The Rescuers

A STORY

by DAVID WALKER

IN THAT open place the river swings away from the hill. Of a sudden caprice it turns and sweeps across the valley in a long curve, out and back. It is a perfect arc, a half-drawn bow which encloses nearly a mile of good pasture. That is the haugh, a gentle place, an oasis of flatness between the steep hills. But the river is its master, and the river can be strong.

Douglas crossed the road and went down the steep bank onto the haugh. He walked over towards the river.

Down there on the open ground he felt the full force of the gale. It swept along the valley from the west, plucking at the few tattered leaves which still dangled on the trees, and carrying them high across the sky.

After the long cold, when all the earth had been hidden under the dead brilliance of snow, the air was wonderfully exhilarating. It was the firsl call of spring, a single call which would sound loud and then would die away for many days. But it was a sign, and it told the men and the birds and the trees that soon there would be a new beginning.

In the valley the snow had nearly gone. Only in a few patches did it still lie, a wet slush soaking down into the earth, softening it and charging it with life.

At the riverbank he turned upstream, leaning against the hurrying air, feeling himself a part of the triple unity of land and sky and water.

He had lived since September in the small house above the haugh, watching and learning, searching for words to tell the lonely story of the valley. He had seen the late summer fade and sparkle into autumn, and the autumn blow away with the dead leaves. He had watched the river in its many moods — quiet, impetuous, and vicious. The trees could shed their leaves and stand bare and dark, and the hills and the sky show deepest blue or white or black—they were the framework which held but did not hinder the remorseless river. It was the river which spoke always to the people of the valley.

That evening it was still three feet below the banks, but it had the gray and shabby sullenness which came to it with rising water. Always the strong west wind brought floods from the loch; and if there were wind and melting snow and rain, you could expect a full spate.

The whole surface of the river was bobbing with ice, pale slabs which plunged and jostled their way down on the current. They did not pass silently, but in their hurrying confusion made a noise like the clinking of rough earthenware. It was a composite sound, a quiet and continuous grinding made up of a multitude of hollow noises. It was purposeful and devoid of music.

Watching the wild duck and listening to the river, he was halfway up the haugh before he noticed that there were still sheep grazing. It was a quarter to five. Reid would be coming to take them onto higher ground. He looked round but he could see no sign of the farmer coming down from the hill. Surely he would take no chance tonight, not with that wind and the quick thaw. Even the high hills had lost t heir unblemished coat ing of snow.

But it was none of his business. Reid had lived there for twenty years. He knew the river. He had seen the silver salmon jump on a quiet afternoon, and seen floods the same night. He knew the fickle river which could change from idleness to fury in one stormy hour.

Douglas came to a low place in the riverbank. The water was st ill well below it.

The first floods came up from the bottom end of the haugh, flowing back slowly over the lowest ground. That first water was harmless — no more than a big puddle spreading slowly on a field. It was only when the river stormed over this low bank near the top, and surged into the haugh, that the real flooding began. Then the hurry was on, and you could watch the whole wide sweep of water racing for the narrow places below.

He turned and walked home quickly with the wind at his back. The light had begun to fade, and already the crows were beating up against the wind. On still evenings they would come to that place at a great height, and then would dive with abandon, stooping in the wildest exuberance down almost to the ground. You would hear a thousand wings sigh with the speed of the diving, and a multitude of hoarse voices cry with delight from the sky. But tonight there were no antics. They labored below the treetops, battling their way towards the rookery at the head of the valley.

He looked back before he went into the house. The sheep were still grazing. But Reid was no fool, He would be sure to take them up if there was danger. And as day gave place to night, the wind dirl seem to be dropping. Douglas put the sheep from his mind and went inside.

2

HE WOKE up with a start. Had he heard something? No, nothing but the wind. It had risen again and was buffeting the windows and booming in the chimney. Eleven o’clock; he must have dozed for an hour. He got up from his chair to poke t he fire.

