John Burnet of Barns - ebook

Contents

BOOK I

TWEEDDALE

I. THE ADVENTURE WHICH BEFELL ME IN THE WOOD OF DAWYCK

II. THE HOUSE OF BARNS

III. THE SPATE IN TWEED

IV. I GO TO THE COLLEGE AT GLASGOW

V. COUSINLY AFFECTION

VI. HOW MASTER GILBERT BURNET PLAYED A GAME AND WAS CHECKMATED

VII. THE PEGASUS INN AT PEEBLES AND HOW A STRANGER RETURNED FROM THE WARS

VIII. I TAKE LEAVE OF MY FRIENDS

IX. I RIDE OUT ON MY TRAVELS AND FIND A COMPANION

BOOK II

THE LOW COUNTRIES

I. OF MY VOYAGE TO THE LOW COUNTRIES

II. I VISIT MASTER PETER WISHART

III. THE STORY OF A SUPPER PARTY

IV. OUR ADVENTURE ON THE ALPHEN ROAD

V. THE FIRST SUNDAY OF MARCH

VI. THE FIRST MONDAY OF MARCH

VII. I SPEND MY DAYS IN IDLENESS

VIII. THE COMING OF THE BRIG SEAMAW

IX. AN ACCOUNT OF MY HOME-COMING

BOOK III

THE HILLMEN

I. THE PIER O’ LEITH

II. HOW I RODE TO THE SOUTH

III. THE HOUSE OF DAWYCK

IV. HOW MICHAEL VEITCH MET HIS END

V. I CLAIM A PROMISE, AND WE SEEK THE HILLS

VI. THE CAVE OF THE COR WATER

VII. HOW TWO OF HIS MAJESTY’S SERVANTS MET WITH THEIR DESERTS

VIII. OF OUR WANDERINGS AMONG THE MOORS OF CLYDE

IX. I PART FROM MARJORY

X. OF THE MAN WITH THE ONE EYE AND THE ENCOUNTER IN THE GREEN CLEUCH

XI. HOW A MILLER STROVE WITH HIS OWN MILL- WHEEL

XII. I WITNESS A VALIANT ENDING

XIII. I RUN A NARROW ESCAPE FOR MY LIFE

XIV. I FALL IN WITH STRANGE FRIENDS

XV. THE BAILLIES OF NO MAN’s LAND

XVI. HOW THREE MEN HELD A TOWN IN TERROR

XVII. OF THE FIGHT IN THE MOSS OF BIGGAR

XVIII. SMITWOOD

BOOK IV

THE WESTLANDS

I. I HEAR NO GOOD IN THE INN AT THE FORDS o’ CLYDE

II. AN OLD JOURNEY WITH A NEW ERRAND

III. THE HOUSE WITH THE CHIPPED GABLES

IV. UP HILL AND DOWN DALE

V. EAGLESHAM

VI. I MAKE MY PEACE WITH GILBERT BURNET

VII. OF A VOICE IN THE EVENTIDE

VIII. HOW NICOL PLENDERLEITH SOUGHT HIS FORTUNE ELSEWHERE

IX. THE END OF ALL THINGSBOOK I

TWEEDDALE

I. THE ADVENTURE WHICH BEFELL ME IN THE WOOD OF DAWYCK

I HAVE taken in hand to write this, the history of my life, not without much misgiving of heart; for my memory at the best is a bad one, and of many things I have no clear remembrance. And the making of tales is an art unknown to me, so he who may read must not look for any great skill in the setting down. Yet I am emboldened to the work, for my life has been lived in stirring times and amid many strange scenes which may not wholly lack interest for those who live in quieter days. And above all, I am desirous that they of my family should read of my life and learn the qualities both good and bad which run in the race, and so the better be able to resist the evil and do the good.

My course, by the will of God, has had something of a method about it, which makes the telling the more easy. For, as I look back upon it from the vantage ground of time, all seems spread out plain and clear in an ordered path. And I would but seek to trace again some portion of the way with the light of a dim memory.

I will begin my tale with a certain June morning in the year 1678, when I, scarcely turned twelve years, set out from the house of Barns to the fishing in Tweed. I had escaped the watchful care of my tutor, Master Robert Porter, the curate of Lyne, who vexed my soul thrice a week with Caesar and Cicero. I had no ill-will to the Latin, for I relished the battles in Caesar well enough, and had some liking for poetry, but when I made a slip in grammar he would bring his great hand over my ears in a way which would make them tingle for hours. And all this, mind you, with the sun coming in at the window and whaups whistling over the fields and the great fish plashing in the river. On this morn I had escaped by hiding in the cheese-closet; then I had fetched my rod from the stable-loft, and borrowed tackle from Davie Lithgow, the stableman; and now I was creeping through the hazel bushes, casting, every now and then, a glance back at the house, where the huge figure of my teacher was looking for me disconsolately in every corner.

