CHAPTER XXIII.
BIRSAY THE COBBLER.
So many of the wanderers abode at the Duchrae that Maisie Lennox wasmuch cumbered with serving; yet in her quiet sedate way she would oftentake a word with me in the bygoing, as if to let me feel that I was notlonely or forgotten. And it cheered me much to find that I was notdespised, because I was (as yet) no great fighting man of many inches ornoble make like my brother Sandy. Also I loved women's converse, havingbeen much with my mother--indeed never long away from her side, till myvain adventuring forth to Edinburgh in the matter of the sequestering ofthe estate.
As for Earlstoun, we heard it was to be forfaulted very soon, and givento Robert Grier of Lag, who was a very grab-all among them. Indeed noone was better than another, for even Claverhouse got Freuch, "inconsideration," it was quaintly said, "of his good service andsufferings." His brother David likewise got another estate in the Shire,and Rothes and Lauderdale were as "free coups" for the wealth of thefined and persecuted gentry. Whenever there was a man well-to-do and ofgood repute, these men thought it no shame to strive to take him in asnare, or to get him caught harbouring on his estate some intercommunedpersons. They rubbed hands and nudged one another in Council when theyheard of a rising in arms. They even cried out and shook hands for joy,because it gave them colour for more exactions, and also for keeping anarmy in the field, whose providing and accoutring was also veryprofitable for them.
But at the Duchrae we abode fairly secure. At night we withdrew to thebarn, where behind the corn-mow a very safe and quaint hiding-place hadbeen devised. In the barn-wall, as in most of the barns in thatcountry-side, there were no windows of any size--in fact nothing save anumber of three-cornered wickets. These were far too small to admit thebody of a man; but by some exercise of ingenious contrivance in keepingwith the spirit of an evil time, the bottom stone of one of thesewickets had been so constructed that it turned outwards upon a hinge,which so enlarged the opening that one man at a time had no difficultyin passing through. This right cunning trap-door was in the gable-end ofthe barn, and conducted the fugitive behind the corn-mow in which theharvest sheaves were piled to the ceiling. Here we lay many a time whilethe troopers raged about the house itself, stabbing every suspectedcrevice of the corn and hay with their blades, but leaving us quite safebehind the great pleasant-smelling mass of the mow.
Yet for all it was a not unquiet time with us, and I do not deny that Ihad much pleasant fellowship with Maisie Lennox.
But I have now to tell what befel at the Duchrae one Sabbath evening,when the pursuit had waxed dull after Bothwell, and before the Sanquharaffair had kindled a new flame.
At that time in Galloway, all the tailors, shoemakers, and artificers,did their work by going from house to house according as the severalfamilies had need of them. Now there was one man, who sat near us at theconventicle, whose actions that day it was impossible to mistake. Whenthe troopers were jingling past beneath us, he flung himself on theground, and thrust his plaid into his mouth, to prevent his crying outfor fear. So pitiful did he look that, when all was past, my cousin Watwent over and asked of him:
"What craven manner of hill-man art thou?"
For indeed the men of the broad bonnet were neither cowards nornidderlings. But this fellow was shaking with fear like the aspen in anunequal wind.
"I am but poor Birsay the cobbler," the man answered, "an it please yourhonour, I like not to come so near thae ill loons of soldiers."
"What sent you to the conventicle, then, when you fear the red-coats sogreatly?" asked my cousin.
The little man glanced up at my cousin with a humoursome gleam in hiseyes. He was all bent together with crouching over his lap-stone, and ashe walked he threw himself into all kinds of ridiculous postures.
"Weel," he said, "ye see it's no easy kennin' what may happen. I haeseen a conventicle scale in a hurry, and leave as mony as ten guidplaids on the grund--forbye Bibles and neckerchiefs."
"But surely," I said to the cobbler, "you would not steal what the poorhonest folk leave behind them in their haste?"
The word seemed to startle him greatly.
