The Island of Sheep
The Island of Sheep
“They were perhaps three hundred yards away from me, but their personalities seemed as vivid as if they were in the same room. I had an overpowering impression of a burning vitality which was also evil, a glowing, incandescent evil.”
The Island of Sheep (1936) is John Buchan’s last thriller, featuring the return of Richard Hannay, the hero of The Thirty-Nine Steps, Greenmantle, Mr Standfast and The Three Hostages, from a comfortable retirement.
Hannay redeems his promise to protect the son of an old acquaintance from a sinister conspiracy, and the action moves rapidly from England through the Scottish Borders to the Island of Sheep in the remote Norlands, where Hannay and his friends turn at last to confront their enemy.
Memorable for its vivid evocations of place, the novel constitutes a complex reflection upon its own position at the end of Buchan’s career and at the end of a modern Scottish tradition of adventure romances. This is the first critical edition of The Island of Sheep, and the introduction explores the novel’s themes and concerns in relation to Buchan’s previous works. This book is intended for twentieth-century fiction courses; the general reader.
THE ISLAND OF SHEEP
A Novel by
John Buchan
Book 6 in the
Richard Hannay series
First Published in 1936
Part 1
Fosse
Chapter 1
I have never believed, as some people do, in omens and forewarnings, for the dramatic things in my life have generally come upon me as suddenly as a tropical thunderstorm. But I have observed that in a queer way I have been sometimes prepared for them by my mind drifting into an unexpected mood. I would remember something I had not thought of for years, or start without reason an unusual line of thought. That was what happened to me on an October evening when I got into the train at Victoria.
That afternoon I had done what for me was a rare thing, and attended a debate in the House of Commons. Lamancha was to make a full-dress speech, and Lamancha on such an occasion is worth hearing. But it was not my friend’s eloquence that filled my mind or his deadly handling of interruptions, but a reply which the Colonial Secretary gave to a question before the debate began. A name can sometimes be like a scent or a tune, a key to long-buried memories. When old Melbury spoke the word ‘Lombard,“ my thoughts were set racing down dim alleys of the past. He quoted a memorandum written years ago and incorporated in the report of a certain Commission; ’A very able memorandum,” he called it, “by a certain Mr. Lombard,” which contained the point he wished to make. Able! I should think it was. And the writer! To be described as ‘a certain Mr. Lombard’ showed how completely the man I once knew had dropped out of the world’s ken.
I did not do justice to Lamancha’s speech, for I thought of Lombard all through it. I thought of him in my taxi going to the station, and, when I had found my compartment, his face came between me and the pages of my evening paper. I had not thought much about him for years, but now Melbury’s chance quotation had started a set of pictures which flitted like a film series before my eyes. I saw Lombard as I had last seen him, dressed a little differently from to-day, a little fuller in the face than we lean kine who have survived the War, with eyes not blurred from motoring, and voice not high-pitched like ours to override the din of our environment. I saw his smile, the odd quick lift of his chin—and I realized that I was growing old and had left some wonderful things behind me.
The compartment filled up with City men going home to their comfortable southern suburbs. They all had evening papers, and some had morning papers to finish. Most of them appeared to make this journey regularly, for they knew each other, and exchanged market gossip or commented on public affairs. A friendly confidential party; and I sat in my corner looking out of the window at another landscape than what some poet has called ‘smoky dwarf houses,“ and seeing a young man’s face which was very different from theirs.
Lombard had come out to East Africa as secretary to a Government Commission, a Commission which he very soon manipulated as he pleased. I met him there when I was sent up on a prospecting job. He was very young then, not more than twenty-five, and he was in his first years at the Bar. He had been at one of the lesser public schools and at Cambridge, had been a good scholar, and was as full as he could hold of books. I remembered our first meeting in a cold camp on the Uasin Gishu plateau, when he quoted and translated a Greek line about the bitter little wind before dawn. But he never paraded his learning, for his desire was to be in complete harmony with his surroundings, and to look very much the pioneer. Those were the old days in East Africa, before the ‘Happy Valley’ and the remittance man and settlers who wanted self-government, and people’s hopes were high. He was full of the heroes of the past, like Roddy Owen and Vandeleur and the Portals, and, except that he was a poor horseman, he had something in common with them.
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