The year had been dry and sultry; and this day was warmer than any I remembered. The grass in the meadow was browned and crackling; all the foxgloves hung their bells with weariness; and the waters were shrunken in their beds. The mill-lade, which drives Manor Mill, had not a drop in it, and the small trout were gasping in the shallow pool, which in our usual weather was five feet deep. The cattle were stertling, as we called it in the countryside; that is, the sun was burning their backs, and, rushing with tails erect, they sought coolness from end to end of the field. Tweed was very low and clear. Small hope, I thought, for my fishing; I might as well have stayed with Master Porter and been thrashed, for I will have to stay out all day and go supperless at night.

I took my way up the river past the green slopes of Haswellsykes to the wood of Dawyck, for I knew well that there, if anywhere, the fish would take in the shady, black pools. The place was four weary miles off”, and the day was growing hotter with each passing hour; so I stripped my coat and hid it in a hole among whins and stones. When I come home again, I said, I will recover it. Another half mile, and I had ofF my shoes and stockings and concealed them in a like place; so soon I plodded along with no other clothes on my body than shirt and ragged breeches.

In time I came to the great forest which stretches up Tweed nigh to Drummelzier, the greatest wood in our parts, unless it be Glentress, on the east side of Peebles. The trees were hazels and birches in the main, with a few rowans, and on the slopes of the hill a congregation of desolate pines. Nearer the house of Dawyck were beeches and oaks and the deeper shade, and it was thither I went. The top of my rod struck against the boughs, and I had some labour in steering a safe course between the Scylla of the trees and the Charybdis of the long brackens; for the rod was in two parts spliced together, and as I had little skill in splicing, Davie had done the thing for me before I started. Twice I roused a cock of the woods, which went screaming through the shadow. Herons from the great heronry at the other end were standing in nigh every pool, for the hot weather was a godsend to them, and the trout fared ill when the long thief-like bills flashed through the clear water. Now and then a shy deer leaped from the ground and sped up the hill. The desire of the chase was hot upon me when, after an hour’s rough scramble, I came to the spot where I hoped for fish.

A stretch of green turf, shaded on all sides by high beeches, sloped down to the stream-side. The sun made a shining pathway down the middle, but the edges were in blackest shadow. At the foot a lone gnarled alder hung over the water, sending its long arms far over the river nigh to the farther side. Here Tweed was still and sunless, showing a level of placid black water, flecked in places with stray shafts of light. I prepared my tackle on the grass, making a casting-line of fine horse-hair which I had plucked from the tail of our own grey gelding. I had no such fine hooks as folk nowadays bring from Edinburgh, sharpened and barbed ready to their hand; but rough, homemade ones, which Tam Todd, the land-grieve, had fashioned out of old needles. My line was of thin, stout whipcord, to which I had made the casting firm with a knot of my own invention. I had out my bag of worms, and, choosing a fine red one, made it fast on the hook. Then I crept gently to the alder and climbed on the branch which hung far out over the stream. Here I sat like an owl in the shade, and dropped my line in the pool below me, where it caught a glint of the sun and looked like a shining cord let down, like Jacob’s ladder, from heaven to the darkness of earth.

I had not sat many minutes before my rod was wrenched violently downwards, then athwart the stream, nearly swinging me from my perch. I have got a monstrous trout, I thought, and with a fluttering heart stood up on the branch to be more ready for the struggle. He ran up the water and down; then far below the tree roots, whence I had much difficulty in forcing him; then he thought to break my line by rapid jerks, but he did not know the strength of my horse-hair. By and by he grew wearied, and I landed him comfortably on a spit of land–a great red-spotted fellow with a black back. I made sure that he was two pounds weight if he was an ounce.

I hid him in a cool bed of leaves and rushes on the bank, and crawled back to my seat on the tree. I baited my hook as before, and dropped it in; and then leaned back lazily on the branches behind to meditate on the pleasantness of fishing and the hatefulness of Master Porter’s teaching. In my shadowed place all was cool and fresh as a May morning, but beyond, in the gleam of the sun, I could see birds hopping sleepily on the trees, and the shrivelled dun look of the grass. A faint humming of bees reached me, and the flash of a white butterfly shot, now and then, like a star from the sunlight to the darkness, and back again to the sunlight. It was a lovely summer’s day, though too warm for our sober country, and as I sat I thought of the lands I had read of and heard of, where it was always fiercely hot, and great fruits were to be had for the pulling. I thought of the oranges and olives and what not, and great silver and golden fishes with sparkling scales; and as I thought of them I began to loathe hazel-nuts and rowans and whortleberries, and the homely trout, which are all that is to be had in this land of ours. Then I thought of Barns and my kinsfolk, and all the tales of my forbears, and I loved again the old silent valley of Tweed–for a gallant tale is worth many fruits and fishes. Then as the day brightened my dreams grew accordingly. I came of a great old house; I, too, would ride to the wars, to the low countries, to Sweden, and I would do great deeds like the men in Virgil. And then I wished I had lived in Roman times. Ah, those were the days, when all the good things of life fell to brave men, and there was no other trade to be compared to war. Then I reflected that they had no fishing, for I had come on nothing as yet in my studies about fish and the catching of them. And so, like the boy I was, I dreamed on, and my thoughts chased each other in a dance in my brain, and I fell fast asleep.

