CHAPTER XXIHUNTLY HILLCALLANDARrode up Huntly Hill. The rose-red of the blossoming briar that decks all Angus with its rubies glowed in the failing sunlight, and the scent of its leaf came in puffs from the wayside ditches; the blurred heads of the meadow-sweet were being turned into clouds of gold as the sun grew lower and the road climbed higher. In front the trees began to mantle Huntly Hill.He had just begun the ascent at a foot’s pace when he heard the whirr of the beggar’s chariot-wheels behind him, then at his side, and he turned in his saddle and looked down on his pursuer’s bald crown. Wattie had cast off his bonnet, and the light breeze springing up lifted the fringe of his grizzled hair.“Whaur awa’s Flemington?” he cried, as he came up.The other answered by another question; his thoughts had come back to the red-haired prisoner at the top of the hill, and it struck him that the man in the cart might recognize him.“What’s your name?” he asked abruptly.“Wattie Caird.”“You belong to these parts?”He nodded.“Then come on; I have not done with you yet.”“A’m asking ye whaur’s Flemington?”If Callandar had pleased himself he would have driven Wattie down the hill at the point of the sword, his persistence and his pestilent, unashamed curiosity were so distasteful to him. But he had a second use for him now. He was that uncommon thing, a disciplinarian with tact, and by virtue of the combination in himself he understood that the troopers in front of him, who had been looking forward eagerly to getting their heads once more under a roof that night, would be disgusted by the orders he was bringing. He had noticed the chanter sticking out from under Wattie’s leathern bag, and he thought that a stirring tune or two might ease matters for them. He did not see his way to dispensing with him at present, so he tolerated his company.“Mr. Flemington has a bad wound,” he answered. “He has gone to Brechin to have it attended to.”“Whaur did he get it?”“At Culloden Moor.”“They didna tell me onything aboot that.”“Who tells you anything about Mr. Flemington? What do you know about him?”“Heuch!” exclaimed Wattie, with contempt, “it’s mysel’ that should tell them! A ken mairaboot Flemington than ony ither body—a ken fine what’s brocht yon lad here. He’s seeking Logie, like a’body else, but he kens fine he’ll na get him—ay, does he!”Callandar looked down from his tall horse upon the grotesque figure so close to the ground. He was furious at the creature’s assumption of knowledge.“You are a piper?” said he.“The best in Scotland.”“Then keep your breath for piping and let other people’s business be,” he said sternly.“Man, dinna fash. It’s King Geordie’s business and syne it’s mine. Him and me’s billies. Ay, he’s awa’, is he, Flemington?”Callandar quickened his horse’s pace; he was not going to endure this offensive talk. But Wattie urged on his dogs too, and followed hard on his heels.All through the winter, whilst the fortunes of Scotland were deciding themselves in the North, he had been idle but for his piping and singing, and he had had little to do with the higher matters on which he had been engaged in the autumn, whilst the forces of the coming storm were seething south of the Grampians. He had not set eyes on Flemington since their parting by the farm on Rossie Moor, but many a night, lying among his dogs, he had thought of Archie’s voice calling to Logie as he tossed and babbled in his broken dreams.He had long since drawn his conclusion andmade up his mind that he admired Archie as a mighty clever fellow, but he was convinced that he was more astute than anybody supposed, and it gave him great delight to think that, probably, no one but himself had a notion of the part Flemington was playing. Wattie was well aware of his advancement, for his name was in everybody’s mouth. He knew that he was on Cumberland’s staff, just as Logie was on the staff of the Prince, and he wagged his head as he thought how Archie must have enriched himself at the expense of both Whig and Jacobite. It was his opinion that, knowledge being marketable, it was time that somebody else should enrich himself too. He would have given a great deal to know whether Flemington, as a well-known man, had continued his traffic with the other side, and as he went up the hill beside the dark Whig officer he was turning the question over in his mind.He had kept his suspicions jealously to himself. Whilst Flemington was far away in the North, and all men’s eyes were looking across the Grampians, he knew that he could command no attention, and he had cursed because he believed his chance of profit to be lost. Archie had gone out of range, and he could not reach him; yet he kept his knowledge close, like a prudent man, in case the time should come when he might use it. And now Flemington had returned, and he had been sent out to meet him.The way had grown steep, and