Chapter XV. The Gorbals Die-Hards Go Into Action

Huntingtower

by John Buchan

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 of Wee Jaikie.
There were no tears in his eyes, and his face was very white.

"They're a' round the Hoose," he croaked. "I was up a tree
forenent the verandy and seen them. The lassie ran oot and cried on
them from the top o' the brae, and they a' turned and hunted her
back. Gosh, but it was a near thing. I seen the Captain sklimmin'
the wall, and a muckle man took the lassie and flung her up the
ladder. They got inside just in time and steekit the door, and now
the whole pack is roarin' round the Hoose seekin' a road in.
They'll no' be long over the job, neither."

"What about Mr. Heritage?"

"They're no' heedin' about him any more. The auld Tower's
bleezin'."

"Worse and worse," said Dickson. "If the police don't come in
the next ten minutes, they'll be away with the Princess. They've
beaten all Dougal's plans, and it's a straight fight with odds of
six to one. It's not possible."

Mrs. Morran for the first time seemed to lose hope. "Eh, the
puir lassie!" she wailed, and sinking on a chair covered her face
with her shawl.

"Laddies, can you no' think of a plan?" asked Dickson, his
voice flat with despair.

Then Thomas Yownie spoke. So far he had been silent, but
under his tangled thatch of hair his mind had been busy. Jaikie's
report seemed to bring him to a decision.

"It's gey dark," he said, "and it's gettin' darker."

There was that in his voice which promised something, and
Dickson listened.

"The enemy's mostly foreigners, but Dobson's there and I think
he's a kind of guide to them. Dobson's feared of the polis, and if
we can terrify Dobson he'll terrify the rest."

"Ay, but where are the police?"

"They're no' here yet, but they're comin'. The fear o' them
is aye in Dobson's mind. If he thinks the polis has arrived, he'll
put the wind up the lot....we maun be the polis."

Dickson could only stare while the Chief of Staff unfolded his
scheme. I do not know to whom the Muse of History will give the
credit of the tactics of "Infiltration," whether to Ludendorff or
von Hutier or some other proud captain of Germany, or to Foch, who
revised and perfected them. But I know that the same notion was at
this moment of crisis conceived by Thomas Yownie, whom no parents
acknowledged, who slept usually in a coal cellar, and who had picked
up his education among Gorbals closes and along the wharves of
Clyde.

"It's gettin' dark," he said, "and the enemy are that busy
tryin' to break into the Hoose that they'll no' be thinkin' o' their
rear. The five o' us Die-Hards is grand at dodgin' and keepin' out
of sight, and what hinders us to get in among them, so that they'll
hear us but never see us. We're used to the ways o' the polis, and
can imitate them fine. Forbye we've all got our whistles, which are
the same as a bobbie's birl, and Old Bill and Peter are grand at
copyin' a man's voice. Since the Captain is shut up in the Hoose,
the command falls to me, and that's my plan."

With a piece of chalk he drew on the kitchen floor a rough
sketch of the environs of Huntingtower. Peter Paterson was to move
from the shrubberies beyond the verandah, Napoleon from the stables,
Old Bill from the Tower, while Wee Jaikie and Thomas himself were
to advance as if from the Garplefoot, so that the enemy might fear
for his communications. "As soon as one o' ye gets into position
he's to gie the patrol cry, and when each o' ye has heard five cries,
he's to advance. Begin birlin' and roarin' afore ye get among them,
and keep it up till ye're at the Hoose wall. If they've gotten
inside, in ye go after them. I trust each Die-Hard to use his
judgment, and above all to keep out o' sight and no' let himsel' be
grippit."

The plan, like all great tactics, was simple, and no sooner
was it expounded than it was put into action. The Die-Hards faded
out of the kitchen like fog-wreaths, and Dickson and Mrs. Morran
were left looking at each other. They did not look long. The bare
feet of Wee Jaikie had not crossed the threshold fifty seconds,
before they were followed by Mrs. Morran's out-of-doors boots and
Dickson's tackets. Arm in arm the two hobbled down the back path
behind the village which led to the South Lodge. The gate was
unlocked, for the warder was busy elsewhere, and they hastened up
the avenue. Far off Dickson thought he saw shapes fleeting across
the park, which he took to be the shock-troops of his own side, and
he seemed to hear snatches of song. Jaikie was giving tongue, and
this was what he sang:

"Proley Tarians, arise! Wave the Red Flag to the skies,
Heed no more the Fat Man's lees, Stap them doun his throat! Nocht
to lose except our chains----" But he tripped over a rabbit wire
and thereafter conserved his breath.