I wakened with a desperate shudder, and found myself floundering in seven feet of water. My eyes were still heavy with sleep, and I swallowed great gulps of the river as I sank. In a second I came to the surface and with a few strokes I was at the side, for I had early learned to swim. Stupid and angry, I scrambled up the bank to the green glade. Here a first surprise befell me. It was late afternoon; the sun had travelled three-fourths of the sky; it would be near five o’clock. What a great fool I had been to fall asleep and lose a day’s fishing! I found my rod moored to the side with the line and half of the horse-hair; some huge fish had taken the hook. Then I looked around me to the water and the trees and the green sward, and surprise the second befell me; for there, not twelve paces from me, stood a little girl, watching me with every appearance of terror.

She was about two years younger than myself, I fancied. Her dress was some rich white stuff which looked eerie in the shade of the beeches, and her long hair fell over her shoulders in plentiful curls. She had wide, frightened blue eyes and a delicately-featured face, and as for the rest I know not how to describe her, so I will not try. I, with no more manners than a dog, stood staring at her, wholly forgetful of the appearance I must present, without shoes and stockings, coat or waistcoat, and dripping with Tweed water. She spoke first, in a soft southern tone, which I, accustomed only to the broad Scots of Jean Morran, who had been my nurse, fell in love with at once. Her whole face was filled with the extremest terror.

“Oh, sir, be you the water-kelpie?” she asked.

I could have laughed at her fright, though I must have been like enough to some evil spirit; but I answered her with my best gravity.

“No, I am no kelpie, but I had gone to sleep and fell into the stream. My coat and shoes are in a hole two miles down, and my name is John Burnet of Barns.”

All this I said m one breath, being anxious to right myself in her eyes; also with some pride in the last words.

It was pretty to see how recognition chased the fear from her face. “I know you,” she said. “I have heard of you. But what do you in the dragon’s hole, sir–This is my place. The dragon will get you without a doubt.”

At this I took off my bonnet and made my best bow. “And who are you, pray, and what story is this of dragons? I have been here scores of times, and never have I seen or heard of them.” This with the mock importance of a boy.

“Oh, I am Marjory,” she said, “Marjory Veitch, and I live at the great house in the wood, and all this place is my father’s and mine. And this is my dragon’s den;” and straightway she wandered into a long tale of Fair Margot and the Seven Maidens, how Margot wed the Dragon and he turned forthwith into a prince, and I know not what else. “But no harm can come to me, for look, I have the charm,” and she showed me a black stone in a silver locket. “My nurse Alison gave it me. She had it from a great fairy who came with it to my cradle when I was born.”

“Who told you all this?” I asked in wonder, for this girl seemed to carry all the wisdom of the ages in her head.

“Alison and my father, and my brother Michael and old Adam Noble, and a great many more?” Then she broke off. “My mother is gone. The fairies came for her.”

Then I remembered the story of the young English mistress of Dawyck, who had died before she had been two years in our country. And this child, with her fairy learning, was her daughter.

Now I know not what took me, for I had ever been shy of folk, and, above all, of womankind. But here I found my tongue, and talked to my new companion in a way which I could not sufficiently admire. There in the bright sun-setting I launched into the most miraculous account of my adventures of that day, in which dragons and witches were simply the commonest portents. Then I sat down and told her all the stories I had read out of Virgil and Caesar, and all that I had heard of the wars in England and abroad, and the tales of the countryside which the packmen had told me. Also I must tell the romances of the nettie-wives who come to our countryside from the north–the old sad tale of Morag of the Misty Days and Usnach’s sons and the wiles of Angus. And she listened, and thanked me ever so prettily when I had done. Then she would enlighten my ignorance; so I heard of the Red Etin of Ireland, and the Wolf of Brakelin, and the Seven Bold Brothers. Then I showed her nests, and gave her small blue eggs to take home, and pulled great foxgloves for her, and made coronets of fern. We played at hide-and-go-seek among the beeches, and ran races, and fought visionary dragons. Then the sun went down over the trees, and she declared it was time to be going home. So I got my solitary fish from its bed of rushes and made her a present of it. She was pleased beyond measure, though she cried out at my hardness in taking its life.

So it came to pass that Mistress Marjory Veitch of Dawyck went home hugging a great two-pound trout, and I went off to Barns, heedless of Master Porter and his heavy hand; and, arriving late, escaped a thrashing, and made a good meal of the remnants of supper.