Ranald Bannerman's Boyhood

He held his watch to his ear: alas! it was ticking vigorously. He felt for the keyhole, and wound it up. After that we employed ourselves in repeating as many of the metrical psalms and paraphrases of Scripture as we could recollect, and this helped away a good part of the weary time.

But it went very slowly, and I was growing so cold that I could hardly bear it.

“I’m afraid you feel very cold, Ranald,” said my father, folding me closer in his arms. “You must try not to go to sleep again, for that would be dangerous now. I feel more cramped than cold.”

As he said this, he extended his legs and threw his head back, to get rid of the uneasiness by stretching himself. The same moment, down came a shower of peats upon our heads and bodies, and when I tried to move, I found myself fixed. I could not help laughing.

“Father,” I cried, as soon as I could speak, “you’re like Samson: you’ve brought down the house upon us.”

“So I have, my boy. It was very thoughtless of me. I don’t know what we are to do now.”

“Can you move, father? I can’t,” I said.

“I can move my legs, but I’m afraid to move even a toe in my boot for fear of bringing down another avalanche of peats. But no—there’s not much danger of that: they are all down already, for I feel the snow on my face.”

With hands and feet my father struggled, but could not do much, for I lay against him under a great heap. His struggles made an opening sideways however.

“Father! father! shout,” I cried. “I see a light somewhere; and I think it is moving.”

We shouted as loud as we could, and then lay listening. My heart beat so that I was afraid I should not hear any reply that might come. But the next moment it rang through the frosty air.

“It’s Turkey! That’s Turkey, father!” I cried. “I know his shout. He makes it go farther than anybody else.—Turkey! Turkey!” I shrieked, almost weeping with delight.

Again Turkey’s cry rang through the darkness, and the light drew wavering nearer.

“Mind how you step, Turkey,” cried my father. “There’s a hole you may tumble into.”

“It wouldn’t hurt him much in the snow,” I said.

“Perhaps not, but he would probably lose his light, and that we can hardly afford.”

“Shout again,” cried Turkey. “I can’t make out where you are.”

My father shouted.

“Am I coming nearer to you now?”

“I can hardly say. I cannot see well. Are you going along the road?”

“Yes. Can’t you come to me?”

“Not yet. We can’t get out. We’re upon your right hand, in a peat-stack.”

“Oh! I know the peat-stack. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

He did not however find it so easily as he had expected, the peats being covered with snow. My father gave up trying to free himself and took to laughing instead at the ridiculous situation in which we were about to be discovered. He kept directing Turkey, however, who at length after some disappearances which made us very anxious about the lantern, caught sight of the stack, and walked straight towards it. Now first we saw that he was not alone, but accompanied by the silent Andrew.

“Where are you, sir?” asked Turkey, throwing the light of the lantern over the ruin.

“Buried in the peats,” answered my father, laughing. “Come and get us out.”

Turkey strode up to the heap, and turning the light down into it said,

“I didn’t know it had been raining peats, sir.”

“The peats didn’t fall quite so far as the snow, Turkey, or they would have made a worse job of it,” answered my father.

Meantime Andrew and Turkey were both busy; and in a few moments we stood upon our feet, stiff with cold and cramped with confinement, but merry enough at heart.

“What brought you out to look for us?” asked my father.

“I heard Missy whinnying at the stable-door,” said Andrew. “When I saw she was alone, I knew something had happened, and waked Turkey. We only stopped to run to the manse for a drop of whisky to bring with us, and set out at once.”

“What o’clock is it now?” asked my father.

“About one o’clock,” answered Andrew.

“One o’clock!” thought I. “What a time we should have had to wait!”

“Have you been long in finding us?”

“Only about an hour.”

“Then the little mare must have had great trouble in getting home. You say the other was not with her?”

“No, sir. She’s not made her appearance.”

“Then if we don’t find her, she will be dead before morning. But what shall we do with you, Ranald? Turkey had better go home with you first.”

“Please let me go too,” I said.

“Are you able to walk?”

“Quite—or at least I shall be, after my legs come to themselves a bit.”

Turkey produced a bottle of milk which he had brought for me, and Andrew produced the little flask of whisky which Kirsty had sent; and my father having taken a little of the latter, while I emptied my bottle, we set out to look for young Missy.

“Where are we?” asked my father.

Turkey told him.

“How comes it that nobody heard our shouting, then?”

“You know, sir,” answered Turkey, “the old man is as deaf as a post, and I dare say his people were all fast asleep.”

The snow was falling only in a few large flakes now, which sank through the air like the moultings of some lovely bird of heaven. The moon had come out again, and the white world lay around us in lovely light. A good deal of snow had fallen while we lay in the peats, but we could yet trace the track of the two horses. We followed it a long way through the little valley into which we had dropped from the side of the road. We came to more places than one where they had been floundering together in a snow-wreath, but at length reached the spot where one had parted from the other. When we had traced one of the tracks to the road, we concluded it was Missy’s, and returned to the other. But we had not followed it very far before we came upon the poor mare lying upon her back in a deep runnel, in which the snow was very soft. She had put her forefeet in it as she galloped heedlessly along, and tumbled right over. The snow had yielded enough to let the banks get a hold of her, and she lay helpless. Turkey and Andrew, however, had had the foresight to bring spades with them and a rope, and they set to work at once, my father taking a turn now and then, and I holding the lantern, which was all but useless now in the moonlight. It took more than an hour to get the poor thing on her legs again, but when she was up, it was all they could do to hold her. She was so wild with cold, and with delight at feeling her legs under her once more, that she would have broken loose again, and galloped off as recklessly as ever. They set me on her back, and with my father on one side and Turkey on the other, and Andrew at her head, I rode home in great comfort. It was another good hour before we arrived, and right glad were we to see through the curtains of the parlour the glow of the great fire which Kirsty had kept up for us. She burst out crying when we made our appearance.

CHAPTER XXXIII