CHAPTER VI
THE DOVECOT OF MORPHIE
THE vehicle used by Captain Somerville on his tours of inspection was standing in the Whanland coach-house; it was an uncommon-looking concern, evolved from his own brain and built by local talent. The body was hung low, with due regard to the wooden leg of its owner, and the large permanent hood which covered it faced backwards instead of forwards, so that, when driving in the teeth of bad weather, the Captain might retire to its shelter, with a stout plaid to cover his person and his snuffbox to solace it.
This carriage was made to convey four people—two underneath the hood and one in front on a seat beside the coachman. On fine days the sailor would drive himself, defended by the Providence that watches over his profession; for he was a poor whip.
It was a soft night, fresh and moist; the moon, almost at the full, was invisible, and only the dull light which pervaded everything suggested her presence behind the clouds. Captain Somerville, sitting with Gilbert over his wine at the dining-room table, was enjoying a pleasant end to his day; for Speid, knowing that his inspection work would bring him to the neighbourhood of Whanland, had delayed his own dinner till a comparatively late hour, and invited the old gentleman to step aside and share it before returning to Kaims.
A sound behind him made the younger man turn in his chair and meet the eyes of Macquean, who had entered.
‘Stirk’s wantin’ you,’ he announced, speaking to his master, but looking sideways at Captain Somerville.
‘Tell him to wait,’ said Gilbert; ‘I will see him afterwards.’
Macquean slid from the room.
The two men talked on until they were again aware of his presence. He stood midway between Speid and the door, rubbing one foot against the other.
‘It’s Stirk,’ he said.
‘I am not ready to see him,’ replied Gilbert with some impatience; ‘I will ring when I am.’
When they had risen from the table and the sailor had settled himself in an armchair, Gilbert summoned Macquean.
‘What does young Stirk want with me?’ he inquired.
Macquean cast a circular look into space, as though his master’s voice had come from some unexpected quarter.
‘It’s poachers,’ he said apologetically.
‘What?’ shouted Somerville.
‘Just poachers.’
‘But where? What do you mean?’ cried Gilbert.
‘It’s poachers,’ said Macquean again. ‘Stirk’s come for you.’
‘Where are they?’
‘They’re awa west to net the doo’cot o’ Morphie; but they’ll likely be done by now,’ added Macquean.
‘Is that what he wanted me for?’ cried Gilbert.
‘Ay.’
Captain Somerville had dragged himself up from his chair.
‘But, God bless my sinful soul!’ he exclaimed, ‘why did you not tell us?’
Macquean grinned spasmodically.
‘I’m sure I couldna say,’ he replied.
Gilbert took him by the shoulders and pushed him out of his way, as he ran into the hall shouting for Jimmy; the boy was waiting outside for admittance, and he almost knocked him down.
‘It’s they deevils frae Blackport that’s to net the doo’cot o’ Morphie!’ began Jimmy breathlessly.
‘How do you know?’
‘I’m newly come from Blackport mysel’, an’ I heard it i’ the town.’
Speid’s eyes glittered.
‘Where is your cart? We will go, Jimmy.’
‘It’s no here, sir; I ran.’
The sailor had come to the door, and was standing behind his friend.
‘My carriage is in the yard,’ he said. ‘Take it, Speid; it holds four. Are you going, boy?’
Jimmy did not think reply necessary.
‘Macquean, run to the farm, and get any men you can find. I will go to the stable, Captain Somerville, and order your phaeton; my own gig only holds two. Oh, if I had but known of this earlier! What it is to have a fool for a servant!’
‘It is worse to have a stick for a leg,’ said Somerville; ‘but I am coming, for all that, Speid. Someone must drive, and someone must hold the horse.’
‘Do, sir, do!’ cried Gilbert, as he disappeared into the darkness.
With Jimmy’s help, he hurried one of his own horses into the shafts of the Captain’s carriage and led it to the doorstep. As the sailor gathered up the reins, Macquean returned breathless.
‘I didna see onybody,’ he explained; ‘they’re a’ bedded at the farm.’
An exclamation broke from Gilbert.
‘But you should have knocked them up, you numskull! What do you suppose I sent you for?’
Macquean shook his head with a pale smile of superiority.
‘They wadna rise for me,’ he said; ‘I kenned that when I went.’
‘Then you shall come yourself!’ cried Speid. ‘Get in, I tell you! get in behind with Jimmy!’
Macquean shot a look of dismay at his master, and his mouth opened.
