Citation
Kidnapped

Material Information

Title:
Kidnapped
Series Title:
Novels and tales of Robert Louis Stevenson
Creator:
Stevenson, Robert Louis, 1850-1894
Charles Scribner's Sons ( publisher )
Place of Publication:
New York
Publisher:
Charles Scribner's Sons
Publication Date:
Language:
English
Physical Description:
281 p., [1] leaves of plates : ill., color folded map ; 22 cm.

Subjects

Subjects / Keywords:
Kidnapping -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Uncles -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Castaways -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Inheritance and succession -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Jacobites -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Friendship -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Adventure and adventurers -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Voyages and travels -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
History -- Juvenile fiction -- Scotland -- 18th century ( lcsh )
Bldn -- 1896
Genre:
novel ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage:
United States -- New York -- New York
Target Audience:
juvenile ( marctarget )

Notes

Summary:
After being kidnapped by his villainous uncle, sixteen-year-old David Balfour escapes and becomes involved in the struggle of the Scottish highlanders against English rule.
General Note:
Title page printed in red and black in a red border.

Record Information

Source Institution:
University of Florida
Holding Location:
University of Florida
Rights Management:
This item is presumed to be in the public domain. The University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries respect the intellectual property rights of others and do not claim any copyright interest in this item. Users of this work have responsibility for determining copyright status prior to reusing, publishing or reproducing this item for purposes other than what is allowed by fair use or other copyright exemptions. Any reuse of this item in excess of fair use or other copyright exemptions may require permission of the copyright holder. The Smathers Libraries would like to learn more about this item and invite individuals or organizations to contact The Department of Special and Area Studies Collections (special@uflib.ufl.edu) with any additional information they can provide.
Resource Identifier:
026967807 ( ALEPH )
ALH8334 ( NOTIS )
232334733 ( OCLC )

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Full Text




The Baldwin Library

RmB









ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

Vou. V

KIDNAPPED







“fF saw him pass his sword through the mate’s body."”

Drawn by HOWARD PYLE.



% THE NOVELS AND
TALES OF ROBERT
LOUIS STEVENSON

KIDNAPPED

% PUBLISHED IN
NEW YORK BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S
SONS £ # 1896 &





KIDNAPPED

BEING

THE ADVENTURES OF DAVID BALFOUR

HOW HE WAS KIDNAPPED AND CAST AWAY, HIS SUFFERINGS IN A
DESERT ISLE} HIS JOURNEY IN THE WILD HIGHLANDS, HIS ACQUAINT-
ANCE WITH ALAN BRECK STEWART AND OTHER NOTORIOUS HIGH-
LAND 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



DEDICATION

My Dear CHARLES BAXTER:

Ir you ever read this tale, you will likely ask yourself more questions
than I should care to answer: as for instance how the Appin mur-
der 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 indefen-
sible; it is more honest to confess at once how little ] 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 des-
perate 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 mean-
while 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



DEDICATION

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

PAGE
1 SET OFF UPON MY JOURNEY TO THE HOUSE OF
SHAWS .... 2... soe ee ee ee eT

I COME TO MY JOURNEY’S END... ..... «79
I MAKE ACQUAINTANCE OF MY UNCLE. . .... 14
I RUN A GREAT DANGER IN THE HOUSE OF SHAWS 23
I GO TO THE QUEEN’S FERRY ......: . . 33
WHAT BEFELL AT THE QUEEN’S FERRY ... .. 41

1 GO TO SEA IN THE BRIG ‘'COVENANT” OF DYSART 48

THE ROUND-HOUSE. . ... 1... eee O57
THE MAN WITH THE BELT CF GOLD ...... 64
THE SIEGE OF THE ROUND-HOUSE....... . 76
THE CAPTAIN KNUCKLES UNDER... .. .. . 85
1 HEAR OF THE “‘RED FOX”... .... 0... Qt!
THE LOSS OF THE BRIG. . ......... =. 102
THE ISLET . . 1... ww eee eee ee TO

THE LAD WITH THE SILVER BUTTON: THROUGH THE
ISLE OF MULL ........ 1. 1 we 122



CONTENTS
PAGE
THE LAD WITH THE SILVER BUTTON: ACROSS MORVEN 132
THE DEATH OF THE RED FOX ........ . 142

] TALK WITH ALAN IN THE WOOD OF LETTERMORE 150

THE HOUSE OF FEAR. ........2. 2... 161
THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER: THE ROCKS. . . . 170
THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER: THE HEUGH OF COR-
RYNAKIEGH . . ww. wwe eee ee 8
THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER: THE MOOR... . 191
CLUNY’S CAGE. . 2... 2 we 1 eee ee 201
THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER: THE QUARREL. . . 212
IN BALQUHIDDER. . . . . 1... 1. ee ee 225
END OF THE FLIGHT: WE PASS THE FORTH . . . 234
] COME TO MR. RANKEILLOR. . . . 2... . 248
1 GO IN QUEST OF MY INHERITANCE .... . . 258
] COME INTO MY KINGDOM ....... .. . 268
GOOD-BYE! . 2. 6 we ee ee 27












SKETCH of the CRUISE of the BRIG COVENANT
And the probable course of DAVID BALFOUR'S WANDERINGS.

f










Megas ok
CS RD NAMU RicH es
; = Ranta ne A N,. yea





4% ~














SCALE OF MILES,

© 10 20304050 ‘
Pee ent






ALQUHIDDER 2°
ae ee,





BaD. GEPTORRAN
Py

ROCKS







STIRLING

BALFROW,
o

° 5 \ 30
SS EEE)









es



THE GHAY LIT (ONY



KIDNAPPED

CHAPTER |
I SET OFF UPON MY JOURNEY TO THE HOUSE OF SHAWS

WILL begin the story of my adventures with a cer-

tain 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 | 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 wait-
ing 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 a
while.

1



KIDNAPPED

‘““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 |
thought I had a chance to better myself where I was
going | 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 let-
ter 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 P”

“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 de-
cayed. Your father, too, was.a man of learning as be-
fitted his position; no man more plausibly conducted

school; nor had he the manner or the speech of a com-
2



MY JOURNEY TO THE HOUSE OF SHAWS

mon 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, super-
scrived 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 be-
fore 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 P”

‘‘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. Ifthe worst came to the worst, and your high
relations (as I cannot but suppose them to be some-
what 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 re-
ceived, 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

3



KIDNAPPED

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 in-
stant 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 inhabit-
ants.

‘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 hon-
our. It’s a pleasure to obey alaird; 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, heart-
ily. ‘‘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

4



MY JOURNEY TO THE HOUSE OF SHAWS

Mrs. Campbell and myself would be blithe of your ac-
ceptance. 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, fora
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

5



KIDNAPPED

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 pal-
sey. It is good against the Gout; it comforts the heart and strength-
ens 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 spoone-
ful 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, | 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 march-
ing 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

7



KIDNAPPED

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, con-
sorted 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 P”’ I asked.

‘‘Doubtless,” says he. ‘‘The house is a big, muckle
house.” —

«* Ay,” said I, ‘‘but the folk that are in itp”

‘*FolkP” cried he. ‘‘Are ye daft? There’s nae folk
there — to call folk.”

‘“What P” 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 ?”

“Tl was led to think that I would get a situation,” |
said, looking as modest as | 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.”

8



I COME TO MY JOURNEY’S END

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 illu-
sions. 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 cur-
rent 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 | 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, | 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 J 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,

9



KIDNAPPED

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

10



I COME TO MY JOURNEY’S END

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 un-
roofed 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 | 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
ll



‘KIDNAPPED

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 someone 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 | began instead to rain kicks and
buffets on the door, and to shout out aloud for Mr. Bal-
four. 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.

“‘T have come here with a letter,” I said, ‘‘to Mr.
Ebenezer Balfour of Shaws. Is he here P”

“‘From whom is itP” asked the man with the blun-
derbuss.

‘*That is neither here nor there,” said I, for I was

growing very wroth.
12



I COME TO MY JOURNEY’S END

“Well,” was the reply, ‘‘ye can put it down upon
the doorstep, and be off with ye.”

“‘T 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, af-
ter 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:

“Ts your father dead P”

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 win-
dow.



CHAPTER Il
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, | 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
acup of small beer. Besides what I have named, there
was not another thing in that great, stone-vaulted,
empty chamber but lock-fast 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 any-
thing 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

14



I MAKE ACQUAINTANCE OF MY UNCLE

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! 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.

I told him the letter was for Mr. Balfour; not for him.

‘*And who do ye think I am P” 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 | 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.

1 Moistens.
15



KIDNAPPED

‘‘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 ?”’

‘*T 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 1am no beggar; |
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 itmyself. Ay,” hecontinued, 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 pullat 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

16



I MAKE ACQUAINTANCE OF MY UNCLE

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 dis-
use 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,” hecontinued. ‘‘ He never said muckle when he
was young. He’ll never have spoken muckle of me?”

“‘T 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 daresay ?”

‘Not so much as the name, sir,” said I.

“To think o’ that!” said he. ‘‘A strange nature of
aman!” 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 per-
son; 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 nolamp 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,

'7



KIDNAPPED

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,”! said I.
“TI cannae see the bed.” .

“‘Hoot-toot, hoot-toot!’’saidhe. ‘‘ 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 | 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, [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

1 Dark as the pit.
18 ,



1 MAKE ACQUAINTANCE OF MY UNCLE

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 sur-
prise, 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 downin 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 an-
other long pause, ‘“‘Whae were these friends o’ yours ?”

I told him they were different gentlemen of the name

19



KIDNAPPED

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’vea 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 seek-
ing 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.”

20



1 MAKE ACQUAINTANCE OF MY UNCLE

It seemed to me (too soon, | daresay) that I was get-
ting 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!” hecried. ‘‘Twelve hunner and fifteen
— that’s every day since ] had the limmer rowpit!1 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.”

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 anyway, 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

1Sold up.
21



KIDNAPPED

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, | do not value your favour ata
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 a while. I could see him all trembling and twitch-
ing, like aman 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, ‘‘] 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 a while. 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.”
22



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 in 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 |
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 noth-
ing 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.

23



KIDNAPPED

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 P” 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, blink-
ing and winking strangely.

‘“What do you meanP” J 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 him-
self. ‘‘Dod man, David,” he said, ‘‘ye shouldnae 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

24



I RUN A GREAT DANGER IN THE HOUSE OF SHAWS

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 dan-
gerous; 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 neverthe-
less 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 smok-
ing, 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

25



KIDNAPPED

grown by now to be a maitter 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 some-
thing 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.”

26



I RUN A GREAT DANGER IN THE HOUSE OF SHAWS

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 care-
ful 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 prop-
erly, as | 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 1.

27



KIDNAPPED

‘*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 moan-
ing 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 stair-tower 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, with-
out 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 lower-
most 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
28



I RUN A GREAT DANGER IN THE HOUSE OF SHAWS

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 | 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 solid-
ity 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 noth-
ing 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,

29



KIDNAPPED

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
itis, 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 vite, and now sat
with his back towards meat 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.
30



I] RUN A GREAT DANGER IN THE HOUSE OF SHAWS

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 J had the time; and afew
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 High-
land dirk without the scabbard. This, then, I con-
cealed 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 alittle 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 P” he sobbed. ‘‘O man, are yealive?”

“That am I,” said I]. ‘‘Small thanks to you!”

31



KIDNAPPED

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 Iadministered 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 |
felt some pity for a man that looked so sick, but I was
full besides of righteous anger; and I numbered over be-
fore him the points on which I wanted explanation: why
he lied to me at every word; why he feared that I should
deave 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 J 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.

