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diff --git a/421-0.txt b/421-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..eaa03d2 --- /dev/null +++ b/421-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8474 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 421 *** + KIDNAPPED + BEING + MEMOIRS OF THE ADVENTURES OF + DAVID BALFOUR + IN THE YEAR 1751 + + + + HOW HE WAS KIDNAPPED AND CAST AWAY; HIS SUFFERINGS IN + A DESERT ISLE; HIS JOURNEY IN THE WILD HIGHLANDS; + HIS ACQUAINTANCE WITH ALAN BRECK STEWART + AND OTHER NOTORIOUS HIGHLAND JACOBITES; + WITH ALL THAT HE SUFFERED AT THE + HANDS OF HIS UNCLE, EBENEZER + BALFOUR OF SHAWS, FALSELY + SO CALLED + + WRITTEN BY HIMSELF AND NOW SET FORTH BY + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON + WITH A PREFACE BY MRS. STEVENSON + + + + +PREFACE TO THE BIOGRAPHICAL EDITION + + +While my husband and Mr. Henley were engaged in writing plays in +Bournemouth they made a number of titles, hoping to use them in the +future. Dramatic composition was not what my husband preferred, but +the torrent of Mr. Henley’s enthusiasm swept him off his feet. However, +after several plays had been finished, and his health seriously impaired +by his endeavours to keep up with Mr. Henley, play writing was abandoned +forever, and my husband returned to his legitimate vocation. Having +added one of the titles, The Hanging Judge, to the list of projected +plays, now thrown aside, and emboldened by my husband’s offer to give me +any help needed, I concluded to try and write it myself. + +As I wanted a trial scene in the Old Bailey, I chose the period of 1700 +for my purpose; but being shamefully ignorant of my subject, and my +husband confessing to little more knowledge than I possessed, a London +bookseller was commissioned to send us everything he could procure +bearing on Old Bailey trials. A great package came in response to our +order, and very soon we were both absorbed, not so much in the trials +as in following the brilliant career of a Mr. Garrow, who appeared as +counsel in many of the cases. We sent for more books, and yet more, +still intent on Mr. Garrow, whose subtle cross-examination of witnesses +and masterly, if sometimes startling, methods of arriving at the truth +seemed more thrilling to us than any novel. + +Occasionally other trials than those of the Old Bailey would be included +in the package of books we received from London; among these my husband +found and read with avidity:-- + + THE + TRIAL + OF + JAMES STEWART + in Aucharn in Duror of Appin + FOR THE + Murder of COLIN CAMPBELL of Glenure, Efq; + Factor for His Majefty on the forfeited + Estate of Ardfhiel. + +My husband was always interested in this period of his country’s +history, and had already the intention of writing a story that should +turn on the Appin murder. The tale was to be of a boy, David Balfour, +supposed to belong to my husband’s own family, who should travel in +Scotland as though it were a foreign country, meeting with various +adventures and misadventures by the way. From the trial of James Stewart +my husband gleaned much valuable material for his novel, the most +important being the character of Alan Breck. Aside from having described +him as “smallish in stature,” my husband seems to have taken Alan +Breck’s personal appearance, even to his clothing, from the book. + +A letter from James Stewart to Mr. John Macfarlane, introduced as +evidence in the trial, says: “There is one Alan Stewart, a distant +friend of the late Ardshiel’s, who is in the French service, and came +over in March last, as he said to some, in order to settle at home; to +others, that he was to go soon back; and was, as I hear, the day that +the murder was committed, seen not far from the place where it happened, +and is not now to be seen; by which it is believed he was the actor. He +is a desperate foolish fellow; and if he is guilty, came to the country +for that very purpose. He is a tall, pock-pitted lad, very black hair, +and wore a blue coat and metal buttons, an old red vest, and breeches of +the same colour.” A second witness testified to having seen him wearing +“a blue coat with silver buttons, a red waistcoat, black shag breeches, +tartan hose, and a feathered hat, with a big coat, dun coloured,” a +costume referred to by one of the counsel as “French cloathes which were +remarkable.” + +There are many incidents given in the trial that point to Alan’s fiery +spirit and Highland quickness to take offence. One witness “declared +also That the said Alan Breck threatened that he would challenge +Ballieveolan and his sons to fight because of his removing the +declarant last year from Glenduror.” On another page: “Duncan Campbell, +change-keeper at Annat, aged thirty-five years, married, witness cited, +sworn, purged and examined ut supra, depones, That, in the month of +April last, the deponent met with Alan Breck Stewart, with whom he was +not acquainted, and John Stewart, in Auchnacoan, in the house of the +walk miller of Auchofragan, and went on with them to the house: Alan +Breck Stewart said, that he hated all the name of Campbell; and the +deponent said, he had no reason for doing so: But Alan said, he had very +good reason for it: that thereafter they left that house; and, after +drinking a dram at another house, came to the deponent’s house, where +they went in, and drunk some drams, and Alan Breck renewed the former +Conversation; and the deponent, making the same answer, Alan said, that, +if the deponent had any respect for his friends, he would tell them, +that if they offered to turn out the possessors of Ardshiel’s estate, he +would make black cocks of them, before they entered into possession by +which the deponent understood shooting them, it being a common phrase in +the country.” + +Some time after the publication of Kidnapped we stopped for a short +while in the Appin country, where we were surprised and interested to +discover that the feeling concerning the murder of Glenure (the “Red +Fox,” also called “Colin Roy”) was almost as keen as though the tragedy +had taken place the day before. For several years my husband received +letters of expostulation or commendation from members of the Campbell +and Stewart clans. I have in my possession a paper, yellow with age, +that was sent soon after the novel appeared, containing “The Pedigree of +the Family of Appine,” wherein it is said that “Alan 3rd Baron of Appine +was not killed at Flowdoun, tho there, but lived to a great old age. He +married Cameron Daughter to Ewen Cameron of Lochiel.” Following this +is a paragraph stating that “John Stewart 1st of Ardsheall of his +descendants Alan Breck had better be omitted. Duncan Baan Stewart in +Achindarroch his father was a Bastard.” + +One day, while my husband was busily at work, I sat beside him reading +an old cookery book called The Compleat Housewife: or Accomplish’d +Gentlewoman’s Companion. In the midst of receipts for “Rabbits, and +Chickens mumbled, Pickled Samphire, Skirret Pye, Baked Tansy,” and +other forgotten delicacies, there were directions for the preparation +of several lotions for the preservation of beauty. One of these was so +charming that I interrupted my husband to read it aloud. “Just what +I wanted!” he exclaimed; and the receipt for the “Lily of the Valley +Water” was instantly incorporated into Kidnapped. + +F. V. DE G. S. + + + + +DEDICATION + +MY DEAR CHARLES BAXTER: + + +If you ever read this tale, you will likely ask yourself more questions +than I should care to answer: as for instance how the Appin murder has +come to fall in the year 1751, how the Torran rocks have crept so near +to Earraid, or why the printed trial is silent as to all that touches +David Balfour. These are nuts beyond my ability to crack. But if you +tried me on the point of Alan’s guilt or innocence, I think I could +defend the reading of the text. To this day you will find the tradition +of Appin clear in Alan’s favour. If you inquire, you may even hear that +the descendants of “the other man” who fired the shot are in the country +to this day. But that other man’s name, inquire as you please, you shall +not hear; for the Highlander values a secret for itself and for the +congenial exercise of keeping it. I might go on for long to justify one +point and own another indefensible; it is more honest to confess at once +how little I am touched by the desire of accuracy. This is no furniture +for the scholar’s library, but a book for the winter evening school-room +when the tasks are over and the hour for bed draws near; and honest +Alan, who was a grim old fire-eater in his day has in this new avatar +no more desperate purpose than to steal some young gentleman’s attention +from his Ovid, carry him awhile into the Highlands and the last century, +and pack him to bed with some engaging images to mingle with his dreams. + +As for you, my dear Charles, I do not even ask you to like this tale. +But perhaps when he is older, your son will; he may then be pleased to +find his father’s name on the fly-leaf; and in the meanwhile it pleases +me to set it there, in memory of many days that were happy and some (now +perhaps as pleasant to remember) that were sad. If it is strange for +me to look back from a distance both in time and space on these bygone +adventures of our youth, it must be stranger for you who tread the same +streets--who may to-morrow open the door of the old Speculative, +where we begin to rank with Scott and Robert Emmet and the beloved and +inglorious Macbean--or may pass the corner of the close where that great +society, the L. J. R., held its meetings and drank its beer, sitting in +the seats of Burns and his companions. I think I see you, moving there +by plain daylight, beholding with your natural eyes those places that +have now become for your companion a part of the scenery of dreams. How, +in the intervals of present business, the past must echo in your memory! +Let it not echo often without some kind thoughts of your friend, + +R.L.S. SKERRYVORE, BOURNEMOUTH. + + + + +CONTENTS + + CHAPTER + + PREFACE TO THE BIOGRAPHICAL EDITION + DEDICATION + I I SET OFF UPON MY JOURNEY TO THE HOUSE OF SHAWS + II I COME TO MY JOURNEY’S END + III I MAKE ACQUAINTANCE OF MY UNCLE + IV I RUN A GREAT DANGER IN THE HOUSE OF SHAWS + V I GO TO THE QUEEN’S FERRY + VI WHAT BEFELL AT THE QUEEN’S FERRY + VII I GO TO SEA IN THE BRIG “COVENANT” OF DYSART + VIII THE ROUND-HOUSE + IX THE MAN WITH THE BELT OF GOLD + X THE SIEGE OF THE ROUND-HOUSE + XI THE CAPTAIN KNUCKLES UNDER + XII I HEAR OF THE “RED FOX” + XIII THE LOSS OF THE BRIG + XIV THE ISLET + XV THE LAD WITH THE SILVER BUTTON: THROUGH THE ISLE OF MULL + XVI THE LAD WITH THE SILVER BUTTON: ACROSS MORVEN + XVII THE DEATH OF THE RED FOX + XVIIII TALK WITH ALAN IN THE WOOD OF LETTERMORE + XIX THE HOUSE OF FEAR + XX THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER: THE ROCKS + XXI THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER: THE HEUGH OF CORRYNAKIEGH + XXII THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER: THE MOOR + XXIII CLUNY’S CAGE + XXIV THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER: THE QUARREL IN BALQUHIDDER + XXVI END OF THE FLIGHT: WE PASS THE FORTH + XXVII I COME TO MR. RANKEILLOR + XXVIII I GO IN QUEST OF MY INHERITANCE + XXIX I COME INTO MY KINGDOM + XXX GOOD-BYE + + + + +CHAPTER I + +I SET OFF UPON MY JOURNEY TO THE HOUSE OF SHAWS + + +I will begin the story of my adventures with a certain morning early in +the month of June, the year of grace 1751, when I took the key for the +last time out of the door of my father’s house. The sun began to shine +upon the summit of the hills as I went down the road; and by the time +I had come as far as the manse, the blackbirds were whistling in the +garden lilacs, and the mist that hung around the valley in the time of +the dawn was beginning to arise and die away. + +Mr. Campbell, the minister of Essendean, was waiting for me by the +garden gate, good man! He asked me if I had breakfasted; and hearing +that I lacked for nothing, he took my hand in both of his and clapped it +kindly under his arm. + +“Well, Davie, lad,” said he, “I will go with you as far as the ford, to +set you on the way.” And we began to walk forward in silence. + +“Are ye sorry to leave Essendean?” said he, after awhile. + +“Why, sir,” said I, “if I knew where I was going, or what was likely +to become of me, I would tell you candidly. Essendean is a good place +indeed, and I have been very happy there; but then I have never been +anywhere else. My father and mother, since they are both dead, I shall +be no nearer to in Essendean than in the Kingdom of Hungary, and, to +speak truth, if I thought I had a chance to better myself where I was +going I would go with a good will.” + +“Ay?” said Mr. Campbell. “Very well, Davie. Then it behoves me to tell +your fortune; or so far as I may. When your mother was gone, and your +father (the worthy, Christian man) began to sicken for his end, he gave +me in charge a certain letter, which he said was your inheritance. ‘So +soon,’ says he, ‘as I am gone, and the house is redd up and the gear +disposed of’ (all which, Davie, hath been done), ‘give my boy this +letter into his hand, and start him off to the house of Shaws, not far +from Cramond. That is the place I came from,’ he said, ‘and it’s where +it befits that my boy should return. He is a steady lad,’ your father +said, ‘and a canny goer; and I doubt not he will come safe, and be well +liked where he goes.’” + +“The house of Shaws!” I cried. “What had my poor father to do with the +house of Shaws?” + +“Nay,” said Mr. Campbell, “who can tell that for a surety? But the name +of that family, Davie, boy, is the name you bear--Balfours of Shaws: +an ancient, honest, reputable house, peradventure in these latter +days decayed. Your father, too, was a man of learning as befitted his +position; no man more plausibly conducted school; nor had he the manner +or the speech of a common dominie; but (as ye will yourself remember) +I took aye a pleasure to have him to the manse to meet the gentry; and +those of my own house, Campbell of Kilrennet, Campbell of Dunswire, +Campbell of Minch, and others, all well-kenned gentlemen, had pleasure +in his society. Lastly, to put all the elements of this affair before +you, here is the testamentary letter itself, superscrived by the own +hand of our departed brother.” + +He gave me the letter, which was addressed in these words: “To the hands +of Ebenezer Balfour, Esquire, of Shaws, in his house of Shaws, these +will be delivered by my son, David Balfour.” My heart was beating hard +at this great prospect now suddenly opening before a lad of seventeen +years of age, the son of a poor country dominie in the Forest of +Ettrick. + +“Mr. Campbell,” I stammered, “and if you were in my shoes, would you +go?” + +“Of a surety,” said the minister, “that would I, and without pause. +A pretty lad like you should get to Cramond (which is near in by +Edinburgh) in two days of walk. If the worst came to the worst, and +your high relations (as I cannot but suppose them to be somewhat of your +blood) should put you to the door, ye can but walk the two days back +again and risp at the manse door. But I would rather hope that ye shall +be well received, as your poor father forecast for you, and for anything +that I ken come to be a great man in time. And here, Davie, laddie,” he +resumed, “it lies near upon my conscience to improve this parting, and +set you on the right guard against the dangers of the world.” + +Here he cast about for a comfortable seat, lighted on a big boulder +under a birch by the trackside, sate down upon it with a very long, +serious upper lip, and the sun now shining in upon us between two peaks, +put his pocket-handkerchief over his cocked hat to shelter him. There, +then, with uplifted forefinger, he first put me on my guard against a +considerable number of heresies, to which I had no temptation, and urged +upon me to be instant in my prayers and reading of the Bible. That done, +he drew a picture of the great house that I was bound to, and how I +should conduct myself with its inhabitants. + +“Be soople, Davie, in things immaterial,” said he. “Bear ye this in +mind, that, though gentle born, ye have had a country rearing. Dinnae +shame us, Davie, dinnae shame us! In yon great, muckle house, with all +these domestics, upper and under, show yourself as nice, as circumspect, +as quick at the conception, and as slow of speech as any. As for the +laird--remember he’s the laird; I say no more: honour to whom honour. +It’s a pleasure to obey a laird; or should be, to the young.” + +“Well, sir,” said I, “it may be; and I’ll promise you I’ll try to make +it so.” + +“Why, very well said,” replied Mr. Campbell, heartily. “And now to come +to the material, or (to make a quibble) to the immaterial. I have here +a little packet which contains four things.” He tugged it, as he spoke, +and with some great difficulty, from the skirt pocket of his coat. “Of +these four things, the first is your legal due: the little pickle money +for your father’s books and plenishing, which I have bought (as I have +explained from the first) in the design of re-selling at a profit to +the incoming dominie. The other three are gifties that Mrs. Campbell and +myself would be blithe of your acceptance. The first, which is round, +will likely please ye best at the first off-go; but, O Davie, laddie, +it’s but a drop of water in the sea; it’ll help you but a step, and +vanish like the morning. The second, which is flat and square and +written upon, will stand by you through life, like a good staff for the +road, and a good pillow to your head in sickness. And as for the last, +which is cubical, that’ll see you, it’s my prayerful wish, into a better +land.” + +With that he got upon his feet, took off his hat, and prayed a little +while aloud, and in affecting terms, for a young man setting out into +the world; then suddenly took me in his arms and embraced me very hard; +then held me at arm’s length, looking at me with his face all working +with sorrow; and then whipped about, and crying good-bye to me, set off +backward by the way that we had come at a sort of jogging run. It might +have been laughable to another; but I was in no mind to laugh. I watched +him as long as he was in sight; and he never stopped hurrying, nor once +looked back. Then it came in upon my mind that this was all his sorrow +at my departure; and my conscience smote me hard and fast, because I, +for my part, was overjoyed to get away out of that quiet country-side, +and go to a great, busy house, among rich and respected gentlefolk of my +own name and blood. + +“Davie, Davie,” I thought, “was ever seen such black ingratitude? Can +you forget old favours and old friends at the mere whistle of a name? +Fie, fie; think shame.” + +And I sat down on the boulder the good man had just left, and opened the +parcel to see the nature of my gifts. That which he had called cubical, +I had never had much doubt of; sure enough it was a little Bible, to +carry in a plaid-neuk. That which he had called round, I found to be a +shilling piece; and the third, which was to help me so wonderfully both +in health and sickness all the days of my life, was a little piece of +coarse yellow paper, written upon thus in red ink: + + +“TO MAKE LILLY OF THE VALLEY WATER.--Take the flowers of lilly of the +valley and distil them in sack, and drink a spooneful or two as there is +occasion. It restores speech to those that have the dumb palsey. It is +good against the Gout; it comforts the heart and strengthens the memory; +and the flowers, put into a Glasse, close stopt, and set into ane hill +of ants for a month, then take it out, and you will find a liquor which +comes from the flowers, which keep in a vial; it is good, ill or well, +and whether man or woman.” + + + +And then, in the minister’s own hand, was added: + +“Likewise for sprains, rub it in; and for the cholic, a great spooneful +in the hour.” + + +To be sure, I laughed over this; but it was rather tremulous laughter; +and I was glad to get my bundle on my staff’s end and set out over the +ford and up the hill upon the farther side; till, just as I came on the +green drove-road running wide through the heather, I took my last look +of Kirk Essendean, the trees about the manse, and the big rowans in the +kirkyard where my father and my mother lay. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +I COME TO MY JOURNEY’S END + + +On the forenoon of the second day, coming to the top of a hill, I saw +all the country fall away before me down to the sea; and in the midst +of this descent, on a long ridge, the city of Edinburgh smoking like +a kiln. There was a flag upon the castle, and ships moving or lying +anchored in the firth; both of which, for as far away as they were, I +could distinguish clearly; and both brought my country heart into my +mouth. + +Presently after, I came by a house where a shepherd lived, and got a +rough direction for the neighbourhood of Cramond; and so, from one to +another, worked my way to the westward of the capital by Colinton, till +I came out upon the Glasgow road. And there, to my great pleasure and +wonder, I beheld a regiment marching to the fifes, every foot in time; +an old red-faced general on a grey horse at the one end, and at the +other the company of Grenadiers, with their Pope’s-hats. The pride of +life seemed to mount into my brain at the sight of the red coats and the +hearing of that merry music. + +A little farther on, and I was told I was in Cramond parish, and began +to substitute in my inquiries the name of the house of Shaws. It was a +word that seemed to surprise those of whom I sought my way. At first I +thought the plainness of my appearance, in my country habit, and that +all dusty from the road, consorted ill with the greatness of the place +to which I was bound. But after two, or maybe three, had given me the +same look and the same answer, I began to take it in my head there was +something strange about the Shaws itself. + +The better to set this fear at rest, I changed the form of my inquiries; +and spying an honest fellow coming along a lane on the shaft of his +cart, I asked him if he had ever heard tell of a house they called the +house of Shaws. + +He stopped his cart and looked at me, like the others. + +“Ay” said he. “What for?” + +“It’s a great house?” I asked. + +“Doubtless,” says he. “The house is a big, muckle house.” + +“Ay,” said I, “but the folk that are in it?” + +“Folk?” cried he. “Are ye daft? There’s nae folk there--to call folk.” + +“What?” say I; “not Mr. Ebenezer?” + +“Ou, ay” says the man; “there’s the laird, to be sure, if it’s him +you’re wanting. What’ll like be your business, mannie?” + +“I was led to think that I would get a situation,” I said, looking as +modest as I could. + +“What?” cries the carter, in so sharp a note that his very horse +started; and then, “Well, mannie,” he added, “it’s nane of my affairs; +but ye seem a decent-spoken lad; and if ye’ll take a word from me, ye’ll +keep clear of the Shaws.” + +The next person I came across was a dapper little man in a beautiful +white wig, whom I saw to be a barber on his rounds; and knowing well +that barbers were great gossips, I asked him plainly what sort of a man +was Mr. Balfour of the Shaws. + +“Hoot, hoot, hoot,” said the barber, “nae kind of a man, nae kind of a +man at all;” and began to ask me very shrewdly what my business was; +but I was more than a match for him at that, and he went on to his next +customer no wiser than he came. + +I cannot well describe the blow this dealt to my illusions. The more +indistinct the accusations were, the less I liked them, for they left +the wider field to fancy. What kind of a great house was this, that all +the parish should start and stare to be asked the way to it? or what +sort of a gentleman, that his ill-fame should be thus current on the +wayside? If an hour’s walking would have brought me back to Essendean, I +had left my adventure then and there, and returned to Mr. Campbell’s. +But when I had come so far a way already, mere shame would not suffer me +to desist till I had put the matter to the touch of proof; I was bound, +out of mere self-respect, to carry it through; and little as I liked +the sound of what I heard, and slow as I began to travel, I still kept +asking my way and still kept advancing. + +It was drawing on to sundown when I met a stout, dark, sour-looking +woman coming trudging down a hill; and she, when I had put my usual +question, turned sharp about, accompanied me back to the summit she had +just left, and pointed to a great bulk of building standing very bare +upon a green in the bottom of the next valley. The country was pleasant +round about, running in low hills, pleasantly watered and wooded, and +the crops, to my eyes, wonderfully good; but the house itself appeared +to be a kind of ruin; no road led up to it; no smoke arose from any of +the chimneys; nor was there any semblance of a garden. My heart sank. +“That!” I cried. + +The woman’s face lit up with a malignant anger. “That is the house of +Shaws!” she cried. “Blood built it; blood stopped the building of it; +blood shall bring it down. See here!” she cried again--“I spit upon +the ground, and crack my thumb at it! Black be its fall! If ye see the +laird, tell him what ye hear; tell him this makes the twelve hunner and +nineteen time that Jennet Clouston has called down the curse on him +and his house, byre and stable, man, guest, and master, wife, miss, or +bairn--black, black be their fall!” + +And the woman, whose voice had risen to a kind of eldritch sing-song, +turned with a skip, and was gone. I stood where she left me, with my +hair on end. In those days folk still believed in witches and trembled +at a curse; and this one, falling so pat, like a wayside omen, to arrest +me ere I carried out my purpose, took the pith out of my legs. + +I sat me down and stared at the house of Shaws. The more I looked, +the pleasanter that country-side appeared; being all set with hawthorn +bushes full of flowers; the fields dotted with sheep; a fine flight of +rooks in the sky; and every sign of a kind soil and climate; and yet the +barrack in the midst of it went sore against my fancy. + +Country folk went by from the fields as I sat there on the side of the +ditch, but I lacked the spirit to give them a good-e’en. At last the sun +went down, and then, right up against the yellow sky, I saw a scroll of +smoke go mounting, not much thicker, as it seemed to me, than the smoke +of a candle; but still there it was, and meant a fire, and warmth, and +cookery, and some living inhabitant that must have lit it; and this +comforted my heart. + +So I set forward by a little faint track in the grass that led in my +direction. It was very faint indeed to be the only way to a place +of habitation; yet I saw no other. Presently it brought me to stone +uprights, with an unroofed lodge beside them, and coats of arms upon +the top. A main entrance it was plainly meant to be, but never finished; +instead of gates of wrought iron, a pair of hurdles were tied across +with a straw rope; and as there were no park walls, nor any sign of +avenue, the track that I was following passed on the right hand of the +pillars, and went wandering on toward the house. + +The nearer I got to that, the drearier it appeared. It seemed like the +one wing of a house that had never been finished. What should have been +the inner end stood open on the upper floors, and showed against the sky +with steps and stairs of uncompleted masonry. Many of the windows were +unglazed, and bats flew in and out like doves out of a dove-cote. + +The night had begun to fall as I got close; and in three of the lower +windows, which were very high up and narrow, and well barred, the +changing light of a little fire began to glimmer. Was this the palace +I had been coming to? Was it within these walls that I was to seek +new friends and begin great fortunes? Why, in my father’s house on +Essen-Waterside, the fire and the bright lights would show a mile away, +and the door open to a beggar’s knock! + +I came forward cautiously, and giving ear as I came, heard some one +rattling with dishes, and a little dry, eager cough that came in fits; +but there was no sound of speech, and not a dog barked. + +The door, as well as I could see it in the dim light, was a great piece +of wood all studded with nails; and I lifted my hand with a faint heart +under my jacket, and knocked once. Then I stood and waited. The house +had fallen into a dead silence; a whole minute passed away, and nothing +stirred but the bats overhead. I knocked again, and hearkened again. +By this time my ears had grown so accustomed to the quiet, that I +could hear the ticking of the clock inside as it slowly counted out the +seconds; but whoever was in that house kept deadly still, and must have +held his breath. + +I was in two minds whether to run away; but anger got the upper hand, +and I began instead to rain kicks and buffets on the door, and to shout +out aloud for Mr. Balfour. I was in full career, when I heard the cough +right overhead, and jumping back and looking up, beheld a man’s head +in a tall nightcap, and the bell mouth of a blunderbuss, at one of the +first-storey windows. + +“It’s loaded,” said a voice. + +“I have come here with a letter,” I said, “to Mr. Ebenezer Balfour of +Shaws. Is he here?” + +“From whom is it?” asked the man with the blunderbuss. + +“That is neither here nor there,” said I, for I was growing very wroth. + +“Well,” was the reply, “ye can put it down upon the doorstep, and be off +with ye.” + +“I will do no such thing,” I cried. “I will deliver it into Mr. +Balfour’s hands, as it was meant I should. It is a letter of +introduction.” + +“A what?” cried the voice, sharply. + +I repeated what I had said. + +“Who are ye, yourself?” was the next question, after a considerable +pause. + +“I am not ashamed of my name,” said I. “They call me David Balfour.” + +At that, I made sure the man started, for I heard the blunderbuss rattle +on the window-sill; and it was after quite a long pause, and with a +curious change of voice, that the next question followed: + +“Is your father dead?” + +I was so much surprised at this, that I could find no voice to answer, +but stood staring. + +“Ay,” the man resumed, “he’ll be dead, no doubt; and that’ll be what +brings ye chapping to my door.” Another pause, and then defiantly, +“Well, man,” he said, “I’ll let ye in;” and he disappeared from the +window. + + + + +CHAPTER III + +I MAKE ACQUAINTANCE OF MY UNCLE + + +Presently there came a great rattling of chains and bolts, and the +door was cautiously opened and shut to again behind me as soon as I had +passed. + +“Go into the kitchen and touch naething,” said the voice; and while the +person of the house set himself to replacing the defences of the door, I +groped my way forward and entered the kitchen. + +The fire had burned up fairly bright, and showed me the barest room I +think I ever put my eyes on. Half-a-dozen dishes stood upon the shelves; +the table was laid for supper with a bowl of porridge, a horn spoon, and +a cup of small beer. Besides what I have named, there was not another +thing in that great, stone-vaulted, empty chamber but lockfast chests +arranged along the wall and a corner cupboard with a padlock. + +As soon as the last chain was up, the man rejoined me. He was a mean, +stooping, narrow-shouldered, clay-faced creature; and his age might have +been anything between fifty and seventy. His nightcap was of flannel, +and so was the nightgown that he wore, instead of coat and waistcoat, +over his ragged shirt. He was long unshaved; but what most distressed +and even daunted me, he would neither take his eyes away from me nor +look me fairly in the face. What he was, whether by trade or birth, was +more than I could fathom; but he seemed most like an old, unprofitable +serving-man, who should have been left in charge of that big house upon +board wages. + +“Are ye sharp-set?” he asked, glancing at about the level of my knee. +“Ye can eat that drop parritch?” + +I said I feared it was his own supper. + +“O,” said he, “I can do fine wanting it. I’ll take the ale, though, for +it slockens[1] my cough.” He drank the cup about half out, still +keeping an eye upon me as he drank; and then suddenly held out his +hand. “Let’s see the letter,” said he. + + [1] moistens + +I told him the letter was for Mr. Balfour; not for him. + +“And who do ye think I am?” says he. “Give me Alexander’s letter.” + +“You know my father’s name?” + +“It would be strange if I didnae,” he returned, “for he was my born +brother; and little as ye seem to like either me or my house, or my good +parritch, I’m your born uncle, Davie, my man, and you my born nephew. So +give us the letter, and sit down and fill your kyte.” + +If I had been some years younger, what with shame, weariness, and +disappointment, I believe I had burst into tears. As it was, I could +find no words, neither black nor white, but handed him the letter, and +sat down to the porridge with as little appetite for meat as ever a +young man had. + +Meanwhile, my uncle, stooping over the fire, turned the letter over and +over in his hands. + +“Do ye ken what’s in it?” he asked, suddenly. + +“You see for yourself, sir,” said I, “that the seal has not been +broken.” + +“Ay,” said he, “but what brought you here?” + +“To give the letter,” said I. + +“No,” says he, cunningly, “but ye’ll have had some hopes, nae doubt?” + +“I confess, sir,” said I, “when I was told that I had kinsfolk +well-to-do, I did indeed indulge the hope that they might help me in +my life. But I am no beggar; I look for no favours at your hands, and +I want none that are not freely given. For as poor as I appear, I have +friends of my own that will be blithe to help me.” + +“Hoot-toot!” said Uncle Ebenezer, “dinnae fly up in the snuff at me. +We’ll agree fine yet. And, Davie, my man, if you’re done with that bit +parritch, I could just take a sup of it myself. Ay,” he continued, +as soon as he had ousted me from the stool and spoon, “they’re fine, +halesome food--they’re grand food, parritch.” He murmured a little grace +to himself and fell to. “Your father was very fond of his meat, I mind; +he was a hearty, if not a great eater; but as for me, I could never +do mair than pyke at food.” He took a pull at the small beer, which +probably reminded him of hospitable duties, for his next speech ran +thus: “If ye’re dry ye’ll find water behind the door.” + +To this I returned no answer, standing stiffly on my two feet, and +looking down upon my uncle with a mighty angry heart. He, on his part, +continued to eat like a man under some pressure of time, and to throw +out little darting glances now at my shoes and now at my home-spun +stockings. Once only, when he had ventured to look a little higher, our +eyes met; and no thief taken with a hand in a man’s pocket could have +shown more lively signals of distress. This set me in a muse, whether +his timidity arose from too long a disuse of any human company; and +whether perhaps, upon a little trial, it might pass off, and my uncle +change into an altogether different man. From this I was awakened by his +sharp voice. + +“Your father’s been long dead?” he asked. + +“Three weeks, sir,” said I. + +“He was a secret man, Alexander--a secret, silent man,” he continued. +“He never said muckle when he was young. He’ll never have spoken muckle +of me?” + +“I never knew, sir, till you told it me yourself, that he had any +brother.” + +“Dear me, dear me!” said Ebenezer. “Nor yet of Shaws, I dare say?” + +“Not so much as the name, sir,” said I. + +“To think o’ that!” said he. “A strange nature of a man!” For all that, +he seemed singularly satisfied, but whether with himself, or me, or +with this conduct of my father’s, was more than I could read. Certainly, +however, he seemed to be outgrowing that distaste, or ill-will, that he +had conceived at first against my person; for presently he jumped up, +came across the room behind me, and hit me a smack upon the shoulder. +“We’ll agree fine yet!” he cried. “I’m just as glad I let you in. And +now come awa’ to your bed.” + +To my surprise, he lit no lamp or candle, but set forth into the dark +passage, groped his way, breathing deeply, up a flight of steps, and +paused before a door, which he unlocked. I was close upon his heels, +having stumbled after him as best I might; and then he bade me go in, +for that was my chamber. I did as he bid, but paused after a few steps, +and begged a light to go to bed with. + +“Hoot-toot!” said Uncle Ebenezer, “there’s a fine moon.” + +“Neither moon nor star, sir, and pit-mirk,”[2] said I. “I cannae see +the bed.” + + [2] Dark as the pit. + +“Hoot-toot, hoot-toot!” said he. “Lights in a house is a thing I dinnae +agree with. I’m unco feared of fires. Good-night to ye, Davie, my man.” + And before I had time to add a further protest, he pulled the door to, +and I heard him lock me in from the outside. + +I did not know whether to laugh or cry. The room was as cold as a well, +and the bed, when I had found my way to it, as damp as a peat-hag; but +by good fortune I had caught up my bundle and my plaid, and rolling +myself in the latter, I lay down upon the floor under lee of the big +bedstead, and fell speedily asleep. + +With the first peep of day I opened my eyes, to find myself in a great +chamber, hung with stamped leather, furnished with fine embroidered +furniture, and lit by three fair windows. Ten years ago, or perhaps +twenty, it must have been as pleasant a room to lie down or to awake in +as a man could wish; but damp, dirt, disuse, and the mice and spiders +had done their worst since then. Many of the window-panes, besides, were +broken; and indeed this was so common a feature in that house, that I +believe my uncle must at some time have stood a siege from his indignant +neighbours--perhaps with Jennet Clouston at their head. + +Meanwhile the sun was shining outside; and being very cold in that +miserable room, I knocked and shouted till my gaoler came and let me +out. He carried me to the back of the house, where was a draw-well, and +told me to “wash my face there, if I wanted;” and when that was done, +I made the best of my own way back to the kitchen, where he had lit the +fire and was making the porridge. The table was laid with two bowls and +two horn spoons, but the same single measure of small beer. Perhaps my +eye rested on this particular with some surprise, and perhaps my uncle +observed it; for he spoke up as if in answer to my thought, asking me if +I would like to drink ale--for so he called it. + +I told him such was my habit, but not to put himself about. + +“Na, na,” said he; “I’ll deny you nothing in reason.” + +He fetched another cup from the shelf; and then, to my great surprise, +instead of drawing more beer, he poured an accurate half from one cup +to the other. There was a kind of nobleness in this that took my breath +away; if my uncle was certainly a miser, he was one of that thorough +breed that goes near to make the vice respectable. + +When we had made an end of our meal, my uncle Ebenezer unlocked a +drawer, and drew out of it a clay pipe and a lump of tobacco, from which +he cut one fill before he locked it up again. Then he sat down in the +sun at one of the windows and silently smoked. From time to time his +eyes came coasting round to me, and he shot out one of his questions. +Once it was, “And your mother?” and when I had told him that she, too, +was dead, “Ay, she was a bonnie lassie!” Then, after another long pause, +“Whae were these friends o’ yours?” + +I told him they were different gentlemen of the name of Campbell; +though, indeed, there was only one, and that the minister, that had ever +taken the least note of me; but I began to think my uncle made too light +of my position, and finding myself all alone with him, I did not wish +him to suppose me helpless. + +He seemed to turn this over in his mind; and then, “Davie, my man,” said +he, “ye’ve come to the right bit when ye came to your uncle Ebenezer. +I’ve a great notion of the family, and I mean to do the right by you; +but while I’m taking a bit think to mysel’ of what’s the best thing to +put you to--whether the law, or the meenistry, or maybe the army, whilk +is what boys are fondest of--I wouldnae like the Balfours to be humbled +before a wheen Hieland Campbells, and I’ll ask you to keep your tongue +within your teeth. Nae letters; nae messages; no kind of word to +onybody; or else--there’s my door.” + +“Uncle Ebenezer,” said I, “I’ve no manner of reason to suppose you mean +anything but well by me. For all that, I would have you to know that I +have a pride of my own. It was by no will of mine that I came seeking +you; and if you show me your door again, I’ll take you at the word.” + +He seemed grievously put out. “Hoots-toots,” said he, “ca’ cannie, +man--ca’ cannie! Bide a day or two. I’m nae warlock, to find a fortune +for you in the bottom of a parritch bowl; but just you give me a day or +two, and say naething to naebody, and as sure as sure, I’ll do the right +by you.” + +“Very well,” said I, “enough said. If you want to help me, there’s no +doubt but I’ll be glad of it, and none but I’ll be grateful.” + +It seemed to me (too soon, I dare say) that I was getting the upper +hand of my uncle; and I began next to say that I must have the bed and +bedclothes aired and put to sun-dry; for nothing would make me sleep in +such a pickle. + +“Is this my house or yours?” said he, in his keen voice, and then all of +a sudden broke off. “Na, na,” said he, “I didnae mean that. What’s mine +is yours, Davie, my man, and what’s yours is mine. Blood’s thicker than +water; and there’s naebody but you and me that ought the name.” And +then on he rambled about the family, and its ancient greatness, and his +father that began to enlarge the house, and himself that stopped the +building as a sinful waste; and this put it in my head to give him +Jennet Clouston’s message. + +“The limmer!” he cried. “Twelve hunner and fifteen--that’s every day +since I had the limmer rowpit![3] Dod, David, I’ll have her roasted on red +peats before I’m by with it! A witch--a proclaimed witch! I’ll aff and +see the session clerk.” + + [3] Sold up. + +And with that he opened a chest, and got out a very old and +well-preserved blue coat and waistcoat, and a good enough beaver hat, +both without lace. These he threw on any way, and taking a staff from +the cupboard, locked all up again, and was for setting out, when a +thought arrested him. + +“I cannae leave you by yoursel’ in the house,” said he. “I’ll have to +lock you out.” + +The blood came to my face. “If you lock me out,” I said, “it’ll be the +last you’ll see of me in friendship.” + +He turned very pale, and sucked his mouth in. + +“This is no the way,” he said, looking wickedly at a corner of the +floor--“this is no the way to win my favour, David.” + +“Sir,” says I, “with a proper reverence for your age and our common +blood, I do not value your favour at a boddle’s purchase. I was brought +up to have a good conceit of myself; and if you were all the uncle, and +all the family, I had in the world ten times over, I wouldn’t buy your +liking at such prices.” + +Uncle Ebenezer went and looked out of the window for awhile. I could +see him all trembling and twitching, like a man with palsy. But when he +turned round, he had a smile upon his face. + +“Well, well,” said he, “we must bear and forbear. I’ll no go; that’s all +that’s to be said of it.” + +“Uncle Ebenezer,” I said, “I can make nothing out of this. You use me +like a thief; you hate to have me in this house; you let me see it, +every word and every minute: it’s not possible that you can like me; and +as for me, I’ve spoken to you as I never thought to speak to any man. +Why do you seek to keep me, then? Let me gang back--let me gang back to +the friends I have, and that like me!” + +“Na, na; na, na,” he said, very earnestly. “I like you fine; we’ll agree +fine yet; and for the honour of the house I couldnae let you leave the +way ye came. Bide here quiet, there’s a good lad; just you bide here +quiet a bittie, and ye’ll find that we agree.” + +“Well, sir,” said I, after I had thought the matter out in silence, +“I’ll stay awhile. It’s more just I should be helped by my own blood +than strangers; and if we don’t agree, I’ll do my best it shall be +through no fault of mine.” + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +I RUN A GREAT DANGER IN THE HOUSE OF SHAWS + + +For a day that was begun so ill, the day passed fairly well. We had the +porridge cold again at noon, and hot porridge at night; porridge and +small beer was my uncle’s diet. He spoke but little, and that in the +same way as before, shooting a question at me after a long silence; and +when I sought to lead him to talk about my future, slipped out of it +again. In a room next door to the kitchen, where he suffered me to go, +I found a great number of books, both Latin and English, in which I took +great pleasure all the afternoon. Indeed, the time passed so lightly in +this good company, that I began to be almost reconciled to my residence +at Shaws; and nothing but the sight of my uncle, and his eyes playing +hide and seek with mine, revived the force of my distrust. + +One thing I discovered, which put me in some doubt. This was an entry on +the fly-leaf of a chap-book (one of Patrick Walker’s) plainly written +by my father’s hand and thus conceived: “To my brother Ebenezer on his +fifth birthday.” Now, what puzzled me was this: That, as my father was of +course the younger brother, he must either have made some strange error, +or he must have written, before he was yet five, an excellent, clear +manly hand of writing. + +I tried to get this out of my head; but though I took down many +interesting authors, old and new, history, poetry, and story-book, this +notion of my father’s hand of writing stuck to me; and when at length I +went back into the kitchen, and sat down once more to porridge and small +beer, the first thing I said to Uncle Ebenezer was to ask him if my +father had not been very quick at his book. + +“Alexander? No him!” was the reply. “I was far quicker mysel’; I was a +clever chappie when I was young. Why, I could read as soon as he could.” + +This puzzled me yet more; and a thought coming into my head, I asked if +he and my father had been twins. + +He jumped upon his stool, and the horn spoon fell out of his hand upon +the floor. “What gars ye ask that?” he said, and he caught me by the +breast of the jacket, and looked this time straight into my eyes: +his own were little and light, and bright like a bird’s, blinking and +winking strangely. + +“What do you mean?” I asked, very calmly, for I was far stronger than +he, and not easily frightened. “Take your hand from my jacket. This is +no way to behave.” + +My uncle seemed to make a great effort upon himself. “Dod man, David,” + he said, “ye should-nae speak to me about your father. That’s where the +mistake is.” He sat awhile and shook, blinking in his plate: “He was all +the brother that ever I had,” he added, but with no heart in his voice; +and then he caught up his spoon and fell to supper again, but still +shaking. + +Now this last passage, this laying of hands upon my person and +sudden profession of love for my dead father, went so clean beyond my +comprehension that it put me into both fear and hope. On the one hand, +I began to think my uncle was perhaps insane and might be dangerous; +on the other, there came up into my mind (quite unbidden by me and even +discouraged) a story like some ballad I had heard folk singing, of a +poor lad that was a rightful heir and a wicked kinsman that tried +to keep him from his own. For why should my uncle play a part with a +relative that came, almost a beggar, to his door, unless in his heart he +had some cause to fear him? + +With this notion, all unacknowledged, but nevertheless getting firmly +settled in my head, I now began to imitate his covert looks; so that +we sat at table like a cat and a mouse, each stealthily observing the +other. Not another word had he to say to me, black or white, but was +busy turning something secretly over in his mind; and the longer we +sat and the more I looked at him, the more certain I became that the +something was unfriendly to myself. + +When he had cleared the platter, he got out a single pipeful of tobacco, +just as in the morning, turned round a stool into the chimney corner, +and sat awhile smoking, with his back to me. + +“Davie,” he said, at length, “I’ve been thinking;” then he paused, and +said it again. “There’s a wee bit siller that I half promised ye before +ye were born,” he continued; “promised it to your father. O, naething +legal, ye understand; just gentlemen daffing at their wine. Well, I +keepit that bit money separate--it was a great expense, but a promise +is a promise--and it has grown by now to be a matter of just +precisely--just exactly”--and here he paused and stumbled--“of just +exactly forty pounds!” This last he rapped out with a sidelong glance +over his shoulder; and the next moment added, almost with a scream, +“Scots!” + +The pound Scots being the same thing as an English shilling, the +difference made by this second thought was considerable; I could see, +besides, that the whole story was a lie, invented with some end which +it puzzled me to guess; and I made no attempt to conceal the tone of +raillery in which I answered-- + +“O, think again, sir! Pounds sterling, I believe!” + +“That’s what I said,” returned my uncle: “pounds sterling! And if you’ll +step out-by to the door a minute, just to see what kind of a night it +is, I’ll get it out to ye and call ye in again.” + +I did his will, smiling to myself in my contempt that he should think I +was so easily to be deceived. It was a dark night, with a few stars low +down; and as I stood just outside the door, I heard a hollow moaning +of wind far off among the hills. I said to myself there was something +thundery and changeful in the weather, and little knew of what a vast +importance that should prove to me before the evening passed. + +When I was called in again, my uncle counted out into my hand seven and +thirty golden guinea pieces; the rest was in his hand, in small gold and +silver; but his heart failed him there, and he crammed the change into +his pocket. + +“There,” said he, “that’ll show you! I’m a queer man, and strange wi’ +strangers; but my word is my bond, and there’s the proof of it.” + +Now, my uncle seemed so miserly that I was struck dumb by this sudden +generosity, and could find no words in which to thank him. + +“No a word!” said he. “Nae thanks; I want nae thanks. I do my duty. I’m +no saying that everybody would have done it; but for my part (though +I’m a careful body, too) it’s a pleasure to me to do the right by my +brother’s son; and it’s a pleasure to me to think that now we’ll agree +as such near friends should.” + +I spoke him in return as handsomely as I was able; but all the while +I was wondering what would come next, and why he had parted with his +precious guineas; for as to the reason he had given, a baby would have +refused it. + +Presently he looked towards me sideways. + +“And see here,” says he, “tit for tat.” + +I told him I was ready to prove my gratitude in any reasonable degree, +and then waited, looking for some monstrous demand. And yet, when +at last he plucked up courage to speak, it was only to tell me (very +properly, as I thought) that he was growing old and a little broken, and +that he would expect me to help him with the house and the bit garden. + +I answered, and expressed my readiness to serve. + +“Well,” he said, “let’s begin.” He pulled out of his pocket a rusty key. +“There,” says he, “there’s the key of the stair-tower at the far end of +the house. Ye can only win into it from the outside, for that part of +the house is no finished. Gang ye in there, and up the stairs, and bring +me down the chest that’s at the top. There’s papers in’t,” he added. + +“Can I have a light, sir?” said I. + +“Na,” said he, very cunningly. “Nae lights in my house.” + +“Very well, sir,” said I. “Are the stairs good?” + +“They’re grand,” said he; and then, as I was going, “Keep to the wall,” + he added; “there’s nae bannisters. But the stairs are grand underfoot.” + +Out I went into the night. The wind was still moaning in the distance, +though never a breath of it came near the house of Shaws. It had fallen +blacker than ever; and I was glad to feel along the wall, till I came +the length of the stairtower door at the far end of the unfinished wing. +I had got the key into the keyhole and had just turned it, when all upon +a sudden, without sound of wind or thunder, the whole sky lighted up +with wild fire and went black again. I had to put my hand over my eyes +to get back to the colour of the darkness; and indeed I was already half +blinded when I stepped into the tower. + +It was so dark inside, it seemed a body could scarce breathe; but I +pushed out with foot and hand, and presently struck the wall with the +one, and the lowermost round of the stair with the other. The wall, by +the touch, was of fine hewn stone; the steps too, though somewhat steep +and narrow, were of polished masonwork, and regular and solid underfoot. +Minding my uncle’s word about the bannisters, I kept close to the tower +side, and felt my way in the pitch darkness with a beating heart. + +The house