The Buccaneer Farmer - Harold Bindloss
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After all, it was, for the most part, carelessness, because he did not
know Hayes as she knew him. Still, she had not undertaken an easy thing
and she braced herself as she went up the steps of the new terrace. Grace
hated the terrace. It was the price they, the Osborns, had taken for a
shabby deed, and for which poor people and hard-worked women paid. Grace
knew about the extra dust that peat fires caused and how often the bread
was spoiled.
When she entered the library Osborn was studying some documents. He
looked up impatiently, and she said, "I was at Mireside. Railton's no
better and is much disturbed about his lease."
"Not more disturbed than he deserves!" Osborn rejoined. "The fellow has
been getting slack for some time; he sold his store sheep imprudently and
let the flock run down."
"He has been ill and the weather has been bad for some years."
"Exactly. A cautious man provides for bad years; he knows they
will come."
Grace was surprised her father did not see that his statement had a
humorous touch, since improvident extravagance was his rule; but it was
obvious that he did not.
"One cannot save much money when rents are high and prices are low."
"Do you know much about these matters?" Osborn asked.
"I have heard the farmers talk. Sometimes I ask them questions."
Osborn frowned. "You talk too much to the farmers. I don't like it. You
know this."
"Well," said Grace, "I think you ought not to break Railton's lease."
"Why?"
Grace hesitated. She began to see that Osborn could not be moved, but she
had undertaken to plead Railton's cause.
"He's an old man and has been at Mireside all his life. He has worked
hard and always paid his rent. Now he's ill and in trouble, it would be
shabby to turn him out because there's a risk--it's only a risk--that we
might lose something by letting him stay."
"You don't seem to understand a landlord's duty," Osborn rejoined. "He
is, so to speak, the steward in charge of the estate; it belongs to the
family and is not his. He must hand it on in good order and this means he
cannot indulge his sentimental impulses. If he keeps a bad tenant from
pity, or because he's afraid to seem harsh, he robs his heir."
Grace knew there were other, and perhaps worse, ways of robbing one's
heir; but she said, "Aren't you taking Hayes's view that Railton is a bad
tenant? After all, we are responsible."
"Then you suggest that Hayes is mistaken?" Osborn asked ironically.
"I don't know if he's mistaken or not," said Grace, with a steady look.
"I know he's greedy and unjust. But there's a thing you ought not to let
him do. Railton has lost forty sheep, that have strayed back to Swinset,
and Hayes doesn't mean to count them in the tally."
Osborn's face got red and he knitted his brows. "I have tried to be
patient; but this is too much! Do you know more about managing an estate
than a clever agent? Or do you think I'm a fool and Hayes leads me like a
child? Anyhow, you are much too young to criticize my actions. Let us
have no more of it! An unmarried girl is not entitled to opinions that
clash with her parents'."
Grace went out silently. To know that she had failed hurt her pride, and
it hurt worse to suspect that her father had got angry because he knew
she was right. Besides, she felt strangely alone; as she had often felt
since she came home. Gerald was careless and thought about nothing but
his extravagant amusements; her mother's main object was to avoid jars
and smooth over awkward situations. Then, she had household cares; money
was scarce, and since Osborn hated self-denial, she must economize. Grace
could not tell her her troubles; but there was a way by which Railton
might save his lease and Kit could help. Getting a pencil and paper, she
wrote him a very short note:
"You must find Railton's sheep."
Then, knowing that she was rash, she went to look for the gardener's boy,
and sent him to Ashness.
CHAPTER VI
BLEATARN GHYLL
It was getting dark when Kit and Tom, the shepherd, stopped to rest
behind a cairn on the summit of Swinset moor. Close by, the two score
sheep stood in a compact flock, with heads towards the panting dogs. They
were Herdwicks, a small, hardy breed that best withstands the rain and
snow that sweep the high fells in the lambing season. When he had lighted
his pipe, Kit thoughtfully looked about.
On one side the barren moor, getting dim in the distance, rolled back to
the edge of the low country. Here and there patches of melting sleet
gleamed a livid white among the withered ling, and storm-torn hummocks of
peaty soil shone dark chocolate-brown. These were the only touches of
color in the dreary landscape, except for the streak of pale-yellow sky
that glimmered above a long black ridge. On the other side, a line of
rugged fells with summits lost in snow clouds, rose dark and forbidding.
It was very cold and a biting wind swept the heath.