as Callandar’s horse began to stumble, the soldier swung himselfoff the tired beast and walked beside him, his hand on the mane.Wattie was considering whether he should speak. If his information were believed, it would be especially valuable at this time, when the authorities were agog to catch Logie, and the reward for his services must be considerable if there was any justice in the world. They would never catch Logie, because Flemington was in league with him. Wattie knew what many knew—that the rebel was believed to be somewhere about the great Muir of Pert, now just in front of them, but so far as he could make out, the only person who was aware of how the wind set with Archie was himself.What he had seen at the foot of Huntly Hill had astonished him till he had read its meaning by the light of his own suspicions. Though he had not been close enough to the two men to hear exactly what passed between them when they parted, he had seen them part. He had seen Callandar standing to look after the other as though uncertain how to act, and he had heard Archie’s derisive shout. There was no sign of a quarrel between them, yet Callandar’s face suggested they had disagreed; there was perplexity in it and underlying disapproval. He had seen his gesture of astonishment, and the way in which he had sat looking after Flemington at the cross roads, reining back his horse, which would have followed its companion, was eloquent to the beggar. Callandar had not expected the young man to go.Wattie did not know the nature of the orders he had brought, but he knew that they referred to Logie. He understood that those who received them were hastening to meet those who had despatched them, and would be with them that night; and this proved to him how important it was that the letters should be in the hand of the riders before they advanced farther on their way. He had been directed to wait on the northern side of Huntly Hill, and had been specially charged to deliver them before Callandar crossed it. He told himself that only a fool would fail to guess that they referred to this particular place. But the illuminating part to Wattie was the speech he had heard by the bracken: it was all that was needed to explain the officer’s stormy looks.“These are my orders,” Callandar had said, “but you know them, for I am informed that they are the duplicate of yours.”Archie had disobeyed them, and Wattie was sure that he had gone, because the risk of meeting Logie was too great to be run. Now was the time for him to speak.He had no nicety, but he had shrewdness in plenty. He was sudden and persistent in his address, and divining the obstacles in Callandar’s mind, he charged them like a bull.“Flemington ’ll na let ye get Logie,” said he.He made his announcement with so much emphasis that the man walking beside him was impressed in spite of his prejudices. He was annoyed too. He turned on him angrily.“Once and for all, what do you mean by this infernal talk about Mr. Flemington?” he cried, stopping short. “You will either speak out, or I will take it upon myself to make you. I have three men in the wood up yonder who will be very willing to help me. I believe you to be a meddlesome liar, and if I find that I am right you shall smart for it.”But the beggar needed no urging, and he was not in the least afraid of Callandar.“It’s no me that’s sweer to speak, it’s yersel’ that’s sweer to listen,” said he, with some truth. “Dod, a’ve tell’t ye afore an’ a’m telling ye again—Flemington’ll no let ye get him!He’s dancin’ wi’ George, but he’s takin’ the tune frae Chairlie. Heuch! dinna tell me! There’s mony hae done the same afore an’ ’ll dae it yet!”The officer was standing in the middle of the road, a picture of perplexity.“It’s no the oxter of him that gars him gang,” said Wattie, breaking into the broad smile of one who is successfully letting the light of reason into another’s mind. “It’s no his airm. Maybe it gies him a pucklie twist, whiles, and maybe it doesna, but it’s no that that gars the like o’ him greet.He wouldna come up Huntly Hill wi’ you,for he ken’t he was ower near Logie.It’s that, an’ nae mair!”Callandar began to think back. He had not heard one complaint from Archie since the day they rode out of Fort Augustus together, and he remembered his own astonishment at hearinghe was in pain from his wound. It seemed only to have become painful in the last couple of hours.“It is easy to make accusations,” he said grimly, “but you will have to prove them. What proof have you?”“Is it pruifs ye’re needin’? Fegs, a dinna gang aboot wi’ them in ma poke! A can tell ye ma pruifs fine, but maybe ye’ll no listen.”He made as though to drive on.Callandar stepped in front of the dogs, and stood in his path.“You will speak out before I take another step,” said he. “I will have no shuffling. Come, out with what you know! I will stay here till I get it.”
