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

with me is just my great penetration and knowledge of affairs. But for

auld, cauld, dour, deadly courage, I am not fit to hold a candle to

yourself. Look at us two here upon the sands. Here am I, fair hotching

to be off; here’s you (for all that I ken) in two minds of it whether

you’ll no stop. Do you think that I could do that, or would? No me!

Firstly, because I havenae got the courage and wouldnae daur; and

secondly, because I am a man of so much penetration and would see ye

damned first.”

“It’s there ye’re coming, is it?” I cried. “Ah, man Alan, you can wile

your old wives, but you never can wile me.”

Remembrance of my temptation in the wood made me strong as iron.

“I have a tryst to keep,” I continued. “I am trysted with your cousin

Charlie; I have passed my word.”

“Braw trysts that you’ll can keep,” said Alan. “Ye’ll just mistryst

aince and for a’ with the gentry in the bents. And what for?” he went

on with an extreme threatening gravity. “Just tell me that, my mannie!

Are ye to be speerited away like Lady Grange? Are they to drive a dirk

in your inside and bury ye in the bents? Or is it to be the other way,

and are they to bring ye in with James? Are they folk to be trustit?

Would ye stick your head in the mouth of Sim Fraser and the ither

Whigs?” he added with extraordinary bitterness.

“Alan,” cried I, “they’re all rogues and liars, and I’m with ye there.

The more reason there should be one decent man in such a land of

thieves! My word is passed, and I’ll stick to it. I said long syne to

your kinswoman that I would stumble at no risk. Do ye mind of that?—the

night Red Colin fell, it was. No more I will, then. Here I stop.

Prestongrange promised me my life: if he’s to be mansworn, here I’ll

have to die.”

“Aweel aweel,” said Alan.

All this time we had seen or heard no more of our pursuers. In truth we

had caught them unawares; their whole party (as I was to learn

afterwards) had not yet reached the scene; what there was of them was

spread among the bents towards Gillane. It was quite an affair to call

them in and bring them over, and the boat was making speed. They were

besides but cowardly fellows: a mere leash of Highland cattle-thieves,

of several clans, no gentleman there to be the captain and the more

they looked at Alan and me upon the beach, the less (I must suppose)

they liked the look of us.

Whoever had betrayed Alan it was not the captain: he was in the skiff

himself, steering and stirring up his oarsmen, like a man with his

heart in his employ. Already he was near in, and the boat

securing—already Alan’s face had flamed crimson with the excitement of

his deliverance, when our friends in the bents, either in their despair

to see their prey escape them or with some hope of scaring Andie,

raised suddenly a shrill cry of several voices.

This sound, arising from what appeared to be a quite deserted coast,

was really very daunting, and the men in the boat held water instantly.

“What’s this of it?” sings out the captain, for he was come within an

easy hail.

“Freens o’mine,” says Alan, and began immediately to wade forth in the

shallow water towards the boat. “Davie,” he said, pausing, “Davie, are

ye no coming? I am swier to leave ye.”

“Not a hair of me,” said I.

“He stood part of a second where he was to his knees in the salt water,

hesitating.

“He that will to Cupar, maun to Cupar,” said he, and swashing in deeper

than his waist, was hauled into the skiff, which was immediately

directed for the ship.

I stood where he had left me, with my hands behind my back; Alan sat

with his head turned watching me; and the boat drew smoothly away. Of a

sudden I came the nearest hand to shedding tears, and seemed to myself

the most deserted solitary lad in Scotland. With that I turned my back

upon the sea and faced the sandhills. There was no sight or sound of

man; the sun shone on the wet sand and the dry, the wind blew in the

bents, the gulls made a dreary piping. As I passed higher up the beach,

the sand-lice were hopping nimbly about the stranded tangles. The devil

any other sight or sound in that unchancy place. And yet I knew there

were folk there, observing me, upon some secret purpose. They were no

soldiers, or they would have fallen on and taken us ere now; doubtless

they were some common rogues hired for my undoing, perhaps to kidnap,

perhaps to murder me outright. From the position of those engaged, the

first was the more likely; from what I knew of their character and

ardency in this business, I thought the second very possible; and the

blood ran cold about my heart.

I had a mad idea to loosen my sword in the scabbard; for though I was

very unfit to stand up like a gentleman blade to blade, I thought I

could do some scathe in a random combat. But I perceived in time the

folly of resistance. This was no doubt the joint “expedient” on which

Prestongrange and Fraser were agreed. The first, I was very sure, had

done something to secure my life; the second was pretty likely to have

slipped in some contrary hints into the ears of Neil and his

companions; and if I were to show bare steel I might play straight into

the hands of my worst enemy and seal my own doom.