“*T'll tell ye the morn,” he said; ‘‘as sure as death |
will.”

And so weak was he that I could do nothing but con-
sent. I locked him into his room, however, and pock-
eted 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.

32



CHAPTER V
I GO TO THE QUEEN’S FERRY

Mucu 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 re-
plenished, 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

33



KIDNAPPED

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 tribula-
tions 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 tome?” And then, as he made no
articulate reply, ‘‘It will be time, I think, to understand
each other,” Icontinued. ‘‘ 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 ] 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

34



_1 GO TO THE QUEEN’S FERRY

blue with the cold; and there was something in his face,
a look between tears and laughter, that was highly pa-
thetic and consisted ill with this gaiety of manner.
““What cheer, mate?” says he, with acracked voice.
| 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 atall, 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 P I’ve brought
a letter from old Heasy-oasy to Mr. Belflower.” He
showed me a letter as he spoke. ‘‘AndI 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 far-
thest 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-
35



KIDNAPPED

day will be the last occasion, as the wind will serve us well out of the
firth. I willnot seek to deny that I have had crosses with your doer,1
Mr. Rankeillor; of which, if not speedily redd up, you may looke to
see some losses follow. 1 have drawn a bill upon you, as per margin,
and am, sir, your most obedt., humble servant,

‘*Extas HosEason.”

““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 may-
be 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? 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.”

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 propos-
ing it; and, perhaps, in the bottom of my heart, I wished
a nearer view of the sea and ships. You are to remem-
ber 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.

1 Agent. 2 Unwilling.
36



I GO TO THE QUEEN’S FERRY

“Very well,” says'l, ‘‘ 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 | 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. Heasy-oasy (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

37



KIDNAPPED

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 turn-
ing 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 han-
dled!”

“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 anyone in this wide
world as I felt for that half-witted creature; and it be-
gan 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 for-
get which. ‘‘He was a fine man, too,” he said; ‘‘ but
he’s dead.”

‘*In Heaven’s name,” cried I, ‘‘can you find no repu-
table life on shore?”

‘*O, no,” says he, winking and looking very sly;
“they would put me toa trade. I know a trick worth
two of that, I do!”

38



1 GO TO THE QUEEN’S FERRY

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 un-
happy 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 land-
locked 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

39



KIDNAPPED

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 pas-
sengers. 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
sailin 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 fromadream. ‘‘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.”

40



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. Ata table hard by
the chimney, a tall, dark, sober-looking man sat writ-
ing. 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 stu-
dious and self-possessed, than this ship-captain.

He got to his feet at once, and coming forward, of-
fered 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 burn-
ing 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.
**?’'m a cold-rife man by my nature; I havea 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.”

4!



KIDNAPPED

‘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 prom-
ised 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 myselfa while,”
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 cross-
ing the road in front of the inn, walked down upon the
beach. With the wind in-that quarter, only little wave-
lets, 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 exceed-
ingly salt and stirring; the Covenant, besides, was be-
ginning 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 des-
perate 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

42



WHAT BEFELL AT THE QUEEN'S FERRY

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. |
told him I would give him no such thing, for neither
he nor I was of an age for such indulgences. ‘‘Buta
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, | 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 avery 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.

“T thought not,” said he, ‘‘and yet ye have a kind
of gliff! of Mr. Alexander.”’

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 girn-
1 Look.

43



KIDNAPPED

ing in the tow:1 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? gaed abroad about Mr. Alexander; that was
like the death of him.”

««And what was it P” I asked.

‘Ou, just that he had killed him,” said the landlord.
“‘Did ye never hear that P”

“‘And what would he kill him for?” said I.

‘‘And what for, but just to get the place,’’ said he.

“The placer” said I. ‘‘The Shaws?”

‘Nae other place that I ken,” said he.

‘Ay, man?” said I. ‘‘Isthatsorp Wasmy— was
Alexander the eldest son?”

“Deed was he,” said the landlord. ‘‘ What else
would he have killed him for P”’

And with that he went away, as he had been impa-
tient 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 to-morrow. 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 re-
member 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 to-

1 Rope. 2 Report.
44



WHAT BEFELL AT THE QUEEN’S FERRY

wards 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 bow! 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 ap-
pointment 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;1 he means mischief.
Come aboard till I can get a word with ye.” And then,
passing his arm through mine, he continued aloud, as

1 Fox,
45



KIDNAPPED

he set off towards his boat: ‘‘But come, what can |
bring ye from the Carolinas? Any friend of Mr. Bal-
four’s cancommand. Aroll oftobaccor Indian feather-
work? a skin of a wild beast? a stone pipeP the
mocking-bird that mews for all the world like a cat?
the cardinal bird that is as red as blood p— take your
pick and say your pleasure.”

By this time. we were at the boat-side, and he was
handing me in. I did not dream of hanging back; |
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.

Assoon 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 | 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.

46



WHAT BEFELL AT THE QUEEN’S FERRY

“*Ay,” said Hoseason, with a sudden grimness, ‘‘ that’s
the point.”’

I felt ] was lost. With all my strength, I plucked my-
self 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 lastI 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.

47



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 thun-
dering 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 un-
lucky 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 deaf-
ened me; and presently, to my other pains and dis-
tresses, 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.

48



I GO TO SEA IN THE BRIG ‘‘COVENANT” OF DYSART

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, ] have not the means
of computation. But sleep atlength stole from me the
consciousness of sorrow.

I was awakened by the light of a hand-lantern shin-
ing 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 P”

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.) What, man? Cheer
up! The world’s no done; you’ve made a bad start of
it, but you'll makea better. Have you had any meat?”

1Stroke.
49



KIDNAPPED

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 ] had suffered tor-
tures 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.”

“‘Tam 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.”’

50



I GO TO SEA IN THE BRIG ‘‘COVENANT” OF DYSART

““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,” re-
plied 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!”’

51



KIDNAPPED

Thereupon the captain ascended the ladder; and I,
who had lain silent throughout this strange conversa-
tion, 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 pre-
pared, and bade me lie still and I should soon be well
again. There were no bones broken, he explained: “‘A
clour? on the head was naething. Man,” said he, ‘‘it
was me that gave it ye!”

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

1 Blow.
52



I GO TO SEA IN THE BRIG ‘'COVENANT” OF DYSART

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 re-
ceived them; and it is a thankless business to speak ill
of the dead.

Among other good deeds that they did, they returned

53



KIDNAPPED

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 de-
pressed; 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 sucha 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 cap-
tain; 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
something 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

54



1 GO TO SEA IN THE BRIG “COVENANT” OF DYSART

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 ap-~
prentices 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 bit-
terly 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 round-house, 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, | 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 forcastle lighted only by a

55



KIDNAPPED

swinging lantern ona 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 quarreling 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 | grew to be, and how impatient for a change.

And a change I was to get, as you shall hear; but |
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) | 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!”

] thought it would be civil to ask him for his story.

He whistled loud.

“*Never had one,” said he. ‘‘I liked fun, that’s all.”
And he skipped out of the forecastle.

56



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 lad-
der. 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 scut-
tle, carrying Ransome in their arms; and the ship at that
moment giving a great sheer into the sea, and the lan-
tern 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 Ho-
season.

57



KIDNAPPED

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 fore-
sail, 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, |
thought we might be half-way or more across the At-
lantic. 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; in-
deed, all the best of the meat and drink and the whole
of the powder were collected in this place; and. all the

58 3



THE ROUND-HOUSE

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 be-
side me, looking darkly at the mate. I.stood in great
fear of Hoseason, and had my reasons for it; but some-
thing 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 speak-
ing, 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 bot-
tle; and at that Mr. Riach started forward and caught
it away from him, rather by surprise than violence, cry-
ing 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.

: 59



KIDNAPPED

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. ‘‘Yesot 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 fright-
ened 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 over-
board, 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 mea 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.

60



THE ROUND-HOUSE

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 cap-
tain took at regular hours, sitting down with the officer
who was off duty; all the day through I would be run-
ning 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 | suffered to sleep without in-
terruption; 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 sea-legs) 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 (some-
times, 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

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KIDNAPPED

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 P” 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, |
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 morn-
ing 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.
62



THE ROUND-HOUSE

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.

63



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
alittle 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 of-
ficers, and some decision which I did not rightly under-
stand, 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.

May-be 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.

64



THE MAN WITH THE BELT OF GOLD

‘No, sir,” said the captain. ‘‘We’ve only run a
boat down.”

And they hurried out.

The captain was in the right of it. Wehad rundown
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 hada
kind of dancing madness in them, that was both en-
gaging 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 tobe
sure, as soon as he had taken off the great-coat, he

65



KIDNAPPED

showed forth mighty fine for the round-house of a
merchant brig: having a hat with feathers, a red waist-
coat, 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.

“‘!'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 P”’ 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.”

‘*T 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 pistois.

‘‘Don’t be hasty,” said the captain. ‘‘Don’t doa
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.”
66



THE MAN WITH THE BELT OF GOLD

“‘So?’’ said the gentleman in the fine coat: ‘‘are ye
of the honest party ?’”’ (meaning, Was hea Jacobite? for
each side, in these sort of civil broils, takes the name of
honesty for its own).

““Why, sir,” replied the captain, ‘‘] 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, ‘‘] 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 gentle-
man 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
67



KIDNAPPED

at the gentleman’s face; and I thought he seemed ex-
cited.

‘*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 1 bought my own carcase any
too dear. Thirty guineas on the seaside, 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 P”

‘*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 Govern-
ment, and how much of it’ll come to you?”

‘Little enough, to be sure,” said Hoseason; and then,
“if they knew,” he added, dryly. ‘‘ But I think, if I
was to try, that I could hold my tongue about it.”

‘Ah, but I’'ll begowk } ye there!” cried the gentle-
man. ‘‘Play me false, and I’ll play you cunning. If

1 Befool.
68



THE MAN WITH THE BELT OF GOLD

a hand is laid upon me, they shall ken what money it
is.”

“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 alittle 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 clans-
men outface the soldiery to get it in, and run the gaunt-
let of our great navy to carry it across. All this I had,
of course, heard tell of; and now] 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 be-
fore him.

“‘ Ay,” said he, beginning to eat. ‘‘And you, by
your long face, should be a Whig?’”’}

‘Betwixt and between,” said I, not to annoy him;
for indeed I was as good a Whig as Mr. Campbell could
make me.

1 Whig or Whigamore was the cant name for those who were loyal

to King George.
69



KIDNAPPED

‘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.”

“‘T’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 pre-
cisely 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 makea 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 ?”

70



THE MAN WITH THE BELT OF GOLD

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 P”’

‘* Ay, ay,” put in Hoseason. ‘‘ David kens; David’s
a good lad. Yesee, David my man, yon wild Hieland-
man 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. Buta lad like you, David, might
shap up a horn and a pistol or two without remark.
And if ye can doit 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 my-
self: ‘‘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! 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

71



KIDNAPPED

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 ina 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 P”’ 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 haven’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 mur-
derer. 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 High-
lander 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.” .

72



THE MAN WITH THE BELT OF GOLD

And having administered this rebuke,-as though ‘it
were something of a chief Hn DOnIARCE he turned to ex-
amine our defences..

The round-house was built very strong, to eer
breaching of the seas. Of its five apertures, only the
skylight and. the two doors were large enough for the
passage ofaman. 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 se-
cured 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, Ihave 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+ drams to a wheen tarry sailors.”

