‘“Oh,” I cries, “stop, man, or you’ll ding me silly.”
‘But he says never a word, just glowrin’ at me.
‘“Aye, Gidden, and waur than that. For they put ye in a great loch wi’ big waves just like the sea at the Pier o’ Leith. And there’s nae chance o’ soomin’, for as sune as ye put out your airms a billow gulfs ye down. Then ye swallow water and your heid dozes round and ye’re chokin’. But ye canna die, ye must just thole. And down ye gang, down, down, in the cruel deep, till your heid’s like to burst and your een are fu’ o’ bluid. And there’s a’ kind o’ fearfu’ monsters about, muckle slimy things wi’ blind een and white scales, that claw at ye wi’ claws just like the paws o’ a drooned dog. And ye canna get away though ye fecht and fleech, and bye and bye ye’re fair mad wi’ horror and choking and the feel o’ thae awfu’ things. Then—”
‘But now I think something snapped in my heid, and I went daft in doonricht earnest. The man before me danced about like a lantern’s shine on a windy nicht and then disappeared. And I woke yelling like a pig at a killing, fair wud wi’ terror, and my skellochs made the rocks ring. I found mysel in the pool a’ but yae airm – the broken yin – which had hankit in a crack o’ rock. Nae wonder I had been dreaming o’ deep waters among the torments o’ the Ill Place, when I was in them mysel. The pain in my airm was sae fearsome and my heid was gaun round sae wi’ horror that I just skirled on and on, shrieking and groaning wi’oot a thocht what I was daein’. I was as near death as ever I will be, and as for Mr Airthur he was on the very nick o’ ’t, for by this time he was a’ in the water, though I still kept a grip o’ him.
‘When I think ower it often I wonder how it was possible that I could be here the day. But the Lord’s very gracious, and he works in a queer way. For it so happened that Ebie Blackstock, whae had left Gledsmuir an hour afore me and whom I thocht by this time to be snorin’ in his bed at the Head o’ the Hope, had gone intil the herd’s house at the Waterfit, and had got sae muckle drink there that he was sweered to start for hame till aboot half-past twal i’ the night. Weel, he was comin’ up the burnside, gey happy and contentit, for he had nae wife at hame to speir about his ongaeings, when, as he’s telled me himsel, he heard sic an uproar doon by the Black Linn that made him turn pale and think that the Deil, whom he had long served, had gotten him at last. But he was a brave man, was Ebie, and he thinks to himsel that some fellow-creature micht be perishin’. So he gangs forrit wi’ a’ his pith, trying to think on the Lord’s Prayer and last Sabbath’s sermon. And, lookin’ ower the edge, he saw naething for a while, naething but the black water wi’ the awfu’ yells coming out o’ ’t. Then he made out something like a heid near the side. So he rins doon by the road, no ower the rocks as I had come, but round by the burnside road, and soon he gets to the pool, where the crying was getting aye fainter and fainter. And then he saw me. And he grips me by the collar, for he was a sensible man, was Ebie, and hauls me oot. If he hadna been geyan strong he couldna hae dune it, for I was a deid wecht, forbye having a heavy man hanging on to me. When he got me up, what was his astonishment to find anither man at the end o’ my airm, a man like a corp a’ bloody about the heid. So he got us baith out, and we twae baith senseless; and he laid us in a safe bit back frae the water, and syne gaed off for help. So bye and bye we were baith got home, me to my house and Mr Airthur up to the Lodge.’
‘And was that the end of it?’ I asked.
‘Na,’ said the shepherd. ‘I lay for twae month there ravin’ wi’ brain fever, and when I cam to my senses I was as weak as a bairn. It was many months ere I was mysel again, and my left airm to this day is stiff and no muckle to lippin to. But Mr Airthur was far waur, for the dad he had gotten on the rock was thocht to have broken his skull, and he lay long atween life and death. And the warst thing was that his faither was sae vexed about him that he never got ower the shock, but dee’d afore Airthur was out o’ bed. And so when he cam out again he was My Lord, and a monstrously rich man.’
The shepherd puffed meditatively at his pipe for a few minutes.
‘But that’s no a’ yet. For Air Airthur wad tak nae refusal but that I maun gang awa’ doon wi’ him to his braw house in England and be a land o’ factor or steward or something like that. And I had a rale fine cottage a’ to mysel, wi’ a very bonny gairden and guid wages, so I stayed there maybe sax month and then I gaed up till him. “I canna bide nae longer,” says I. “I canna stand this place. It’s far ower laigh, and I’m fair sick to get hills to rest my een on. I’m awfu’ gratefu’ to ye for your kindness, but I maun gie up my job.” He was very sorry to lose me, and was for giein’ me a present o’ money or stockin’ a fairm for me, because he said that it was to me he owed his life. But I wad hae nane o’ his gifts. “It wad be a terrible thing,” I says, “to tak siller for daein’ what ony body wad hae dune out o’ pity.” So I cam awa’ back to Standlan, and I maun say I’m rale contentit here. Mr Airthur used whiles to write to me and ca’ in and see me when he cam North for the shooting; but since he’s gane sae far wrang wi’ the Tories, I’ve had naething mair to dae wi’ him.’
I made no answer, being busy pondering in my mind on the depth of the shepherd’s political principles, before which the ties of friendship were as nothing.
‘Ay,’ said he, standing up, ‘I did what I thocht my duty at the time and I was rale glad I saved the callant’s life. But now, when I think on a’ the ill he’s daein’ to the country and the Guid Cause, I whiles think I wad hae been daein’ better if I had just drappit him in.
‘But whae kens? It’s a queer warld.’ And the shepherd knocked the ashes out of his pipe.
The title of the story comes from Psalm 126 – ‘As streams of water in the South/Our bondage, Lord, recall’ – and this becomes a refrain throughout the story. Written in 1896, it appeared in slightly different versions (rather unusually) in two of Buchan’s collections of short stories – Grey Weather (1899) and The Moon Endureth (1912). It is yet another exploration of the relationship between the country folk of the Upper Tweed Valley and the forces of nature.
As streams of water in the South,
Our bondage, Lord, recall.
Psalm CXXVI
Scots Metrical Version
I
It was at the ford of the Clachlands Water in a tempestuous August that I, an idle boy, first learned the hardships of the Lammas droving. The shepherd of the Redswirehead, my very good friend, and his three shaggy dogs, were working for their lives in an angry water. The path behind was thronged with scores of sheep bound for the Gledsmuir market, and beyond it was possible to discern through the mist the few dripping dozen which had made the passage. Between raged yards of brown foam coming down from murky hills, and the air echoed with the yelp of dogs and the perplexed cursing of men.
Before I knew I was helping in the task, with water lapping round my waist and my arms filled with a terrified sheep. It was no light task, for though the water was no more than three feet deep it was swift and strong, and a kicking hogg is a sore burden. But this was the only road; the stream might rise higher at any moment; and somehow or other those bleating flocks had to be transferred to their fellows beyond. There were six men at the labour, six men and myself, and all were cross and wearied and heavy with water.
I made my passages side by side