Bonnie Dundee (11 page)

‘Can ye row?’ said he, unshipping the oars.

‘I never have,’ I said, ‘but I’ll try.’ Anything for speed.

He shook his head, ‘Nay, ye’d be more trouble than ye’re worth.’ And he began to swing to the oars.

By God’s fortune the tide was at slack water, and so we were able to get across straight from bank to bank. But even so it seemed a weary while before I was scrambling out on the southern shore.

I paid the man off, and headed for the cluster of cottages about the stables where the rich folk of Dundee kept a few horses for the first stage of any southern journey. The place was up and busy, as well it might be; the Dudhope stable had been starting the day an hour and more ago; and the sight of Claverhouse’s silver phoenix badge in my bonnet soon produced a horse, and I was away for Edinburgh.

The wind and rain were in my face as I rode hard along the track that follows the southern skirts of the Ochills, and I drove my chin further into the neck folds of my plaid, and settled down into the saddle, the morning coming up grey and sullen out of the Tay estuary behind me.

At Kilmany I changed horses, leaving word with the posting people to have two horses ready for the return journey around tomorrow’s noon. That was a wild and maybe over-hopeful guess, but I reckoned it was better they should be on the outlook for us too early than too late. And when I was on my way again, I bethought me of Darklis’s wallet, and got it out and ate as I rode, hungrily for I had had no breakfast, but glad when it was done, for I had no pleasure in the food save for the staying of the hunger pangs in my belly.

It was still but ten or so in the morning when I clattered into the stable-yard of the inn at Ferny. At first it
seemed that there was no one about save a marigold-coloured cat sitting on the mounting block, who glared at me with a malevolent eye. But my shouts brought forth an ancient hostler, who, since there did indeed seem to be no one else, must take my tired horse before he brought out a fresh one. I mind the peaceful dream in which he moved, like someone moving under water, irked me past all bearing.

‘I’ve no’ got all day!’ I burst out. ‘I should be halfway to Gateside by now – I must be in Inverkeithing before the Forth ferry closes for the night!’ And then as he showed no sigh of speeding up, ‘Here, man, tell me which horse, an’ I’ll e’en saddle up for myself!’

He cocked an eye at me then, grumbling, ‘Hoots toots, man, will it be a matter o’ life an’ death, then?’

‘It could be just that!’ I almost shouted; and seemingly the desperate need that I had for haste got through to him at last. He stopped dead, with the tired beast half in and half out of the stable. ‘Weel, ye’ll no’ be in Inverkeithing before the ferry closes if ye gang round by Gateside an’ Loch Leven.’

‘What way, then?’

He rubbed his chin. ‘Twa miles on the way forks, an’ the right-hand road gangs on tae Gateside; but if ye tak the left fork, an’ head south through Edensmuir to Leslie an’ join the true road again at Cowdenbeath, ye’ll knock ten miles or more off the distance, that way.’

‘Is the way plain to follow?’ I asked. ‘I canna risk getting lost.’

He thought for an instant, then nodded. “Tis your lucky day; old Hammerhead’s in the end stall. Leslie’s his home stable and he kens his way hame if ever a horse did. Just let him gang his ain gait, an’ ye’ll not get
lost if ye sleep on his back every step o’ the way frae here tae Leslie.’

We got old Hammerhead out and saddled up between us; and never was a horse better named, for I never saw an uglier brute in all my days. And at long last, after I’d paid the score and left the same word as I’d left at Kilmany, I was on my way again, and trying to overtake the time I had lost.

Two – three miles on, I came, as the old hostler had said, to a place where the road forked, or rather where the high road, such as it was, ran on towards Gateside and round Loch Leven to Kinross, where we had spent the night when I rode that way with Claverhouse, while on the left a rough track that I had not even noticed that first time went snaking down info lower country, losing itself in scrubby moorland and darkly ragged thorn-woods. There I reined in and sat for a few moments, thinking. The high road was at least clear to follow, while the southward track looked awful untrustworthy. But ten miles was ten miles…

Hammerhead was fidgeting under me, eager to turn left into his way home. Finally I gave him his head. ‘It’s your road,’ I told him. ‘In God’s name keep to it!’

