Chapter 2

But it was not to be. The morning of the 24th found them near the source of one of the many wadies which, after the rains of November and December, rush in torrents through the boulder-strewn valleys, and empty themselves into the Dead Sea. The morning broke clear, but, as the day advanced, a thick mist descended from the hills and made progress difficult. But the ardour of the men, now that the goal was almost in sight, was such that it was impossible to hold them back. In small pickets they climbed the steep hill-sides, penetrated through the groves of olive, fig and pomegranate trees which clothe the successive tiers of limestone terraces, and reached the high plateau above. But at every step upwards the hill-mist grew thicker, and, in spite of all attempts to keep together, the pickets of soldiers became split up. When four o'clock arrived, Sam and Jerry found themselves alone on the hills and completely ignorant of their bearings. The short winter day was drawing to a close, and they were in danger of being benighted among the Judean uplands on Christmas Eve. They determined to make a descent to the point from which they had started in the morning, but, after an hour's wandering in the mist, found themselves no nearer their goal. Darkness was now creeping swiftly upon them, and they realised the dangers of a fall over one of the terraced cliffs.

"We're fair bet," said Jerry at last. "There'll be nea Chrissamas dinner for us to-morn i' Jerusalem, I reckon."

"Thou's reight," replied Sam; "we sall hae to bide here while t' mist lifts, an' do t' best we can for wersels. Bully-beef an' biscuit is what we'll git for wer dinners, an' there'll be nea sittin' ower t' fire at efter, watchin' t' Yule-clog burn, an' eytin' spice-loaf an' cheese."

"Nivver mind, lad, we've had a cappin' time sin we set out on t' march to Jerusalem, an' if we wasn't here we'd happen be up to wer oxters i' Flanders muck."

"Aye, we've noan done sae badly," Sam Ineson agreed, "and we sall hae summat to crack about when we git back to Wharfedale, choose how. Thou'll hae to tak a Sunday schooil class at Gerston, Jerry, an' tell t' lads all about Solomon's pools, where we catched them Turks, an' t' tomb o' t' Prophet Samuel anent Hebron."

"Nay, I reckon t' lang settle at t' Anglers' Arms will be more i' my line. But we're noan through wi' t' job yet awhile."

After this conversation, uttered in whispers, for fear lest their presence should be disclosed to any Turks lurking in the neighbourhood, the two soldiers took shelter under the lee of a limestone crag, drew their overcoats tightly around them, and proceeded to eat their rations. The prospect of spending a night on the uplands of Judea in a driving mist did not dismay them. They had fared worse many a night in France and Flanders, and also knew what it was to be benighted on the Yorkshire moors. Moreover, they were tired after their wanderings among the hills, and it was not long before they fell fast asleep.

Jerry was awakened after a while by a familiar sound close to his ear. He drew himself up and listened, then burst into a laugh, and roused his fellow.

"Eh! Sam," he said, "thou mun wakken up. We reckon we're sodgers; we're nowt o' t' sort; sure enough, we're nobbut shipperd lads."

Sam sat up and listened. The sound of a sheep's cough close at hand met his ear, and, straining his eyes, he saw a whole flock of sheep browsing the short grass around him.

"That caps iverything I've heeard tell on," he exclaimed. "Chrissamas Eve an' two shipperd lads frae Wharfedale keepin' watch ower their flock by neet i' t' Holy Land. An' accordin' to what Sergeant said, Bethlehem sud not be sae vara far away frae here."

The situation in which the two shepherds found themselves touched their imaginations, and they ceased to regret that they were in danger of missing a Christmas Day at Jerusalem. They listened to the sheep for a time, until the cry of a jackal startled the animals, and the flock dispersed. Then the two soldiers fell asleep once more.

Shortly before midnight they awoke with a sudden start. A strange light gleamed in their faces, and the mist had almost vanished. The hill-sides and the sky above were bathed in a pearly light, while almost immediately above them they beheld a city, as it were let down from heaven and suspended in mid-air, beset with domes and minarets that flashed like jewels in the marvellous radiance that flooded all space.

"A miracle! A miracle!" Sam Ineson exclaimed, in awe-struck tones, and then held his breath, for a familiar song broke upon his ears. From the sky, or from the battlements of the aerial city, he knew not which, there rang forth the great Nativity hymn:

While shepherds watched their flocks by night, All seated on the ground, The Angel of the Lord came down, And glory shone around.