of Shaws stood some five full storeys high, not counting +lofts. Well, as I advanced, it seemed to me the stair grew airier and a +thought more lightsome; and I was wondering what might be the cause of +this change, when a second blink of the summer lightning came and went. +If I did not cry out, it was because fear had me by the throat; and if I +did not fall, it was more by Heaven’s mercy than my own strength. It was +not only that the flash shone in on every side through breaches in the +wall, so that I seemed to be clambering aloft upon an open scaffold, but +the same passing brightness showed me the steps were of unequal length, +and that one of my feet rested that moment within two inches of the +well. + +This was the grand stair! I thought; and with the thought, a gust of +a kind of angry courage came into my heart. My uncle had sent me here, +certainly to run great risks, perhaps to die. I swore I would settle +that “perhaps,” if I should break my neck for it; got me down upon my +hands and knees; and as slowly as a snail, feeling before me every +inch, and testing the solidity of every stone, I continued to ascend +the stair. The darkness, by contrast with the flash, appeared to have +redoubled; nor was that all, for my ears were now troubled and my mind +confounded by a great stir of bats in the top part of the tower, and the +foul beasts, flying downwards, sometimes beat about my face and body. + +The tower, I should have said, was square; and in every corner the step +was made of a great stone of a different shape to join the flights. +Well, I had come close to one of these turns, when, feeling forward +as usual, my hand slipped upon an edge and found nothing but emptiness +beyond it. The stair had been carried no higher; to set a stranger +mounting it in the darkness was to send him straight to his death; and +(although, thanks to the lightning and my own precautions, I was safe +enough) the mere thought of the peril in which I might have stood, and +the dreadful height I might have fallen from, brought out the sweat upon +my body and relaxed my joints. + +But I knew what I wanted now, and turned and groped my way down again, +with a wonderful anger in my heart. About half-way down, the wind sprang +up in a clap and shook the tower, and died again; the rain followed; and +before I had reached the ground level it fell in buckets. I put out my +head into the storm, and looked along towards the kitchen. The door, +which I had shut behind me when I left, now stood open, and shed a +little glimmer of light; and I thought I could see a figure standing +in the rain, quite still, like a man hearkening. And then there came +a blinding flash, which showed me my uncle plainly, just where I had +fancied him to stand; and hard upon the heels of it, a great tow-row of +thunder. + +Now, whether my uncle thought the crash to be the sound of my fall, or +whether he heard in it God’s voice denouncing murder, I will leave you +to guess. Certain it is, at least, that he was seized on by a kind of +panic fear, and that he ran into the house and left the door open behind +him. I followed as softly as I could, and, coming unheard into the +kitchen, stood and watched him. + +He had found time to open the corner cupboard and bring out a great case +bottle of aqua vitae, and now sat with his back towards me at the table. +Ever and again he would be seized with a fit of deadly shuddering and +groan aloud, and carrying the bottle to his lips, drink down the raw +spirits by the mouthful. + +I stepped forward, came close behind him where he sat, and suddenly +clapping my two hands down upon his shoulders--“Ah!” cried I. + +My uncle gave a kind of broken cry like a sheep’s bleat, flung up his +arms, and tumbled to the floor like a dead man. I was somewhat shocked +at this; but I had myself to look to first of all, and did not hesitate +to let him lie as he had fallen. The keys were hanging in the cupboard; +and it was my design to furnish myself with arms before my uncle should +come again to his senses and the power of devising evil. In the cupboard +were a few bottles, some apparently of medicine; a great many bills and +other papers, which I should willingly enough have rummaged, had I had +the time; and a few necessaries that were nothing to my purpose. Thence +I turned to the chests. The first was full of meal; the second of +moneybags and papers tied into sheaves; in the third, with many +other things (and these for the most part clothes) I found a rusty, +ugly-looking Highland dirk without the scabbard. This, then, I concealed +inside my waistcoat, and turned to my uncle. + +He lay as he had fallen, all huddled, with one knee up and one arm +sprawling abroad; his face had a strange colour of blue, and he seemed +to have ceased breathing. Fear came on me that he was dead; then I +got water and dashed it in his face; and with that he seemed to come a +little to himself, working his mouth and fluttering his eyelids. At last +he looked up and saw me, and there came into his eyes a terror that was +not of this world. + +“Come, come,” said I; “sit up.” + +“Are ye alive?” he sobbed. “O man, are ye alive?” + +“That am I,” said I. “Small thanks to you!” + +He had begun to seek for his breath with deep sighs. “The blue phial,” + said he--“in the aumry--the blue phial.” His breath came slower still. + +I ran to the cupboard, and, sure enough, found there a blue phial +of medicine, with the dose written on it on a paper, and this I +administered to him with what speed I might. + +“It’s the trouble,” said he, reviving a little; “I have a trouble, +Davie. It’s the heart.” + +I set him on a chair and looked at him. It is true I felt some pity for +a man that looked so sick, but I was full besides of righteous anger; +and I numbered over before him the points on which I wanted explanation: +why he lied to me at every word; why he feared that I should leave him; +why he disliked it to be hinted that he and my father were twins--“Is +that because it is true?” I asked; why he had given me money to which I +was convinced I had no claim; and, last of all, why he had tried to kill +me. He heard me all through in silence; and then, in a broken voice, +begged me to let him go to bed. + +“I’ll tell ye the morn,” he said; “as sure as death I will.” + +And so weak was he that I could do nothing but consent. I locked him +into his room, however, and pocketed the key, and then returning to +the kitchen, made up such a blaze as had not shone there for many a long +year, and wrapping myself in my plaid, lay down upon the chests and fell +asleep. + + + + +CHAPTER V + +I GO TO THE QUEEN’S FERRY + + +Much rain fell in the night; and the next morning there blew a bitter +wintry wind out of the north-west, driving scattered clouds. For all +that, and before the sun began to peep or the last of the stars had +vanished, I made my way to the side of the burn, and had a plunge in a +deep whirling pool. All aglow from my bath, I sat down once more +beside the fire, which I replenished, and began gravely to consider my +position. + +There was now no doubt about my uncle’s enmity; there was no doubt I +carried my life in my hand, and he would leave no stone unturned that +he might compass my destruction. But I was young and spirited, and +like most lads that have been country-bred, I had a great opinion of my +shrewdness. I had come to his door no better than a beggar and little +more than a child; he had met me with treachery and violence; it would +be a fine consummation to take the upper hand, and drive him like a herd +of sheep. + +I sat there nursing my knee and smiling at the fire; and I saw myself in +fancy smell out his secrets one after another, and grow to be that man’s +king and ruler. The warlock of Essendean, they say, had made a mirror in +which men could read the future; it must have been of other stuff than +burning coal; for in all the shapes and pictures that I sat and gazed +at, there was never a ship, never a seaman with a hairy cap, never a big +bludgeon for my silly head, or the least sign of all those tribulations +that were ripe to fall on me. + +Presently, all swollen with conceit, I went up-stairs and gave my +prisoner his liberty. He gave me good-morning civilly; and I gave the +same to him, smiling down upon him, from the heights of my sufficiency. +Soon we were set to breakfast, as it might have been the day before. + +“Well, sir,” said I, with a jeering tone, “have you nothing more to say +to me?” And then, as he made no articulate reply, “It will be time, +I think, to understand each other,” I continued. “You took me for +a country Johnnie Raw, with no more mother-wit or courage than a +porridge-stick. I took you for a good man, or no worse than others at +the least. It seems we were both wrong. What cause you have to fear me, +to cheat me, and to attempt my life--” + +He murmured something about a jest, and that he liked a bit of fun; and +then, seeing me smile, changed his tone, and assured me he would make +all clear as soon as we had breakfasted. I saw by his face that he had +no lie ready for me, though he was hard at work preparing one; and I +think I was about to tell him so, when we were interrupted by a knocking +at the door. + +Bidding my uncle sit where he was, I went to open it, and found on the +doorstep a half-grown boy in sea-clothes. He had no sooner seen me than +he began to dance some steps of the sea-hornpipe (which I had never +before heard of far less seen), snapping his fingers in the air and +footing it right cleverly. For all that, he was blue with the cold; and +there was something in his face, a look between tears and laughter, that +was highly pathetic and consisted ill with this gaiety of manner. + +“What cheer, mate?” says he, with a cracked voice. + +I asked him soberly to name his pleasure. + +“O, pleasure!” says he; and then began to sing: + + “For it’s my delight, of a shiny night, + In the season of the year.” + +“Well,” said I, “if you have no business at all, I will even be so +unmannerly as to shut you out.” + +“Stay, brother!” he cried. “Have you no fun about you? or do you want +to get me thrashed? I’ve brought a letter from old Heasyoasy to Mr. +Belflower.” He showed me a letter as he spoke. “And I say, mate,” he +added, “I’m mortal hungry.” + +“Well,” said I, “come into the house, and you shall have a bite if I go +empty for it.” + +With that I brought him in and set him down to my own place, where he +fell-to greedily on the remains of breakfast, winking to me between +whiles, and making many faces, which I think the poor soul considered +manly. Meanwhile, my uncle had read the letter and sat thinking; then, +suddenly, he got to his feet with a great air of liveliness, and pulled +me apart into the farthest corner of the room. + +“Read that,” said he, and put the letter in my hand. + +Here it is, lying before me as I write: + +“The Hawes Inn, at the Queen’s Ferry. + +“Sir,--I lie here with my hawser up and down, and send my cabin-boy to +informe. If you have any further commands for over-seas, to-day will be +the last occasion, as the wind will serve us well out of the firth. +I will not seek to deny that I have had crosses with your doer,[4] Mr. +Rankeillor; of which, if not speedily redd up, you may looke to see some +losses follow. I have drawn a bill upon you, as per margin, and am, sir, + your most obedt., humble servant, + + “ELIAS HOSEASON.” + +[4] Agent. + +“You see, Davie,” resumed my uncle, as soon as he saw that I had done, +“I have a venture with this man Hoseason, the captain of a trading brig, +the _Covenant_, of Dysart. Now, if you and me was to walk over with +yon lad, I could see the captain at the Hawes, or maybe on board the +_Covenant_ if there was papers to be signed; and so far from a loss of +time, we can jog on to the lawyer, Mr. Rankeillor’s. After a’ that’s +come and gone, ye would be swier[5] to believe me upon my naked word; but +ye’ll believe Rankeillor. He’s factor to half the gentry in these parts; +an auld man, forby: highly respeckit, and he kenned your father.” + + [5] Unwilling. + +I stood awhile and thought. I was going to some place of shipping, which +was doubtless populous, and where my uncle durst attempt no violence, +and, indeed, even the society of the cabin-boy so far protected me. Once +there, I believed I could force on the visit to the lawyer, even if my +uncle were now insincere in proposing it; and, perhaps, in the bottom +of my heart, I wished a nearer view of the sea and ships. You are to +remember I had lived all my life in the inland hills, and just two days +before had my first sight of the firth lying like a blue floor, and the +sailed ships moving on the face of it, no bigger than toys. One thing +with another, I made up my mind. + +“Very well,” says I, “let us go to the Ferry.” + +My uncle got into his hat and coat, and buckled an old rusty cutlass on; +and then we trod the fire out, locked the door, and set forth upon our +walk. + +The wind, being in that cold quarter the north-west, blew nearly in our +faces as we went. It was the month of June; the grass was all white with +daisies, and the trees with blossom; but, to judge by our blue nails +and aching wrists, the time might have been winter and the whiteness a +December frost. + +Uncle Ebenezer trudged in the ditch, jogging from side to side like an +old ploughman coming home from work. He never said a word the whole +way; and I was thrown for talk on the cabin-boy. He told me his name was +Ransome, and that he had followed the sea since he was nine, but could +not say how old he was, as he had lost his reckoning. He showed me +tattoo marks, baring his breast in the teeth of the wind and in spite +of my remonstrances, for I thought it was enough to kill him; he swore +horribly whenever he remembered, but more like a silly schoolboy than a +man; and boasted of many wild and bad things that he had done: stealthy +thefts, false accusations, ay, and even murder; but all with such a +dearth of likelihood in the details, and such a weak and crazy swagger +in the delivery, as disposed me rather to pity than to believe him. + +I asked him of the brig (which he declared was the finest ship that +sailed) and of Captain Hoseason, in whose praises he was equally loud. +Heasyoasy (for so he still named the skipper) was a man, by his account, +that minded for nothing either in heaven or earth; one that, as people +said, would “crack on all sail into the day of judgment;” rough, fierce, +unscrupulous, and brutal; and all this my poor cabin-boy had taught +himself to admire as something seamanlike and manly. He would only admit +one flaw in his idol. “He ain’t no seaman,” he admitted. “That’s Mr. +Shuan that navigates the brig; he’s the finest seaman in the trade, only +for drink; and I tell you I believe it! Why, look’ere;” and turning down +his stocking he showed me a great, raw, red wound that made my blood run +cold. “He done that--Mr. Shuan done it,” he said, with an air of pride. + +“What!” I cried, “do you take such savage usage at his hands? Why, you +are no slave, to be so handled!” + +“No,” said the poor moon-calf, changing his tune at once, “and so he’ll +find. See’ere;” and he showed me a great case-knife, which he told me +was stolen. “O,” says he, “let me see him try; I dare him to; I’ll do +for him! O, he ain’t the first!” And he confirmed it with a poor, silly, +ugly oath. + +I have never felt such pity for any one in this wide world as I felt for +that half-witted creature, and it began to come over me that the brig +_Covenant_ (for all her pious name) was little better than a hell upon +the seas. + +“Have you no friends?” said I. + +He said he had a father in some English seaport, I forget which. + +“He was a fine man, too,” he said, “but he’s dead.” + +“In Heaven’s name,” cried I, “can you find no reputable life on shore?” + +“O, no,” says he, winking and looking very sly, “they would put me to a +trade. I know a trick worth two of that, I do!” + +I asked him what trade could be so dreadful as the one he followed, +where he ran the continual peril of his life, not alone from wind and +sea, but by the horrid cruelty of those who were his masters. He said +it was very true; and then began to praise the life, and tell what a +pleasure it was to get on shore with money in his pocket, and spend it +like a man, and buy apples, and swagger, and surprise what he called +stick-in-the-mud boys. “And then it’s not all as bad as that,” says he; +“there’s worse off than me: there’s the twenty-pounders. O, laws! +you should see them taking on. Why, I’ve seen a man as old as you, I +dessay”--(to him I seemed old)--“ah, and he had a beard, too--well, and +as soon as we cleared out of the river, and he had the drug out of his +head--my! how he cried and carried on! I made a fine fool of him, I tell +you! And then there’s little uns, too: oh, little by me! I tell you, I +keep them in order. When we carry little uns, I have a rope’s end of +my own to wollop’em.” And so he ran on, until it came in on me what +he meant by twenty-pounders were those unhappy criminals who were +sent over-seas to slavery in North America, or the still more unhappy +innocents who were kidnapped or trepanned (as the word went) for private +interest or vengeance. + +Just then we came to the top of the hill, and looked down on the Ferry +and the Hope. The Firth of Forth (as is very well known) narrows at this +point to the width of a good-sized river, which makes a convenient ferry +going north, and turns the upper reach into a landlocked haven for all +manner of ships. Right in the midst of the narrows lies an islet with +some ruins; on the south shore they have built a pier for the service +of the Ferry; and at the end of the pier, on the other side of the road, +and backed against a pretty garden of holly-trees and hawthorns, I could +see the building which they called the Hawes Inn. + +The town of Queensferry lies farther west, and the neighbourhood of the +inn looked pretty lonely at that time of day, for the boat had just +gone north with passengers. A skiff, however, lay beside the pier, with +some seamen sleeping on the thwarts; this, as Ransome told me, was the +brig’s boat waiting for the captain; and about half a mile off, and all +alone in the anchorage, he showed me the _Covenant_ herself. There was +a sea-going bustle on board; yards were swinging into place; and as the +wind blew from that quarter, I could hear the song of the sailors as +they pulled upon the ropes. After all I had listened to upon the way, I +looked at that ship with an extreme abhorrence; and from the bottom of +my heart I pitied all poor souls that were condemned to sail in her. + +We had all three pulled up on the brow of the hill; and now I marched +across the road and addressed my uncle. “I think it right to tell +you, sir,” says I, “there’s nothing that will bring me on board that +_Covenant_.” + +He seemed to waken from a dream. “Eh?” he said. “What’s that?” + +I told him over again. + +“Well, well,” he said, “we’ll have to please ye, I suppose. But what +are we standing here for? It’s perishing cold; and if I’m no mistaken, +they’re busking the _Covenant_ for sea.” + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +WHAT BEFELL AT THE QUEEN’S FERRY + + +As soon as we came to the inn, Ransome led us up the stair to a small +room, with a bed in it, and heated like an oven by a great fire of coal. +At a table hard by the chimney, a tall, dark, sober-looking man sat +writing. In spite of the heat of the room, he wore a thick sea-jacket, +buttoned to the neck, and a tall hairy cap drawn down over his ears; yet +I never saw any man, not even a judge upon the bench, look cooler, or +more studious and self-possessed, than this ship-captain. + +He got to his feet at once, and coming forward, offered his large hand +to Ebenezer. “I am proud to see you, Mr. Balfour,” said he, in a fine +deep voice, “and glad that ye are here in time. The wind’s fair, and the +tide upon the turn; we’ll see the old coal-bucket burning on the Isle of +May before to-night.” + +“Captain Hoseason,” returned my uncle, “you keep your room unco hot.” + +“It’s a habit I have, Mr. Balfour,” said the skipper. “I’m a cold-rife +man by my nature; I have a cold blood, sir. There’s neither fur, +nor flannel--no, sir, nor hot rum, will warm up what they call +the temperature. Sir, it’s the same with most men that have been +carbonadoed, as they call it, in the tropic seas.” + +“Well, well, captain,” replied my uncle, “we must all be the way we’re +made.” + +But it chanced that this fancy of the captain’s had a great share in my +misfortunes. For though I had promised myself not to let my kinsman out +of sight, I was both so impatient for a nearer look of the sea, and +so sickened by the closeness of the room, that when he told me to “run +down-stairs and play myself awhile,” I was fool enough to take him at +his word. + +Away I went, therefore, leaving the two men sitting down to a bottle +and a great mass of papers; and crossing the road in front of the inn, +walked down upon the beach. With the wind in that quarter, only little +wavelets, not much bigger than I had seen upon a lake, beat upon the +shore. But the weeds were new to me--some green, some brown and long, +and some with little bladders that crackled between my fingers. Even so +far up the firth, the smell of the sea-water was exceedingly salt and +stirring; the _Covenant_, besides, was beginning to shake out her +sails, which hung upon the yards in clusters; and the spirit of all +that I beheld put me in thoughts of far voyages and foreign places. + +I looked, too, at the seamen with the skiff--big brown fellows, some in +shirts, some with jackets, some with coloured handkerchiefs about their +throats, one with a brace of pistols stuck into his pockets, two or +three with knotty bludgeons, and all with their case-knives. I passed +the time of day with one that looked less desperate than his fellows, +and asked him of the sailing of the brig. He said they would get under +way as soon as the ebb set, and expressed his gladness to be out of +a port where there were no taverns and fiddlers; but all with such +horrifying oaths, that I made haste to get away from him. + +This threw me back on Ransome, who seemed the least wicked of that gang, +and who soon came out of the inn and ran to me, crying for a bowl of +punch. I told him I would give him no such thing, for neither he nor I +was of an age for such indulgences. “But a glass of ale you may have, +and welcome,” said I. He mopped and mowed at me, and called me names; +but he was glad to get the ale, for all that; and presently we were +set down at a table in the front room of the inn, and both eating and +drinking with a good appetite. + +Here it occurred to me that, as the landlord was a man of that county, +I might do well to make a friend of him. I offered him a share, as was +much the custom in those days; but he was far too great a man to sit +with such poor customers as Ransome and myself, and he was leaving the +room, when I called him back to ask if he knew Mr. Rankeillor. + +“Hoot, ay,” says he, “and a very honest man. And, O, by-the-by,” says +he, “was it you that came in with Ebenezer?” And when I had told him +yes, “Ye’ll be no friend of his?” he asked, meaning, in the Scottish +way, that I would be no relative. + +I told him no, none. + +“I thought not,” said he, “and yet ye have a kind of gliff[6] of Mr. +Alexander.” + + [6] Look. + +I said it seemed that Ebenezer was ill-seen in the country. + +“Nae doubt,” said the landlord. “He’s a wicked auld man, and there’s +many would like to see him girning in the tow.[7] Jennet Clouston and mony +mair that he has harried out of house and hame. And yet he was ance +a fine young fellow, too. But that was before the sough[8] gaed abroad +about Mr. Alexander, that was like the death of him.” + + [7] Rope. + + [8] Report. + +“And what was it?” I asked. + +“Ou, just that he had killed him,” said the landlord. “Did ye never hear +that?” + +“And what would he kill him for?” said I. + +“And what for, but just to get the place,” said he. + +“The place?” said I. “The Shaws?” + +“Nae other place that I ken,” said he. + +“Ay, man?” said I. “Is that so? Was my--was Alexander the eldest son?” + +“‘Deed was he,” said the landlord. “What else would he have killed him +for?” + +And with that he went away, as he had been impatient to do from the +beginning. + +Of course, I had guessed it a long while ago; but it is one thing to +guess, another to know; and I sat stunned with my good fortune, and +could scarce grow to believe that the same poor lad who had trudged in +the dust from Ettrick Forest not two days ago, was now one of the rich +of the earth, and had a house and broad lands, and might mount his horse +tomorrow. All these pleasant things, and a thousand others, crowded into +my mind, as I sat staring before me out of the inn window, and paying +no heed to what I saw; only I remember that my eye lighted on Captain +Hoseason down on the pier among his seamen, and speaking with some +authority. And presently he came marching back towards the house, with +no mark of a sailor’s clumsiness, but carrying his fine, tall figure +with a manly bearing, and still with the same sober, grave expression on +his face. I wondered if it was possible that Ransome’s stories could +be true, and half disbelieved them; they fitted so ill with the man’s +looks. But indeed, he was neither so good as I supposed him, nor quite +so bad as Ransome did; for, in fact, he was two men, and left the better +one behind as soon as he set foot on board his vessel. + +The next thing, I heard my uncle calling me, and found the pair in the +road together. It was the captain who addressed me, and that with an air +(very flattering to a young lad) of grave equality. + +“Sir,” said he, “Mr. Balfour tells me great things of you; and for my +own part, I like your looks. I wish I was for longer here, that we might +make the better friends; but we’ll make the most of what we have. Ye +shall come on board my brig for half an hour, till the ebb sets, and +drink a bowl with me.” + +Now, I longed to see the inside of a ship more than words can tell; but +I was not going to put myself in jeopardy, and I told him my uncle and I +had an appointment with a lawyer. + +“Ay, ay,” said he, “he passed me word of that. But, ye see, the boat’ll +set ye ashore at the town pier, and that’s but a penny stonecast from +Rankeillor’s house.” And here he suddenly leaned down and whispered in +my ear: “Take care of the old tod;[9] he means mischief. Come aboard till +I can get a word with ye.” And then, passing his arm through mine, he +continued aloud, as he set off towards his boat: “But, come, what can I +bring ye from the Carolinas? Any friend of Mr. Balfour’s can command. +A roll of tobacco? Indian feather-work? a skin of a wild beast? a stone +pipe? the mocking-bird that mews for all the world like a cat? the +cardinal bird that is as red as blood?--take your pick and say your +pleasure.” + + [9] Fox. + +By this time we were at the boat-side, and he was handing me in. I did +not dream of hanging back; I thought (the poor fool!) that I had found +a good friend and helper, and I was rejoiced to see the ship. As soon as +we were all set in our places, the boat was thrust off from the pier +and began to move over the waters: and what with my pleasure in this new +movement and my surprise at our low position, and the appearance of the +shores, and the growing bigness of the brig as we drew near to it, I +could hardly understand what the captain said, and must have answered +him at random. + +As soon as we were alongside (where I sat fairly gaping at the ship’s +height, the strong humming of the tide against its sides, and the +pleasant cries of the seamen at their work) Hoseason, declaring that he +and I must be the first aboard, ordered a tackle to be sent down from +the main-yard. In this I was whipped into the air and set down again on +the deck, where the captain stood ready waiting for me, and instantly +slipped back his arm under mine. There I stood some while, a little +dizzy with the unsteadiness of all around me, perhaps a little afraid, +and yet vastly pleased with these strange sights; the captain meanwhile +pointing out the strangest, and telling me their names and uses. + +“But where is my uncle?” said I suddenly. + +“Ay,” said Hoseason, with a sudden grimness, “that’s the point.” + +I felt I was lost. With all my strength, I plucked myself clear of him +and ran to the bulwarks. Sure enough, there was the boat pulling for the +town, with my uncle sitting in the stern. I gave a piercing cry--“Help, +help! Murder!”--so that both sides of the anchorage rang with it, and +my uncle turned round where he was sitting, and showed me a face full of +cruelty and terror. + +It was the last I saw. Already strong hands had been plucking me back +from the ship’s side; and now a thunderbolt seemed to strike me; I saw a +great flash of fire, and fell senseless. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +I GO TO SEA IN THE BRIG _COVENANT_ OF DYSART + + +I came to myself in darkness, in great pain, bound hand and foot, and +deafened by many unfamiliar noises. There sounded in my ears a roaring +of water as of a huge mill-dam, the thrashing of heavy sprays, the +thundering of the sails, and the shrill cries of seamen. The whole world +now heaved giddily up, and now rushed giddily downward; and so sick and +hurt was I in body, and my mind so much confounded, that it took me a +long while, chasing my thoughts up and down, and ever stunned again by +a fresh stab of pain, to realise that I must be lying somewhere bound in +the belly of that unlucky ship, and that the wind must have strengthened +to a gale. With the clear perception of my plight, there fell upon me a +blackness of despair, a horror of remorse at my own folly, and a passion +of anger at my uncle, that once more bereft me of my senses. + +When I returned again to life, the same uproar, the same confused and +violent movements, shook and deafened me; and presently, to my other +pains and distresses, there was added the sickness of an unused landsman +on the sea. In that time of my adventurous youth, I suffered many +hardships; but none that was so crushing to my mind and body, or lit by +so few hopes, as these first hours aboard the brig. + +I heard a gun fire, and supposed the storm had proved too strong for us, +and we were firing signals of distress. The thought of deliverance, even +by death in the deep sea, was welcome to me. Yet it was no such matter; +but (as I was afterwards told) a common habit of the captain’s, which +I here set down to show that even the worst man may have his kindlier +side. We were then passing, it appeared, within some miles of Dysart, +where the brig was built, and where old Mrs. Hoseason, the captain’s +mother, had come some years before to live; and whether outward or +inward bound, the _Covenant_ was never suffered to go by that place by +day, without a gun fired and colours shown. + +I had no measure of time; day and night were alike in that ill-smelling +cavern of the ship’s bowels where I lay; and the misery of my situation +drew out the hours to double. How long, therefore, I lay waiting to hear +the ship split upon some rock, or to feel her reel head foremost into +the depths of the sea, I have not the means of computation. But sleep at +length stole from me the consciousness of sorrow. + +I was awakened by the light of a hand-lantern shining in my face. A +small man of about thirty, with green eyes and a tangle of fair hair, +stood looking down at me. + +“Well,” said he, “how goes it?” + +I answered by a sob; and my visitor then felt my pulse and temples, and +set himself to wash and dress the wound upon my scalp. + +“Ay,” said he, “a sore dunt.[10] What, man? Cheer up! The world’s no done; +you’ve made a bad start of it but you’ll make a better. Have you had any +meat?” + + [10] Stroke. + +I said I could not look at it: and thereupon he gave me some brandy and +water in a tin pannikin, and left me once more to myself. + +The next time he came to see me, I was lying betwixt sleep and waking, +my eyes wide open in the darkness, the sickness quite departed, but +succeeded by a horrid giddiness and swimming that was almost worse +to bear. I ached, besides, in every limb, and the cords that bound me +seemed to be of fire. The smell of the hole in which I lay seemed to +have become a part of me; and during the long interval since his last +visit I had suffered tortures of fear, now from the scurrying of the +ship’s rats, that sometimes pattered on my very face, and now from the +dismal imaginings that haunt the bed of fever. + +The glimmer of the lantern, as a trap opened, shone in like the heaven’s +sunlight; and though it only showed me the strong, dark beams of the +ship that was my prison, I could have cried aloud for gladness. The man +with the green eyes was the first to descend the ladder, and I noticed +that he came somewhat unsteadily. He was followed by the captain. +Neither said a word; but the first set to and examined me, and dressed +my wound as before, while Hoseason looked me in my face with an odd, +black look. + +“Now, sir, you see for yourself,” said the first: “a high fever, no +appetite, no light, no meat: you see for yourself what that means.” + +“I am no conjurer, Mr. Riach,” said the captain. + +“Give me leave, sir,” said Riach; “you’ve a good head upon your +shoulders, and a good Scotch tongue to ask with; but I will leave you no +manner of excuse; I want that boy taken out of this hole and put in the +forecastle.” + +“What ye may want, sir, is a matter of concern to nobody but yoursel’,” + returned the captain; “but I can tell ye that which is to be. Here he +is; here he shall bide.” + +“Admitting that you have been paid in a proportion,” said the other, “I +will crave leave humbly to say that I have not. Paid I am, and none too +much, to be the second officer of this old tub, and you ken very well if +I do my best to earn it. But I was paid for nothing more.” + +“If ye could hold back your hand from the tin-pan, Mr. Riach, I would +have no complaint to make of ye,” returned the skipper; “and instead +of asking riddles, I make bold to say that ye would keep your breath to +cool your porridge. We’ll be required on deck,” he added, in a sharper +note, and set one foot upon the ladder. + +But Mr. Riach caught him by the sleeve. + +“Admitting that you have been paid to do a murder----” he began. + +Hoseason turned upon him with a flash. + +“What’s that?” he cried. “What kind of talk is that?” + +“It seems it is the talk that you can understand,” said Mr. Riach, +looking him steadily in the face. + +“Mr. Riach, I have sailed with ye three cruises,” replied the captain. +“In all that time, sir, ye should have learned to know me: I’m a stiff +man, and a dour man; but for what ye say the now--fie, fie!--it comes +from a bad heart and a black conscience. If ye say the lad will die----” + +“Ay, will he!” said Mr. Riach. + +“Well, sir, is not that enough?” said Hoseason. “Flit him where ye +please!” + +Thereupon the captain ascended the ladder; and I, who had lain silent +throughout this strange conversation, beheld Mr. Riach turn after him +and bow as low as to his knees in what was plainly a spirit of derision. +Even in my then state of sickness, I perceived two things: that the +mate was touched with liquor, as the captain hinted, and that (drunk or +sober) he was like to prove a valuable friend. + +Five minutes afterwards my bonds were cut, I was hoisted on a man’s +back, carried up to the forecastle, and laid in a bunk on some +sea-blankets; where the first thing that I did was to lose my senses. + +It was a blessed thing indeed to open my eyes again upon the daylight, +and to find myself in the society of men. The forecastle was a roomy +place enough, set all about with berths, in which the men of the watch +below were seated smoking, or lying down asleep. The day being calm and +the wind fair, the scuttle was open, and not only the good daylight, but +from time to time (as the ship rolled) a dusty beam of sunlight shone +in, and dazzled and delighted me. I had no sooner moved, moreover, than +one of the men brought me a drink of something healing which Mr. Riach +had prepared, and bade me lie still and I should soon be well again. +There were no bones broken, he explained: “A clour[11] on the head was +naething. Man,” said he, “it was me that gave it ye!” + + [11] Blow. + +Here I lay for the space of many days a close prisoner, and not only got +my health again, but came to know my companions. They were a rough lot +indeed, as sailors mostly are: being men rooted out of all the kindly +parts of life, and condemned to toss together on the rough seas, with +masters no less cruel. There were some among them that had sailed with +the pirates and seen things it would be a shame even to speak of; some +were men that had run from the king’s ships, and went with a halter +round their necks, of which they made no secret; and all, as the saying +goes, were “at a word and a blow” with their best friends. Yet I had +not been many days shut up with them before I began to be ashamed of my +first judgment, when I had drawn away from them at the Ferry pier, as +though they had been unclean beasts. No class of man is altogether bad, +but each has its own faults and virtues; and these shipmates of mine +were no exception to the rule. Rough they were, sure enough; and bad, I +suppose; but they had many virtues. They were kind when it occurred to +them, simple even beyond the simplicity of a country lad like me, and +had some glimmerings of honesty. + +There was one man, of maybe forty, that would sit on my berthside for +hours and tell me of his wife and child. He was a fisher that had lost +his boat, and thus been driven to the deep-sea voyaging. Well, it is +years ago now: but I have never forgotten him. His wife (who was “young +by him,” as he often told me) waited in vain to see her man return; he +would never again make the fire for her in the morning, nor yet keep +the bairn when she was sick. Indeed, many of these poor fellows (as the +event proved) were upon their last cruise; the deep seas and cannibal +fish received them; and it is a thankless business to speak ill of the +dead. + +Among other good deeds that they did, they returned my money, which had +been shared among them; and though it was about a third short, I was +very glad to get it, and hoped great good from it in the land I was +going to. The ship was bound for the Carolinas; and you must not suppose +that I was going to that place merely as an exile. The trade was even +then much depressed; since that, and with the rebellion of the colonies +and the formation of the United States, it has, of course, come to +an end; but in those days of my youth, white men were still sold into +slavery on the plantations, and that was the destiny to which my wicked +uncle had condemned me. + +The cabin-boy Ransome (from whom I had first heard of these atrocities) +came in at times from the round-house, where he berthed and served, now +nursing a bruised limb in silent agony, now raving against the cruelty +of Mr. Shuan. It made my heart bleed; but the men had a great respect +for the chief mate, who was, as they said, “the only seaman of the whole +jing-bang, and none such a bad man when he was sober.” Indeed, I found +there was a strange peculiarity about our two mates: that Mr. Riach was +sullen, unkind, and harsh when he was sober, and Mr. Shuan would not +hurt a fly except when he was drinking. I asked about the captain; but I +was told drink made no difference upon that man of iron. + +I did my best in the small time allowed me to make some thing like a +man, or rather I should say something like a boy, of the poor creature, +Ransome. But his mind was scarce truly human. He could remember nothing +of the time before he came to sea; only that his father had made clocks, +and had a starling in the parlour, which could whistle “The North +Countrie;” all else had been blotted out in these years of hardship +and cruelties. He had a strange notion of the dry land, picked up from +sailor’s stories: that it was a place where lads were put to some kind +of slavery called a trade, and where apprentices were continually lashed +and clapped into foul prisons. In a town, he thought every second person +a decoy, and every third house a place in which seamen would be drugged +and murdered. To be sure, I would tell him how kindly I had myself been +used upon that dry land he was so much afraid of, and how well fed and +carefully taught both by my friends and my parents: and if he had been +recently hurt, he would weep bitterly and swear to run away; but if +he was in his usual crackbrain humour, or (still more) if he had had a +glass of spirits in the roundhouse, he would deride the notion. + +It was Mr. Riach (Heaven forgive him!) who gave the boy drink; and +it was, doubtless, kindly meant; but besides that it was ruin to his +health, it was the pitifullest thing in life to see this unhappy, +unfriended creature staggering, and dancing, and talking he knew not +what. Some of the men laughed, but not all; others would grow as black +as thunder (thinking, perhaps, of their own childhood or their own +children) and bid him stop that nonsense, and think what he was doing. +As for me, I felt ashamed to look at him, and the poor child still comes +about me in my dreams. + +All this time, you should know, the _Covenant_ was meeting continual +head-winds and tumbling up and down against head-seas, so that the +scuttle was almost constantly shut, and the forecastle lighted only by a +swinging lantern on a beam. There was constant labour for all hands; the +sails had to be made and shortened every hour; the strain told on the +men’s temper; there was a growl of quarrelling all day long from berth +to berth; and as I was never allowed to set my foot on deck, you +can picture to yourselves how weary of my life I grew to be, and how +impatient for a change. + +And a change I was to get, as you shall hear; but I must first tell of +a conversation I had with Mr. Riach, which put a little heart in me to +bear my troubles. Getting him in a favourable stage of drink (for indeed +he never looked near me when he was sober), I pledged him to secrecy, +and told him my whole story. + +He declared it was like a ballad; that he would do his best to help +me; that I should have paper, pen, and ink, and write one line to Mr. +Campbell and another to Mr. Rankeillor; and that if I had told the +truth, ten to one he would be able (with their help) to pull me through +and set me in my rights. + +“And in the meantime,” says he, “keep your heart up. You’re not the only +one, I’ll tell you that. There’s many a man hoeing tobacco over-seas +that should be mounting his horse at his own door at home; many and +many! And life is all a variorum, at the best. Look at me: I’m a laird’s +son and more than half a doctor, and here I am, man-Jack to Hoseason!” + +I thought it would be civil to ask him for his story. + +He whistled loud. + +“Never had one,” said he. “I like fun, that’s all.” And he skipped out +of the forecastle. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +THE ROUND-HOUSE + + +One night, about eleven o’clock, a man of Mr. Riach’s watch (which was +on deck) came below for his jacket; and instantly there began to go +a whisper about the forecastle that “Shuan had done for him at last.” + There was no need of a name; we all knew who was meant; but we had +scarce time to get the idea rightly in our heads, far less to speak of +it, when the scuttle was again flung open, and Captain Hoseason came +down the ladder. He looked sharply round the bunks in the tossing light +of the lantern; and then, walking straight up to me, he addressed me, to +my surprise, in tones of kindness. + +“My man,” said he, “we want ye to serve in the round-house. You and +Ransome are to change berths. Run away aft with ye.” + +Even as he spoke, two seamen appeared in the scuttle, carrying Ransome +in their arms; and the ship at that moment giving a great sheer into the +sea, and the lantern swinging, the light fell direct on the boy’s face. +It was as white as wax, and had a look upon it like a dreadful smile. +The blood in me ran cold, and I drew in my breath as if I had been +struck. + +“Run away aft; run away aft with ye!” cried Hoseason. + +And at that I brushed by the sailors and the boy (who neither spoke nor +moved), and ran up the ladder on deck. + +The brig was sheering swiftly and giddily through a long, cresting +swell. She was on the starboard tack, and on the left hand, under the +arched foot of the foresail, I could see the sunset still quite bright. +This, at such an hour of the night, surprised me greatly; but I was too +ignorant to draw the true conclusion--that we were going north-about +round Scotland, and were now on the high sea between the Orkney and +Shetland Islands, having avoided the dangerous currents of the Pentland +Firth. For my part, who had been so long shut in the dark and knew +nothing of head-winds, I thought we might be half-way or more across the +Atlantic. And indeed (beyond that I wondered a little at the lateness of +the sunset light) I gave no heed to it, and pushed on across the decks, +running between the seas, catching at ropes, and only saved from going +overboard by one of the hands on deck, who had been always kind to me. + +The round-house, for which I was bound, and where I was now to sleep and +serve, stood some six feet above the decks, and considering the size of +the brig, was of good dimensions. Inside were a fixed table and bench, +and two berths, one for the captain and the other for the two mates, +turn and turn about. It was all fitted with lockers from top to bottom, +so as to stow away the officers’ belongings and a part of the ship’s +stores; there was a second store-room underneath, which you entered by a +hatchway in the middle of the deck; indeed, all the best of the meat and +drink and the whole of the powder were collected in this place; and all +the firearms, except the two pieces of brass ordnance, were set in a +rack in the aftermost wall of the round-house. The most of the cutlasses +were in another place. + +A small window with a shutter on each side, and a skylight in the roof, +gave it light by day; and after dark there was a lamp always burning. +It was burning when I entered, not brightly, but enough to show Mr. +Shuan sitting at the table, with the brandy bottle and a tin pannikin +in front of him. He was a tall man, strongly made and very black; and he +stared before him on the table like one stupid. + +He took no notice of my coming in; nor did he move when the captain +followed and leant on the berth beside me, looking darkly at the mate. +I stood in great fear of Hoseason, and had my reasons for it; but +something told me I need not be afraid of him just then; and I whispered +in his ear: “How is he?” He shook his head like one that does not know +and does not wish to think, and his face was very stern. + +Presently Mr. Riach came in. He gave the captain a glance that meant the +boy was dead as plain as speaking, and took his place like the rest +of us; so that we all three stood without a word, staring down at Mr. +Shuan, and Mr. Shuan (on his side) sat without a word, looking hard upon +the table. + +All of a sudden he put out his hand to take the bottle; and at that Mr. +Riach started forward and caught it away from him, rather by surprise +than violence, crying out, with an oath, that there had been too much of +this work altogether, and that a judgment would fall upon the ship. +And as he spoke (the weather sliding-doors standing open) he tossed the +bottle into the sea. + +Mr. Shuan was on his feet in a trice; he still looked dazed, but he +meant murder, ay, and would have done it, for the second time that +night, had not the captain stepped in between him and his victim. + +“Sit down!” roars the captain. “Ye sot and swine, do ye know what ye’ve +done? Ye’ve murdered the boy!” + +Mr. Shuan seemed to understand; for he sat down again, and put up his +hand to his brow. + +“Well,” he said, “he brought me a dirty pannikin!” + +At that word, the captain and I and Mr. Riach all looked at each other +for a second with a kind of frightened look; and then Hoseason walked +up to his chief officer, took him by the shoulder, led him across to his +bunk, and bade him lie down and go to sleep, as you might speak to a bad +child. The murderer cried a little, but he took off his sea-boots and +obeyed. + +“Ah!” cried Mr. Riach, with a dreadful voice, “ye should have interfered +long syne. It’s too late now.” + +“Mr. Riach,” said the captain, “this night’s work must never be kennt +in Dysart. The boy went overboard, sir; that’s what the story is; and I +would give five pounds out of my pocket it was true!” He turned to the +table. “What made ye throw the good bottle away?” he added. “There was +nae sense in that, sir. Here, David, draw me another. They’re in the +bottom locker;” and he tossed me a key. “Ye’ll need a glass yourself, +sir,” he added to Riach. “Yon was an ugly thing to see.” + +So the pair sat down and hob-a-nobbed; and while they did so, the +murderer, who had been lying and whimpering in his berth, raised himself +upon his elbow and looked at them and at me. + +That was the first night of my new duties; and in the course of the next +day I had got well into the run of them. I had to serve at the meals, +which the captain took at regular hours, sitting down with the officer +who was off duty; all the day through I would be running with a dram +to one or other of my three masters; and at night I slept on a blanket +thrown on the deck boards at the aftermost end of the round-house, and +right in the draught of the two doors. It was a hard and a cold bed; +nor was I suffered to sleep without interruption; for some one would be +always coming in from deck to get a dram, and when a fresh watch was +to be set, two and sometimes all three would sit down and brew a bowl +together. How they kept their health, I know not, any more than how I +kept my own. + +And yet in other ways it was an easy service. There was no cloth to lay; +the meals were either of oatmeal porridge or salt junk, except twice a +week, when there was duff: and though I was clumsy enough and (not being +firm on my sealegs) sometimes fell with what I was bringing them, both +Mr. Riach and the captain were singularly patient. I could not but fancy +they were making up lee-way with their consciences, and that they +would scarce have been so good with me if they had not been worse with +Ransome. + +As for Mr. Shuan, the drink or his crime, or the two together, had +certainly troubled his mind. I cannot say I ever saw him in his proper +wits. He never grew used to my being there, stared at me continually +(sometimes, I could have thought, with terror), and more than once drew +back from my hand when I was serving him. I was pretty sure from the +first that he had no clear mind of what he had done, and on my second +day in the round-house I had the proof of it. We were alone, and he had +been staring at me a long time, when all at once, up he got, as pale as +death, and came close up to me, to my great terror. But I had no cause +to be afraid of him. + +“You were not here before?” he asked. + +“No, sir,” said I.” + +“There was another boy?” he asked again; and when I had answered him, +“Ah!” says he, “I thought that,” and went and sat down, without another +word, except to call for brandy. + +You may think it strange, but for all the horror I had, I was still +sorry for him. He was a married man, with a wife in Leith; but whether +or no he had a family, I have now forgotten; I hope not. + +Altogether it was no very hard life for the time it lasted, which (as +you are to hear) was not long. I was as well fed as the best of them; +even their pickles, which were the great dainty, I was allowed my share +of; and had I liked I might have been drunk from morning to night, like +Mr. Shuan. I had company, too, and good company of its sort. Mr. Riach, +who had been to the college, spoke to me like a friend when he was not +sulking, and told me many curious things, and some that were informing; +and even the captain, though he kept me at the stick’s end the most part +of the time, would sometimes unbuckle a bit, and tell me of the fine +countries he had visited. + +The shadow of poor Ransome, to be sure, lay on all four of us, and on +me and Mr. Shuan in particular, most heavily. And then I had another +trouble of my own. Here I was, doing dirty work for three men that I +looked down upon, and one of whom, at least, should have hung upon a +gallows; that was for the present; and as for the future, I could only +see myself slaving alongside of negroes in the tobacco fields. Mr. +Riach, perhaps from caution, would never suffer me to say another word +about my story; the captain, whom I tried to approach, rebuffed me like +a dog and would not hear a word; and as the days came and went, my heart +sank lower and lower, till I was even glad of the work which kept me +from thinking. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +THE MAN WITH THE BELT OF GOLD + + +More than a week went by, in which the ill-luck that had hitherto +pursued the _Covenant_ upon this voyage grew yet more strongly marked. +Some days she made a little way; others, she was driven actually back. +At last we were beaten so far to the south that we tossed and tacked to +and fro the whole of the ninth day, within sight of Cape Wrath and the +wild, rocky coast on either hand of it. There followed on that a council +of the officers, and some decision which I did not rightly understand, +seeing only the result: that we had made a fair wind of a foul one and +were running south. + +The tenth afternoon there was a falling swell and a thick, wet, white +fog that hid one end of the brig from the other. All afternoon, when +I went on deck, I saw men and officers listening hard over the +bulwarks--“for breakers,” they said; and though I did not so much as +understand the word, I felt danger in the air, and was excited. + +Maybe about ten at night, I was serving Mr. Riach and the captain at +their supper, when the ship struck something with a great sound, and we +heard voices singing out. My two masters leaped to their feet. + +“She’s struck!” said Mr. Riach. + +“No, sir,” said the captain. “We’ve only run a boat down.” + +And they hurried out. + +The captain was in the right of it. We had run down a boat in the fog, +and she had parted in the midst and gone to the bottom with all her crew +but one. This man (as I heard afterwards) had been sitting in the stern +as a passenger, while the rest were on the benches rowing. At the moment +of the blow, the stern had been thrown into the air, and the man (having +his hands free, and for all he was encumbered with a frieze overcoat +that came below his knees) had leaped up and caught hold of the brig’s +bowsprit. It showed he had luck and much agility and unusual strength, +that he should have thus saved himself from such a pass. And yet, when +the captain brought him into the round-house, and I set eyes on him for +the first time, he looked as cool as I did. + +He was smallish in stature, but well set and as nimble as a goat; his +face was of a good open expression, but sunburnt very dark, and heavily +freckled and pitted with the small-pox; his eyes were unusually light +and had a kind of dancing madness in them, that was both engaging and +alarming; and when he took off his great-coat, he laid a pair of fine +silver-mounted pistols on the table, and I saw that he was belted with +a great sword. His manners, besides, were elegant, and he pledged the +captain handsomely. Altogether I thought of him, at the first sight, +that here was a man I would rather call my friend than my enemy. + +The captain, too, was taking his observations, but rather of the man’s +clothes than his person. And to be sure, as soon as he had taken off +the great-coat, he showed forth mighty fine for the round-house of a +merchant brig: having a hat with feathers, a red waistcoat, breeches +of black plush, and a blue coat with silver buttons and handsome silver +lace; costly clothes, though somewhat spoiled with the fog and being +slept in. + +“I’m vexed, sir, about the boat,” says the captain. + +“There are some pretty men gone to the bottom,” said the stranger, “that +I would rather see on the dry land again than half a score of boats.” + +“Friends of yours?” said Hoseason. + +“You have none such friends in your country,” was the reply. “They would +have died for me like dogs.” + +“Well, sir,” said the captain, still watching him, “there are more men +in the world than boats to put them in.” + +“And that’s true, too,” cried the other, “and ye seem to be a gentleman +of great penetration.” + +“I have been in France, sir,” says the captain, so that it was plain he +meant more by the words than showed upon the face of them. + +“Well, sir,” says the other, “and so has many a pretty man, for the +matter of that.” + +“No doubt, sir,” says the captain, “and fine coats.” + +“Oho!” says the stranger, “is that how the wind sets?” And he laid his +hand quickly on his pistols. + +“Don’t be hasty,” said the captain. “Don’t do a mischief before ye +see the need of it. Ye’ve a French soldier’s coat upon your back and a +Scotch tongue in your head, to be sure; but so has many an honest fellow +in these days, and I dare say none the worse of it.” + +“So?” said the gentleman in the fine coat: “are ye of the honest party?” + (meaning, Was he a Jacobite? for each side, in these sort of civil +broils, takes the name of honesty for its own). + +“Why, sir,” replied the captain, “I am a true-blue Protestant, and I +thank God for it.” (It was the first word of any religion I had ever +heard from him, but I learnt afterwards he was a great church-goer while +on shore.) “But, for all that,” says he, “I can be sorry to see another +man with his back to the wall.” + +“Can ye so, indeed?” asked the Jacobite. “Well, sir, to be quite plain +with ye, I am one of those honest gentlemen that were in trouble about +the years forty-five and six; and (to be still quite plain with ye) if +I got into the hands of any of the red-coated gentry, it’s like it would +go hard with me. Now, sir, I was for France; and there was a French ship +cruising here to pick me up; but she gave us the go-by in the fog--as I +wish from the heart that ye had done yoursel’! And the best that I can +say is this: If ye can set me ashore where I was going, I have that upon +me will reward you highly for your trouble.” + +“In France?” says the captain. “No, sir; that I cannot do. But where ye +come from--we might talk of that.” + +And then, unhappily, he observed me standing in my corner, and packed +me off to the galley to get supper for the gentleman. I lost no time, +I promise you; and when I came back into the round-house, I found the +gentleman had taken a money-belt from about his waist, and poured out +a guinea or two upon the table. The captain was looking at the guineas, +and then at the belt, and then at the gentleman’s face; and I thought he +seemed excited. + +“Half of it,” he cried, “and I’m your man!” + +The other swept back the guineas into the belt, and put it on again +under his waistcoat. “I have told ye sir,” said he, “that not one doit +of it belongs to me. It belongs to my chieftain,” and here he touched +his hat, “and while I would be but a silly messenger to grudge some of +it that the rest might come safe, I should show myself a hound indeed if +I bought my own carcase any too dear. Thirty guineas on the sea-side, or +sixty if ye set me on the Linnhe Loch. Take it, if ye will; if not, ye +can do your worst.” + +“Ay,” said Hoseason. “And if I give ye over to the soldiers?” + +“Ye would make a fool’s bargain,” said the other. “My chief, let me tell +you, sir, is forfeited, like every honest man in Scotland. His estate +is in the hands of the man they call King George; and it is his officers +that collect the rents, or try to collect them. But for the honour of +Scotland, the poor tenant bodies take a thought upon their chief lying +in exile; and this money is a part of that very rent for which King +George is looking. Now, sir, ye seem to me to be a man that understands +things: bring this money within the reach of Government, and how much of +it’ll come to you?” + +“Little enough, to be sure,” said Hoseason; and then, “if they knew,” he +added, drily. “But I think, if I was to try, that I could hold my tongue +about it.” + +“Ah, but I’ll begowk[12] ye there!” cried the gentleman. “Play me false, +and I’ll play you cunning. If a hand is laid upon me, they shall ken +what money it is.” + + [12] Befool. + +“Well,” returned the captain, “what must be must. Sixty guineas, and +done. Here’s my hand upon it.” + +“And here’s mine,” said the other. + +And thereupon the captain went out (rather hurriedly, I thought), and +left me alone in the round-house with the stranger. + +At that period (so soon after the forty-five) there were many exiled +gentlemen coming back at the peril of their lives, either to see their +friends or to collect a little money; and as for the Highland chiefs +that had been forfeited, it was a common matter of talk how their +tenants would stint themselves to send them money, and their clansmen +outface the soldiery to get it in, and run the gauntlet of our great +navy to carry it across. All this I had, of course, heard tell of; and +now I had a man under my eyes whose life was forfeit on all these counts +and upon one more, for he was not only a rebel and a smuggler of rents, +but had taken service with King Louis of France. And as if all this +were not enough, he had a belt full of golden guineas round his loins. +Whatever my opinions, I could not look on such a man without a lively +interest. + +“And so you’re a Jacobite?” said I, as I set meat before him. + +“Ay,” said he, beginning to eat. “And you, by your long face, should be +a Whig?”[13] + + [13] Whig or Whigamore was the cant name for those who were + loyal to King George. + +“Betwixt and between,” said I, not to annoy him; for indeed I was as +good a Whig as Mr. Campbell could make me. + +“And that’s naething,” said he. “But I’m saying, Mr. +Betwixt-and-Between,” he added, “this bottle of yours is dry; and it’s +hard if I’m to pay sixty guineas and be grudged a dram upon the back of +it.” + +“I’ll go and ask for the key,” said I, and stepped on deck. + +The fog was as close as ever, but the swell almost down. They had laid +the brig to, not knowing precisely where they were, and the wind (what +little there was of it) not serving well for their true course. Some of +the hands were still hearkening for breakers; but the captain and the +two officers were in the waist with their heads together. It struck me +(I don’t know why) that they were after no good; and the first word I +heard, as I drew softly near, more than confirmed me. + +It was Mr. Riach, crying out as if upon a sudden thought: “Couldn’t we +wile him out of the round-house?” + +“He’s better where he is,” returned Hoseason; “he hasn’t room to use his +sword.” + +“Well, that’s true,” said Riach; “but he’s hard to come at.” + +“Hut!” said Hoseason. “We can get the man in talk, one upon each side, +and pin him by the two arms; or if that’ll not hold, sir, we can make a +run by both the doors and get him under hand before he has the time to +draw.” + +At this hearing, I was seized with both fear and anger at these +treacherous, greedy, bloody men that I sailed with. My first mind was to +run away; my second was bolder. + +“Captain,” said I, “the gentleman is seeking a dram, and the bottle’s +out. Will you give me the key?” + +They all started and turned about. + +“Why, here’s our chance to get the firearms!” + +Riach cried; and then to me: “Hark ye, David,” he said, “do ye ken where +the pistols are?” + +“Ay, ay,” put in Hoseason. “David kens; David’s a good lad. Ye see, +David my man, yon wild Hielandman is a danger to the ship, besides being +a rank foe to King George, God bless him!” + +I had never been so be-Davided since I came on board: but I said Yes, as +if all I heard were quite natural. + +“The trouble is,” resumed the captain, “that all our firelocks, great +and little, are in the round-house under this man’s nose; likewise the +powder. Now, if I, or one of the officers, was to go in and take them, +he would fall to thinking. But a lad like you, David, might snap up a +horn and a pistol or two without remark. And if ye can do it cleverly, +I’ll bear it in mind when it’ll be good for you to have friends; and +that’s when we come to Carolina.” + +Here Mr. Riach whispered him a little. + +“Very right, sir,” said the captain; and then to myself: “And see here, +David, yon man has a beltful of gold, and I give you my word that you +shall have your fingers in it.” + +I told him I would do as he wished, though indeed I had scarce breath to +speak with; and upon that he gave me the key of the spirit locker, and I +began to go slowly back to the round-house. What was I to do? They +were dogs and thieves; they had stolen me from my own country; they had +killed poor Ransome; and was I to hold the candle to another murder? But +then, upon the other hand, there was the fear of death very plain before +me; for what could a boy and a man, if they were as brave as lions, +against a whole ship’s company? + +I was still arguing it back and forth, and getting no great clearness, +when I came into the round-house and saw the Jacobite eating his supper +under the lamp; and at that my mind was made up all in a moment. I have +no credit by it; it was by no choice of mine, but as if by compulsion, +that I walked right up to the table and put my hand on his shoulder. + +“Do ye want to be killed?” said I. He sprang to his feet, and looked a +question at me as clear as if he had spoken. + +“O!” cried I, “they’re all murderers here; it’s a ship full of them! +They’ve murdered a boy already. Now it’s you.” + +“Ay, ay,” said he; “but they have n’t got me yet.” And then looking at me +curiously, “Will ye stand with me?” + +“That will I!” said I. “I am no thief, nor yet murderer. I’ll stand by +you.” + +“Why, then,” said he, “what’s your name?” + +“David Balfour,” said I; and then, thinking that a man with so fine a +coat must like fine people, I added for the first time, “of Shaws.” + +It never occurred to him to doubt me, for a Highlander is used to see +great gentlefolk in great poverty; but as he had no estate of his own, +my words nettled a very childish vanity he had. + +“My name is Stewart,” he said, drawing himself up. “Alan Breck, they +call me. A king’s name is good enough for me, though I bear it plain and +have the name of no farm-midden to clap to the hind-end of it.” + +And having administered this rebuke, as though it were something of a +chief importance, he turned to examine our defences. + +The round-house was built very strong, to support the breaching of the +seas. Of its five apertures, only the skylight and the two doors were +large enough for the passage of a man. The doors, besides, could be +drawn close: they were of stout oak, and ran in grooves, and were fitted +with hooks to keep them either shut or open, as the need arose. The +one that was already shut I secured in this fashion; but when I was +proceeding to slide to the other, Alan stopped me. + +“David,” said he--“for I cannae bring to mind the name of your landed +estate, and so will make so bold as to call you David--that door, being +open, is the best part of my defences.” + +“It would be yet better shut,” says I. + +“Not so, David,” says he. “Ye see, I have but one face; but so long as +that door is open and my face to it, the best part of my enemies will be +in front of me, where I would aye wish to find them.” + +Then he gave me from the rack a cutlass (of which there were a few +besides the firearms), choosing it with great care, shaking his head and +saying he had never in all his life seen poorer weapons; and next he set +me down to the table with a powder-horn, a bag of bullets and all the +pistols, which he bade me charge. + +“And that will be better work, let me tell you,” said he, “for a +gentleman of decent birth, than scraping plates and raxing[14] drams to a +wheen tarry sailors.” + + [14] Reaching. + +Thereupon he stood up in the midst with his face to the door, and +drawing his great sword, made trial of the room he had to wield it in. + +“I must stick to the point,” he said, shaking his head; “and that’s a +pity, too. It doesn’t set my genius, which is all for the upper guard. +And, now,” said he, “do you keep on charging the pistols, and give heed +to me.” + +I told him I would listen closely. My chest was tight, my mouth dry, the +light dark to my eyes; the thought of the numbers that were soon to +leap in upon us kept my heart in a flutter: and the sea, which I heard +washing round the brig, and where I thought my dead body would be cast +ere morning, ran in my mind strangely. + +“First of all,” said he, “how many are against us?” + +I reckoned them up; and such was the hurry of my mind, I had to cast the +numbers twice. “Fifteen,” said I. + +Alan whistled. “Well,” said he, “that can’t be cured. And now follow me. +It is my part to keep this door, where I look for the main battle. In +that, ye have no hand. And mind and dinnae fire to this side unless they +get me down; for I would rather have ten foes in front of me than one +friend like you cracking pistols at my back.” + +I told him, indeed I was no great shot. + +“And that’s very bravely said,” he cried, in a great admiration of my +candour. “There’s many a pretty gentleman that wouldnae dare to say it.” + +“But then, sir,” said I, “there is the door behind you, which they may +perhaps break in.” + +“Ay,” said he, “and that is a part of your work. No sooner the pistols +charged, than ye must climb up into yon bed where ye’re handy at the +window; and if they lift hand against the door, ye’re to shoot. But +that’s not all. Let’s make a bit of a soldier of ye, David. What else +have ye to guard?” + +“There’s the skylight,” said I. “But indeed, Mr. Stewart, I would need +to have eyes upon both sides to keep the two of them; for when my face +is at the one, my back is to the other.” + +“And that’s very true,” said Alan. “But have ye no ears to your head?” + +“To be sure!” cried I. “I must hear the bursting of the glass!” + +“Ye have some rudiments of sense,” said Alan, grimly. + + + + +CHAPTER X + +THE SIEGE OF THE ROUND-HOUSE + + +But now our time of truce was come to an end. Those on deck had waited +for my coming till they grew impatient; and scarce had Alan spoken, when +the captain showed face in the open door. + +“Stand!” cried Alan, and pointed his sword at him. The captain stood, +indeed; but he neither winced nor drew back a foot. + +“A naked sword?” says he. “This is a strange return for hospitality.” + +“Do ye see me?” said Alan. “I am come of kings; I bear a king’s name. My +badge is the oak. Do ye see my sword? It has slashed the heads off mair +Whigamores than you have toes upon your feet. Call up your vermin to +your back, sir, and fall on! The sooner the clash begins, the sooner +ye’ll taste this steel throughout your vitals.” + +The captain said nothing to Alan, but he looked over at me with an ugly +look. “David,” said he, “I’ll mind this;” and the sound of his voice +went through me with a jar. + +Next moment he was gone. + +“And now,” said Alan, “let your hand keep your head, for the grip is +coming.” + +Alan drew a dirk, which he held in his left hand in case they should run +in under his sword. I, on my part, clambered up into the berth with +an armful of pistols and something of a heavy heart, and set open the +window where I was to watch. It was a small part of the deck that I +could overlook, but enough for our purpose. The sea had gone down, and +the wind was steady and kept the sails quiet; so that there was a +great stillness in the ship, in which I made sure I heard the sound of +muttering voices. A little after, and there came a clash of steel upon +the deck, by which I knew they were dealing out the cutlasses and one +had been let fall; and after that, silence again. + +I do not know if I was what you call afraid; but my heart beat like a +bird’s, both quick and little; and there was a dimness came before my +eyes which I continually rubbed away, and which continually returned. As +for hope, I had none; but only a darkness of despair and a sort of anger +against all the world that made me long to sell my life as dear as I was +able. I tried to pray, I remember, but that same hurry of my mind, like +a man running, would not suffer me to think upon the words; and my chief +wish was to have the thing begin and be done with it. + +It came all of a sudden when it did, with a rush of feet and a roar, and +then a shout from Alan, and a sound of blows and some one crying out +as if hurt. I looked back over my shoulder, and saw Mr. Shuan in the +doorway, crossing blades with Alan. + +“That’s him that killed the boy!” I cried. + +“Look to your window!” said Alan; and as I turned back to my place, I +saw him pass his sword through the mate’s body. + +It was none too soon for me to look to my own part; for my head was +scarce back at the window, before five men, carrying a spare yard for +a battering-ram, ran past me and took post to drive the door in. I had +never fired with a pistol in my life, and not often with a gun; far less +against a fellow-creature. But it was now or never; and just as they +swang the yard, I cried out: “Take that!” and shot into their midst. + +I must have hit one of them, for he sang out and gave back a step, and +the rest stopped as if a little disconcerted. Before they had time to +recover, I sent another ball over their heads; and at my third shot +(which went as wide as the second) the whole party threw down the yard +and ran for it. + +Then I looked round again into the deck-house. The whole place was full +of the smoke of my own firing, just as my ears seemed to be burst with +the noise of the shots. But there was Alan, standing as before; only +now his sword was running blood to the hilt, and himself so swelled +with triumph and fallen into so fine an attitude, that he looked to be +invincible. Right before him on the floor was Mr. Shuan, on his hands +and knees; the blood was pouring from his mouth, and he was sinking +slowly lower, with a terrible, white face; and just as I looked, some of +those from behind caught hold of him by the heels and dragged him bodily +out of the round-house. I believe he died as they were doing it. + +“There’s one of your Whigs for ye!” cried Alan; and then turning to me, +he asked if I had done much execution. + +I told him I had winged one, and thought it was the captain. + +“And I’ve settled two,” says he. “No, there’s not enough blood let; +they’ll be back again. To your watch, David. This was but a dram before +meat.” + +I settled back to my place, re-charging the three pistols I had fired, +and keeping watch with both eye and ear. + +Our enemies were disputing not far off upon the deck, and that so loudly +that I could hear a word or two above the washing of the seas. + +“It was Shuan bauchled[15] it,” I heard one say. + + [15] Bungled. + +And another answered him with a “Wheesht, man! He’s paid the piper.” + +After that the voices fell again into the same muttering as before. Only +now, one person spoke most of the time, as though laying down a plan, +and first one and then another answered him briefly, like men taking +orders. By this, I made sure they were coming on again, and told Alan. + +“It’s what we have to pray for,” said he. “Unless we can give them a +good distaste of us, and done with it, there’ll be nae sleep for either +you or me. But this time, mind, they’ll be in earnest.” + +By this, my pistols were ready, and there was nothing to do but listen +and wait. While the brush lasted, I had not the time to think if I was +frighted; but now, when all was still again, my mind ran upon nothing +else. The thought of the sharp swords and the cold steel was strong in +me; and presently, when I began to hear stealthy steps and a brushing +of men’s clothes against the round-house wall, and knew they were taking +their places in the dark, I could have found it in my mind to cry out +aloud. + +All this was upon Alan’s side; and I had begun to think my share of the +fight was at an end, when I heard some one drop softly on the roof above +me. + +Then there came a single call on the sea-pipe, and that was the signal. +A knot of them made one rush of it, cutlass in hand, against the door; +and at the same moment, the glass of the skylight was dashed in a +thousand pieces, and a man leaped through and landed on the floor. +Before he got his feet, I had clapped a pistol to his back, and might +have shot him, too; only at the touch of him (and him alive) my whole +flesh misgave me, and I could no more pull the trigger than I could have +flown. + +He had dropped his cutlass as he jumped, and when he felt the pistol, +whipped straight round and laid hold of me, roaring out an oath; and at +that either my courage came again, or I grew so much afraid as came to +the same thing; for I gave a shriek and shot him in the midst of the +body. He gave the most horrible, ugly groan and fell to the floor. The +foot of a second fellow, whose legs were dangling through the skylight, +struck me at the same time upon the head; and at that I snatched another +pistol and shot this one through the thigh, so that he slipped through +and tumbled in a lump on his companion’s body. There was no talk of +missing, any more than there was time to aim; I clapped the muzzle to +the very place and fired. + +I might have stood and stared at them for long, but I heard Alan shout +as if for help, and that brought me to my senses. + +He had kept the door so long; but one of the seamen, while he was +engaged with others, had run in under his guard and caught him about the +body. Alan was dirking him with his left hand, but the fellow clung like +a leech. Another had broken in and had his cutlass raised. The door was +thronged with their faces. I thought we were lost, and catching up my +cutlass, fell on them in flank. + +But I had not time to be of help. The wrestler dropped at last; and +Alan, leaping back to get his distance, ran upon the others like a +bull, roaring as he went. They broke before him like water, turning, and +running, and falling one against another in their haste. The sword +in his hands flashed like quicksilver into the huddle of our fleeing +enemies; and at every flash there came the scream of a man hurt. I was +still thinking we were lost, when lo! they were all gone, and Alan was +driving them along the deck as a sheep-dog chases sheep. + +Yet he was no sooner out than he was back again, being as cautious as he +was brave; and meanwhile the seamen continued running and crying out as +if he was still behind them; and we heard them tumble one upon another +into the forecastle, and clap-to the hatch upon the top. + +The round-house was like a shambles; three were dead inside, another +lay in his death agony across the threshold; and there were Alan and I +victorious and unhurt. + +He came up to me with open arms. “Come to my arms!” he cried, and +embraced and kissed me hard upon both cheeks. “David,” said he, “I love +you like a brother. And O, man,” he cried in a kind of ecstasy, “am I no +a bonny fighter?” + +Thereupon he turned to the four enemies, passed his sword clean through +each of them, and tumbled them out of doors one after the other. As he +did so, he kept humming and singing and whistling to himself, like a man +trying to recall an air; only what _he_ was trying was to make one. All +the while, the flush was in his face, and his eyes were as bright as a +five-year-old child’s with a new toy. And presently he sat down upon the +table, sword in hand; the air that he was making all the time began to +run a little clearer, and then clearer still; and then out he burst with +a great voice into a Gaelic song. + +I have translated it here, not in verse (of which I have no skill) but +at least in the king’s English. + +He sang it often afterwards, and the thing became popular; so that I +have heard it and had it explained to me, many’s the time. + + “This is the song of the sword of Alan; + The smith made it, + The fire set it; + Now it shines in the hand of Alan Breck. + + “Their eyes were many and bright, + Swift were they to behold, + Many the hands they guided: + The sword was alone. + + “The dun deer troop over the hill, + They are many, the hill is one; + The dun deer vanish, + The hill remains. + + “Come to me from the hills of heather, + Come from the isles of the sea. + O far-beholding eagles, + Here is your meat.” + +Now this song which he made (both words and music) in the hour of our +victory, is something less than just to me, who stood beside him in +the tussle. Mr. Shuan and five more were either killed outright or +thoroughly disabled; but of these, two fell by my hand, the two that +came by the skylight. Four more were hurt, and of that number, one (and +he not the least important) got his hurt from me. So that, altogether, +I did my fair share both of the killing and the wounding, and might have +claimed a place in Alan’s verses. But poets have to think upon their +rhymes; and in good prose talk, Alan always did me more than justice. + +In the meanwhile, I was innocent of any wrong being done me. For not +only I knew no word of the Gaelic; but what with the long suspense of +the waiting, and the scurry and strain of our two spirts of fighting, +and more than all, the horror I had of some of my own share in it, the +thing was no sooner over than I was glad to stagger to a seat. There was +that tightness on my chest that I could hardly breathe; the thought +of the two men I had shot sat upon me like a nightmare; and all upon a +sudden, and before I had a guess of what was coming, I began to sob and +cry like any child. + +Alan clapped my shoulder, and said I was a brave lad and wanted nothing +but a sleep. + +“I’ll take the first watch,” said he. “Ye’ve done well by me, David, +first and last; and I wouldn’t lose you for all Appin--no, nor for +Breadalbane.” + +So I made up my bed on the floor; and he took the first spell, pistol +in hand and sword on knee, three hours by the captain’s watch upon the +wall. Then he roused me up, and I took my turn of three hours; before +the end of which it was broad day, and a very quiet morning, with a +smooth, rolling sea that tossed the ship and made the blood run to and +fro on the round-house floor, and a heavy rain that drummed upon the +roof. All my watch there was nothing stirring; and by the banging of the +helm, I knew they had even no one at the tiller. Indeed (as I learned +afterwards) there were so many of them hurt or dead, and the rest in so +ill a temper, that Mr. Riach and the captain had to take turn and turn +like Alan and me, or the brig might have gone ashore and nobody the +wiser. It was a mercy the night had fallen so still, for the wind had +gone down as soon as the rain began. Even as it was, I judged by the +wailing of a great number of gulls that went crying and fishing round +the ship, that she must have drifted pretty near the coast or one of +the islands of the Hebrides; and at last, looking out of the door of the +round-house, I saw the great stone hills of Skye on the right hand, and, +a little more astern, the strange isle of Rum. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +THE CAPTAIN KNUCKLES UNDER + + +Alan and I sat down to breakfast about six of the clock. The floor was +covered with broken glass and in a horrid mess of blood, which took away +my hunger. In all other ways we were in a situation not only agreeable +but merry; having ousted the officers from their own cabin, and having +at command all the drink in the ship--both wine and spirits--and all the +dainty part of what was eatable, such as the pickles and the fine sort +of bread. This, of itself, was enough to set us in good humour, but the +richest part of it was this, that the two thirstiest men that ever came +out of Scotland (Mr. Shuan being dead) were now shut in the fore-part of +the ship and condemned to what they hated most--cold water. + +“And depend upon it,” Alan said, “we shall hear more of them ere long. +Ye may keep a man from the fighting, but never from his bottle.” + +We made good company for each other. Alan, indeed, expressed himself +most lovingly; and taking a knife from the table, cut me off one of the +silver buttons from his coat. + +“I had them,” says he, “from my father, Duncan Stewart; and now give ye +one of them to be a keepsake for last night’s work. And wherever ye go +and show that button, the friends of Alan Breck will come around you.” + +He said this as if he had been Charlemagne, and commanded armies; and +indeed, much as I admired his courage, I was always in danger of smiling +at his vanity: in danger, I say, for had I not kept my countenance, I +would be afraid to think what a quarrel might have followed. + +As soon as we were through with our meal he rummaged in the captain’s +locker till he found a clothes-brush; and then taking off his coat, +began to visit his suit and brush away the stains, with such care and +labour as I supposed to have been only usual with women. To be sure, he +had no other; and, besides (as he said), it belonged to a king and so +behoved to be royally looked after. + +For all that, when I saw what care he took to pluck out the threads +where the button had been cut away, I put a higher value on his gift. + +He was still so engaged when we were hailed by Mr. Riach from the deck, +asking for a parley; and I, climbing through the skylight and sitting on +the edge of it, pistol in hand and with a bold front, though inwardly in +fear of broken glass, hailed him back again and bade him speak out. He +came to the edge of the round-house, and stood on a coil of rope, so +that his chin was on a level with the roof; and we looked at each other +awhile in silence. Mr. Riach, as I do not think he had been very forward +in the battle, so he had got off with nothing worse than a blow upon the +cheek: but he looked out of heart and very weary, having been all night +afoot, either standing watch or doctoring the wounded. + +“This is a bad job,” said he at last, shaking his head. + +“It was none of our choosing,” said I. + +“The captain,” says he, “would like to speak with your friend. They +might speak at the window.” + +“And how do we know what treachery he means?” cried I. + +“He means none, David,” returned Mr. Riach, “and if he did, I’ll tell ye +the honest truth, we couldnae get the men to follow.” + +“Is that so?” said I. + +“I’ll tell ye more than that,” said he. “It’s not only the men; it’s me. +I’m frich’ened, Davie.” And he smiled across at me. “No,” he continued, +“what we want is to be shut of him.” + +Thereupon I consulted with Alan, and the parley was agreed to and +parole given upon either side; but this was not the whole of Mr. Riach’s +business, and he now begged me for a dram with such instancy and such +reminders of his former kindness, that at last I handed him a pannikin +with about a gill of brandy. He drank a part, and then carried the rest +down upon the deck, to share it (I suppose) with his superior. + +A little after, the captain came (as was agreed) to one of the windows, +and stood there in the rain, with his arm in a sling, and looking stern +and pale, and so old that my heart smote me for having fired upon him. + +Alan at once held a pistol in his face. + +“Put that thing up!” said the captain. “Have I not passed my word, sir? +or do ye seek to affront me?” + +“Captain,” says Alan, “I doubt your word is a breakable. Last night ye +haggled and argle-bargled like an apple-wife; and then passed me your +word, and gave me your hand to back it; and ye ken very well what was +the upshot. Be damned to your word!” says he. + +“Well, well, sir,” said the captain, “ye’ll get little good by +swearing.” (And truly that was a fault of which the captain was quite +free.) “But we have other things to speak,” he continued, bitterly. +“Ye’ve made a sore hash of my brig; I haven’t hands enough left to work +her; and my first officer (whom I could ill spare) has got your sword +throughout his vitals, and passed without speech. There is nothing left +me, sir, but to put back into the port of Glasgow after hands; and there +(by your leave) ye will find them that are better able to talk to you.” + +“Ay?” said Alan; “and faith, I’ll have a talk with them mysel’! Unless +there’s naebody speaks English in that town, I have a bonny tale for +them. Fifteen tarry sailors upon the one side, and a man and a halfling +boy upon the other! O, man, it’s peetiful!” + +Hoseason flushed red. + +“No,” continued Alan, “that’ll no do. Ye’ll just have to set me ashore +as we agreed.” + +“Ay,” said Hoseason, “but my first officer is dead--ye ken best how. +There’s none of the rest of us acquaint with this coast, sir; and it’s +one very dangerous to ships.” + +“I give ye your choice,” says Alan. “Set me on dry ground in Appin, +or Ardgour, or in Morven, or Arisaig, or Morar; or, in brief, where ye +please, within thirty miles of my own country; except in a country of +the Campbells. That’s a broad target. If ye miss that, ye must be as +feckless at the sailoring as I have found ye at the fighting. Why, my +poor country people in their bit cobles[16] pass from island to island in +all weathers, ay, and by night too, for the matter of that.” + + [16] Coble: a small boat used in fishing. + +“A coble’s not a ship, sir,” said the captain. “It has nae draught of +water.” + +“Well, then, to Glasgow if ye list!” says Alan. “We’ll have the laugh of +ye at the least.” + +“My mind runs little upon laughing,” said the captain. “But all this +will cost money, sir.” + +“Well, sir,” says Alan, “I am nae weathercock. Thirty guineas, if ye land +me on the sea-side; and sixty, if ye put me in the Linnhe Loch.” + +“But see, sir, where we lie, we are but a few hours’ sail from +Ardnamurchan,” said Hoseason. “Give me sixty, and I’ll set ye there.” + +“And I’m to wear my brogues and run jeopardy of the red-coats to please +you?” cries Alan. “No, sir; if ye want sixty guineas earn them, and set +me in my own country.” + +“It’s to risk the brig, sir,” said the captain, “and your own lives +along with her.” + +“Take it or want it,” says Alan. + +“Could ye pilot us at all?” asked the captain, who was frowning to +himself. + +“Well, it’s doubtful,” said Alan. “I’m more of a fighting man (as ye +have seen for yoursel’) than a sailor-man. But I have been often enough +picked up and set down upon this coast, and should ken something of the +lie of it.” + +The captain shook his head, still frowning. + +“If I had lost less money on this unchancy cruise,” says he, “I would +see you in a rope’s end before I risked my brig, sir. But be it as ye +will. As soon as I get a slant of wind (and there’s some coming, or I’m +the more mistaken) I’ll put it in hand. But there’s one thing more. We +may meet in with a king’s ship and she may lay us aboard, sir, with no +blame of mine: they keep the cruisers thick upon this coast, ye ken who +for. Now, sir, if that was to befall, ye might leave the money.” + +“Captain,” says Alan, “if ye see a pennant, it shall be your part to +run away. And now, as I hear you’re a little short of brandy in the +fore-part, I’ll offer ye a change: a bottle of brandy against two +buckets of water.” + +That was the last clause of the treaty, and was duly executed on both +sides; so that Alan and I could at last wash out the round-house and be +quit of the memorials of those whom we had slain, and the captain and +Mr. Riach could be happy again in their own way, the name of which was +drink. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +I HEAR OF THE “RED FOX” + + +Before we had done cleaning out the round-house, a breeze sprang up from +a little to the east of north. This blew off the rain and brought out +the sun. + +And here I must explain; and the reader would do well to look at a map. +On the day when the fog fell and we ran down Alan’s boat, we had been +running through the Little Minch. At dawn after the battle, we lay +becalmed to the east of the Isle of Canna or between that and Isle +Eriska in the chain of the Long Island. Now to get from there to the +Linnhe Loch, the straight course was through the narrows of the Sound of +Mull. But the captain had no chart; he was afraid to trust his brig so +deep among the islands; and the wind serving well, he preferred to go by +west of Tiree and come up under the southern coast of the great Isle of +Mull. + +All day the breeze held in the same point, and rather freshened than +died down; and towards afternoon, a swell began to set in from round the +outer Hebrides. Our course, to go round about the inner isles, was to +the west of south, so that at first we had this swell upon our beam, and +were much rolled about. But after nightfall, when we had turned the end +of Tiree and began to head more to the east, the sea came right astern. + +Meanwhile, the early part of the day, before the swell came up, was +very pleasant; sailing, as we were, in a bright sunshine and with +many mountainous islands upon different sides. Alan and I sat in the +round-house with the doors open on each side (the wind being straight +astern), and smoked a pipe or two of the captain’s fine tobacco. It was +at this time we heard each other’s stories, which was the more important +to me, as I gained some knowledge of that wild Highland country on which +I was so soon to land. In those days, so close on the back of the great +rebellion, it was needful a man should know what he was doing when he +went upon the heather. + +It was I that showed the example, telling him all my misfortune; which +he heard with great good-nature. Only, when I came to mention that good +friend of mine, Mr. Campbell the minister, Alan fired up and cried out +that he hated all that were of that name. + +“Why,” said I, “he is a man you should be proud to give your hand to.” + +“I know nothing I would help a Campbell to,” says he, “unless it was a +leaden bullet. I would hunt all of that name like blackcocks. If I lay +dying, I would crawl upon my knees to my chamber window for a shot at +one.” + +“Why, Alan,” I cried, “what ails ye at the Campbells?” + +“Well,” says he, “ye ken very well that I am an Appin Stewart, and the +Campbells have long harried and wasted those of my name; ay, and got +lands of us by treachery--but never with the sword,” he cried loudly, +and with the word brought down his fist upon the table. But I paid the +less attention to this, for I knew it was usually said by those who have +the underhand. “There’s more than that,” he continued, “and all in the +same story: lying words, lying papers, tricks fit for a peddler, and the +show of what’s legal over all, to make a man the more angry.” + +“You that are so wasteful of your buttons,” said I, “I can hardly think +you would be a good judge of business.” + +“Ah!” says he, falling again to smiling, “I got my wastefulness from +the same man I got the buttons from; and that was my poor father, Duncan +Stewart, grace be to him! He was the prettiest man of his kindred; and +the best swordsman in the Hielands, David, and that is the same as to +say, in all the world, I should ken, for it was him that taught me. +He was in the Black Watch, when first it was mustered; and, like other +gentlemen privates, had a gillie at his back to carry his firelock for +him on the march. Well, the King, it appears, was wishful to see Hieland +swordsmanship; and my father and three more were chosen out and sent to +London town, to let him see it at the best. So they were had into the +palace and showed the whole art of the sword for two hours at a stretch, +before King George and Queen Carline, and the Butcher Cumberland, and +many more of whom I havenae mind. And when they were through, the King +(for all he was a rank usurper) spoke them fair and gave each man three +guineas in his hand. Now, as they were going out of the palace, they +had a porter’s lodge to go by; and it came in on my father, as he was +perhaps the first private Hieland gentleman that had ever gone by that +door, it was right he should give the poor porter a proper notion of +their quality. So he gives the King’s three guineas into the man’s hand, +as if it was his common custom; the three others that came behind him +did the same; and there they were on the street, never a penny the +better for their pains. Some say it was one, that was the first to fee +the King’s porter; and some say it was another; but the truth of it is, +that it was Duncan Stewart, as I am willing to prove with either sword +or pistol. And that was the father that I had, God rest him!” + +“I think he was not the man to leave you rich,” said I. + +“And that’s true,” said Alan. “He left me my breeks to cover me, and +little besides. And that was how I came to enlist, which was a black +spot upon my character at the best of times, and would still be a sore +job for me if I fell among the red-coats.” + +“What,” cried I, “were you in the English army?” + +“That was I,” said Alan. “But I deserted to the right side at Preston +Pans--and that’s some comfort.” + +I could scarcely share this view: holding desertion under arms for an +unpardonable fault in honour. But for all I was so young, I was wiser +than say my thought. “Dear, dear,” says I, “the punishment is death.” + +“Ay” said he, “if they got hands on me, it would be a short shrift and +a lang tow for Alan! But I have the King of France’s commission in my +pocket, which would aye be some protection.” + +“I misdoubt it much,” said I. + +“I have doubts mysel’,” said Alan drily. + +“And, good heaven, man,” cried I, “you that are a condemned rebel, and a +deserter, and a man of the French King’s--what tempts ye back into this +country? It’s a braving of Providence.” + +“Tut!” says Alan, “I have been back every year since forty-six!” + +“And what brings ye, man?” cried I. + +“Well, ye see, I weary for my friends and country,” said he. “France is +a braw place, nae doubt; but I weary for the heather and the deer. And +then I have bit things that I attend to. Whiles I pick up a few lads +to serve the King of France: recruits, ye see; and that’s aye a +little money. But the heart of the matter is the business of my chief, +Ardshiel.” + +“I thought they called your chief Appin,” said I. + +“Ay, but Ardshiel is the captain of the clan,” said he, which scarcely +cleared my mind. “Ye see, David, he that was all his life so great a +man, and come of the blood and bearing the name of kings, is now brought +down to live in a French town like a poor and private person. He that +had four hundred swords at his whistle, I have seen, with these eyes +of mine, buying butter in the market-place, and taking it home in a +kale-leaf. This is not only a pain but a disgrace to us of his family +and clan. There are the bairns forby, the children and the hope of +Appin, that must be learned their letters and how to hold a sword, in +that far country. Now, the tenants of Appin have to pay a rent to King +George; but their hearts are staunch, they are true to their chief; and +what with love and a bit of pressure, and maybe a threat or two, the +poor folk scrape up a second rent for Ardshiel. Well, David, I’m the +hand that carries it.” And he struck the belt about his body, so that +the guineas rang. + +“Do they pay both?” cried I. + +“Ay, David, both,” says he. + +“What! two rents?” I repeated. + +“Ay, David,” said he. “I told a different tale to yon captain man; but +this is the truth of it. And it’s wonderful to me how little pressure +is needed. But that’s the handiwork of my good kinsman and my father’s +friend, James of the Glens: James Stewart, that is: Ardshiel’s +half-brother. He it is that gets the money in, and does the management.” + +This was the first time I heard the name of that James Stewart, who was +afterwards so famous at the time of his hanging. But I took little heed +at the moment, for all my mind was occupied with the generosity of these +poor Highlanders. + +“I call it noble,” I cried. “I’m a Whig, or little better; but I call it +noble.” + +“Ay” said he, “ye’re a Whig, but ye’re a gentleman; and that’s what does +it. Now, if ye were one of the cursed race of Campbell, ye would gnash +your teeth to hear tell of it. If ye were the Red Fox...” And at that +name, his teeth shut together, and he ceased speaking. I have seen many +a grim face, but never a grimmer than Alan’s when he had named the Red +Fox. + +“And who is the Red Fox?” I asked, daunted, but still curious. + +“Who is he?” cried Alan. “Well, and I’ll tell you that. When the men of +the clans were broken at Culloden, and the good cause went down, and the +horses rode over the fetlocks in the best blood of the north, Ardshiel +had to flee like a poor deer upon the mountains--he and his lady and his +bairns. A sair job we had of it before we got him shipped; and while he +still lay in the heather, the English rogues, that couldnae come at his +life, were striking at his rights. They stripped him of his powers; they +stripped him of his lands; they plucked the weapons from the hands of +his clansmen, that had borne arms for thirty centuries; ay, and the very +clothes off their backs--so that it’s now a sin to wear a tartan plaid, +and a man may be cast into a gaol if he has but a kilt about his legs. +One thing they couldnae kill. That was the love the clansmen bore their +chief. These guineas are the proof of it. And now, in there steps a man, +a Campbell, red-headed Colin of Glenure----” + +“Is that him you call the Red Fox?” said I. + +“Will ye bring me his brush?” cries Alan, fiercely. “Ay, that’s the man. +In he steps, and gets papers from King George, to be so-called King’s +factor on the lands of Appin. And at first he sings small, and is +hail-fellow-well-met with Sheamus--that’s James of the Glens, my +chieftain’s agent. But by-and-by, that came to his ears that I have just +told you; how the poor commons of Appin, the farmers and the crofters +and the boumen, were wringing their very plaids to get a second rent, +and send it over-seas for Ardshiel and his poor bairns. What was it ye +called it, when I told ye?” + +“I called it noble, Alan,” said I. + +“And you little better than a common Whig!” cries Alan. “But when it +came to Colin Roy, the black Campbell blood in him ran wild. He sat +gnashing his teeth at the wine table. What! should a Stewart get a bite +of bread, and him not be able to prevent it? Ah! Red Fox, if ever I +hold you at a gun’s end, the Lord have pity upon ye!” (Alan stopped to +swallow down his anger.) “Well, David, what does he do? He declares all +the farms to let. And, thinks he, in his black heart, ‘I’ll soon get +other tenants that’ll overbid these Stewarts, and Maccolls, and Macrobs’ +(for these are all names in my clan, David); ‘and then,’ thinks he, +‘Ardshiel will have to hold his bonnet on a French roadside.’” + +“Well,” said I, “what followed?” + +Alan laid down his pipe, which he had long since suffered to go out, and +set his two hands upon his knees. + +“Ay,” said he, “ye’ll never guess that! For these same Stewarts, and +Maccolls, and Macrobs (that had two rents to pay, one to King George +by stark force, and one to Ardshiel by natural kindness) offered him a +better price than any Campbell in all broad Scotland; and far he +sent seeking them--as far as to the sides of Clyde and the cross of +Edinburgh--seeking, and fleeching, and begging them to come, where there +was a Stewart to be starved and a red-headed hound of a Campbell to be +pleasured!” + +“Well, Alan,” said I, “that is a strange story, and a fine one, too. And +Whig as I may be, I am glad the man was beaten.” + +“Him beaten?” echoed Alan. “It’s little ye ken of Campbells, and less +of the Red Fox. Him beaten? No: nor will be, till his blood’s on the +hillside! But if the day comes, David man, that I can find time and +leisure for a bit of hunting, there grows not enough heather in all +Scotland to hide him from my vengeance!” + +“Man Alan,” said I, “ye are neither very wise nor very Christian to +blow off so many words of anger. They will do the man ye call the Fox no +harm, and yourself no good. Tell me your tale plainly out. What did he +next?” + +“And that’s a good observe, David,” said Alan. “Troth and indeed, +they will do him no harm; the more’s the pity! And barring that about +Christianity (of which my opinion is quite otherwise, or I would be nae +Christian), I am much of your mind.” + +“Opinion here or opinion there,” said I, “it’s a kent thing that +Christianity forbids revenge.” + +“Ay” said he, “it’s well seen it was a Campbell taught ye! It would be +a convenient world for them and their sort, if there was no such a thing +as a lad and a gun behind a heather bush! But that’s nothing to the +point. This is what he did.” + +“Ay” said I, “come to that.” + +“Well, David,” said he, “since he couldnae be rid of the loyal commons +by fair means, he swore he would be rid of them by foul. Ardshiel was to +starve: that was the thing he aimed at. And since them that fed him in +his exile wouldnae be bought out--right or wrong, he would drive them +out. Therefore he sent for lawyers, and papers, and red-coats to stand +at his back. And the kindly folk of that country must all pack and +tramp, every father’s son out of his father’s house, and out of the +place where he was bred and fed, and played when he was a callant. And +who are to succeed them? Bare-leggit beggars! King George is to whistle +for his rents; he maun dow with less; he can spread his butter thinner: +what cares Red Colin? If he can hurt Ardshiel, he has his wish; if he +can pluck the meat from my chieftain’s table, and the bit toys out of +his children’s hands, he will gang hame singing to Glenure!” + +“Let me have a word,” said I. “Be sure, if they take less rents, be +sure Government has a finger in the pie. It’s not this Campbell’s fault, +man--it’s his orders. And if ye killed this Colin to-morrow, what better +would ye be? There would be another factor in his shoes, as fast as spur +can drive.” + +“Ye’re a good lad in a fight,” said Alan; “but, man! ye have Whig blood +in ye!” + +He spoke kindly enough, but there was so much anger under his contempt +that I thought it was wise to change the conversation. I expressed my +wonder how, with the Highlands covered with troops, and guarded like +a city in a siege, a man in his situation could come and go without +arrest. + +“It’s easier than ye would think,” said Alan. “A bare hillside (ye see) +is like all one road; if there’s a sentry at one place, ye just go by +another. And then the heather’s a great help. And everywhere there are +friends’ houses and friends’ byres and haystacks. And besides, when folk +talk of a country covered with troops, it’s but a kind of a byword at +the best. A soldier covers nae mair of it than his boot-soles. I have +fished a water with a sentry on the other side of the brae, and killed a +fine trout; and I have sat in a heather bush within six feet of another, +and learned a real bonny tune from his whistling. This was it,” said he, +and whistled me the air. + +“And then, besides,” he continued, “it’s no sae bad now as it was in +forty-six. The Hielands are what they call pacified. Small wonder, with +never a gun or a sword left from Cantyre to Cape Wrath, but what tenty[17] +folk have hidden in their thatch! But what I would like to ken, David, +is just how long? Not long, ye would think, with men like Ardshiel in +exile and men like the Red Fox sitting birling the wine and oppressing +the poor at home. But it’s a kittle thing to decide what folk’ll bear, +and what they will not. Or why would Red Colin be riding his horse all +over my poor country of Appin, and never a pretty lad to put a bullet in +him?” + + [17] Careful. + +And with this Alan fell into a muse, and for a long time sate very sad +and silent. + +I will add the rest of what I have to say about my friend, that he +was skilled in all kinds of music, but principally pipe-music; was a +well-considered poet in his own tongue; had read several books both in +French and English; was a dead shot, a good angler, and an excellent +fencer with the small sword as well as with his own particular weapon. +For his faults, they were on his face, and I now knew them all. But +the worst of them, his childish propensity to take offence and to pick +quarrels, he greatly laid aside in my case, out of regard for the battle +of the round-house. But whether it was because I had done well myself, +or because I had been a witness of his own much greater prowess, is more +than I can tell. For though he had a great taste for courage in other +men, yet he admired it most in Alan Breck. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +THE LOSS OF THE BRIG + + +It was already late at night, and as dark as it ever would be at that +season of the year (and that is to say, it was still pretty bright), +when Hoseason clapped his head into the round-house door. + +“Here,” said he, “come out and see if ye can pilot.” + +“Is this one of your tricks?” asked Alan. + +“Do I look like tricks?” cries the captain. “I have other things to +think of--my brig’s in danger!” + +By the concerned look of his face, and, above all, by the sharp tones in +which he spoke of his brig, it was plain to both of us he was in deadly +earnest; and so Alan and I, with no great fear of treachery, stepped on +deck. + +The sky was clear; it blew hard, and was bitter cold; a great deal of +daylight lingered; and the moon, which was nearly full, shone brightly. +The brig was close hauled, so as to round the southwest corner of the +Island of Mull, the hills of which (and Ben More above them all, with a +wisp of mist upon the top of it) lay full upon the lar-board bow. Though +it was no good point of sailing for the _Covenant_, she tore through +the seas at a great rate, pitching and straining, and pursued by the +westerly swell. + +Altogether it was no such ill night to keep the seas in; and I had begun +to wonder what it was that sat so heavily upon the captain, when the +brig rising suddenly on the top of a high swell, he pointed and cried to +us to look. Away on the lee bow, a thing like a fountain rose out of the +moonlit sea, and immediately after we heard a low sound of roaring. + +“What do ye call that?” asked the captain, gloomily. + +“The sea breaking on a reef,” said Alan. “And now ye ken where it is; +and what better would ye have?” + +“Ay,” said Hoseason, “if it was the only one.” + +And sure enough, just as he spoke there came a second fountain farther +to the south. + +“There!” said Hoseason. “Ye see for yourself. If I had kent of these +reefs, if I had had a chart, or if Shuan had been spared, it’s not sixty +guineas, no, nor six hundred, would have made me risk my brig in sic a +stoneyard! But you, sir, that was to pilot us, have ye never a word?” + +“I’m thinking,” said Alan, “these’ll be what they call the Torran +Rocks.” + +“Are there many of them?” says the captain. + +“Truly, sir, I am nae pilot,” said Alan; “but it sticks in my mind there +are ten miles of them.” + +Mr. Riach and the captain looked at each other. + +“There’s a way through them, I suppose?” said the captain. + +“Doubtless,” said Alan, “but where? But it somehow runs in my mind once +more that it is clearer under the land.” + +“So?” said Hoseason. “We’ll have to haul our wind then, Mr. Riach; we’ll +have to come as near in about the end of Mull as we can take her, sir; +and even then we’ll have the land to kep the wind off us, and that +stoneyard on our lee. Well, we’re in for it now, and may as well crack +on.” + +With that he gave an order to the steersman, and sent Riach to the +foretop. There were only five men on deck, counting the officers; these +being all that were fit (or, at least, both fit and willing) for their +work. So, as I say, it fell to Mr. Riach to go aloft, and he sat there +looking out and hailing the deck with news of all he saw. + +“The sea to the south is thick,” he cried; and then, after a while, “it +does seem clearer in by the land.” + +“Well, sir,” said Hoseason to Alan, “we’ll try your way of it. But I +think I might as well trust to a blind fiddler. Pray God you’re right.” + +“Pray God I am!” says Alan to me. “But where did I hear it? Well, well, +it will be as it must.” + +As we got nearer to the turn of the land the reefs began to be sown here +and there on our very path; and Mr. Riach sometimes cried down to us to +change the course. Sometimes, indeed, none too soon; for one reef was +so close on the brig’s weather board that when a sea burst upon it the +lighter sprays fell upon her deck and wetted us like rain. + +The brightness of the night showed us these perils as clearly as by day, +which was, perhaps, the more alarming. It showed me, too, the face of +the captain as he stood by the steersman, now on one foot, now on the +other, and sometimes blowing in his hands, but still listening and +looking and as steady as steel. Neither he nor Mr. Riach had shown +well in the fighting; but I saw they were brave in their own trade, and +admired them all the more because I found Alan very white. + +“Ochone, David,” says he, “this is no the kind of death I fancy!” + +“What, Alan!” I cried, “you’re not afraid?” + +“No,” said he, wetting his lips, “but you’ll allow, yourself, it’s a +cold ending.” + +By this time, now and then sheering to one side or the other to avoid a +reef, but still hugging the wind and the land, we had got round Iona and +begun to come alongside Mull. The tide at the tail of the land ran very +strong, and threw the brig about. Two hands were put to the helm, and +Hoseason himself would sometimes lend a help; and it was strange to +see three strong men throw their weight upon the tiller, and it (like a +living thing) struggle against and drive them back. This would have +been the greater danger had not the sea been for some while free of +obstacles. Mr. Riach, besides, announced from the top that he saw clear +water ahead. + +“Ye were right,” said Hoseason to Alan. “Ye have saved the brig, sir. +I’ll mind that when we come to clear accounts.” And I believe he not +only meant what he said, but would have done it; so high a place did the +_Covenant_ hold in his affections. + +But this is matter only for conjecture, things having gone otherwise +than he forecast. + +“Keep her away a point,” sings out Mr. Riach. “Reef to windward!” + +And just at the same time the tide caught the brig, and threw the wind +out of her sails. She came round into the wind like a top, and the next +moment struck the reef with such a dunch as threw us all flat upon the +deck, and came near to shake Mr. Riach from his place upon the mast. + +I was on my feet in a minute. The reef on which we had struck was close +in under the southwest end of Mull, off a little isle they call Earraid, +which lay low and black upon the larboard. Sometimes the swell broke +clean over us; sometimes it only ground the poor brig upon the reef, so +that we could hear her beat herself to pieces; and what with the great +noise of the sails, and the singing of the wind, and the flying of the +spray in the moonlight, and the sense of danger, I think my head must +have been partly turned, for I could scarcely understand the things I +saw. + +Presently I observed Mr. Riach and the seamen busy round the skiff, and, +still in the same blank, ran over to assist them; and as soon as I set +my hand to work, my mind came clear again. It was no very easy task, for +the skiff lay amidships and was full of hamper, and the breaking of the +heavier seas continually forced us to give over and hold on; but we all +wrought like horses while we could. + +Meanwhile such of the wounded as could move came clambering out of the +fore-scuttle and began to help; while the rest that lay helpless in +their bunks harrowed me with screaming and begging to be saved. + +The captain took no part. It seemed he was struck stupid. He stood +holding by the shrouds, talking to himself and groaning out aloud +whenever the ship hammered on the rock. His brig was like wife and +child to him; he had looked on, day by day, at the mishandling of poor +Ransome; but when it came to the brig, he seemed to suffer along with +her. + +All the time of our working at the boat, I remember only one other +thing: that I asked Alan, looking across at the shore, what country it +was; and he answered, it was the worst possible for him, for it was a +land of the Campbells. + +We had one of the wounded men told off to keep a watch upon the seas and +cry us warning. Well, we had the boat about ready to be launched, when +this man sang out pretty shrill: “For God’s sake, hold on!” We knew +by his tone that it was something more than ordinary; and sure enough, +there followed a sea so huge that it lifted the brig right up and canted +her over on her beam. Whether the cry came too late, or my hold was too +weak, I know not; but at the sudden tilting of the ship I was cast clean +over the bulwarks into the sea. + +I went down, and drank my fill, and then came up, and got a blink of the +moon, and then down again. They say a man sinks a third time for good. I +cannot be made like other folk, then; for I would not like to write how +often I went down, or how often I came up again. All the while, I was +being hurled along, and beaten upon and choked, and then swallowed +whole; and the thing was so distracting to my wits, that I was neither +sorry nor afraid. + +Presently, I found I was holding to a spar, which helped me somewhat. +And then all of a sudden I was in quiet water, and began to come to +myself. + +It was the spare yard I had got hold of, and I was amazed to see how far +I had travelled from the brig. I hailed her, indeed; but it was plain +she was already out of cry. She was still holding together; but whether +or not they had yet launched the boat, I was too far off and too low +down to see. + +While I was hailing the brig, I spied a tract of water lying between +us where no great waves came, but which yet boiled white all over and +bristled in the moon with rings and bubbles. Sometimes the whole tract +swung to one side, like the tail of a live serpent; sometimes, for a +glimpse, it would all disappear and then boil up again. What it was I +had no guess, which for the time increased my fear of it; but I now know +it must have been the roost or tide race, which had carried me away so +fast and tumbled me about so cruelly, and at last, as if tired of that +play, had flung out me and the spare yard upon its landward margin. + +I now lay quite becalmed, and began to feel that a man can die of cold +as well as of drowning. The shores of Earraid were close in; I could see +in the moonlight the dots of heather and the sparkling of the mica in +the rocks. + +“Well,” thought I to myself, “if I cannot get as far as that, it’s +strange!” + +I had no skill of swimming, Essen Water being small in our +neighbourhood; but when I laid hold upon the yard with both arms, and +kicked out with both feet, I soon begun to find that I was moving. Hard +work it was, and mortally slow; but in about an hour of kicking +and splashing, I had got well in between the points of a sandy bay +surrounded by low hills. + +The sea was here quite quiet; there was no sound of any surf; the moon +shone clear; and I thought in my heart I had never seen a place so +desert and desolate. But it was dry land; and when at last it grew so +shallow that I could leave the yard and wade ashore upon my feet, I +cannot tell if I was more tired or more grateful. Both, at least, I was: +tired as I never was before that night; and grateful to God as I trust I +have been often, though never with more cause. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +THE ISLET + + +With my stepping ashore I began the most unhappy part of my adventures. +It was half-past twelve in the morning, and though the wind was broken +by the land, it was a cold night. I dared not sit down (for I thought +I should have frozen), but took off my shoes and walked to and fro upon +the sand, bare-foot, and beating my breast with infinite weariness. +There was no sound of man or cattle; not a cock crew, though it was +about the hour of their first waking; only the surf broke outside in the +distance, which put me in mind of my perils and those of my friend. +To walk by the sea at that hour of the morning, and in a place so +desert-like and lonesome, struck me with a kind of fear. + +As soon as the day began to break I put on my shoes and climbed a +hill--the ruggedest scramble I ever undertook--falling, the whole way, +between big blocks of granite, or leaping from one to another. When I +got to the top the dawn was come. There was no sign of the brig, which +must have lifted from the reef and sunk. The boat, too, was nowhere to +be seen. There was never a sail upon the ocean; and in what I could see +of the land was neither house nor man. + +I was afraid to think what had befallen my shipmates, and afraid to look +longer at so empty a scene. What with my wet clothes and weariness, and +my belly that now began to ache with hunger, I had enough to trouble +me without that. So I set off eastward along the south coast, hoping to +find a house where I might warm myself, and perhaps get news of those I +had lost. And at the worst, I considered the sun would soon rise and dry +my clothes. + +After a little, my way was stopped by a creek or inlet of the sea, which +seemed to run pretty deep into the land; and as I had no means to get +across, I must needs change my direction to go about the end of it. It +was still the roughest kind of walking; indeed the whole, not only of +Earraid, but of the neighbouring part of Mull (which they call the Ross) +is nothing but a jumble of granite rocks with heather in among. At first +the creek kept narrowing as I had looked to see; but presently to my +surprise it began to widen out again. At this I scratched my head, +but had still no notion of the truth: until at last I came to a rising +ground, and it burst upon me all in a moment that I was cast upon a +little barren isle, and cut off on every side by the salt seas. + +Instead of the sun rising to dry me, it came on to rain, with a thick +mist; so that my case was lamentable. + +I stood in the rain, and shivered, and wondered what to do, till it +occurred to me that perhaps the creek was fordable. Back I went to the +narrowest point and waded in. But not three yards from shore, I plumped +in head over ears; and if ever I was heard of more, it was rather by +God’s grace than my own prudence. I was no wetter (for that could hardly +be), but I was all the colder for this mishap; and having lost another +hope was the more unhappy. + +And now, all at once, the yard came in my head. What had carried me +through the roost would surely serve me to cross this little quiet creek +in safety. With that I set off, undaunted, across the top of the isle, +to fetch and carry it back. It was a weary tramp in all ways, and if +hope had not buoyed me up, I must have cast myself down and given up. +Whether with the sea salt, or because I was growing fevered, I was +distressed with thirst, and had to stop, as I went, and drink the peaty +water out of the hags. + +I came to the bay at last, more dead than alive; and at the first +glance, I thought the yard was something farther out than when I left +it. In I went, for the third time, into the sea. The sand was smooth +and firm, and shelved gradually down, so that I could wade out till the +water was almost to my neck and the little waves splashed into my face. +But at that depth my feet began to leave me, and I durst venture in no +farther. As for the yard, I saw it bobbing very quietly some twenty feet +beyond. + +I had borne up well until this last disappointment; but at that I came +ashore, and flung myself down upon the sands and wept. + +The time I spent upon the island is still so horrible a thought to me, +that I must pass it lightly over. In all the books I have read of people +cast away, they had either their pockets full of tools, or a chest of +things would be thrown upon the beach along with them, as if on purpose. +My case was very different. I had nothing in my pockets but money and +Alan’s silver button; and being inland bred, I was as much short of +knowledge as of means. + +I knew indeed that shell-fish were counted good to eat; and among the +rocks of the isle I found a great plenty of limpets, which at first I +could scarcely strike from their places, not knowing quickness to be +needful. There were, besides, some of the little shells that we call +buckies; I think periwinkle is the English name. Of these two I made my +whole diet, devouring them cold and raw as I found them; and so hungry +was I, that at first they seemed to me delicious. + +Perhaps they were out of season, or perhaps there was something wrong +in the sea about my island. But at least I had no sooner eaten my first +meal than I was seized with giddiness and retching, and lay for a long +time no better than dead. A second trial of the same food (indeed I had +no other) did better with me, and revived my strength. But as long as +I was on the island, I never knew what to expect when I had eaten; +sometimes all was well, and sometimes I was thrown into a miserable +sickness; nor could I ever distinguish what particular fish it was that +hurt me. + +All day it streamed rain; the island ran like a sop, there was no dry +spot to be found; and when I lay down that night, between two boulders +that made a kind of roof, my feet were in a bog. + +The second day I crossed the island to all sides. There was no one part +of it better than another; it was all desolate and rocky; nothing living +on it but game birds which I lacked the means to kill, and the gulls +which haunted the outlying rocks in a prodigious number. But the creek, +or strait, that cut off the isle from the main-land of the Ross, opened +out on the north into a bay, and the bay again opened into the Sound of +Iona; and it was the neighbourhood of this place that I chose to be my +home; though if I had thought upon the very name of home in such a spot, +I must have burst out weeping. + +I had good reasons for my choice. There was in this part of the isle a +little hut of a house like a pig’s hut, where fishers used to sleep when +they came there upon their business; but the turf roof of it had fallen +entirely in; so that the hut was of no use to me, and gave me less +shelter than my rocks. What was more important, the shell-fish on which +I lived grew there in great plenty; when the tide was out I could gather +a peck at a time: and this was doubtless a convenience. But the other +reason went deeper. I had become in no way used to the horrid solitude +of the isle, but still looked round me on all sides (like a man that +was hunted), between fear and hope that I might see some human creature +coming. Now, from a little up the hillside over the bay, I could catch a +sight of the great, ancient church and the roofs of the people’s houses +in Iona. And on the other hand, over the low country of the Ross, I saw +smoke go up, morning and evening, as if from a homestead in a hollow of +the land. + +I used to watch this smoke, when I was wet and cold, and had my head +half turned with loneliness; and think of the fireside and the +company, till my heart burned. It was the same with the roofs of Iona. +Altogether, this sight I had of men’s homes and comfortable lives, +although it put a point on my own sufferings, yet it kept hope alive, +and helped me to eat my raw shell-fish (which had soon grown to be a +disgust), and saved me from the sense of horror I had whenever I was +quite alone with dead rocks, and fowls, and the rain, and the cold sea. + +I say it kept hope alive; and indeed it seemed impossible that I should +be left to die on the shores of my own country, and within view of a +church-tower and the smoke of men’s houses. But the second day passed; +and though as long as the light lasted I kept a bright look-out for +boats on the Sound or men passing on the Ross, no help came near me. It +still rained, and I turned in to sleep, as wet as ever, and with a cruel +sore throat, but a little comforted, perhaps, by having said good-night +to my next neighbours, the people of Iona. + +Charles the Second declared a man could stay outdoors more days in the +year in the climate of England than in any other. This was very like a +king, with a palace at his back and changes of dry clothes. But he must +have had better luck on his flight from Worcester than I had on that +miserable isle. It was the height of the summer; yet it rained for more +than twenty-four hours, and did not clear until the afternoon of the +third day. + +This was the day of incidents. In the morning I saw a red deer, a buck +with a fine spread of antlers, standing in the rain on the top of the +island; but he had scarce seen me rise from under my rock, before +he trotted off upon the other side. I supposed he must have swum the +strait; though what should bring any creature to Earraid, was more than +I could fancy. + +A little after, as I was jumping about after my limpets, I was startled +by a guinea-piece, which fell upon a rock in front of me and glanced off +into the sea. When the sailors gave me my money again, they kept back +not only about a third of the whole sum, but my father’s leather purse; +so that from that day out, I carried my gold loose in a pocket with a +button. I now saw there must be a hole, and clapped my hand to the place +in a great hurry. But this was to lock the stable door after the steed +was stolen. I had left the shore at Queensferry with near on fifty +pounds; now I found no more than two guinea-pieces and a silver +shilling. + +It is true I picked up a third guinea a little after, where it lay +shining on a piece of turf. That made a fortune of three pounds and four +shillings, English money, for a lad, the rightful heir of an estate, and +now starving on an isle at the extreme end of the wild Highlands. + +This state of my affairs dashed me still further; and, indeed my plight +on that third morning was truly pitiful. My clothes were beginning to +rot; my stockings in particular were quite worn through, so that my +shanks went naked; my hands had grown quite soft with the continual +soaking; my throat was very sore, my strength had much abated, and my +heart so turned against the horrid stuff I was condemned to eat, that +the very sight of it came near to sicken me. + +And yet the worst was not yet come. + +There is a pretty high rock on the northwest of Earraid, which (because +it had a flat top and overlooked the Sound) I was much in the habit of +frequenting; not that ever I stayed in one place, save when asleep, my +misery giving me no rest. Indeed, I wore myself down with continual and +aimless goings and comings in the rain. + +As soon, however, as the sun came out, I lay down on the top of that +rock to dry myself. The comfort of the sunshine is a thing I cannot +tell. It set me thinking hopefully of my deliverance, of which I had +begun to despair; and I scanned the sea and the Ross with a fresh +interest. On the south of my rock, a part of the island jutted out and +hid the open ocean, so that a boat could thus come quite near me upon +that side, and I be none the wiser. + +Well, all of a sudden, a coble with a brown sail and a pair of fishers +aboard of it, came flying round that corner of the isle, bound for Iona. +I shouted out, and then fell on my knees on the rock and reached up my +hands and prayed to them. They were near enough to hear--I could even +see the colour of their hair; and there was no doubt but they observed +me, for they cried out in the Gaelic tongue, and laughed. But the boat +never turned aside, and flew on, right before my eyes, for Iona. + +I could not believe such wickedness, and ran along the shore from rock +to rock, crying on them piteously even after they were out of reach +of my voice, I still cried and waved to them; and when they were quite +gone, I thought my heart would have burst. All the time of my troubles +I wept only twice. Once, when I could not reach the yard, and now, the +second time, when these fishers turned a deaf ear to my cries. But this +time I wept and roared like a wicked child, tearing up the turf with +my nails, and grinding my face in the earth. If a wish would kill men, +those two fishers would never have seen morning, and I should likely +have died upon my island. + +When I was a little over my anger, I must eat again, but with such +loathing of the mess as I could now scarce control. Sure enough, I +should have done as well to fast, for my fishes poisoned me again. I had +all my first pains; my throat was so sore I could scarce swallow; I had +a fit of strong shuddering, which clucked my teeth together; and there +came on me that dreadful sense of illness, which we have no name for +either in Scotch or English. I thought I should have died, and made my +peace with God, forgiving all men, even my uncle and the fishers; and as +soon as I had thus made up my mind to the worst, clearness came upon me; +I observed the night was falling dry; my clothes were dried a good deal; +truly, I was in a better case than ever before, since I had landed on +the isle; and so I got to sleep at last, with a thought of gratitude. + +The next day (which was the fourth of this horrible life of mine) I +found my bodily strength run very low. But the sun shone, the air was +sweet, and what I managed to eat of the shell-fish agreed well with me +and revived my courage. + +I was scarce back on my rock (where I went always the first thing after +I had eaten) before I observed a boat coming down the Sound, and with +her head, as I thought, in my direction. + +I began at once to hope and fear exceedingly; for I thought these men +might have thought better of their cruelty and be coming back to my +assistance. But another disappointment, such as yesterday’s, was more +than I could bear. I turned my back, accordingly, upon the sea, and +did not look again till I had counted many hundreds. The boat was still +heading for the island. The next time I counted the full thousand, as +slowly as I could, my heart beating so as to hurt me. And then it was +out of all question. She was coming straight to Earraid! + +I could no longer hold myself back, but ran to the seaside and out, +from one rock to another, as far as I could go. It is a marvel I was not +drowned; for when I was brought to a stand at last, my legs shook under +me, and my mouth was so dry, I must wet it with the sea-water before I +was able to shout. + +All this time the boat was coming on; and now I was able to perceive +it was the same boat and the same two men as yesterday. This I knew by +their hair, which the one had of a bright yellow and the other black. +But now there was a third man along with them, who looked to be of a +better class. + +As soon as they were come within easy speech, they let down their sail +and lay quiet. In spite of my supplications, they drew no nearer in, and +what frightened me most of all, the new man tee-hee’d with laughter as +he talked and looked at me. + +Then he stood up in the boat and addressed me a long while, speaking +fast and with many wavings of his hand. I told him I had no Gaelic; and +at this he became very angry, and I began to suspect he thought he was +talking English. Listening very close, I caught the word “whateffer” + several times; but all the rest was Gaelic and might have been Greek and +Hebrew for me. + +“Whatever,” said I, to show him I had caught a word. + +“Yes, yes--yes, yes,” says he, and then he looked at the other men, as +much as to say, “I told you I spoke English,” and began again as hard as +ever in the Gaelic. + +This time I picked out another word, “tide.” Then I had a flash of hope. +I remembered he was always waving his hand towards the mainland of the +Ross. + +“Do you mean when the tide is out--?” I cried, and could not finish. + +“Yes, yes,” said he. “Tide.” + +At that I turned tail upon their boat (where my adviser had once more +begun to tee-hee with laughter), leaped back the way I had come, from +one stone to another, and set off running across the isle as I had never +run before. In about half an hour I came out upon the shores of the +creek; and, sure enough, it was shrunk into a little trickle of water, +through which I dashed, not above my knees, and landed with a shout on +the main island. + +A sea-bred boy would not have stayed a day on Earraid; which is only +what they call a tidal islet, and except in the bottom of the neaps, can +be entered and left twice in every twenty-four hours, either dry-shod, +or at the most by wading. Even I, who had the tide going out and in +before me in the bay, and even watched for the ebbs, the better to get +my shellfish--even I (I say) if I had sat down to think, instead of +raging at my fate, must have soon guessed the secret, and got free. It +was no wonder the fishers had not understood me. The wonder was rather +that they had ever guessed my pitiful illusion, and taken the trouble to +come back. I had starved with cold and hunger on that island for close +upon one hundred hours. But for the fishers, I might have left my bones +there, in pure folly. And even as it was, I had paid for it pretty dear, +not only in past sufferings, but in my present case; being clothed like +a beggar-man, scarce able to walk, and in great pain of my sore throat. + +I have seen wicked men and fools, a great many of both; and I believe +they both get paid in the end; but the fools first. + + + + +CHAPTER XV + +THE LAD WITH THE SILVER BUTTON: THROUGH THE ISLE OF MULL + + +The Ross of Mull, which I had now got upon, was rugged and trackless, +like the isle I had just left; being all bog, and brier, and big stone. +There may be roads for them that know that country well; but for my part +I had no better guide than my own nose, and no other landmark than Ben +More. + +I aimed as well as I could for the smoke I had seen so often from the +island; and with all my great weariness and the difficulty of the way +came upon the house in the bottom of a little hollow about five or +six at night. It was low and longish, roofed with turf and built of +unmortared stones; and on a mound in front of it, an old gentleman sat +smoking his pipe in the sun. + +With what little English he had, he gave me to understand that my +shipmates had got safe ashore, and had broken bread in that very house +on the day after. + +“Was there one,” I asked, “dressed like a gentleman?” + +He said they all wore rough great-coats; but to be sure, the first of +them, the one that came alone, wore breeches and stockings, while the +rest had sailors’ trousers. + +“Ah,” said I, “and he would have a feathered hat?” + +He told me, no, that he was bareheaded like myself. + +At first I thought Alan might have lost his hat; and then the rain came +in my mind, and I judged it more likely he had it out of harm’s way +under his great-coat. This set me smiling, partly because my friend was +safe, partly to think of his vanity in dress. + +And then the old gentleman clapped his hand to his brow, and cried out +that I must be the lad with the silver button. + +“Why, yes!” said I, in some wonder. + +“Well, then,” said the old gentleman, “I have a word for you, that you +are to follow your friend to his country, by Torosay.” + +He then asked me how I had fared, and I told him my tale. A +south-country man would certainly have laughed; but this old gentleman +(I call him so because of his manners, for his clothes were dropping off +his back) heard me all through with nothing but gravity and pity. When I +had done, he took me by the hand, led me into his hut (it was no better) +and presented me before his wife, as if she had been the Queen and I a +duke. + +The good woman set oat-bread before me and a cold grouse, patting my +shoulder and smiling to me all the time, for she had no English; and the +old gentleman (not to be behind) brewed me a strong punch out of their +country spirit. All the while I was eating, and after that when I was +drinking the punch, I could scarce come to believe in my good fortune; +and the house, though it was thick with the peat-smoke and as full of +holes as a colander, seemed like a palace. + +The punch threw me in a strong sweat and a deep slumber; the good people +let me lie; and it was near noon of the next day before I took the road, +my throat already easier and my spirits quite restored by good fare and +good news. The old gentleman, although I pressed him hard, would take no +money, and gave me an old bonnet for my head; though I am free to own I +was no sooner out of view of the house than I very jealously washed this +gift of his in a wayside fountain. + +Thought I to myself: “If these are the wild Highlanders, I could wish my +own folk wilder.” + +I not only started late, but I must have wandered nearly half the time. +True, I met plenty of people, grubbing in little miserable fields that +would not keep a cat, or herding little kine about the bigness of asses. +The Highland dress being forbidden by law since the rebellion, and the +people condemned to the Lowland habit, which they much disliked, it was +strange to see the variety of their array. Some went bare, only for a +hanging cloak or great-coat, and carried their trousers on their backs +like a useless burthen: some had made an imitation of the tartan with +little parti-coloured stripes patched together like an old wife’s quilt; +others, again, still wore the Highland philabeg, but by putting a few +stitches between the legs transformed it into a pair of trousers like +a Dutchman’s. All those makeshifts were condemned and punished, for the +law was harshly applied, in hopes to break up the clan spirit; but in +that out-of-the-way, sea-bound isle, there were few to make remarks and +fewer to tell tales. + +They seemed in great poverty; which was no doubt natural, now that +rapine was put down, and the chiefs kept no longer an open house; +and the roads (even such a wandering, country by-track as the one +I followed) were infested with beggars. And here again I marked +a difference from my own part of the country. For our Lowland +beggars--even the gownsmen themselves, who beg by patent--had a louting, +flattering way with them, and if you gave them a plaek and asked change, +would very civilly return you a boddle. But these Highland beggars stood +on their dignity, asked alms only to buy snuff (by their account) and +would give no change. + +To be sure, this was no concern of mine, except in so far as it +entertained me by the way. What was much more to the purpose, few had +any English, and these few (unless they were of the brotherhood of +beggars) not very anxious to place it at my service. I knew Torosay +to be my destination, and repeated the name to them and pointed; but +instead of simply pointing in reply, they would give me a screed of the +Gaelic that set me foolish; so it was small wonder if I went out of my +road as often as I stayed in it. + +At last, about eight at night, and already very weary, I came to a lone +house, where I asked admittance, and was refused, until I bethought +me of the power of money in so poor a country, and held up one of my +guineas in my finger and thumb. Thereupon, the man of the house, who had +hitherto pretended to have no English, and driven me from his door by +signals, suddenly began to speak as clearly as was needful, and agreed +for five shillings to give me a night’s lodging and guide me the next +day to Torosay. + +I slept uneasily that night, fearing I should be robbed; but I might +have spared myself the pain; for my host was no robber, only miserably +poor and a great cheat. He was not alone in his poverty; for the next +morning, we must go five miles about to the house of what he called a +rich man to have one of my guineas changed. This was perhaps a rich man +for Mull; he would have scarce been thought so in the south; for it +took all he had--the whole house was turned upside down, and a neighbour +brought under contribution, before he could scrape together twenty +shillings in silver. The odd shilling he kept for himself, protesting he +could ill afford to have so great a sum of money lying “locked up.” For +all that he was very courteous and well spoken, made us both sit down +with his family to dinner, and brewed punch in a fine china bowl, over +which my rascal guide grew so merry that he refused to start. + +I was for getting angry, and appealed to the rich man (Hector Maclean +was his name), who had been a witness to our bargain and to my payment +of the five shillings. But Maclean had taken his share of the punch, +and vowed that no gentleman should leave his table after the bowl was +brewed; so there was nothing for it but to sit and hear Jacobite toasts +and Gaelic songs, till all were tipsy and staggered off to the bed or +the barn for their night’s rest. + +Next day (the fourth of my travels) we were up before five upon the +clock; but my rascal guide got to the bottle at once, and it was three +hours before I had him clear of the house, and then (as you shall hear) +only for a worse disappointment. + +As long as we went down a heathery valley that lay before Mr. Maclean’s +house, all went well; only my guide looked constantly over his shoulder, +and when I asked him the cause, only grinned at me. No sooner, however, +had we crossed the back of a hill, and got out of sight of the house +windows, than he told me Torosay lay right in front, and that a hill-top +(which he pointed out) was my best landmark. + +“I care very little for that,” said I, “since you are going with me.” + +The impudent cheat answered me in the Gaelic that he had no English. + +“My fine fellow,” I said, “I know very well your English comes and goes. +Tell me what will bring it back? Is it more money you wish?” + +“Five shillings mair,” said he, “and hersel’ will bring ye there.” + +I reflected awhile and then offered him two, which he accepted greedily, +and insisted on having in his hands at once “for luck,” as he said, but +I think it was rather for my misfortune. + +The two shillings carried him not quite as many miles; at the end of +which distance, he sat down upon the wayside and took off his brogues +from his feet, like a man about to rest. + +I was now red-hot. “Ha!” said I, “have you no more English?” + +He said impudently, “No.” + +At that I boiled over, and lifted my hand to strike him; and he, drawing +a knife from his rags, squatted back and grinned at me like a wildcat. +At that, forgetting everything but my anger, I ran in upon him, put +aside his knife with my left, and struck him in the mouth with the +right. I was a strong lad and very angry, and he but a little man; and +he went down before me heavily. By good luck, his knife flew out of his +hand as he fell. + +I picked up both that and his brogues, wished him a good morning, and +set off upon my way, leaving him barefoot and disarmed. I chuckled to +myself as I went, being sure I was done with that rogue, for a variety +of reasons. First, he knew he could have no more of my money; next, the +brogues were worth in that country only a few pence; and, lastly, the +knife, which was really a dagger, it was against the law for him to +carry. + +In about half an hour of walk, I overtook a great, ragged man, moving +pretty fast but feeling before him with a staff. He was quite blind, and +told me he was a catechist, which should have put me at my ease. But +his face went against me; it seemed dark and dangerous and secret; and +presently, as we began to go on alongside, I saw the steel butt of a +pistol sticking from under the flap of his coat-pocket. To carry such a +thing meant a fine of fifteen pounds sterling upon a first offence, and +transportation to the colonies upon a second. Nor could I quite see why +a religious teacher should go armed, or what a blind man could be doing +with a pistol. + +I told him about my guide, for I was proud of what I had done, and my +vanity for once got the heels of my prudence. At the mention of the +five shillings he cried out so loud that I made up my mind I should say +nothing of the other two, and was glad he could not see my blushes. + +“Was it too much?” I asked, a little faltering. + +“Too much!” cries he. “Why, I will guide you to Torosay myself for a +dram of brandy. And give you the great pleasure of my company (me that +is a man of some learning) in the bargain.” + +I said I did not see how a blind man could be a guide; but at that he +laughed aloud, and said his stick was eyes enough for an eagle. + +“In the Isle of Mull, at least,” says he, “where I know every stone and +heather-bush by mark of head. See, now,” he said, striking right and +left, as if to make sure, “down there a burn is running; and at the head +of it there stands a bit of a small hill with a stone cocked upon the +top of that; and it’s hard at the foot of the hill, that the way runs by +to Torosay; and the way here, being for droves, is plainly trodden, and +will show grassy through the heather.” + +I had to own he was right in every feature, and told my wonder. + +“Ha!” says he, “that’s nothing. Would ye believe me now, that before +the Act came out, and when there were weepons in this country, I could +shoot? Ay, could I!” cries he, and then with a leer: “If ye had such a +thing as a pistol here to try with, I would show ye how it’s done.” + +I told him I had nothing of the sort, and gave him a wider berth. If +he had known, his pistol stuck at that time quite plainly out of his +pocket, and I could see the sun twinkle on the steel of the butt. But +by the better luck for me, he knew nothing, thought all was covered, and +lied on in the dark. + +He then began to question me cunningly, where I came from, whether I +was rich, whether I could change a five-shilling piece for him (which +he declared he had that moment in his sporran), and all the time he kept +edging up to me and I avoiding him. We were now upon a sort of green +cattle-track which crossed the hills towards Torosay, and we kept +changing sides upon that like dancers in a reel. I had so plainly the +upper-hand that my spirits rose, and indeed I took a pleasure in this +game of blindman’s buff; but the catechist grew angrier and angrier, +and at last began to swear in Gaelic and to strike for my legs with his +staff. + +Then I told him that, sure enough, I had a pistol in my pocket as well +as he, and if he did not strike across the hill due south I would even +blow his brains out. + +He became at once very polite, and after trying to soften me for some +time, but quite in vain, he cursed me once more in Gaelic and took +himself off. I watched him striding along, through bog and brier, +tapping with his stick, until he turned the end of a hill and +disappeared in the next hollow. Then I struck on again for Torosay, much +better pleased to be alone than to travel with that man of learning. +This was an unlucky day; and these two, of whom I had just rid myself, +one after the other, were the two worst men I met with in the Highlands. + +At Torosay, on the Sound of Mull and looking over to the mainland +of Morven, there was an inn with an innkeeper, who was a Maclean, it +appeared, of a very high family; for to keep an inn is thought even more +genteel in the Highlands than it is with us, perhaps as partaking of +hospitality, or perhaps because the trade is idle and drunken. He spoke +good English, and finding me to be something of a scholar, tried me +first in French, where he easily beat me, and then in the Latin, in +which I don’t know which of us did best. This pleasant rivalry put us at +once upon friendly terms; and I sat up and drank punch with him (or to +be more correct, sat up and watched him drink it), until he was so tipsy +that he wept upon my shoulder. + +I tried him, as if by accident, with a sight of Alan’s button; but it +was plain he had never seen or heard of it. Indeed, he bore some grudge +against the family and friends of Ardshiel, and before he was drunk +he read me a lampoon, in very good Latin, but with a very ill meaning, +which he had made in elegiac verses upon a person of that house. + +When I told him of my catechist, he shook his head, and said I was lucky +to have got clear off. “That is a very dangerous man,” he said; “Duncan +Mackiegh is his name; he can shoot by the ear at several yards, and has +been often accused of highway robberies, and once of murder.” + +“The cream of it is,” says I, “that he called himself a catechist.” + +“And why should he not?” says he, “when that is what he is. It was +Maclean of Duart gave it to him because he was blind. But perhaps it was +a peety,” says my host, “for he is always on the road, going from +one place to another to hear the young folk say their religion; and, +doubtless, that is a great temptation to the poor man.” + +At last, when my landlord could drink no more, he showed me to a bed, +and I lay down in very good spirits; having travelled the greater part +of that big and crooked Island of Mull, from Earraid to Torosay, fifty +miles as the crow flies, and (with my wanderings) much nearer a hundred, +in four days and with little fatigue. Indeed I was by far in better +heart and health of body at the end of that long tramp than I had been +at the beginning. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +THE LAD WITH THE SILVER BUTTON: ACROSS MORVEN + + +There is a regular ferry from Torosay to Kinlochaline on the mainland. +Both shores of the Sound are in the country of the strong clan of the +Macleans, and the people that passed the ferry with me were almost all +of that clan. The skipper of the boat, on the other hand, was called +Neil Roy Macrob; and since Macrob was one of the names of Alan’s +clansmen, and Alan himself had sent me to that ferry, I was eager to +come to private speech of Neil Roy. + +In the crowded boat this was of course impossible, and the passage was +a very slow affair. There was no wind, and as the boat was wretchedly +equipped, we could pull but two oars on one side, and one on the other. +The men gave way, however, with a good will, the passengers taking +spells to help them, and the whole company giving the time in +Gaelic boat-songs. And what with the songs, and the sea-air, and the +good-nature and spirit of all concerned, and the bright weather, the +passage was a pretty thing to have seen. + +But there was one melancholy part. In the mouth of Loch Aline we found +a great sea-going ship at anchor; and this I supposed at first to be one +of the King’s cruisers which were kept along that coast, both summer +and winter, to prevent communication with the French. As we got a little +nearer, it became plain she was a ship of merchandise; and what still +more puzzled me, not only her decks, but the sea-beach also, were quite +black with people, and skiffs were continually plying to and fro between +them. Yet nearer, and there began to come to our ears a great sound +of mourning, the people on board and those on the shore crying and +lamenting one to another so as to pierce the heart. + +Then I understood this was an emigrant ship bound for the American +colonies. + +We put the ferry-boat alongside, and the exiles leaned over the +bulwarks, weeping and reaching out their hands to my fellow-passengers, +among whom they counted some near friends. How long this might have gone +on I do not know, for they seemed to have no sense of time: but at last +the captain of the ship, who seemed near beside himself (and no great +wonder) in the midst of this crying and confusion, came to the side and +begged us to depart. + +Thereupon Neil sheered off; and the chief singer in our boat struck into +a melancholy air, which was presently taken up both by the emigrants and +their friends upon the beach, so that it sounded from all sides like a +lament for the dying. I saw the tears run down the cheeks of the men and +women in the boat, even as they bent at the oars; and the circumstances +and the music of the song (which is one called “Lochaber no more”) were +highly affecting even to myself. + +At Kinlochaline I got Neil Roy upon one side on the beach, and said I +made sure he was one of Appin’s men. + +“And what for no?” said he. + +“I am seeking somebody,” said I; “and it comes in my mind that you will +have news of him. Alan Breck Stewart is his name.” And very foolishly, +instead of showing him the button, I sought to pass a shilling in his +hand. + +At this he drew back. “I am very much affronted,” he said; “and this is +not the way that one shentleman should behave to another at all. The man +you ask for is in France; but if he was in my sporran,” says he, “and +your belly full of shillings, I would not hurt a hair upon his body.” + +I saw I had gone the wrong way to work, and without wasting time upon +apologies, showed him the button lying in the hollow of my palm. + +“Aweel, aweel,” said Neil; “and I think ye might have begun with that +end of the stick, whatever! But if ye are the lad with the silver +button, all is well, and I have the word to see that ye come safe. But +if ye will pardon me to speak plainly,” says he, “there is a name that +you should never take into your mouth, and that is the name of Alan +Breck; and there is a thing that ye would never do, and that is to offer +your dirty money to a Hieland shentleman.” + +It was not very easy to apologise; for I could scarce tell him (what was +the truth) that I had never dreamed he would set up to be a gentleman +until he told me so. Neil on his part had no wish to prolong his +dealings with me, only to fulfil his orders and be done with it; and +he made haste to give me my route. This was to lie the night in +Kinlochaline in the public inn; to cross Morven the next day to Ardgour, +and lie the night in the house of one John of the Claymore, who was +warned that I might come; the third day, to be set across one loch at +Corran and another at Balachulish, and then ask my way to the house of +James of the Glens, at Aucharn in Duror of Appin. There was a good deal +of ferrying, as you hear; the sea in all this part running deep into the +mountains and winding about their roots. It makes the country strong to +hold and difficult to travel, but full of prodigious wild and dreadful +prospects. + +I had some other advice from Neil: to speak with no one by the way, to +avoid Whigs, Campbells, and the “red-soldiers;” to leave the road and +lie in a bush if I saw any of the latter coming, “for it was never +chancy to meet in with them;” and in brief, to conduct myself like a +robber or a Jacobite agent, as perhaps Neil thought me. + +The inn at Kinlochaline was the most beggarly vile place that ever pigs +were styed in, full of smoke, vermin, and silent Highlanders. I was not +only discontented with my lodging, but with myself for my mismanagement +of Neil, and thought I could hardly be worse off. But very wrongly, as I +was soon to see; for I had not been half an hour at the inn (standing in +the door most of the time, to ease my eyes from the peat smoke) when a +thunderstorm came close by, the springs broke in a little hill on which +the inn stood, and one end of the house became a running water. Places +of public entertainment were bad enough all over Scotland in those days; +yet it was a wonder to myself, when I had to go from the fireside to the +bed in which I slept, wading over the shoes. + +Early in my next day’s journey I overtook a little, stout, solemn man, +walking very slowly with his toes turned out, sometimes reading in +a book and sometimes marking the place with his finger, and dressed +decently and plainly in something of a clerical style. + +This I found to be another catechist, but of a different order from the +blind man of Mull: being indeed one of those sent out by the Edinburgh +Society for Propagating Christian Knowledge, to evangelise the more +savage places of the Highlands. His name was Henderland; he spoke with +the broad south-country tongue, which I was beginning to weary for the +sound of; and besides common countryship, we soon found we had a +more particular bond of interest. For my good friend, the minister of +Essendean, had translated into the Gaelic in his by-time a number of +hymns and pious books which Henderland used in his work, and held in +great esteem. Indeed, it was one of these he was carrying and reading +when we met. + +We fell in company at once, our ways lying together as far as to +Kingairloch. As we went, he stopped and spoke with all the wayfarers +and workers that we met or passed; and though of course I could not tell +what they discoursed about, yet I judged Mr. Henderland must be well +liked in the countryside, for I observed many of them to bring out their +mulls and share a pinch of snuff with him. + +I told him as far in my affairs as I judged wise; as far, that is, +as they were none of Alan’s; and gave Balachulish as the place I was +travelling to, to meet a friend; for I thought Aucharn, or even Duror, +would be too particular, and might put him on the scent. + +On his part, he told me much of his work and the people he worked among, +the hiding priests and Jacobites, the Disarming Act, the dress, and many +other curiosities of the time and place. He seemed moderate; blaming +Parliament in several points, and especially because they had framed the +Act more severely against those who wore the dress than against those +who carried weapons. + +This moderation put it in my mind to question him of the Red Fox and the +Appin tenants; questions which, I thought, would seem natural enough in +the mouth of one travelling to that country. + + + +He said it was a bad business. “It’s wonderful,” said he, “where the +tenants find the money, for their life is mere starvation. (Ye don’t +carry such a thing as snuff, do ye, Mr. Balfour? No. Well, I’m better +wanting it.) But these tenants (as I was saying) are doubtless partly +driven to it. James Stewart in Duror (that’s him they call James of the +Glens) is half-brother to Ardshiel, the captain of the clan; and he is +a man much looked up to, and drives very hard. And then there’s one they +call Alan Breck--” + +“Ah!” I cried, “what of him?” + +“What of the wind that bloweth where it listeth?” said Henderland. “He’s +here and awa; here to-day and gone to-morrow: a fair heather-cat. He +might be glowering at the two of us out of yon whin-bush, and I wouldnae +wonder! Ye’ll no carry such a thing as snuff, will ye?” + +I told him no, and that he had asked the same thing more than once. + +“It’s highly possible,” said he, sighing. “But it seems strange ye +shouldnae carry it. However, as I was saying, this Alan Breck is a bold, +desperate customer, and well kent to be James’s right hand. His life +is forfeit already; he would boggle at naething; and maybe, if a +tenant-body was to hang back he would get a dirk in his wame.” + +“You make a poor story of it all, Mr. Henderland,” said I. “If it is all +fear upon both sides, I care to hear no more of it.” + +“Na,” said Mr. Henderland, “but there’s love too, and self-denial that +should put the like of you and me to shame. There’s something fine about +it; no perhaps Christian, but humanly fine. Even Alan Breck, by all that +I hear, is a chield to be respected. There’s many a lying sneck-draw +sits close in kirk in our own part of the country, and stands well in +the world’s eye, and maybe is a far worse man, Mr. Balfour, than yon +misguided shedder of man’s blood. Ay, ay, we might take a lesson by +them.