A Gallant Poacher

From “John MacNab”

By

John Buchan

   When the Hispana crossed the Bridge of Larrig, His Majesty’s late Attorney-General was modestly concealed in a bush of broom on the Crask side, from which he could watch the sullen stretches of the Land Whang. He was carefully dressed for the part in a pair of Wattie Lithgow’s old trousers much too short for him, a waistcoat and jacket which belonged to Sime the butler and which had been made about the year 1890, and a vulgar flannel shirt borrowed from Shapp. He was innocent of a collar, he had not shaved for two days, and as he had forgotten to have his hair cut before leaving London his locks were of a disreputable length. Last, he had a shocking old hat of Sir Archie’s from which the lining had long since gone. His hands were sunburnt and grubby, and he had removed his signet-ring. A light ten-foot greenheart rod lay beside him, already put up, and to the tapered line was fixed a tapered cast ending in a strange little cocked fly. As he waited, he was busy oiling fly and line.

   His glass showed him an empty haugh, save for the figure of Jimsie at the far end close to the Wood of Larrigmore. The sun-warmed waters of the river drowsed in the long dead stretches, curled at rare intervals by the faintest western breeze. The banks were crisp green turf, scarcely broken by a boulder, but five yards from them the moss began – a wilderness of hags and tussocks. Somewhere in its depths he knew that Benjie lay coiled like an adder, waiting on events.

   Leithen’s plan, like all great strategy, was simple. Everything depended on having Jimsie out of sight of the Lang Whang for half an hour. Given that, he believed he might kill a salmon. He had marked out a pool where in the evening fish were usually stirring, one of those irrational haunts which no piscatorial psychologist has ever explained. If he could fish fine and far, he might cover it from a spot below a high bank where only the top of his rid would be visible to watchers at a distance. Unfortunately, that spot was on the other side of the stream. With such tackle, landing a salmon would be a critical business, but there was one chance in ten that it might be accomplished; Benjie would be at hand to conceal the fish, and he himself would disappear silently into the Crask thickets. But every step bristled with horrid dangers. Jimsie might be faithful to his post—in which case it was hopeless; he might find the salmon dour, or a fish might break him in the landing, or Jimsie might return to find him brazenly tethered to forbidden game. It was no good thinking about it. On one thing he was decided; if he were caught, he would not try to escape. That would mean retreat in the direction of Crask, and an exploration of the Crask covers would assuredly reveal what must at all costs be concealed. No. He would go quietly into captivity, and trust to his base appearance to be let off with a drubbing.

   As he waited, watching the pools turn from gold to bronze, as the sun sank behind the Glenraden peaks, he suffered the inevitable reaction. The absurdities seemed huge as mountains, the difficulties innumerable as the waves of the sea. There remained less than an hour in which there would be sufficient light to fish—Jimsie was immovable (he had just lit his pipe and was sitting in meditation on a big stone)—every moment the Larrig waters were cooling with the chill of the evening. Leithen consulted his watch, and found it half-past eight. He had lost his wrist-watch, and had brought his hunter, attached to a thin gold chain. That was foolish, so he slipped the chain from his buttonhole and drew it through the arm of his waistcoat.

   Suddenly he rose to his feet, for things were happening at the far end of the haugh. Jimsie stood in an attitude of expectation—he seemed to be hearing something far up-stream. Leithen heard it too, the cry of excited men … Jimsie stood on one foot for a moment in doubt, then he turned and doubled toward the Wood of Larrigmore …. The gallant Crossby had got to business and was playing hare to the hounds inside the park wall. If human nature had not changed, Leithen thought, the whole force would presently join in the chase—Angus and Lennox and Jimsie and Davie and doubtless many volunteers. Heaven send fleetness and wind to the South Londor Harrier, for it was his duty to occupy the interest of every male in Strathlarrig till such time as he subsided with angry expostulations in captivity.