Thereupon he stood up in the midst with his face to

1 Reaching.
73



KIDNAPPED

the door, and drawing his great sword, made trial of
the room he had to wield it in.

‘‘] 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.

74



THE MAN WITH THE BELT OF GOLD

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 notall. Let’s make a bit of a soldier of ye, David.
What else have ye to guard P”’

‘‘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.

75



CHAPTER X
“THE SIEGE OF THE ROUND-HOUSE

Bur 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 oP
tain showed face in the open door.

“Stand!” cried Alan, and pointed his sword at him.

The captain stood, indeed; but he neither mies nor
drew back a foot.

“A naked sword?” sayshe. ‘‘ This is a strange re-
turn 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

76



THE SIEGE OF THE ROUND-HOUSE

case they should run in under his sword. I, on my
part, clambered up into the berth with an armful of pis-
tols 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 continu-
ally 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
aman 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 thena 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 door-
way, 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.

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KIDNAPPED

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 discon-
certed. 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 him-
self 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.

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THE SIEGE OF THE ROUND-HOUSE

‘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? it,” I heard one say.

And another answered him with a ‘‘ Wheesht, man!
He’s paid the piper.”

After that the voices fell again into the same mutter-
ing 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 tak-

“ing 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 tak-
ing their places in the dark, I could have found it in my
mind to cry out aloud.

1 Bungled.
79



KIDNAPPED

- 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 mis-
gave me, and I could no more pull the trigger than |
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 cour-
age 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 miss-
ing, 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 sea-

-men, while he was engaged with others, had run in
80



THE SIEGE OF THE ROUND-HOUSE

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. | 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. dis-
tance, 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. ett

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 un-
hurt.

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 P”
81



KIDNAPPED

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 /e 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 anew 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 havé
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.
82



THE SIEGE OF THE ROUND-HOUSE

Now this song which: he made (both words and mu-
sic) 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 thor-
oughly 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 impor-
tant) 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 toaseat. 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 com-
ing, 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.

“Ill 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;
83.



KIDNAPPED . |

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 stir-
ring; and by the banging of the helm, I- Knew they had
even no one atthe tiller. Indeed.(as I learned after-
wards) there were so many of them hurt or dead, and
the rest in so ill a temper, that Mr. Riach and the cap-
tain 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.

84



CHAPTER XI
THE CAPTAIN KNUCKLES UNDER

Atan 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 agree-
able 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, in-
deed, expressed himself most lovingly; and taking a
knife from the table, cut me off one of the silver buttons
from his coat.

“‘T 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
85



KIDNAPPED

that button, the friends of Alan Breck will come around
you.”

He said this as if he had been Charlemagne, and com-
manded armies; and indeed, much as | 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 rum-
maged 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, climb-
ing 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 a
while 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 thana 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.
86



THE CAPTAIN KNUCKLES UNDER

‘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.”

“Ts that so?” said I.

“‘T'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 re-
minders 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. ‘‘ Havel not
passed my word, sir? or do ye seek to affront me?”

_ “Captain,” says Alan, ‘‘I doubt your word is a break-
able. Last night ye haggled and argle-bargled like an

apple-wife; and then passed me your word, and gave
87



KIDNAPPED

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
cther 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 half-
ling 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 ac-
quaint 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 | have found ye
at the fighting. Why, my poor country people in their

88



Full Text

The Baldwin Library

RmB






ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

Vou. V

KIDNAPPED

“fF saw him pass his sword through the mate’s body."”

Drawn by HOWARD PYLE.
% THE NOVELS AND
TALES OF ROBERT
LOUIS STEVENSON

KIDNAPPED

% PUBLISHED IN
NEW YORK BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S
SONS £ # 1896 &


KIDNAPPED

BEING

THE ADVENTURES OF DAVID BALFOUR

HOW HE WAS KIDNAPPED AND CAST AWAY, HIS SUFFERINGS IN A
DESERT ISLE} HIS JOURNEY IN THE WILD HIGHLANDS, HIS ACQUAINT-
ANCE WITH ALAN BRECK STEWART AND OTHER NOTORIOUS HIGH-
LAND 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
DEDICATION

My Dear CHARLES BAXTER:

Ir you ever read this tale, you will likely ask yourself more questions
than I should care to answer: as for instance how the Appin mur-
der 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 indefen-
sible; it is more honest to confess at once how little ] 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 des-
perate 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 mean-
while 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
DEDICATION

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

PAGE
1 SET OFF UPON MY JOURNEY TO THE HOUSE OF
SHAWS .... 2... soe ee ee ee eT

I COME TO MY JOURNEY’S END... ..... «79
I MAKE ACQUAINTANCE OF MY UNCLE. . .... 14
I RUN A GREAT DANGER IN THE HOUSE OF SHAWS 23
I GO TO THE QUEEN’S FERRY ......: . . 33
WHAT BEFELL AT THE QUEEN’S FERRY ... .. 41

1 GO TO SEA IN THE BRIG ‘'COVENANT” OF DYSART 48

THE ROUND-HOUSE. . ... 1... eee O57
THE MAN WITH THE BELT CF GOLD ...... 64
THE SIEGE OF THE ROUND-HOUSE....... . 76
THE CAPTAIN KNUCKLES UNDER... .. .. . 85
1 HEAR OF THE “‘RED FOX”... .... 0... Qt!
THE LOSS OF THE BRIG. . ......... =. 102
THE ISLET . . 1... ww eee eee ee TO

THE LAD WITH THE SILVER BUTTON: THROUGH THE
ISLE OF MULL ........ 1. 1 we 122
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE LAD WITH THE SILVER BUTTON: ACROSS MORVEN 132
THE DEATH OF THE RED FOX ........ . 142

] TALK WITH ALAN IN THE WOOD OF LETTERMORE 150

THE HOUSE OF FEAR. ........2. 2... 161
THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER: THE ROCKS. . . . 170
THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER: THE HEUGH OF COR-
RYNAKIEGH . . ww. wwe eee ee 8
THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER: THE MOOR... . 191
CLUNY’S CAGE. . 2... 2 we 1 eee ee 201
THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER: THE QUARREL. . . 212
IN BALQUHIDDER. . . . . 1... 1. ee ee 225
END OF THE FLIGHT: WE PASS THE FORTH . . . 234
] COME TO MR. RANKEILLOR. . . . 2... . 248
1 GO IN QUEST OF MY INHERITANCE .... . . 258
] COME INTO MY KINGDOM ....... .. . 268
GOOD-BYE! . 2. 6 we ee ee 27









SKETCH of the CRUISE of the BRIG COVENANT
And the probable course of DAVID BALFOUR'S WANDERINGS.

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THE GHAY LIT (ONY
KIDNAPPED

CHAPTER |
I SET OFF UPON MY JOURNEY TO THE HOUSE OF SHAWS

WILL begin the story of my adventures with a cer-

tain 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 | 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 wait-
ing 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 a
while.

1
KIDNAPPED

‘““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 |
thought I had a chance to better myself where I was
going | 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 let-
ter 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 P”

“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 de-
cayed. Your father, too, was.a man of learning as be-
fitted his position; no man more plausibly conducted

school; nor had he the manner or the speech of a com-
2
MY JOURNEY TO THE HOUSE OF SHAWS

mon 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, super-
scrived 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 be-
fore 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 P”

‘‘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. Ifthe worst came to the worst, and your high
relations (as I cannot but suppose them to be some-
what 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 re-
ceived, 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

3
KIDNAPPED

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 in-
stant 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 inhabit-
ants.

‘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 hon-
our. It’s a pleasure to obey alaird; 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, heart-
ily. ‘‘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

4
MY JOURNEY TO THE HOUSE OF SHAWS

Mrs. Campbell and myself would be blithe of your ac-
ceptance. 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, fora
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

5
KIDNAPPED

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 pal-
sey. It is good against the Gout; it comforts the heart and strength-
ens 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 spoone-
ful 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, | 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 march-
ing 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

7
KIDNAPPED

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, con-
sorted 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 P”’ I asked.

‘‘Doubtless,” says he. ‘‘The house is a big, muckle
house.” —

«* Ay,” said I, ‘‘but the folk that are in itp”

‘*FolkP” cried he. ‘‘Are ye daft? There’s nae folk
there — to call folk.”

‘“What P” 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 ?”

“Tl was led to think that I would get a situation,” |
said, looking as modest as | 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.”

8
I COME TO MY JOURNEY’S END

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 illu-
sions. 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 cur-
rent 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 | 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, | 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 J 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,

9
KIDNAPPED

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

10
I COME TO MY JOURNEY’S END

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 un-
roofed 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 | 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
ll
‘KIDNAPPED

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 someone 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 | began instead to rain kicks and
buffets on the door, and to shout out aloud for Mr. Bal-
four. 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.

“‘T have come here with a letter,” I said, ‘‘to Mr.
Ebenezer Balfour of Shaws. Is he here P”

“‘From whom is itP” asked the man with the blun-
derbuss.

‘*That is neither here nor there,” said I, for I was

growing very wroth.
12
I COME TO MY JOURNEY’S END

“Well,” was the reply, ‘‘ye can put it down upon
the doorstep, and be off with ye.”

“‘T 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, af-
ter 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:

“Ts your father dead P”

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 win-
dow.
CHAPTER Il
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, | 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
acup of small beer. Besides what I have named, there
was not another thing in that great, stone-vaulted,
empty chamber but lock-fast 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 any-
thing 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

14
I MAKE ACQUAINTANCE OF MY UNCLE

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! 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.

I told him the letter was for Mr. Balfour; not for him.

‘*And who do ye think I am P” 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 | 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.

1 Moistens.
15
KIDNAPPED

‘‘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 ?”’

‘*T 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 1am no beggar; |
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 itmyself. Ay,” hecontinued, 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 pullat 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

16
I MAKE ACQUAINTANCE OF MY UNCLE

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 dis-
use 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,” hecontinued. ‘‘ He never said muckle when he
was young. He’ll never have spoken muckle of me?”

“‘T 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 daresay ?”

‘Not so much as the name, sir,” said I.

“To think o’ that!” said he. ‘‘A strange nature of
aman!” 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 per-
son; 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 nolamp 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,

'7
KIDNAPPED

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,”! said I.
“TI cannae see the bed.” .

“‘Hoot-toot, hoot-toot!’’saidhe. ‘‘ 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 | 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, [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

1 Dark as the pit.
18 ,
1 MAKE ACQUAINTANCE OF MY UNCLE

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 sur-
prise, 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 downin 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 an-
other long pause, ‘“‘Whae were these friends o’ yours ?”

I told him they were different gentlemen of the name

19
KIDNAPPED

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’vea 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 seek-
ing 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.”

20
1 MAKE ACQUAINTANCE OF MY UNCLE

It seemed to me (too soon, | daresay) that I was get-
ting 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!” hecried. ‘‘Twelve hunner and fifteen
— that’s every day since ] had the limmer rowpit!1 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.”

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 anyway, 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

1Sold up.
21
KIDNAPPED

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, | do not value your favour ata
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 a while. I could see him all trembling and twitch-
ing, like aman 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, ‘‘] 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 a while. 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.”
22
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 in 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 |
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 noth-
ing 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.

23
KIDNAPPED

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 P” 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, blink-
ing and winking strangely.

‘“What do you meanP” J 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 him-
self. ‘‘Dod man, David,” he said, ‘‘ye shouldnae 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

24
I RUN A GREAT DANGER IN THE HOUSE OF SHAWS

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 dan-
gerous; 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 neverthe-
less 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 smok-
ing, 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

25
KIDNAPPED

grown by now to be a maitter 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 some-
thing 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.”