--Ye’ll perhaps think I’ve been too long in the Hielands?” he +added, smiling to me. + +I told him not at all; that I had seen much to admire among the +Highlanders; and if he came to that, Mr. Campbell himself was a +Highlander. + +“Ay,” said he, “that’s true. It’s a fine blood.” + +“And what is the King’s agent about?” I asked. + +“Colin Campbell?” says Henderland. “Putting his head in a bees’ byke!” + +“He is to turn the tenants out by force, I hear?” said I. + +“Yes,” says he, “but the business has gone back and forth, as folk say. +First, James of the Glens rode to Edinburgh, and got some lawyer (a +Stewart, nae doubt--they all hing together like bats in a steeple) and +had the proceedings stayed. And then Colin Campbell cam’ in again, and +had the upper-hand before the Barons of Exchequer. And now they tell me +the first of the tenants are to flit to-morrow. It’s to begin at Duror +under James’s very windows, which doesnae seem wise by my humble way of +it.” + +“Do you think they’ll fight?” I asked. + +“Well,” says Henderland, “they’re disarmed--or supposed to be--for +there’s still a good deal of cold iron lying by in quiet places. And +then Colin Campbell has the sogers coming. But for all that, if I was +his lady wife, I wouldnae be well pleased till I got him home again. +They’re queer customers, the Appin Stewarts.” + +I asked if they were worse than their neighbours. + +“No they,” said he. “And that’s the worst part of it. For if Colin Roy +can get his business done in Appin, he has it all to begin again in the +next country, which they call Mamore, and which is one of the countries +of the Camerons. He’s King’s Factor upon both, and from both he has to +drive out the tenants; and indeed, Mr. Balfour (to be open with ye), +it’s my belief that if he escapes the one lot, he’ll get his death by +the other.” + +So we continued talking and walking the great part of the day; until +at last, Mr. Henderland after expressing his delight in my company, and +satisfaction at meeting with a friend of Mr. Campbell’s (“whom,” says +he, “I will make bold to call that sweet singer of our covenanted +Zion”), proposed that I should make a short stage, and lie the night in +his house a little beyond Kingairloch. To say truth, I was overjoyed; +for I had no great desire for John of the Claymore, and since my double +misadventure, first with the guide and next with the gentleman skipper, +I stood in some fear of any Highland stranger. Accordingly we shook +hands upon the bargain, and came in the afternoon to a small house, +standing alone by the shore of the Linnhe Loch. The sun was already gone +from the desert mountains of Ardgour upon the hither side, but shone on +those of Appin on the farther; the loch lay as still as a lake, only +the gulls were crying round the sides of it; and the whole place seemed +solemn and uncouth. + +We had no sooner come to the door of Mr. Henderland’s dwelling, than to +my great surprise (for I was now used to the politeness of Highlanders) +he burst rudely past me, dashed into the room, caught up a jar and +a small horn-spoon, and began ladling snuff into his nose in most +excessive quantities. Then he had a hearty fit of sneezing, and looked +round upon me with a rather silly smile. + +“It’s a vow I took,” says he. “I took a vow upon me that I wouldnae +carry it. Doubtless it’s a great privation; but when I think upon +the martyrs, not only to the Scottish Covenant but to other points of +Christianity, I think shame to mind it.” + +As soon as we had eaten (and porridge and whey was the best of the good +man’s diet) he took a grave face and said he had a duty to perform by +Mr. Campbell, and that was to inquire into my state of mind towards God. +I was inclined to smile at him since the business of the snuff; but he +had not spoken long before he brought the tears into my eyes. There are +two things that men should never weary of, goodness and humility; we get +none too much of them in this rough world among cold, proud people; but +Mr. Henderland had their very speech upon his tongue. And though I was a +good deal puffed up with my adventures and with having come off, as the +saying is, with flying colours; yet he soon had me on my knees beside a +simple, poor old man, and both proud and glad to be there. + +Before we went to bed he offered me sixpence to help me on my way, out +of a scanty store he kept in the turf wall of his house; at which excess +of goodness I knew not what to do. But at last he was so earnest with me +that I thought it the more mannerly part to let him have his way, and so +left him poorer than myself. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +THE DEATH OF THE RED FOX + + +The next day Mr. Henderland found for me a man who had a boat of his own +and was to cross the Linnhe Loch that afternoon into Appin, fishing. Him +he prevailed on to take me, for he was one of his flock; and in this way +I saved a long day’s travel and the price of the two public ferries I +must otherwise have passed. + +It was near noon before we set out; a dark day with clouds, and the sun +shining upon little patches. The sea was here very deep and still, +and had scarce a wave upon it; so that I must put the water to my lips +before I could believe it to be truly salt. The mountains on either side +were high, rough and barren, very black and gloomy in the shadow of +the clouds, but all silver-laced with little watercourses where the sun +shone upon them. It seemed a hard country, this of Appin, for people to +care as much about as Alan did. + +There was but one thing to mention. A little after we had started, +the sun shone upon a little moving clump of scarlet close in along the +water-side to the north. It was much of the same red as soldiers’ coats; +every now and then, too, there came little sparks and lightnings, as +though the sun had struck upon bright steel. + +I asked my boatman what it should be, and he answered he supposed it was +some of the red soldiers coming from Fort William into Appin, against +the poor tenantry of the country. Well, it was a sad sight to me; +and whether it was because of my thoughts of Alan, or from something +prophetic in my bosom, although this was but the second time I had seen +King George’s troops, I had no good will to them. + +At last we came so near the point of land at the entering in of Loch +Leven that I begged to be set on shore. My boatman (who was an honest +fellow and mindful of his promise to the catechist) would fain have +carried me on to Balachulish; but as this was to take me farther from my +secret destination, I insisted, and was set on shore at last under the +wood of Lettermore (or Lettervore, for I have heard it both ways) in +Alan’s country of Appin. + +This was a wood of birches, growing on a steep, craggy side of a +mountain that overhung the loch. It had many openings and ferny howes; +and a road or bridle track ran north and south through the midst of +it, by the edge of which, where was a spring, I sat down to eat some +oat-bread of Mr. Henderland’s and think upon my situation. + +Here I was not only troubled by a cloud of stinging midges, but far more +by the doubts of my mind. What I ought to do, why I was going to join +myself with an outlaw and a would-be murderer like Alan, whether I +should not be acting more like a man of sense to tramp back to the south +country direct, by my own guidance and at my own charges, and what Mr. +Campbell or even Mr. Henderland would think of me if they should ever +learn my folly and presumption: these were the doubts that now began to +come in on me stronger than ever. + +As I was so sitting and thinking, a sound of men and horses came to me +through the wood; and presently after, at a turning of the road, I saw +four travellers come into view. The way was in this part so rough and +narrow that they came single and led their horses by the reins. The +first was a great, red-headed gentleman, of an imperious and flushed +face, who carried his hat in his hand and fanned himself, for he was in +a breathing heat. The second, by his decent black garb and white wig, +I correctly took to be a lawyer. The third was a servant, and wore some +part of his clothes in tartan, which showed that his master was of a +Highland family, and either an outlaw or else in singular good odour +with the Government, since the wearing of tartan was against the Act. If +I had been better versed in these things, I would have known the tartan +to be of the Argyle (or Campbell) colours. This servant had a good-sized +portmanteau strapped on his horse, and a net of lemons (to brew punch +with) hanging at the saddle-bow; as was often enough the custom with +luxurious travellers in that part of the country. + +As for the fourth, who brought up the tail, I had seen his like before, +and knew him at once to be a sheriff’s officer. + +I had no sooner seen these people coming than I made up my mind (for no +reason that I can tell) to go through with my adventure; and when the +first came alongside of me, I rose up from the bracken and asked him the +way to Aucharn. + +He stopped and looked at me, as I thought, a little oddly; and then, +turning to the lawyer, “Mungo,” said he, “there’s many a man would think +this more of a warning than two pyats. Here am I on my road to Duror on +the job ye ken; and here is a young lad starts up out of the bracken, +and speers if I am on the way to Aucharn.” + +“Glenure,” said the other, “this is an ill subject for jesting.” + +These two had now drawn close up and were gazing at me, while the two +followers had halted about a stone-cast in the rear. + +“And what seek ye in Aucharn?” said Colin Roy Campbell of Glenure, him +they called the Red Fox; for he it was that I had stopped. + +“The man that lives there,” said I. + +“James of the Glens,” says Glenure, musingly; and then to the lawyer: +“Is he gathering his people, think ye?” + +“Anyway,” says the lawyer, “we shall do better to bide where we are, and +let the soldiers rally us.” + +“If you are concerned for me,” said I, “I am neither of his people nor +yours, but an honest subject of King George, owing no man and fearing no +man.” + +“Why, very well said,” replies the Factor. “But if I may make so bold as +ask, what does this honest man so far from his country? and why does +he come seeking the brother of Ardshiel? I have power here, I must tell +you. I am King’s Factor upon several of these estates, and have twelve +files of soldiers at my back.” + +“I have heard a waif word in the country,” said I, a little nettled, +“that you were a hard man to drive.” + +He still kept looking at me, as if in doubt. + +“Well,” said he, at last, “your tongue is bold; but I am no unfriend to +plainness. If ye had asked me the way to the door of James Stewart on +any other day but this, I would have set ye right and bidden ye God +speed. But to-day--eh, Mungo?” And he turned again to look at the +lawyer. + +But just as he turned there came the shot of a firelock from higher up +the hill; and with the very sound of it Glenure fell upon the road. + +“O, I am dead!” he cried, several times over. + +The lawyer had caught him up and held him in his arms, the servant +standing over and clasping his hands. And now the wounded man looked +from one to another with scared eyes, and there was a change in his +voice, that went to the heart. + +“Take care of yourselves,” says he. “I am dead.” + +He tried to open his clothes as if to look for the wound, but his +fingers slipped on the buttons. With that he gave a great sigh, his head +rolled on his shoulder, and he passed away. + +The lawyer said never a word, but his face was as sharp as a pen and +as white as the dead man’s; the servant broke out into a great noise of +crying and weeping, like a child; and I, on my side, stood staring at +them in a kind of horror. The sheriff’s officer had run back at the +first sound of the shot, to hasten the coming of the soldiers. + +At last the lawyer laid down the dead man in his blood upon the road, +and got to his own feet with a kind of stagger. + +I believe it was his movement that brought me to my senses; for he had +no sooner done so than I began to scramble up the hill, crying out, “The +murderer! the murderer!” + +So little a time had elapsed, that when I got to the top of the first +steepness, and could see some part of the open mountain, the murderer +was still moving away at no great distance. He was a big man, in a black +coat, with metal buttons, and carried a long fowling-piece. + +“Here!” I cried. “I see him!” + +At that the murderer gave a little, quick look over his shoulder, and +began to run. The next moment he was lost in a fringe of birches; then +he came out again on the upper side, where I could see him climbing like +a jackanapes, for that part was again very steep; and then he dipped +behind a shoulder, and I saw him no more. + +All this time I had been running on my side, and had got a good way up, +when a voice cried upon me to stand. + +I was at the edge of the upper wood, and so now, when I halted and +looked back, I saw all the open part of the hill below me. + +The lawyer and the sheriff’s officer were standing just above the road, +crying and waving on me to come back; and on their left, the red-coats, +musket in hand, were beginning to struggle singly out of the lower wood. + +“Why should I come back?” I cried. “Come you on!” + +“Ten pounds if ye take that lad!” cried the lawyer. “He’s an accomplice. +He was posted here to hold us in talk.” + +At that word (which I could hear quite plainly, though it was to the +soldiers and not to me that he was crying it) my heart came in my mouth +with quite a new kind of terror. Indeed, it is one thing to stand the +danger of your life, and quite another to run the peril of both life and +character. The thing, besides, had come so suddenly, like thunder out of +a clear sky, that I was all amazed and helpless. + +The soldiers began to spread, some of them to run, and others to put up +their pieces and cover me; and still I stood. + +“Jouk[18] in here among the trees,” said a voice close by. + + [18] Duck. + +Indeed, I scarce knew what I was doing, but I obeyed; and as I did so, I +heard the firelocks bang and the balls whistle in the birches. + +Just inside the shelter of the trees I found Alan Breck standing, with +a fishing-rod. He gave me no salutation; indeed it was no time for +civilities; only “Come!” says he, and set off running along the side of +the mountain towards Balachulish; and I, like a sheep, to follow him. + +Now we ran among the birches; now stooping behind low humps upon the +mountain-side; now crawling on all fours among the heather. The pace was +deadly: my heart seemed bursting against my ribs; and I had neither time +to think nor breath to speak with. Only I remember seeing with wonder, +that Alan every now and then would straighten himself to his full height +and look back; and every time he did so, there came a great far-away +cheering and crying of the soldiers. + +Quarter of an hour later, Alan stopped, clapped down flat in the +heather, and turned to me. + +“Now,” said he, “it’s earnest. Do as I do, for your life.” + +And at the same speed, but now with infinitely more precaution, we +traced back again across the mountain-side by the same way that we had +come, only perhaps higher; till at last Alan threw himself down in the +upper wood of Lettermore, where I had found him at the first, and lay, +with his face in the bracken, panting like a dog. + +My own sides so ached, my head so swam, my tongue so hung out of my +mouth with heat and dryness, that I lay beside him like one dead. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +I TALK WITH ALAN IN THE WOOD OF LETTERMORE + + +Alan was the first to come round. He rose, went to the border of the +wood, peered out a little, and then returned and sat down. + +“Well,” said he, “yon was a hot burst, David.” + +I said nothing, nor so much as lifted my face. I had seen murder done, +and a great, ruddy, jovial gentleman struck out of life in a moment; the +pity of that sight was still sore within me, and yet that was but a part +of my concern. Here was murder done upon the man Alan hated; here was +Alan skulking in the trees and running from the troops; and whether his +was the hand that fired or only the head that ordered, signified +but little. By my way of it, my only friend in that wild country was +blood-guilty in the first degree; I held him in horror; I could not look +upon his face; I would have rather lain alone in the rain on my cold +isle, than in that warm wood beside a murderer. + +“Are ye still wearied?” he asked again. + +“No,” said I, still with my face in the bracken; “no, I am not wearied +now, and I can speak. You and me must twine,”[19] I said. “I liked you very +well, Alan, but your ways are not mine, and they’re not God’s: and the +short and the long of it is just that we must twine.” + + [19] Part. + +“I will hardly twine from ye, David, without some kind of reason for +the same,” said Alan, mighty gravely. “If ye ken anything against +my reputation, it’s the least thing that ye should do, for old +acquaintance’ sake, to let me hear the name of it; and if ye have only +taken a distaste to my society, it will be proper for me to judge if I’m +insulted.” + +“Alan,” said I, “what is the sense of this? Ye ken very well yon +Campbell-man lies in his blood upon the road.” + +He was silent for a little; then says he, “Did ever ye hear tell of the +story of the Man and the Good People?”--by which he meant the fairies. + +“No,” said I, “nor do I want to hear it.” + +“With your permission, Mr. Balfour, I will tell it you, whatever,” says +Alan. “The man, ye should ken, was cast upon a rock in the sea, where +it appears the Good People were in use to come and rest as they went +through to Ireland. The name of this rock is called the Skerryvore, and +it’s not far from where we suffered ship-wreck. Well, it seems the man +cried so sore, if he could just see his little bairn before he died! +that at last the king of the Good People took peety upon him, and sent +one flying that brought back the bairn in a poke[20] and laid it down +beside the man where he lay sleeping. So when the man woke, there was a +poke beside him and something into the inside of it that moved. Well, it +seems he was one of these gentry that think aye the worst of things; and +for greater security, he stuck his dirk throughout that poke before he +opened it, and there was his bairn dead. I am thinking to myself, Mr. +Balfour, that you and the man are very much alike.” + + [20] Bag. + +“Do you mean you had no hand in it?” cried I, sitting up. + +“I will tell you first of all, Mr. Balfour of Shaws, as one friend to +another,” said Alan, “that if I were going to kill a gentleman, it would +not be in my own country, to bring trouble on my clan; and I would not +go wanting sword and gun, and with a long fishing-rod upon my back.” + +“Well,” said I, “that’s true!” + +“And now,” continued Alan, taking out his dirk and laying his hand upon +it in a certain manner, “I swear upon the Holy Iron I had neither art +nor part, act nor thought in it.” + +“I thank God for that!” cried I, and offered him my hand. + +He did not appear to see it. + +“And here is a great deal of work about a Campbell!” said he. “They are +not so scarce, that I ken!” + +“At least,” said I, “you cannot justly blame me, for you know very +well what you told me in the brig. But the temptation and the act are +different, I thank God again for that. We may all be tempted; but +to take a life in cold blood, Alan!” And I could say no more for the +moment. “And do you know who did it?” I added. “Do you know that man in +the black coat?” + +“I have nae clear mind about his coat,” said Alan cunningly, “but it +sticks in my head that it was blue.” + +“Blue or black, did ye know him?” said I. + +“I couldnae just conscientiously swear to him,” says Alan. “He gaed very +close by me, to be sure, but it’s a strange thing that I should just +have been tying my brogues.” + +“Can you swear that you don’t know him, Alan?” I cried, half angered, +half in a mind to laugh at his evasions. + +“Not yet,” says he; “but I’ve a grand memory for forgetting, David.” + +“And yet there was one thing I saw clearly,” said I; “and that was, that +you exposed yourself and me to draw the soldiers.” + +“It’s very likely,” said Alan; “and so would any gentleman. You and me +were innocent of that transaction.” + +“The better reason, since we were falsely suspected, that we should get +clear,” I cried. “The innocent should surely come before the guilty.” + +“Why, David,” said he, “the innocent have aye a chance to get assoiled +in court; but for the lad that shot the bullet, I think the best place +for him will be the heather. Them that havenae dipped their hands in any +little difficulty, should be very mindful of the case of them that have. +And that is the good Christianity. For if it was the other way round +about, and the lad whom I couldnae just clearly see had been in our +shoes, and we in his (as might very well have been), I think we would be +a good deal obliged to him oursel’s if he would draw the soldiers.” + +When it came to this, I gave Alan up. But he looked so innocent all the +time, and was in such clear good faith in what he said, and so ready to +sacrifice himself for what he deemed his duty, that my mouth was closed. +Mr. Henderland’s words came back to me: that we ourselves might take a +lesson by these wild Highlanders. Well, here I had taken mine. Alan’s +morals were all tail-first; but he was ready to give his life for them, +such as they were. + +“Alan,” said I, “I’ll not say it’s the good Christianity as I understand +it, but it’s good enough. And here I offer ye my hand for the second +time.” + +Whereupon he gave me both of his, saying surely I had cast a spell upon +him, for he could forgive me anything. Then he grew very grave, and said +we had not much time to throw away, but must both flee that country: he, +because he was a deserter, and the whole of Appin would now be searched +like a chamber, and every one obliged to give a good account of himself; +and I, because I was certainly involved in the murder. + +“O!” says I, willing to give him a little lesson, “I have no fear of the +justice of my country.” + +“As if this was your country!” said he. “Or as if ye would be tried +here, in a country of Stewarts!” + +“It’s all Scotland,” said I. + +“Man, I whiles wonder at ye,” said Alan. “This is a Campbell that’s been +killed. Well, it’ll be tried in Inverara, the Campbells’ head place; +with fifteen Campbells in the jury-box and the biggest Campbell of all +(and that’s the Duke) sitting cocking on the bench. Justice, David? +The same justice, by all the world, as Glenure found awhile ago at the +roadside.” + +This frightened me a little, I confess, and would have frightened me +more if I had known how nearly exact were Alan’s predictions; indeed +it was but in one point that he exaggerated, there being but eleven +Campbells on the jury; though as the other four were equally in the +Duke’s dependence, it mattered less than might appear. Still, I cried +out that he was unjust to the Duke of Argyle, who (for all he was a +Whig) was yet a wise and honest nobleman. + +“Hoot!” said Alan, “the man’s a Whig, nae doubt; but I would never deny +he was a good chieftain to his clan. And what would the clan think if +there was a Campbell shot, and naebody hanged, and their own chief +the Justice General? But I have often observed,” says Alan, “that you +Low-country bodies have no clear idea of what’s right and wrong.” + +At this I did at last laugh out aloud, when to my surprise, Alan joined +in, and laughed as merrily as myself. + +“Na, na,” said he, “we’re in the Hielands, David; and when I tell ye +to run, take my word and run. Nae doubt it’s a hard thing to skulk and +starve in the Heather, but it’s harder yet to lie shackled in a red-coat +prison.” + +I asked him whither we should flee; and as he told me “to the Lowlands,” + I was a little better inclined to go with him; for, indeed, I was +growing impatient to get back and have the upper-hand of my uncle. +Besides, Alan made so sure there would be no question of justice in the +matter, that I began to be afraid he might be right. Of all deaths, I +would truly like least to die by the gallows; and the picture of that +uncanny instrument came into my head with extraordinary clearness (as I +had once seen it engraved at the top of a pedlar’s ballad) and took away +my appetite for courts of justice. + +“I’ll chance it, Alan,” said I. “I’ll go with you.” + +“But mind you,” said Alan, “it’s no small thing. Ye maun lie bare and +hard, and brook many an empty belly. Your bed shall be the moorcock’s, +and your life shall be like the hunted deer’s, and ye shall sleep with +your hand upon your weapons. Ay, man, ye shall taigle many a weary foot, +or we get clear! I tell ye this at the start, for it’s a life that I ken +well. But if ye ask what other chance ye have, I answer: Nane. Either +take to the heather with me, or else hang.” + +“And that’s a choice very easily made,” said I; and we shook hands upon +it. + +“And now let’s take another keek at the red-coats,” says Alan, and he +led me to the north-eastern fringe of the wood. + +Looking out between the trees, we could see a great side of mountain, +running down exceeding steep into the waters of the loch. It was a rough +part, all hanging stone, and heather, and big scrogs of birchwood; and +away at the far end towards Balachulish, little wee red soldiers were +dipping up and down over hill and howe, and growing smaller every +minute. There was no cheering now, for I think they had other uses +for what breath was left them; but they still stuck to the trail, and +doubtless thought that we were close in front of them. + +Alan watched them, smiling to himself. + +“Ay,” said he, “they’ll be gey weary before they’ve got to the end of +that employ! And so you and me, David, can sit down and eat a bite, and +breathe a bit longer, and take a dram from my bottle. Then we’ll strike +for Aucharn, the house of my kinsman, James of the Glens, where I must +get my clothes, and my arms, and money to carry us along; and then, +David, we’ll cry, ‘Forth, Fortune!’ and take a cast among the heather.” + +So we sat again and ate and drank, in a place whence we could see the +sun going down into a field of great, wild, and houseless mountains, +such as I was now condemned to wander in with my companion. Partly as +we so sat, and partly afterwards, on the way to Aucharn, each of us +narrated his adventures; and I shall here set down so much of Alan’s as +seems either curious or needful. + +It appears he ran to the bulwarks as soon as the wave was passed; saw +me, and lost me, and saw me again, as I tumbled in the roost; and at +last had one glimpse of me clinging on the yard. It was this that put +him in some hope I would maybe get to land after all, and made him leave +those clues and messages which had brought me (for my sins) to that +unlucky country of Appin. + +In the meanwhile, those still on the brig had got the skiff launched, +and one or two were on board of her already, when there came a second +wave greater than the first, and heaved the brig out of her place, and +would certainly have sent her to the bottom, had she not struck and +caught on some projection of the reef. When she had struck first, it had +been bows-on, so that the stern had hitherto been lowest. But now her +stern was thrown in the air, and the bows plunged under the sea; and +with that, the water began to pour into the fore-scuttle like the +pouring of a mill-dam. + +It took the colour out of Alan’s face, even to tell what followed. +For there were still two men lying impotent in their bunks; and these, +seeing the water pour in and thinking the ship had foundered, began to +cry out aloud, and that with such harrowing cries that all who were on +deck tumbled one after another into the skiff and fell to their oars. +They were not two hundred yards away, when there came a third great sea; +and at that the brig lifted clean over the reef; her canvas filled for +a moment, and she seemed to sail in chase of them, but settling all the +while; and presently she drew down and down, as if a hand was drawing +her; and the sea closed over the _Covenant_ of Dysart. + +Never a word they spoke as they pulled ashore, being stunned with the +horror of that screaming; but they had scarce set foot upon the beach +when Hoseason woke up, as if out of a muse, and bade them lay hands upon +Alan. They hung back indeed, having little taste for the employment; +but Hoseason was like a fiend, crying that Alan was alone, that he had +a great sum about him, that he had been the means of losing the brig and +drowning all their comrades, and that here was both revenge and wealth +upon a single cast. It was seven against one; in that part of the shore +there was no rock that Alan could set his back to; and the sailors began +to spread out and come behind him. + +“And then,” said Alan, “the little man with the red head--I havenae mind +of the name that he is called.” + +“Riach,” said I. + +“Ay” said Alan, “Riach! Well, it was him that took up the clubs for me, +asked the men if they werenae feared of a judgment, and, says he ‘Dod, +I’ll put my back to the Hielandman’s mysel’.’ That’s none such an +entirely bad little man, yon little man with the red head,” said Alan. +“He has some spunks of decency.” + +“Well,” said I, “he was kind to me in his way.” + +“And so he was to Alan,” said he; “and by my troth, I found his way a +very good one! But ye see, David, the loss of the ship and the cries of +these poor lads sat very ill upon the man; and I’m thinking that would +be the cause of it.” + +“Well, I would think so,” says I; “for he was as keen as any of the rest +at the beginning. But how did Hoseason take it?” + +“It sticks in my mind that he would take it very ill,” says Alan. “But +the little man cried to me to run, and indeed I thought it was a good +observe, and ran. The last that I saw they were all in a knot upon the +beach, like folk that were not agreeing very well together.” + +“What do you mean by that?” said I. + +“Well, the fists were going,” said Alan; “and I saw one man go down like +a pair of breeks. But I thought it would be better no to wait. Ye see +there’s a strip of Campbells in that end of Mull, which is no good +company for a gentleman like me. If it hadnae been for that I would have +waited and looked for ye mysel’, let alone giving a hand to the little +man.” (It was droll how Alan dwelt on Mr. Riach’s stature, for, to say +the truth, the one was not much smaller than the other.) “So,” says he, +continuing, “I set my best foot forward, and whenever I met in with any +one I cried out there was a wreck ashore. Man, they didnae stop to fash +with me! Ye should have seen them linking for the beach! And when they +got there they found they had had the pleasure of a run, which is aye +good for a Campbell. I’m thinking it was a judgment on the clan that the +brig went down in the lump and didnae break. But it was a very unlucky +thing for you, that same; for if any wreck had come ashore they would +have hunted high and low, and would soon have found ye.” + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +THE HOUSE OF FEAR + + +Night fell as we were walking, and the clouds, which had broken up in +the afternoon, settled in and thickened, so that it fell, for the +season of the year, extremely dark. The way we went was over rough +mountainsides; and though Alan pushed on with an assured manner, I could +by no means see how he directed himself. + +At last, about half-past ten of the clock, we came to the top of a brae, +and saw lights below us. It seemed a house door stood open and let out a +beam of fire and candle-light; and all round the house and steading +five or six persons were moving hurriedly about, each carrying a lighted +brand. + +“James must have tint his wits,” said Alan. “If this was the soldiers +instead of you and me, he would be in a bonny mess. But I dare say he’ll +have a sentry on the road, and he would ken well enough no soldiers +would find the way that we came.” + +Hereupon he whistled three times, in a particular manner. It was strange +to see how, at the first sound of it, all the moving torches came to +a stand, as if the bearers were affrighted; and how, at the third, the +bustle began again as before. + +Having thus set folks’ minds at rest, we came down the brae, and were +met at the yard gate (for this place was like a well-doing farm) by +a tall, handsome man of more than fifty, who cried out to Alan in the +Gaelic. + +“James Stewart,” said Alan, “I will ask ye to speak in Scotch, for here +is a young gentleman with me that has nane of the other. This is him,” + he added, putting his arm through mine, “a young gentleman of the +Lowlands, and a laird in his country too, but I am thinking it will be +the better for his health if we give his name the go-by.” + +James of the Glens turned to me for a moment, and greeted me courteously +enough; the next he had turned to Alan. + +“This has been a dreadful accident,” he cried. “It will bring trouble on +the country.” And he wrung his hands. + +“Hoots!” said Alan, “ye must take the sour with the sweet, man. Colin +Roy is dead, and be thankful for that!” + +“Ay” said James, “and by my troth, I wish he was alive again! It’s all +very fine to blow and boast beforehand; but now it’s done, Alan; and +who’s to bear the wyte[21] of it? The accident fell out in Appin--mind ye +that, Alan; it’s Appin that must pay; and I am a man that has a family.” + + [21] Blame. + +While this was going on I looked about me at the servants. Some were on +ladders, digging in the thatch of the house or the farm buildings, +from which they brought out guns, swords, and different weapons of +war; others carried them away; and by the sound of mattock blows from +somewhere farther down the brae, I suppose they buried them. Though they +were all so busy, there prevailed no kind of order in their efforts; men +struggled together for the same gun and ran into each other with their +burning torches; and James was continually turning about from his talk +with Alan, to cry out orders which were apparently never understood. The +faces in the torchlight were like those of people overborne with hurry +and panic; and though none spoke above his breath, their speech sounded +both anxious and angry. + +It was about this time that a lassie came out of the house carrying +a pack or bundle; and it has often made me smile to think how Alan’s +instinct awoke at the mere sight of it. + +“What’s that the lassie has?” he asked. + +“We’re just setting the house in order, Alan,” said James, in his +frightened and somewhat fawning way. “They’ll search Appin with candles, +and we must have all things straight. We’re digging the bit guns and +swords into the moss, ye see; and these, I am thinking, will be your ain +French clothes. We’ll be to bury them, I believe.” + +“Bury my French clothes!” cried Alan. “Troth, no!” And he laid hold upon +the packet and retired into the barn to shift himself, recommending me +in the meanwhile to his kinsman. + +James carried me accordingly into the kitchen, and sat down with me at +table, smiling and talking at first in a very hospitable manner. But +presently the gloom returned upon him; he sat frowning and biting his +fingers; only remembered me from time to time; and then gave me but a +word or two and a poor smile, and back into his private terrors. His +wife sat by the fire and wept, with her face in her hands; his eldest +son was crouched upon the floor, running over a great mass of papers and +now and again setting one alight and burning it to the bitter end; all +the while a servant lass with a red face was rummaging about the room, +in a blind hurry of fear, and whimpering as she went; and every now and +again one of the men would thrust in his face from the yard, and cry for +orders. + +At last James could keep his seat no longer, and begged my permission to +be so unmannerly as walk about. “I am but poor company altogether, sir,” + says he, “but I can think of nothing but this dreadful accident, and the +trouble it is like to bring upon quite innocent persons.” + +A little after he observed his son burning a paper which he thought +should have been kept; and at that his excitement burst out so that it +was painful to witness. He struck the lad repeatedly. + +“Are you gone gyte?”[22] he cried. “Do you wish to hang your father?” and +forgetful of my presence, carried on at him a long time together in the +Gaelic, the young man answering nothing; only the wife, at the name of +hanging, throwing her apron over her face and sobbing out louder than +before. + + [22] Mad. + +This was all wretched for a stranger like myself to hear and see; and +I was right glad when Alan returned, looking like himself in his fine +French clothes, though (to be sure) they were now grown almost too +battered and withered to deserve the name of fine. I was then taken out +in my turn by another of the sons, and given that change of clothing of +which I had stood so long in need, and a pair of Highland brogues made +of deer-leather, rather strange at first, but after a little practice +very easy to the feet. + +By the time I came back Alan must have told his story; for it seemed +understood that I was to fly with him, and they were all busy upon our +equipment. They gave us each a sword and pistols, though I professed my +inability to use the former; and with these, and some ammunition, a bag +of oatmeal, an iron pan, and a bottle of right French brandy, we were +ready for the heather. Money, indeed, was lacking. I had about two +guineas left; Alan’s belt having been despatched by another hand, that +trusty messenger had no more than seventeen-pence to his whole fortune; +and as for James, it appears he had brought himself so low with journeys +to Edinburgh and legal expenses on behalf of the tenants, that he could +only scrape together three-and-five-pence-halfpenny, the most of it in +coppers. + +“This’ll no do,” said Alan. + +“Ye must find a safe bit somewhere near by,” said James, “and get word +sent to me. Ye see, ye’ll have to get this business prettily off, Alan. +This is no time to be stayed for a guinea or two. They’re sure to get +wind of ye, sure to seek ye, and by my way of it, sure to lay on ye the +wyte of this day’s accident. If it falls on you, it falls on me that am +your near kinsman and harboured ye while ye were in the country. And if +it comes on me----” he paused, and bit his fingers, with a white face. +“It would be a painful thing for our friends if I was to hang,” said he. + +“It would be an ill day for Appin,” says Alan. + +“It’s a day that sticks in my throat,” said James. “O man, man, man--man +Alan! you and me have spoken like two fools!” he cried, striking his +hand upon the wall so that the house rang again. + +“Well, and that’s true, too,” said Alan; “and my friend from the +Lowlands here” (nodding at me) “gave me a good word upon that head, if I +would only have listened to him.” + +“But see here,” said James, returning to his former manner, “if they lay +me by the heels, Alan, it’s then that you’ll be needing the money. For +with all that I have said and that you have said, it will look very +black against the two of us; do ye mark that? Well, follow me out, and +ye’ll, I’ll see that I’ll have to get a paper out against ye mysel’; +have to offer a reward for ye; ay, will I! It’s a sore thing to do +between such near friends; but if I get the dirdum[23] of this dreadful +accident, I’ll have to fend for myself, man. Do ye see that?” + + [23] Blame. + +He spoke with a pleading earnestness, taking Alan by the breast of the +coat. + +“Ay” said Alan, “I see that.” + +“And ye’ll have to be clear of the country, Alan--ay, and clear of +Scotland--you and your friend from the Lowlands, too. For I’ll have to +paper your friend from the Lowlands. Ye see that, Alan--say that ye see +that!” + +I thought Alan flushed a bit. “This is unco hard on me that brought him +here, James,” said he, throwing his head back. “It’s like making me a +traitor!” + +“Now, Alan, man!” cried James. “Look things in the face! He’ll be +papered anyway; Mungo Campbell’ll be sure to paper him; what matters +if I paper him too? And then, Alan, I am a man that has a family.” And +then, after a little pause on both sides, “And, Alan, it’ll be a jury of +Campbells,” said he. + +“There’s one thing,” said Alan, musingly, “that naebody kens his name.” + +“Nor yet they shallnae, Alan! There’s my hand on that,” cried James, for +all the world as if he had really known my name and was foregoing some +advantage. “But just the habit he was in, and what he looked like, and +his age, and the like? I couldnae well do less.” + +“I wonder at your father’s son,” cried Alan, sternly. “Would ye sell the +lad with a gift? Would ye change his clothes and then betray him?” + +“No, no, Alan,” said James. “No, no: the habit he took off--the habit +Mungo saw him in.” But I thought he seemed crestfallen; indeed, he was +clutching at every straw, and all the time, I dare say, saw the faces of +his hereditary foes on the bench, and in the jury-box, and the gallows +in the background. + +“Well, sir,” says Alan, turning to me, “what say ye to that? Ye are here +under the safeguard of my honour; and it’s my part to see nothing done +but what shall please you.” + +“I have but one word to say,” said I; “for to all this dispute I am a +perfect stranger. But the plain common-sense is to set the blame where +it belongs, and that is on the man who fired the shot. Paper him, as ye +call it, set the hunt on him; and let honest, innocent folk show their +faces in safety.” But at this both Alan and James cried out in horror; +bidding me hold my tongue, for that was not to be thought of; and asking +me what the Camerons would think? (which confirmed me, it must have been +a Cameron from Mamore that did the act) and if I did not see that the +lad might be caught? “Ye havenae surely thought of that?” said they, +with such innocent earnestness, that my hands dropped at my side and I +despaired of argument. + +“Very well, then,” said I, “paper me, if you please, paper Alan, paper +King George! We’re all three innocent, and that seems to be what’s +wanted. But at least, sir,” said I to James, recovering from my little +fit of annoyance, “I am Alan’s friend, and if I can be helpful to +friends of his, I will not stumble at the risk.” + +I thought it best to put a fair face on my consent, for I saw Alan +troubled; and, besides (thinks I to myself), as soon as my back is +turned, they will paper me, as they call it, whether I consent or not. +But in this I saw I was wrong; for I had no sooner said the words, than +Mrs. Stewart leaped out of her chair, came running over to us, and wept +first upon my neck and then on Alan’s, blessing God for our goodness to +her family. + +“As for you, Alan, it was no more than your bounden duty,” she said. +“But for this lad that has come here and seen us at our worst, and seen +the goodman fleeching like a suitor, him that by rights should give his +commands like any king--as for you, my lad,” she says, “my heart is wae +not to have your name, but I have your face; and as long as my heart +beats under my bosom, I will keep it, and think of it, and bless it.” + And with that she kissed me, and burst once more into such sobbing, that +I stood abashed. + +“Hoot, hoot,” said Alan, looking mighty silly. “The day comes unco soon +in this month of July; and to-morrow there’ll be a fine to-do in Appin, +a fine riding of dragoons, and crying of ‘Cruachan!’[24] and running of +red-coats; and it behoves you and me to the sooner be gone.” + + [24] The rallying-word of the Campbells. + +Thereupon we said farewell, and set out again, bending somewhat +eastwards, in a fine mild dark night, and over much the same broken +country as before. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + +THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER: THE ROCKS + + +Sometimes we walked, sometimes ran; and as it drew on to morning, walked +ever the less and ran the more. Though, upon its face, that country +appeared to be a desert, yet there were huts and houses of the people, +of which we must have passed more than twenty, hidden in quiet places of +the hills. When we came to one of these, Alan would leave me in the way, +and go himself and rap upon the side of the house and speak awhile at +the window with some sleeper awakened. This was to pass the news; which, +in that country, was so much of a duty that Alan must pause to attend to +it even while fleeing for his life; and so well attended to by others, +that in more than half of the houses where we called they had heard +already of the murder. In the others, as well as I could make out +(standing back at a distance and hearing a strange tongue), the news was +received with more of consternation than surprise. + +For all our hurry, day began to come in while we were still far from any +shelter. It found us in a prodigious valley, strewn with rocks and where +ran a foaming river. Wild mountains stood around it; there grew there +neither grass nor trees; and I have sometimes thought since then, that +it may have been the valley called Glencoe, where the massacre was in +the time of King William. But for the details of our itinerary, I am all +to seek; our way lying now by short cuts, now by great detours; our pace +being so hurried, our time of journeying usually by night; and the names +of such places as I asked and heard being in the Gaelic tongue and the +more easily forgotten. + +The first peep of morning, then, showed us this horrible place, and I +could see Alan knit his brow. + +“This is no fit place for you and me,” he said. “This is a place they’re +bound to watch.” + +And with that he ran harder than ever down to the water-side, in a part +where the river was split in two among three rocks. It went through with +a horrid thundering that made my belly quake; and there hung over the +lynn a little mist of spray. Alan looked neither to the right nor to the +left, but jumped clean upon the middle rock and fell there on his hands +and knees to check himself, for that rock was small and he might have +pitched over on the far side. I had scarce time to measure the distance +or to understand the peril before I had followed him, and he had caught +and stopped me. + +So there we stood, side by side upon a small rock slippery with spray, +a far broader leap in front of us, and the river dinning upon all sides. +When I saw where I was, there came on me a deadly sickness of fear, +and I put my hand over my eyes. Alan took me and shook me; I saw he +was speaking, but the roaring of the falls and the trouble of my mind +prevented me from hearing; only I saw his face was red with anger, and +that he stamped upon the rock. The same look showed me the water raging +by, and the mist hanging in the air: and with that I covered my eyes +again and shuddered. + +The next minute Alan had set the brandy bottle to my lips, and forced +me to drink about a gill, which sent the blood into my head again. Then, +putting his hands to his mouth, and his mouth to my ear, he shouted, +“Hang or drown!” and turning his back upon me, leaped over the farther +branch of the stream, and landed safe. + +I was now alone upon the rock, which gave me the more room; the brandy +was singing in my ears; I had this good example fresh before me, and +just wit enough to see that if I did not leap at once, I should never +leap at all. I bent low on my knees and flung myself forth, with +that kind of anger of despair that has sometimes stood me in stead of +courage. Sure enough, it was but my hands that reached the full length; +these slipped, caught again, slipped again; and I was sliddering back +into the lynn, when Alan seized me, first by the hair, then by the +collar, and with a great strain dragged me into safety. + +Never a word he said, but set off running again for his life, and I must +stagger to my feet and run after him. I had been weary before, but now +I was sick and bruised, and partly drunken with the brandy; I kept +stumbling as I ran, I had a stitch that came near to overmaster me; and +when at last Alan paused under a great rock that stood there among a +number of others, it was none too soon for David Balfour. + +A great rock I have said; but by rights it was two rocks leaning +together at the top, both some twenty feet high, and at the first sight +inaccessible. Even Alan (though you may say he had as good as four +hands) failed twice in an attempt to climb them; and it was only at the +third trial, and then by standing on my shoulders and leaping up with +such force as I thought must have broken my collar-bone, that he secured +a lodgment. Once there, he let down his leathern girdle; and with the +aid of that and a pair of shallow footholds in the rock, I scrambled up +beside him. + +Then I saw why we had come there; for the two rocks, being both somewhat +hollow on the top and sloping one to the other, made a kind of dish or +saucer, where as many as three or four men might have lain hidden. + +All this while Alan had not said a word, and had run and climbed with +such a savage, silent frenzy of hurry, that I knew that he was in mortal +fear of some miscarriage. Even now we were on the rock he said nothing, +nor so much as relaxed the frowning look upon his face; but clapped flat +down, and keeping only one eye above the edge of our place of shelter +scouted all round the compass. The dawn had come quite clear; we could +see the stony sides of the valley, and its bottom, which was bestrewed +with rocks, and the river, which went from one side to another, and made +white falls; but nowhere the smoke of a house, nor any living creature +but some eagles screaming round a cliff. + +Then at last Alan smiled. + +“Ay” said he, “now we have a chance;” and then looking at me with some +amusement, “Ye’re no very gleg[25] at the jumping,” said he. + + [25] Brisk. + +At this I suppose I coloured with mortification, for he added at once, +“Hoots! small blame to ye! To be feared of a thing and yet to do it, is +what makes the prettiest kind of a man. And then there was water there, +and water’s a thing that dauntons even me. No, no,” said Alan, “it’s no +you that’s to blame, it’s me.” + +I asked him why. + +“Why,” said he, “I have proved myself a gomeral this night. For first +of all I take a wrong road, and that in my own country of Appin; so that +the day has caught us where we should never have been; and thanks to +that, we lie here in some danger and mair discomfort. And next (which is +the worst of the two, for a man that has been so much among the heather +as myself) I have come wanting a water-bottle, and here we lie for a +long summer’s day with naething but neat spirit. Ye may think that a +small matter; but before it comes night, David, ye’ll give me news of +it.” + +I was anxious to redeem my character, and offered, if he would pour out +the brandy, to run down and fill the bottle at the river. + +“I wouldnae waste the good spirit either,” says he. “It’s been a good +friend to you this night; or in my poor opinion, ye would still be +cocking on yon stone. And what’s mair,” says he, “ye may have observed +(you that’s a man of so much penetration) that Alan Breck Stewart was +perhaps walking quicker than his ordinar’.” + +“You!” I cried, “you were running fit to burst.” + +“Was I so?” said he. “Well, then, ye may depend upon it, there was nae +time to be lost. And now here is enough said; gang you to your sleep, +lad, and I’ll watch.” + +Accordingly, I lay down to sleep; a little peaty earth had drifted in +between the top of the two rocks, and some bracken grew there, to be a +bed to me; the last thing I heard was still the crying of the eagles. + +I dare say it would be nine in the morning when I was roughly awakened, +and found Alan’s hand pressed upon my mouth. + +“Wheesht!” he whispered. “Ye were snoring.” + +“Well,” said I, surprised at his anxious and dark face, “and why not?” + +He peered over the edge of the rock, and signed to me to do the like. + +It was now high day, cloudless, and very hot. The valley was as clear as +in a picture. About half a mile up the water was a camp of red-coats; a +big fire blazed in their midst, at which some were cooking; and near by, +on the top of a rock about as high as ours, there stood a sentry, with +the sun sparkling on his arms. All the way down along the river-side +were posted other sentries; here near together, there widelier +scattered; some planted like the first, on places of command, some +on the ground level and marching and counter-marching, so as to meet +half-way. Higher up the glen, where the ground was more open, the chain +of posts was continued by horse-soldiers, whom we could see in the +distance riding to and fro. Lower down, the infantry continued; but +as the stream was suddenly swelled by the confluence of a considerable +burn, they were more widely set, and only watched the fords and +stepping-stones. + +I took but one look at them, and ducked again into my place. It was +strange indeed to see this valley, which had lain so solitary in the +hour of dawn, bristling with arms and dotted with the red coats and +breeches. + +“Ye see,” said Alan, “this was what I was afraid of, Davie: that they +would watch the burn-side. They began to come in about two hours ago, +and, man! but ye’re a grand hand at the sleeping! We’re in a narrow +place. If they get up the sides of the hill, they could easy spy us with +a glass; but if they’ll only keep in the foot of the valley, we’ll do +yet. The posts are thinner down the water; and, come night, we’ll try +our hand at getting by them.” + +“And what are we to do till night?” I asked. + +“Lie here,” says he, “and birstle.” + +That one good Scotch word, “birstle,” was indeed the most of the story +of the day that we had now to pass. You are to remember that we lay on +the bare top of a rock, like scones upon a girdle; the sun beat upon us +cruelly; the rock grew so heated, a man could scarce endure the touch of +it; and the little patch of earth and fern, which kept cooler, was only +large enough for one at a time. We took turn about to lie on the naked +rock, which was indeed like the position of that saint that was martyred +on a gridiron; and it ran in my mind how strange it was, that in the +same climate and at only a few days’ distance, I should have suffered +so cruelly, first from cold upon my island and now from heat upon this +rock. + +All the while we had no water, only raw brandy for a drink, which was +worse than nothing; but we kept the bottle as cool as we could, burying +it in the earth, and got some relief by bathing our breasts and temples. + +The soldiers kept stirring all day in the bottom of the valley, now +changing guard, now in patrolling parties hunting among the rocks. These +lay round in so great a number, that to look for men among them was like +looking for a needle in a bottle of hay; and being so hopeless a task, +it was gone about with the less care. Yet we could see the soldiers +pike their bayonets among the heather, which sent a cold thrill into my +vitals; and they would sometimes hang about our rock, so that we scarce +dared to breathe. + +It was in this way that I first heard the right English speech; one +fellow as he went by actually clapping his hand upon the sunny face of +the rock on which we lay, and plucking it off again with an oath. “I +tell you it’s ‘ot,” says he; and I was amazed at the clipping tones and +the odd sing-song in which he spoke, and no less at that strange trick +of dropping out the letter “h.” To be sure, I had heard Ransome; but he +had taken his ways from all sorts of people, and spoke so imperfectly +at the best, that I set down the most of it to childishness. My surprise +was all the greater to hear that manner of speaking in the mouth of a +grown man; and indeed I have never grown used to it; nor yet altogether +with the English grammar, as perhaps a very critical eye might here and +there spy out even in these memoirs. + +The tediousness and pain of these hours upon the rock grew only the +greater as the day went on; the rock getting still the hotter and the +sun fiercer. There were giddiness, and sickness, and sharp pangs like +rheumatism, to be supported. I minded then, and have often minded since, +on the lines in our Scotch psalm:-- + + “The moon by night thee shall not smite, + Nor yet the sun by day;” + +and indeed it was only by God’s blessing that we were neither of us +sun-smitten. + +At last, about two, it was beyond men’s bearing, and there was now +temptation to resist, as well as pain to thole. For the sun being now +got a little into the west, there came a patch of shade on the east side +of our rock, which was the side sheltered from the soldiers. + +“As well one death as another,” said Alan, and slipped over the edge and +dropped on the ground on the shadowy side. + +I followed him at once, and instantly fell all my length, so weak was I +and so giddy with that long exposure. Here, then, we lay for an hour or +two, aching from head to foot, as weak as water, and lying quite naked +to the eye of any soldier who should have strolled that way. None came, +however, all passing by on the other side; so that our rock continued to +be our shield even in this new position. + +Presently we began again to get a little strength; and as the soldiers +were now lying closer along the river-side, Alan proposed that we should +try a start. I was by this time afraid of but one thing in the world; +and that was to be set back upon the rock; anything else was welcome +to me; so we got ourselves at once in marching order, and began to slip +from rock to rock one after the other, now crawling flat on our bellies +in the shade, now making a run for it, heart in mouth. + +The soldiers, having searched this side of the valley after a fashion, +and being perhaps somewhat sleepy with the sultriness of the afternoon, +had now laid by much of their vigilance, and stood dozing at their posts +or only kept a look-out along the banks of the river; so that in this +way, keeping down the valley and at the same time towards the mountains, +we drew steadily away from their neighbourhood. But the business was the +most wearing I had ever taken part in. A man had need of a hundred +eyes in every part of him, to keep concealed in that uneven country and +within cry of so many and scattered sentries. When we must pass an open +place, quickness was not all, but a swift judgment not only of the lie +of the whole country, but of the solidity of every stone on which we +must set foot; for the afternoon was now fallen so breathless that the +rolling of a pebble sounded abroad like a pistol shot, and would start +the echo calling among the hills and cliffs. + +By sundown we had made some distance, even by our slow rate of progress, +though to be sure the sentry on the rock was still plainly in our view. +But now we came on something that put all fears out of season; and that +was a deep rushing burn, that tore down, in that part, to join the glen +river. At the sight of this we cast ourselves on the ground and plunged +head and shoulders in the water; and I cannot tell which was the more +pleasant, the great shock as the cool stream went over us, or the greed +with which we drank of it. + +We lay there (for the banks hid us), drank again and again, bathed our +chests, let our wrists trail in the running water till they ached +with the chill; and at last, being wonderfully renewed, we got out the +meal-bag and made drammach in the iron pan. This, though it is but cold +water mingled with oatmeal, yet makes a good enough dish for a hungry +man; and where there are no means of making fire, or (as in our case) +good reason for not making one, it is the chief stand-by of those who +have taken to the heather. + +As soon as the shadow of the night had fallen, we set forth again, at +first with the same caution, but presently with more boldness, standing +our full height and stepping out at a good pace of walking. The way +was very intricate, lying up the steep sides of mountains and along the +brows of cliffs; clouds had come in with the sunset, and the night was +dark and cool; so that I walked without much fatigue, but in continual +fear of falling and rolling down the mountains, and with no guess at our +direction. + +The moon rose at last and found us still on the road; it was in its last +quarter, and was long beset with clouds; but after awhile shone out and +showed me many dark heads of mountains, and was reflected far underneath +us on the narrow arm of a sea-loch. + +At this sight we both paused: I struck with wonder to find myself so +high and walking (as it seemed to me) upon clouds; Alan to make sure of +his direction. + +Seemingly he was well pleased, and he must certainly have judged us +out of ear-shot of all our enemies; for throughout the rest of our +night-march he beguiled the way with whistling of many tunes, warlike, +merry, plaintive; reel tunes that made the foot go faster; tunes of my +own south country that made me fain to be home from my adventures; and +all these, on the great, dark, desert mountains, making company upon the +way. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER: THE HEUGH OF CORRYNAKIEGH + + +Early as day comes in the beginning of July, it was still dark when we +reached our destination, a cleft in the head of a great mountain, with a +water running through the midst, and upon the one hand a shallow cave +in a rock. Birches grew there in a thin, pretty wood, which a little +farther on was changed into a wood of pines. The burn was full of trout; +the wood of cushat-doves; on the open side of the mountain beyond, +whaups would be always whistling, and cuckoos were plentiful. From the +mouth of the cleft we looked down upon a part of Mamore, and on the +sea-loch that divides that country from Appin; and this from so great +a height as made it my continual wonder and pleasure to sit and behold +them. + +The name of the cleft was the Heugh of Corrynakiegh; and although from +its height and being so near upon the sea, it was often beset with +clouds, yet it was on the whole a pleasant place, and the five days we +lived in it went happily. + +We slept in the cave, making our bed of heather bushes which we cut for +that purpose, and covering ourselves with Alan’s great-coat. There was a +low concealed place, in a turning of the glen, where we were so bold as +to make fire: so that we could warm ourselves when the clouds set in, +and cook hot porridge, and grill the little trouts that we caught with +our hands under the stones and overhanging banks of the burn. This was +indeed our chief pleasure and business; and not only to save our meal +against worse times, but with a rivalry that much amused us, we spent +a great part of our days at the water-side, stripped to the waist and +groping about or (as they say) guddling for these fish. The largest we +got might have been a quarter of a pound; but they were of good flesh +and flavour, and when broiled upon the coals, lacked only a little salt +to be delicious. + +In any by-time Alan must teach me to use my sword, for my ignorance +had much distressed him; and I think besides, as I had sometimes +the upper-hand of him in the fishing, he was not sorry to turn to an +exercise where he had so much the upper-hand of me. He made it somewhat +more of a pain than need have been, for he stormed at me all through the +lessons in a very violent manner of scolding, and would push me so close +that I made sure he must run me through the body. I was often tempted +to turn tail, but held my ground for all that, and got some profit of +my lessons; if it was but to stand on guard with an assured countenance, +which is often all that is required. So, though I could never in the +least please my master, I was not altogether displeased with myself. + +In the meanwhile, you are not to suppose that we neglected our chief +business, which was to get away. + +“It will be many a long day,” Alan said to me on our first morning, +“before the red-coats think upon seeking Corrynakiegh; so now we must +get word sent to James, and he must find the siller for us.” + +“And how shall we send that word?” says I. “We are here in a desert +place, which yet we dare not leave; and unless ye get the fowls of the +air to be your messengers, I see not what we shall be able to do.” + +“Ay?” said Alan. “Ye’re a man of small contrivance, David.” + +Thereupon he fell in a muse, looking in the embers of the fire; and +presently, getting a piece of wood, he fashioned it in a cross, the four +ends of which he blackened on the coals. Then he looked at me a little +shyly. + +“Could ye lend me my button?” says he. “It seems a strange thing to ask +a gift again, but I own I am laith to cut another.” + +I gave him the button; whereupon he strung it on a strip of his +great-coat which he had used to bind the cross; and tying in a little +sprig of birch and another of fir, he looked upon his work with +satisfaction. + +“Now,” said he, “there is a little clachan” (what is called a hamlet +in the English) “not very far from Corrynakiegh, and it has the name of +Koalisnacoan. There there are living many friends of mine whom I could +trust with my life, and some that I am no just so sure of. Ye see, +David, there will be money set upon our heads; James himsel’ is to set +money on them; and as for the Campbells, they would never spare siller +where there was a Stewart to be hurt. If it was otherwise, I would go +down to Koalisnacoan whatever, and trust my life into these people’s +hands as lightly as I would trust another with my glove.” + +“But being so?” said I. + +“Being so,” said he, “I would as lief they didnae see me. There’s bad +folk everywhere, and what’s far worse, weak ones. So when it comes dark +again, I will steal down into that clachan, and set this that I have +been making in the window of a good friend of mine, John Breck Maccoll, +a bouman[26] of Appin’s.” + + [26] A bouman is a tenant who takes stock from the landlord and + shares with him the increase. + +“With all my heart,” says I; “and if he finds it, what is he to think?” + +“Well,” says Alan, “I wish he was a man of more penetration, for by my +troth I am afraid he will make little enough of it! But this is what I +have in my mind. This cross is something in the nature of the +crosstarrie, or fiery cross, which is the signal of gathering in our +clans; yet he will know well enough the clan is not to rise, for there +it is standing in his window, and no word with it. So he will say to +himsel’, _The clan is not to rise, but there is something_. Then he +will see my button, and that was Duncan Stewart’s. And then he will say +to himsel’, _The son of Duncan is in the heather and has need of me_.” + +“Well,” said I, “it may be. But even supposing so, there is a good deal +of heather between here and the Forth.” + +“And that is a very true word,” says Alan. “But then John Breck will +see the sprig of birch and the sprig of pine; and he will say to +himsel’ (if he is a man of any penetration at all, which I misdoubt), +_Alan will be lying in a wood which is both of pines and birches_. Then +he will think to himsel’, _That is not so very rife hereabout;_ and +then he will come and give us a look up in Corrynakiegh. And if he does +not, David, the devil may fly away with him, for what I care; for he +will no be worth the salt to his porridge.” + +“Eh, man,” said I, drolling with him a little, “you’re very ingenious! +But would it not be simpler for you to write him a few words in black +and white?” + +“And that is an excellent observe, Mr. Balfour of Shaws,” says Alan, +drolling with me; “and it would certainly be much simpler for me to +write to him, but it would be a sore job for John Breck to read it. He +would have to go to the school for two-three years; and it’s possible we +might be wearied waiting on him.” + +So that night Alan carried down his fiery cross and set it in the +bouman’s window. He was troubled when he came back; for the dogs had +barked and the folk run out from their houses; and he thought he had +heard a clatter of arms and seen a red-coat come to one of the doors. On +all accounts we lay the next day in the borders of the wood and kept a +close look-out, so that if it was John Breck that came we might be ready +to guide him, and if it was the red-coats we should have time to get +away. + +About noon a man was to be spied, straggling up the open side of the +mountain in the sun, and looking round him as he came, from under his +hand. No sooner had Alan seen him than he whistled; the man turned and +came a little towards us: then Alan would give another “peep!” and the +man would come still nearer; and so by the sound of whistling, he was +guided to the spot where we lay. + +He was a ragged, wild, bearded man, about forty, grossly disfigured with +the small pox, and looked both dull and savage. Although his English +was very bad and broken, yet Alan (according to his very handsome use, +whenever I was by) would suffer him to speak no Gaelic. Perhaps the +strange language made him appear more backward than he really was; but +I thought he had little good-will to serve us, and what he had was the +child of terror. + +Alan would have had him carry a message to James; but the bouman would +hear of no message. “She was forget it,” he said in his screaming voice; +and would either have a letter or wash his hands of us. + +I thought Alan would be gravelled at that, for we lacked the means of +writing in that desert. + +But he was a man of more resources than I knew; searched the wood until +he found the quill of a cushat-dove, which he shaped into a pen; made +himself a kind of ink with gunpowder from his horn and water from the +running stream; and tearing a corner from his French military commission +(which he carried in his pocket, like a talisman to keep him from the +gallows), he sat down and wrote as follows: + + +“DEAR KINSMAN,--Please send the money by the bearer to the place he kens +of. + +“Your affectionate cousin, + +“A. S.” + + +This he intrusted to the bouman, who promised to make what manner of +speed he best could, and carried it off with him down the hill. + +He was three full days gone, but about five in the evening of the third, +we heard a whistling in the wood, which Alan answered; and presently the +bouman came up the water-side, looking for us, right and left. He seemed +less sulky than before, and indeed he was no doubt well pleased to have +got to the end of such a dangerous commission. + +He gave us the news of the country; that it was alive with red-coats; +that arms were being found, and poor folk brought in trouble daily; and +that James and some of his servants were already clapped in prison at +Fort William, under strong suspicion of complicity. It seemed it was +noised on all sides that Alan Breck had fired the shot; and there was a +bill issued for both him and me, with one hundred pounds reward. + +This was all as bad as could be; and the little note the bouman had +carried us from Mrs. Stewart was of a miserable sadness. In it she +besought Alan not to let himself be captured, assuring him, if he fell +in the hands of the troops, both he and James were no better than dead +men. The money she had sent was all that she could beg or borrow, and +she prayed heaven we could be doing with it. Lastly, she said, she +enclosed us one of the bills in which we were described. + +This we looked upon with great curiosity and not a little fear, partly +as a man may look in a mirror, partly as he might look into the barrel +of an enemy’s gun to judge if it be truly aimed. Alan was advertised as +“a small, pock-marked, active man of thirty-five or thereby, dressed +in a feathered hat, a French side-coat of blue with silver buttons, +and lace a great deal tarnished, a red waistcoat and breeches of black, +shag;” and I as “a tall strong lad of about eighteen, wearing an +old blue coat, very ragged, an old Highland bonnet, a long homespun +waistcoat, blue breeches; his legs bare, low-country shoes, wanting the +toes; speaks like a Lowlander, and has no beard.” + +Alan was well enough pleased to see his finery so fully remembered and +set down; only when he came to the word tarnish, he looked upon his lace +like one a little mortified. As for myself, I thought I cut a miserable +figure in the bill; and yet was well enough pleased too, for since I had +changed these rags, the description had ceased to be a danger and become +a source of safety. + +“Alan,” said I, “you should change your clothes.” + +“Na, troth!” said Alan, “I have nae others. A fine sight I would be, if +I went back to France in a bonnet!” + +This put a second reflection in my mind: that if I were to separate +from Alan and his tell-tale clothes I should be safe against arrest, and +might go openly about my business. Nor was this all; for suppose I was +arrested when I was alone, there was little against me; but suppose I +was taken in company with the reputed murderer, my case would begin to +be grave. For generosity’s sake I dare not speak my mind upon this head; +but I thought of it none the less. + +I thought of it all the more, too, when the bouman brought out a green +purse with four guineas in gold, and the best part of another in small +change. True, it was more than I had. But then Alan, with less than +five guineas, had to get as far as France; I, with my less than two, not +beyond Queensferry; so that taking things in their proportion, Alan’s +society was not only a peril to my life, but a burden on my purse. + +But there was no thought of the sort in the honest head of my companion. +He believed he was serving, helping, and protecting me. And what could I +do but hold my peace, and chafe, and take my chance of it? + +“It’s little enough,” said Alan, putting the purse in his pocket, “but +it’ll do my business. And now, John Breck, if ye will hand me over my +button, this gentleman and me will be for taking the road.” + +But the bouman, after feeling about in a hairy purse that hung in front +of him in the Highland manner (though he wore otherwise the Lowland +habit, with sea-trousers), began to roll his eyes strangely, and at last +said, “Her nainsel will loss it,” meaning he thought he had lost it. + +“What!” cried Alan, “you will lose my button, that was my father’s +before me? Now I will tell you what is in my mind, John Breck: it is +in my mind this is the worst day’s work that ever ye did since ye was +born.” + +And as Alan spoke, he set his hands on his knees and looked at the +bouman with a smiling mouth, and that dancing light in his eyes that +meant mischief to his enemies. + +Perhaps the bouman was honest enough; perhaps he had meant to cheat and +then, finding himself alone with two of us in a desert place, cast back +to honesty as being safer; at least, and all at once, he seemed to find +that button and handed it to Alan. + +“Well, and it is a good thing for the honour of the Maccolls,” said +Alan, and then to me, “Here is my button back again, and I thank you for +parting with it, which is of a piece with all your friendships to me.” + Then he took the warmest parting of the bouman. “For,” says he, “ye have +done very well by me, and set your neck at a venture, and I will always +give you the name of a good man.” + +Lastly, the bouman took himself off by one way; and Alan and I (getting our +chattels together) struck into another to resume our flight. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER: THE MOOR + + +Some seven hours’ incessant, hard travelling brought us early in the +morning to the end of a range of mountains. In front of us there lay a +piece of low, broken, desert land, which we must now cross. The sun was +not long up, and shone straight in our eyes; a little, thin mist went up +from the face of the moorland like a smoke; so that (as Alan said) there +might have been twenty squadron of dragoons there and we none the wiser. + +We sat down, therefore, in a howe of the hill-side till the mist should +have risen, and made ourselves a dish of drammach, and held a council of +war. + +“David,” said Alan, “this is the kittle bit. Shall we lie here till it +comes night, or shall we risk it, and stave on ahead?” + +“Well,” said I, “I am tired indeed, but I could walk as far again, if +that was all.” + +“Ay, but it isnae,” said Alan, “nor yet the half. This is how we stand: +Appin’s fair death to us. To the south it’s all Campbells, and no to be +thought of. To the north; well, there’s no muckle to be gained by going +north; neither for you, that wants to get to Queensferry, nor yet for +me, that wants to get to France. Well, then, we’ll can strike east.” + +“East be it!” says I, quite cheerily; but I was thinking in to myself: +“O, man, if you would only take one point of the compass and let me take +any other, it would be the best for both of us.” + +“Well, then, east, ye see, we have the muirs,” said Alan. “Once there, +David, it’s mere pitch-and-toss. Out on yon bald, naked, flat place, +where can a body turn to? Let the red-coats come over a hill, they can +spy you miles away; and the sorrow’s in their horses’ heels, they would +soon ride you down. It’s no good place, David; and I’m free to say, it’s +worse by daylight than by dark.” + +“Alan,” said I, “hear my way of it. Appin’s death for us; we have none +too much money, nor yet meal; the longer they seek, the nearer they +may guess where we are; it’s all a risk; and I give my word to go ahead +until we drop.” + +Alan was delighted. “There are whiles,” said he, “when ye are altogether +too canny and Whiggish to be company for a gentleman like me; but there +come other whiles when ye show yoursel’ a mettle spark; and it’s then, +David, that I love ye like a brother.” + +The mist rose and died away, and showed us that country lying as waste +as the sea; only the moorfowl and the pewees crying upon it, and far +over to the east, a herd of deer, moving like dots. Much of it was red +with heather; much of the rest broken up with bogs and hags and peaty +pools; some had been burnt black in a heath fire; and in another place +there was quite a forest of dead firs, standing like skeletons. A +wearier-looking desert man never saw; but at least it was clear of +troops, which was our point. + +We went down accordingly into the waste, and began to make our toilsome +and devious travel towards the eastern verge. There were the tops of +mountains all round (you are to remember) from whence we might be spied +at any moment; so it behoved us to keep in the hollow parts of the moor, +and when these turned aside from our direction to move upon its naked +face with infinite care. Sometimes, for half an hour together, we must +crawl from one heather bush to another, as hunters do when they are hard +upon the deer. It was a clear day again, with a blazing sun; the water +in the brandy bottle was soon gone; and altogether, if I had guessed +what it would be to crawl half the time upon my belly and to walk much +of the rest stooping nearly to the knees, I should certainly have held +back from such a killing enterprise. + +Toiling and resting and toiling again, we wore away the morning; and +about noon lay down in a thick bush of heather to sleep. Alan took the +first watch; and it seemed to me I had scarce closed my eyes before I +was shaken up to take the second. We had no clock to go by; and Alan +stuck a sprig of heath in the ground to serve instead; so that as soon +as the shadow of the bush should fall so far to the east, I might know +to rouse him. But I was by this time so weary that I could have slept +twelve hours at a stretch; I had the taste of sleep in my throat; my +joints slept even when my mind was waking; the hot smell of the heather, +and the drone of the wild bees, were like possets to me; and every now +and again I would give a jump and find I had been dozing. + +The last time I woke I seemed to come back from farther away, and +thought the sun had taken a great start in the heavens. I looked at the +sprig of heath, and at that I could have cried aloud: for I saw I had +betrayed my trust. My head was nearly turned with fear and shame; and at +what I saw, when I looked out around me on the moor, my heart was like +dying in my body. For sure enough, a body of horse-soldiers had come +down during my sleep, and were drawing near to us from the south-east, +spread out in the shape of a fan and riding their horses to and fro in +the deep parts of the heather. + +When I waked Alan, he glanced first at the soldiers, then at the mark +and the position of the sun, and knitted his brows with a sudden, quick +look, both ugly and anxious, which was all the reproach I had of him. + +“What are we to do now?” I asked. + +“We’ll have to play at being hares,” said he. “Do ye see yon mountain?” + pointing to one on the north-eastern sky. + +“Ay,” said I. + +“Well, then,” says he, “let us strike for that. Its name is Ben Alder. +it is a wild, desert mountain full of hills and hollows, and if we can +win to it before the morn, we may do yet.” + +“But, Alan,” cried I, “that will take us across the very coming of the +soldiers!” + +“I ken that fine,” said he; “but if we are driven back on Appin, we are +two dead men. So now, David man, be brisk!” + +With that he began to run forward on his hands and knees with an +incredible quickness, as though it were his natural way of going. All +the time, too, he kept winding in and out in the lower parts of the +moorland where we were the best concealed. Some of these had been burned +or at least scathed with fire; and there rose in our faces (which were +close to the ground) a blinding, choking dust as fine as smoke. The +water was long out; and this posture of running on the hands and knees +brings an overmastering weakness and weariness, so that the joints ache +and the wrists faint under your weight. + +Now and then, indeed, where was a big bush of heather, we lay awhile, +and panted, and putting aside the leaves, looked back at the dragoons. +They had not spied us, for they held straight on; a half-troop, I think, +covering about two miles of ground, and beating it mighty thoroughly as +they went. I had awakened just in time; a little later, and we must have +fled in front of them, instead of escaping on one side. Even as it was, +the least misfortune might betray us; and now and again, when a grouse +rose out of the heather with a clap of wings, we lay as still as the +dead and were afraid to breathe. + +The aching and faintness of my body, the labouring of my heart, the +soreness of my hands, and the smarting of my throat and eyes in the +continual smoke of dust and ashes, had soon grown to be so unbearable +that I would gladly have given up. Nothing but the fear of Alan lent me +enough of a false kind of courage to continue. As for himself (and you +are to bear in mind that he was cumbered with a great-coat) he had first +turned crimson, but as time went on the redness began to be mingled +with patches of white; his breath cried and whistled as it came; and his +voice, when he whispered his observations in my ear during our halts, +sounded like nothing human. Yet he seemed in no way dashed in spirits, +nor did he at all abate in his activity, so that I was driven to marvel +at the man’s endurance. + +At length, in the first gloaming of the night, we heard a trumpet sound, +and looking back from among the heather, saw the troop beginning to +collect. A little after, they had built a fire and camped for the night, +about the middle of the waste. + +At this I begged and besought that we might lie down and sleep. + +“There shall be no sleep the night!” said Alan. “From now on, these +weary dragoons of yours will keep the crown of the muirland, and none +will get out of Appin but winged fowls. We got through in the nick +of time, and shall we jeopard what we’ve gained? Na, na, when the day +comes, it shall find you and me in a fast place on Ben Alder.” + +“Alan,” I said, “it’s not the want of will: it’s the strength that I +want. If I could, I would; but as sure as I’m alive I cannot.” + +“Very well, then,” said Alan. “I’ll carry ye.” + +I looked to see if he were jesting; but no, the little man was in dead +earnest; and the sight of so much resolution shamed me. + +“Lead away!” said I. “I’ll follow.” + +He gave me one look as much as to say, “Well done, David!” and off he +set again at his top speed. + +It grew cooler and even a little darker (but not much) with the coming +of the night. The sky was cloudless; it was still early in July, and +pretty far north; in the darkest part of that night, you would have +needed pretty good eyes to read, but for all that, I have often seen it +darker in a winter mid-day. Heavy dew fell and drenched the moor like +rain; and this refreshed me for a while. When we stopped to breathe, +and I had time to see all about me, the clearness and sweetness of +the night, the shapes of the hills like things asleep, and the fire +dwindling away behind us, like a bright spot in the midst of the moor, +anger would come upon me in a clap that I must still drag myself in +agony and eat the dust like a worm. + +By what I have read in books, I think few that have held a pen were ever +really wearied, or they would write of it more strongly. I had no care +of my life, neither past nor future, and I scarce remembered there was +such a lad as David Balfour. I did not think of myself, but just of each +fresh step which I was sure would be my last, with despair--and of Alan, +who was the cause of it, with hatred. Alan was in the right trade as a +soldier; this is the officer’s part to make men continue to do things, +they know not wherefore, and when, if the choice was offered, they would +lie down where they were and be killed. And I dare say I would have made +a good enough private; for in these last hours it never occurred to me +that I had any choice but just to obey as long as I was able, and die +obeying. + +Day began to come in, after years, I thought; and by that time we were +past the greatest danger, and could walk upon our feet like men, instead +of crawling like brutes. But, dear heart have mercy! what a pair we must +have made, going double like old grandfathers, stumbling like babes, +and as white as dead folk. Never a word passed between us; each set his +mouth and kept his eyes in front of him, and lifted up his foot and set +it down again, like people lifting weights at a country play;[27] all the +while, with the moorfowl crying “peep!” in the heather, and the light +coming slowly clearer in the east. + + [27] Village fair. + +I say Alan did as I did. Not that ever I looked at him, for I had enough +ado to keep my feet; but because it is plain he must have been as stupid +with weariness as myself, and looked as little where we were going, or +we should not have walked into an ambush like blind men. + +It fell in this way. We were going down a heathery brae, Alan leading +and I following a pace or two behind, like a fiddler and his wife; when +upon a sudden the heather gave a rustle, three or four ragged men leaped +out, and the next moment we were lying on our backs, each with a dirk at +his throat. + +I don’t think I cared; the pain of this rough handling was quite +swallowed up by the pains of which I was already full; and I was too +glad to have stopped walking to mind about a dirk. I lay looking up in +the face of the man that held me; and I mind his face was black with the +sun, and his eyes very light, but I was not afraid of him. I heard Alan +and another whispering in the Gaelic; and what they said was all one to +me. + +Then the dirks were put up, our weapons were taken away, and we were set +face to face, sitting in the heather. + +“They are Cluny’s men,” said Alan. “We couldnae have fallen better. +We’re just to bide here with these, which are his out-sentries, till +they can get word to the chief of my arrival.” + +Now Cluny Macpherson, the chief of the clan Vourich, had been one of the +leaders of the great rebellion six years before; there was a price on +his life; and I had supposed him long ago in France, with the rest of +the heads of that desperate party. Even tired as I was, the surprise of +what I heard half wakened me. + +“What,” I cried, “is Cluny still here?” + +“Ay, is he so!” said Alan. “Still in his own country and kept by his own +clan. King George can do no more.” + +I think I would have asked farther, but Alan gave me the put-off. “I am +rather wearied,” he said, “and I would like fine to get a sleep.” And +without more words, he rolled on his face in a deep heather bush, and +seemed to sleep at once. + +There was no such thing possible for me. You have heard grasshoppers +whirring in the grass in the summer time? Well, I had no sooner closed +my eyes, than my body, and above all my head, belly, and wrists, seemed +to be filled with whirring grasshoppers; and I must open my eyes again +at once, and tumble and toss, and sit up and lie down; and look at the +sky which dazzled me, or at Cluny’s wild and dirty sentries, peering out +over the top of the brae and chattering to each other in the Gaelic. + +That was all the rest I had, until the messenger returned; when, as it +appeared that Cluny would be glad to receive us, we must get once more +upon our feet and set forward. Alan was in excellent good spirits, much +refreshed by his sleep, very hungry, and looking pleasantly forward to +a dram and a dish of hot collops, of which, it seems, the messenger had +brought him word. For my part, it made me sick to hear of eating. I had +been dead-heavy before, and now I felt a kind of dreadful lightness, +which would not suffer me to walk. I drifted like a gossamer; the ground +seemed to me a cloud, the hills a feather-weight, the air to have a +current, like a running burn, which carried me to and fro. With all +that, a sort of horror of despair sat on my mind, so that I could have +wept at my own helplessness. + +I saw Alan knitting his brows at me, and supposed it was in anger; and +that gave me a pang of light-headed fear, like what a child may have. I +remember, too, that I was smiling, and could not stop smiling, hard as +I tried; for I thought it was out of place at such a time. But my good +companion had nothing in his mind but kindness; and the next moment, +two of the gillies had me by the arms, and I began to be carried forward +with great swiftness (or so it appeared to me, although I dare say it +was slowly enough in truth), through a labyrinth of dreary glens and +hollows and into the heart of that dismal mountain of Ben Alder. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +CLUNY’S CAGE + + +We came at last to the foot of an exceeding steep wood, which scrambled +up a craggy hillside, and was crowned by a naked precipice. + +“It’s here,” said one of the guides, and we struck up hill. + +The trees clung upon the slope, like sailors on the shrouds of a ship, +and their trunks were like the rounds of a ladder, by which we mounted. + +Quite at the top, and just before the rocky face of the cliff sprang +above the foliage, we found that strange house which was known in the +country as “Cluny’s Cage.” The trunks of several trees had been wattled +across, the intervals strengthened with stakes, and the ground behind +this barricade levelled up with earth to make the floor. A tree, which +grew out from the hillside, was the living centre-beam of the roof. +The walls were of wattle and covered with moss. The whole house had +something of an egg shape; and it half hung, half stood in that steep, +hillside thicket, like a wasp’s nest in a green hawthorn. + +Within, it was large enough to shelter five or six persons with some +comfort. A projection of the cliff had been cunningly employed to be the +fireplace; and the smoke rising against the face of the rock, and being +not dissimilar in colour, readily escaped notice from below. + +This was but one of Cluny’s hiding-places; he had caves, besides, and +underground chambers in several parts of his country; and following the +reports of his scouts, he moved from one to another as the soldiers +drew near or moved away. By this manner of living, and thanks to the +affection of his clan, he had not only stayed all this time in safety, +while so many others had fled or been taken and slain: but stayed four +or five years longer, and only went to France at last by the express +command of his master. There he soon died; and it is strange to reflect +that he may have regretted his Cage upon Ben Alder. + +When we came to the door he was seated by his rock chimney, watching a +gillie about some cookery. He was mighty plainly habited, with a knitted +nightcap drawn over his ears, and smoked a foul cutty pipe. For all that +he had the manners of a king, and it was quite a sight to see him rise +out of his place to welcome us. + +“Well, Mr. Stewart, come awa’, sir!” said he, “and bring in your friend +that as yet I dinna ken the name of.” + +“And how is yourself, Cluny?” said Alan. “I hope ye do brawly, sir. And +I am proud to see ye, and to present to ye my friend the Laird of Shaws, +Mr. David Balfour.” + +Alan never referred to my estate without a touch of a sneer, when we +were alone; but with strangers, he rang the words out like a herald. + +“Step in by, the both of ye, gentlemen,” says Cluny. “I make ye welcome +to my house, which is a queer, rude place for certain, but one where I +have entertained a royal personage, Mr. Stewart--ye doubtless ken the +personage I have in my eye. We’ll take a dram for luck, and as soon as +this handless man of mine has the collops ready, we’ll dine and take a +hand at the cartes as gentlemen should. My life is a bit driegh,” says +he, pouring out the brandy; “I see little company, and sit and twirl my +thumbs, and mind upon a great day that is gone by, and weary for another +great day that we all hope will be upon the road. And so here’s a toast +to ye: The Restoration!” + +Thereupon we all touched glasses and drank. I am sure I wished no ill +to King George; and if he had been there himself in proper person, it’s +like he would have done as I did. No sooner had I taken out the drain +than I felt hugely better, and could look on and listen, still a little +mistily perhaps, but no longer with the same groundless horror and +distress of mind. + +It was certainly a strange place, and we had a strange host. In his long +hiding, Cluny had grown to have all manner of precise habits, like those +of an old maid. He had a particular place, where no one else must sit; +the Cage was arranged in a particular way, which none must disturb; +cookery was one of his chief fancies, and even while he was greeting us +in, he kept an eye to the collops. + +It appears, he sometimes visited or received visits from his wife and +one or two of his nearest friends, under the cover of night; but for the +more part lived quite alone, and communicated only with his sentinels +and the gillies that waited on him in the Cage. The first thing in the +morning, one of them, who was a barber, came and shaved him, and gave +him the news of the country, of which he was immoderately greedy. There +was no end to his questions; he put them as earnestly as a child; and +at some of the answers, laughed out of all bounds of reason, and would +break out again laughing at the mere memory, hours after the barber was +gone. + +To be sure, there might have been a purpose in his questions; for +though he was thus sequestered, and like the other landed gentlemen of +Scotland, stripped by the late Act of Parliament of legal powers, he +still exercised a patriarchal justice in his clan. Disputes were brought +to him in his hiding-hole to be decided; and the men of his country, +who would have snapped their fingers at the Court of Session, laid +aside revenge and paid down money at the bare word of this forfeited and +hunted outlaw. When he was angered, which was often enough, he gave +his commands and breathed threats of punishment like any king; and his +gillies trembled and crouched away from him like children before a hasty +father. With each of them, as he entered, he ceremoniously shook hands, +both parties touching their bonnets at the same time in a military +manner. Altogether, I had a fair chance to see some of the inner +workings of a Highland clan; and this with a proscribed, fugitive chief; +his country conquered; the troops riding upon all sides in quest of +him, sometimes within a mile of where he lay; and when the least of the +ragged fellows whom he rated and threatened, could have made a fortune +by betraying him. + +On that first day, as soon as the collops were ready, Cluny gave them +with his own hand a squeeze of a lemon (for he was well supplied with +luxuries) and bade us draw in to our meal. + +“They,” said he, meaning the collops, “are such as I gave his Royal +Highness in this very house; bating the lemon juice, for at that time we +were glad to get the meat and never fashed for kitchen.