Jerry Coggill looked into the face of Sam Ineson and saw there an expression of trance-like rapture. As though moved by a common impulse, the two soldiers sprang to attention, saluted, and, when the hymn ceased, fell on their knees in prayer. Then the mist closed on them again, the city among the clouds was hidden from view, and the sky lost its translucence. But sleep was no longer possible for the soldiers. They were as men who had seen the invisible; it was as though heaven had descended upon them and the glory of the new-born King had gleamed in their eyes, and they were filled with a holy awe.

Next morning the mist had cleared, and the miracle was explained. The spot which they had chosen for their resting-place was at the foot of the great scarp of limestone upon which stands the city of Bethlehem, two thousand five hundred feet above the sea. The city had passed, without the shedding of a drop of blood, into the hands of General Allenby, and the soldiers stationed there, inspired by the associations of the place and the Christmas season, had left their barracks shortly before midnight, and, proceeding to the officers' quarters, had greeted them with a hymn. And the Christmas moon, rising high above the mountains of Gilead and Moab, had found for a short space of time an opening in the curtain of mist and had poured down its light upon the hills of Judea, making the city of Bethlehem seem to the rapt minds of the two Yorkshire dalesmen as though it had been the city of the living God let down from heaven.

Tales of a grandmother

I. The Tree of Knowledge

I spent a certain portion of every year in a village of Upper Wharfedale, where I made many friends among the farm folk. Among these I give pride of place to Martha Hessletine.

Martha Hessletine was always known in the village as Grannie. She was everybody's Grannie. Crippled with rheumatism, she had kept to her bed for years, and there she held levees, with all the dignity of bearing that one might expect from a French princess in the days of the _grand monarque_. The village children would pay her a visit on their way home from afternoon school, and of an evening her kitchen hearth, near to which her bed was always placed by day, was the Parliament House for all the neighbouring farms. What Grannie did not know of the life of the village and the dale was certainly not worth knowing.

Grannie's one luxury was a good fire. A fire, she used to say, gave you three things in one--warmth, and light, and company. Usually she burnt coal, but when the peats, which had been cut and dried on the moors in June, were brought down to the farms on sledges, her neighbours would often send her as a present a barrow-load of them. These would last her for a long time, and the pungent, aromatic smell of the burning turf would greet one long before her kitchen door was reached.

I was sitting by her fireside one evening, and it was of the peat that she was speaking.

"We allus used to burn peats on our farm," she said, "and varra warm they were of a winter neet. We'd no kitchen range i' yon days, but a gert oppen fireplace, wheer thou could look up the chimley and see the stars shining of a frosty neet."

"But doesn't a peat fire give off a terrible lot of ash?" I asked.

"Aye, it does that," she replied, "but we used to like the ash; we could roast taties in't, and many's the time we've sat i' the ingle-nook and made our supper o' taties and buttermilk."

So her thoughts wandered back to bygone times, while I, not wishing to interrupt her, had taken the poker in my hand and with it was tracing geometrical figures in the peat-ash on the hearthstone. So absorbed was I in my circles and pentagons that I did not notice that Grannie had stopped short in her story, and was taking a lively interest in what I was doing. It was with no little surprise, therefore, that I suddenly heard her exclaim, in a voice of half-suppressed terror: "What is thou doing that for?" and turning round, I was startled to see on her usually placid face the look of a hunted animal.

Touched with regret for what I had done, and yet unable to understand why it had moved her so deeply, I asked what was troubling her mind. For a few moments she was silent, and then, in a more tranquil voice, replied: "I can't bear to see anybody laiking wi' ashes."

"Why, what does it matter?" I asked, and, in the hope that I might help her to regain her composure I began to make fun of her superstitious fancies. But Grannie refused to be laughed out of her beliefs.

"It's not superstition at all," were her words; "it's bitter truth, and I've proved it misen, to my cost."

Seeing how disturbed she was in her mind I tried to change the subject, but she would not let me. For about half-a-minute she was silent, lost in thought, her grey eyes taking on a steeliness which I had not seen in them before. Then she turned to me and asked: "Has thou iver heerd tell o' ash-riddling?"

"Of course I have," I replied. "Everybody knows what it is to riddle ashes."