Maybe it was a fool thing to do, and more than once I was cursing myself as we plunged deeper and deeper into the wilds of Edensmuir Forest, following tracks that were mere traces among the heather and did not have the feel of leading to any place in this world at all; and no living creature to be seen save the distant flicker of a roe deer and the curlew and snipe that we startled from the bents as we went drumming by. I have a good sense of direction myself, and can find my way blind about a wolf’s belly as well as most, but I take my bonnet off to that old nag; he was as wise as he was ugly;
and not so long past noon, when I had about lost hope of ever winning clear of that black and sodden wilderness, we came to another track that crossed ours running east and west, and a straggling village at the way-crossing, and drew rein before an inn with the Leslie Arms painted on its swinging sign; or rather, Hammerhead came to a halt there of his own accord.

I parted from him with a hurried pat and a word of praise, and having asked my road to Cowdenbeath and again left word for horses to be ready next morning, I took to the wilds again. This time the track was easier to follow; but when we came down into the Rother Glen, the rain in the hills, coming down in brown swirling spate, was over the banks of the burn and had washed the timber bridge away.

With a horse I knew and that knew me, I would have tried swimming him over, myself still in the saddle, but as it was, I dismounted, and keeping an arm through the bridle, took off my plaid – it could not be soaked much wetter by the spate than it was already by the rain, but the weight of it could well drown me if I went under still wearing it – and rolled it into a tight bundle with my pistol in the middle, and made it fast to the saddle with my belt strap.

‘Now,’ said I, ‘in wi’ ye, ma laddie!’

The horse laid back his ears and tried to wheel aside; but I had him fast, and somehow I got him snorting and trembling down the torn bank, and we took to the racing water together. My, but the cold of it bit to the bone, August or no, all the chill of the high hills was in it, and the swirling force of it seemed like a live thing trying to carry us away! But somehow, half swimming and half floundering, we got across and found ourselves up the further bank and out on firm ground once more,
without, I’m thinking, either of us much idea of how we got there. I know I threw up a surprising amount of burn water, while the horse stood by shivering and watching me – I had the presence of mind not to let go of his bridle the while. When I’d done, I belted on my plaid and the pistol again and, remounting, heeled the poor brute into a gallop without giving him more time to think about it.

The wet and windy day was fading early into a sodden gloaming when we came into Cowdenbeath and pulled up in the inn courtyard. And the hostler asked had we swum Loch Leven.

‘We didna come that way; but the bridge is washed away up Rother Glen,’ I said. ‘Give him a dash of ale in his mash, he’s earned it.’

‘Ye look as if ye could do wi’ something o’ the same kind yersel’, my young callant,’ said the man, kind enough.

‘Aye,’ I said, and the teeth were chattering in my head. ‘But I’ve no time.’ And I was away down the last long stretch to Inverkeithing.

It was long after dark when I came down through the little town, and saw the wind-tossed lantern light among the wharves and jetties, and leaving my horse at the inn, found my way down to the ferry.

The boatman was no better pleased to be called out after dark on such a night than the Dundee man had been to be called out before dawn on such a morning; but he went off, grumbling, his great gawky lad with him and myself hard at their heels. And by and by I was crouched in the stern of the ferry-boat while the lights of Inverkeithing dwindled smaller behind me, and the lights of Queensferry grew out of the blustery darkness ahead. I got out the remains of the food Darklis had
given me, and tried to eat, but without much success. I had covered seventy miles and more hard riding since dawn, and I was weary almost beyond eating, and the heart cold within me when I thought what might have happened at Dudhope in the past hours. But I managed to thrust some of it down, and took a swig out of the flask, which made my head swim – unless that was the swing and bounce of the little boat in the choppy waters – I was never much of a sailor. But it put back some of the heart into me; and before long, on the southern shore with a fresh horse under me and a good road to follow, I was off on the last long stage of my ride.

Eh, but I was weary!

There’s not much I am minding of that last stage, just the wind and the darkness, and the drumming hooves of the post-horse as the miles reeled out behind me. But it seemed to go on a long, long time, so that I felt it to be far into the darkmost belly of the night before I reached Edinburgh town; and I was vaguely surprised when at last I came clattering up Leith Wynd, to find the glimmer of candles still shining here and there through the cracks in window shutters.

I came out into the Cannongate and swung right-hand towards the Netherbow, and in a few moments more was dropping from the saddle before the tall old house on the third floor of which Claverhouse had his town lodging.

