The Collected Works of John Buchan (Illustrated) - Buchan John

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is not wide enough to hide you from me, Saskia.”

      “You will never get her,” said Alexis.

      A sudden devil flamed into his eyes, the devil of some ancestral savagery, which would destroy what is desired but unattainable. He swung round, his hand went to his pocket, something clacked, and his arm shot out like a baseball pitcher’s.

      So intent was the gaze of the others on him, that they did not see a second figure ascending the stairs. Just as Alexis flung himself before the Princess, the new-comer caught the young man’s outstretched arm and wrenched something from his hand. The next second he had hurled it into a far corner where stood the great fireplace. There was a blinding sheet of flame, a dull roar, and then billow upon billow of acrid smoke. As it cleared they saw that the fine Italian chimney-piece, the pride of the builder of the House, was a mass of splinters, and that a great hole had been blown through the wall into what had been the dining-room… A figure was sitting on the bottom step feeling its bruises. The last enemy had gone.

      When Mr. John Heritage raised his eyes he saw the Princess with a very pale face in the arms of a tall man whom he had never seen before. If he was surprised at the sight, he did not show it. “Nasty little bomb that. I remember we struck the brand first in July ‘18.”

      “Are they rounded up?” Sir Archie asked.

      “They’ve bolted. Whether they’ll get away is another matter. I left half the mounted police a minute ago at the top of the West Lodge avenue. The other lot went to the Garplefoot to cut off the boats.”

      “Good Lord, man,” Sir Archie cried, “the police have been here for the last ten minutes.”

      “You’re wrong. They came with me.”

      “Then what on earth—” began the astonished baronet. He stopped short, for he suddenly got his answer. Into the hall limped a boy. Never was there seen so ruinous a child. He was dripping wet, his shirt was all but torn off his back, his bleeding nose was poorly staunched by a wisp of handkerchief, his breeches were in ribbons, and his poor bare legs looked as if they had been comprehensively kicked and scratched. Limpingly he entered, yet with a kind of pride, like some small cock-sparrow who has lost most of his plumage but has vanquished his adversary.

      With a yell Dougal went down the stairs. The boy saluted him, and they gravely shook hands. It was the meeting of Wellington and Blucher.

      The Chieftain’s voice shrilled in triumph, but there was a break in it. The glory was almost too great to be borne.

      “I kenned it,” he cried. “It was the Gorbals Die-Hards. There stands the man that done it… Ye’ll no’ fickle Thomas Yownie.”

      CHAPTER 15

       THE GORBALS DIE-HARDS GO INTO ACTION

       Table of Contents

      We left Mr. McCunn, full of aches but desperately resolute in spirit, hobbling by the Auchenlochan road into the village of Dalquharter. His goal was Mrs. Morran’s hen-house, which was Thomas Yownie’s poste de commandement. The rain had come on again, and, though in other weather there would have been a slow twilight, already the shadow of night had the world in its grip. The sea even from the high ground was invisible, and all to westward and windward was a ragged screen of dark cloud. It was foul weather for foul deeds. Thomas Yownie was not in the hen-house, but in Mrs. Morran’s kitchen, and with him were the pug-faced boy know as Old Bill, and the sturdy figure of Peter Paterson. But the floor was held by the hostess. She still wore her big boots, her petticoats were still kilted, and round her venerable head in lieu of a bonnet was drawn a tartan shawl.

      “Eh, Dickson, but I’m blithe to see ye. And puir man, ye’ve been sair mishandled. This is the awfu’est Sabbath day that ever you and me pit in. I hope it’ll be forgiven us… Whaur’s the young leddy?”

      “Dougal was saying she was in the House with Sir Archibald and the men from the Mains.”

      “Wae’s me!” Mrs. Morran keened. “And what kind o’ place is yon for her? Thae laddies tell me there’s boatfu’s o’ scoondrels landit at the Garplefit. They’ll try the auld Tower, but they’ll no’ wait there when they find it toom, and they’ll be inside the Hoose in a jiffy and awa’ wi’ the puir lassie. Sirs, it maunna be. Ye’re lippenin’ to the polis, but in a’ my days I never kenned the polis in time. We maun be up and daein’ oorsels. Oh, if I could get a haud o’ that red-heided Dougal… “

      As she spoke there came on the wind the dull reverberation of an explosion.

      “Keep us, what’s that?” she cried.

      “It’s dinnymite,” said Peter Paterson.

      “That’s the end o’ the auld Tower,” observed Thomas Yownie in his quiet, even voice. “And it’s likely the end o’ the man Heritage.”

      “Lord peety us!” the old woman wailed. “And us standin’ here like stookies and no’ liftin’ a hand. Awa’ wi ye, laddies, and dae something. Awa’ you too, Dickson, or I’ll tak’ the road mysel’.”

      “I’ve got orders,” said the Chief of Staff, “no’ to move till the sityation’s clear. Napoleon’s up at the Tower and Jaikie’s in the policies. I maun wait on their reports.”

      For a moment Mrs. Morran’s attention was distracted by Dickson, who suddenly felt very faint and sat down heavily on a kitchen chair. “Man, ye’re as white as a dish-clout,” she exclaimed with compunction. “Ye’re fair wore out, and ye’ll have had nae meat sin’ your breakfast. See, and I’ll get ye a cup o’ tea.”

      She proved to be in the right, for as soon as Dickson had swallowed some mouthfuls of her strong scalding brew the colour came back to his cheeks, and he announced that he felt better. “Ye’ll fortify it wi’ a dram,” she told him, and produced a black bottle from her cupboard. “My father aye said that guid whisky and het tea keepit the doctor’s gig oot o’ the close.”

      The back door opened and Napoleon entered, his thin shanks blue with cold. He saluted and made his report in a voice shrill with excitement.

      “The Tower has fallen. They’ve blown in the big door, and the feck o’ them’s inside.”

      “And Mr. Heritage?” was Dickson’s anxious inquiry.

      “When I last saw him he was up at a windy, shootin’. I think he’s gotten on to the roof. I wouldna wonder but the place is on fire.”

      “Here, this is awful,” Dickson groaned. “We can’t let Mr. Heritage be killed that way. What strength is the enemy?”

      “I counted twenty-seven, and there’s stragglers comin’ up from the boats.”

      “And there’s me and you five laddies here, and Dougal and the others shut up in the House.”

      He stopped in sheer despair. It was a fix from which the most enlightened business mind showed no escape. Prudence, inventiveness, were no longer in question; only some desperate course of violence.

      “We must create a diversion,” he said. “I’m for the Tower, and you laddies must come with me. We’ll maybe see a chance. Oh, but I wish I had my wee pistol.”

      “If ye’re gaun there, Dickson, I’m comin’ wi’ ye,” Mrs Morran announced.

      Her words revealed to Dickson the preposterousness of the whole situation, and for all his anxiety he laughed. “Five laddies, a middle-aged man, and an auld wife,” he cried. “Dod, it’s pretty hopeless. It’s like the thing in the Bible about the weak things of the world trying to confound the strong.”

      “The Bible’s whiles richt,” Mrs. Morran answered drily. “Come on, for there’s no time to lose.”

      The door opened again to admit the figure

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