"Na, na; Birsay steals nane, stealin's no canny!" he cried. "Them thatsteals hings in a tow--an' forbye, burns in muckle hell--bleezin' up infuffin lowes juist as the beardie auld man Sandy Peden said."
And the cobbler illustrated the nature of the conflagration with hishand.
"Na, na," he cried, in the strange yammering speech of the creature,"there's nae stealin' in gatherin' thegether what ither folks haestrawed, surely. That's i' the guid Buik itsel'. An' then after the bizzis bye, and the sough calmed doon, Birsay can gang frae auld wife toauld wife, and say to ilka yin, 'Ye wadna loss ocht lately, did ye, guidwife?' 'Aye,' says she. 'I lost my Bible, my plaid, or my kercher at thefield preachin'!' 'Ay, woman, did ye?' says I. 'They're terrible loonsthe sodgers for grippin' and haudin'. Noo I mak' shoon for a sergeantthat has mony a dizzen o' thae things.'
"Wi' that the auld wife begins to cock her lugs. 'Maybes he has myBible!' 'I wadna wunner,' says I. 'O man, Birsay,' she says, 'I hae ayebeen a freen' o' yours, ye micht e'en see gin he has it, an' seek it affhim? There's the texts an' heads an' particulars o' mony sermons o' guidMaister Welsh and precious Maister Guthrie in the hinner end o' theBuik!'
"'So,' says I, aff-hand like, 'supposin' noo, just supposin' thatSergeant Mulfeather has gotten your bit buik, an' that for freendship tome he was wullin' to pairt wi't, what wad the bit buik be worth to ye.Ye see it's treason to hae sic a thing, and rank conspiracy to thig andbarter to get it back--but what wull freends no do to obleege yinanither?'"
"Ay, man Birsay," I said, to encourage him, for I saw that the littleman loved to talk. "An' what wull the auld body do then?"
"Faith, she'll gie me siller to tak' to Sergeant Mulfeather and get backher bit buikie. An' that's just what Birsay wull do wi' richt guidwull," he concluded cantily.
"And hae ye ony mair to tell me, Birsay?" I asked him. For his talkcheered the long and doleful day, and as for belief, there was no reasonwhy one should believe more than seemed good of Birsay's conversation.
"Ay, there's yan thing mair that Birsay has to say to ye. You an' thatbraw lad wi' the e'en like a lassie's are no richt Whigs, I'm jaloosin'.Ye'll aiblins be o' the same way o' thinkin' as mysel'!"
At this I pretended to be much disconcerted, and said: "Wheest, wheest,Birsay! Be canny wi' your tongue! Mind whaur ye are. What mean you?"
"Trust Birsay," he returned cunningly, cocking his frowsy head like ayear-old sparrow. "Gin the King, honest man, never comes to mair harmthan you an' me wusses him, he'll come gey weel oot o' some o' the ploysthat they blame him for."
"How kenned ye, Birsay," I said, to humour him, "that we werna Whigs?"
"O, I kenned brawly by the fashion o' your shoon. Thae shoon were nevermade for Whigs, but for honest King's folk. Na, na, they dinna gree wellwi' the moss-broo ava--thae sort wi' the narrow nebs and single soles.Only decent, sweering, regairdless folk, that wuss the King weel, trystshoon like them!"
It was clear that Birsay thought us as great traitors and spies in thecamp as he was himself. So he opened his heart to us. It was not aflattering distinction, but as the confidence of the little man might bean element in our own safety and that of our friends on some futureoccasion, I felt that we would assuredly not undeceive him.
But we had to pay for the distinction, for from that moment he favouredus with a prodigious deal of his conversation, which, to tell the truth,savoured but seldom of wit and often of rank sculduddery.
Birsay had no sense of his personal dishonour, and would tell the mostalarming story to his own discredit, without wincing in the least. Heheld it proof of his superior caution that he had always managed to keephis skin safe, and so there was no more to be said.
