Hunted and Harried

by R. M. Ballantyne

It was early in the day, and the farmer was walking along the road that led to Cluden Ford, bent on paying a visit to Dumfries, when he was overtaken by a troop of about twenty horsemen. They had ridden out of the bush and come on the road so suddenly that Black had no time to secrete himself. Knowing that he was very much “wanted,” especially after the part he had played at the recent conventicle on Skeoch Hill, he at once decided that discretion was the better part of valour, and took to his heels.

No man in all the country-side could beat the stout farmer at a race either short or long, but he soon found that four legs are more than a match for two. The troopers soon gained on him, though he ran like a mountain hare. Having the advantage, however, of a start of about three hundred yards, he reached the bend in the road where it begins to descend towards the ford before his pursuers overtook him. But Andrew felt that the narrow strip of wood beside which he was racing could not afford him shelter and that the ford would avail him nothing. In his extremity he made up his mind to a desperate venture.

On his right an open glade revealed to him the dark gorge through which the Cluden thundered. The stream was in flood at the time, and presented a fearful aspect of seething foam mingled with black rocks, as it rushed over the lynn and through its narrow throat below. A path led to the brink of the gorge which is now spanned by the Routen Bridge. From the sharp-edged cliff on one side to the equally sharp cliff on the other was a width of considerably over twenty feet. Towards this point Andrew Black sped. Close at his heels the dragoons followed, Glendinning, on a superb horse, in advance of the party. It was an untried leap to the farmer, who nevertheless went at it like a thunderbolt and cleared it like a stag. The troopers behind, seeing the nature of the ground, pulled up in time, and wheeling to the left, made for the ford. Glendinning, however, was too late. The reckless sergeant, enraged at being so often baulked by the farmer, had let his horse go too far. He tried to pull up but failed. The effort to do so rendered a leap impossible. So near was he to the fugitive that the latter was yet in the midst of his bound when the former went over the precipice; head foremost, horse and all. The poor steed fell on the rocks below and broke his neck, but the rider was shot into the deep dark pool round which the Cluden whirled in foam-flecked eddies. In the midst of its heaving waters he quickly arose flinging his long arms wildly about, and shouting for help with bubbling cry.

The iron helm, jack-boots, and other accoutrements of a seventeenth century trooper were not calculated to assist flotation. Glendinning would have terminated his career then and there if the flood had not come to his aid by sweeping him into the shallow water at the lower end of the pool, whence some of his men soon after rescued him. Meanwhile, Andrew Black, plunging into the woods on the opposite side of the river, was soon far beyond the reach of his foes.

But escape was not now the chief anxiety of our farmer, and selfishness formed no part of his character. When he had left home, a short time before, his niece Jean was at work in the dairy, Ramblin’ Peter was attending to the cattle, Marion Clark and her comrade, Isabel Scott were busy with domestic affairs, and old Mrs Mitchell—who never quite recovered her reason—was seated in the chimney corner calmly knitting a sock.

To warn these of their danger was now the urgent duty of the farmer, for well he knew that the disappointed soldiers would immediately visit his home. Indeed, he saw them ride away in that direction soon afterwards, and started off to forestall them if possible by taking a short cut. Glendinning had borrowed the horse of a trooper and left the dismounted man to walk after them.

But there was no particularly short cut to the cottage, and in spite of Andrew’s utmost exertions the dragoons arrived before him. Not, however, before the wary Peter had observed them, given the alarm, got all the inmates of the farm—including Mrs Mitchell—down into the hidy-hole and established himself in the chimney corner with a look of imbecile innocence that was almost too perfect.

Poor Peter! his heart sank when the door was flung violently open and there entered a band of soldiers, among whom he recognised some of the party which he had so recently led into the heart of a morass and so suddenly left to find their way out as they best could. But no expression on Peter’s stolid countenance betrayed his feelings.

“So, my young bantam cock,” exclaimed a trooper, striding towards him, and bending down to make sure, “we’ve got hold of you at last?”

“Eh?” exclaimed Peter interrogatively.