[28] Indeed, there +were mair dragoons than lemons in my country in the year forty-six.” + + [28] Condiment. + +I do not know if the collops were truly very good, but my heart rose +against the sight of them, and I could eat but little. All the while +Cluny entertained us with stories of Prince Charlie’s stay in the Cage, +giving us the very words of the speakers, and rising from his place +to show us where they stood. By these, I gathered the Prince was a +gracious, spirited boy, like the son of a race of polite kings, but not +so wise as Solomon. I gathered, too, that while he was in the Cage, he +was often drunk; so the fault that has since, by all accounts, made such +a wreck of him, had even then begun to show itself. + +We were no sooner done eating than Cluny brought out an old, thumbed, +greasy pack of cards, such as you may find in a mean inn; and his eyes +brightened in his face as he proposed that we should fall to playing. + +Now this was one of the things I had been brought up to eschew like +disgrace; it being held by my father neither the part of a Christian +nor yet of a gentleman to set his own livelihood and fish for that of +others, on the cast of painted pasteboard. To be sure, I might have +pleaded my fatigue, which was excuse enough; but I thought it behoved +that I should bear a testimony. I must have got very red in the face, +but I spoke steadily, and told them I had no call to be a judge +of others, but for my own part, it was a matter in which I had no +clearness. + +Cluny stopped mingling the cards. “What in deil’s name is this?” says +he. “What kind of Whiggish, canting talk is this, for the house of Cluny +Macpherson?” + +“I will put my hand in the fire for Mr. Balfour,” says Alan. “He is an +honest and a mettle gentleman, and I would have ye bear in mind who says +it. I bear a king’s name,” says he, cocking his hat; “and I and any that +I call friend are company for the best. But the gentleman is tired, and +should sleep; if he has no mind to the cartes, it will never hinder you +and me. And I’m fit and willing, sir, to play ye any game that ye can +name.” + +“Sir,” says Cluny, “in this poor house of mine I would have you to ken +that any gentleman may follow his pleasure. If your friend would like to +stand on his head, he is welcome. And if either he, or you, or any other +man, is not preceesely satisfied, I will be proud to step outside with +him.” + +I had no will that these two friends should cut their throats for my +sake. + +“Sir,” said I, “I am very wearied, as Alan says; and what’s more, as +you are a man that likely has sons of your own, I may tell you it was a +promise to my father.” + +“Say nae mair, say nae mair,” said Cluny, and pointed me to a bed of +heather in a corner of the Cage. For all that he was displeased enough, +looked at me askance, and grumbled when he looked. And indeed it must +be owned that both my scruples and the words in which I declared them, +smacked somewhat of the Covenanter, and were little in their place among +wild Highland Jacobites. + +What with the brandy and the venison, a strange heaviness had come over +me; and I had scarce lain down upon the bed before I fell into a kind +of trance, in which I continued almost the whole time of our stay in the +Cage. Sometimes I was broad awake and understood what passed; sometimes +I only heard voices, or men snoring, like the voice of a silly river; +and the plaids upon the wall dwindled down and swelled out again, like +firelight shadows on the roof. I must sometimes have spoken or cried +out, for I remember I was now and then amazed at being answered; yet +I was conscious of no particular nightmare, only of a general, black, +abiding horror--a horror of the place I was in, and the bed I lay in, +and the plaids on the wall, and the voices, and the fire, and myself. + +The barber-gillie, who was a doctor too, was called in to prescribe +for me; but as he spoke in the Gaelic, I understood not a word of his +opinion, and was too sick even to ask for a translation. I knew well +enough I was ill, and that was all I cared about. + +I paid little heed while I lay in this poor pass. But Alan and Cluny +were most of the time at the cards, and I am clear that Alan must have +begun by winning; for I remember sitting up, and seeing them hard at it, +and a great glittering pile of as much as sixty or a hundred guineas on +the table. It looked strange enough, to see all this wealth in a nest +upon a cliff-side, wattled about growing trees. And even then, I +thought it seemed deep water for Alan to be riding, who had no better +battle-horse than a green purse and a matter of five pounds. + +The luck, it seems, changed on the second day. About noon I was wakened +as usual for dinner, and as usual refused to eat, and was given a dram +with some bitter infusion which the barber had prescribed. The sun was +shining in at the open door of the Cage, and this dazzled and offended +me. Cluny sat at the table, biting the pack of cards. Alan had stooped +over the bed, and had his face close to my eyes; to which, troubled as +they were with the fever, it seemed of the most shocking bigness. + +He asked me for a loan of my money. + +“What for?” said I. + +“O, just for a loan,” said he. + +“But why?” I repeated. “I don’t see.” + +“Hut, David!” said Alan, “ye wouldnae grudge me a loan?” + +I would, though, if I had had my senses! But all I thought of then was +to get his face away, and I handed him my money. + +On the morning of the third day, when we had been forty-eight hours in +the Cage, I awoke with a great relief of spirits, very weak and weary +indeed, but seeing things of the right size and with their honest, +everyday appearance. I had a mind to eat, moreover, rose from bed of my +own movement, and as soon as we had breakfasted, stepped to the entry of +the Cage and sat down outside in the top of the wood. It was a grey day +with a cool, mild air: and I sat in a dream all morning, only disturbed +by the passing by of Cluny’s scouts and servants coming with provisions +and reports; for as the coast was at that time clear, you might almost +say he held court openly. + +When I returned, he and Alan had laid the cards aside, and were +questioning a gillie; and the chief turned about and spoke to me in the +Gaelic. + +“I have no Gaelic, sir,” said I. + +Now since the card question, everything I said or did had the power of +annoying Cluny. “Your name has more sense than yourself, then,” said he +angrily, “for it’s good Gaelic. But the point is this. My scout reports +all clear in the south, and the question is, have ye the strength to +go?” + +I saw cards on the table, but no gold; only a heap of little written +papers, and these all on Cluny’s side. Alan, besides, had an odd +look, like a man not very well content; and I began to have a strong +misgiving. + +“I do not know if I am as well as I should be,” said I, looking at Alan; +“but the little money we have has a long way to carry us.” + +Alan took his under-lip into his mouth, and looked upon the ground. + +“David,” says he at last, “I’ve lost it; there’s the naked truth.” + +“My money too?” said I. + +“Your money too,” says Alan, with a groan. “Ye shouldnae have given it +me. I’m daft when I get to the cartes.” + +“Hoot-toot! hoot-toot!” said Cluny. “It was all daffing; it’s all +nonsense. Of course you’ll have your money back again, and the double of +it, if ye’ll make so free with me. It would be a singular thing for me +to keep it. It’s not to be supposed that I would be any hindrance to +gentlemen in your situation; that would be a singular thing!” cries he, +and began to pull gold out of his pocket with a mighty red face. + +Alan said nothing, only looked on the ground. + +“Will you step to the door with me, sir?” said I. + +Cluny said he would be very glad, and followed me readily enough, but he +looked flustered and put out. + +“And now, sir,” says I, “I must first acknowledge your generosity.” + +“Nonsensical nonsense!” cries Cluny. “Where’s the generosity? This is +just a most unfortunate affair; but what would ye have me do--boxed +up in this bee-skep of a cage of mine--but just set my friends to the +cartes, when I can get them? And if they lose, of course, it’s not to be +supposed----” And here he came to a pause. + +“Yes,” said I, “if they lose, you give them back their money; and if +they win, they carry away yours in their pouches! I have said before +that I grant your generosity; but to me, sir, it’s a very painful thing +to be placed in this position.” + +There was a little silence, in which Cluny seemed always as if he was +about to speak, but said nothing. All the time he grew redder and redder +in the face. + +“I am a young man,” said I, “and I ask your advice. Advise me as you +would your son. My friend fairly lost his money, after having fairly +gained a far greater sum of yours; can I accept it back again? Would +that be the right part for me to play? Whatever I do, you can see for +yourself it must be hard upon a man of any pride.” + +“It’s rather hard on me, too, Mr. Balfour,” said Cluny, “and ye give +me very much the look of a man that has entrapped poor people to their +hurt. I wouldnae have my friends come to any house of mine to accept +affronts; no,” he cried, with a sudden heat of anger, “nor yet to give +them!” + +“And so you see, sir,” said I, “there is something to be said upon my +side; and this gambling is a very poor employ for gentlefolks. But I am +still waiting your opinion.” + +I am sure if ever Cluny hated any man it was David Balfour. He looked +me all over with a warlike eye, and I saw the challenge at his lips. +But either my youth disarmed him, or perhaps his own sense of justice. +Certainly it was a mortifying matter for all concerned, and not least +Cluny; the more credit that he took it as he did. + +“Mr. Balfour,” said he, “I think you are too nice and covenanting, but +for all that you have the spirit of a very pretty gentleman. Upon my +honest word, ye may take this money--it’s what I would tell my son--and +here’s my hand along with it!” + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER: THE QUARREL + + +Alan and I were put across Loch Errocht under cloud of night, and went +down its eastern shore to another hiding-place near the head of Loch +Rannoch, whither we were led by one of the gillies from the Cage. This +fellow carried all our luggage and Alan’s great-coat in the bargain, +trotting along under the burthen, far less than the half of which used +to weigh me to the ground, like a stout hill pony with a feather; yet he +was a man that, in plain contest, I could have broken on my knee. + +Doubtless it was a great relief to walk disencumbered; and perhaps +without that relief, and the consequent sense of liberty and lightness, +I could not have walked at all. I was but new risen from a bed of +sickness; and there was nothing in the state of our affairs to hearten +me for much exertion; travelling, as we did, over the most dismal +deserts in Scotland, under a cloudy heaven, and with divided hearts +among the travellers. + +For long, we said nothing; marching alongside or one behind the other, +each with a set countenance: I, angry and proud, and drawing what +strength I had from these two violent and sinful feelings; Alan angry +and ashamed, ashamed that he had lost my money, angry that I should take +it so ill. + +The thought of a separation ran always the stronger in my mind; and the +more I approved of it, the more ashamed I grew of my approval. It would +be a fine, handsome, generous thing, indeed, for Alan to turn round and +say to me: “Go, I am in the most danger, and my company only increases +yours.” But for me to turn to the friend who certainly loved me, and say +to him: “You are in great danger, I am in but little; your friendship +is a burden; go, take your risks and bear your hardships alone----” no, +that was impossible; and even to think of it privily to myself, made my +cheeks to burn. + +And yet Alan had behaved like a child, and (what is worse) a treacherous +child. Wheedling my money from me while I lay half-conscious was scarce +better than theft; and yet here he was trudging by my side, without a +penny to his name, and by what I could see, quite blithe to sponge upon +the money he had driven me to beg. True, I was ready to share it with +him; but it made me rage to see him count upon my readiness. + +These were the two things uppermost in my mind; and I could open my +mouth upon neither without black ungenerosity. So I did the next worst, +and said nothing, nor so much as looked once at my companion, save with +the tail of my eye. + +At last, upon the other side of Loch Errocht, going over a smooth, rushy +place, where the walking was easy, he could bear it no longer, and came +close to me. + +“David,” says he, “this is no way for two friends to take a small +accident. I have to say that I’m sorry; and so that’s said. And now if +you have anything, ye’d better say it.” + +“O,” says I, “I have nothing.” + +He seemed disconcerted; at which I was meanly pleased. + +“No,” said he, with rather a trembling voice, “but when I say I was to +blame?” + +“Why, of course, ye were to blame,” said I, coolly; “and you will bear +me out that I have never reproached you.” + +“Never,” says he; “but ye ken very well that ye’ve done worse. Are we to +part? Ye said so once before. Are ye to say it again? There’s hills and +heather enough between here and the two seas, David; and I will own I’m +no very keen to stay where I’m no wanted.” + +This pierced me like a sword, and seemed to lay bare my private +disloyalty. + +“Alan Breck!” I cried; and then: “Do you think I am one to turn my +back on you in your chief need? You dursn’t say it to my face. My whole +conduct’s there to give the lie to it. It’s true, I fell asleep upon +the muir; but that was from weariness, and you do wrong to cast it up to +me----” + +“Which is what I never did,” said Alan. + +“But aside from that,” I continued, “what have I done that you should +even me to dogs by such a supposition? I never yet failed a friend, and +it’s not likely I’ll begin with you. There are things between us that I +can never forget, even if you can.” + +“I will only say this to ye, David,” said Alan, very quietly, “that I +have long been owing ye my life, and now I owe ye money. Ye should try +to make that burden light for me.” + +This ought to have touched me, and in a manner it did, but the wrong +manner. I felt I was behaving badly; and was now not only angry with +Alan, but angry with myself in the bargain; and it made me the more +cruel. + +“You asked me to speak,” said I. “Well, then, I will. You own yourself +that you have done me a disservice; I have had to swallow an affront: I +have never reproached you, I never named the thing till you did. And +now you blame me,” cried I, “because I cannae laugh and sing as if I was +glad to be affronted. The next thing will be that I’m to go down upon my +knees and thank you for it! Ye should think more of others, Alan +Breck. If ye thought more of others, ye would perhaps speak less about +yourself; and when a friend that likes you very well has passed over an +offence without a word, you would be blithe to let it lie, instead of +making it a stick to break his back with. By your own way of it, it was +you that was to blame; then it shouldnae be you to seek the quarrel.” + +“Aweel,” said Alan, “say nae mair.” + +And we fell back into our former silence; and came to our journey’s end, +and supped, and lay down to sleep, without another word. + +The gillie put us across Loch Rannoch in the dusk of the next day, and +gave us his opinion as to our best route. This was to get us up at once +into the tops of the mountains: to go round by a circuit, turning the +heads of Glen Lyon, Glen Lochay, and Glen Dochart, and come down upon +the lowlands by Kippen and the upper waters of the Forth. Alan was +little pleased with a route which led us through the country of his +blood-foes, the Glenorchy Campbells. He objected that by turning to the +east, we should come almost at once among the Athole Stewarts, a race of +his own name and lineage, although following a different chief, and come +besides by a far easier and swifter way to the place whither we were +bound. But the gillie, who was indeed the chief man of Cluny’s scouts, +had good reasons to give him on all hands, naming the force of troops +in every district, and alleging finally (as well as I could understand) +that we should nowhere be so little troubled as in a country of the +Campbells. + +Alan gave way at last, but with only half a heart. “It’s one of the +dowiest countries in Scotland,” said he. “There’s naething there that I +ken, but heath, and crows, and Campbells. But I see that ye’re a man of +some penetration; and be it as ye please!” + +We set forth accordingly by this itinerary; and for the best part of +three nights travelled on eerie mountains and among the well-heads of +wild rivers; often buried in mist, almost continually blown and rained +upon, and not once cheered by any glimpse of sunshine. By day, we lay +and slept in the drenching heather; by night, incessantly clambered upon +break-neck hills and among rude crags. We often wandered; we were often +so involved in fog, that we must lie quiet till it lightened. A fire was +never to be thought of. Our only food was drammach and a portion of cold +meat that we had carried from the Cage; and as for drink, Heaven knows +we had no want of water. + +This was a dreadful time, rendered the more dreadful by the gloom of +the weather and the country. I was never warm; my teeth chattered in my +head; I was troubled with a very sore throat, such as I had on the isle; +I had a painful stitch in my side, which never left me; and when I slept +in my wet bed, with the rain beating above and the mud oozing below me, +it was to live over again in fancy the worst part of my adventures--to +see the tower of Shaws lit by lightning, Ransome carried below on the +men’s backs, Shuan dying on the round-house floor, or Colin Campbell +grasping at the bosom of his coat. From such broken slumbers, I would be +aroused in the gloaming, to sit up in the same puddle where I had slept, +and sup cold drammach; the rain driving sharp in my face or running +down my back in icy trickles; the mist enfolding us like as in a gloomy +chamber--or, perhaps, if the wind blew, falling suddenly apart and +showing us the gulf of some dark valley where the streams were crying +aloud. + +The sound of an infinite number of rivers came up from all round. In +this steady rain the springs of the mountain were broken up; every glen +gushed water like a cistern; every stream was in high spate, and had +filled and overflowed its channel. During our night tramps, it was +solemn to hear the voice of them below in the valleys, now booming like +thunder, now with an angry cry. I could well understand the story of the +Water Kelpie, that demon of the streams, who is fabled to keep wailing +and roaring at the ford until the coming of the doomed traveller. Alan I +saw believed it, or half believed it; and when the cry of the river rose +more than usually sharp, I was little surprised (though, of course, I +would still be shocked) to see him cross himself in the manner of the +Catholics. + +During all these horrid wanderings we had no familiarity, scarcely even +that of speech. The truth is that I was sickening for my grave, which +is my best excuse. But besides that I was of an unforgiving disposition +from my birth, slow to take offence, slower to forget it, and now +incensed both against my companion and myself. For the best part of two +days he was unweariedly kind; silent, indeed, but always ready to help, +and always hoping (as I could very well see) that my displeasure would +blow by. For the same length of time I stayed in myself, nursing my +anger, roughly refusing his services, and passing him over with my eyes +as if he had been a bush or a stone. + +The second night, or rather the peep of the third day, found us upon a +very open hill, so that we could not follow our usual plan and lie down +immediately to eat and sleep. Before we had reached a place of shelter, +the grey had come pretty clear, for though it still rained, the clouds +ran higher; and Alan, looking in my face, showed some marks of concern. + +“Ye had better let me take your pack,” said he, for perhaps the ninth +time since we had parted from the scout beside Loch Rannoch. + +“I do very well, I thank you,” said I, as cold as ice. + +Alan flushed darkly. “I’ll not offer it again,” he said. “I’m not a +patient man, David.” + +“I never said you were,” said I, which was exactly the rude, silly +speech of a boy of ten. + +Alan made no answer at the time, but his conduct answered for him. +Henceforth, it is to be thought, he quite forgave himself for the affair +at Cluny’s; cocked his hat again, walked jauntily, whistled airs, and +looked at me upon one side with a provoking smile. + +The third night we were to pass through the western end of the country +of Balquhidder. It came clear and cold, with a touch in the air like +frost, and a northerly wind that blew the clouds away and made the stars +bright. The streams were full, of course, and still made a great noise +among the hills; but I observed that Alan thought no more upon the +Kelpie, and was in high good spirits. As for me, the change of weather +came too late; I had lain in the mire so long that (as the Bible has it) +my very clothes “abhorred me.” I was dead weary, deadly sick and full +of pains and shiverings; the chill of the wind went through me, and the +sound of it confused my ears. In this poor state I had to bear from +my companion something in the nature of a persecution. He spoke a good +deal, and never without a taunt. “Whig” was the best name he had to give +me. “Here,” he would say, “here’s a dub for ye to jump, my Whiggie! I +ken you’re a fine jumper!” And so on; all the time with a gibing voice +and face. + +I knew it was my own doing, and no one else’s; but I was too miserable +to repent. I felt I could drag myself but little farther; pretty soon, I +must lie down and die on these wet mountains like a sheep or a fox, and +my bones must whiten there like the bones of a beast. My head was light +perhaps; but I began to love the prospect, I began to glory in the +thought of such a death, alone in the desert, with the wild eagles +besieging my last moments. Alan would repent then, I thought; he would +remember, when I was dead, how much he owed me, and the remembrance +would be torture. So I went like a sick, silly, and bad-hearted +schoolboy, feeding my anger against a fellow-man, when I would have +been better on my knees, crying on God for mercy. And at each of Alan’s +taunts, I hugged myself. “Ah!” thinks I to myself, “I have a better +taunt in readiness; when I lie down and die, you will feel it like a +buffet in your face; ah, what a revenge! ah, how you will regret your +ingratitude and cruelty!” + +All the while, I was growing worse and worse. Once I had fallen, my leg +simply doubling under me, and this had struck Alan for the moment; but I +was afoot so briskly, and set off again with such a natural manner, +that he soon forgot the incident. Flushes of heat went over me, and then +spasms of shuddering. The stitch in my side was hardly bearable. At last +I began to feel that I could trail myself no farther: and with that, +there came on me all at once the wish to have it out with Alan, let my +anger blaze, and be done with my life in a more sudden manner. He had +just called me “Whig.” I stopped. + +“Mr. Stewart,” said I, in a voice that quivered like a fiddle-string, +“you are older than I am, and should know your manners. Do you think +it either very wise or very witty to cast my politics in my teeth? I +thought, where folk differed, it was the part of gentlemen to differ +civilly; and if I did not, I may tell you I could find a better taunt +than some of yours.” + +Alan had stopped opposite to me, his hat cocked, his hands in his +breeches pockets, his head a little on one side. He listened, smiling +evilly, as I could see by the starlight; and when I had done he began to +whistle a Jacobite air. It was the air made in mockery of General Cope’s +defeat at Preston Pans: + + “Hey, Johnnie Cope, are ye waukin’ yet? + And are your drums a-beatin’ yet?” + +And it came in my mind that Alan, on the day of that battle, had been +engaged upon the royal side. + +“Why do ye take that air, Mr. Stewart?” said I. “Is that to remind me +you have been beaten on both sides?” + +The air stopped on Alan’s lips. “David!” said he. + +“But it’s time these manners ceased,” I continued; “and I mean you shall +henceforth speak civilly of my King and my good friends the Campbells.” + +“I am a Stewart--” began Alan. + +“O!” says I, “I ken ye bear a king’s name. But you are to remember, +since I have been in the Highlands, I have seen a good many of those +that bear it; and the best I can say of them is this, that they would be +none the worse of washing.” + +“Do you know that you insult me?” said Alan, very low. + +“I am sorry for that,” said I, “for I am not done; and if you distaste +the sermon, I doubt the pirliecue[29] will please you as little. You have +been chased in the field by the grown men of my party; it seems a poor +kind of pleasure to out-face a boy. Both the Campbells and the Whigs +have beaten you; you have run before them like a hare. It behoves you to +speak of them as of your betters.” + + [29] A second sermon. + +Alan stood quite still, the tails of his great-coat clapping behind him +in the wind. + +“This is a pity,” he said at last. “There are things said that cannot be +passed over.” + +“I never asked you to,” said I. “I am as ready as yourself.” + +“Ready?” said he. + +“Ready,” I repeated. “I am no blower and boaster like some that I could +name. Come on!” And drawing my sword, I fell on guard as Alan himself +had taught me. + +“David!” he cried. “Are ye daft? I cannae draw upon ye, David. It’s +fair murder.” + +“That was your look-out when you insulted me,” said I. + +“It’s the truth!” cried Alan, and he stood for a moment, wringing his +mouth in his hand like a man in sore perplexity. “It’s the bare truth,” + he said, and drew his sword. But before I could touch his blade with +mine, he had thrown it from him and fallen to the ground. “Na, na,” he +kept saying, “na, na--I cannae, I cannae.” + +At this the last of my anger oozed all out of me; and I found myself +only sick, and sorry, and blank, and wondering at myself. I would have +given the world to take back what I had said; but a word once spoken, +who can recapture it? I minded me of all Alan’s kindness and courage in +the past, how he had helped and cheered and borne with me in our evil +days; and then recalled my own insults, and saw that I had lost for ever +that doughty friend. At the same time, the sickness that hung upon +me seemed to redouble, and the pang in my side was like a sword for +sharpness. I thought I must have swooned where I stood. + +This it was that gave me a thought. No apology could blot out what I had +said; it was needless to think of one, none could cover the offence; but +where an apology was vain, a mere cry for help might bring Alan back to +my side. I put my pride away from me. “Alan!” I said; “if ye cannae help +me, I must just die here.” + +He started up sitting, and looked at me. + +“It’s true,” said I. “I’m by with it. O, let me get into the bield of a +house--I’ll can die there easier.” I had no need to pretend; whether I +chose or not, I spoke in a weeping voice that would have melted a heart +of stone. + +“Can ye walk?” asked Alan. + +“No,” said I, “not without help. This last hour my legs have been +fainting under me; I’ve a stitch in my side like a red-hot iron; I +cannae breathe right. If I die, ye’ll can forgive me, Alan? In my heart, +I liked ye fine--even when I was the angriest.” + +“Wheesht, wheesht!” cried Alan. “Dinna say that! David man, ye ken--” He +shut his mouth upon a sob. “Let me get my arm about ye,” he continued; +“that’s the way! Now lean upon me hard. Gude kens where there’s a house! +We’re in Balwhidder, too; there should be no want of houses, no, nor +friends’ houses here. Do ye gang easier so, Davie?” + +“Ay,” said I, “I can be doing this way;” and I pressed his arm with my +hand. + +Again he came near sobbing. “Davie,” said he, “I’m no a right man at +all; I have neither sense nor kindness; I could nae remember ye were +just a bairn, I couldnae see ye were dying on your feet; Davie, ye’ll +have to try and forgive me.” + +“O man, let’s say no more about it!” said I. “We’re neither one of us +to mend the other--that’s the truth! We must just bear and forbear, man +Alan. O, but my stitch is sore! Is there nae house?” + +“I’ll find a house to ye, David,” he said, stoutly. “We’ll follow down +the burn, where there’s bound to be houses. My poor man, will ye no be +better on my back?” + +“O, Alan,” says I, “and me a good twelve inches taller?” + +“Ye’re no such a thing,” cried Alan, with a start. “There may be a +trifling matter of an inch or two; I’m no saying I’m just exactly what +ye would call a tall man, whatever; and I dare say,” he added, his voice +tailing off in a laughable manner, “now when I come to think of it, I +dare say ye’ll be just about right. Ay, it’ll be a foot, or near hand; +or may be even mair!” + +It was sweet and laughable to hear Alan eat his words up in the fear of +some fresh quarrel. I could have laughed, had not my stitch caught me so +hard; but if I had laughed, I think I must have wept too. + +“Alan,” cried I, “what makes ye so good to me? What makes ye care for +such a thankless fellow?” + +“‘Deed, and I don’t know” said Alan. “For just precisely what I thought +I liked about ye, was that ye never quarrelled:--and now I like ye +better!” + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +IN BALQUHIDDER + + +At the door of the first house we came to, Alan knocked, which was of +no very safe enterprise in such a part of the Highlands as the Braes of +Balquhidder. No great clan held rule there; it was filled and disputed +by small septs, and broken remnants, and what they call “chiefless +folk,” driven into the wild country about the springs of Forth and Teith +by the advance of the Campbells. Here were Stewarts and Maclarens, which +came to the same thing, for the Maclarens followed Alan’s chief in war, +and made but one clan with Appin. Here, too, were many of that old, +proscribed, nameless, red-handed clan of the Macgregors. They had always +been ill-considered, and now worse than ever, having credit with no side +or party in the whole country of Scotland. Their chief, Macgregor of +Macgregor, was in exile; the more immediate leader of that part of them +about Balquhidder, James More, Rob Roy’s eldest son, lay waiting his +trial in Edinburgh Castle; they were in ill-blood with Highlander and +Lowlander, with the Grahames, the Maclarens, and the Stewarts; and Alan, +who took up the quarrel of any friend, however distant, was extremely +wishful to avoid them. + +Chance served us very well; for it was a household of Maclarens that we +found, where Alan was not only welcome for his name’s sake but known +by reputation. Here then I was got to bed without delay, and a doctor +fetched, who found me in a sorry plight. But whether because he was a +very good doctor, or I a very young, strong man, I lay bedridden for no +more than a week, and before a month I was able to take the road again +with a good heart. + +All this time Alan would not leave me though I often pressed him, and +indeed his foolhardiness in staying was a common subject of outcry with +the two or three friends that were let into the secret. He hid by day +in a hole of the braes under a little wood; and at night, when the coast +was clear, would come into the house to visit me. I need not say if I +was pleased to see him; Mrs. Maclaren, our hostess, thought nothing good +enough for such a guest; and as Duncan Dhu (which was the name of our +host) had a pair of pipes in his house, and was much of a lover of +music, this time of my recovery was quite a festival, and we commonly +turned night into day. + +The soldiers let us be; although once a party of two companies and some +dragoons went by in the bottom of the valley, where I could see them +through the window as I lay in bed. What was much more astonishing, no +magistrate came near me, and there was no question put of whence I came +or whither I was going; and in that time of excitement, I was as free of +all inquiry as though I had lain in a desert. Yet my presence was known +before I left to all the people in Balquhidder and the adjacent parts; +many coming about the house on visits and these (after the custom of the +country) spreading the news among their neighbours. The bills, too, had +now been printed. There was one pinned near the foot of my bed, where +I could read my own not very flattering portrait and, in larger +characters, the amount of the blood money that had been set upon my +life. Duncan Dhu and the rest that knew that I had come there in Alan’s +company, could have entertained no doubt of who I was; and many others +must have had their guess. For though I had changed my clothes, I could +not change my age or person; and Lowland boys of eighteen were not so +rife in these parts of the world, and above all about that time, that +they could fail to put one thing with another, and connect me with the +bill. So it was, at least. Other folk keep a secret among two or three +near friends, and somehow it leaks out; but among these clansmen, it is +told to a whole countryside, and they will keep it for a century. + +There was but one thing happened worth narrating; and that is the visit +I had of Robin Oig, one of the sons of the notorious Rob Roy. He was +sought upon all sides on a charge of carrying a young woman from +Balfron and marrying her (as was alleged) by force; yet he stepped about +Balquhidder like a gentleman in his own walled policy. It was he who had +shot James Maclaren at the plough stilts, a quarrel never satisfied; yet +he walked into the house of his blood enemies as a rider[30] might into a +public inn. + + [30] Commercial traveller. + +Duncan had time to pass me word of who it was; and we looked at one +another in concern. You should understand, it was then close upon the +time of Alan’s coming; the two were little likely to agree; and yet if +we sent word or sought to make a signal, it was sure to arouse suspicion +in a man under so dark a cloud as the Macgregor. + +He came in with a great show of civility, but like a man among +inferiors; took off his bonnet to Mrs. Maclaren, but clapped it on his +head again to speak to Duncan; and having thus set himself (as he would +have thought) in a proper light, came to my bedside and bowed. + +“I am given to know, sir,” says he, “that your name is Balfour.” + +“They call me David Balfour,” said I, “at your service.” + +“I would give ye my name in return, sir,” he replied, “but it’s one +somewhat blown upon of late days; and it’ll perhaps suffice if I tell +ye that I am own brother to James More Drummond or Macgregor, of whom ye +will scarce have failed to hear.” + +“No, sir,” said I, a little alarmed; “nor yet of your father, +Macgregor-Campbell.” And I sat up and bowed in bed; for I thought best +to compliment him, in case he was proud of having had an outlaw to his +father. + +He bowed in return. “But what I am come to say, sir,” he went on, “is +this. In the year ‘45, my brother raised a part of the ‘Gregara’ and +marched six companies to strike a stroke for the good side; and the +surgeon that marched with our clan and cured my brother’s leg when it +was broken in the brush at Preston Pans, was a gentleman of the same +name precisely as yourself. He was brother to Balfour of Baith; and if +you are in any reasonable degree of nearness one of that gentleman’s +kin, I have come to put myself and my people at your command.” + +You are to remember that I knew no more of my descent than any cadger’s +dog; my uncle, to be sure, had prated of some of our high connections, +but nothing to the present purpose; and there was nothing left me but +that bitter disgrace of owning that I could not tell. + +Robin told me shortly he was sorry he had put himself about, turned his +back upon me without a sign of salutation, and as he went towards the +door, I could hear him telling Duncan that I was “only some kinless loon +that didn’t know his own father.” Angry as I was at these words, and +ashamed of my own ignorance, I could scarce keep from smiling that a +man who was under the lash of the law (and was indeed hanged some three +years later) should be so nice as to the descent of his acquaintances. + +Just in the door, he met Alan coming in; and the two drew back and +looked at each other like strange dogs. They were neither of them big +men, but they seemed fairly to swell out with pride. Each wore a sword, +and by a movement of his haunch, thrust clear the hilt of it, so that it +might be the more readily grasped and the blade drawn. + +“Mr. Stewart, I am thinking,” says Robin. + +“Troth, Mr. Macgregor, it’s not a name to be ashamed of,” answered Alan. + +“I did not know ye were in my country, sir,” says Robin. + +“It sticks in my mind that I am in the country of my friends the +Maclarens,” says Alan. + +“That’s a kittle point,” returned the other. “There may be two words to +say to that. But I think I will have heard that you are a man of your +sword?” + +“Unless ye were born deaf, Mr. Macgregor, ye will have heard a good deal +more than that,” says Alan. “I am not the only man that can draw steel +in Appin; and when my kinsman and captain, Ardshiel, had a talk with a +gentleman of your name, not so many years back, I could never hear that +the Macgregor had the best of it.” + +“Do ye mean my father, sir?” says Robin. + +“Well, I wouldnae wonder,” said Alan. “The gentleman I have in my mind +had the ill-taste to clap Campbell to his name.” + +“My father was an old man,” returned Robin. + +“The match was unequal. You and me would make a better pair, sir.” + +“I was thinking that,” said Alan. + +I was half out of bed, and Duncan had been hanging at the elbow of these +fighting cocks, ready to intervene upon the least occasion. But when +that word was uttered, it was a case of now or never; and Duncan, with +something of a white face to be sure, thrust himself between. + +“Gentlemen,” said he, “I will have been thinking of a very different +matter, whateffer. Here are my pipes, and here are you two gentlemen who +are baith acclaimed pipers. It’s an auld dispute which one of ye’s the +best. Here will be a braw chance to settle it.” + +“Why, sir,” said Alan, still addressing Robin, from whom indeed he had +not so much as shifted his eyes, nor yet Robin from him, “why, sir,” + says Alan, “I think I will have heard some sough[31] of the sort. Have ye +music, as folk say? Are ye a bit of a piper?” + + [31] Rumour. + +“I can pipe like a Macrimmon!” cries Robin. + +“And that is a very bold word,” quoth Alan. + +“I have made bolder words good before now,” returned Robin, “and that +against better adversaries.” + +“It is easy to try that,” says Alan. + +Duncan Dhu made haste to bring out the pair of pipes that was his +principal possession, and to set before his guests a mutton-ham and a +bottle of that drink which they call Athole brose, and which is made of +old whiskey, strained honey and sweet cream, slowly beaten together in +the right order and proportion. The two enemies were still on the very +breach of a quarrel; but down they sat, one upon each side of the peat +fire, with a mighty show of politeness. Maclaren pressed them to taste +his mutton-ham and “the wife’s brose,” reminding them the wife was out +of Athole and had a name far and wide for her skill in that confection. +But Robin put aside these hospitalities as bad for the breath. + +“I would have ye to remark, sir,” said Alan, “that I havenae broken +bread for near upon ten hours, which will be worse for the breath than +any brose in Scotland.” + +“I will take no advantages, Mr. Stewart,” replied Robin. “Eat and drink; +I’ll follow you.” + +Each ate a small portion of the ham and drank a glass of the brose to +Mrs. Maclaren; and then after a great number of civilities, Robin took +the pipes and played a little spring in a very ranting manner. + +“Ay, ye can blow” said Alan; and taking the instrument from his rival, +he first played the same spring in a manner identical with Robin’s; and +then wandered into variations, which, as he went on, he decorated with +a perfect flight of grace-notes, such as pipers love, and call the +“warblers.” + +I had been pleased with Robin’s playing, Alan’s ravished me. + +“That’s no very bad, Mr. Stewart,” said the rival, “but ye show a poor +device in your warblers.” + +“Me!” cried Alan, the blood starting to his face. “I give ye the lie.” + +“Do ye own yourself beaten at the pipes, then,” said Robin, “that ye +seek to change them for the sword?” + +“And that’s very well said, Mr. Macgregor,” returned Alan; “and in the +meantime” (laying a strong accent on the word) “I take back the lie. I +appeal to Duncan.” + +“Indeed, ye need appeal to naebody,” said Robin. “Ye’re a far better +judge than any Maclaren in Balquhidder: for it’s a God’s truth that +you’re a very creditable piper for a Stewart. Hand me the pipes.” Alan +did as he asked; and Robin proceeded to imitate and correct some part of +Alan’s variations, which it seemed that he remembered perfectly. + +“Ay, ye have music,” said Alan, gloomily. + +“And now be the judge yourself, Mr. Stewart,” said Robin; and taking up +the variations from the beginning, he worked them throughout to so new a +purpose, with such ingenuity and sentiment, and with so odd a fancy and +so quick a knack in the grace-notes, that I was amazed to hear him. + +As for Alan, his face grew dark and hot, and he sat and gnawed his +fingers, like a man under some deep affront. “Enough!” he cried. “Ye can +blow the pipes--make the most of that.” And he made as if to rise. + +But Robin only held out his hand as if to ask for silence, and struck +into the slow measure of a pibroch. It was a fine piece of music in +itself, and nobly played; but it seems, besides, it was a piece peculiar +to the Appin Stewarts and a chief favourite with Alan. The first notes +were scarce out, before there came a change in his face; when the time +quickened, he seemed to grow restless in his seat; and long before that +piece was at an end, the last signs of his anger died from him, and he +had no thought but for the music. + +“Robin Oig,” he said, when it was done, “ye are a great piper. I am not +fit to blow in the same kingdom with ye. Body of me! ye have mair music +in your sporran than I have in my head! And though it still sticks in +my mind that I could maybe show ye another of it with the cold steel, +I warn ye beforehand--it’ll no be fair! It would go against my heart to +haggle a man that can blow the pipes as you can!” + +Thereupon that quarrel was made up; all night long the brose was going +and the pipes changing hands; and the day had come pretty bright, and +the three men were none the better for what they had been taking, before +Robin as much as thought upon the road. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +END OF THE FLIGHT: WE PASS THE FORTH + + +The month, as I have said, was not yet out, but it was already far +through August, and beautiful warm weather, with every sign of an early +and great harvest, when I was pronounced able for my journey. Our money +was now run to so low an ebb that we must think first of all on speed; +for if we came not soon to Mr. Rankeillor’s, or if when we came there he +should fail to help me, we must surely starve. In Alan’s view, besides, +the hunt must have now greatly slackened; and the line of the Forth and +even Stirling Bridge, which is the main pass over that river, would be +watched with little interest. + +“It’s a chief principle in military affairs,” said he, “to go where +ye are least expected. Forth is our trouble; ye ken the saying, ‘Forth +bridles the wild Hielandman.’ Well, if we seek to creep round about +the head of that river and come down by Kippen or Balfron, it’s just +precisely there that they’ll be looking to lay hands on us. But if we +stave on straight to the auld Brig of Stirling, I’ll lay my sword they +let us pass unchallenged.” + +The first night, accordingly, we pushed to the house of a Maclaren in +Strathire, a friend of Duncan’s, where we slept the twenty-first of the +month, and whence we set forth again about the fall of night to make +another easy stage. The twenty-second we lay in a heather bush on the +hillside in Uam Var, within view of a herd of deer, the happiest ten +hours of sleep in a fine, breathing sunshine and on bone-dry ground, +that I have ever tasted. That night we struck Allan Water, and followed +it down; and coming to the edge of the hills saw the whole Carse of +Stirling underfoot, as flat as a pancake, with the town and castle on a +hill in the midst of it, and the moon shining on the Links of Forth. + +“Now,” said Alan, “I kenna if ye care, but ye’re in your own land again. +We passed the Hieland Line in the first hour; and now if we could but +pass yon crooked water, we might cast our bonnets in the air.” + +In Allan Water, near by where it falls into the Forth, we found a little +sandy islet, overgrown with burdock, butterbur and the like low plants, +that would just cover us if we lay flat. Here it was we made our camp, +within plain view of Stirling Castle, whence we could hear the drums +beat as some part of the garrison paraded. Shearers worked all day in +a field on one side of the river, and we could hear the stones going +on the hooks and the voices and even the words of the men talking. It +behoved to lie close and keep silent. But the sand of the little isle +was sun-warm, the green plants gave us shelter for our heads, we had +food and drink in plenty; and to crown all, we were within sight of +safety. + +As soon as the shearers quit their work and the dusk began to fall, +we waded ashore and struck for the Bridge of Stirling, keeping to the +fields and under the field fences. + +The bridge is close under the castle hill, an old, high, narrow bridge +with pinnacles along the parapet; and you may conceive with how much +interest I looked upon it, not only as a place famous in history, but as +the very doors of salvation to Alan and myself. The moon was not yet up +when we came there; a few lights shone along the front of the fortress, +and lower down a few lighted windows in the town; but it was all mighty +still, and there seemed to be no guard upon the passage. + +I was for pushing straight across; but Alan was more wary. + +“It looks unco’ quiet,” said he; “but for all that we’ll lie down here +cannily behind a dyke, and make sure.” + +So we lay for about a quarter of an hour, whiles whispering, whiles +lying still and hearing nothing earthly but the washing of the water on +the piers. At last there came by an old, hobbling woman with a crutch +stick; who first stopped a little, close to where we lay, and bemoaned +herself and the long way she had travelled; and then set forth again up +the steep spring of the bridge. The woman was so little, and the night +still so dark, that we soon lost sight of her; only heard the sound of +her steps, and her stick, and a cough that she had by fits, draw slowly +farther away. + +“She’s bound to be across now,” I whispered. + +“Na,” said Alan, “her foot still sounds boss[32] upon the bridge.” + + [32] Hollow. + +And just then--“Who goes?” cried a voice, and we heard the butt of +a musket rattle on the stones. I must suppose the sentry had been +sleeping, so that had we tried, we might have passed unseen; but he was +awake now, and the chance forfeited. + +“This’ll never do,” said Alan. “This’ll never, never do for us, David.” + +And without another word, he began to crawl away through the fields; and +a little after, being well out of eye-shot, got to his feet again, and +struck along a road that led to the eastward. I could not conceive what +he was doing; and indeed I was so sharply cut by the disappointment, +that I was little likely to be pleased with anything. A moment back +and I had seen myself knocking at Mr. Rankeillor’s door to claim my +inheritance, like a hero in a ballad; and here was I back again, a +wandering, hunted blackguard, on the wrong side of Forth. + +“Well?” said I. + +“Well,” said Alan, “what would ye have? They’re none such fools as I +took them for. We have still the Forth to pass, Davie--weary fall the +rains that fed and the hillsides that guided it!” + +“And why go east?” said I. + +“Ou, just upon the chance!” said he. “If we cannae pass the river, we’ll +have to see what we can do for the firth.” + +“There are fords upon the river, and none upon the firth,” said I. + +“To be sure there are fords, and a bridge forbye,” quoth Alan; “and of +what service, when they are watched?” + +“Well,” said I, “but a river can be swum.” + +“By them that have the skill of it,” returned he; “but I have yet to +hear that either you or me is much of a hand at that exercise; and for +my own part, I swim like a stone.” + +“I’m not up to you in talking back, Alan,” I said; “but I can see we’re +making bad worse. If it’s hard to pass a river, it stands to reason it +must be worse to pass a sea.” + +“But there’s such a thing as a boat,” says Alan, “or I’m the more +deceived.” + +“Ay, and such a thing as money,” says I. “But for us that have neither +one nor other, they might just as well not have been invented.” + +“Ye think so?” said Alan. + +“I do that,” said I. + +“David,” says he, “ye’re a man of small invention and less faith. But +let me set my wits upon the hone, and if I cannae beg, borrow, nor yet +steal a boat, I’ll make one!” + +“I think I see ye!” said I. “And what’s more than all that: if ye pass a +bridge, it can tell no tales; but if we pass the firth, there’s the boat +on the wrong side--somebody must have brought it--the country-side will +all be in a bizz---” + +“Man!” cried Alan, “if I make a boat, I’ll make a body to take it back +again! So deave me with no more of your nonsense, but walk (for that’s +what you’ve got to do)--and let Alan think for ye.” + +All night, then, we walked through the north side of the Carse under +the high line of the Ochil mountains; and by Alloa and Clackmannan and +Culross, all of which we avoided: and about ten in the morning, mighty +hungry and tired, came to the little clachan of Limekilns. This is a +place that sits near in by the water-side, and looks across the Hope to +the town of the Queensferry. Smoke went up from both of these, and from +other villages and farms upon all hands. The fields were being reaped; +two ships lay anchored, and boats were coming and going on the Hope. +It was altogether a right pleasant sight to me; and I could not take +my fill of gazing at these comfortable, green, cultivated hills and the +busy people both of the field and sea. + +For all that, there was Mr. Rankeillor’s house on the south shore, where +I had no doubt wealth awaited me; and here was I upon the north, clad in +poor enough attire of an outlandish fashion, with three silver shillings +left to me of all my fortune, a price set upon my head, and an outlawed +man for my sole company. + +“O, Alan!” said I, “to think of it! Over there, there’s all that heart +could want waiting me; and the birds go over, and the boats go over--all +that please can go, but just me only! O, man, but it’s a heart-break!” + +In Limekilns we entered a small change-house, which we only knew to be a +public by the wand over the door, and bought some bread and cheese from +a good-looking lass that was the servant. This we carried with us in a +bundle, meaning to sit and eat it in a bush of wood on the sea-shore, +that we saw some third part of a mile in front. As we went, I kept +looking across the water and sighing to myself; and though I took no +heed of it, Alan had fallen into a muse. At last he stopped in the way. + +“Did ye take heed of the lass we bought this of?” says he, tapping on +the bread and cheese. + +“To be sure,” said I, “and a bonny lass she was.” + +“Ye thought that?” cries he. “Man, David, that’s good news.” + +“In the name of all that’s wonderful, why so?” says I. “What good can +that do?” + +“Well,” said Alan, with one of his droll looks, “I was rather in hopes +it would maybe get us that boat.” + +“If it were the other way about, it would be liker it,” said I. + +“That’s all that you ken, ye see,” said Alan. “I don’t want the lass to +fall in love with ye, I want her to be sorry for ye, David; to which end +there is no manner of need that she should take you for a beauty. Let me +see” (looking me curiously over). “I wish ye were a wee thing paler; but +apart from that ye’ll do fine for my purpose--ye have a fine, hang-dog, +rag-and-tatter, clappermaclaw kind of a look to ye, as if ye had +stolen the coat from a potato-bogle. Come; right about, and back to the +change-house for that boat of ours.” + +I followed him, laughing. + +“David Balfour,” said he, “ye’re a very funny gentleman by your way of +it, and this is a very funny employ for ye, no doubt. For all that, if +ye have any affection for my neck (to say nothing of your own) ye will +perhaps be kind enough to take this matter responsibly. I am going to +do a bit of play-acting, the bottom ground of which is just exactly as +serious as the gallows for the pair of us. So bear it, if ye please, in +mind, and conduct yourself according.” + +“Well, well,” said I, “have it as you will.” + +As we got near the clachan, he made me take his arm and hang upon it +like one almost helpless with weariness; and by the time he pushed +open the change-house door, he seemed to be half carrying me. The maid +appeared surprised (as well she might be) at our speedy return; but +Alan had no words to spare for her in explanation, helped me to a chair, +called for a tass of brandy with which he fed me in little sips, +and then breaking up the bread and cheese helped me to eat it like +a nursery-lass; the whole with that grave, concerned, affectionate +countenance, that might have imposed upon a judge. It was small wonder +if the maid were taken with the picture we presented, of a poor, sick, +overwrought lad and his most tender comrade. She drew quite near, and +stood leaning with her back on the next table. + +“What’s like wrong with him?” said she at last. + +Alan turned upon her, to my great wonder, with a kind of fury. “Wrong?” + cries he. “He’s walked more hundreds of miles than he has hairs upon his +chin, and slept oftener in wet heather than dry sheets. Wrong, quo’ she! +Wrong enough, I would think! Wrong, indeed!” and he kept grumbling to +himself as he fed me, like a man ill-pleased. + +“He’s young for the like of that,” said the maid. + +“Ower young,” said Alan, with his back to her. + +“He would be better riding,” says she. + +“And where could I get a horse to him?” cried Alan, turning on her with +the same appearance of fury. “Would ye have me steal?” + +I thought this roughness would have sent her off in dudgeon, as indeed +it closed her mouth for the time. But my companion knew very well what +he was doing; and for as simple as he was in some things of life, had a +great fund of roguishness in such affairs as these. + +“Ye neednae tell me,” she said at last--“ye’re gentry.” + +“Well,” said Alan, softened a little (I believe against his will) by +this artless comment, “and suppose we were? Did ever you hear that +gentrice put money in folk’s pockets?” + +She sighed at this, as if she were herself some disinherited great lady. +“No,” says she, “that’s true indeed.” + +I was all this while chafing at the part I played, and sitting +tongue-tied between shame and merriment; but somehow at this I could +hold in no longer, and bade Alan let me be, for I was better already. My +voice stuck in my throat, for I ever hated to take part in lies; but my +very embarrassment helped on the plot, for the lass no doubt set down my +husky voice to sickness and fatigue. + +“Has he nae friends?” said she, in a tearful voice. + +“That has he so!” cried Alan, “if we could but win to them!--friends and +rich friends, beds to lie in, food to eat, doctors to see to him--and +here he must tramp in the dubs and sleep in the heather like a +beggarman.” + +“And why that?” says the lass. + +“My dear,” said Alan, “I cannae very safely say; but I’ll tell ye what +I’ll do instead,” says he, “I’ll whistle ye a bit tune.” And with that +he leaned pretty far over the table, and in a mere breath of a whistle, +but with a wonderful pretty sentiment, gave her a few bars of “Charlie +is my darling.” + +“Wheesht,” says she, and looked over her shoulder to the door. + +“That’s it,” said Alan. + +“And him so young!” cries the lass. + +“He’s old enough to----” and Alan struck his forefinger on the back part +of his neck, meaning that I was old enough to lose my head. + +“It would be a black shame,” she cried, flushing high. + +“It’s what will be, though,” said Alan, “unless we manage the better.” + +At this the lass turned and ran out of that part of the house, leaving +us alone together. Alan in high good humour at the furthering of his +schemes, and I in bitter dudgeon at being called a Jacobite and treated +like a child. + +“Alan,” I cried, “I can stand no more of this.” + +“Ye’ll have to sit it then, Davie,” said he. “For if ye upset the pot +now, ye may scrape your own life out of the fire, but Alan Breck is a +dead man.” + +This was so true that I could only groan; and even my groan served +Alan’s purpose, for it was overheard by the lass as she came flying in +again with a dish of white puddings and a bottle of strong ale. + +“Poor lamb!” says she, and had no sooner set the meat before us, than +she touched me on the shoulder with a little friendly touch, as much as +to bid me cheer up. Then she told us to fall to, and there would be no +more to pay; for the inn was her own, or at least her father’s, and he +was gone for the day to Pittencrieff. We waited for no second bidding, +for bread and cheese is but cold comfort and the puddings smelt +excellently well; and while we sat and ate, she took up that same place +by the next table, looking on, and thinking, and frowning to herself, +and drawing the string of her apron through her hand. + +“I’m thinking ye have rather a long tongue,” she said at last to Alan. + +“Ay” said Alan; “but ye see I ken the folk I speak to.” + +“I would never betray ye,” said she, “if ye mean that.” + +“No,” said he, “ye’re not that kind. But I’ll tell ye what ye would do, +ye would help.” + +“I couldnae,” said she, shaking her head. “Na, I couldnae.” + +“No,” said he, “but if ye could?” + +She answered him nothing. + +“Look here, my lass,” said Alan, “there are boats in the Kingdom of +Fife, for I saw two (no less) upon the beach, as I came in by your +town’s end. Now if we could have the use of a boat to pass under cloud +of night into Lothian, and some secret, decent kind of a man to bring +that boat back again and keep his counsel, there would be two souls +saved--mine to all likelihood--his to a dead surety. If we lack that +boat, we have but three shillings left in this wide world; and where +to go, and how to do, and what other place there is for us except the +chains of a gibbet--I give you my naked word, I kenna! Shall we go +wanting, lassie? Are ye to lie in your warm bed and think upon us, when +the wind gowls in the chimney and the rain tirls on the roof? Are ye to +eat your meat by the cheeks of a red fire, and think upon this poor sick +lad of mine, biting his finger ends on a blae muir for cauld and hunger? +Sick or sound, he must aye be moving; with the death grapple at his +throat he must aye be trailing in the rain on the lang roads; and when +he gants his last on a rickle of cauld stanes, there will be nae friends +near him but only me and God.” + +At this appeal, I could see the lass was in great trouble of mind, +being tempted to help us, and yet in some fear she might be helping +malefactors; and so now I determined to step in myself and to allay her +scruples with a portion of the truth. + +“Did ever you hear,” said I, “of Mr. Rankeillor of the Ferry?” + +“Rankeillor the writer?” said she. “I daur say that!” + +“Well,” said I, “it’s to his door that I am bound, so you may judge by +that if I am an ill-doer; and I will tell you more, that though I am +indeed, by a dreadful error, in some peril of my life, King George has +no truer friend in all Scotland than myself.” + +Her face cleared up mightily at this, although Alan’s darkened. + +“That’s more than I would ask,” said she. “Mr. Rankeillor is a kennt +man.” And she bade us finish our meat, get clear of the clachan as soon +as might be, and lie close in the bit wood on the sea-beach. “And ye can +trust me,” says she, “I’ll find some means to put you over.” + +At this we waited for no more, but shook hands with her upon the +bargain, made short work of the puddings, and set forth again from +Limekilns as far as to the wood. It was a small piece of perhaps a score +of elders and hawthorns and a few young ashes, not thick enough to veil +us from passersby upon the road or beach. Here we must lie, however, +making the best of the brave warm weather and the good hopes we now had +of a deliverance, and planing more particularly what remained for us to +do. + +We had but one trouble all day; when a strolling piper came and sat in +the same wood with us; a red-nosed, bleareyed, drunken dog, with a great +bottle of whisky in his pocket, and a long story of wrongs that had been +done him by all sorts of persons, from the Lord President of the +Court of Session, who had denied him justice, down to the Bailies of +Inverkeithing who had given him more of it than he desired. It was +impossible but he should conceive some suspicion of two men lying all +day concealed in a thicket and having no business to allege. As long as +he stayed there he kept us in hot water with prying questions; and after +he was gone, as he was a man not very likely to hold his tongue, we were +in the greater impatience to be gone ourselves. + +The day came to an end with the same brightness; the night fell quiet +and clear; lights came out in houses and hamlets and then, one after +another, began to be put out; but it was past eleven, and we were long +since strangely tortured with anxieties, before we heard the grinding +of oars upon the rowing-pins. At that, we looked out and saw the lass +herself coming rowing to us in a boat. She had trusted no one with our +affairs, not even her sweetheart, if she had one; but as soon as her +father was asleep, had left the house by a window, stolen a neighbour’s +boat, and come to our assistance single-handed. + +I was abashed how to find expression for my thanks; but she was no less +abashed at the thought of hearing them; begged us to lose no time and to +hold our peace, saying (very properly) that the heart of our matter was +in haste and silence; and so, what with one thing and another, she had +set us on the Lothian shore not far from Carriden, had shaken hands with +us, and was out again at sea and rowing for Limekilns, before there was +one word said either of her service or our gratitude. + +Even after she was gone, we had nothing to say, as indeed nothing was +enough for such a kindness. Only Alan stood a great while upon the shore +shaking his head. + +“It is a very fine lass,” he said at last. “David, it is a very fine +lass.” And a matter of an hour later, as we were lying in a den on +the sea-shore and I had been already dozing, he broke out again in +commendations of her character. For my part, I could say nothing, she +was so simple a creature that my heart smote me both with remorse and +fear: remorse because we had traded upon her ignorance; and fear lest we +should have anyway involved her in the dangers of our situation. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +I COME TO MR. RANKEILLOR + + +The next day it was agreed that Alan should fend for himself till +sunset; but as soon as it began to grow dark, he should lie in the +fields by the roadside near to Newhalls, and stir for naught until he +heard me whistling. At first I proposed I should give him for a signal +the “Bonnie House of Airlie,” which was a favourite of mine; but he +objected that as the piece was very commonly known, any ploughman might +whistle it by accident; and taught me instead a little fragment of a +Highland air, which has run in my head from that day to this, and will +likely run in my head when I lie dying. Every time it comes to me, it +takes me off to that last day of my uncertainty, with Alan sitting up in +the bottom of the den, whistling and beating the measure with a finger, +and the grey of the dawn coming on his face. + +I was in the long street of Queensferry before the sun was up. It was a +fairly built burgh, the houses of good stone, many slated; the town-hall +not so fine, I thought, as that of Peebles, nor yet the street so noble; +but take it altogether, it put me to shame for my foul tatters. + + + +As the morning went on, and the fires began to be kindled, and the +windows to open, and the people to appear out of the houses, my concern +and despondency grew ever the blacker. I saw now that I had no grounds +to stand upon; and no clear proof of my rights, nor so much as of my own +identity. If it was all a bubble, I was indeed sorely cheated and left +in a sore pass. Even if things were as I conceived, it would in all +likelihood take time to establish my contentions; and what time had I +to spare with less than three shillings in my pocket, and a condemned, +hunted man upon my hands to ship out of the country? Truly, if my hope +broke with me, it might come to the gallows yet for both of us. And as I +continued to walk up and down, and saw people looking askance at me upon +the street or out of windows, and nudging or speaking one to another +with smiles, I began to take a fresh apprehension: that it might be no +easy matter even to come to speech of the lawyer, far less to convince +him of my story. + +For the life of me I could not muster up the courage to address any of +these reputable burghers; I thought shame even to speak with them in +such a pickle of rags and dirt; and if I had asked for the house of such +a man as Mr. Rankeillor, I suppose they would have burst out laughing in +my face. So I went up and down, and through the street, and down to +the harbour-side, like a dog that has lost its master, with a strange +gnawing in my inwards, and every now and then a movement of despair. +It grew to be high day at last, perhaps nine in the forenoon; and I was +worn with these wanderings, and chanced to have stopped in front of +a very good house on the landward side, a house with beautiful, clear +glass windows, flowering knots upon the sills, the walls new-harled[33] and +a chase-dog sitting yawning on the step like one that was at home. Well, +I was even envying this dumb brute, when the door fell open and +there issued forth a shrewd, ruddy, kindly, consequential man in a +well-powdered wig and spectacles. I was in such a plight that no one set +eyes on me once, but he looked at me again; and this gentleman, as it +proved, was so much struck with my poor appearance that he came straight +up to me and asked me what I did. + + [33] Newly rough-cast. + +I told him I was come to the Queensferry on business, and taking heart +of grace, asked him to direct me to the house of Mr. Rankeillor. + +“Why,” said he, “that is his house that I have just come out of; and for +a rather singular chance, I am that very man.” + +“Then, sir,” said I, “I have to beg the favour of an interview.” + +“I do not know your name,” said he, “nor yet your face.” + +“My name is David Balfour,” said I. + +“David Balfour?” he repeated, in rather a high tone, like one surprised. +“And where have you come from, Mr. David Balfour?” he asked, looking me +pretty drily in the face. + +“I have come from a great many strange places, sir,” said I; “but I +think it would be as well to tell you where and how in a more private +manner.” + +He seemed to muse awhile, holding his lip in his hand, and looking now +at me and now upon the causeway of the street. + +“Yes,” says he, “that will be the best, no doubt.” And he led me back +with him into his house, cried out to some one whom I could not see +that he would be engaged all morning, and brought me into a little +dusty chamber full of books and documents. Here he sate down, and bade +me be seated; though I thought he looked a little ruefully from his +clean chair to my muddy rags. “And now,” says he, “if you have any +business, pray be brief and come swiftly to the point. _Nec gemino +bellum Trojanum orditur ab ovo_--do you understand that?” says he, with +a keen look. + +“I will even do as Horace says, sir,” I answered, smiling, “and carry +you _in medias res_.” He nodded as if he was well pleased, and indeed +his scrap of Latin had been set to test me. For all that, and though I +was somewhat encouraged, the blood came in my face when I added: “I +have reason to believe myself some rights on the estate of Shaws.” + +He got a paper book out of a drawer and set it before him open. “Well?” + said he. + +But I had shot my bolt and sat speechless. + +“Come, come, Mr. Balfour,” said he, “you must continue. Where were you +born?” + +“In Essendean, sir,” said I, “the year 1733, the 12th of March.” + +He seemed to follow this statement in his paper book; but what that +meant I knew not. “Your father and mother?” said he. + +“My father was Alexander Balfour, schoolmaster of that place,” said I, +“and my mother Grace Pitarrow; I think her people were from Angus.” + +“Have you any papers proving your identity?” asked Mr. Rankeillor. + +“No, sir,” said I, “but they are in the hands of Mr. Campbell, the +minister, and could be readily produced. Mr. Campbell, too, would give +me his word; and for that matter, I do not think my uncle would deny +me.” + +“Meaning Mr. Ebenezer Balfour?” says he. + +“The same,” said I. + +“Whom you have seen?” he asked. + +“By whom I was received into his own house,” I answered. + +“Did you ever meet a man of the name of Hoseason?” asked Mr. Rankeillor. + +“I did so, sir, for my sins,” said I; “for it was by his means and the +procurement of my uncle, that I was kidnapped within sight of this town, +carried to sea, suffered shipwreck and a hundred other hardships, and +stand before you to-day in this poor accoutrement.” + +“You say you were shipwrecked,” said Rankeillor; “where was that?” + +“Off the south end of the Isle of Mull,” said I. “The name of the isle +on which I was cast up is the Island Earraid.” + +“Ah!” says he, smiling, “you are deeper than me in the geography. But so +far, I may tell you, this agrees pretty exactly with other informations +that I hold. But you say you were kidnapped; in what sense?” + +“In the plain meaning of the word, sir,” said I. “I was on my way to +your house, when I was trepanned on board the brig, cruelly struck down, +thrown below, and knew no more of anything till we were far at sea. I +was destined for the plantations; a fate that, in God’s providence, I +have escaped.” + +“The brig was lost on June the 27th,” says he, looking in his book, +“and we are now at August the 24th. Here is a considerable hiatus, Mr. +Balfour, of near upon two months. It has already caused a vast amount +of trouble to your friends; and I own I shall not be very well contented +until it is set right.” + +“Indeed, sir,” said I, “these months are very easily filled up; but yet +before I told my story, I would be glad to know that I was talking to a +friend.” + +“This is to argue in a circle,” said the lawyer. “I cannot be convinced +till I have heard you. I cannot be your friend till I am properly +informed. If you were more trustful, it would better befit your time of +life. And you know, Mr. Balfour, we have a proverb in the country that +evil-doers are aye evil-dreaders.” + +“You are not to forget, sir,” said I, “that I have already suffered by +my trustfulness; and was shipped off to be a slave by the very man that +(if I rightly understand) is your employer?” + +All this while I had been gaining ground with Mr. Rankeillor, and in +proportion as I gained ground, gaining confidence. But at this sally, +which I made with something of a smile myself, he fairly laughed aloud. + +“No, no,” said he, “it is not so bad as that. _Fui, non sum_. I was +indeed your uncle’s man of business; but while you (_imberbis juvenis +custode remoto_) were gallivanting in the west, a good deal of water +has run under the bridges; and if your ears did not sing, it was not +for lack of being talked about. On the very day of your sea disaster, +Mr. Campbell stalked into my office, demanding you from all the winds. +I had never heard of your existence; but I had known your father; and +from matters in my competence (to be touched upon hereafter) I was +disposed to fear the worst. Mr. Ebenezer admitted having seen you; +declared (what seemed improbable) that he had given you considerable +sums; and that you had started for the continent of Europe, intending +to fulfil your education, which was probable and praiseworthy. +Interrogated how you had come to send no word to Mr. Campbell, he +deponed that you had expressed a great desire to break with your past +life. Further interrogated where you now were, protested ignorance, but +believed you were in Leyden. That is a close sum of his replies. I am +not exactly sure that any one believed him,” continued Mr. Rankeillor +with a smile; “and in particular he so much disrelished me expressions +of mine that (in a word) he showed me to the door. We were then at a +full stand; for whatever shrewd suspicions we might entertain, we had +no shadow of probation. In the very article, comes Captain Hoseason +with the story of your drowning; whereupon all fell through; with no +consequences but concern to Mr. Campbell, injury to my pocket, and +another blot upon your uncle’s character, which could very ill afford +it. And now, Mr. Balfour,” said he, “you understand the whole process +of these matters, and can judge for yourself to what extent I may be +trusted.” + +Indeed he was more pedantic than I can represent him, and placed more +scraps of Latin in his speech; but it was all uttered with a fine +geniality of eye and manner which went far to conquer my distrust. +Moreover, I could see he now treated me as if I was myself beyond a +doubt; so that first point of my identity seemed fully granted. + +“Sir,” said I, “if I tell you my story, I must commit a friend’s life +to your discretion. Pass me your word it shall be sacred; and for what +touches myself, I will ask no better guarantee than just your face.” + +He passed me his word very seriously. “But,” said he, “these are rather +alarming prolocutions; and if there are in your story any little jostles +to the law, I would beg you to bear in mind that I am a lawyer, and pass +lightly.” + +Thereupon I told him my story from the first, he listening with his +spectacles thrust up and his eyes closed, so that I sometimes feared +he was asleep. But no such matter! he heard every word (as I found +afterward) with such quickness of hearing and precision of memory as +often surprised me. Even strange outlandish Gaelic names, heard for that +time only, he remembered and would remind me of, years after. Yet when I +called Alan Breck in full, we had an odd scene. The name of Alan had of +course rung through Scotland, with the news of the Appin murder and the +offer of the reward; and it had no sooner escaped me than the lawyer +moved in his seat and opened his eyes. + +“I would name no unnecessary names, Mr. Balfour,” said he; “above all of +Highlanders, many of whom are obnoxious to the law.” + +“Well, it might have been better not,” said I, “but since I have let it +slip, I may as well continue.” + +“Not at all,” said Mr. Rankeillor. “I am somewhat dull of hearing, as +you may have remarked; and I am far from sure I caught the name exactly. +We will call your friend, if you please, Mr. Thomson--that there may +be no reflections. And in future, I would take some such way with any +Highlander that you may have to mention--dead or alive.” + +By this, I saw he must have heard the name all too clearly, and had +already guessed I might be coming to the murder. If he chose to play +this part of ignorance, it was no matter of mine; so I smiled, said it +was no very Highland-sounding name, and consented. Through all the rest +of my story Alan was Mr. Thomson; which amused me the more, as it was a +piece of policy after his own heart. James Stewart, in like manner, +was mentioned under the style of Mr. Thomson’s kinsman; Colin Campbell +passed as a Mr. Glen; and to Cluny, when I came to that part of my tale, +I gave the name of “Mr. Jameson, a Highland chief.” It was truly the +most open farce, and I wondered that the lawyer should care to keep it +up; but, after all, it was quite in the taste of that age, when there +were two parties in the state, and quiet persons, with no very high +opinions of their own, sought out every cranny to avoid offence to +either. + +“Well, well,” said the lawyer, when I had quite done, “this is a great +epic, a great Odyssey of yours. You must tell it, sir, in a sound +Latinity when your scholarship is riper; or in English if you please, +though for my part I prefer the stronger tongue. You have rolled much; +_quæ regio in terris_--what parish in Scotland (to make a homely +translation) has not been filled with your wanderings? You have shown, +besides, a singular aptitude for getting into false positions; and, +yes, upon the whole, for behaving well in them. This Mr. Thomson seems +to me a gentleman of some choice qualities, though perhaps a trifle +bloody-minded. It would please me none the worse, if (with all his +merits) he were soused in the North Sea, for the man, Mr. David, is a +sore embarrassment. But you are doubtless quite right to adhere to him; +indubitably, he adhered to you. _It comes_--we may say--he was your +true companion; nor less _paribus curis vestigia figit_, for I dare say +you would both take an orra thought upon the gallows. Well, well, these +days are fortunately by; and I think (speaking humanly) that you are +near the end of your troubles.” + +As he thus moralised on my adventures, he looked upon me with so much +humour and benignity that I could scarce contain my satisfaction. I had +been so long wandering with lawless people, and making my bed upon the +hills and under the bare sky, that to sit once more in a clean, covered +house, and to talk amicably with a gentleman in broadcloth, seemed +mighty elevations. Even as I thought so, my eye fell on my unseemly +tatters, and I was once more plunged in confusion. But the lawyer saw +and understood me. He rose, called over the stair to lay another plate, +for Mr. Balfour would stay to dinner, and led me into a bedroom in the +upper part of the house. Here he set before me water and soap, and a +comb; and laid out some clothes that belonged to his son; and here, with +another apposite tag, he left me to my toilet. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + +I GO IN QUEST OF MY INHERITANCE + + +Having made what change I could in my appearance; and blithe was I to look in +the glass and find the beggarman a thing of the past, and David Balfour +come to life again. And yet I was ashamed of the change too, and, above +all, of the borrowed clothes. When I had done, Mr. Rankeillor caught +me on the stair, made me his compliments, and had me again into the +cabinet. + +“Sit ye down, Mr. David,” said he, “and now that you are looking a +little more like yourself, let me see if I can find you any news. You +will be wondering, no doubt, about your father and your uncle? To be +sure it is a singular tale; and the explanation is one that I blush to +have to offer you. For,” says he, really with embarrassment, “the matter +hinges on a love affair.” + +“Truly,” said I, “I cannot very well join that notion with my uncle.” + +“But your uncle, Mr. David, was not always old,” replied the lawyer, +“and what may perhaps surprise you more, not always ugly. He had a fine, +gallant air; people stood in their doors to look after him, as he +went by upon a mettle horse. I have seen it with these eyes, and I +ingenuously confess, not altogether without envy; for I was a plain lad +myself and a plain man’s son; and in those days it was a case of _Odi +te, qui bellus es, Sabelle_.” + +“It sounds like a dream,” said I. + +“Ay, ay,” said the lawyer, “that is how it is with youth and age. Nor +was that all, but he had a spirit of his own that seemed to promise +great things in the future. In 1715, what must he do but run away to +join the rebels? It was your father that pursued him, found him in a +ditch, and brought him back _multum gementem;_ to the mirth of the +whole country. However, _majora canamus_--the two lads fell in love, +and that with the same lady. Mr. Ebenezer, who was the admired and the +beloved, and the spoiled one, made, no doubt, mighty certain of the +victory; and when he found he had deceived himself, screamed like a +peacock. The whole country heard of it; now he lay sick at home, with +his silly family standing round the bed in tears; now he rode from +public-house to public-house, and shouted his sorrows into the lug of +Tom, Dick, and Harry. Your father, Mr. David, was a kind gentleman; but +he was weak, dolefully weak; took all this folly with a long +countenance; and one day--by your leave!--resigned the lady. She was no +such fool, however; it’s from her you must inherit your excellent good +sense; and she refused to be bandied from one to another. Both got upon +their knees to her; and the upshot of the matter for that while was +that she showed both of them the door. That was in August; dear me! the +same year I came from college. The scene must have been highly +farcical.” + +I thought myself it was a silly business, but I could not forget my +father had a hand in it. “Surely, sir, it had some note of tragedy,” + said I. + +“Why, no, sir, not at all,” returned the lawyer. “For tragedy implies +some ponderable matter in dispute, some _dignus vindice nodus;_ and +this piece of work was all about the petulance of a young ass that had +been spoiled, and wanted nothing so much as to be tied up and soundly +belted. However, that was not your father’s view; and the end of it +was, that from concession to concession on your father’s part, and from +one height to another of squalling, sentimental selfishness upon your +uncle’s, they came at last to drive a sort of bargain, from whose ill +results you have recently been smarting. The one man took the lady, the +other the estate. Now, Mr. David, they talk a great deal of charity and +generosity; but in this disputable state of life, I often think the +happiest consequences seem to flow when a gentleman consults his +lawyer, and takes all the law allows him. Anyhow, this piece of +Quixotry on your father’s part, as it was unjust in itself, has brought +forth a monstrous family of injustices. Your father and mother lived +and died poor folk; you were poorly reared; and in the meanwhile, what +a time it has been for the tenants on the estate of Shaws! And I might +add (if it was a matter I cared much about) what a time for Mr. +Ebenezer!” + +“And yet that is certainly the strangest part of all,” said I, “that a +man’s nature should thus change.” + +“True,” said Mr. Rankeillor. “And yet I imagine it was natural enough. +He could not think that he had played a handsome part. Those who knew +the story gave him the cold shoulder; those who knew it not, seeing one +brother disappear, and the other succeed in the estate, raised a cry of +murder; so that upon all sides he found himself evited. Money was all +he got by his bargain; well, he came to think the more of money. He was +selfish when he was young, he is selfish now that he is old; and the +latter end of all these pretty manners and fine feelings you have seen +for yourself.” + +“Well, sir,” said I, “and in all this, what is my position?” + +“The estate is yours beyond a doubt,” replied the lawyer. “It matters +nothing what your father signed, you are the heir of entail. But your +uncle is a man to fight the indefensible; and it would be likely your +identity that he would call in question. A lawsuit is always expensive, +and a family lawsuit always scandalous; besides which, if any of your +doings with your friend Mr. Thomson were to come out, we might find that +we had burned our fingers. The kidnapping, to be sure, would be a court +card upon our side, if we could only prove it. But it may be difficult +to prove; and my advice (upon the whole) is to make a very easy bargain +with your uncle, perhaps even leaving him at Shaws where he has +taken root for a quarter of a century, and contenting yourself in the +meanwhile with a fair provision.” + +I told him I was very willing to be easy, and that to carry family +concerns before the public was a step from which I was naturally much +averse. In the meantime (thinking to myself) I began to see the outlines +of that scheme on which we afterwards acted. + +“The great affair,” I asked, “is to bring home to him the kidnapping?” + +“Surely,” said Mr. Rankeillor, “and if possible, out of court. For mark +you here, Mr. David: we could no doubt find some men of the _Covenant_ +who would swear to your reclusion; but once they were in the box, we +could no longer check their testimony, and some word of your friend Mr. +Thomson must certainly crop out. Which (from what you have let fall) I +cannot think to be desirable.” + +“Well, sir,” said I, “here is my way of it.” And I opened my plot to +him. + +“But this would seem to involve my meeting the man Thomson?” says he, +when I had done. + +“I think so, indeed, sir,” said I. + +“Dear doctor!” cries he, rubbing his brow. “Dear doctor! No, Mr. David, +I am afraid your scheme is inadmissible. I say nothing against your +friend, Mr. Thomson: I know nothing against him; and if I did--mark +this, Mr. David!--it would be my duty to lay hands on him. Now I put it +to you: is it wise to meet? He may have matters to his charge. He may +not have told you all. His name may not be even Thomson!” cries the +lawyer, twinkling; “for some of these fellows will pick up names by the +roadside as another would gather haws.” + +“You must be the judge, sir,” said I. + +But it was clear my plan had taken hold upon his fancy, for he kept +musing to himself till we were called to dinner and the company of Mrs. +Rankeillor; and that lady had scarce left us again to ourselves and a +bottle of wine, ere he was back harping on my proposal. When and where +was I to meet my friend Mr. Thomson; was I sure of Mr. T.’s discretion; +supposing we could catch the old fox tripping, would I consent to such +and such a term of an agreement--these and the like questions he kept +asking at long intervals, while he thoughtfully rolled his wine upon his +tongue. When I had answered all of them, seemingly to his contentment, +he fell into a still deeper muse, even the claret being now forgotten. +Then he got a sheet of paper and a pencil, and set to work writing and +weighing every word; and at last touched a bell and had his clerk into +the chamber. + +“Torrance,” said he, “I must have this written out fair against +to-night; and when it is done, you will be so kind as put on your hat +and be ready to come along with this gentleman and me, for you will +probably be wanted as a witness.” + +“What, sir,” cried I, as soon as the clerk was gone, “are you to venture +it?” + +“Why, so it would appear,” says he, filling his glass. “But let us speak +no more of business. The very sight of Torrance brings in my head a +little droll matter of some years ago, when I had made a tryst with the +poor oaf at the cross of Edinburgh. Each had gone his proper errand; and +when it came four o’clock, Torrance had been taking a glass and did +not know his master, and I, who had forgot my spectacles, was so blind +without them, that I give you my word I did not know my own clerk.” And +thereupon he laughed heartily. + +I said it was an odd chance, and smiled out of politeness; but what held +me all the afternoon in wonder, he kept returning and dwelling on this +story, and telling it again with fresh details and laughter; so that I +began at last to be quite put out of countenance and feel ashamed for my +friend’s folly. + +Towards the time I had appointed with Alan, we set out from the house, +Mr. Rankeillor and I arm in arm, and Torrance following behind with the +deed in his pocket and a covered basket in his hand. All through the +town, the lawyer was bowing right and left, and continually being +button-holed by gentlemen on matters of burgh or private business; and I +could see he was one greatly looked up to in the county. At last we were +clear of the houses, and began to go along the side of the haven and +towards the Hawes Inn and the Ferry pier, the scene of my misfortune. I +could not look upon the place without emotion, recalling how many that +had been there with me that day were now no more: Ransome taken, I could +hope, from the evil to come; Shuan passed where I dared not follow him; +and the poor souls that had gone down with the brig in her last plunge. +All these, and the brig herself, I had outlived; and come through these +hardships and fearful perils without scath. My only thought should have +been of gratitude; and yet I could not behold the place without sorrow +for others and a chill of recollected fear. + +I was so thinking when, upon a sudden, Mr. Rankeillor cried out, clapped +his hand to his pockets, and began to laugh. + +“Why,” he cries, “if this be not a farcical adventure! After all that I +said, I have forgot my glasses!” + +At that, of course, I understood the purpose of his anecdote, and knew +that if he had left his spectacles at home, it had been done on purpose, +so that he might have the benefit of Alan’s help without the awkwardness +of recognising him. And indeed it was well thought upon; for now +(suppose things to go the very worst) how could Rankeillor swear to +my friend’s identity, or how be made to bear damaging evidence against +myself? For all that, he had been a long while of finding out his want, +and had spoken to and recognised a good few persons as we came through +the town; and I had little doubt myself that he saw reasonably well. + +As soon as we were past the Hawes (where I recognised the landlord +smoking his pipe in the door, and was amazed to see him look no older) +Mr. Rankeillor changed the order of march, walking behind with Torrance +and sending me forward in the manner of a scout. I went up the hill, +whistling from time to time my Gaelic air; and at length I had the +pleasure to hear it answered and to see Alan rise from behind a bush. He +was somewhat dashed in spirits, having passed a long day alone skulking +in the county, and made but a poor meal in an alehouse near Dundas. But +at the mere sight of my clothes, he began to brighten up; and as soon as +I had told him in what a forward state our matters were and the part I +looked to him to play in what remained, he sprang into a new man. + +“And that is a very good notion of yours,” says he; “and I dare to say +that you could lay your hands upon no better man to put it through than +Alan Breck. It is not a thing (mark ye) that any one could do, but takes +a gentleman of penetration. But it sticks in my head your lawyer-man +will be somewhat wearying to see me,” says Alan. + +Accordingly I cried and waved on Mr. Rankeillor, who came up alone and +was presented to my friend, Mr. Thomson. + +“Mr. Thomson, I am pleased to meet you,” said he. “But I have forgotten +my glasses; and our friend, Mr. David here” (clapping me on the +shoulder), “will tell you that I am little better than blind, and that +you must not be surprised if I pass you by to-morrow.” + +This he said, thinking that Alan would be pleased; but the Highlandman’s +vanity was ready to startle at a less matter than that. + +“Why, sir,” says he, stiffly, “I would say it mattered the less as we +are met here for a particular end, to see justice done to Mr. Balfour; +and by what I can see, not very likely to have much else in common. But +I accept your apology, which was a very proper one to make.” + +“And that is more than I could look for, Mr. Thomson,” said Rankeillor, +heartily. “And now as you and I are the chief actors in this enterprise, +I think we should come into a nice agreement; to which end, I propose +that you should lend me your arm, for (what with the dusk and the want +of my glasses) I am not very clear as to the path; and as for you, Mr. +David, you will find Torrance a pleasant kind of body to speak with. +Only let me remind you, it’s quite needless he should hear more of your +adventures or those of--ahem--Mr. Thomson.” + +Accordingly these two went on ahead in very close talk, and Torrance and +I brought up the rear. + +Night was quite come when we came in view of the house of Shaws. Ten +had been gone some time; it was dark and mild, with a pleasant, rustling +wind in the south-west that covered the sound of our approach; and as we +drew near we saw no glimmer of light in any portion of the building. It +seemed my uncle was already in bed, which was indeed the best thing for +our arrangements. We made our last whispered consultations some fifty +yards away; and then the lawyer and Torrance and I crept quietly up and +crouched down beside the corner of the house; and as soon as we were +in our places, Alan strode to the door without concealment and began to +knock. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX + +I COME INTO MY KINGDOM + + +For some time Alan volleyed upon the door, and his knocking only roused +the echoes of the house and neighbourhood. At last, however, I could +hear the noise of a window gently thrust up, and knew that my uncle +had come to his observatory. By what light there was, he would see Alan +standing, like a dark shadow, on the steps; the three witnesses were +hidden quite out of his view; so that there was nothing to alarm an +honest man in his own house. For all that, he studied his visitor awhile +in silence, and when he spoke his voice had a quaver of misgiving. + +“What’s this?” says he. “This is nae kind of time of night for decent +folk; and I hae nae trokings[34] wi’ night-hawks. What brings ye here? I +have a blunderbush.” + + [34] Dealings. + +“Is that yoursel’, Mr. Balfour?” returned Alan, stepping back and +looking up into the darkness. “Have a care of that blunderbuss; they’re +nasty things to burst.” + +“What brings ye here? and whae are ye?” says my uncle, angrily. + +“I have no manner of inclination to rowt out my name to the +country-side,” said Alan; “but what brings me here is another story, +being more of your affair than mine; and if ye’re sure it’s what ye +would like, I’ll set it to a tune and sing it to you.” + +“And what is’t?” asked my uncle. + +“David,” says Alan. + +“What was that?” cried my uncle, in a mighty changed voice. + +“Shall I give ye the rest of the name, then?” said Alan. + +There was a pause; and then, “I’m thinking I’ll better let ye in,” says +my uncle, doubtfully. + +“I dare say that,” said Alan; “but the point is, Would I go? Now I will +tell you what I am thinking. I am thinking that it is here upon this +doorstep that we must confer upon this business; and it shall be here or +nowhere at all whatever; for I would have you to understand that I am as +stiffnecked as yoursel’, and a gentleman of better family.” + +This change of note disconcerted Ebenezer; he was a little while +digesting it, and then says he, “Weel, weel, what must be must,” and +shut the window. But it took him a long time to get down-stairs, and a +still longer to undo the fastenings, repenting (I dare say) and taken +with fresh claps of fear at every second step and every bolt and bar. At +last, however, we heard the creak of the hinges, and it seems my uncle +slipped gingerly out and (seeing that Alan had stepped back a pace or +two) sate him down on the top doorstep with the blunderbuss ready in his +hands. + +“And, now” says he, “mind I have my blunderbush, and if ye take a step +nearer ye’re as good as deid.” + +“And a very civil speech,” says Alan, “to be sure.” + +“Na,” says my uncle, “but this is no a very chanty kind of a proceeding, +and I’m bound to be prepared. And now that we understand each other, +ye’ll can name your business.” + +“Why,” says Alan, “you that are a man of so much understanding, will +doubtless have perceived that I am a Hieland gentleman. My name has nae +business in my story; but the county of my friends is no very far from +the Isle of Mull, of which ye will have heard. It seems there was a +ship lost in those parts; and the next day a gentleman of my family was +seeking wreck-wood for his fire along the sands, when he came upon a lad +that was half drowned. Well, he brought him to; and he and some other +gentleman took and clapped him in an auld, ruined castle, where from +that day to this he has been a great expense to my friends. My friends +are a wee wild-like, and not so particular about the law as some that +I could name; and finding that the lad owned some decent folk, and was +your born nephew, Mr. Balfour, they asked me to give ye a bit call and +confer upon the matter. And I may tell ye at the off-go, unless we can +agree upon some terms, ye are little likely to set eyes upon him. For my +friends,” added Alan, simply, “are no very well off.” + +My uncle cleared his throat. “I’m no very caring,” says he. “He wasnae a +good lad at the best of it, and I’ve nae call to interfere.” + +“Ay, ay,” said Alan, “I see what ye would be at: pretending ye don’t +care, to make the ransom smaller.” + +“Na,” said my uncle, “it’s the mere truth. I take nae manner of interest +in the lad, and I’ll pay nae ransome, and ye can make a kirk and a mill +of him for what I care.” + +“Hoot, sir,” says Alan. “Blood’s thicker than water, in the deil’s name! +Ye cannae desert your brother’s son for the fair shame of it; and if +ye did, and it came to be kennt, ye wouldnae be very popular in your +country-side, or I’m the more deceived.” + +“I’m no just very popular the way it is,” returned Ebenezer; “and I +dinnae see how it would come to be kennt. No by me, onyway; nor yet by +you or your friends. So that’s idle talk, my buckie,” says he. + +“Then it’ll have to be David that tells it,” said Alan. + +“How that?” says my uncle, sharply. + +“Ou, just this way,” says Alan. “My friends would doubtless keep your +nephew as long as there was any likelihood of siller to be made of it, +but if there was nane, I am clearly of opinion they would let him gang +where he pleased, and be damned to him!” + +“Ay, but I’m no very caring about that either,” said my uncle. “I +wouldnae be muckle made up with that.” + +“I was thinking that,” said Alan. + +“And what for why?” asked Ebenezer. + +“Why, Mr. Balfour,” replied Alan, “by all that I could hear, there were +two ways of it: either ye liked David and would pay to get him back; or +else ye had very good reasons for not wanting him, and would pay for us +to keep him. It seems it’s not the first; well then, it’s the second; +and blythe am I to ken it, for it should be a pretty penny in my pocket +and the pockets of my friends.” + +“I dinnae follow ye there,” said my uncle. + +“No?” said Alan. “Well, see here: you dinnae want the lad back; well, +what do ye want done with him, and how much will ye pay?” + +My uncle made no answer, but shifted uneasily on his seat. + +“Come, sir,” cried Alan. “I would have you to ken that I am a gentleman; +I bear a king’s name; I am nae rider to kick my shanks at your hall +door. Either give me an answer in civility, and that out of hand; or by +the top of Glencoe, I will ram three feet of iron through your vitals.” + +“Eh, man,” cried my uncle, scrambling to his feet, “give me a meenit! +What’s like wrong with ye? I’m just a plain man and nae dancing master; +and I’m tryin to be as ceevil as it’s morally possible. As for that wild +talk, it’s fair disrepitable. Vitals, says you! And where would I be +with my blunderbush?” he snarled. + +“Powder and your auld hands are but as the snail to the swallow against +the bright steel in the hands of Alan,” said the other. “Before your +jottering finger could find the trigger, the hilt would dirl on your +breast-bane.” + +“Eh, man, whae’s denying it?” said my uncle. “Pit it as ye please, hae’t +your ain way; I’ll do naething to cross ye. Just tell me what like ye’ll +be wanting, and ye’ll see that we’ll can agree fine.” + +“Troth, sir,” said Alan, “I ask for nothing but plain dealing. In two +words: do ye want the lad killed or kept?” + +“O, sirs!” cried Ebenezer. “O, sirs, me! that’s no kind of language!” + +“Killed or kept!” repeated Alan. + +“O, keepit, keepit!” wailed my uncle. “We’ll have nae bloodshed, if you +please.” + +“Well,” says Alan, “as ye please; that’ll be the dearer.” + +“The dearer?” cries Ebenezer. “Would ye fyle your hands wi’ crime?” + +“Hoot!” said Alan, “they’re baith crime, whatever! And the killing’s +easier, and quicker, and surer. Keeping the lad’ll be a fashious[35] job, a +fashious, kittle business.” + + [35] Troublesome. + +“I’ll have him keepit, though,” returned my uncle. “I never had naething +to do with onything morally wrong; and I’m no gaun to begin to pleasure +a wild Hielandman.” + +“Ye’re unco scrupulous,” sneered Alan. + +“I’m a man o’ principle,” said Ebenezer, simply; “and if I have to pay +for it, I’ll have to pay for it. And besides,” says he, “ye forget the +lad’s my brother’s son.” + +“Well, well,” said Alan, “and now about the price. It’s no very easy for +me to set a name upon it; I would first have to ken some small matters. +I would have to ken, for instance, what ye gave Hoseason at the first +off-go?” + +“Hoseason!” cries my uncle, struck aback. “What for?” + +“For kidnapping David,” says Alan. + +“It’s a lee, it’s a black lee!” cried my uncle. “He was never kidnapped. +He leed in his throat that tauld ye that. Kidnapped? He never was!” + +“That’s no fault of mine nor yet of yours,” said Alan; “nor yet of +Hoseason’s, if he’s a man that can be trusted.” + +“What do ye mean?” cried Ebenezer. “Did Hoseason tell ye?” + +“Why, ye donnered auld runt, how else would I ken?” cried Alan. +“Hoseason and me are partners; we gang shares; so ye can see for +yoursel’ what good ye can do leeing. And I must plainly say ye drove a +fool’s bargain when ye let a man like the sailor-man so far forward in +your private matters. But that’s past praying for; and ye must lie on +your bed the way ye made it. And the point in hand is just this: what +did ye pay him?” + +“Has he tauld ye himsel’?” asked my uncle. + +“That’s my concern,” said Alan. + +“Weel,” said my uncle, “I dinnae care what he said, he leed, and the +solemn God’s truth is this, that I gave him twenty pound. But I’ll be +perfec’ly honest with ye: forby that, he was to have the selling of the +lad in Caroliny, whilk would be as muckle mair, but no from my pocket, +ye see.” + +“Thank you, Mr. Thomson. That will do excellently well,” said the +lawyer, stepping forward; and then mighty civilly, “Good-evening, Mr. +Balfour,” said he. + +And, “Good-evening, Uncle Ebenezer,” said I. + +And, “It’s a braw nicht, Mr. Balfour,” added Torrance. + +Never a word said my uncle, neither black nor white; but just sat where +he was on the top door-step and stared upon us like a man turned to +stone. Alan filched away his blunderbuss; and the lawyer, taking him +by the arm, plucked him up from the doorstep, led him into the kitchen, +whither we all followed, and set him down in a chair beside the hearth, +where the fire was out and only a rush-light burning. + +There we all looked upon him for a while, exulting greatly in our +success, but yet with a sort of pity for the man’s shame. + +“Come, come, Mr. Ebenezer,” said the lawyer, “you must not be +down-hearted, for I promise you we shall make easy terms. In the +meanwhile give us the cellar key, and Torrance shall draw us a bottle +of your father’s wine in honour of the event.” Then, turning to me and +taking me by the hand, “Mr. David,” says he, “I wish you all joy in your +good fortune, which I believe to be deserved.” And then to Alan, with +a spice of drollery, “Mr. Thomson, I pay you my compliment; it was +most artfully conducted; but in one point you somewhat outran my +comprehension. Do I understand your name to be James? or Charles? or is +it George, perhaps?” + +“And why should it be any of the three, sir?” quoth Alan, drawing +himself up, like one who smelt an offence. + +“Only, sir, that you mentioned a king’s name,” replied Rankeillor; “and +as there has never yet been a King Thomson, or his fame at least has +never come my way, I judged you must refer to that you had in baptism.” + +This was just the stab that Alan would feel keenest, and I am free to +confess he took it very ill. Not a word would he answer, but stepped off +to the far end of the kitchen, and sat down and sulked; and it was not +till I stepped after him, and gave him my hand, and thanked him by title +as the chief spring of my success, that he began to smile a bit, and was +at last prevailed upon to join our party. + +By that time we had the fire lighted, and a bottle of wine uncorked; a +good supper came out of the basket, to which Torrance and I and Alan +set ourselves down; while the lawyer and my uncle passed into the next +chamber to consult. They stayed there closeted about an hour; at the end +of which period they had come to a good understanding, and my uncle and +I set our hands to the agreement in a formal manner. By the terms +of this, my uncle bound himself to satisfy Rankeillor as to his +intromissions, and to pay me two clear thirds of the yearly income of +Shaws. + +So the beggar in the ballad had come home; and when I lay down that +night on the kitchen chests, I was a man of means and had a name in the +country. Alan and Torrance and Rankeillor slept and snored on their hard +beds; but for me who had lain out under heaven and upon dirt and stones, +so many days and nights, and often with an empty belly, and in fear +of death, this good change in my case unmanned me more than any of the +former evil ones; and I lay till dawn, looking at the fire on the roof +and planning the future. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX + +GOOD-BYE + + +So far as I was concerned myself, I had come to port; but I had still +Alan, to whom I was so much beholden, on my hands; and I felt besides a +heavy charge in the matter of the murder and James of the Glens. On both +these heads I unbosomed to Rankeillor the next morning, walking to and +fro about six of the clock before the house of Shaws, and with nothing +in view but the fields and woods that had been my ancestors’ and were +now mine. Even as I spoke on these grave subjects, my eye would take a +glad bit of a run over the prospect, and my heart jump with pride. + +About my clear duty to my friend, the lawyer had no doubt. I must help +him out of the county at whatever risk; but in the case of James, he was +of a different mind. + +“Mr. Thomson,” says he, “is one thing, Mr. Thomson’s kinsman quite +another. I know little of the facts, but I gather that a great noble +(whom we will call, if you like, the D. of A.)[36] has some concern and +is even supposed to feel some animosity in the matter. The D. of A. is +doubtless an excellent nobleman; but, Mr. David, _timeo qui nocuere +deos_. If you interfere to balk his vengeance, you should remember +there is one way to shut your testimony out; and that is to put you in +the dock. There, you would be in the same pickle as Mr. Thomson’s +kinsman. You will object that you are innocent; well, but so is he. And +to be tried for your life before a Highland jury, on a Highland quarrel +and with a Highland Judge upon the bench, would be a brief transition +to the gallows.” + + [36] The Duke of Argyle. + +Now I had made all these reasonings before and found no very good reply +to them; so I put on all the simplicity I could. “In that case, sir,” + said I, “I would just have to be hanged--would I not?” + +“My dear boy,” cries he, “go in God’s name, and do what you think is +right. It is a poor thought that at my time of life I should be advising +you to choose the safe and shameful; and I take it back with an apology. +Go and do your duty; and be hanged, if you must, like a gentleman. There +are worse things in the world than to be hanged.” + +“Not many, sir,” said I, smiling. + +“Why, yes, sir,” he cried, “very many. And it would be ten times better +for your uncle (to go no farther afield) if he were dangling decently +upon a gibbet.” + +Thereupon he turned into the house (still in a great fervour of mind, +so that I saw I had pleased him heartily) and there he wrote me two +letters, making his comments on them as he wrote. + +“This,” says he, “is to my bankers, the British Linen Company, placing a +credit to your name. Consult Mr. Thomson, he will know of ways; and +you, with this credit, can supply the means. I trust you will be a good +husband of your money; but in the affair of a friend like Mr. Thomson, +I would be even prodigal. Then for his kinsman, there is no better way +than that you should seek the Advocate, tell him your tale, and offer +testimony; whether he may take it or not, is quite another matter, and +will turn on the D. of A. Now, that you may reach the Lord Advocate well +recommended, I give you here a letter to a namesake of your own, the +learned Mr. Balfour of Pilrig, a man whom I esteem. It will look better +that you should be presented by one of your own name; and the laird of +Pilrig is much looked up to in the Faculty and stands well with Lord +Advocate Grant. I would not trouble him, if I were you, with any +particulars; and (do you know?) I think it would be needless to refer to +Mr. Thomson. Form yourself upon the laird, he is a good model; when you +deal with the Advocate, be discreet; and in all these matters, may the +Lord guide you, Mr. David!” + +Thereupon he took his farewell, and set out with Torrance for the Ferry, +while Alan and I turned our faces for the city of Edinburgh. As we went +by the footpath and beside the gateposts and the unfinished lodge, we +kept looking back at the house of my fathers. It stood there, bare and +great and smokeless, like a place not lived in; only in one of the top +windows, there was the peak of a nightcap bobbing up and down and back +and forward, like the head of a rabbit from a burrow. I had little +welcome when I came, and less kindness while I stayed; but at least I +was watched as I went away. + +Alan and I went slowly forward upon our way, having little heart either +to walk or speak. The same thought was uppermost in both, that we were +near the time of our parting; and remembrance of all the bygone days +sate upon us sorely. We talked indeed of what should be done; and it +was resolved that Alan should keep to the county, biding now here, now +there, but coming once in the day to a particular place where I might be +able to communicate with him, either in my own person or by messenger. +In the meanwhile, I was to seek out a lawyer, who was an Appin Stewart, +and a man therefore to be wholly trusted; and it should be his part to +find a ship and to arrange for Alan’s safe embarkation. No sooner was +this business done, than the words seemed to leave us; and though I +would seek to jest with Alan under the name of Mr. Thomson, and he with +me on my new clothes and my estate, you could feel very well that we +were nearer tears than laughter. + +We came the by-way over the hill of Corstorphine; and when we got +near to the place called Rest-and-be-Thankful, and looked down on +Corstorphine bogs and over to the city and the castle on the hill, we +both stopped, for we both knew without a word said that we had come to +where our ways parted. Here he repeated to me once again what had been +agreed upon between us: the address of the lawyer, the daily hour at +which Alan might be found, and the signals that were to be made by any +that came seeking him. Then I gave what money I had (a guinea or two of +Rankeillor’s) so that he should not starve in the meanwhile; and then we +stood a space, and looked over at Edinburgh in silence. + +“Well, good-bye,” said Alan, and held out his left hand. + +“Good-bye,” said I, and gave the hand a little grasp, and went off down +hill. + +Neither one of us looked the other in the face, nor so long as he was in +my view did I take one back glance at the friend I was leaving. But as +I went on my way to the city, I felt so lost and lonesome, that I could +have found it in my heart to sit down by the dyke, and cry and weep like +any baby. + +It was coming near noon when I passed in by the West Kirk and the +Grassmarket into the streets of the capital. The huge height of the +buildings, running up to ten and fifteen storeys, the narrow arched +entries that continually vomited passengers, the wares of the merchants +in their windows, the hubbub and endless stir, the foul smells and the +fine clothes, and a hundred other particulars too small to mention, +struck me into a kind of stupor of surprise, so that I let the crowd +carry me to and fro; and yet all the time what I was thinking of was +Alan at Rest-and-be-Thankful; and all the time (although you would think +I would not choose but be delighted with these braws and novelties) +there was a cold gnawing in my inside like a remorse for something +wrong. + +The hand of Providence brought me in my drifting to the very doors of +the British Linen Company’s bank. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 421 *** |