"Ay, ay," said Birsay, "these are no canny times to be amang the wildhill-folk. Yin wad need to be weel payed for it a'. There's the twablack MacMichaels--they wad think nae mair o' splatterin' your harnsa
gain the dyke than o' killing a whutterick. Deil a hair! An' then, onthe ither hand, there's ill-contrived turncoats like Westerha' that wadaye be pluff-pluffin' poother and shot at puir men as if they weremuir-fowl. An' he's no parteecler eneuch ava wha he catches, an' neverwill listen to a word.
"Then, waur than a', there's the awesome nichts whan the ghaists andwarlocks are aboot. I canna bide the nicht ava. God's daylicht is guideneuch for Birsay, an' as lang as the sun shines, there's nae fear o'deil or witch-wife gettin' haud o' the puir cobbler chiel! But when thegloamin' cuddles doon intil the lap o' the nicht, and the corp-cannleslowe i' the bogs, an' ye hear the deils lauchin' and chunnerin' tothemselves in a' the busses at the road-sides, I declare every stound o'manhood flees awa' clean oot o' Birsay's heart, an' he wad like to deebut for thocht o' the After come. An' deed, in the mirk-eerie midnicht,whether he's fearder to dee or to leeve, puir Birsay disna ken!"
"But, Birsay," I said, "ill-doers are aye ill-dreaders. Gin ye were todrap a' this thievery an' clash-carryin' wark, ye wadna be feared o' manor deil!"
"Weel do I ken," Birsay said, "that siccan ploys are no for the like o'me; but man, ye see, like ither folk, I'm terrible fond o' the siller.An' there's nocht so comfortin', when a' thae things are yammerin' toget haud o' ye, as the thocht that ye hae a weel-filled stockin'-fitwhaur nane but yersel' can get haud o't!"
And the creature writhed himself in glee and slapped his thigh.
"Yae stockin' fu', man," he said, "an' tied wi' a string, an' the itherbegun, an' as far up as the instep. O man, it's blythe to think on!
"But heard ye o' the whummel I gat aff this verra Duchrae kitchen laft?"said Birsay. He often came over in the gloaming on a news-gatheringexpedition. For it was a pleasure to give him news of a kind; and mycousin, who had not a great many occupations since Kate McGhie had goneback to the great House of Balmaghie, took a special delight in makingup stories of so ridiculous a nature that Birsay, retailing them atheadquarters, would without doubt soon find his credit gone.
"The way o't was this," Birsay continued. "As I telled ye, I gan fraehoose to hoose in the exercise o' my trade, for there's no sic a suitori' the country-side as Birsay, though he says it himsel', an' no siccanwater-ticht shoon as his ever gaed on the fit o' man. Weel, it was aenicht last winter, i' the short days, Birsay was to begin wark at theDuchrae at sax by the clock on Monday morn. An' whan it comes tocoontin' hours wi' Auld Anton Lennox o' the Duchrae, ye maun begin orthe clock has dune the strikin'. Faith an' a' the Lennoxes are the same,they'll haud the nose o' ye to the grund-stane--an' the weemen o' themare every hair as bad as the men. There's auld Lucky Lennox o' LennoxPlunton--what said ye?--aweel, I'll gang on wi' my story gin ye like,but what's a' the steer so sudden, the nicht's afore us?
"As I was sayin', I had to start at Auld Anton's on the Monday mornin',gey an' early. So I thocht I wad do my travellin' in time o' day, an'get to the Duchrae afore the gloamin'. An' in that way I wad get thebetter o' the bogles, the deils o' the bogs, the black horse o' theHollan Lane, an' a' sic uncanny cattle.
"But I minded that the auld tod, Anton Lennox, was a terrible man forexaminin' in the Carritches, an' aye speer-speerin' at ye what is theReason Annexed to some perfectly unreasonable command--an' that kind o'talk disna suit Birsay ava. So what did I do but started ower in theafternoon, an' gat there juist aboot the time when the kye are milkit,an' a' the folk eyther at the byre or in the stable.
