckoning, and, so feeling, he sheds all timorous self-consciousnessand is himself.
That, at all events, was how I felt as I took the road southward,across the hills towards Deeside, with a cracking wind to walk against.I would intercept the Black Colonel's raid on Marget and her mother,and break the whole scheme behind it--if I could!
So we scheme, we glorious little fellows of this world, bent on love orhatred, and the Great Beneficence smiles at us, at our cleverness, orit may be the Great Furies, however you will have it. Anyway, Naturehas merely to move and our grandest plans may crinkle up like a featherheld to a "cruisie," the rude lamp, fed with dried splinters offir-wood, or mutton tallow and a wick, which our Highlanders used forlighting.
But that was not in my thoughts when I came to the top of the last hilldividing our strath from the Black Colonel's. My estimate was that ifI got there by break of day and waited I should, being in a high eyriewith a wide view, see him come from the opposite direction. Myinformation from my scouts was that he would travel alone, a fit thing,having regard to his mission at the Dower House, Corgarff.
Tired and hungry, I looked about for a rock which would shield me fromthe wind, and got out my fodder. It consisted only of "whisky bukky,"oatmeal rolled with whisky, not delicate stuff to eat, but easilycarried and sustaining. Haggis is better food for the march, becauseit is tastier and still harder to digest, so even more lasting, as theHighlanders, for whose war sustenance it was, perhaps, invented, knew,but on leaving Corgarff Castle I had just taken what I could lay myhand upon.
While I ate I half-marvelled at the splendour of the scene about me,half-rehearsed my catechism with the Black Colonel, when he shouldappear. I would put it to him as a gentleman that he must not intrudeupon the Forbes ladies, and, indeed, must frankly abandon his designsthere. If reason failed, then we might be driven to solve the knot bya single combat, as the custom of the Highlands permitted, and, indeed,sometimes ordered, very much like the duel in the land of France. Whynot such a combat, because the test was an honest if barbaric tributeto plain manliness? Give me that rather than the snivel, the chicane,the shake-you-by-the-hand and stab-you-in-the-gloaming, which passes bythe name of diplomacy, high diplomacy, I believe.
The tradition of single combat went back into the very mists of time inthe Highlands; and merely the form varied. There was Cam-Ruadh, theearly red-haired man of tradition, who, fallen prisoner among a batchof hostile "kern," or outlaws, was offered his liberty if he could makeso many good arrow-shots. He drew and drew, with much seeminginnocence, on the arrows of his captors, and wove a circle of stabs inthe ground about the target, but never did he hit it; oh, no!
They jeered at him when he came to the last arrow possessed by thecompany, saying he had better reserve it for himself and save them thetrouble of making an end to him. Instead, he sent it, as he could havesent the others, straight into the middle of the target, and flew therealmost with it. Before the outlaws could realize the logic of eventshe had gathered all the arrows under his arm, put one to the string ofthe bow and cried, "I am Cam-Ruadh, who never misses, never beforeuntil now, and you who are without arrows had better take leg-bail,"which they quickly did.
Nearer in time was the duel of valiant Donald Oig with the chief of aband of "broken men" who had a grudge against him. Donald was a famousswordsman, and the chief had no active relish to try skill with him.But, again, it was the custom of the country, and the invitation couldnot be refused if the chiefship of the "broken men" was to be held,because here was a test of both courage and honour.
He was a slim fellow, however, this head raider, one with the falsedoctrine, as ancient as human nature, that if you succeed it matterslittle how. When, then, he and Donald Oig stood up to fight heexclaimed, "Shake hands on it, first!" But he gripped the extendedright hand hard, intending, with it thus prisoned, to strike a foulblow and close, in his own favour, a duel which had not begun. Swiftof instinct and eye, Donald saw this, caught out his dagger with hisleft hand, and stabbed the foul fighter. The rest of the "broken men,"being witnesses of it all, had nothing to complain about, and Donaldwent his way.
While my thoughts wandered like that, and I ate and, from my pocketflask, washed my dry eating down, the weather changed with a swiftnessfamiliar enough among the Scottish mountains. The heavens passedbehind a veil of drifting clouds, through which the sun flared in red,angry bursts. The elements had declared hostilities, and when I lookeddown into the valley, two thousand feet beneath me, I saw a greatthunderstorm on the march, the very panoply of havoc.
It moved as if it were an army going to war, with scout-like hornsthrust out in front and on either side. These were constantly shot byfangs from the mass of lightning in the clouds, themselves a hell ofangry colours, There was the inky black of the outer sheath, next aseam of half-black, half-orange, then a depth of iridescence whichconstantly changed its hues, and, finally, a molten pot boiling androlling in august wrath.
Ah! it was a spectacle to watch, those thunder-clouds come through theglack, or rift, dividing the falling hill on which I stood, from therising one beyond. Down in the valley ran a stream and a track used bycattle-drovers, and, as my eye went there, I thought I saw a tallfigure. Certainly, for he looked up and, during a moment, we were bothsilhouetted in the radiance of light which the thunder-clouds, nowmassed into one huge bank, drove before it. If I saw that solitaryfigure it was likely he would see me, as we were the only living thingsin the landscape, and like turns to like, even making mutualcommunication, although witchcraft was the word for that then, and themention of it dangerous.
