Catriona
and me and my faither gaed straucht in. Tod was a wabster to his trade;
his loom stood in the but. There he sat, a muckle fat, white hash of a
man like creish, wi’ a kind of a holy smile that gart me scunner. The
hand of him aye cawed the shuttle, but his een was steeked. We cried to
him by his name, we skirled in the deid lug of him, we shook him by the
shou’ther. Nae mainner o’ service! There he sat on his dowp, an’ cawed
the shuttle and smiled like creish.
“God be guid to us,” says Tam Dale, “this is no canny?”
He had jimp said the word, when Tod Lapraik cam to himsel’.
“Is this you, Tam?” says he. “Haith, man! I’m blythe to see ye. I
whiles fa’ into a bit dwam like this,” he says; “its frae the stamach.”
Weel, they began to crack about the Bass and which of them twa was to
get the warding o’t, and little by little cam to very ill words, and
twined in anger. I mind weel that as my faither and me gaed hame again,
he cam ower and ower the same expression, how little he likit Tod
Lapraik and his dwams.
“Dwam!” says he. “I think folk hae brunt for dwams like yon.”
Aweel, my faither got the Bass and Tod had to go wantin’. It was
remembered sinsyne what way he had ta’en the thing. “Tam,” says he, “ye
hae gotten the better o’ me aince mair, and I hope,” says he, “ye’ll
find at least a’ that ye expeckit at the Bass.” Which have since been
thought remarkable expressions. At last the time came for Tam Dale to
take young solans. This was a business he was weel used wi’, he had
been a craigsman frae a laddie, and trustit nane but himsel’. So there
was he hingin’ by a line an’ speldering on the craig face, whaur its
hieest and steighest. Fower tenty lads were on the tap, hauldin’ the
line and mindin’ for his signals. But whaur Tam hung there was naething
but the craig, and the sea belaw, and the solans skirlin and flying. It
was a braw spring morn, and Tam whustled as he claught in the young
geese. Mony’s the time I’ve heard him tell of this experience, and aye
the swat ran upon the man.
It chanced, ye see, that Tam keeked up, and he was awaur of a muckle
solan, and the solan pyking at the line. He thocht this by-ordinar and
outside the creature’s habits. He minded that ropes was unco saft
things, and the solan’s neb and the Bass Rock unco hard, and that twa
hunner feet were raither mair than he would care to fa’.
“Shoo!” says Tam. “Awa’, bird! Shoo, awa’ wi’ ye!” says he.
The solan keekit doon into Tam’s face, and there was something unco in
the creature’s ee. Just the ae keek it gied, and back to the rope. But
now it wroucht and warstl’t like a thing dementit. There never was the
solan made that wroucht as that solan wroucht; and it seemed to
understand its employ brawly, birzing the saft rope between the neb of
it and a crunkled jag o’ stane.
There gaed a cauld stend o’ fear into Tam’s heart. “This thing is nae
bird,” thinks he. His een turnt backward in his heid and the day gaed
black aboot him. “If I get a dwam here,” he toucht, “it’s by wi’ Tam
Dale.” And he signalled for the lads to pu’ him up.
And it seemed the solan understood about signals. For nae sooner was
the signal made than he let be the rope, spried his wings, squawked out
loud, took a turn flying, and dashed straucht at Tam Dale’s een. Tam
had a knife, he gart the cauld steel glitter. And it seemed the solan
understood about knives, for nae suner did the steel glint in the sun
than he gied the ae squawk, but laighter, like a body disappointit, and
flegged aff about the roundness of the craig, and Tam saw him nae mair.
And as sune as that thing was gane, Tam’s heid drapt upon his shouther,
and they pu’d him up like a deid corp, dadding on the craig.
A dram of brandy (which he went never without) broucht him to his mind,
or what was left of it. Up he sat.
“Rin, Geordie, rin to the boat, mak’ sure of the boat, man—rin!” he
cries, “or yon solan’ll have it awa’,” says he.