The wind was so loud that no sound reached them from the
House, which, blank and immense, now loomed before them. Dickson's
ears were alert for the noise of shots or the dull crash of bombs;
hearing nothing, he feared the worst, and hurried Mrs. Morran at a
pace which endangered her life. He had no fear for himself, arguing
that his foes were seeking higher game, and judging, too, that the
main battle must be round the verandah at the other end. The two
passed the shrubbery where the road forked, one path running to the
back door and one to the stables. They took the latter and
presently came out on the downs, with the ravine of the Garple on
their left, the stables in front, and on the right the hollow of a
formal garden running along the west side of the House.

The gale was so fierce, now that they had no wind-break
between them and the ocean, that Mrs. Morran could wrestle with it
no longer, and found shelter in the lee of a clump of rhododendrons.
Darkness had all but fallen, and the House was a black shadow
against the dusky sky, while a confused greyness marked the sea. The
old Tower showed a tooth of masonry; there was no glow from it, so
the fire, which Jaikie had reported, must have died down. A whaup
cried loudly, and very eerily: then another.

The birds stirred up Mrs. Morran. "That's the laddies'
patrol." she gasped. "Count the cries, Dickson."

Another bird wailed, this time very near. Then there was
perhaps three minutes' silence till a fainter wheeple came from the
direction of the Tower. "Four," said Dickson, but he waited in vain
on the fifth. He had not the acute hearing of the boys, and could
not catch the faint echo of Peter Paterson's signal beyond the
verandah. The next he heard was a shrill whistle cutting into the
wind, and then others in rapid succession from different quarters,
and something which might have been the hoarse shouting of angry
men.

The Gorbals Die-Hards had gone into action.

Dull prose is no medium to tell of that wild adventure. The
sober sequence of the military historian is out of place in
recording deeds that knew not sequence or sobriety. Were I a bard,
I would cast this tale in excited verse, with a lilt which would
catch the speed of the reality. I would sing of Napoleon, not
unworthy of his great namesake, who penetrated to the very window of
the ladies' bedroom, where the framework had been driven in and men
were pouring through; of how there he made such pandemonium with his
whistle that men tumbled back and ran about blindly seeking for
guidance; of how in the long run his pugnacity mastered him, so that
he engaged in combat with an unknown figure and the two rolled into
what had once been a fountain. I would hymn Peter Paterson, who
across tracts of darkness engaged Old Bill in a conversation which
would have done no discredit to a Gallowgate policeman. He
pretended to be making reports and seeking orders. "We've gotten
three o' the deevils, sir. What'll we dae wi' them?" he shouted; and
back would come the reply in a slightly more genteel voice: "Fall
them to the rear. Tamson has charge of the prisoners." Or it would
be: "They've gotten pistols, sir. What's the orders?" and the
answer would be: "Stick to your batons. The guns are posted on the
knowe, so we needn't hurry." And over all the din there would be a
perpetual whistling and a yelling of "Hands up!"

I would sing, too, of Wee Jaikie, who was having the
red-letter hour of his life. His fragile form moved like a lizard
in places where no mortal could be expected, and he varied his
duties with impish assaults upon the persons of such as came in his
way. His whistle blew in a man's ear one second and the next yards
away. Sometimes he was moved to song, and unearthly fragments of
"Class-conscious we are" or "Proley Tarians, arise!" mingled with
the din, like the cry of seagulls in a storm. He saw a bright light
flare up within the House which warned him not to enter, but he got
as far as the garden-room, in whose dark corners he made havoc.
Indeed he was almost too successful, for he created panic where he
went, and one or two fired blindly at the quarter where he had last
been heard. These shots were followed by frenzied prohibitions from
Spidel and were not repeated. Presently he felt that aimless surge
of men that is the prelude to flight, and heard Dobson's great voice
roaring in the hall. Convinced that the crisis had come, he made his
way outside, prepared to harrass the rear of any retirement. Tears
now flowed down his face, and he could not have spoken for sobs, but
he had never been so happy.