"Aye, but ash-riddling on the hearthstone, the neet afore St Mark's Day?"

Here was something unfamiliar, and I readily confessed my ignorance. It was evident, too, that Grannie's mind could only find relief by disburdening itself of the weight which lay upon it, so I no longer attempted to direct her thoughts into a new channel.

"It was 1870," she began, "the year o' the Franco-German War, that I first heerd tell o' ash-riddling, and it came about this way. My man's father, Owd Jerry, as fowks called him, were living wi' us then; he was a widower, and well-nigh eighty year owd. He'd been a despert good farmer in his time, but he'd gotten owd and rheumatic, and his temper were noan o' the best. He were as touchous as a sick barn, if aught went wrang wi' him. Well, one day i' lambing-time, he were warr nor he'd iver been afore; he knew that I were thrang wi' all maks o' wark, but nowt that I could do for him were reet. So at last, when I'd fmished my milking i' the mistal, I got him to bed, and then I sat misen down by the fire and had a reet good roar. I were tired to death, and wished that I'd niver been born. Iverything had gone agee that day: butter wouldn't coom, Snowball had kicked ower the pail while I was milking her, and, atop o' all that, there was grandfather wi' his fratching ways.

"I were sat cowered ower the fire, wi' my face buried in my hands, when my man came in and axed what were wrang wi' me. At first I wouldn't tell him, but enow he dragged it all out o' me, and in the end I was glad on 't. But he nobbut laughed when I told him about Owd Jerry, and he said he'd allus been like that wi' women fowks; 'twere his way o' getting what he wanted. I got my dander up at that, and said he'd have to get shut o' his fratching if he lived wi' us."

"'I reckon he'll noan mend his ways,' said Mike, 'now he's close on eighty.' So I said if that were the case it would be a good thing for the peace o' the family when he were putten under grund. Yon were gaumless words, and bitter did I rue iver having spokken 'em. But Mike nobbut laughed at what I said. "'Putten under grund!' said he. 'Nay, father will live while he's ninety, or happen a hunderd; he's as tough as a yak-stowp.'

"'He'll do nowt o' the sort,' I answered; 'and he wi' a hoast in his thropple like a badly cow. I sudn't be surprised if he were dead by Chrissamas.'

"'We can soon tell if there's ony truth in what thou says,' replied Mike. 'It will be Ash-Riddling Day come next Friday, and then we can find out for wersens if Owd Jerry's boun' to dee afore the year's out.'

"'What does thou mean?' I axed.

"'Why, lass, wheer has thou been brought up if thou's niver heerd tell o' Ash-Riddling Day? What a thing it is to wed a foreigner! If thou'd been bred and born in Wharfedale thou'd have no need to axe about Ash-Riddling Day.'

Well, I set no count on his fleering at fowks that hadn't been brought up in his dale, for I was wanting to know what he meant.

"'What thou's gotten to do,' he said, 'is to tak the peat-rake afore thou goes to bed and rake the ashes out o' the fire and spread 'em all ower the hearthstone. Then thou can go to bed, and next morning, if there's to be a death in the family in the next twel-month the foot-step o' the lad or lass that has to dee will be stamped on the ash.'

"When he'd finished his tale I gave out that I reckoned it nobbut blether, but I minded all the same; and that neet, when I were i' bed, I couldn't give ower thinking o' what he'd said, and I made up my mind that I'd set the peat-ash on the hearthstone come Thorsday neet. Next morning I thought different, but all the same I couldn't get shut o' the temptation. Ay, 'twere a temptation o' the deevil, sure enough; he were ticing me to eat o' the Tree o' Knowledge, same as he ticed Eve i' the garden. So I said: 'Get thee behind me, Satan,' and I kept him behind me all that day. But when it got dark, and I'd putten the childer to bed, he came forrad, and the ticing got stronger and stronger. It wasn't that I wanted Owd Jerry to dee, but I were mad to see if there was ony truth in the tale that Mike had told.