26
I RUN A GREAT DANGER IN THE HOUSE OF SHAWS

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 care-
ful 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 prop-
erly, as | 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 1.

27
KIDNAPPED

‘*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 moan-
ing 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 stair-tower 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, with-
out 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 lower-
most 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
28
I RUN A GREAT DANGER IN THE HOUSE OF SHAWS

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 | 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 solid-
ity 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 noth-
ing 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,

29
KIDNAPPED

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
itis, 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 vite, and now sat
with his back towards meat 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.
30
I] RUN A GREAT DANGER IN THE HOUSE OF SHAWS

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 J had the time; and afew
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 High-
land dirk without the scabbard. This, then, I con-
cealed 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 alittle 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 P” he sobbed. ‘‘O man, are yealive?”

“That am I,” said I]. ‘‘Small thanks to you!”

31
KIDNAPPED

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 Iadministered 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 |
felt some pity for a man that looked so sick, but I was
full besides of righteous anger; and I numbered over be-
fore him the points on which I wanted explanation: why
he lied to me at every word; why he feared that I should
deave 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 J 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.

“*T'll tell ye the morn,” he said; ‘‘as sure as death |
will.”

And so weak was he that I could do nothing but con-
sent. I locked him into his room, however, and pock-
eted 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.

32
CHAPTER V
I GO TO THE QUEEN’S FERRY

Mucu 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 re-
plenished, 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

33
KIDNAPPED

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 tribula-
tions 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 tome?” And then, as he made no
articulate reply, ‘‘It will be time, I think, to understand
each other,” Icontinued. ‘‘ 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 ] 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

34
_1 GO TO THE QUEEN’S FERRY

blue with the cold; and there was something in his face,
a look between tears and laughter, that was highly pa-
thetic and consisted ill with this gaiety of manner.
““What cheer, mate?” says he, with acracked voice.
| 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 atall, 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 P I’ve brought
a letter from old Heasy-oasy to Mr. Belflower.” He
showed me a letter as he spoke. ‘‘AndI 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 far-
thest 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-
35
KIDNAPPED

day will be the last occasion, as the wind will serve us well out of the
firth. I willnot seek to deny that I have had crosses with your doer,1
Mr. Rankeillor; of which, if not speedily redd up, you may looke to
see some losses follow. 1 have drawn a bill upon you, as per margin,
and am, sir, your most obedt., humble servant,

‘*Extas HosEason.”

““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 may-
be 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? 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.”

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 propos-
ing it; and, perhaps, in the bottom of my heart, I wished
a nearer view of the sea and ships. You are to remem-
ber 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.

1 Agent. 2 Unwilling.
36
I GO TO THE QUEEN’S FERRY

“Very well,” says'l, ‘‘ 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 | 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. Heasy-oasy (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

37
KIDNAPPED

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 turn-
ing 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 han-
dled!”

“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 anyone in this wide
world as I felt for that half-witted creature; and it be-
gan 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 for-
get which. ‘‘He was a fine man, too,” he said; ‘‘ but
he’s dead.”

‘*In Heaven’s name,” cried I, ‘‘can you find no repu-
table life on shore?”

‘*O, no,” says he, winking and looking very sly;
“they would put me toa trade. I know a trick worth
two of that, I do!”

38
1 GO TO THE QUEEN’S FERRY

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 un-
happy 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 land-
locked 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

39
KIDNAPPED

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 pas-
sengers. 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
sailin 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 fromadream. ‘‘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.”

40
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. Ata table hard by
the chimney, a tall, dark, sober-looking man sat writ-
ing. 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 stu-
dious and self-possessed, than this ship-captain.

He got to his feet at once, and coming forward, of-
fered 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 burn-
ing 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.
**?’'m a cold-rife man by my nature; I havea 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.”

4!
KIDNAPPED

‘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 prom-
ised 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 myselfa while,”
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 cross-
ing the road in front of the inn, walked down upon the
beach. With the wind in-that quarter, only little wave-
lets, 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 exceed-
ingly salt and stirring; the Covenant, besides, was be-
ginning 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 des-
perate 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

42
WHAT BEFELL AT THE QUEEN'S FERRY

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. |
told him I would give him no such thing, for neither
he nor I was of an age for such indulgences. ‘‘Buta
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, | 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 avery 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.

“T thought not,” said he, ‘‘and yet ye have a kind
of gliff! of Mr. Alexander.”’

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 girn-
1 Look.

43
KIDNAPPED

ing in the tow:1 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? gaed abroad about Mr. Alexander; that was
like the death of him.”

««And what was it P” I asked.

‘Ou, just that he had killed him,” said the landlord.
“‘Did ye never hear that P”

“‘And what would he kill him for?” said I.

‘‘And what for, but just to get the place,’’ said he.

“The placer” said I. ‘‘The Shaws?”

‘Nae other place that I ken,” said he.

‘Ay, man?” said I. ‘‘Isthatsorp Wasmy— was
Alexander the eldest son?”

“Deed was he,” said the landlord. ‘‘ What else
would he have killed him for P”’

And with that he went away, as he had been impa-
tient 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 to-morrow. 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 re-
member 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 to-

1 Rope. 2 Report.
44
WHAT BEFELL AT THE QUEEN’S FERRY

wards 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 bow! 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 ap-
pointment 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;1 he means mischief.
Come aboard till I can get a word with ye.” And then,
passing his arm through mine, he continued aloud, as

1 Fox,
45
KIDNAPPED

he set off towards his boat: ‘‘But come, what can |
bring ye from the Carolinas? Any friend of Mr. Bal-
four’s cancommand. Aroll oftobaccor Indian feather-
work? a skin of a wild beast? a stone pipeP the
mocking-bird that mews for all the world like a cat?
the cardinal bird that is as red as blood p— take your
pick and say your pleasure.”

By this time. we were at the boat-side, and he was
handing me in. I did not dream of hanging back; |
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.

Assoon 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 | 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.

46
WHAT BEFELL AT THE QUEEN’S FERRY

“*Ay,” said Hoseason, with a sudden grimness, ‘‘ that’s
the point.”’

I felt ] was lost. With all my strength, I plucked my-
self 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 lastI 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.

47
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 thun-
dering 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 un-
lucky 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 deaf-
ened me; and presently, to my other pains and dis-
tresses, 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.

48
I GO TO SEA IN THE BRIG ‘‘COVENANT” OF DYSART

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, ] have not the means
of computation. But sleep atlength stole from me the
consciousness of sorrow.

I was awakened by the light of a hand-lantern shin-
ing 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 P”

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.) What, man? Cheer
up! The world’s no done; you’ve made a bad start of
it, but you'll makea better. Have you had any meat?”

1Stroke.
49
KIDNAPPED

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 ] had suffered tor-
tures 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.”

“‘Tam 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.”’

50
I GO TO SEA IN THE BRIG ‘‘COVENANT” OF DYSART

““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,” re-
plied 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!”’

51
KIDNAPPED

Thereupon the captain ascended the ladder; and I,
who had lain silent throughout this strange conversa-
tion, 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 pre-
pared, and bade me lie still and I should soon be well
again. There were no bones broken, he explained: “‘A
clour? on the head was naething. Man,” said he, ‘‘it
was me that gave it ye!”

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

1 Blow.
52
I GO TO SEA IN THE BRIG ‘'COVENANT” OF DYSART

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 re-
ceived them; and it is a thankless business to speak ill
of the dead.

Among other good deeds that they did, they returned

53
KIDNAPPED

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 de-
pressed; 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 sucha 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 cap-
tain; 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
something 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

54
1 GO TO SEA IN THE BRIG “COVENANT” OF DYSART

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 ap-~
prentices 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 bit-
terly 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 round-house, 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, | 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 forcastle lighted only by a

55
KIDNAPPED

swinging lantern ona 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 quarreling 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 | grew to be, and how impatient for a change.

And a change I was to get, as you shall hear; but |
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) | 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!”

] thought it would be civil to ask him for his story.

He whistled loud.

“*Never had one,” said he. ‘‘I liked fun, that’s all.”
And he skipped out of the forecastle.

56
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 lad-
der. 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 scut-
tle, carrying Ransome in their arms; and the ship at that
moment giving a great sheer into the sea, and the lan-
tern 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 Ho-
season.

57
KIDNAPPED

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 fore-
sail, 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, |
thought we might be half-way or more across the At-
lantic. 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; in-
deed, all the best of the meat and drink and the whole
of the powder were collected in this place; and. all the

58 3
THE ROUND-HOUSE

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 be-
side me, looking darkly at the mate. I.stood in great
fear of Hoseason, and had my reasons for it; but some-
thing 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 speak-
ing, 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 bot-
tle; and at that Mr. Riach started forward and caught
it away from him, rather by surprise than violence, cry-
ing 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.

: 59
KIDNAPPED

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. ‘‘Yesot 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 fright-
ened 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 over-
board, 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 mea 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.

60
THE ROUND-HOUSE

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 cap-
tain took at regular hours, sitting down with the officer
who was off duty; all the day through I would be run-
ning 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 | suffered to sleep without in-
terruption; 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 sea-legs) 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 (some-
times, 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

61
KIDNAPPED

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 P” 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, |
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 morn-
ing 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.
62
THE ROUND-HOUSE

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.

63
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
alittle 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 of-
ficers, and some decision which I did not rightly under-
stand, 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.

May-be 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.

64
THE MAN WITH THE BELT OF GOLD

‘No, sir,” said the captain. ‘‘We’ve only run a
boat down.”

And they hurried out.

The captain was in the right of it. Wehad rundown
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 hada
kind of dancing madness in them, that was both en-
gaging 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 tobe
sure, as soon as he had taken off the great-coat, he

65
KIDNAPPED

showed forth mighty fine for the round-house of a
merchant brig: having a hat with feathers, a red waist-
coat, 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.

“‘!'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 P”’ 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.”

‘*T 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 pistois.

‘‘Don’t be hasty,” said the captain. ‘‘Don’t doa
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.”
66
THE MAN WITH THE BELT OF GOLD

“‘So?’’ said the gentleman in the fine coat: ‘‘are ye
of the honest party ?’”’ (meaning, Was hea Jacobite? for
each side, in these sort of civil broils, takes the name of
honesty for its own).

““Why, sir,” replied the captain, ‘‘] 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, ‘‘] 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 gentle-
man 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
67
KIDNAPPED

at the gentleman’s face; and I thought he seemed ex-
cited.

‘*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 1 bought my own carcase any
too dear. Thirty guineas on the seaside, 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 P”

‘*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 Govern-
ment, and how much of it’ll come to you?”

‘Little enough, to be sure,” said Hoseason; and then,
“if they knew,” he added, dryly. ‘‘ But I think, if I
was to try, that I could hold my tongue about it.”

‘Ah, but I’'ll begowk } ye there!” cried the gentle-
man. ‘‘Play me false, and I’ll play you cunning. If

1 Befool.
68
THE MAN WITH THE BELT OF GOLD

a hand is laid upon me, they shall ken what money it
is.”

“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 alittle 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 clans-
men outface the soldiery to get it in, and run the gaunt-
let of our great navy to carry it across. All this I had,
of course, heard tell of; and now] 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 be-
fore him.

“‘ Ay,” said he, beginning to eat. ‘‘And you, by
your long face, should be a Whig?’”’}

‘Betwixt and between,” said I, not to annoy him;
for indeed I was as good a Whig as Mr. Campbell could
make me.

