Flower o' the Heather: A Story of the Killing Times

  Produced by Al Haines.

  FLOWER O' THE HEATHER

  A STORY OF THE KILLING TIMES

  BY ROBERT WILLIAM MACKENNA

  AUTHOR OF "THE ADVENTURE OF DEATH," "THE ADVENTURE OF LIFE," "THROUGH A TENT DOOR"

  LONDON JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.

  FIRST EDITION ...... October, 1922 Reprinted .......... October, 1922 Reprinted .......... December, 1922 Reprinted .......... January, 1923 Reprinted .......... November, 1923 Reprinted .......... January, 1925 Reprinted, 3s. 6d. . May, 1925 Reprinted .......... July, 1926 Reprinted .......... August..1926 Reprinted .......... January, 1926 Reprinted, 2s. ..... May, 1920 Reprinted .......... January, 1927 Reprinted, 3s. 6d. . May, 1927

  _Printed in Great Britain by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury._

  TO

  JAMES MACKENNA, C.I.E., I.C.S.

  *CONTENTS*

  CHAPTER

  I. On Devorgilla's Bridge II. Trooper Bryden of Lag's Horse III. By Blednoch Water IV. The Tavern Brawl V. In the Dark of the Night VI. In the Lap of the Hills VII. The Flute-player VIII. A Covenanter's Charity IX. The Story of Alexander Main X. The Field Meeting XI. Flower o' the Heather XII. The Greater Love XIII. Pursued XIV. In the Slough of Despond XV. In the Haven of Daldowie XVI. Andrew Paterson, Hill-Man XVII. An Adopted Son XVIII. The Wisdom of a Woman XIX. The Making of a Daisy Chain XX. Love the All-Compelling XXI. The Hired Man XXII. "The Least of these, My brethren" XXIII. The Search XXIV. Baffled XXV. The Shattering of Dreams XXVI. Hector the Packman XXVII. On the Road to Dumfries XXVIII. For the Sweet Sake of Mary XXIX. Beside the Nith XXX. In the Tiger's Den XXXI. The Cave by the Linn XXXII. Toilers of the Night XXXIII. The Going of Hector XXXIV. The Flight of Peter Burgess XXXV. Within Sight of St. Giles XXXVI. For the Sake of the Covenant XXXVII. "Out of the snare of the Fowlers"XXXVIII. The Passing of Andrew and Jean XXXIX. False Hopes XL. I seek a Flower XLI. In the Hands of the Persecutors XLII. In the Tolbooth of Dumfries XLIII. By the Tower of Lincluden XLIV. "Quo Vadis, Petre?" XLV. On the Wings of the Sea-Mew XLVI. Sunshine after Storm XLVII. The End; and a Beginning

  *FLOWER O' THE HEATHER*

  *CHAPTER I*

  *ON DEVORGILLA'S BRIDGE*

  It is a far cry from the grey walls of Balliol College to the sands atDumfries, and there be many ways that may lead a man from the one to theother. So thought I, Walter de Brydde of the City of Warwick, when onan April morning in the year of grace 1685 I stood upon Devorgilla'sbridge and watched the silver Nith glide under the red arches.

  I was there in obedience to a whim; and the whim, with all that wentbefore it--let me set it down that men may judge me for what I was--wasthe child of a drunken frolic. It befell in this wise.

  I was a student at Balliol--a student, an' you please, by courtesy, forI had no love for book-learning, finding life alluring enough withoutthat fragrance which high scholarship is supposed to lend it.

  It was the middle of the Lent term, and a little band of men like-mindedwith myself had assembled in my room, whose window overlooked thequadrangle, and with cards, and ribald tales, and song, to say nothingof much good beer, we had spent a boisterous evening. Big Tom hadpealed five score and one silvery notes from Christ Church Tower, andinto the throbbing silence that followed his mighty strokes, I, with thefire of some bold lover, had flung the glad notes of rare old Ben's"Song to Celia." A storm of cheers greeted the first verse, and, withjocund heart, well-pleased, I was about to pour my soul into thetenderness of the second, when Maltravers, seated in the window-recess,interrupted me.