Kit was tired, for he had been on the moor since morning and had not
eaten much. It was an awkward matter to find the sheep, and then the men
and dogs had some difficulty to keep the ewes moving, because the
Herdwick never willingly leaves the neighborhood where it was born and
will, if possible, return. The lambs, now grown large and fat, gave less
trouble, and when they sometimes stopped irresolutely while the ewes
tried to break away Kit understood their hesitation. Two instincts were
at work: it was natural to follow their dams, but Mireside was their
native heath and they knew they were going to be taken home.
Now they had gone some distance, Kit had to make a choice. One could
reach Mireside by a rough moor-land road, but it went round the hills and
there was a shorter way across the range. If he went round, he might
arrive late for the reckoning and some of the lambs would get footsore
and stop. On the other hand, he knew the fells and shrank from trying to
find his way among the crags in the dark. It was, however, important that
he should not be late. Hayes was hard, and the Herdwicks must arrive in
time to be tallied with the rest of Railton's flock. In the dale, a
tenant had a traditional right to have his sheep valued by a jury of his
neighbors and Hayes had fixed the time at eight o'clock next day. The
animals, however, must be sorted and penned before this, and the work
would begin early in the morning.
"We had better try the fells, Tom," said Kit.
The shepherd looked at the threatening sky and fading line of
rugged heights.
"Aw, yes. It's gan t' be a rough neet, but we'll try 't. We can rest a
bit at oad mine-house this side Bleatarn ghyll."
Now their route was fixed, Kit mused about something else. Railton was
his neighbor, but, except for this, Kit had no particular grounds for
helping him; he had obviously nothing to gain. Then, the peat-cutting was
his plan; he had, without altogether meaning to do so, allowed himself to
become the leader of the revolt against Osborn. In a way, of course, he
was the proper man, because Ashness belonged to his father, and Hayes
could not punish him for meddling. Still, Hayes could punish the tenant
farmers and Kit knew they ran some risk.
On the whole, he thought the risk worth while. He had a talent that was
beginning to develop for leading and saw when one could negotiate and
when one must fight. He did not want to fight Osborn, but was being
forced into the conflict, and it was comforting to feel that Miss Osborn
was not against him. Her note, telling him he must find the sheep, was in
his pocket, and he thought it had cost her something to write. She was
generous and plucky and he must not hesitate. After all, the job was his
and since he had accepted it, he must, if needful, bear the consequences.
Knocking out his pipe, he got up.
"We'll make a start, Tom," he said.
The shepherd shouted to the dogs, the flock broke up and trailed out
across the heath. The ewes moved slowly, turning now and then, and Kit
thought it ominous that they met other flocks coming down. The Herdwicks
knew the weather and were heading for the sheltered dales. For all that,
he pushed on, with a bitter wind in his face, and by and by cold rain
began to fall. It changed to sleet and the night had got very dark when
they crossed the shoulder of a stony fell. One could not see fifty yards,
but the steepness of the slope and the click of little hoofs on the wet
rock told Kit where they were.
Two hours afterwards, he stopped for breath at the bottom of a narrow
valley. The sleet had turned to driving snow, the wind howled in the
rocks above, and a swollen beck brawled angrily among the stones. Tom was
hardly distinguishable a few yards ahead and Kit could not see the sheep,
but the barking of the dogs came faintly down the steep white slope. The
Herdwicks were strung out along the hillside, with a dog below and above,
and it was comforting to know they could not leave the valley, which was
shut in by rugged crags. For a time, driving them would be easy; but it
would be different when they left the water and climbed the rise to
Bleatarn ghyll.
"How far are we off the mine-house, Tom?" he shouted.
"I dinna ken," said the shepherd. "Mayhappen two miles. Ewes is
travelling better; t'lambs is leading them."
Kit agreed, and they pushed on through the snow. After a time, the ground
got steeper, and when they crossed the noisy beck and scrambled up a
shaly bank, Kit was glad to see a broken wall loom among the tossing
flakes. This was the shaft-house of an abandoned mine, and there was a
sheep-fold, built with pulled-down material, close by. He shouted and
waited until he heard the dogs bark and a rattle of stones. The Herdwicks
were coming down and presently broke out from the snow in a compact,
struggling flock. Tom shouted and threw a hurdle across the entrance when
the dogs had driven the sheep into the fold.
"I dinna ken if snow'll tak' off or not, but it's early yet and we must
have a rest before we try ghyll," he said.