‘Maybe I could try them again,’ he began; ‘I’ll awa and see.’
‘Get in!’ thundered Gilbert.
At this moment Jimmy Stirk’s arm came out from under the hood, and Macquean was hauled into the seat beside him; Captain Somerville took a rein in each hand, and they whirled down the short drive, and swung out into the road with a couple of inches to spare between the gatepost and the box of the wheel.
‘You will hardly find that man of yours very useful,’ observed the sailor, as they were galloping down the Morphie road; ‘I cannot think why you brought him.’
Gilbert sat fuming; exasperation had impelled him to terrify Macquean, and, as soon as they had started, he realized the futility of his act.
‘The boy behind is worth two,’ he said.
‘There may be four or five of these rascals at the dovecot.’
‘We must just do our best,’ said Gilbert, rather curtly.
Somerville thought of his leg and sighed; how dearly he loved a fray no one knew but himself.
As they approached Morphie, they stopped to extinguish their lights, and he began, in consequence, to drive with what he considered great caution, though Gilbert was still forced to cling to the rail beside him; Macquean, under the hood, was rolled and jolted from side to side in a manner that tended to make him no happier. His companion, seldom a waster of words, gave him little comfort when he spoke.
‘Ye’ve no gotten a stick wi’ ye,’ he observed, as they bowled through the flying mud.
‘Na,’ said Macquean faintly.
‘Ye’ll need it.’
There was a pause.
‘I kent a man that got a richt skelp from ane o’ they Blackport laddies,’ continued Jimmy; ‘’twas i’ the airm, too. It swelled, an’ the doctor just wheepit it off. I mind it well, for I was passin’ by the house at the time, an’ I heard him skirl.’
There was no reply from the corner of the hood and they pressed on; only Somerville, who had a habit of chirruping which attacked him the moment he took up the reins and only left him when he laid them down, relieved the silence. Thanks to the invisible moon, the uniform grayness which, though not light, was yet luminous, made the way plain, and the dark trees of Morphie could be seen massed in the distance.
‘I wonder they wad choose sic a night as this,’ remarked Jimmy; ‘it’s a peety, too, for they’ll likely see us if we dinna gang cannylike under the trees. Can ye run, Mr. Macquean?’
‘Ay, can I,’ replied the other, grinning from under the safe cover of the darkness. A project was beginning to form itself in his mind.
‘There’ll be mair nor three or four. I’d like fine if we’d gotten another man wi’ us; we could hae ta’en them a’ then. They’re ill deevils to ficht wi’.’
‘I could believe that,’ said Macquean.
His expression was happily invisible to Stirk.
‘If I’d time, I could cut ye a bit stick frae the hedge,’ said Jimmy.
‘Heuch! dinna mind,’ replied Macquean soothingly.
They were nearing the place where the dovecot could be seen from the road and Captain Somerville pulled up. Gilbert and Jimmy got out quietly and looked over a gate into the strip of damp pasture in which the building stood. There was enough light to see its shape distinctly, standing as it did in the very centre of the clearing among the thorn-bushes. It was not likely that the thieves would use a lantern on such a night, and the two strained their eyes for the least sign of any moving thing that might pass by the foot of the bare walls. Macquean’s head came stealthily out from under the hood, as the head of a tortoise peers from beneath its shell. No sound came from the dovecot and Gilbert and Jimmy stood like images, their bodies pressed against the gateposts. Somerville, on the driving-seat, stared into the gray expanse, his attention fixed. They had drawn up under a roadside tree, for better concealment of the carriage. Macquean slipped out into the road, and, with a comprehensive glance at the three heads all turned in one direction, disappeared like a wraith into the night.
Presently, to the straining ears of the watchers came the sound of a low whistle.
‘There,’ said Speid under his breath, ‘did you hear that, Jimmy?’
The boy nodded.
‘Let Macquean hold the horse,’ burst out Somerville, who was rolling restlessly about on the box. ‘I might be of use even should I arrive rather late. At least, I can sit on a man’s chest.’
At this moment Jimmy looked into the back of the carriage.’
‘Mr. Macquean’s awa!’ he exclaimed as loudly as he dared.
Gilbert ground his teeth; only the necessity for silence stopped the torrent which rose to the sailor’s lips.