These thoughts brought me to the head of the beach. I cast a look

behind, the boat was nearing the brig, and Alan flew his handkerchief

for a farewell, which I replied to with the waving of my hand. But Alan

himself was shrunk to a small thing in my view, alongside of this pass

that lay in front of me. I set my hat hard on my head, clenched my

teeth, and went right before me up the face of the sand-wreath. It made

a hard climb, being steep, and the sand like water underfoot. But I

caught hold at last by the long bent-grass on the brae-top, and pulled

myself to a good footing. The same moment men stirred and stood up here

and there, six or seven of them, ragged-like knaves, each with a dagger

in his hand. The fair truth is, I shut my eyes and prayed. When I

opened them again, the rogues were crept the least thing nearer without

speech or hurry. Every eye was upon mine, which struck me with a

strange sensation of their brightness, and of the fear with which they

continued to approach me. I held out my hands empty; whereupon one

asked, with a strong Highland brogue, if I surrendered.

“Under protest,” said I, “if ye ken what that means, which I misdoubt.”

At that word, they came all in upon me like a flight of birds upon a

carrion, seized me, took my sword, and all the money from my pockets,

bound me hand and foot with some strong line, and cast me on a tussock

of bent. There they sat about their captive in a part of a circle and

gazed upon him silently like something dangerous, perhaps a lion or a

tiger on the spring. Presently this attention was relaxed. They drew

nearer together, fell to speech in the Gaelic, and very cynically

divided my property before my eyes. It was my diversion in this time

that I could watch from my place the progress of my friend’s escape. I

saw the boat come to the brig and be hoisted in, the sails fill, and

the ship pass out seaward behind the isles and by North Berwick.

In the course of two hours or so, more and more ragged Highlandmen kept

collecting. Neil among the first, until the party must have numbered

near a score. With each new arrival there was a fresh bout of talk,

that sounded like complaints and explanations; but I observed one

thing, none of those who came late had any share in the division of my

spoils. The last discussion was very violent and eager, so that once I

thought they would have quarrelled; on the heels of which their company

parted, the bulk of them returning westward in a troop, and only three,

Neil and two others, remaining sentries on the prisoner.

“I could name one who would be very ill pleased with your day’s work,

Neil Duncanson,” said I, when the rest had moved away.

He assured me in answer I should be tenderly used, for he knew he was

“acquent wi’ the leddy.”

This was all our talk, nor did any other son of man appear upon that

portion of the coast until the sun had gone down among the Highland

mountains, and the gloaming was beginning to grow dark. At which hour I

was aware of a long, lean, bony-like Lothian man of a very swarthy

countenance, that came towards us among the bents on a farm horse.

“Lads,” cried he, “has ye a paper like this?” and held up one in his

hand. Neil produced a second, which the newcomer studied through a pair

of horn spectacles, and saying all was right and we were the folk he

was seeking, immediately dismounted. I was then set in his place, my

feet tied under the horse’s belly, and we set forth under the guidance

of the Lowlander. His path must have been very well chosen, for we met

but one pair—a pair of lovers—the whole way, and these, perhaps taking

us to be free-traders, fled on our approach. We were at one time close

at the foot of Berwick Law on the south side; at another, as we passed

over some open hills, I spied the lights of a clachan and the old tower

of a church among some trees not far off, but too far to cry for help,

if I had dreamed of it. At last we came again within sound of the sea.

There was moonlight, though not much; and by this I could see the three

huge towers and broken battlements of Tantallon, that old chief place

of the Red Douglases. The horse was picketed in the bottom of the ditch

to graze, and I was led within, and forth into the court, and thence

into the tumble-down stone hall. Here my conductors built a brisk fire

in the midst of the pavement, for there was a chill in the night. My

hands were loosed, I was set by the wall in the inner end, and (the

Lowlander having produced provisions) I was given oatmeal bread and a

pitcher of French brandy. This done, I was left once more alone with my

three Highlandmen. They sat close by the fire drinking and talking; the

wind blew in by the breaches, cast about the smoke and flames, and sang

in the tops of the towers; I could hear the sea under the cliffs, and,

my mind being reassured as to my life, and my body and spirits wearied

with the day’s employment, I turned upon one side and slumbered.

I had no means of guessing at what hour I was wakened, only the moon

was down and the fire was low. My feet were now loosed, and I was

carried through the ruins and down the cliff-side by a precipitous path

to where I found a fisher’s boat in a haven of the rocks. This I was

had on board of, and we began to put forth from the shore in a fine

starlight.