But there was a sudden rattling on the front door. It was repeated in a pattern of sound which could not be caused by the careless wind. He went to the door. “Hullo,” he said. “Come in out of that wild night.” He did not wait to ask Reid’s business but led the way into the sitting room.

Reid had his daughter with him. She was a big redhead, that girl, with soft coloring and hair as auburn as the dying bracken. A fine quiet woman, and as strong as a man.

“Have a dram, Reid,” Douglas said, pouring a stiff one.

“The floods is up,” said Reid tersely, “and the sheep are still on the haugh.”

“Still there?” said Douglas. “I wondered about them this afternoon.”

“They’d have been up the hill long syne, but we were in Perth the day and we missed the early train back. We’ve been up the road, but it’s a black night and we canna see them. I’m feared they’re cut off. The water’s rising from the bottom end already. Could ye turn the car lights over ihe haugh?”

He was a tall dark fellow, Reid, a taciturn man with no spare words. Douglas knew well enough what it would mean to him to lose his ewes. The lambing season was only a month away.

“Yes, of course,” he said. “Come on!” He picked up his torch and put on rubber boots, and the old duffel coat with a cord for a belt.

They went out into the night. No stars showed and it was very dark. The wind thundered and blustered about them, wetting their cheeks with the rain, smacking them with its own rough fingers.

Douglas backed the car from the garage and turned it so that the headlights shone towards the lower end of the haugh.

Everything within the narrow shafts of light, showed brightly. First there was the floodwatcr, rough and broken by the wind; then a narrow strip of dry ground; and just beyond that the river. It had risen since evening and was lipping the banks so that you marveled at its being held in by the tenuous strip of earth. The ice was still coming down, sparkling flcelingly in the white light, giving a measure of the ferocious current. There was a. vivid contrast between the two patches of water; you felt you saw a crazy saucer — spinning wildly on the far side, and turning back slowly on the near.

Douglas aligned the headlights stage by stage up the riverbank. In the flat light it would be difficult to distinguish the gray sheep against the brown of the winter grass. But they saw them.

“There they are!” they said together. The sheep were huddled in a group, all fifty of them, two thirds of the way up the haugh. One by one they turned their heads, their eyes glowing in the light.

“Ye could be sure the daft craters would be the wrong side o’ the ditch!” cried Reid.

The sheep were on a strip of dry land. It widened out from the narrow tongue which ran all the way along the bank. Beyond them was the river; on the near side were shallow floods; and to the left was the ditch. Already there was water in it — no more than a trace, but enough to hold back the witless sheep. “Can we get them?” asked Douglas.

“Ay, there’s a chance if we’re quick; but I doubt the wind’s si ill rising. Listen to yon!”

When they had first come out of the house the wind had been so strong that there had been no imagining a wilder gale; but it was stronger now. The pitch had risen higher. It was screaming in the Iroetops; and as if to give warning of the power, a bough fell with a heavy crash beside them. “Get in,” said Douglas. “We ll save time by driving.”

It was only a minute till he had stopped the car and they were down on the haugh. He felt a qualm of fear. Every step took them further from the safety of the hillside, exposed them more to the danger which was brimming beyond the bank. If the bank should burst — or if there was a sudden rise . . . But there was work to do, and no time for fears. If Reid was afraid, or if the silent girl felt fear, neither of them showed it. They walked quickly and doggedly on.

Reid stopped at the ditch. It was no more than a deep dip in the ground, worn down by many floods. He shone his torch on the trickle of water and then walked swiftly over to the rivers edge a few yards away. He came hack, shouting high to make his voice carry over the wind.

“Mebbe three inches to spare. The waves are lapping on the brink.”

“The waves are lapping on the brink. Douglas repeated the beautiful words — chance words shouted in the plain Scots voice of the farmer, hut in tune with the wildness of the night.

“I’m going to get them, said Reid. He shone his torch towards his daughter. “Bide you here, Mary, and take the ewes from me.”

“I’m coming too, Father, she said, speaking for the first lime. In the torchlight her cheeks were apple-red, splashed wot with the rain. She took a step towards the sheep.