Speid and Jimmy slid through the bars of the gate; they dared not open it nor get over it for fear it should rattle on its hinges. They kept a little way apart until they had reached the belt of thorn-trees, and, under cover of these, they drew together again and listened. Once they heard a boot knock against a stone; they crept on to the very edge of their shelter, until they were not thirty yards from the dovecot. The door by which it was entered was on the farther side from the road, and the pigeon-holes ran along the opposite wall a few feet below the roof. Three men were standing by the door, their outlines just distinguishable. Jimmy went down on his hands and knees, and began to crawl, with that motion to which the serpent was condemned in Eden, towards a patch of broom that made a spot like an island in the short stretch of open ground between the thorns and the building, Gilbert following.
Now and then they paused to listen, but the voices which they could now hear ran on undisturbed, and, when they had reached their goal, they were close enough to the dovecot to see a heap lying at its foot which they took to be a pile of netting. Evidently the thieves had not begun their night’s work.
The nearest man approached the heap and began to shake it out.
‘I’ll gi’e ye a lift up, Robbie,’ said one of the voices; ‘there’s stanes stickin’ out o’ the wa’ at the west side. I had a richt look at it Sabbath last when the kirk was in.’
‘My! but you’re a sinfu’ man!’ exclaimed Robbie.
‘We’re a’ that,’ observed a third speaker piously.
Two of the men took the net, and went round the dovecot wall till they found the stones of which their companion had spoken; these rough steps had been placed there for the convenience of anyone who might go up to mend the tiling.
‘Lie still till they are both up,’ whispered Gilbert. ‘There are two to hold the net, and one to go in and beat out the birds.’
They crouched breathless in the broom till they saw two figures rise above the slanting roof between them and the sky. Each had a length of rope which he secured round one of the stone balls standing at either end above the crowsteps; it was easy to see that the business had been carefully planned. Inside the dovecot, a cooing and gurgling showed that the birds were awakened.
The two men clambered down by the crowsteps, each with his rope wound round his arm and supporting him as he leaned over to draw the net over the pigeon-holes.
‘Now then, in ye go,’ said Robbie’s voice.
The key was in the door, for the third man unlocked it and entered.
Speid and Jimmy Stirk rose from the broom; they could hear the birds flapping among the rafters as the intruder entered, and the blows of his stick on the inner sides of the walls. They ran up, and Gilbert went straight to the open doorway and looked in. His nostrils were quivering; the excitement which, with him, lay strong and dormant behind his impassive face, was boiling up. It would have been simple enough to turn the key of the dovecot on its unlawful inmate, but he did not think of that.
‘You scoundrel!’ he exclaimed—‘you damned scoundrel!’
The man turned round like an animal trapped, and saw his figure standing against the faint square of light formed by the open door; he had a stone in his hand which he was just about to throw up into the fluttering, half-awakened mass above his head. He flung it with all his might at Speid, and, recognising his only chance of escape, made a dash at the doorway. It struck Gilbert upon the cheek-bone, and its sharp edge laid a slanting gash across his face. He could not see in the blackness of the dovecot, so he leaped back, and the thief, meeting with no resistance, was carried stumbling by his own rush a few feet into the field, dropping his stick as he went. As he recovered himself, he turned upon his enemy; he was a big man, bony and heavy, and, had he known it, the want of light was all in his favour against a foe like Gilbert Speid, to whom self-defence, with foil or fist, was the most fascinating of sciences. Flight did not occur to him, for he was heavy-footed, and he saw that his antagonist was smaller than himself.
Speid cursed the darkness; he liked doing things neatly, and the situation was sweet to him; it was some time since he had stood up to any man, either in play or in earnest. He determined to dodge his opponent until he had reversed their positions and brought him round with his back to the whitewash of the dovecot; at the present moment he stood against the dark background of the trees. The two closed together, and, for some minutes, the sound of blows and heavy breathing mingled with the quiet of the night.
The blood was dripping down Gilbert’s face, for the stone had cut deep; he was glad the wound was below his eye, where the falling drops could not hamper his sight. He guarded himself very carefully, drawing his enemy slowly after him, until he stood silhouetted sharply against the whitewash. He looked very large and heavy, but the sight pleased Speid; he felt as the bull feels when he shakes his head before charging; his heart sang aloud and wantonly in his breast. Now that he had got the position he desired, he turned from defence to attack, and with the greater interest as his antagonist was no mean fighter. He had received a blow just below the elbow, and one on the other side of his face, and his jaw was stiff. He grew cooler and more steady as the moments went by. He began to place his blows carefully, and his experience told him that they were taking effect. Breath and temper were failing his enemy; seeing this, he took the defensive again, letting him realize the futility of his strength against the skill he met. Suddenly the man rushed in, hitting wildly at him. He was struck under the jaw by a blow that had the whole weight of Gilbert’s body behind it, and he went over backwards, and lay with his face to the sky. He had had enough.