1 Whig or Whigamore was the cant name for those who were loyal

to King George.
69
KIDNAPPED

‘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.”

“‘T’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 pre-
cisely 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 makea 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 ?”

70
THE MAN WITH THE BELT OF GOLD

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 P”’

‘* Ay, ay,” put in Hoseason. ‘‘ David kens; David’s
a good lad. Yesee, David my man, yon wild Hieland-
man 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. Buta lad like you, David, might
shap up a horn and a pistol or two without remark.
And if ye can doit 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 my-
self: ‘‘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! 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

71
KIDNAPPED

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 ina 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 P”’ 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 haven’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 mur-
derer. 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 High-
lander 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.” .

72
THE MAN WITH THE BELT OF GOLD

And having administered this rebuke,-as though ‘it
were something of a chief Hn DOnIARCE he turned to ex-
amine our defences..

The round-house was built very strong, to eer
breaching of the seas. Of its five apertures, only the
skylight and. the two doors were large enough for the
passage ofaman. 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 se-
cured 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, Ihave 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+ drams to a wheen tarry sailors.”

Thereupon he stood up in the midst with his face to

1 Reaching.
73
KIDNAPPED

the door, and drawing his great sword, made trial of
the room he had to wield it in.

‘‘] 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.

74
THE MAN WITH THE BELT OF GOLD

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 notall. Let’s make a bit of a soldier of ye, David.
What else have ye to guard P”’

‘‘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.

75
CHAPTER X
“THE SIEGE OF THE ROUND-HOUSE

Bur 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 oP
tain showed face in the open door.

“Stand!” cried Alan, and pointed his sword at him.

The captain stood, indeed; but he neither mies nor
drew back a foot.

“A naked sword?” sayshe. ‘‘ This is a strange re-
turn 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

76
THE SIEGE OF THE ROUND-HOUSE

case they should run in under his sword. I, on my
part, clambered up into the berth with an armful of pis-
tols 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 continu-
ally 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
aman 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 thena 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 door-
way, 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.

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KIDNAPPED

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 discon-
certed. 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 him-
self 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.

78
THE SIEGE OF THE ROUND-HOUSE

‘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? it,” I heard one say.

And another answered him with a ‘‘ Wheesht, man!
He’s paid the piper.”

After that the voices fell again into the same mutter-
ing 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 tak-

“ing 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 tak-
ing their places in the dark, I could have found it in my
mind to cry out aloud.

1 Bungled.
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KIDNAPPED

- 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 mis-
gave me, and I could no more pull the trigger than |
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 cour-
age 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 miss-
ing, 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 sea-

-men, while he was engaged with others, had run in
80
THE SIEGE OF THE ROUND-HOUSE

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. | 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. dis-
tance, 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. ett

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 un-
hurt.

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 P”
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KIDNAPPED

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 /e 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 anew 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 havé
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.
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THE SIEGE OF THE ROUND-HOUSE

Now this song which: he made (both words and mu-
sic) 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 thor-
oughly 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 impor-
tant) 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 toaseat. 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 com-
ing, 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.

“Ill 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;
83.
KIDNAPPED . |

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 stir-
ring; and by the banging of the helm, I- Knew they had
even no one atthe tiller. Indeed.(as I learned after-
wards) there were so many of them hurt or dead, and
the rest in so ill a temper, that Mr. Riach and the cap-
tain 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.

84
CHAPTER XI
THE CAPTAIN KNUCKLES UNDER

Atan 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 agree-
able 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, in-
deed, expressed himself most lovingly; and taking a
knife from the table, cut me off one of the silver buttons
from his coat.

“‘T 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
85
KIDNAPPED

that button, the friends of Alan Breck will come around
you.”

He said this as if he had been Charlemagne, and com-
manded armies; and indeed, much as | 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 rum-
maged 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, climb-
ing 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 a
while 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 thana 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.
86
THE CAPTAIN KNUCKLES UNDER

‘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.”

“Ts that so?” said I.

“‘T'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 re-
minders 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. ‘‘ Havel not
passed my word, sir? or do ye seek to affront me?”

_ “Captain,” says Alan, ‘‘I doubt your word is a break-
able. Last night ye haggled and argle-bargled like an

apple-wife; and then passed me your word, and gave
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KIDNAPPED

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
cther 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 half-
ling 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 ac-
quaint 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 | have found ye
at the fighting. Why, my poor country people in their

88
THE CAPTAIN KNUCKLES UNDER

bit cobles? pass from island to island in all weathers, ay,
and by night too, for the matter of that.”

‘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,”
tain. ‘‘But all this will cost money, sir.”

‘*Well, sir,” says Alan, ‘‘] 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

said the cap-

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 | had lost less money on this unchancy cruise,”
says he, ‘‘I would see you in a rope’s end before | risked

1 Coble: a small boat used in fishing.
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KIDNAPPED

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 | 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 -be-
tween 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

gr
KIDNAPPED

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] 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 cap-
tain’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 sosoon to land. In those days,
so close on the back of the great rebellion, it was need-
ful 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 Camp-
bells ?”

‘“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

92
I HEAR OF THE ‘‘RED FOX”

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 under-
hand. ‘‘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,
**T 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,

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KIDNAPPED

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 will-
ing to prove with either sword or pistol. And that was
the father that I had, God rest him!”

“<] 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 P”

“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 1 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.”

“‘] misdoubt it much,” said I.

‘‘T have doubts mysel’,” said Alan, drily.

94
I] HEAR OF THE ‘RED FOX”

- “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.”

*‘T 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 whis-
tle, 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.”

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KIDNAPPED

And he struck the belt about his body, so that the gui-
neas rang.

“Do they pay both?” cried I.

‘‘ Ay, David, both,” says he.

‘“What! two rents P” 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 won-
derful 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: Ard-
shiel’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 bet-
ter; but I call it noble.”

‘“Ay,” said he, ‘‘ye’re a Whig, but ye’re a gentle-
man; 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 Cul-

loden, and the good cause went down, and the horses
96
I HEAR OF THE ‘‘RED FOX”

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 Co-
lin of Glenure .

‘Ts 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-fel-
low-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?”

“
‘«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

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KIDNAPPED

teeth at the wine table. .What! should a Stewart geta
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 dor He de-
clares 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, ‘Ard-
shiel will have to hold his bonnet on a French road-
side.’ ”

“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 fleech-
ing, 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 isa strange story, and a
fine one, too.. And Whig as I may be, ] am glad.the
man was beaten.”

‘‘Him beaten P”’ 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

98
I HEAR OF THE “RED FOX”

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 aheather 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;

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KIDNAPPED

he maun dow with less; he can spread his butter thin-
ner: 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 or-
ders. And if ye killed this Colin to-morrow, what bet-
ter 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 cov-
ers 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.

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! HEAR GF THE “RED FOX”

** 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 tenty1
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 coun-
try of Appin, and never a pretty lad to put a bullet in
hime”

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 ex-
cellent 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.

1 Careful.
101
CHAPTER XIII
THE LOSS OF THE BRIG

IT was already late at night, and as dark as itever 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 Llook 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 south-west 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 larboard 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.

~ 102
THE LOSS OF THE BRIG

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 P”

‘* Ay,” said Hoseason, ‘‘ if it was the only one.”

And sure enough, just as he spoke there came a sec-
ond fountain farther to the south.

‘‘There!” said Hoseason. ‘‘ Ye see for yourself. If
I had kent of these reefs, if | 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 P”

“’'m thinking,” said Alan, ‘‘ these’ll be what they call
the Torran Rocks.”

‘* Are there many of them P” says the captain.

‘Truly, sir, | 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 some-
how runs in my mind once more that it is clearer under
the land.”

“So?” said Hoseason. ‘‘ We'll have to haul our
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KIDNAPPED

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 ofit. 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 J hear it? Well, well, it will be as it must.”

As we got nearer to the turn of the land the reefs be-
gan 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 cap-
tain 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.

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THE LOSS OF THE BRIG

Neither he nor Mr. Riach had shown well in the fight-
ing; 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 | fancy!”

‘“What, Alan!” I cried, ‘‘ you’re not afraid P”

‘*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 some-
times 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 wa-
ter 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,
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KIDNAPPED

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 south-west 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 ham-

mered on the.rock. His brig was like wife and child
106
THE LOSS OF THE BRIG

to him; he had looked on, day by day, at the mishand-
ling 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, | 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, ] 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 myéself.

It was the spare yard I had got hold of, and I was

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KIDNAPPED

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 in-
creased 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 kick-
ing 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
108
THE LOSS OF THE BRIG

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, ] was: tired as | never was before that
night; and grateful to God as I trust I have been often,
though never with more cause.

709
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 acold 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, barefoot, 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 out-
side 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 un-
dertook—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,
110
THE ISLET

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 | set off eastward along the south
coast, hoping to find a house where I might warm my-
self, 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 in-
let 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 | 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 ] 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 lamen
table.

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 1 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
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KIDNAPPED

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 dis-
tressed 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. Butat 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.

Thad 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
ifon purpose. My case was very different. I had noth-

ing in my pockets but money and Alan’s silver button;
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and being inland bred, I was as much short of know-
ledge 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 need-
ful. 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 | 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 re-
vived my strength. But as long as I was on the island,
I never knew what to expect when I had eaten; some-
times all was well, and sometimes I was thrown intoa
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 | lacked the means to kill, and the gulls
which haunted the outlying rocks in a prodigious num-
ber. But the creek, or strait, that cut off the isle from

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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 ] had thought upon the very
name of home in such a spot, | 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 impor-
tant, 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 aconvenience. But the
other reason went deeper. | 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, al-
though it put a point on my own sufferings, yet it kept
hope alive, and helped me to eat my raw shell-fish

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(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 impos-
sible 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 |
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 out-
doors 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 ] was jumping about after my limpets,
I was startled by a guinea-piece, which fell upon a rock

T15
KIDNAPPED |

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 Queens-
ferry with near on fifty pounds; now I found no more
than two guinea-pieces and a silver shilling.

It is true] 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, fora
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 piti-
ful. 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 ] 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 north-west of Ear-
raid, 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
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THE ISLET

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 tothem. 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, |
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,

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KIDNAPPED

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; |
observed the night was falling dry; my clothes were
dried a good deal; truly, I was ina better case than ever
before, since | 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 man-
aged 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 an-
other 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
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THE ISLET

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 sea
side 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 | 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 sup-
plications, 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, | 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 J 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

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KIDNAPPED

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-—— P”’ I cried,
and could not finish.

“Yes, yes,” said he. ‘“‘ Tide.”

At that I turned tail upon their boat (where my ad-
viser 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 Ear-
raid; which is only what they call a tidal islet, and ex-
cept 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 shell-fish — 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 piti-
ful 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, | might

have left my bones there, in pure folly. And even as it
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THE ISLET

was, I had paid for it pretty dear, not only in past suf-
ferings, 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.

121
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 briar, 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 | 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 un-
derstand 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 gentle-
man Pp”

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 J, ‘‘and he would have a feathered hat?”
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THROUGH THE ISLE OF MULL

He told me, no, that he was bare-headed 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 sil-
ver 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 Ia
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

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KIDNAPPED

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 High-
landers, 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 ap-
plied, 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

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THROUGH THE ISLE OF MULL

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 them-
selves, who beg by patent—had a louting, flattering
way with them, and if you gave them a plack 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 beg-
gars) 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! asked admittance, and was
refused, until | 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 be-
gan to speak as clearly as was needful, and agreed for
five shillings to give mea 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

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KIDNAPPED

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 wit-
ness to our bargain and to my payment of the five shil-
lings. 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 be-
fore 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
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THROUGH THE ISLE OF MULL

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 a while 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 way-
side 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 P”

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 wild cat. At that, for-.
getting 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 heav-

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KIDNAPPED

ily. 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
bare-foot and disarmed. I chuckled to myself as I went,
being sure | 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 danger-
ous 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 of-
fence, 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 noth-
ing of the other two, and was glad he could not see my
blushes.