   The road was empty, the valley was deserted, when Leithen raced across the bridge and up the south side of the river. It was not two hundred yards to his chosen stand, a spit of gravel below a high bank at the tail of a long pool. Close to the other bank, nearly thirty yards off, was the shelf where fish lay of an evening. He tested the water with his hand, and its temperature was at least sixty degrees. His theory, which he had learned long ago from the aged Bostonian, was that under such conditions some subconscious memory revived in salmon of their early days as parr when they fed on surface insects, and that they could be made to take a dry fly.

   He got out his line to the required length with half a dozen casts in the air, and then put his fly three feet above the spot where a salmon was wont to lie. It was a curious type of cast, which he had been practicing lately in the early morning, for by an adroit check he made the fly alight in a curl, so that it floated for a second or two with the leader in a straight line away from it. In this way he believed that the most suspicious fish would see nothing to alarm him, nothing but a hapless insect derelict on the water.

Sir Archie had spoken truth in describing Leithen to Wattie Lithgow as an artist. His long, straight, delicate casts were art indeed. Like thistledown the fly dropped, like thistledown it floated over the head of the salmon, but like thistledown it was disregarded. There was, indeed, a faint stirring of curiosity. From where he stood Leithen could see that slight ruffling of the surface which means an observant fish ….

   Already ten minutes had been spent in this barren art. The crisis craved other measures.

   His new policy meant a short line, so with infinite stealth and care Leithen waded up the side of the water, sometimes treading precarious ledges of peat, sometimes waist-deep in mud and pondweed, till he was within twenty feet of the fishing-ground. Here he had not the high bank for a shelter, and would have been sadly conspicuous to Jimsie, had that sentinel remained at his post. He crouched low and cast as before with the same curl just ahead of the chosen spot.

   But now his tactics were different. So soon as the fly had floated past where he believed the fish to be, he sank it by a dexterous twist of the rod-point, possible only with a short line. The fly was no longer a winged thing; drawn away under water, it roused in the salmon early memories of succulent nymphs. … At the first cast there was a slight swirl which meant that a fish near the surface had turned to follow the lure. The second cast the line straightened and moved swiftly up-stream.

   Leithen had killed in his day many hundreds of salmon—once in Norway a notable beast of fifty-five pounds. But no salmon he had ever hooked stirred in his breast such excitement as this modest fellow of eight pounds. “’Tis not so side as a church-door,” he reflected with Mercutio, “but ‘twill suffice—if I can only land him. But a dry-fly cast and a ten-foot rod are a frail wherewithal for killing a fish against time. With his ordinary fifteen-footer and gut of moderate strength he could have brought the little salmon to grass in five minutes, but now there was immense risk of a break, and a break would mean that the whole enterprise had failed. He dared not exert pressure; on the other hand, he could not follow the fish except by making himself conspicuous on the greensward. Worst of all, he had at the best ten minutes on the job.

   Thirty yards off, an otter slid into the water. Leithen wished he was King of the Otters, as in the Highland tale, to summon the brute to his aid.

   The ten minutes had lengthened to fifteen—nine hundred seconds of heart disease—when, wet to the waist, he got his pocket gaff into the salmon’s side and drew it on to the spit of gravel where he had started fishing. A dozen times he thought he had lost, and once when the fish ran straight up the pool his line was carried out to its last yard of backing. He gave thanks to high Heaven, when, as he landed it, he observed that the fly had all but lost its hold and in another minute would have been freed. By such narrow margins are great deeds accomplished. 

   He snapped the cast from the line and buried it in mud. Then cautiously he raised his head above the high bank. The gloaming was gathering fast, and so far as he could see the haugh was still empty. Pushing his rod along the ground he scrambled on to the turf.

Then he had a grievous shock. Jimsie had reappeared, and he was in full view of him. Moreover, there were two men on bicycles coming up the road, who, with the deplorable instinct of human nature, would be certain to join in any pursuit. He was on turf as short as a lawn, cumbered with a telltale rod and a poached salmon. The friendly hags were a dozen yards off, and before he could reach them his damning baggage would be noted.