Presently the terrific cloud ate up the spot where I had seen the man,for its base was in the valley and its top above my altitude. Neverhad I beheld such a thunder-cloud, but it was awe, a worship of theforces of Nature, which filled me, not fear. Why should I, a young,healthy man, with good nerves, be afraid, since the excessive tumultwas below me, and I was a privileged spectator. Quickly, however, thecloud must burst, and then the sluices of heaven would indeed be open.How would it fare with myself and the figure lost in the valley?
That thunderstorm and the consequent flood became events in our localhistory, and to me a quick personal adventure. The rain came down,first in a thick shower, then in torrents, finally in sheets. The fallwas so solid that it seemed to half-scotch the lightning and half-dullthe roar of the thunder. Actually, for I record truly, the drops leaptup again in splashes as they struck the ground beside me, and in aninstant I was soaked, though that was no unusual experience in ouradventurous climate.
The thunder-cloud had now taken command of the whole firmament, soswiftly had its violence of contagion spread. Here, verily, was arainfall on a great scale, and as it settled to business a sort ofdarkness spread over the land. I must seek shelter, and I would findit on the levels rather than on the exposed heights.
Therefore, I started for the valley, picking my way as best I could inthe black deluge. You will scarce believe me if I again tell you thatthe rain-water ran down the hill-side with me, inches deep. It tookgravel and stones with it, and scoured away the bedding of large rockswhich, thus released, joined in the downward plunge. Some folk thoughtit was the Flood of the Bible come again as prophesied, and, at allevents, the comparison gives a notion of it. The stream, which I hadseen an insignificant stripe below, met me, a roaring river. Itswaters had already overflowed the whole valley. Now you only saw thetops of hillocks or trees, for all else was a gurgling waste of waters.
Over those waters came a cry which caught me, even in my sorry plight,because it was human. Wild birds, beaten to the ground by the stormand then engulfed in the waters, were screeching as they drowned.Hares and rabbi
ts, and a fox, wherever he came from, all went past meon a floating tree, and they were squealing for mercy, not from eachother, but from the elements. The other sound I had heard, however,was quite different, and I listened for it again.
Ah! there it was! And as I bent to the level of the flowing waters andlooked towards its source, I saw a man marooned on one of the hillockswhich the flood had left unsubmerged. Evidently he had seen me first,for he was waving his hands and making signs with them. He was in keenalarm about his predicament, but method governed his alarm, and it wasfor me to discover it.
Clearly he was a prisoner on the island, in so far that he could notwade or swim through the roaring dam which divided us. Clearly, also,the water was rising by miraculous draughts upon the rain, and soon hisrefuge would be drowned, and he swept from it. What was to be done byme to save him, for action must be rapid?
He was beckoning up-stream with a meaning. Searching with my eye themeeting-place of land and water, I saw what looked like a boat. Wherecould it have come from? There had been an old broad-bottomed craft,used for fording in spate times, on a pool a mile or so up the glen,and the flood had brought it down and thrown it ashore. Could I get itafloat, navigate it to the perishing man, and rescue him?
No sooner said than done! Not at all; things don't happen so, atleast, when anything worth doing has to be done. It took me a toilsomejourney to the boat, and I found it half-full of flood-water. This Iemptied by hauling the boat, as the river rose, on to a shelving rock.Then I waited for it to float free, having meanwhile got hold of along, fir sapling, which, pruned of its branches, I thought to use as aguiding pole, helm or oar, as the rushing of many waters might demand.
Thus equipped, out I sailed on that uncharted ocean with never athought in my head whether I should again see dry land or riot. Thedarkness had deepened, but I could still distinguish the hillock andthe man thereon, now up to his waist in the waters, and for thosefading signs I steered. Quickly I was in the flood race, but I kept myhead, otherwise I should not have heard the voice come to me again inwhat seemed to be the words, "Hurry! For God's sake, hurry!"
Down-stream I rushed, here shoving from disaster against a tree trunk,there avoiding a smash with something else. How it was all done I havenot the remotest notion--perhaps it was mere luck--but when I camelevel with the hillock I was only three feet clear of it on the nearside.
"Jump," I roared, and the man with outstretched arms jumped strongly,and I felt a pull which almost upset me, for I had been standing in theboat. Two hands had caught the gunwale, and the pull of dead weightswung the heavy, clumsy craft round on a new course without, however,upsetting it. This took us into shallower waters, and presently thesuction of the main surge got fainter and we were aground on themoorland edge.
I had not, in the dark, seen the face of my companion at all, and,trailing beside the boat, he had no opportunity for making himselfknown. I stepped out, knee-deep, to find him also a-foot, and seekingthe land.
"Come on," I said, "whoever you may be."
"Yes," he answered; "whoever you may be, you are a friend in need."
I recognized his voice, and exclaimed, nay, shouted in my surprise,"Jock Farquharson!"
"Yes, Ian Gordon," he said in turn. "Would you rather not have savedme?"
"God's will be done," said I.
"Amen!" said he.
Dramas of life do end laconically, like that, as death often comes bycasual side-steps.