CALLANDARrode up Huntly Hill. The rose-red of the blossoming briar that decks all Angus with its rubies glowed in the failing sunlight, and the scent of its leaf came in puffs from the wayside ditches; the blurred heads of the meadow-sweet were being turned into clouds of gold as the sun grew lower and the road climbed higher. In front the trees began to mantle Huntly Hill.
He had just begun the ascent at a foot’s pace when he heard the whirr of the beggar’s chariot-wheels behind him, then at his side, and he turned in his saddle and looked down on his pursuer’s bald crown. Wattie had cast off his bonnet, and the light breeze springing up lifted the fringe of his grizzled hair.
“Whaur awa’s Flemington?” he cried, as he came up.
The other answered by another question; his thoughts had come back to the red-haired prisoner at the top of the hill, and it struck him that the man in the cart might recognize him.
“What’s your name?” he asked abruptly.
“Wattie Caird.”
“You belong to these parts?”
He nodded.
“Then come on; I have not done with you yet.”
“A’m asking ye whaur’s Flemington?”
If Callandar had pleased himself he would have driven Wattie down the hill at the point of the sword, his persistence and his pestilent, unashamed curiosity were so distasteful to him. But he had a second use for him now. He was that uncommon thing, a disciplinarian with tact, and by virtue of the combination in himself he understood that the troopers in front of him, who had been looking forward eagerly to getting their heads once more under a roof that night, would be disgusted by the orders he was bringing. He had noticed the chanter sticking out from under Wattie’s leathern bag, and he thought that a stirring tune or two might ease matters for them. He did not see his way to dispensing with him at present, so he tolerated his company.
“Mr. Flemington has a bad wound,” he answered. “He has gone to Brechin to have it attended to.”
“Whaur did he get it?”
“At Culloden Moor.”
“They didna tell me onything aboot that.”
“Who tells you anything about Mr. Flemington? What do you know about him?”
“Heuch!” exclaimed Wattie, with contempt, “it’s mysel’ that should tell them! A ken mairaboot Flemington than ony ither body—a ken fine what’s brocht yon lad here. He’s seeking Logie, like a’body else, but he kens fine he’ll na get him—ay, does he!”
Callandar looked down from his tall horse upon the grotesque figure so close to the ground. He was furious at the creature’s assumption of knowledge.
“You are a piper?” said he.
“The best in Scotland.”
“Then keep your breath for piping and let other people’s business be,” he said sternly.
“Man, dinna fash. It’s King Geordie’s business and syne it’s mine. Him and me’s billies. Ay, he’s awa’, is he, Flemington?”
Callandar quickened his horse’s pace; he was not going to endure this offensive talk. But Wattie urged on his dogs too, and followed hard on his heels.
All through the winter, whilst the fortunes of Scotland were deciding themselves in the North, he had been idle but for his piping and singing, and he had had little to do with the higher matters on which he had been engaged in the autumn, whilst the forces of the coming storm were seething south of the Grampians. He had not set eyes on Flemington since their parting by the farm on Rossie Moor, but many a night, lying among his dogs, he had thought of Archie’s voice calling to Logie as he tossed and babbled in his broken dreams.
He had long since drawn his conclusion andmade up his mind that he admired Archie as a mighty clever fellow, but he was convinced that he was more astute than anybody supposed, and it gave him great delight to think that, probably, no one but himself had a notion of the part Flemington was playing. Wattie was well aware of his advancement, for his name was in everybody’s mouth. He knew that he was on Cumberland’s staff, just as Logie was on the staff of the Prince, and he wagged his head as he thought how Archie must have enriched himself at the expense of both Whig and Jacobite. It was his opinion that, knowledge being marketable, it was time that somebody else should enrich himself too. He would have given a great deal to know whether Flemington, as a well-known man, had continued his traffic with the other side, and as he went up the hill beside the dark Whig officer he was turning the question over in his mind.
He had kept his suspicions jealously to himself. Whilst Flemington was far away in the North, and all men’s eyes were looking across the Grampians, he knew that he could command no attention, and he had cursed because he believed his chance of profit to be lost. Archie had gone out of range, and he could not reach him; yet he kept his knowledge close, like a prudent man, in case the time should come when he might use it. And now Flemington had returned, and he had been sent out to meet him.