"So I watched my chance frae the end o' the hoose, an' when no a leevin'soul was to be seen, I slippit up the stairs, speelin' on the rungs o'the ladder wi' my stockin' soles as quiet as pussy.
"Then whan I got to the middle o' the laft, whaur the big hole o' thelum is, wi' the reek hingin' thick afore it gangs oot at the riggin' o'the hoose, I keekit doon. An' there at the table, wi' his elbows on thewood, sat Auld Anton takin' his lesson oot o' the big Bible--like thebauld auld Whig that he is, his whinger in a leather tashe swingin'ahint him. It's a queerie thing that for a' sae often as I hae telledthe curate aboot him, he has never steered him. There maun be somethingno very thorough aboot the curate, an' he none so great a hero wi' thepint stoup either, man!
"Aweel, as the forenicht slippit on, an' the lassies cam' in frae thebyre, an' the lads frae the stable, it was just as I expected. They drewup their stools aboot the hearth, got oot their Bibles an' warmed theirtaes. Lord preserve me, to see them sittin' sae croose an' canty owerEffectual Callin' an' Reason Annexed, as gin they had been crackin' an'singin' in a change-hoose! They're a queer fowk thae Whigs. It wad haescunnered a soo! An' twa-three neebours cam' in by to get the benefit o'the exerceeses! Faith! if Clavers had chanced to come by the road, hewad hae landed a right bonny flaucht o' them, for there wasna yin o' therive but had grippit sword at either o' the twa risin's. For a' the auldcarles had been at Pentland an' a' the young plants o' grace had been atBothwell--ay, an' Auld Anton an' twa-three mair warriors had been atthem baith. An' gin there had been a third he wad hae been there too,for he's a grim auld carle, baith gash an' steeve, wi' his Bible an' hisbrass-muntit pistols an' his Effectual Callin'!
"Then bywhiles, atween the spells o' the questions, some o' the youngyins fell a-talkin', for even Auld Anton canna haud the tongues o' theyoung birkies. An' amang ither things what did the loons do but start tolay their ill-scrapit tongues on me, an' begood to misca' puir Birsayfor a' that was ill!"
"'Listeners hear nae guid o' themselves,' is an auld-farrant say,Birsay," I said.
"Aweel," the suitor went on, "that's as may be. At ony rate, it was'Birsay this' an' 'Birsay that,' till every porridge-fed speldron an'ill-gabbit mim-moo'ed hizzie had a lick at puir Birsay.
"But at the lang an' last the auld man catched them at it, an' he wasjuist the man to let them hear aboot it on the deafest side o' theirheids. He was aye a don at reprovin', was Auld Anton. No mony o' thepreachers could haud a can'le to him on the job.
"Is it no a gey queer thing," said Birsay, breaking off his story, "thatwhen we set to an' curse a' an' sundry, they ca' it profane sweerin',and misca' us for awesome sinners; but when they lay their tongues totheir enemies an' curse them, it's ca'ed a Testimony an' printed in abuik?"
The thing did indeed strike me as strange, but I desired to keep Birsayto his story, so I only said:
"But, Birsay, what did the auld man say to them when he heard themmisca'in' you?"
"Oh, he e'en telled them that it wad fit them better to look to theirain life an' conversation. An' that it wad be tellin' them yae day, ginthey had made as guid a job o' their life wark as Birsay made o' hisbits o' shoon--a maist sensible an' just observe! Faith, the auld tog isnane sae ill an auld carle, though siccan a dour an' maisterfu' Whig. Hekens guid leather wark when he sees it!
"So when they were a' sittin' gey an' shame-faced under thisreproof--_whang_! Doon on the hearthstane fell my suitor's elshin--thecankersome thing had slippit oot o' my pooch an' drappit ower the edgeo' the hole in the laft aboon the fireplace.