"Well, Tuesday passed, and Wednesday passed, and Thorsday came. I said no more about the ash-riddling to Mike, and I reckon he'd forgotten all about it. But that day Owd Jerry were warr nor iver. He set up his fratching at breakfast acause his porridge was burnt, and kept at it all day. Nowt that I did for him were reet; if I filled his pipe, he said I'd putten salt in his baccy, and if I went out to feed the cauves, he told me I left the doors oppen, and wanted to give him his death o' cowd. Evening came at last, and by nine o'clock I were left alone i' the kitchen. Owd Jerry were i' bed, and the childer too, all except Amos, our eldest barn, and he had set off wi' his father to look after the lambing yowes, and wouldn't be back while eleven o'clock. He was a good lad was Amos, and the only one o' the family that favvoured me; the rest on 'em took after their father. So I sat misen down on a stool and glowered into the fire, and wrastled wi' the deevil same as Jacob wrastled wi' the angel. And the whole fire seemed to be full o' lile deevils that were shooting out their tongues at me; and the sparks were the souls of the damned i' hell that tried to lowp up the chimley out o' the deevils' road. But the lile deevils would lowp after 'em, and lap 'em up wi' their tongues o' flame and set 'em i' the fire agean.

"At last I couldn't thole it no longer. Ash-riddling or no ash-riddling, I said, I'm boun' to bed, and upstairs I went. Well, I lay i' bed happen three-quarters of an hour, and sure enough, the ticement began to wark i' my head stronger and stronger. At lang length I crept downstairs agean i' my stocking feet into the kitchen. All was whisht as the grave, and the fire was by now nearly out, so that there were no flame-deevils to freeten me. So I took the riddle that I'd gotten ready afore and began to riddle the ash all ower the hearthstone. The stone were hot, but I were cowd as an ice-shackle, and I felt the goose-flesh creeping all ower my body. When I'd riddled all the ash I made it snod wi' the peat-rake, and then, more dead nor wick, I crept back into bed and waited while Mike and Amos came home.

"They got back about eleven, and then I thought, they'll happen see what I've done. But they didn't, for they'd putten out the lantern in the stable, and I'd brought the can'le up wi' me into the cham'er. I heerd 'em stumbling about i' the kitchen, and then they came up to bed, and Mike began talking to me about the lambs i' the croft, and I knew he'd niver set een on the ash-riddling. He soon fell asleep, and after a while I dozed off too, and dreamt I were murdering Owd Jerry i' the staggarth. As soon as cockleet came, I wakkened up and crept downstairs, quiet-like, so as not to-wakken Mike or the childer. And there on the hearthstone were the ashes, and reet i' the middle on 'em the prent of a man's clog.

"It were Jerry's clog as plain as life. When I saw it I went all of a didder, and thought I sud ha' fainted' for all that I'd dreamt about murdering Owd Jerry came back into my mind. But I drave a pin into my arm to rouse misen, and took the besom and swept up the ashes and lit the fire. After I'd mashed misen a cup o' tea I felt better, and got agate wi' the housewark. But, by the mass! it was a dree day for me, was yon. Ivery time I heerd the owd man hoast I thought he were boun' to dee. But he was better that day nor he'd been for a long while, and he kept mending all the time. I couldn't forget, howiver, what I'd done, and the thought of how I'd yielded to the devil's ticement made me more patient and gentle wi' Jerry nor iver I'd been afore.

"Spring set in and the birds came back frae beyont the sea, swallows and yallow wagtails and sandpipers; the meadows were breet wi' paigles, and the childer gethered bluebells and lilies o' the valley i' the woods for Whissuntide, and iverything went on same as afore. We had a good lambing time, and a good hay harvest at efter. I kept Jerry under my eye all the while, and nowt went wrang wi' him. He'd get about the farm wi' the dogs, a bit waffy on his legs, mebbe, but his appetite kept good, and he'd ommost lossen his hoast. He fratched and threaped same as usual if owt went wrang wi' his meals, or if the childer made ower mich racket i' the house, but it took a vast o' care off my mind to think that he could get about and go down to 'The Craven Heifer' for his forenoon drinkings, same as he'd allus done sin first I came into Wharfedale as Mike's bride. And when back-end set in and we'd salved the sheep wi' butter and tar to keep the winter rain out on 'em, still Owd Jerry kept wick and cobby, and there were days, aye, and weeks too, when I forgot what I'd done on Ash-Riddling Day. And when I thought about it, it didn't flay me like it used to do; for I said to misen, 'I'll keep Owd Jerry alive ovver next St Mark's Day, choose how.' So I knitted him a muffler for his throat and lined his weskit wi' flannen; I brewed him hot drinks made out o' herbs I'd gethered i' the hedgerows i' summertime, and rubbed his chest wi' a mixture o' saim frae the pig-killing, and honey frae the bee-skeps. Eh! mon, but it were gey hard to get the owd man to sup the herb tea and to let me rub him. He reckoned I wanted to puzzum him same as if he were a ratton, and when I'd putten the saim and honey on his chest he said I'd lapped him up i' fly-papers. But I set no count on his nattering so long as I could keep him alive.