“Hud yer whisht, lassie!” he said fiercely from the darkness. “Do as I tell ye!” Then he turned and made off.

Douglas went with him. They splashed ankledeep through the ditch and up the other side. Reid led the way round beyond the sheep. Except for being huddled together, they showed no awareness of danger. Some had dipped their black faces to feed; all were silent. The two men lined out beyond and urged them hack. With the lights waving behind them, the sheep went readily enough, but they would not venture through the ditch.

“Hud ‘em up!” Reid shouted, and ran round himself. Douglas watched him take two ewes by the horns and drag them through the water. The girl took the sheep from him on the other side.

It was a sharply painted scene, ihe young woman and the man handling the unwilling sheep; a silent scene, for the wind muffled any noises there may have been. The rain drenched on the torehlit figures.

3

THERE were only four sheep to go. Reid took two of them and dashed them through. He had just reached the other side when the water came.

As it broke over the bank there was a rushing murmur, sounding through the wind. Then it came silently, a narrow wall of water which filled the ditch in a moment.

The two remaining sheep turned back and scampered past Douglas in terror. He ran to the edge. Reid and the girl were standing on the other side, no more than ten yards away, but separated from him by ihe torrent.

“Dinna try it!” shouted Reid. “Run for yon tree. There’s time yet. We’ll get the boat.

Douglas turned then and ran. He was alone with the storm. Even as he ran he noticed that the noises of the ice were louder. There were big floes now, for he heard a harder clinking above the rattle of the small pieces. There must have been a dam of ice high up in the hills which had burst at last and added six inches to the river. More would come.

“Run for yon tree!” He remembered only one tree. It was a tall sycamore, close to the river.

The water was chasing him, catching up, rising over his ankles. He stumbled on, pointing the beam to the left whore the broken line of the bank still showed. Over the edge was dealh, and death too in the small inlets. He fell into a hole, waist-deep in water, but lie struggled out, cursed weakly and ran on.

He passed one of the sheep. It was floundering helplessly in the water, heavy with wool and with the unborn lamb it carried. It saw him and baaed once in terrible despair.

It was a miracle to see the tree. The water was swirling already at the foot.

He embraced the trunk, stretching bis arms dcsperalely around it, scrabbling with his tired legs, with his knees and his rubber boots. Up a little, gripping, tearing his gloves, scraping the skin from bis knees. But the trunk was too wide, and after he had climbed a few inches his trembling legs gave up their strength and he fell back to ihe water.

Again and again he tried. In his panic he stripped the leal her from his gloved fingers; fhen he broke the nails themselves against the flaking sycamore bark. But each time that he slipped down he was weaker, and each time the water had risen a few more inches.

It had reached his thighs when courage came to clear his mind. He found the torch in his pocket and turned the weak beam upwards. The lowest branch was not far above him. Then he remembered the cord around his waist. With his torn fingers he plucked at the knot. But it was hard. It would not loosen. The panic flooded back upon him. In the end the knot was undone.

As he gathered the rope in his hands he was calm again, thinking, There is some way I can do this now. But that only lasted for a moment. The water was rising fast; the branch was near. It was the only chance. He seized it with fevered urgency.

Ho jerked the rope clumsily up. It splashed back into the water. He tried again, and the cord did lie over the branch, but it was too short to reach back to him, far too short. He had known that all the time. The sweat trickled inlo his eyes. He knew he was finished. What was the use of struggling when he could rest against the Iree trunk, letting death rise and take him quietly?

He did rest for a little. But the good strength came again, and with it a bitter contempt for his weakness. “You bloody coward!” he said angrily, surprised at the strength of his voice.

It was then that the memory flashed into his mind, a memory from long ago in India, a picture that he could see in the wild night. He had watched hoys climb the palm t rees once. They had tied themselves to the tree and climbed against the rope. It was a simple thing.

Now he knew the way; now he could take heart. He could forget the cold water gripping between his thighs with dreadful pain, rising to his armpits.