They went into the shaft-house and Kit struck a match. One end of the
building had been pulled down and the snow blew in through holes in the
roof, but a pile of dry fern filled a corner and rotten beams lay
about. With some trouble, they lighted a fire and, sitting down close
by, took out the food they had brought. The wind screamed about the
ruined walls, the smoke eddied round them, and now and then a shower of
snow fell on their heads, but they had some shelter and could, if
forced, wait for morning.
"Miss Osborn's a bonny lass and kind; but I reckon she couldn't talk her
father round," Tom presently remarked.
"No," said Kit. "I believe she tried."
"Favors her mother," Tom resumed. "Mrs. Osborn's heart is good, but at
Tarnside women dinna count. It's a kind o' pity, because t' Osborn
menfolk are lakers and always was."
A _laker_ is a lounging pleasure-seeker and Kit admitted that the remark
was justified.
"I sometimes think Osborn means well," he said.
"Mayhappen! For aw his ordering folks aboot, he's wake; like his father,
I mind him weel. Might mak' a fair landlord if he was letten and had t'
money; but oad Hayes is grasping and always at his tail."
"The rent-roll's good. The estate could be managed well."
"There's t' mortgages and Osborn canna keep money. When he has it he must
spend. There would be nea poor landlord's, if I had my way. I'd let them
putten rents up if they had money and spent it on the land. Low rent
means poor farming."
Kit knew this was true on the Tarnside estate. Dykes that had kept the
floods off the meadows were falling down, drains were choked, and land
that had grown good crops was going sour. The wise use of capital would
make a wholesome change, but Kit did not altogether like centralized
control. Although it was economical, the landlord got the main advantage,
and there was much a farmer could do, in cooperation with his neighbors,
to help himself, if his lease was long enough. Then, joint action was
once common in the dale. Men pooled their labor and implements at hay
time and harvest, and combined for their mutual benefit in other ways.
Now it looked as if they might combine again.
"Are they grumbling much at Allerby about burning peat?" he asked.
"T' women grumble," Tom said dryly. "But they willunt stop, for aw the
dirt peat maks an' they canna get ovens hot. I reckon Bell has mair coal
coming in than he can get shut of. When I was at station last t' yards
was nearly full."
"I rather think Bell has been too greedy. He must pay for the coal as it
arrives and his money is probably getting short; the traction engine and
trailer cost a good sum, and he has spent something on the lime-kilns. In
fact, if we hold on, he's bound to give way."
"Then we'll brek him. Our folks are slow to fratch, but they're not quick
at letting go," said Tom, who paused and added: "I wunner where Bell got
his money; he had none when he took a job at mill in oad Osborn's time."
This started Kit on another line of thought. Bell had, no doubt, saved
something, for he was parsimonious, and was too keen a business man to
leave his money in the bank. All he made by one speculation was sunk in
another; but, after allowing for this, it was hard to see where he got
the capital for his numerous ventures. Kit wondered whether Hayes helped;
if he did, it was not from friendship. The agent was clever and might be
playing a cunning game, in which he used both Osborn and Bell. In fact,
Kit thought if he were Osborn he would watch Hayes. This, however, was
not his business, and getting up he went to a hole in the wall.
It was snowing very hard; he could see nothing but a haze of tossing
flakes, and the wind filled the valley with its roar. He could hardly
hear the beck a few yards off.
"The drifts will be getting deep, but we can't start yet," he said. "If
we miss the track at the top, there's nothing to stop us falling over the
Ling Crag."
Tom agreed, and Kit shivered when he sat down again. He was cold and
tired, and the worst part of the journey must yet be made. Looking at his
watch he resigned himself to wait, and leaned back with eyes closed
against the wall while a wet dog crouched at his feet. An hour or two
passed and then Tom got up.
"Snow's takin' off," he said. "We must try it."
Kit, pulling himself together, went out and faced the storm. The snow was
thinner, but the wind had not dropped and buffeted him savagely as he
struggled through a drift to the fold. The dogs had some trouble to drive
out the sheep, and when they straggled through the opening Kit imagined
the lambs went in front. In a few moments the flock vanished, and he
breathed hard as he followed their track up hill. Now and then the dogs
barked, but for the most part he heard nothing except the roar of the
wind in the crags. He hoped the dogs could find the path across the
narrow tableland between two branching ghylls, because it was obvious
that his judgment might be at fault. However, there were the lambs; one
could trust a Herdwick to return to its heaf.