"'Preserve us,' I thought to mysel', 'it's a' by wi' Birsay noo. They'llbe up the stair swarmin' like a bee's byke.' But when I keeked it ower,they were a' sittin' gapin' at the elshin that had stottit on to thefloor. An' what wi' me steerin' an' lookin' ower the edge, _clash_ fellmy braid knife, that I cut the leather wi', oot o' my pooch!
"It fell on the clean stane, an' then lap to the side, nearly on to theknees o' a great fat gussie o' a loon they ca' Jock Wabster. An' Jockwas in siccan a hurry to get oot o' the road o' the thing--for he thochtit wasna canny--that he owerbalanced himsel', and, certes! ower he gaedamang the lassies, stool an' a', wi' an awesome clatter. An' a' thelassies cried oot wi' fricht an' gruppit the lad they likit best--forthere's a deal o' human nature even amang the Whigs, that the Covenantscanna fettle, nor yet Effectual Callin' keep in bounds, and nae dootthere's Reason Annexed for that too!
"My sang, but whan Auld Anton got him straucht on his chair again,whatna tongue-threshin' did he no gie the lassies, an' indeed a' thelave o' them. He caa'ed them for a'thing that was
bad, an' telled themwhat kin' o' black ill consciences they bood hae, to be feared o' a weebit thing that was but wood an' airn. But when they showed him the knifewhaur it lay glintin' on the hearth (for nae man o' them daured to touchit), Anton was a wee bit staggered himsel', an' said it was a sign sentto reprove them for speakin' aboot puir Birsay on a Sabbath nicht. 'Itwas a deil's portent,' he said, 'an' nae mortal man ever forged thatsteel, an' gin onybody touched it he wadna wunner but it wad burn him tothe bane, comin' direc' frae sic a place as it had dootless loupitfrae.'
"This tickled me so terribly that I creepit a wee nearer to see the auldtod's face, as he laid it aff to them aboot the deil's elshin an' hisleather knife--that had baith been bocht frae Rab Tamson, the hardwareman in the Vennel o' Dumfries, an' wasna payed for yet! When what d'yethink happened?
"Na, ye couldna guess--weel, I creepit maybe a hair ower near the edge.The auld rotten board gied way wi' me, an' doon Birsay fell amang thepeats on the hearthstane, landin' on my hinderlands wi' a _brange_ thatnearly brocht the hoose doon. I gaed yae skelloch as I fell, but,gracious me," said Birsay, waving his hands, "that was as naething tothe scraich that the fowk aboot the fire gied. They scattered like aflock o' wild deuks when a chairge o' shot splairges amang them. Theythocht the ill auld boy was comed into the midst o' them, an' wi' yaeconsent they made for the door. Jock Wabster took the hill baa-haain'like a calf as he ran, and even bauld Auld Anton stood by the door cheekwi' his sword point atween him an' the deil whummelt on his hearthstane!
"But I didna bide lang amang the reed peats, as ye may guess. I wasscramblin' oot, whan the auld man gruppit me by the cuff o' the neck,an', maybes because he had been a kennin' frichtit himsel', he gied puirBirsay an awesome warm pair o' lugs. He near dang me stupit. Gin I hadgane to the laft to escape Effectual Callin', he didna scruple to gie meEffectual Daudin', an' that without ony speerin' or as muckle's a singlereason annexed!"
"And what," I said, "came o' Jock Wabster?"
"'Deed as for Jock," said Birsay, "thereupon he got great experience o'religion and gaed to join John Gib and his company on the Flowe o' theDeer-Slunk, where Maister Lennox vanquished them. But he didna catchJock, for Jock said gin he had beat the deil flat-fit in a race, hewasna feared for any Lennox o' the squad. But Jock was aye ower greatwi' the weemen folk, an' sae John Gib's notions just suited him."
Here Birsay made an end of his story, for Anton Lennox himself came in,and of him Birsay stood in great and wholesome awe.