A lantern over the door-arch was swinging in the wind, casting its lights and shadows across the entrance. I hitched the weary post-horse to the ring beside the door, and beat on the timbers until an old woman in a grey wrapper and carrying a candle came and opened it to me. ‘Eh?’ she said, peering out. ‘Wha’s there, knocking fit to raise the deid?’

‘I must speak with Colonel Graham –’ I began, and then as she tried to shut the door again, ‘I’m from Dudhope – from his lady—’

‘The Colonel has company,’ she said, still trying to shut the door again.

But my foot was safe inside. ‘He’ll see me,’ I said, and thrust the door back on her, then banged it shut behind me.

‘Och well,’ she shrugged, and holding up the candle, peered at me more closely. ‘Dinna I ken ye?’

‘Mebbe. I’ve been here before. Let me up, Grannie.’

‘The Colonel will no’ be best pleased, I’m warning ye, but that’s your affair.’ And grumbling to herself still, she shuffled away back to some den of her own in the back regions, taking the candle with her, and leaving the narrow entrance-way in pitch darkness.

I fumbled my way across to the turnpike stair and began to climb, past the doors of the lower landings, feeling with my hands until a faint light began to reach down to me from a wall lantern far overhead. I came to the door of the third landing, and wondered whether it would yet be locked for the night; but when I tirled at the pin, it opened easily under my hand.

The small entrance room was lit by a branch of candles streaming in the draught from a passage-way on the far side, and Claverhouse’s gloves lay on a carved chest against one wall, together with a couple of rain-wet riding cloaks. More candlelight and the smell of tobacco smoke spilled out from another door that stood half open, and with it the sound of voices, and Claverhouse’s quiet laugh. I turned towards the doorway, and checked in the opening a moment to pull my sodden plaid into more seemly folds.

The booming of the wind had seemingly swallowed
the sounds of my coming, and a screen of gilded leather half-shielded the doorway, and so for a few moments I saw the men in the room before they were aware of me. Lord Ross standing with his shoulder against the mantel as he kicked at a log that had rolled forward out of the fire; and another, a fair-haired man sprawling long legs out from the chair that seemed to have swallowed him, and who I knew, having seen him once or twice before, to be Colin Lindsay, the young Earl of Balcarres; both of them puffing away at their long-stemmed pipes. And in the opposite chair, Claverhouse himself, leaning forward to gaze into the fire, turning his pipe forgotten in his fingers. Indeed he was not one who smoked much, save to keep other men company, and I think he found little pleasure in it.

‘Aye well, it’s as good as finished with at last,’ he was saying. ‘Tomorrow to go over matters with the Quartermaster as to supplies and quartering for our own troops, eh, Ross? And with luck I’ll be away home by the morn’s morn.’

I hesitated to break in on their talk.

It was Balcarres that answered. ‘Ye’ve done a good job for the Foot Guards, and ye’ve sorted Colonel Douglas, but I’m thinking ye may have done a bad job for yourself.’

‘Ye think Colonel Douglas may bear a grudge?’ Claverhouse said. ‘Man, even if he did, what ill has he the power to do me?’

‘The power of being Queensberry’s brother,’ said Lord Ross, watching the smoke curl upward. ‘Ye’ll not deny that Queensberry has power in plenty?’

Claverhouse laughed. ‘Don’t be such an old hen-wife. Queensberry’s by way of being a friend of mine.’

‘
By way of being?
’ Balcarres shook his head. ‘You’re
too trusting, Johnnie. Queensberry on his way up would be the friend of any man who was friend to the King or York. But Queensberry is no longer on his way up, he’s there! He has his dukedom and he doesn’t need your good offices any more. Also General Dalyell is an old man and a sick one, and our new duke wants the Commander-in-Chief’s place when it falls vacant, for his brother. And I’m thinking he must know you’ll get it, unless he can discredit you.’

‘All we’re saying,’ Lord Ross put in, ‘is – have a care, Johnnie.’

‘And not go spoiling Douglas’s little games? Somebody had to see justice done for these poor devils.’

It came to me suddenly that I was eavesdropping, and I made a trampling at the door, and went in round the screen, pulling off my drowned bonnet.

They looked round abruptly, and Claverhouse said, ‘Why, Hugh! In God’s name what—’