   At this supreme moment he had an inspiration, derived from the memory of the otter. To get out his knife, he cut a ragged wedge from the fish, and roll it in his handkerchief was the work of three seconds. To tilt the rod over the bank so that it lay in the deep shadow was three more …. Jimsie had seen him, for a wild cry came down the stream, a cry which brought the cyclists off their machines and set them staring in his direction. Leithen dropped his gaff after the rod, and began running towards the Larrig Bridge—slowly, limpingly, like a frightened man with no resolute purpose of escape. As he ran he prayed that Benjie from the deeps of the moss had seen what had been done and drawn the proper inference.

   It was a bold bluff, for he had decided to make the salmon evidence for, not against, him. He hobbled down the bank, looking over his shoulder often as if in terror, and almost ran into the arms of the cyclists, who, warned by Jimsie’s yells, were waiting to intercept him. He dodged them, however, and cut across the road, for he had seem that Jimsie had paused and had noted the salmon lying blatantly on the sward, a silver splash in the twilight. Leithen doubled up the road as if going towards Strathlarrig, and Jimsie, the fleet of foot, did not catch up with him till almost on the edge of the Wood of Larrimore. The cyclists, who had remounted, arrived at the same moment to find a wretched muddy tramp in the grip of a stalwart but breathless gillie.

   “I tell ye I was daein’ nae harm,” the tramp whined, “I was walkin’ up the waterside—there’s nae a law to keep a body frae walkin’ up a waterside when there’s nae fence—and I seen an auld otter killin’ a saumon. The fish is there still to prove I’m no leein’.”

   “There is a fush, but you was thinkin’ to steal the fush, and you would have had it in your breeks if I hana seen you. That is poachin’, ma man, and you will come up to Strathlarrig. The master said that any one goin’ near the watter was to be lockit up, and you will be lockit up. You can tell all the lees you like in the mornin’.”

Then a thought struck Jimsie. He wanted the salmon, for the subject of otters in the Larrig had long been a matter of dispute between him and Angus, and here was evidence for his own view.

   “Would you two gentlemen oblige me by watchin’ this man while I rin back and get the fush? Bash him on the head if he offers to rin.”

   The cyclists, who were journalists out to enjoy the evening air, willingly agreed, but    Leithen showed no wish to escape. He begged a fag in a beggar’s whine, and since he seemed peaceful, the two kept a good distance for fear of infection. He stood making damp streaks in the dusty road, a pitiable specimen of humanity, for his original get-up was not improved by the liquefaction of his clothes and a generous legacy of slimy peat. He seemed to be nervous, which, indeed, he was, for if Benjie had not seized his chance he was utterly done, and if Jimsie should light upon his rod he was gravely compromised.

   But when Jimsie returned in a matter of ten minutes it was empty-handed.

“I never kenned the like,” he proclaimed. “That otter has come back and gotten the fush. Act, the maleecious brute!”

   The rest of Leithen’s progress was not triumphant. He was conducted to the Strathlarrig lodge, where Angus, whose temper and wind had like been ruined by the pursuit of Crossby, laid savage hands upon him, and frog-marched him to the back of the premises. The head keeper scarcely heeded Jimsie’s tale. “Ach, ye poachin’ va-aga-bond. It is the jyle ye’ll get,” he roared, for Angus was in a mood which could only be relieved by violence of speech and action. Rumbling Gaelic imprecations, he hustled his prisoner into an outhouse, which had once been a larder and was now a supplementary garage, slammed and locked the door, and, as a final warning, kicked it viciously with his foot, as if to signify what awaited the culprit when the time came to sit on his case.