But chiefly would I celebrate Thomas Yownie, for it was he who
brought fear into the heart of Dobson. He had a voice of singular
compass, and from the verandah he made it echo round the House. The
efforts of Old Bill and Peter Paterson had been skilful indeed, but
those of Thomas Yownie were deadly. To some leader beyond he
shouted news: "Robison's just about finished wi' his lot, and then
he'll get the boats." A furious charge upset him, and for a moment
he thought he had been discovered. But it was only Dobson rushing
to Leon, who was leading the men in the doorway. Thomas fled to the
far end of the verandah, and again lifted up his voice. "All
foreigners," he shouted, "except the man Dobson. Ay. Ay. Ye've got
Loudon? Well done!"

It must have been this last performance which broke Dobson's
nerve and convinced him that the one hope lay in a rapid retreat to
the Garplefoot. There was a tumbling of men in the doorway, a
muttering of strange tongues, and the vision of the innkeeper
shouting to Leon and Spidel. For a second he was seen in the faint
reflection that the light in the hall cast as far as the verandah, a
wild figure urging the retreat with a pistol clapped to the head of
those who were too confused by the hurricane of events to grasp the
situation. Some of them dropped over the wall, but most huddled
like sheep through the door on the west side, a jumble of
struggling, blasphemous mortality. Thomas Yownie, staggered at the
success of his tactics, yet kept his head and did his utmost to
confuse the retreat, and the triumphant shouts and whistles of the
other Die-Hards showed that they were not unmindful of this final
duty....

The verandah was empty, and he was just about to enter the
House, when through the west door came a figure, breathing hard and
bent apparently on the same errand. Thomas prepared for battle,
determined that no straggler of the enemy should now wrest from him
victory, but, as the figure came into the faint glow at the doorway,
he recognized it as Heritage. And at the same moment he heard
something which made his tense nerves relax. Away on the right came
sounds, a thud of galloping horses on grass and the jingle of bridle
reins and the voices of men. It was the real thing at last. It is a
sad commentary on his career, but now for the first time in his
brief existence Thomas Yownie felt charitably disposed towards the
police.

The Poet, since we left him blaspheming on the roof of the
Tower, had been having a crowded hour of most inglorious life. He
had started to descend at a furious pace, and his first misadventure
was that he stumbled and dropped Dickson's pistol over the parapet.
He tried to mark where it might have fallen in the gloom below, and
this lost him precious minutes. When he slithered through the trap
into the attic room, where he had tried to hold up the attack, he
discovered that it was full of smoke which sought in vain to escape
by the narrow window. Volumes of it were pouring up the stairs, and
when he attempted to descend he found himself choked and blinded. He
rushed gasping to the window, filled his lungs with fresh air, and
tried again, but he got no farther than the first turn, from which
he could see through the cloud red tongues of flame in the ground
room. This was solemn indeed, so he sought another way out. He got
on the roof, for he remembered a chimney-stack, cloaked with ivy,
which was built straight from the ground, and he thought he might
climb down it.

He found the chimney and began the descent confidently, for he
had once borne a good reputation at the Montanvert and Cortina. At
first all went well, for stones stuck out at decent intervals like
the rungs of a ladder, and roots of ivy supplemented their
deficiencies. But presently he came to a place where the masonry had
crumbled into a cave, and left a gap some twenty feet high. Below
it he could dimly see a thick mass of ivy which would enable him to
cover the further forty feet to the ground, but at that cave he
stuck most finally. All around the lime and stone had lapsed into
debris, and he could find no safe foothold. Worse still, the block
on which he relied proved loose, and only by a dangerous traverse
did he avert disaster.