He tried once to pass the cord from hand to hand round the tree, but he could not reach. After that hi* was wholly calm. His brain worked quickly and coolly. lie held the rope in Ids left hand and let the loose end go free with the current. Then he felt on the trunk for a fingerhold.

He edged slowly round to the right. The water was tugging at him, lifting his feet, slackening their hold. He felt with his right hand methodically in the water. His fingers were very cold. Ah, he had it’

Then he groped back, holding to his two ends of cord. When he was upstream again he turned his back to the trunk and knotted the cord loosely across his chest. A reef — one this way, one that way. He faced the tree.

Now it was possible. He leaned out against the cord, fooling with each foot in turn, raising himself inch by inch, slipping the cord up the trunk. It could be done.

He was desperately tired. Pray Hod to save him from the floods. Pray God to give him strength.

And then at last he reached the stout branch. He lay across it, hearing nothing but the rasp of his breath and the tumble of his heart.

Douglas looked at his watch. It was after four. He did not know how long he had been on the tree. First there had been such crowded action that time had lost its meaning. Then after the climb his mind had been numb, and he might almost have been asleep. But he knew that it had not been sleep. The pain in his knees and fingers, the wind-blasted cold, had been too sharp for that.

In that time a change had come over the night. The waning moon had risen, the sky was clear, and the tumult of the wind had died away. He heard the surging of the water below him and the rhythmical splash of it on the low branches beyond the river. The floods had not abated. They had risen to their peak, and even the gale had yielded them pride of place.

He saw a light beyond the ha ugh. That was his own light shining from the cottage. The lire would be dead now, but the room would still be warm. Strange that his own forgotten lamp should keep him company across the floods. Strange that, the river which he loved should try to kill him.

His mind was working more clearly. Thought was no longer a hazy thing, inseparable from the lassitude of his body. Reid had shouted of a boat. Yes, there was a boat, and not far upstream, but they could never venture on the river until daylight. Then they would come. They would not fail him.

Once there were voices calling for him from the hillside. He cried back that he was safe. After that he settled again to wait for the dawn. An owl hooted beyond the river. He heard the seething murmur of the water as the bank had broken — the real noise ami the remembered, the ear and the memory. Then there was long waiting with the tired fancies playing in his mind.

The tiny was breaking. Over to the east he saw the green and saffron lights of the dawn. The sun would soon be shining beyond the hill. But to the valley it would come late and stay briefly, the more precious for that.

He heard clear trumpets. The wild swans were coming. Always on days of flood they flew down from the loch. They were the Whoopers, the true wild swans who did not live with men. They were the most splendid of all the birds, carrving the white shield of their remoteness wherever they flew. The live swans circled in the sky, coming lower, gliding and gliding, alighting at last on the floods.

He saw the lines of the day harden. It was as if he were two men: a cold cramped man shivering on a tree, not able to believe that he was safe. But the ot her man was strong, seeing the day with sharpness, seeing all the days in the one morning.

He listened to the hurrying water and watched the swans sail slowly. He was anxious, feeling that he was a small thing before greatness, a timorous creat ure.

Then he heard voices, the slow deep words of a man and the pure sound of a girl replying. They came clearly down the river, small voices that were far away, but so near that they spoke in his mind.

The boat swung round the bend. It was frail, bobbing on the gray water, and it came very fast. Reid was at the oars. The girl sat in the stern. She would speak a word, and the man’s broad back would move. But it was a silence, and the quiet clunk of the oars only made it stronger.

Her face was framed by the auburn hair, a calm still face that belonged to the river and the hills, a face that was a part of the lonely places, of the storms, of the warm and peaceful days, of the rocks and the heather.

Reid pulled on the oars, turning the boat across the current. It heeled and drifted; but he was strong and he drew it from the fast water. The boat creaked against the tree trunk.

The girl looked up to him and smiled. “We had to wait for day,” she said quietly. “You’re not hurt?”

He looked at her, at the farmer who had not spoken, at the river driving so fiercely in the soft morning. He saw it all sharply. And he was happy, knowing that there was an end to his uncertain journey.

“I’m all right,” he said. He climbed down stiffly from the tree.