Catriona
impatience to renew their former conversation. The lady had branched
some while before from Alan’s stomach to the case of a goodbrother of
her own in Aberlady, whose last sickness and demise she was describing
at extraordinary length. Sometimes it was merely dull, sometimes both
dull and awful, for she talked with unction. The upshot was that I fell
in a deep muse, looking forth of the window on the road, and scarce
marking what I saw. Presently had any been looking they might have seen
me to start.
“We pit a fomentation to his feet,” the good-wife was saying, “and a
het stane to his wame, and we gied him hyssop and water of pennyroyal,
and fine, clean balsam of sulphur for the hoast. . . ”
“Sir,” says I, cutting very quietly in, “there’s a friend of mine gone
by the house.”
“Is that e’en sae?” replies Alan, as though it were a thing of small
account. And then, “Ye were saying, mem?” says he; and the wearyful
wife went on.
Presently, however, he paid her with a half-crown piece, and she must
go forth after the change.
“Was it him with the red head?” asked Alan.
“Ye have it,” said I.
“What did I tell you in the wood?” he cried. “And yet it’s strange he
should be here too! Was he his lane?”
“His lee-lane for what I could see,” said I.
“Did he gang by?” he asked.
“Straight by,” said I, “and looked neither to the right nor left.”
“And that’s queerer yet,” said Alan. “It sticks in my mind, Davie, that
we should be stirring. But where to?—deil hae’t! This is like old days
fairly,” cries he.
“There is one big differ, though,” said I, “that now we have money in
our pockets.”
“And another big differ, Mr. Balfour,” says he, “that now we have dogs
at our tail. They’re on the scent; they’re in full cry, David. It’s a
bad business and be damned to it.” And he sat thinking hard with a look
of his that I knew well.
“I’m saying, Luckie,” says he, when the goodwife returned, “have ye a
back road out of this change house?”
She told him there was and where it led to.
“Then, sir,” says he to me, “I think that will be the shortest road for
us. And here’s good-bye to ye, my braw woman; and I’ll no forget thon
of the cinnamon water.”
We went out by way of the woman’s kale yard, and up a lane among
fields. Alan looked sharply to all sides, and seeing we were in a
little hollow place of the country, out of view of men, sat down.
“Now for a council of war, Davie,” said he. “But first of all, a bit
lesson to ye. Suppose that I had been like you, what would yon old wife
have minded of the pair of us! Just that we had gone out by the back
gate. And what does she mind now? A fine, canty, friendly, cracky man,
that suffered with the stomach, poor body! and was real ta’en up about
the goodbrother. O man, David, try and learn to have some kind of
intelligence!”
“I’ll try, Alan,” said I.
“And now for him of the red head,” says he; “was he gaun fast or slow?”
“Betwixt and between,” said I.
“No kind of a hurry about the man?” he asked.
“Never a sign of it,” said I.
“Nhm!” said Alan, “it looks queer. We saw nothing of them this morning
on the Whins; he’s passed us by, he doesnae seem to be looking, and yet
here he is on our road! Dod, Davie, I begin to take a notion. I think
it’s no you they’re seeking, I think it’s me; and I think they ken fine
where they’re gaun.”
“They ken?” I asked.
“I think Andie Scougal’s sold me—him or his mate wha kent some part of
the affair—or else Charlie’s clerk callant, which would be a pity too,”
says Alan; “and if you askit me for just my inward private conviction,
I think there’ll be heads cracked on Gillane sands.”
“Alan,” I cried, “if you’re at all right there’ll be folk there and to
spare. It’ll be small service to crack heads.”
“It would aye be a satisfaction though,” says Alan. “But bide a bit;
bide a bit; I’m thinking—and thanks to this bonny westland wind, I
believe I’ve still a chance of it. It’s this way, Davie. I’m no trysted
with this man Scougal till the gloaming comes. _But_,” says he, “_if I
can get a bit of a wind out of the west I’ll be there long or that_,”
he says, “_and lie-to for ye behind the Isle of Fidra_. Now if your
gentry kens the place, they ken the time forbye. Do ye see me coming,
Davie? Thanks to Johnnie Cope and other red-coat gomerals, I should ken
this country like the back of my hand; and if ye’re ready for another
bit run with Alan Breck, we’ll can cast back inshore, and come to the
seaside again by Dirleton. If the ship’s there, we’ll try and get on
board of her. If she’s no there, I’ll just have to get back to my weary
haystack. But either way of it, I think we will leave your gentry
whistling on their thumbs.”
“I believe there’s some chance in it,” said I. “Have on with ye, Alan!”
CHAPTER XIII.
GILLANE SANDS
I did not profit by Alan’s pilotage as he had done by his marchings
under General Cope; for I can scarce tell what way we went. It is my
excuse that we travelled exceeding fast. Some part we ran, some
trotted, and the rest walked at a vengeance of a pace. Twice, while we
were at top speed, we ran against country-folk; but though we plumped
into the first from round a corner, Alan was as ready as a loaded
musket.
“Has ye seen my horse?” he gasped.
“Na, man, I haenae seen nae horse the day,” replied the countryman.
And Alan spared the time to explain to him that we were travelling
“ride and tie”; that our charger had escaped, and it was feared he had
gone home to Linton. Not only that, but he expended some breath (of
which he had not very much left) to curse his own misfortune and my
stupidity which was said to be its cause.