Meanwhile, the two men on the dovecot had been a good deal startled by hearing Gilbert’s exclamation and the noise of the rush through the door. One, who had fastened the net on the eaves, clambered up the crowsteps, and, holding fast to the stone ball, looked over to see that his friend’s design had been frustrated by someone who was doing his utmost to destroy his chances of escape. He came down quickly to the lower end of the roof, meaning to drop to the ground and go to his assistance; but he found himself confronted by Jimmy Stirk, who had sidled round the walls, and stood below, looking from himself to his partner with the air of a terrier who tries to watch two rat-holes at once. A few birds had come out of the pigeon-holes, and were struggling, terrified, in the meshes. The two men did the most sensible thing possible: they dropped, one from either end of the tiling, and ran off in opposite directions.
Unable to pursue both, the boy pounced upon the man on his left, and would have laid hands on him as he landed, had he not slipped upon a piece of wet mud and stumbled forward against the wall. When he recovered himself, his prey had put twenty yards between them, and was running hard towards the thorn-trees. The net had fallen to the ground, and the pigeons were escaping from it, flying in agitated spirals above the dovecot; their companions were emerging from the holes, dismayed with the outraged dismay felt by the feathered world when its habits are disturbed. The air was a whirl of birds. Jimmy gathered himself together and gave chase with all his might.
Captain Somerville’s state of mind as he watched Gilbert and Jimmy Stirk disappear was indescribable; as he sat on the box and the minutes went by, his feelings grew more poignant, for impotent wrath is a dreadful thing. Had he happened upon Macquean, he would have been congenially occupied for some time, but the darkness had swallowed Macquean, and there was nothing for him to do but sit and gaze into the grayness of the field.
At last he heard what he fancied was Speid’s voice and the clattering of feet upon the dovecot roof. The night was still, and, though middle-age was some way behind him, his hearing was acute. He found his position beyond his endurance.
The horse was old, too, and stood quiet while he descended painfully to the ground. He led him to the gatepost and tied him to it securely; to squeeze between the bars as Jimmy and Gilbert had done was impossible for him, so he opened it with infinite caution, and closed it behind him. Then he set out as best he could for the thorn-trees.
His wooden leg was a great hindrance in the moist pasture, for the point sunk into the earth as he walked, and added to his exertions. He paused in the shadow of the branches, as his friends had done, and halted by a gnarled bush with an excrescence of tangled arms. While he stood, he heard steps running in his direction from the dovecot. He held his breath.
A figure was coming towards him, making for the trees. As it passed, the sailor took firm hold of a stem to steady himself, and stuck out his wooden leg. The man went forward with a crash, his heels in the air, his head in the wet moss, and before he knew what had happened, a substantial weight had subsided upon his back.
‘My knife is in my hand,’ observed Captain Somerville, laying the thin edge of his metal snuff-box against the back of the thief’s neck, ‘but, if you move, it will be in your gizzard.’
*****
By the time his absence was discovered, Macquean had put some little distance between himself and the carriage. For the first few minutes of his flight he crept like a shadow, crouching against the stone wall which flanked one side of the road, and terrified lest his steps should be heard. He paused now and then and stood still to listen for the sound of pursuit, taking courage as each time the silence remained unbroken. The white face of a bullock standing by a gate made his heart jump as it loomed suddenly upon him. When he felt safe, he took his way with a bolder aspect—not back towards Whanland, but forward towards Morphie House. He burned with desire to announce to someone the sensational events that were happening, and he realized very strongly that it would be well to create an excuse for his own defection.
He was panting when he pealed the bell and knocked at the front-door, feeling that the magnitude of his errand demanded an audience of Lady Eliza herself. It was opened by a maidservant with an astonished expression.
‘Whaur’s her ladyship?’ said Macquean. ‘A’m to see her.’
‘What is’t?’ inquired the girl, closing the door until it stood barely a foot open.
‘A’m seeking her leddyship, a’ tell ye.’
She looked at him critically.
‘Who is there?’ said a cool voice from the staircase.
The maid stood back, and Cecilia came across the hall.
‘Where do you come from?’ she asked, as the lamplight struck Macquean’s bald head, making it shine in the darkness.