The way had grown steep, and as Callandar’s horse began to stumble, the soldier swung himselfoff the tired beast and walked beside him, his hand on the mane.
Wattie was considering whether he should speak. If his information were believed, it would be especially valuable at this time, when the authorities were agog to catch Logie, and the reward for his services must be considerable if there was any justice in the world. They would never catch Logie, because Flemington was in league with him. Wattie knew what many knew—that the rebel was believed to be somewhere about the great Muir of Pert, now just in front of them, but so far as he could make out, the only person who was aware of how the wind set with Archie was himself.
What he had seen at the foot of Huntly Hill had astonished him till he had read its meaning by the light of his own suspicions. Though he had not been close enough to the two men to hear exactly what passed between them when they parted, he had seen them part. He had seen Callandar standing to look after the other as though uncertain how to act, and he had heard Archie’s derisive shout. There was no sign of a quarrel between them, yet Callandar’s face suggested they had disagreed; there was perplexity in it and underlying disapproval. He had seen his gesture of astonishment, and the way in which he had sat looking after Flemington at the cross roads, reining back his horse, which would have followed its companion, was eloquent to the beggar. Callandar had not expected the young man to go.
Wattie did not know the nature of the orders he had brought, but he knew that they referred to Logie. He understood that those who received them were hastening to meet those who had despatched them, and would be with them that night; and this proved to him how important it was that the letters should be in the hand of the riders before they advanced farther on their way. He had been directed to wait on the northern side of Huntly Hill, and had been specially charged to deliver them before Callandar crossed it. He told himself that only a fool would fail to guess that they referred to this particular place. But the illuminating part to Wattie was the speech he had heard by the bracken: it was all that was needed to explain the officer’s stormy looks.
“These are my orders,” Callandar had said, “but you know them, for I am informed that they are the duplicate of yours.”
Archie had disobeyed them, and Wattie was sure that he had gone, because the risk of meeting Logie was too great to be run. Now was the time for him to speak.
He had no nicety, but he had shrewdness in plenty. He was sudden and persistent in his address, and divining the obstacles in Callandar’s mind, he charged them like a bull.
“Flemington ’ll na let ye get Logie,” said he.
He made his announcement with so much emphasis that the man walking beside him was impressed in spite of his prejudices. He was annoyed too. He turned on him angrily.
“Once and for all, what do you mean by this infernal talk about Mr. Flemington?” he cried, stopping short. “You will either speak out, or I will take it upon myself to make you. I have three men in the wood up yonder who will be very willing to help me. I believe you to be a meddlesome liar, and if I find that I am right you shall smart for it.”
But the beggar needed no urging, and he was not in the least afraid of Callandar.
“It’s no me that’s sweer to speak, it’s yersel’ that’s sweer to listen,” said he, with some truth. “Dod, a’ve tell’t ye afore an’ a’m telling ye again—Flemington’ll no let ye get him!He’s dancin’ wi’ George, but he’s takin’ the tune frae Chairlie. Heuch! dinna tell me! There’s mony hae done the same afore an’ ’ll dae it yet!”
The officer was standing in the middle of the road, a picture of perplexity.
“It’s no the oxter of him that gars him gang,” said Wattie, breaking into the broad smile of one who is successfully letting the light of reason into another’s mind. “It’s no his airm. Maybe it gies him a pucklie twist, whiles, and maybe it doesna, but it’s no that that gars the like o’ him greet.He wouldna come up Huntly Hill wi’ you,for he ken’t he was ower near Logie.It’s that, an’ nae mair!”
Callandar began to think back. He had not heard one complaint from Archie since the day they rode out of Fort Augustus together, and he remembered his own astonishment at hearinghe was in pain from his wound. It seemed only to have become painful in the last couple of hours.
“It is easy to make accusations,” he said grimly, “but you will have to prove them. What proof have you?”
“Is it pruifs ye’re needin’? Fegs, a dinna gang aboot wi’ them in ma poke! A can tell ye ma pruifs fine, but maybe ye’ll no listen.”
He made as though to drive on.
Callandar stepped in front of the dogs, and stood in his path.
“You will speak out before I take another step,” said he. “I will have no shuffling. Come, out with what you know! I will stay here till I get it.”