The fower lads stared at ither, an’ tried to whilly-wha him to be
quiet. But naething would satisfy Tam Dale, till ane o’ them had
startit on aheid to stand sentry on the boat. The ithers askit if he
was for down again.
“Na,” says he, “and niether you nor me,” says he, “and as sune as I can
win to stand on my twa feet we’ll be aff frae this craig o’ Sawtan.”
Sure eneuch, nae time was lost, and that was ower muckle; for before
they won to North Berwick Tam was in a crying fever. He lay a’ the
simmer; and wha was sae kind as come speiring for him, but Tod Lapraik!
Folk thocht afterwards that ilka time Tod cam near the house the fever
had worsened. I kenna for that; but what I ken the best, that was the
end of it.
It was about this time o’ the year; my grandfaither was out at the
white fishing; and like a bairn, I but to gang wi’ him. We had a grand
take, I mind, and the way that the fish lay broucht us near in by the
Bass, whaur we foregaithered wi’ anither boat that belanged to a man
Sandie Fletcher in Castleton. He’s no lang deid neither, or ye could
speir at himsel’. Weel, Sandie hailed.
“What’s yon on the Bass?” says he.
“On the Bass?” says grandfaither.
“Ay,” says Sandie, “on the green side o’t.”
“Whatten kind of a thing?” says grandfaither. “There cannae be naething
on the Bass but just the sheep.”
“It looks unco like a body,” quo’ Sandie, who was nearer in.
“A body!” says we, and we none of us likit that. For there was nae boat
that could have brought a man, and the key o’ the prison yett hung ower
my faither’s at hame in the press bed.
We keept the twa boats close for company, and crap in nearer hand.
Grandfaither had a gless, for he had been a sailor, and the captain of
a smack, and had lost her on the sands of Tay. And when we took the
glass to it, sure eneuch there was a man. He was in a crunkle o’ green
brae, a wee below the chaipel, a’ by his lee lane, and lowped and flang
and danced like a daft quean at a waddin’.
“It’s Tod,” says grandfather, and passed the gless to Sandie.
“Ay, it’s him,” says Sandie.
“Or ane in the likeness o’ him,” says grandfaither.
“Sma’ is the differ,” quo’ Sandie. “De’il or warlock, I’ll try the gun
at him,” quo’ he, and broucht up a fowling-piece that he aye carried,
for Sandie was a notable famous shot in all that country.
“Haud your hand, Sandie,” says grandfaither; “we maun see clearer
first,” says he, “or this may be a dear day’s wark to the baith of us.”
“Hout!” says Sandie, “this is the Lord’s judgment surely, and be damned
to it,” says he.
“Maybe ay, and maybe no,” says my grandfaither, worthy man! “But have
you a mind of the Procurator Fiscal, that I think ye’ll have
foregaithered wi’ before,” says he.
This was ower true, and Sandie was a wee thing set ajee. “Aweel, Edie,”
says he, “and what would be your way of it?”
“Ou, just this,” says grandfaither. “Let me that has the fastest boat
gang back to North Berwick, and let you bide here and keep an eye on
Thon. If I cannae find Lapraik, I’ll join ye and the twa of us’ll have
a crack wi’ him. But if Lapraik’s at hame, I’ll rin up the flag at the
harbour, and ye can try Thon Thing wi’ the gun.”
Aweel, so it was agreed between them twa. I was just a bairn, an’ clum
in Sandie’s boat, whaur I thoucht I would see the best of the employ.
My grandsire gied Sandie a siller tester to pit in his gun wi’ the leid
draps, bein mair deidly again bogles. And then the as boat set aff for
North Berwick, an’ the tither lay whaur it was and watched the
wanchancy thing on the brae-side.