There he hung for a minute or two, with a cold void in his
stomach. He had always distrusted the handiwork of man as a place to
scramble on, and now he was planted in the dark on a decomposing
wall, with an excellent chance of breaking his neck, and with the
most urgent need for haste. He could see the windows of the House,
and, since he was sheltered from the gale, he could hear the faint
sound of blows on woodwork. There was clearly the devil to pay
there, and yet here he was helplessly stuck....Setting his teeth, he
started to ascend again. Better the fire than this cold breakneck
emptiness.

It took him the better part of half an hour to get back, and
he passed through many moments of acute fear. Footholds which had
seemed secure enough in the descent now proved impossible, and more
than once he had his heart in his mouth when a rotten ivy stump or a
wedge of stone gave in his hands, and dropped dully into the pit of
night, leaving him crazily spread-eagled. When at last he reached
the top he rolled on his back and felt very sick. Then, as he
realized his safety, his impatience revived. At all costs he would
force his way out though he should be grilled like a herring.

The smoke was less thick in the attic, and with his
handkerchief wet with the rain and bound across his mouth he made a
dash for the ground room. It was as hot as a furnace, for
everything inflammable in it seemed to have caught fire, and the
lumber glowed in piles of hot ashes. But the floor and walls were
stone, and only the blazing jambs of the door stood between him and
the outer air. He had burned himself considerably as he stumbled
downwards, and the pain drove him to a wild leap through the broken
arch, where he miscalculated the distance, charred his shins, and
brought down a red-hot fragment of the lintel on his head. But the
thing was done, and a minute later he was rolling like a dog in the
wet bracken to cool his burns and put out various smouldering
patches on his raiment.

Then he started running for the House, but, confused by the
darkness, he bore too much to the north, and came out in the side
avenue from which he and Dickson had reconnoitred on the first
evening. He saw on the right a glow in the verandah, which, as we
know, was the reflection of the flare in the hall, and he heard a
babble of voices. But he heard something more, for away on his left
was the sound which Thomas Yownie was soon to hear--the trampling of
horses. It was the police at last, and his task was to guide them
at once to the critical point of action....Three minutes later a
figure like a scarecrow was admonishing a bewildered sergeant, while
his hands plucked feverishly at a horse's bridle.

It is time to return to Dickson in his clump of rhododendrons.
Tragically aware of his impotence he listened to the tumult of the
Die-Hards, hopeful when it was loud, despairing when there came a
moment's lull, while Mrs. Morran like a Greek chorus drew loudly
upon her store of proverbial philosophy and her memory of Scripture
texts. Twice he tried to reconnoitre towards the scene of battle,
but only blundered into sunken plots and pits in the Dutch garden.
Finally he squatted beside Hrs. Morran, lit his pipe, and took a
firm hold on his patience.

It was not tested for long. Presently he was aware that a
change had come over the scene--that the Die-Hards' whistles and
shouts were being drowned in another sound, the cries of panicky
men. Dobson's bellow was wafted to him. "Auntie Phemie," he
shouted, "the innkeeper's getting rattled. Dod, I believe they're
running." For at that moment twenty paces on his left the van of the
retreat crashed through the creepers on the garden's edge and leaped
the wall that separated it from the cliffs of the Garplefoot.

The old woman was on her feet.

"God be thankit, is't the polis?"

"Maybe. Maybe no'. But they're running."

Another bunch of men raced past, and he heard Dobson's
voice.

"I tell you, they're broke. Listen, it's horses. Ay, it's
the police, but it was the Die-Hards that did the job....Here! They
mustn't escape. Have the police had the sense to send men to the
Garplefoot?"

Mrs. Morran, a figure like an ancient prophetess, with her
tartan shawl lashing in the gale, clutched him by the shoulder.

"Doun to the waterside and stop them. Ye'll no' be beat by
wee laddies! On wi' ye and I'll follow! There's gaun to be a
juidgment on evil-doers this night."

Dickson needed no urging. His heart was hot within him, and
the weariness and stiffness had gone from his limbs. He, too,
tumbled over the wall, and made for what he thought was the route by
which he had originally ascended from the stream. As he ran he made
ridiculous efforts to cry like a whaup in the hope of summoning the
Die-Hards. One, indeed, he found--Napoleon, who had suffered a
grievous pounding in the fountain, and had only escaped by an
eel-like agility which had aforetime served him in good stead with
the law of his native city. Lucky for Dickson was the meeting, for
he had forgotten the road and would certainly have broken his neck.
Led by the Die-Hard he slid forty feet over screes and boiler-plates,
with the gale plucking at him, found a path, lost it, and then
tumbled down a raw bank of earth to the flat ground beside the
harbour. During all this performance, he has told me, he had no
thought of fear, nor any clear notion what he meant to do. He just
wanted to be in at the finish of the job.