“Them that cannae tell the truth,” he observed to myself as we went on
again, “should be aye mindful to leave an honest, handy lee behind
them. If folk dinnae ken what ye’re doing, Davie, they’re terrible
taken up with it; but if they think they ken, they care nae mair for it
than what I do for pease porridge.”
As we had first made inland, so our road came in the end to lie very
near due north; the old Kirk of Aberlady for a landmark on the left; on
the right, the top of the Berwick Law; and it was thus we struck the
shore again, not far from Dirleton. From north Berwick west to Gillane
Ness there runs a string of four small islets, Craiglieth, the Lamb,
Fidra, and Eyebrough, notable by their diversity of size and shape.
Fidra is the most particular, being a strange grey islet of two humps,
made the more conspicuous by a piece of ruin; and I mind that (as we
drew closer to it) by some door or window of these ruins the sea peeped
through like a man’s eye. Under the lee of Fidra there is a good
anchorage in westerly winds, and there, from a far way off, we could
see the _Thistle_ riding.
The shore in face of these islets is altogether waste. Here is no
dwelling of man, and scarce any passage, or at most of vagabond
children running at their play. Gillane is a small place on the far
side of the Ness, the folk of Dirleton go to their business in the
inland fields, and those of North Berwick straight to the sea-fishing
from their haven; so that few parts of the coast are lonelier. But I
mind, as we crawled upon our bellies into that multiplicity of heights
and hollows, keeping a bright eye upon all sides, and our hearts
hammering at our ribs, there was such a shining of the sun and the sea,
such a stir of the wind in the bent grass, and such a bustle of
down-popping rabbits and up-flying gulls, that the desert seemed to me,
like a place alive. No doubt it was in all ways well chosen for a
secret embarcation, if the secret had been kept; and even now that it
was out, and the place watched, we were able to creep unperceived to
the front of the sandhills, where they look down immediately on the
beach and sea.
But here Alan came to a full stop.
“Davie,” said he, “this is a kittle passage! As long as we lie here
we’re safe; but I’m nane sae muckle nearer to my ship or the coast of
France. And as soon as we stand up and signal the brig, it’s another
matter. For where will your gentry be, think ye?”
“Maybe they’re no come yet,” said I. “And even if they are, there’s one
clear matter in our favour. They’ll be all arranged to take us, that’s
true. But they’ll have arranged for our coming from the east and here
we are upon their west.”
“Ay,” says Alan, “I wish we were in some force, and this was a battle,
we would have bonnily out-manœuvred them! But it isnae, Davit; and the
way it is, is a wee thing less inspiring to Alan Breck. I swither,
Davie.”
“Time flies, Alan,” said I.
“I ken that,” said Alan. “I ken naething else, as the French folk say.
But this is a dreidful case of heids or tails. O! if I could but ken
where your gentry were!”
“Alan,” said I, “this is no like you. It’s got to be now or never.”
“This is no me, quo’ he,”
sang Alan, with a queer face betwixt shame and drollery.
“Neither you nor me, quo’ he, neither you nor me.
Wow, na, Johnnie man! neither you nor me.”
And then of a sudden he stood straight up where he was, and with a
handkerchief flying in his right hand, marched down upon the beach. I
stood up myself, but lingered behind him, scanning the sand-hills to
the east. His appearance was at first unremarked: Scougal not expecting
him so early, and _my gentry_ watching on the other side. Then they
awoke on board the _Thistle_, and it seemed they had all in readiness,
for there was scarce a second’s bustle on the deck before we saw a
skiff put round her stern and begin to pull lively for the coast.
Almost at the same moment of time, and perhaps half a mile away towards
Gillane Ness, the figure of a man appeared for a blink upon a sandhill,
waving with his arms; and though he was gone again in the same flash,
the gulls in that part continued a little longer to fly wild.
Alan had not seen this, looking straight to seaward at the ship and
skiff.
“It maun be as it will!” said he, when I had told him, “Weel may yon
boatie row, or my craig’ll have to thole a raxing.”
That part of the beach was long and flat, and excellent walking when
the tide was down; a little cressy burn flowed over it in one place to
the sea; and the sandhills ran along the head of it like the rampart of
a town. No eye of ours could spy what was passing behind there in the
bents, no hurry of ours could mend the speed of the boat’s coming: time
stood still with us through that uncanny period of waiting.
“There is one thing I would like to ken,” say Alan. “I would like to
ken these gentry’s orders. We’re worth four hunner pound the pair of
us: how if they took the guns to us, Davie! They would get a bonny shot
from the top of that lang sandy bank.”
“Morally impossible,” said I. “The point is that they can have no guns.
This thing has been gone about too secret; pistols they may have, but
never guns.”
“I believe ye’ll be in the right,” says Alan. “For all which I am
wearing a good deal for yon boat.”
And he snapped his fingers and whistled to it like a dog.
It was now perhaps a third of the way in, and we ourselves already hard
on the margin of the sea, so that the soft sand rose over my shoes.
There was no more to do whatever but to wait, to look as much as we
were able at the creeping nearer of the boat, and as little as we could
manage at the long impenetrable front of the sandhills, over which the
gulls twinkled and behind which our enemies were doubtless marshalling.
“This is a fine, bright, caller place to get shot in,” says Alan
suddenly; “and, man, I wish that I had your courage!”
“Alan!” I cried, “what kind of talk is this of it! You’re just made of
courage; it’s the character of the man, as I could prove myself if
there was nobody else.”
“And you would be the more mistaken,” said he. “What makes the differ