Kidnapped
them. Fifteen tarry sailors upon the one side, and a man and a halfling
boy upon the other! O, man, it’s peetiful!”
Hoseason flushed red.
“No,” continued Alan, “that’ll no do. Ye’ll just have to set me ashore
as we agreed.”
“Ay,” said Hoseason, “but my first officer is dead--ye ken best how.
There’s none of the rest of us acquaint with this coast, sir; and it’s
one very dangerous to ships.”
“I give ye your choice,” says Alan. “Set me on dry ground in Appin,
or Ardgour, or in Morven, or Arisaig, or Morar; or, in brief, where ye
please, within thirty miles of my own country; except in a country of
the Campbells. That’s a broad target. If ye miss that, ye must be as
feckless at the sailoring as I have found ye at the fighting. Why, my
poor country people in their bit cobles[16] pass from island to island in
all weathers, ay, and by night too, for the matter of that.”
[16] Coble: a small boat used in fishing.
“A coble’s not a ship, sir,” said the captain. “It has nae draught of
water.”
“Well, then, to Glasgow if ye list!” says Alan. “We’ll have the laugh of
ye at the least.”
“My mind runs little upon laughing,” said the captain. “But all this
will cost money, sir.”
“Well, sir,” says Alan, “I am nae weathercock. Thirty guineas, if ye land
me on the sea-side; and sixty, if ye put me in the Linnhe Loch.”
“But see, sir, where we lie, we are but a few hours’ sail from
Ardnamurchan,” said Hoseason. “Give me sixty, and I’ll set ye there.”
“And I’m to wear my brogues and run jeopardy of the red-coats to please
you?” cries Alan. “No, sir; if ye want sixty guineas earn them, and set
me in my own country.”
“It’s to risk the brig, sir,” said the captain, “and your own lives
along with her.”
“Take it or want it,” says Alan.
“Could ye pilot us at all?” asked the captain, who was frowning to
himself.
“Well, it’s doubtful,” said Alan. “I’m more of a fighting man (as ye
have seen for yoursel’) than a sailor-man. But I have been often enough
picked up and set down upon this coast, and should ken something of the
lie of it.”
The captain shook his head, still frowning.
“If I had lost less money on this unchancy cruise,” says he, “I would
see you in a rope’s end before I risked my brig, sir. But be it as ye
will. As soon as I get a slant of wind (and there’s some coming, or I’m
the more mistaken) I’ll put it in hand. But there’s one thing more. We
may meet in with a king’s ship and she may lay us aboard, sir, with no
blame of mine: they keep the cruisers thick upon this coast, ye ken who
for. Now, sir, if that was to befall, ye might leave the money.”
“Captain,” says Alan, “if ye see a pennant, it shall be your part to
run away. And now, as I hear you’re a little short of brandy in the
fore-part, I’ll offer ye a change: a bottle of brandy against two
buckets of water.”
That was the last clause of the treaty, and was duly executed on both
sides; so that Alan and I could at last wash out the round-house and be
quit of the memorials of those whom we had slain, and the captain and
Mr. Riach could be happy again in their own way, the name of which was
drink.
CHAPTER XII
I HEAR OF THE “RED FOX”
Before we had done cleaning out the round-house, a breeze sprang up from
a little to the east of north. This blew off the rain and brought out
the sun.
And here I must explain; and the reader would do well to look at a map.
On the day when the fog fell and we ran down Alan’s boat, we had been
running through the Little Minch. At dawn after the battle, we lay
becalmed to the east of the Isle of Canna or between that and Isle
Eriska in the chain of the Long Island. Now to get from there to the
Linnhe Loch, the straight course was through the narrows of the Sound of
Mull. But the captain had no chart; he was afraid to trust his brig so
deep among the islands; and the wind serving well, he preferred to go by
west of Tiree and come up under the southern coast of the great Isle of
Mull.
All day the breeze held in the same point, and rather freshened than
died down; and towards afternoon, a swell began to set in from round the
outer Hebrides. Our course, to go round about the inner isles, was to
the west of south, so that at first we had this swell upon our beam, and
were much rolled about. But after nightfall, when we had turned the end
of Tiree and began to head more to the east, the sea came right astern.