When he reached the top the wind had blown away the snow, and he stood
near the middle of a narrow belt of heath, with his feet sinking in a
bog. On each side, he got a glimpse of dark rocks, streaked with white
where the wind had packed the snow into the gullies. In front there was a
gulf, down which his path led. Scattered snowflakes and rolling mist
streamed up from the forbidding hollow. At first he could see nothing of
the sheep, but as he floundered across the bog the dogs barked and he
found them presently, guarding the flock in a hollow among the crags.
The sheep broke away and Kit pushed on across the narrow belt of bog that
was dotted by the marks of little feet. Sometimes he slackened his pace
to wait for Tom; the shepherd was getting old and the long climb had
tired him. Both stopped for some moments when they reached the brow of
the descent, and Kit, bracing himself against the storm tried to look
about. He thought he saw the flock close in front.
"They seem doubtful where to go," he said.
"We can do nowt but leave them to find t' ghyll," the shepherd remarked.
Kit agreed. Bleatarn ghyll was beneath him, but there was another hollow
and it is hard to walk straight down hill in the dark. He must trust the
sheep, and, huddling close together, they refused to leave the crag. When
the dogs drove them out they vanished, and since the ground was bare of
snow they left no tracks. He stumbled on, falling into pools and
stumbling across banks of stones, and soon stopped again. He had come
down the slope, so to speak, blindly, and now stood on the edge of a
vast, dark pit. One could not see beyond the edge, but the confused
noises that came up hinted at profound depth. The gale shrieked, but he
heard the roar of falling water and the rattle of stones the wind
dislodged.
"Do you think this is Beatarn ghyll?" he asked.
"I dinna ken," Tom answered; and added hopefully, "if it's t'ither, we'll
mayhappen find oot before we step over Ling Crag."
They went down at a venture, whistling vainly for the dogs. The drop was
very sharp, and now they were leaving the wind-swept pass, the snow had
begun to pack among the stones and boggy grass. Still, so far as they
could see, there were no marks of little feet and they wondered what had
happened to the flock, until a faint bark came out of the mist. The noise
got louder and Kit knew the dogs were running round the stopping sheep.
"We're right," he said. "They've gone through the broken wall and the
dogs are holding them at the top of the force."
A few minutes afterwards he scrambled over a pile of fallen stones,
shouted to Tom, and began to run, for he understood what had happened.
The broken wall marked the boundary of the Mireside heaf and the sheep
were now on familiar ground. It was his business to drive them to the
farm, but they were trying to turn off to look for shelter among the
crags. At the force, where the Bleatarn beck leaps in linked falls to the
valley, one could get down between the water and the rocks; on the other
side, a path about a foot wide led across the face of a precipice. In
daylight, if the stones were dry, a man with steady nerves could use the
path, but when slab and scree were packed with snow nothing but a
Herdwick could cross it safely. The dogs knew this and were trying to
hold the flock.
When the men came up they saw an indistinct, woolly mass on the other
side of the beck. The mass was not level but slanted sharply, and the
sheep at the bottom sent down showers of stones as they surged to and
fro, with heads turned to the dogs. It was obvious that they did not mean
to go down the ghyll, and Herdwicks born among the crags can climb where
no dog can follow.
"The dogs canna turn them," gasped Tom. "They'll be away ower Eel Scar;
they're brekkin' noo."
The flock began to open out and three or four sheep straggled forward,
but Kit's bob-tailed dog slid down a snowy slab and fell upon the first.
The sheep ran back, but the others stood and Kit saw the dog could not
stop them long. The Herdwicks knew the advantage was theirs on ground
like this.
Jumping from a boulder, he fell into the swollen beck and made his way up
the nearly perpendicular slab. At the top he found a dangerous ledge and
advanced upon the sheep, which had their backs to the stream. Twining his
fingers in a lamb's wool, he picked up the animal and balancing himself
precariously threw it as far as he could. It fell into the beck and
scrambled out on the other side, where the track led down the ghyll. The
effort had cost him much, for his heart beat and he gasped for breath,
but he doubted if he had done enough. Dragging another lamb from the
flock, he hurled it into the water, and then his foot slipped and he
rolled down the slab and fell in the snow.
He got up, badly shaken, and saw that his plan had worked. Sheep will
follow a leader and the flock was straggling down the ghyll behind the
lambs. Kit recrossed the beck and descended cautiously, keeping close to
the rocks. The ghyll is a rough climb in daylight, and summer tourists,
trying to cross the fells, often turn back at the bottom. There is no
path and one scrambles over large, sharp stones, some of which are loose
and fall at a touch. In places, banks of treacherous gravel drop to the
beck, which plunges over ledges into deep, spray-veiled pools. Now the
stones were slippery with snow, the wind raged, and mist and tossing
flakes hid the ground a few yards ahead.