‘‘ Was it too much P” 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
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THROUGH THE ISLE OF MULL

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
knew 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!l” says he, ‘‘ that’s nothing. Would ye believe
menow, 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

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KIDNAPPED

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 areel. 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 forsome 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] 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 ] 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 ri-

valry put us at once upon friendly terms; and I sat up and
130
THROUGH THE ISLE OF MULL

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.

Itried 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 mean-
ing, 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 ] was lucky to have got clear off.. ‘‘ That isa
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 isa great temptation to the poor man.”

At last, when my landlord could drink no more, he
showed me to a bed, and | 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. In-
deed 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.

131
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, 1 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 sum-

132
ACROSS MORVEN

mer 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 pres-
ently 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.

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KIDNAPPED

*©And what for no?” said he.

“‘T 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, | would not hurt a hair
upon his body.”

I saw I had gone the wrong way to work, and with-
out wasting time upon apologies, showed him the but-
ton 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

134
ACROSS MORVEN

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 |
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, ver-
min, and silent Highlanders. I was not only discontent-
ed with my lodging, but with myself for my misman-
agement 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, wad-
ing over the shoes.

Early in my next day’s journey I overtook a little

135
KIDNAPPED

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 read-
ing 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 Bala-
chulish as the place I was traveling 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

136
ACROSS MORVEN

people he worked among, the hiding priests and Jaco-
bites, the Disarming Act, the dress, and many other cu-
riosities of the time and place. He seemed moderate;
blaming Parliament in several points, and especially be-
cause they had framed the Act more severely against
those who wore the dress than against those who car-
ried 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 P”
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

137
KIDNAPPED

was saying, this Alan Breck is a bold, desperate cus-
tomer, 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. ‘‘Ifit 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 mis-
guided 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 P”’ 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

138
. ACROSS MORVEN

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 1 was his
lady wife, | wouldnae be well pleased till I got him
home again. They’re queer customers, the Appin
Stewarts.”

] 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 Ap-
pin, he has it all to begin again in the next country,
which they call Mamore, and which is one of the coun-
tries of the Camerons. He’s King’s factor upon both,
and from both he has to drive out the tenants; and in-
deed, 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 express-
ing his delight in my company, and satisfaction at meet-
ing with a friend of Mr. Campbell’s (‘‘ whom,” says he,
‘‘T will make bold to call that sweet singer of our cov-
enanted 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

139
KIDNAPPED

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. Hender-
land’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 pri-
vation; 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

140
ACROSS MORVEN

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 todo. 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.

141
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 pre-
vailed 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 | 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 waterside to the north.
It was much of the same red as soldiers’ coats; every
now and then, too, there came little sparks and light-
nings, as though the sun had struck upon bright steel.

I asked my boatman what it should be; and he an-

142
THE DEATH OF THE RED FOX

swered he supposed it was some of the red soldiers com-
ing from Fort William into Appin, against the poor ten-
antry 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 en-
tering 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 far-
ther from my secret destination, I insisted, and was set
on shore at last under the wood of Lettermore (or Let-
tervore, for I have heard it both ways) in Alan’s coun-
try 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 |
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

143
KIDNAPPED

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 fam-
ily, 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 Ar-
gyle (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

144
THE DEATH OF THE RED FOX

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 P” 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
yer”

** 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 P and why does he come
seeking the brother of Ardshiel? I have power here, I
must tell you. Iam King’s Factor upon several of these
estates, and have twelve files of soldiers at my back.”

‘‘T 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.

145
KIDNAPPED

‘‘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, Mungor” And he turned
again to look at the lawyer.

But just as he turned there came the shot of a fire-
lock from higher up the hill; and with the very sound
of it Glenure fell upon the road.

‘““O, Iam 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. ‘‘] 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 ser-
vant broke out into a great noise of crying and weep-
ing, 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 | began to

146
THE DEATH OF THE RED FOX

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 m
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.”

147
KIDNAPPED

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 anew 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! in here among the trees,” said avoice, close by.

Indeed, I scarce knew what I was doing, but I obeyed;
and as | 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 saluta-
tion; indeed it was no time for civilities; only ‘‘Come!”’
says he, and set off running along the side of the moun-
tain towards Balachulish; and I, like a sheep, to follow
him. oe

Now we ran among the birches; now stooping be-
hind low humps upon the mountain side; now crawl-
ing 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.

1 Duck,
148
THE DEATH OF THE RED FOX

Quarter of an hour later, Alan stopped, clapped down
flat in the heather, and turried 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 up-
per 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 dry-
ness, that I lay beside him like one dead.

149
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 gentle-
man 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,
Iam not wearied now, and I can speak. You and me
must twine,’’1 I said. ‘‘I liked you very well, Alan,
but your ways are not mine, and they’re not God’s:

1 Part.
150
I TALK WITH ALAN IN THE WOOD OF LETTERMORE

and the short and the long of it is just that we must
twine.”

‘‘] 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 Peo-
ple P’’— by which he meant the fairies.

“No,” said I, ‘nor do I want to hear it.”

‘‘ With your permission, Mr. Balfour, | 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
shipwreck. 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?
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

Bag.
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KIDNAPPED

dirk throughout that poke before he opened it, and there
was his bairn dead. I am thinking to myself, Mr. Bal-
four, that you and the man are very much alike.”

“‘Do you mean you had no hand in it?” cried I, sit--
ting up.

‘*T will tell you first of all, Mr. Balfour of Shaws, as
one friend to another,” said Alan, ‘‘ that if] were going
to kill a gentleman, it would not be in my own coun-
try, 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.”

**l 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 Camp-
bell!” 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 mein 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 P”

‘‘T 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 P”’ said I,

‘*T couldnae just conscientiously swear to him,” says

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I TALK WITH ALAN IN THE WOOD OF LETTERMORE

Alan. ‘‘He gaed very close by me,.to.be-sure, but it’s
a Stange thing that I should ust have been tying my
brogues.”

‘‘Can you swear that: you don t know him, ‘Alan P”’
I cried, half angered, half in a mind to laugh at his
evasions.

“Not yet,” says he; ‘‘but Pve 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
pentemnats You and me were innocent of that trans-
action.”

‘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 bea 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.

153
KIDNAPPED

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 | 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 any-
thing. 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 Campbell’s head place; with fifteen Camp-
bells 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 a while ago at the road-side.”

This frighted me a little, I confess, and would have
frighted 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

154
I TALK WITH ALAN IN THE WOOD OF LETTERMORE

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 P 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 | 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. Be-
sides, 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 instru-
ment 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.

“Vl chance it, Alan,” said I. ‘Pll go with you.”

155
KIDNAPPED

“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 hang-
ing 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,
156
I TALK WITH ALAN IN THE WOOD OF LETTERMORE

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, ina place whence
we could see the sun going down into a field of great,
wild and houseless mountains, such as | was now con-
demned 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 meclinging 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 al-
ready, 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

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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 em-
ployment; 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 upona 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

158
I TALK WITH ALAN IN THE WOOD OF LETTERMORE

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 1; ‘‘for he was as
keen as any of the rest at the beginning. But how did
Hoseason take it P”’

“*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 | 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 to-
gether.”

‘What do you mean by that P”’ 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

159
KIDNAPPED

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

NicuT fellas we were walking, and the clouds, which
had broken up in the afternoon, settled in and thick-
ened, so that it fell, for the season of the year, ex-
tremely dark. .The way we went was over rough
mountain sides; and though Alan pushed on with an
assured manner, I could. by no means see how he di-
rected. 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 car-
rying 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. ‘ButI 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 maving torches came to a stand, as if the
bearers were affrighted ; and how, at the third, the bustle

began again as before.
161
KIDNAPPED

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, ‘‘ 1 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 think-
ing 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
thesweet, 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 before-
hand; but now it’s done, Alan; and who’s to bear the
wyte! of itr 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.”

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

1 Blame.
162
THE HOUSE OF FEAR

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 anx-
ious 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 P”’ 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

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KIDNAPPED

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 ared face was rummaging about the room, inablind
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 acci-
dent, and the trouble it is like to bring upon quite inno-
cent 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?”? 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.

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

1 Mad,
164
THE HOUSE OF FEAR

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. 1 had about two guineas
left; Alan’s belt having been despatched by another
hand, that trusty messenger had no more than seven-
teen-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.

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KIDNAPPED

“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 see that I’ll have to get a paper out
against ye mysel’; I'll have to offer a reward for ye; ay,
willl! It’s a sore thing to do between such near friends;
but if] get the dirdum ? of this dreadful accident, I’ll have
to fend for myself, man. Do ye see that?”

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
1 Blame.

166
THE HOUSE OF FEAR

the face! He'll be papered anyway; Mungo Camp-
bell ’ll be sure to paper him; what matters if 1 paper him
tooP And then, Alan, | ama 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.”

“‘] 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 clutch-
ing 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.”

‘‘T have but one word to say,” said 1; ‘‘ 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 that 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;

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KIDNAPPED

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 Cam-
eron from Mamore that did the act) and if I did not see
that the lad might be caught? ‘‘ Ye havenae surely
thought of that P” said they, with such innocent earnest-
ness, 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 inno-
cent, and that seems to be what’s wanted. But at least,
sir,” said I to James, recovering from my little fit of an-
noyance, ‘‘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 Isaw
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 fleech-
ing like asuitor, him that by rights should give his com-
mands 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.
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THE HOUSE OF FEAR

‘*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!’? and running
of red-coats; and it behoves you and me to the sooner
be gone.”’

Thereupon we said farewell, and set out again, bend-
ing somewhat eastwards, in a fine mild dark night, and
over much the same broken country as before.

1 The rallying-word of the Campbells.

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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 a while at the window with some sleeper awak-
ened. 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 conster-
nation than surprise.

For all our hurry, day began to come in while we
were still far from any shelter. It found us in a pro-
digious 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 some-
170
THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER

times 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 hor-
rible place, and I could see Alan knit his brow.

‘This is no fit place for youand 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

171
KIDNAPPED

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.
Thad 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

172
THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER

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 slop-
ing 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 miscar-
riage. 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! at the jumping,” said he.

1 Brisk.
173
KIDNAPPED

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 ] 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.

“*T 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 Iso?” 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, andI’ll watch.”

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THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER

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 stiil 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 note”

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-march-
ing, soasto meet half way. Higher up the glen, where
the ground was more open, the chain of posts was con-
tinued 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,

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KIDNAPPED

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
yee 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
176

”
THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER

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 offagain 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 childish-
ness. 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 ;”
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KIDNAPPED

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 | 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 riverside,
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
178
THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER

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
ofa hundred eyes in every part of him, to keep con-
cealed 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 judg-
ment 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 sen-
try 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 glenriver. 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 run-
ning water till they ached with the chill; and at last, be-
ing wonderfully renewed, we got out the meal-bag and
made drammach in theiron pan. This, though itis but
cold water mingled with oatmeal, yet makes a good
enough dish for a hungry man; and where there are no

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KIDNAPPED

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 pres-
ently 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 a while shone out and showed me many
dark heads of mountains, and was reflected far under-
neath us on the narrow arm of a sea-loch.