‘From Whanland,’ replied he. ‘You’ll be Miss Raeburn? Eh! There’s awfu’ work down i’ the field by the doo’cot! The laird’s awa’ there, an’ Jimmy Stirk an’ the ane-leggit Captain-body frae Kaims. They’re to net it an’ tak’ the birds.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Cecilia, puzzled, and seeing visions of the inspector engaged in a robbery. ‘Do you mean Captain Somerville?’
‘A’ do, indeed,’ said Macquean, wagging his head, ‘an’ a’m sure a’ hope he may be spared. He’s an auld man to be fechtin’ wi’ poachers, but we’re a’ in the hands o’ Providence.’
A light began to break on Cecilia.
‘Then, are the poachers at the dovecot? Is that what you have come to say?’
Macquean assented.
The maidservant, who had been listening open-mouthed, now flew up to Lady Eliza’s bedroom, and found her mistress beginning to prepare herself for the night. She had not put off her dress, but her wig stood on a little wooden stand on the toilet-table. She made a snatch at it as the girl burst in with her story.
‘Cecilia, what is all this nonsense?’ exclaimed Lady Eliza, seeing her adopted niece’s figure appear on the threshold. ‘(Stop your havering, girl, till I speak to Miss Raeburn.) Come here, Cecilia. I can’t hear my own voice for this screeching limmer. (Be quiet, girl!) What is it, Cecilia? Can’t you answer, child?’
The maid had all the temperament of the female domestic servant, and was becoming hysterical.
‘Put her out!’ cried Lady Eliza. ‘Cecilia! put her into the passage.’
‘There’s a man downstairs,’ sobbed the maid, who had talked herself into a notion that Macquean was a poacher trying to effect an entrance into the house.
‘A man, is there? I wish there were more, and then we should not have a parcel of whingeing[1] women to serve us! I wish I could put you all away, and get a few decent lads in instead. Take her away, Cecilia, I tell you!’
When the door was shut behind the servant, and Lady Eliza had directed her niece to have the stablemen sent with all despatch to the dovecot, she drew a heavy plaid shawl from the cupboard and went downstairs to sift the matter. Her wig was replaced and she had turned her skirt up under the plaid.
Macquean was still below. Having delivered himself of his news, he had no wish to be sent out again. He did not know where the servants’ hall might be, or he would have betaken himself there, and the maid had fled to her own attic and locked herself in securely.
‘Have you got a lantern?’ said Lady Eliza over the banisters. ‘I am going out, and you can light me.’
‘Na,’ said Macquean, staring.
Without further comment she went out of the house, beckoning him to follow. She crossed the yard and opened the stable-door, to find Cecilia, a cloak over her shoulders, caressing the nose of the bay mare. Seeing the maid’s distracted state of mind, she had roused the men herself. A small lantern stood on the corn-bin. The mare whinnied softly, but Lady Eliza took no notice of her.
‘Here, my dear; give the lantern to Macquean,’ she exclaimed. ‘I am going to see what is ado in the field.’
‘It gives little light,’ said Cecilia. ‘The men have taken the others with them.’
‘Ye’d best bide whaur ye are,’ said Macquean suddenly. ‘It’s terrible dark.’
Lady Eliza did not hear him. She had gone into the harness-room, and the two women were searching every corner for another lantern. Finding the search fruitless, they went into the coach-house. There was no vestige of such a thing, but, in a corner, stood a couple of rough torches which had been used by the guizards[2] at Hogmanay.
When Macquean, compelled by Lady Eliza, had lit one, she ordered him to precede her, and they left the stable, Cecilia following. The arms of the trees stood out like black rafters as they went under them, the torchlight throwing them out theatrically, as though they made a background to some weird stage scene. Occasionally, when Macquean lowered the light, their figures went by in a fantastic procession on the trunks of the limes and ashes. The darkness overhead seemed measureless. The fallen twigs cracked at their tread, and beech-nuts underfoot made dry patches on the damp moss among the roots. As they emerged from the trees and looked down the slope, they saw the stablemen’s lanterns and heard the voices of men.
Lady Eliza redoubled her pace. When they had almost come to the dovecot, she told Macquean to hold up his torch. Cecilia, whose gown had caught on a briar, and who had paused to disentangle herself, hurried after her companions, and rejoined them just as he raised the light.
As she looked, the glare fell full upon the walls, and on the figure of Gilbert Speid standing with the blood running down his face.
[2]Masqueraders who, in Scotland, go from house to house at Hogmanay, or the last day of the year.