"Chrissamas came at last, and New Year set in wi' frost and snow. The grouse came down frae the moors and the rabbits fair played Hamlet about the farms: they were that pined wi' hunger, they began to eat the bark off the ashes and thorn bushes i' the hedges. I did all I could to keep Owd Jerry frae the public-house while the storm lasted, but he would toddle down ivery morning for his glass o' yal, and, of course, he got his hoast back agean i' his thropple. All the same, I wouldn't give in. I counted the days while St Mark's Day, and tewed and rived and better rived to keep him out o' his coffin. But it was weary wark, and I got no thanks frae Jerry for all I was doing for him.

"At lang length St Mark's Eve came round, and a wild day it was, and no mistake. There had been deep snow on the moors two days afore, and after the snow had come rain. It was a bad lambing time, and Mike and Amos were about the farm all day and most o' the neet, looking after the lambs that had lossen their yowes. Owd Jerry had threaped shameful the day afore; the weather had been that bad he'd not been able to go down to 'The Craven Heifer.'

"When I'd gotten out o' bed, and looked out o' the windey it were still lashing wi' rain, and I said to misen, I'll keep Jerry i' bed to-day. If I can keep him alive to-day I sal have won, and Jerry can do what he likes wi' hissen to-morrow. So I hugged up his breakfast to his chamer and told him I'd leet a fire for him there, and I'd get Harry Spink to come and sit wi' him and keep him company. But Jerry wouldn't bide i' bed, not for nobody; he'd set his mind on going down to the public, and a wilful man mun have his way, choose what fowks say. So off he set, wi' the rain teeming down all the time, and the beck getting higher and higher wi' the spate.

"Eh, deary me! What I had to thole that day! I was flaid that if he had a drop too mich he'd happen lose his footing on the plank-bridge at the town-end, and then the spate would tak him off his feet and drown him. I offered to walk wi' him down to the public and bide wi' him while he wanted to come back; but he said he reckoned he were owd enough to do wi'out a nuss-maid and told me to mind my own business. Well, twelve o'clock came, and when I saw Owd Jerry coming back to his dinner I were that fain I could have kissed him, though he'd a five-days' beard on his face.

"When dinner were ower Mike told our Amos that he mun fetch in the stirks that were out on the moors on the far side o' Wharfe. The weather were that bad he doubted they'd come to no good if they were out all neet. So Amos set off about half-past two, and, efter I'd weshed up and sided away I sat misen down i' the ingle-nook and mended the stockings. And there was Owd Jerry set on the lang-settle anent me. There was no sign on his face of a deeing man, but ivery minute the load on my mind grew heavier. Eh, man, but it were a queer game the deevil played wi' me that day, a queer, mocking game that I'll niver forget so lang as there's breath left i' my body. Leastways that's what I thought at the time, but I've learnt by now that it weren't the deevil; it was the Almighty punishin' me for eatin' o' the Tree o' Knowledge.

"Fower o'clock came, and I got tea ready. The childer came back frae school, and then Mike came, and the first thing he axed was if Amos had gotten back wi' the stirks. So I said: 'No, he's noan gotten back yet awhile.' My mind were so taen up wi' Owd Jerry and the ash-riddling that I'd forgotten that Amos was away on the other side o' Wharfe. So Mike for all he was weet to the skin, set off to look for Amos. I gave Owd Jerry and the childer their tea, but I wouldn't sit down wi' 'em misen, but kept going to the windey to see if Mike and Amos were coming wi' the stirks. I looked out, happen six or seven times, and there was nobody on the road; but at last I set een on Mike and other lads frae the farms round about. They were carrying somebody on a hurdle."

For a moment Grannie interrupted her story to wipe away the tears that were now rolling down her cheeks. In a flash I realised what was to be the tragic close of her tale, and I tried to spare her the details. But she refused to be spared, and, forcing back the tears, went on to the bitter end.