  "Hush!" he cried, "there's a Proctor in the Quad, listening: what can hewant?" Now when much liquor is in, a man's wits tend to forsake him,and I was in the mood to flout all authority.

  "To perdition with all Proctors!" I exclaimed. "The mangy spies!" And Istrode to the window and looked out.

  In the faint moonlight I saw the shadowy figure of a man standing withface upturned at gaze below my window. The sight stirred some spirit ofmisrule within me, and, flinging the window wide, I hurled straight atthe dark figure my leathern beer-pot with its silver rim. The contentsstruck him full in the face, and the missile fell with a thud on thelawn behind him. There was an angry splutter; the man drew his sleeveacross his face, and stooping picked up the tankard. In that momentsome trick of movement revealed him, and Maltravers gasped "Zounds!It's the Master himself."

  And so it proved--to my bitter cost. Had I been coward enough to seekto hide my identity, it would have been useless, for the silver rim ofmy leather jack bore my name. Thus it came to pass that I stood, asolitary figure, with none to say a word in my behoof before the Courtof Discipline.

  I felt strangely forlorn and foolish as I made obeisance to thePresident and his six venerable colleagues. I had no defence to offersave that of drunkenness, and, being sober now, I was not fool enough toplead that offence in mitigation of an offence still graver: so I heldmy peace. The Court found me guilty--they could do none other; and insonorous Latin periods the President delivered sentence. I had nodegree of which they could deprive me: they were unwilling, as this wasmy first appearance before the Court, to pronounce upon me a sentence ofpermanent expulsion, but my grave offence must be dealt with severely.I must make an apology in person to the Master; and I should berusticated for one year. I bowed to the Court, and then drew myself upto let these grey-beards, who were shaking their heads together over themoral delinquencies of the rising generation, see that I could take mypunishment like a man. The Proctor touched me on the arm; my gownslipped from my shoulders. Then I felt humbled to the dust. I waswithout the pale. The truth struck home and chilled my heart more thanall the ponderous Latin periods which had been pronounced over me.

  The Court rose and I was free to go.

  Out in the open, I was assailed by an eager crowd of sympathisers.Youth is the age of generous and unreasoning impulses--and youth tendsever to take the side of the condemned, whatever his offence. Belike itis well for the world.

  I might have been a hero, rather than a man disgraced.

  "So they have not hanged, drawn, and quartered you," cried Maltravers,as he slipped his arm through mine.

  "Nor sent you to the pillory," cried another.

  I told the crowd what my punishment was to be.

  "A scurrilous shame," muttered a sympathiser. "What's the old placecoming to? They want younger blood in their Court of Discipline. Sourold kill-joys the whole pack of them: nourished on Latin roots till anymilk of human kindness in them has turned to vinegar."

  I forced a laugh to my lips. "As the culprit," I said, "I think mypunishment has been tempered with mercy. I behaved like a zany. Ideserve my fate."

  "Fac bono sis animo: cheer up," cried Maltravers, "the year will soonpass: and we shall speed your departure on the morrow, in the hope thatwe may hasten your return."

  I went to my rooms and packed up my belongings, sending them to the innon the Banbury Road, where on the morrow I should await the coach forWarwick. Then I made my way to t
he Master and tendered him my apology.He accepted it with a courtly grace that made me feel the more thebaseness of my offence. The rest of the day I spent in farewell visitsto friends in my own and other colleges--and then I lay down to rest.Little did I think, as I lay and heard the mellow notes of Big Tom throbfrom Tom Tower, that in a few weeks I should be lying, a fugitive, on aScottish hill-side. The future hides her secrets from us behind ajealous hand.

  Morning came, and I prepared to depart. No sooner had I passed out ofthe College gateway than I was seized by zealous hands, and liftedshoulder high. In this wise I was borne to the confines of the City bya cheerful rabble--to my great discomfort, but to their huge amusement.The sorrow they expressed with their lips was belied by the gaietywritten on their faces, and though they chanted "_Miserere Domine_"there was a cheerfulness in their voices ill in keeping with theirwords.