At this sight we both paused: I struck with won-
der to find myself so high and walking (as it seemed
to me) upon clouds: Alan to make sure of his direc-
tion.

Seemingly he was well pleased, and he must cer-
tainly have judged us out of ear-shot of all our ene-
mies; for throughout the rest of our night-march he
beguiled the way with whistling of many tunes, war-
like, 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.

180
CHAPTER XXI

THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER: THE HEUGH OF CORRYNA=
KIEGH

Ear.y 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 arock. Birches grew there ina 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 be-
yond, 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 con-

cealed place, in a turning of the glen, where we were so
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KIDNAPPED

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 witha 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 de-
licious.

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 |
made sure he must run me through the body. 1 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 | could never
in the least please my master, I was not altogether dis-
pleased 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

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THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER

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?” saysI. ‘‘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 mes-
sengers, I see not what we shall be able to do.”

‘‘Ay?” said Alan. ‘‘Ye’re a man of small contri-
vance, 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 | am laith
to cut another.”

I gave him the button; whereupon he strung it ona
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 Corry-
nakiegh, 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, |
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.”

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‘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? of Appin’s.”

‘‘With all my heart,” says I; ‘‘and if he finds it,
what is he to think P”

‘“Well,” says Alan, ‘‘I wish he was a man of more
penetration, for by my troth I am afraid he will make
little enough ofit! 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 herea-

1 A bouman is a tenant who takes stock from the landlord and shares

with him the increase.
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THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER

bout; 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 P”

“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 bor-
ders of the wood and kept a close lookout, 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,

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KIDNAPPED |

grossly disfigured with the smallpox, 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 ofa 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 fol-
lows:

“© Drar KinsMaAn,—Please send the money by the bearer to the place

he kens of.
‘Your affectionate cousin,
“ce A S ”

This he entrusted 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
186
THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER

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
‘fa 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 tar-
nished, a red waistcoat and breeches of black shag;”’
and | 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
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KIDNAPPED

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 miser-
able figure in the bill; and yet was well enough pleased
too, for since I had changed these rags, the descrip-
tion 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 asecond reflection in my mind: that if] 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 sup-
pose I was taken in company with the reputed mur-
derer, my case would begin to be grave. For generos-
ity’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
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THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER

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 gentle-
man 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 hig¢
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 be-
ing 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.

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KIDNAPPED

“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 moun-
tains. 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.

Wesat down, therefore, ina 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 P”’

“‘ 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.”

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KIDNAPPED

“East be it!” says I, quite cheerily; but I was think-
ing, 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
weare; it’s alla 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 peewees 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 likeskeletons. A wearier-looking
desert man never saw; but at least it was clear of troops,
which was our point.

’

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THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER

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 hunt-
ers 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 | 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 wak-
ing; 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

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KIDNAPPED

start in the heavens. I looked at the sprig of heath,
and at that I could have cried aloud: for I saw I had be-
trayed 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 | 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 P”’ 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!”

“‘T ken that fine,” said he; ‘‘but if we are driven
back on Appin, we aretwo 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

194
THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER

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 weari-
ness, 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 labour-
ing 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,

195
KIDNAPPED

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 ?P
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. ‘‘T’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
196
THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER

good eyes to read, but for all that, I have often seen it
darker in a winter midday. Heavy dew fell and drenched
the moor like rain; and this refreshed me for awhile.
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 dwind-
ling 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 my-
self, 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 con-
tinue 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

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KIDNAPPED

kept his eyes infront of him, and lifted up his foot and
set it down again, like people lifting weights at a coun-
try play; all the while, with the moorfowl crying
‘‘peep!” in the heather, and the light coming slowly
clearer in the east.

Isay Alan didasI 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 walk-
ing 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.”

1 Village fair.
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THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER

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 heso!” said Alan. ‘‘ Still in his own coun-
try 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 |
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 re-
turned; 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 pleas-
antly forward to a dram and a dish of hot collops, of
which, it seems, the messenger had brought him word.

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KIDNAPPED

For my part, it made me sick to hear of eating. I had
been dead-heavy before, and now | 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 cur-
rent, 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 | began to be carried forward with
great swiftness (or so it appeared to me, although | 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.

Aco
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 hill-
side, 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 halfhung,
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 per-
sons with some comfort. A projection of the cliff had

been cunningly employed to be the fireplace; and the
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KIDNAPPED

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 ex-
press 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.

“‘T make ye welcome to my house, whichis a queer, rude
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CLUNY’S CAGE

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 dram
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 wehad a strange
host. In his long hiding, Cluny had grown to have all
manner of precise habits, like those of anold maid. He
had a particular place, where no one else must sit; the
Cage was arranged ina 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
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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 rea-
son, 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 be-
fore 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 ofa 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 fel-
lows 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.

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CLUNY’S CAGE

‘‘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.! Indeed, there were
mair dragoons than lemons in my country in the year
forty-six.”

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 ofarace
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,

1 Condiment.
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KIDNAPPED

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 Macpher-
son Pp”

‘*T 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 beara
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.”

Thad 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
206
CLUNY’S CAGE

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 un-
derstood 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 some-
times 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
Iam 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
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KIDNAPPED

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 P” Trepeated. ‘‘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 re-
lief 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 soen 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 ina dream all morn-
ing, only disturbed by the passing by of Cluny’s scouts

and servants coming with provisions and reports; for
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CLUNY’S CAGE

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.

“‘T 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 re-
ports all clear in the south, and the question is, have ye
the strength to go P”’

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 con-
tent; and I began to have a strong misgiving.

‘*T 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, witha 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

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KIDNAPPED

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 P 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 themP 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 al-
ways as if he was about to speak, but saidnothing. All
the time he grew redder and redder in the face.

“‘T am a young man,” said I, ‘‘and I ask your ad-
vice. 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,

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CLUNY’S CAGE

‘‘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 | am still waiting your
opinion.”

Iam 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!”

ail
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 disencum-
bered; and perhaps without that relief, and the con-
sequent sense of liberty and lightness, I could not have
walked at all. I was but new risen from a bed of sick-
ness; 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.

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THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER

The thought of a separation ran always the stronger
in my mind; and the more | 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 impossi-
ble; 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 noth-
ing, 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.”

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“O,” says I, ‘‘T 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 weto part? Yesaid so once before.
Are ye to say itagain? 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 sup-
position? 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.”

‘*T 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

214
THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER

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 dis-
service; | 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 with-
out 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 should-
nae 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

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KIDNAPPED

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 rudecrags. 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 dread-
ful 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
216
THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER

isle; I had a painful stitch in my side, which never left
me; and when | 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 sud-
denly 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 ] saw believed it, or half be-
lieved 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 famil-

farity, scarcely even that of speech. The truth is that I
217
KIDNAPPED

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 ser-
vices, 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.

“1 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.”

‘*T 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 an-
swered forhim. 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 witha provoking smile.

The third night we were to pass through the western

218
THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER

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 con-
fused 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 Whig-
gie! 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. 1 felt] could drag myself
but little farther; pretty soon, 1 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 pros-
pect, 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.

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KIDNAPPED

And at each of Alan’s taunts, [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 stitchin
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 politicsinmy teeth? I thought, where
folk differed, it was the part of gentlemen to differ civ-
illy; 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?”
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THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER

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,” | continued ;
‘and I mean you shall henceforth speak civilly of my
King and my good friends the Campbells.”

“‘Tam a Stewart ——” began Alan.

“O1” says I, ‘‘I ken ye beara king’sname. 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.

‘‘Tam sorry for that,” said I, ‘‘ for! am not done; and
if you distaste the sermon, I doubt the pirliecue? 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 outface 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.”

Alan stood quite still, the tails of his great coat clap-
ping 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. ‘ yourself.”

1 A second sermon.

221
KIDNAPPED .

‘*Ready ?” said he.

“Ready,” I repeated. ‘‘I am no blower and boaster
like some that | could name. Come on!” And drawing
my sword, | 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 mo-
ment, 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—lI can-
nae, 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 kind-
ness 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 sick-
ness 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.
222
THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER

“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 2?” 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 |
pressed his arm with my hand.

Again he came near sobbing. ‘‘ Davie,” said he, ‘‘ I’m
noa right man at all; I have neither sense nor kindness;
I couldnae 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]. ‘‘ 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 P”’

22


KIDNAPPED

‘‘T'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 P”

*©O, Alan,” says I, ‘‘and me a good twelve inches
taller P”’

“‘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 | 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!”

224
CHAPTER XXV
IN BALQUHIDDER

At the door of the first house we came to, Alan
knocked, which was 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 Camp-
bells. Here were Stewarts and Maclaren, which came
to the same thing, for the Maclarens followed Alan’s chief
in war, and made but one clan with Appin. Here, too,
weremany of that old, proscribed, nameless, red-handed
clan of the Macgregors. They had always been ill-con-
sidered, 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 Balquhid-
der, 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

235
KIDNAPPED

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 ] 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, the 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 win-
dow as I lay in bed. What was much more astonish-
ing, 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 in-
quiry as though I had lain ina 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)
226
IN BALQUHIDDER

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 an-
other, 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?
might into a public inn.

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

1 Commercial traveller.
227
KIDNAPPED

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.

‘‘Tam given to know, sir,” says he, ‘‘ that your name
is Balfour.”

“‘They call me David Balfour,” said I, ‘‘at your
service.”

‘‘T 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 | tell ye that 1 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 Isat up and bowed
in bed; for | 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 com-
panies to strike a stroke for the good side; and the sur-
geon 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 your-
self. 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.”
228
IN BALQUHIDDER

You are to remember that I knew no more of my de-
scent 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 him-
self about, turned his back upon me without a sign of
salutation, and as he went towards the door, | 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.

‘*] 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?”

229
KIDNAPPED

“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 gen-
tleman 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.”

‘*T 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 him-
self 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? of the sort. Have ye
music, as folk say? Are ye a bit of a piper?”

‘IT can pipe like a Macrimmon!” cries Robin.

1 Rumour.
230
IN BALQUHIDDER

‘And that is a very bold word,” quoth Alan.

‘‘] have made bolder words good before now,” re-
turned 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 whisky,
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,” remind-
ing 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.

‘Tl 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.”

“‘T 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 instru-
ment 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.”
KIDNAPPED

I had been pleased with Robin’s playing, Alan’s rav-
ished 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 P”’

‘And that’s very well said, Mr. Macgregor,” re-
turned 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 Bal-
quhidder: for it’s a God’s truth that you're a very cred-
itable piper for a Stewart. Hand me the pipes.”

Alan did as he asked; and Robin proceeded to imi-
tate 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 si-
lence, and struck into the slow measure of a pibroch.
232
IN BALQUHIDDER

It was a fine piece of music in itself, and nobly played;
but it seems, besides, it was a piece peculiar to the Ap-
pin 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 king-
dom 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 an-
other of it with the cold steel, ] 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.

233
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 trou-
ble; ye ken the saying, ‘Forth bridles the wild Hieland-
man.’ 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
onus. But if we stave on straight to the auld Brig of
Stirling, Pll 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

234
WE PASS THE FORTH

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, breath-
ing sunshine and on bone-dry ground, that I have ever
tasted. That night we struck Allan Water, and fol-
lowed it down; and coming to the edge of the hills saw
the whole Carse of Stirling underfoot, as flat as a pan-
cake, 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 pa-
raded. 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.

235
KIDNAPPED

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 pas-
sage.