Somehow he got down, but he was exhausted and breathless when he
reached the bottom, where he was forced to wait before he could whistle
to his dog. He heard its bark and stumbling forward, found the flock
bunched together in a hollow. Then he sat down in the snow while Tom
counted the sheep.
"They're aw here," said the shepherd. "A better job than I thowt we'd
mak! Weel, let's gan on."
Kit was tired, and bruised by his fall, but he went forward behind the
dogs. His troubles were over, for a broad smooth path led along the
hill-foot to Mireside.
CHAPTER VII
THE RECKONING
The morning was dark, and although the gale had dropped, a raw, cold
wind blew up the valley past Mireside farm, where three or four farmers'
traps and some rusty bicycles stood beneath the projecting roof of a
barn. The bleating of sheep rose from a boggy pasture by the beck, and
lights twinkled as men with lanterns moved about in the gloom. Now and
then somebody shouted and dogs barked as a flock of Herdwicks was driven
to the pens.
In the flagged kitchen, Mrs. Railton and Lucy bustled about by the light
of a lamp and the glow of the fire. The table was covered with used
plates and cups. The men outside had breakfasted, but one or two more
might come and Mrs. Railton wondered when Kit would arrive. She had lain
awake for the most part of the night, thinking about him and the strayed
Herdwicks while she listened to the gale. Now and then Lucy went to the
door and looked up the dale to the glimmering line of foam that marked
the spot where Bleatarn beck came down. A path followed the water-side,
but she could not see men or sheep in the gloom, and if Kit did not come
soon he would be too late.
Railton sat gloomily by the fire. He had had rheumatic fever, and the
damp cold racked his aching joints; besides, there was nothing for him to
do. He had called in his neighbors to value his flock, but he knew, to a
few pounds, what their judgment would be. Hayes Would presently arrive,
and Railton would be asked to pay, or give security for, the shortage,
which was impossible. Hayes knew this and meant to break his lease.
Perhaps the hardest thing was that the shortage was small; if the next
lambing season were good, he could pay. But Hayes would not wait.
Although Railton was too proud to beg for help from his neighbors, he had
gone to the bank. Osborn, however, used the same bank, and it looked as
if Hayes had given the manager a hint, because he refused a loan. Askew
had offered a hundred pounds, but this was not enough, and even if Kit
arrived with the sheep from Swinset, Railton could not find the rest of
the money. However, the arrival of the Herdwicks would make a difference,
and he did not altogether give up hope. By and by he tried to get up, and
sitting down again with a groan, beckoned his wife.
"Martha, you might gan to door."
Mrs. Railton, knowing what he meant, went to the porch. It was
lighter outside and the hillside was growing distinct. She thought
something moved on the path beside the beck, and turned to her
daughter, who had followed.
"What's yon by the water, Lucy?"
Lucy was silent for a few moments and then said quietly, "I think
it's sheep!"
She watched the path. The mist made a puzzling background and her eyes
were getting dazzled; but there was something. Then she heard a chair jar
on the flags and glanced at Railton, who leaned forward.
"Weel?" he said. "Canna you speak? Is neabody coming yet?"
Lucy threw another glance up the dale and her heart beat. An
indistinct row of small dark objects moved along the path, with two
tall figures behind.
"Kit's coming down the beck; he's brought the Herdwicks!" she cried.
"Canny lad!" said Railton, and leaning back limply, wiped his face.
His forehead was wet with sweat, for he was weak and the suspense had
been keen.
The sheep vanished behind a wall, and Lucy began to put fresh food on the
table. Mrs. Railton hung a kettle on a hook above the fire, and then
turned with a start as a girl came into the porch.
"Miss Osborn!" she exclaimed.
Grace advanced calmly, although there was some color in her face, because
she knew the others were surprised that she had come.
"Is Mr. Hayes here?" she asked.
"Mayhappen he's at the pens," Lucy replied. "I thought I heard his car."
"Then I missed him at the cross-roads," said Grace. "I was going to
Allerby, and my father asked me to give him a note when he stopped at
Lawson's." She hesitated, and then resumed impulsively: "Perhaps I
oughtn't to have come on; but I wanted to do so."