  When we came to the confines of the City my bearers lowered me roughlyso that I fell in a heap, and as I lay they gathered round me andchanted dolorously a jumble of Latin words. It sounded like somepriestly benediction--but it was only the reiterated conjugation of averb. When the chant was ended Maltravers seized me by the arm and drewme to my feet: "Ave atque vale, Frater: Good-bye, and good luck," hesaid.

  Others crowded round me with farewells upon their lips, the warmth oftheir hearts speaking in the pressure of their hands. I would fain havetarried, but I tore myself away. As I did so Maltravers shouted, "Aparting cheer for the voyager across the Styx," and they rent the airwith a shout. I turned to wave a grateful hand, when something tinkledat my feet. I stooped and picked up a penny: "Charon's beer money,"shouted a voice. "Don't drink it yourself,"--at which there was a roarof laughter. So I made my way to The Bay Horse, sadder at heart, Itrow, than was my wont.

  The follies of youth have a glamour when one is in a crowd, but theglamour melts like a morning mist when one is alone. I seated myself inthe inn parlour to await the coach for Warwick, and as I sat I ponderedmy state. It was far from pleasing. To return disgraced to the houseof my uncle and guardian was a prospect for which I had little heart.Stern at the best of times, he had little sympathy with the ways ofyouth, and many a homily had I listened to from his sour lips. Thislast escapade would, I knew, be judged without charity. I had disgracedmy family name, a name that since the days when Balliol College wasfounded by Devorgilla had held a place of honour on the college rolls.For generations the de Bryddes had been _alumni_, and for a de Brydde tobe sent down from his Alma Mater for such an offence as mine would layupon the family record a blot that no penitence could atone for or goodconduct purge. So my reception by my guardian was not likely to be apleasant one. Besides there was this to be thought of: during my lastvacation my uncle, a man of ripe age, who had prided himself upon thestern resistance he had offered all his life to what he called the"wiles of the sirens," had, as many a man has done, thrown hisprejudices to the winds and espoused a young woman who neither by birthnor in age seemed to be a suitable wife for him. A young man in lovemay act like a fool, but an old man swept off his feet by love for awoman young enough to be his granddaughter can touch depths offoolishness that no young man has ever plumbed. So, at least, it seemedto me, during the latter half of my vacation, after he had brought homehis bride. She was the young apple of his aged eye, and there was nolonger any place for me in his affections.

  I turned these things over in my mind, and then I thought longingly ofmy little room at Balliol. To numb my pain I called for a tankard ofale. As I did so my eye was caught by a picture upon the wall. It wasa drawing of my own college, and under it in black and staring letterswas printed: "Balliol College, Oxford. Founded by the Lady Devorgillain memory of her husband John Balliol. The pious foundress of thiscollege also built an Abbey in Kirkcudbrightshire and threw a bridgeover the Nith at Dumfries. _Requiescat in pace_."

  A sudden fancy seized me. Why need I haste me home? Surely it werewiser to disappear until the storm of my guardian's wrath should havetime to subside. I would make a pilgrimage. I would hie me to Dumfriesand see with my own eyes the bridge which the foundress of Balliol hadcaused to be built: and on my pilgrimage I might perchance regain someof my self-respect. The sudden impulse hardened into resolution as Iquaffed my ale. Calling for pen and paper I proceeded to write a letterto my uncle. I made no apology for my offence, of which I had littledoubt he would receive a full account from the college authorities; butI told him that I was minded to do penance by making a pilgrimage toDevorgilla's bridge at Dumfries and that I should return in due time.

  As I sealed the letter the coach drew up at the door, and I gave it tothe post-boy. With a sounding horn and a crack of the whip the coachrolled off, and, standing in the doorway, I watched it disappear in acloud of dust. Then I turned into the inn again and prepared to settlemy account. As I did so I calculated that in my belt I had more thanthirty pounds, and I was young--just twenty--and many a man with youthupon his side and much less money in his purse has set out to see theworld. So I took courage and, having pledged the goodman of the houseto take care of my belongings against my return, I purchased from him agood oak staff and set out upon my journey.