Through the narrow entrance the gale blew as through a funnel,
and the usually placid waters of the harbour were a froth of angry
waves. Two boats had been launched and were plunging furiously, and
on one of them a lantern dipped and fell. By its light he could see
men holding a further boat by the shore. There was no sign of the
police; he reflected that probably they had become entangled in the
Garple Dean. The third boat was waiting for some one.

Dickson--a new Ajax by the ships--divined who this someone
must be and realized his duty. It was the leader, the arch-enemy,
the man whose escape must at all costs be stopped. Perhaps he had
the Princess with him, thus snatching victory from apparent defeat.
In any case he must be tackled, and a fierce anxiety gripped his
heart. "Aye finish a job," he told himself, and peered up into the
darkness of the cliffs, wondering just how he should set about it,
for except in the last few days he had never engaged in combat with
a fellow-creature.

"When he comes, you grip his legs," he told Napoleon, "and get
him down. He'll have a pistol, and we're done if he's on his
feet."

There was a cry from the boats, a shout of guidance, and the
light on the water was waved madly. "They must have good eyesight,"
thought Dickson, for he could see nothing. And then suddenly he was
aware of steps in front of him, and a shape like a man rising out of
the void at his left hand.

In the darkness Napoleon missed his tackle, and the full shock
came on Dickson. He aimed at what he thought was the enemy's
throat, found only an arm, and was shaken off as a mastiff might
shake off a toy terrier. He made another clutch, fell, and in
falling caught his opponent's leg so that he brought him down. The
man was immensely agile, for he was up in a second and something hot
and bright blew into Dickson's face. The pistol bullet had passed
through the collar of his faithful waterproof, slightly singeing his
neck. But it served its purpose, for Dickson paused, gasping, to
consider where he had been hit, and before he could resume the chase
the last boat had pushed off into deep water.

To be shot at from close quarters is always irritating, and
the novelty of the experience increased Dickson's natural wrath. He
fumed on the shore like a deerhound when the stag has taken to the
sea. So hot was his blood that he would have cheerfully assaulted
the whole crew had they been within his reach. Napoleon, who had
been incapacitated for speed by having his stomach and bare shanks
savagely trampled upon, joined him, and together they watched the
bobbing black specks as they crawled out of the estuary into the
grey spindrift which marked the harbour mouth.

But as he looked the wrath died out of Dickson's soul. For he
saw that the boats had indeed sailed on a desperate venture, and
that a pursuer was on their track more potent than his breathless
middle-age. The tide was on the ebb, and the gale was driving the
Atlantic breakers shoreward, and in the jaws of the entrance the two
waters met in an unearthly turmoil. Above the noise of the wind
came the roar of the flooded Garple and the fret of the harbour, and
far beyond all the crashing thunder of the conflict at the harbour
mouth. Even in the darkness, against the still faintly grey western
sky, the spume could be seen rising like waterspouts. But it was
the ear rather than the eye which made certain presage of disaster.
No boat could face the challenge of that loud portal.

As Dickson struggled against the wind and stared, his heart
melted and a great awe fell upon him. He may have wept; it is
certain that he prayed. "Poor souls, poor souls!" he repeated. "I
doubt the last hour has been a poor preparation for eternity."

The tide the next day brought the dead ashore. Among them was
a young man, different in dress and appearance from the rest--a
young man with a noble head and a finely-cut classic face, which was
not marred like the others from pounding among the Garple rocks.
His dark hair was washed back from his brow, and the mouth, which
had been hard in life, was now relaxed in the strange innocence of
death.

Dickson gazed at the body and observed that there was a slight
deformation between the shoulders.

"Poor fellow," he said. "That explains a lot....As my father
used to say, cripples have a right to be cankered."