A’ the time we lay there it lowped and flang and capered and span like
a teetotum, and whiles we could hear it skelloch as it span. I hae seen
lassies, the daft queans, that would lowp and dance a winter’s nicht,
and still be lowping and dancing when the winter’s day cam in. But
there would be fowk there to hauld them company, and the lads to egg
them on; and this thing was its lee-lane. And there would be a fiddler
diddling his elbock in the chimney-side; and this thing had nae music
but the skirling of the solans. And the lassies were bits o’ young
things wi’ the reid life dinnling and stending in their members; and
this was a muckle, fat, creishy man, and him fa’n in the vale o’ years.
Say what ye like, I maun say what I believe. It was joy was in the
creature’s heart, the joy o’ hell, I daursay: joy whatever. Mony a time
I have askit mysel’ why witches and warlocks should sell their sauls
(whilk are their maist dear possessions) and be auld, duddy, wrunkl’t
wives or auld, feckless, doddered men; and then I mind upon Tod Lapraik
dancing a’ the hours by his lane in the black glory of his heart. Nae
doubt they burn for it muckle in hell, but they have a grand time here
of it, whatever!—and the Lord forgie us!
Weel, at the hinder end, we saw the wee flag yirk up to the mast-heid
upon the harbour rocks. That was a’ Sandie waited for. He up wi’ the
gun, took a deleeberate aim, an’ pu’d the trigger. There cam’ a bang
and then ae waefu’ skirl frae the Bass. And there were we rubbin’ our
een and lookin’ at ither like daft folk. For wi’ the bang and the skirl
the thing had clean disappeared. The sun glintit, the wund blew, and
there was the bare yaird whaur the Wonder had been lowping and flinging
but ae second syne.
The hale way hame I roared and grat wi’ the terror o’ that
dispensation. The grawn folk were nane sae muckle better; there was
little said in Sandie’s boat but just the name of God; and when we won
in by the pier, the harbour rocks were fair black wi’ the folk waitin’
us. It seems they had fund Lapraik in ane of his dwams, cawing the
shuttle and smiling. Ae lad they sent to hoist the flag, and the rest
abode there in the wabster’s house. You may be sure they liked it
little; but it was a means of grace to severals that stood there
praying in to themsel’s (for nane cared to pray out loud) and looking
on thon awesome thing as it cawed the shuttle. Syne, upon a suddenty,
and wi’ the ae dreidfu’ skelloch, Tod sprang up frae his hinderlands
and fell forrit on the wab, a bluidy corp.
When the corp was examined the leid draps hadnae played buff upon the
warlock’s body; sorrow a leid drap was to be fund! but there was
grandfaither’s siller tester in the puddock’s heart of him.
Andie had scarce done when there befell a mighty silly affair that had
its consequence. Neil, as I have said, was himself a great narrator. I
have heard since that he knew all the stories in the Highlands; and
thought much of himself, and was thought much of by others on the
strength of it. Now Andie’s tale reminded him of one he had already
heard.
“She would ken that story afore,” he said. “She was the story of
Uistean More M’Gillie Phadrig and the Gavar Vore.”
“It is no sic a thing,” cried Andie. “It is the story of my faither
(now wi’ God) and Tod Lapraik. And the same in your beard,” says he;
“and keep the tongue of ye inside your Hielant chafts!”
In dealing with Highlanders it will be found, and has been shown in
history, how well it goes with Lowland gentlefolk; but the thing
appears scarce feasible for Lowland commons. I had already remarked
that Andie was continually on the point of quarrelling with our three
MacGregors, and now, sure enough, it was to come.
“Thir will be no words to use to shentlemans,” says Neil.
“Shentlemans!” cries Andie. “Shentlemans, ye hielant stot! If God would
give ye the grace to see yoursel’ the way that ithers see ye, ye would
throw your denner up.”
There came some kind of a Gaelic oath from Neil, and the black knife
was in his hand that moment.
There was no time to think; and I caught the Highlander by the leg, and
had him down, and his armed hand pinned out, before I knew what I was
doing. His comrades sprang to rescue him, Andie and I were without