  Thus it was that a month later I stood, as I have already told, upon thebridge at Dumfries. A farm cart, heavily laden, rolled along it, andlest I should be crushed against the wall I stepped into the littlealcove near its middle to let the wagon pass. It rattled ponderouslyover the cobbled road and as it descended the slope towards the VennelPort there passed it, all resplendent in a flowing red coat thrown backat the skirt to display its white lining, the swaggering figure of agigantic soldier. He stalked leisurely along the bridge towards me, andas he passed I looked at him closely. His big, burnished spurs clankedas he walked and the bucket tops of his polished jack-boots moved to thebend of his knees. From his cocked hat a flesh-coloured ribbondepended, falling upon his left shoulder, and touching the broadcross-strap of his belt, which gripped his waist like a vice, so that hethrew out his chest--all ornate with a blue plastron edged with silverlace--like a pouter pigeon. In his right hand he carried a supple canewith which ever and anon he struck his jack-boot. Behind him, at aprudent distance, followed two boys, talking furtively, lip to ear. Asthey passed me I heard the one whisper to the other:

  "Liar! It's the King richt eneuch. My big brither tellt me, and hekens!"

  "It's naething o' the kind," said the other. "I'll hit ye a bash on theneb. He's only a sergeant o' dragoons," and without more ado the ladsfell upon each other.

  What the issue might have been I cannot tell, for, hearing the scufflebehind him, the sergeant turned and began to retrace his steps. At thesound of his coming the combatants were seized with panic; their enmitychanged to sudden friendship, and together they raced off towards thetown. The sergeant descended upon me, and tapping me on the chest withthe butt of his stick, said:

  "You're a likely young man. What say you to taking service wi' HisMajesty? It's a man's life, fu' o' adventure and romance. The women,God bless them, canna keep their een off a sodger's coat. Are ye gameto 'list? There are great doings toward, for the King wants men to rootout the pestilent Whigs frae the West country. Will ye tak' theshilling?"

  The suggestion thus flung at me caught me at unawares. I turned it overrapidly in my mind. Why not? As a soldier, I should see some of thecountry, and if the worst came to the worst I had money enough in mybelt to buy myself out.

  Moreover I might do something to redeem myself in the eyes of myuncle--for had not the de Bryddes fought nobly on many a stricken fieldfor the King's Majesty. So, without more ado, I stretched out my hand,and the King's shilling dropped into it.

  "Come on," said the sergeant brusquely, "we maun toast the King at myexpense," and he led the way to the Stag Inn near the Vennel Port. Inthe inn-parlour he called for drinks, and ogled the girl who broughtthem. We drank to His Majesty--"God bless him:" and then the sergeant,after toasting "The lassies--God bless them," became reminiscent and
garrulous. But ever he returned to wordy admiration of a woman:

  "I tell ye," he said, "there's no' the marrow o' the Beadle o' St.Michael's dochter in the hale o' Dumfries; an' that's sayin' a lot. Theleddies o' the King's Court--an' I've seen maist o' them--couldna haud acandle tae her." He threw a kiss into the air; then he drank deeply andcalled for more ale. "By the way," he said, "what dae ye ca'yersel'?--and whaur did ye get sic legs? They're like pot-sticks, andyer breist is as flat as a scone. But we'll pu' ye oot, and mak' a mano' ye."

  "My name is de Brydde," I replied, ignoring his criticisms of my person.

  "De Brydde," he repeated. "It sounds French. Ye'd better ca' yersel'Bryden. It's a guid Scots name, and less kenspeckle. Pu' yer shouthersback, and haud up yer heid."

  Two dragoons entered the tavern, and the sergeant was on his dignity.

  "Tak' this recruit," he said, "to heidquarters, and hand him ower to thesergeant-major. He's a likely chiel."

  I rose to accompany the men, but the sergeant tapped me on the shoulder:

  "Ye've forgotten to pay the score," he said. "Hey, Mary," and thetavern maid came forward.

  The King's shilling that was mine paid for the sergeant's hospitality.It's the way of the army.

  So I became Trooper Bryden of Lag's Horse.