   Early next morning when the great door of Strathlarrig House was opened and the maids had begun their work, Oliphant, the butler—a stately man who had been trained in a ducal family—crossed the hall to reconnoiter the outer world. There he found an under-housemaid, nursing a strange package which she averred she had found on the doorstep. It was some two feet long, swathed in brown paper, and attached to its string was a letter inscribed to Mr. Junius Bandicott.

  The parcel was clammy and Oliphant handled it gingerly. He cut the cord, disentangled the letter, and revealed an oblong of green rushes bound with string. The wrapping must have been insecure, for something forthwith slipped from the rushes and flopped on the marble floor, revealing to Oliphant’s disgusted eyes a small salmon, blue and stiff in death.

   At that moment Junius, always an early bird, came whistling downstairs. So completely was he convinced of the inviolability of the Strathlarrig waters that the spectacle caused him no foreboding.

   “What are you flinging faish abot for, Oliphant?” he asked cheerfully.

The butler presented him with the envelope. He opened it and extracted a dirty half-sheet of notepaper, on which was printed in capitals, “With the compliments of John MacNab.”

   Amazement, chagrin, amusement followe each other on Junius’s open countenance. Then he picked up the fish and marched out of doors shouting “Angus” at the top of a notably powerful voice. The second brought the scared face of Professor Babwater to his bedroom window.

   Angus, who had been up since four, appeared from Lady Maisie’s pool where he had been contemplating the waters. His vigil had not improved his appearance or his temper, for his eye was read and choleric and his beard was wild as a mountain goat’s. He cast one look at the salmon, surmised the truth, and held up imploring hands to Heaven.

   “John Macna!” said Junius sternly. “What have you got to say to that?”

Angus had nothing audible to say. He was holding the fish with feverish hands and peering at its jaws, and presently under his fingers a segment fell out.

“That fush was cleekit,” observed Lennox, who had come up. “It was never catched with a  fleet.”

   “Ye’re a leear,” Angus rared. “Just tak a look at the mouth of it. There’s the mark of the huke, ye gommeril. The fush was took wi’ a rod and line.”

   “You reckon it was,” observed Junius. “I trust John Macnab to abide by the rules of the game.”

   Suddenly light seemed to break in on Angus’s soul. He bellowed for Jimsie, who was placidly making his way towards the group at the door, lighting his pipe as he went.

   “Look at that, James Mackenzie. Ay, look at it. Feast your een on it. You wass tellin’ me there wass otters in the Larrig and I said there wass not. You wass tellin’ me there wass an otter had a fush last night at the Land Whang. There’s your otter and be damned to ye!”

Jimsie, slow of comprehension, rubbed his eyes. “Where wass you findin’ the fush? Ay, it’s the one I seen last night. That otter must be wrang in the heid.”

   “It is not wrang in the head. Ht’s you that are wrang in the heid, James Mackenzie. The otter is a ver-ra clever man, and its name will be John Macnab.”

   Slowly enlightenment dawned on Jimsie’s mind.

   “He was the tramp,” he ingeminated. “He was the tramp.”

   “And he’s still lockit up,” Angus cried joyfully.

   “Wait till I get my hands on him,” He was striding off for the garage when a word from Junius held him back.

   “You won’t find him there. I gave orders last night to let him go. You know, Angus, you told me he was only a tramp that had been seen walking up the river.”

   “We will catch him yet!” cried the vindictive head keeper. “Get you on your bicycle, Jimsie, and away after him. He’ll be on the Muirtown road—There’s just the one road he can travel.”

   “No, you don’t,” said Junius, “I don’t want him here. He has beaten us fairly in a match of wits, and the business is finished.”

   “But the thing’s no’ possible,” Jimsie moaned. “The skeeliest fisher would not take a saumon in the Land Whang with a flee…. And I wasna away many meenutes …. And the tramp was a poor shilpit body—not like a fisher or any kind of gentleman at all—at all…. And he handna a rod…. The thing’s no’ possible.”

   “I think it was the Deevil.”