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 trav-
elled; 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! upon
the bridge.”

And just then —‘‘ Who goes P” cried a voice, and we
heard the butt of a musket rattle on the stones. I must
1 Hollow.

236
WE PASS THE FORTH

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 ’Il 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 dis-
appointment, 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 in-
heritance, like a hero in a ballad; and here was | 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 P”’ 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

237
KIDNAPPED

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 suchas 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.

“T 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 Isee ye!” said I. ‘*And what’s more than
all that: if ye pass a bridge, it can tell no tales; but ifwe
pass the firth, there’s the boat on the wrong side—
somebody must have brought it— the countryside 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 es 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 tenin the morning, mighty hun-
gry and tired, came to the little clachan of Limekilns.

238
WE PASS THE FORTH

This is a place that sits near in by the waterside, and
looks across the Hope to the town of the Queensferry.
Smoke went up from both of these, and from other vil-
lages 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 pleas-
ant 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] 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 ina
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.”

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KIDNAPPED

“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.”

“Tf 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 gentle-
man 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 per-
haps 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-
240
WE PASS THE FORTH

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, con-
cerned, affectionate countenance, that might have im-
posed 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 P” 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, in-
deed!”’ 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 P”

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.

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KIDNAPPED

“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 P”’

She sighed at this, as if she were herself some dis-
inherited 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.

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WE PASS THE FORTH

‘*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 bea 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 | in bitter
dudgeon at being called a Jacobite and treated like a
child.

‘* Alan,” I cried, ‘‘] 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.

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KIDNAPPED

‘*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.”

‘*] 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.”

‘1 couldnae,” said she, shaking her head. ‘‘Na, |
couldnae.”

‘*No,” said he, ‘‘ but if ye could P”

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. Nowif 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 ex-
cept 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

244
WE PASS THE FORTH

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 | deter-
mined 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 P” said she. ‘‘I daursay that!”

“Well,” said I, ‘‘it’s to his door that ] 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,” saidshe. ‘‘Mr. Ran-
keillor isa 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 passers-by 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 planning more particularly what re-
mained for us to do.

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KIDNAPPED

We had but one trouble all day; when a strolling piper
came and sat in the same wood with us; a red-nosed,
blear-eyed, 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 Presi-
dent 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 busi-
ness 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 ina 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 win-
dow, stolen a neighbour’s boat, and come to our as-
sistance 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

246
WE PASS THE FORTH

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.” Anda matter of an hour later, as
we were lying in a den on the seashore 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
1 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 New-
halls, 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 com-
monly known, any ploughman might whistle it by ac-
cident; 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 | 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 bot-
tom 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
wasup. It wasa 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
248
I COME TO MR. RANKEILLOR

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 bub-
ble, I was indeed sorely cheated and left in a sore pass.
Even if things were as I conceived, it would in all like-
lihood 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 peo-
ple looking askance at me upon the street or out of win-
dows, 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 wander-
ings, and chanced to have stopped in front of a very
good house on the landward side, a house with beauti-
ful, clear glass windows, flowering knots upon the sills,
the walls new-harled! and a chase-dog sitting yawn- .

1 Newly rough-cast.
249
KIDNAPPED

ing on the step like one that was athome. Well, I was
even envying this dumb brute, when the door fell open
and there issued forth a shrewd, ruddy, kindly, conse-
quential 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.

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.”

‘1 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.

‘‘T 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
250
I COME TO MR. RANKEILLOR

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 P’”’ says he, with a keen look.

‘“‘T will even do as Horace says, sir,” I answered,
smiling, ‘‘and carry you im 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! knew not. ‘‘ Your father and
mother P” said he.

‘My father was Alexander Balfour, schoolmaster of
that place,” said I, ‘‘and my mother Grace Pitarrow; |
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.

251
KIDNAPPED

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,” |
answered.

‘‘Did you ever meet a man of the name of Hosea-
son?” asked Mr. Rankeillor.

‘*] did so, sir, for my sins,” said I; ‘‘for it was by his
means and the procurement of my uncle, that I was kid-
napped 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,” saidI. ‘‘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 Ihold. But
you say you were kidnapped; in what sense?”

‘‘In the plain meaning of the word, sir,” said 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, look-
ing in his book, ‘‘and we are now at August the 24th.

252
I COME TO MR. RANKEILLOR

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 un-
derstand) is your employer.”

All this while I had been gaining ground with Mr.
Rankeillor, and in proportion as I gained ground, gain-
ing 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. Fut,
non sum. Iwas 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. JI 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. Eben-

253
KIDNAPPED

ezer 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 some
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 Cap-
tain Hoseason with the story of your drowning; where-
upon all fell through; with no consequences but con-
cern to Mr. Campbell, injury to my pocket, and another
blot upon your uncle’s character, which could very ill
affordit. And now, Mr. Balfour,” said he, ‘‘ you under-
stand 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 man-
ner which went far to conquer my distrust. Moreover,
I could see he now treated me as if | 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

254
I COME TO MR. RANKEILLOR

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 lis-
tening 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 mem-
ory 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 |
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 re-
ward; and it had no sooner escaped me than the lawyer
moved in his seat and opened his eyes.

‘‘T 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 | 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 | 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.”

255
KIDNAPPED

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; gue regio in terris— what parish in Scot-
land (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
256
I COME TO MR. RANKEILLOR

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 | daresay 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 ina clean, covered house, and to talk ami-
cably 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 con-
fusion. 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 ap-
posite tag, he left me to my toilet.
CHAPTER XXVIII
1 GO IN QUEST OF MY INHERITANCE

] 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 com-
pliments, 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 |
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,” re-
plied the lawyer, ‘‘and what may perhaps surprise you
more, not always ugly. He had a fine, gallant air; peo-
ple 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 | 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.”’

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1 GO IN QUEST OF MY INHERITANCE

“*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 fu-
ture. In 1715, what must he do but run away to join
the rebels P It was your father that pursued him, found
him ina 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.

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KIDNAPPED

‘‘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 conces-
sion 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 Quixo-
try 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, whata 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
260
I GO IN QUEST OF MY INHERITANCE

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 P”

‘‘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 scan-
dalous; 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 bea 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,” | asked, ‘‘is to bring home to him
the kidnapping P”’

‘‘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
261
KIDNAPPED

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 | had done.

‘‘T 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
handson him. Now! 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
262
1 GO IN QUEST OF MY INHERITANCE

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 polite-
ness; 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 Ihad 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
263
KIDNAPPED

pocket and acovered 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: Ran-
some taken, I could hope, from the evil to come; Shuan
passed where | dared not follow him; and the poor
souls thathad gone down with the brig in her last plunge.
All these, and the brig herself, [had outlived; and come
through these hardships and fearful perils without scathe.
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. Rankeil-
lor cried out, clapped his hand to his pockets, and began
to laugh.

‘‘Why,” hecries, ‘‘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 awkward-
ness 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
264
I GO IN QUEST OF MY INHERITANCE

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 reason-
ably well.

As soon. as we were past the Hawes (where I recog-
nised 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 Tor-
rance and sending me forward in the manner of a scout.
I went up the hill, whistling from time to time my Gaelic
air; and atlength I had the pleasure to hear it answered
and to see Alan rise from behind a bush. He was some-
what 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 anyone 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

265
KIDNAPPED

you that Iam little better than blind, and that you must
not be surprised if] 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 mat-
tered 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 |
accept your apology, which was a very proper one to
make.”

‘© And that is more than I could look for, Mr. Thom-
son,” 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) Iam not very clear as to the
path; and as for you, Mr. David, you will find Tor-
rance 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. Thom-
son.”

Accordingly these two went on ahead in very close
talk, and Torrance and | 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 por-
tion of the building. It seemed my uncle was already
in bed, which was indeed the best thing for our arrange-

ments. We made our last whispered consultations some
266
1 GO IN QUEST OF MY INHERITANCE |

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.

267
CHAPTER XXIX
1 COME INTO MY KINGDOM

For some time Alan volleyed upon the door, and his
knocking only roused the echoes of the house and neigh-
bourhood. 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 vis-
itor 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?!
wi’ night-hawks. What brings ye hereP I have a
blunderbush.”

*‘Ts that yoursel’, Mr. Balfour?” returned Alan, step-
ping 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 countryside,” said Alan; ‘‘ but what brings

1 Dealings.
268
1 COME INTO MY KINGDOM

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.

‘‘ShallI 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.

‘*] dare say that,” said Alan; ‘‘ but the pointis, Would
Igo? Now I will tell you what 1 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’, anda
gentleman of better family.”

This change of note disconcerted Ebenezer; he wasa
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 daresay) 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 chancy

269
KIDNAPPED

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 daya
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 gentlemen 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 area
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, un-
less 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 Ill pay nae ran-
som, and ye can make a kirk and a mill of him for

what I care.”
270
I COME INTO MY KINGDOM

‘Hoot, sir,” says Alan. ‘‘ Blood’s thicker than wa-
ter, 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.”

‘‘’'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.

‘
‘‘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 novery caring about that either,” said my
uncle. ‘‘I wouldnae be muckle made up with that.”

“‘T 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.”

‘*T 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?”

271
KIDNAPPED

My uncle made no answer, but shifted uneasily on
his seat.

‘*Come, sir,” cried Alan. ‘‘I would have you to ken
that 1am 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 try-
ing 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 nae-
thing to cross ye. Just tell me what like ye'll be want-
ing, 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 P”

‘**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.”

?

272
I COME INTO MY KINGDOM

‘‘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. Keep-
ing the lad’ll be a fashious! job, a fashious, kittle busi-
ness.” .

“‘Tll have him keepit, though,” returned my uncle.
“‘T 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.

‘“‘?m a man ©’ principle,’ said Ebenezer simply;
‘‘and if I have to pay forit, 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 P”

‘* 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 Ho-
season tell ye P”

1 Troublesome.
273
KIDNAPPED

‘““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 P”

‘Has he tauld ye himsel’ P” asked my uncle.

‘«That’s my concern,” said Alan.

‘* Weel,” said my uncle, ‘‘] 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 excel-
lently 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 Tor-
rance.

Never a word said my uncle, neither black nor white;
but just sat where he was on the top doorstep and stared
upon us like a man turned tostone. 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 rushlight burning.

274
I COME INTO MY KINGDOM

There we all looked upon him for awhile, 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 | 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] understand
your name to be James? or Charles? or is it George,
perhaps P”

‘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,” re-
plied 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 aword
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.

275
KIDNAPPED

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.

276
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 morn-
ing, 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 what-
ever risk; but in the case of James, he was of a differ-
ent mind.

‘Mr. Thomson,” says he, ‘‘is one thing, Mr. Thom-
son’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.)t 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. Da-
vid, timeo qui nocuere deos. If you interfere to baulk

1The Duke of Argyll.
277
KIDNAPPED

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.”

Now I had made all these reasonings before and found
no very good reply to them; so I put on all the sim-
plicity I could. ‘‘In that case, sir,” said I, ‘‘I would
just have to be hanged — would | 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-apol-
ogy. 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 com-
ments 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

278
GOOD-BYE

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 re-
commended, 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 | was watched as
I went away.

Alan and I went oes forward upon our way,

279
KIDNAPPED

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 by-
gone 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 re-
peated 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 Rankeil-
lor’s) so that he should not starve in the meanwhile;
and then we stood a space, and looked over at Edin-
burgh in silence.

280
GOOD-BYE

‘*Well, good-bye,” said Alan, and held out his left
hand.

“‘Good-bye,” said J, 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 | 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.

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