Meanwhile, the early part of the day, before the swell came up, was
very pleasant; sailing, as we were, in a bright sunshine and with
many mountainous islands upon different sides. Alan and I sat in the
round-house with the doors open on each side (the wind being straight
astern), and smoked a pipe or two of the captain’s fine tobacco. It was
at this time we heard each other’s stories, which was the more important
to me, as I gained some knowledge of that wild Highland country on which
I was so soon to land. In those days, so close on the back of the great
rebellion, it was needful a man should know what he was doing when he
went upon the heather.
It was I that showed the example, telling him all my misfortune; which
he heard with great good-nature. Only, when I came to mention that good
friend of mine, Mr. Campbell the minister, Alan fired up and cried out
that he hated all that were of that name.
“Why,” said I, “he is a man you should be proud to give your hand to.”
“I know nothing I would help a Campbell to,” says he, “unless it was a
leaden bullet. I would hunt all of that name like blackcocks. If I lay
dying, I would crawl upon my knees to my chamber window for a shot at
one.”
“Why, Alan,” I cried, “what ails ye at the Campbells?”
“Well,” says he, “ye ken very well that I am an Appin Stewart, and the
Campbells have long harried and wasted those of my name; ay, and got
lands of us by treachery--but never with the sword,” he cried loudly,
and with the word brought down his fist upon the table. But I paid the
less attention to this, for I knew it was usually said by those who have
the underhand. “There’s more than that,” he continued, “and all in the
same story: lying words, lying papers, tricks fit for a peddler, and the
show of what’s legal over all, to make a man the more angry.”
“You that are so wasteful of your buttons,” said I, “I can hardly think
you would be a good judge of business.”
“Ah!” says he, falling again to smiling, “I got my wastefulness from
the same man I got the buttons from; and that was my poor father, Duncan
Stewart, grace be to him! He was the prettiest man of his kindred; and
the best swordsman in the Hielands, David, and that is the same as to
say, in all the world, I should ken, for it was him that taught me.
He was in the Black Watch, when first it was mustered; and, like other
gentlemen privates, had a gillie at his back to carry his firelock for
him on the march. Well, the King, it appears, was wishful to see Hieland
swordsmanship; and my father and three more were chosen out and sent to
London town, to let him see it at the best. So they were had into the
palace and showed the whole art of the sword for two hours at a stretch,
before King George and Queen Carline, and the Butcher Cumberland, and
many more of whom I havenae mind. And when they were through, the King
(for all he was a rank usurper) spoke them fair and gave each man three
guineas in his hand. Now, as they were going out of the palace, they
had a porter’s lodge to go by; and it came in on my father, as he was
perhaps the first private Hieland gentleman that had ever gone by that
door, it was right he should give the poor porter a proper notion of
their quality. So he gives the King’s three guineas into the man’s hand,
as if it was his common custom; the three others that came behind him
did the same; and there they were on the street, never a penny the
better for their pains. Some say it was one, that was the first to fee
the King’s porter; and some say it was another; but the truth of it is,
that it was Duncan Stewart, as I am willing to prove with either sword
or pistol. And that was the father that I had, God rest him!”
“I think he was not the man to leave you rich,” said I.
“And that’s true,” said Alan. “He left me my breeks to cover me, and
little besides. And that was how I came to enlist, which was a black
spot upon my character at the best of times, and would still be a sore
job for me if I fell among the red-coats.”
“What,” cried I, “were you in the English army?”
“That was I,” said Alan. “But I deserted to the right side at Preston
Pans--and that’s some comfort.”
I could scarcely share this view: holding desertion under arms for an
unpardonable fault in honour. But for all I was so young, I was wiser
than say my thought. “Dear, dear,” says I, “the punishment is death.”
“Ay” said he, “if they got hands on me, it would be a short shrift and
a lang tow for Alan! But I have the King of France’s commission in my
pocket, which would aye be some protection.”
“I misdoubt it much,” said I.
“I have doubts mysel’,” said Alan drily.
“And, good heaven, man,” cried I, “you that are a condemned rebel, and a
deserter, and a man of the French King’s--what tempts ye back into this
country? It’s a braving of Providence.”
“Tut!” says Alan, “I have been back every year since forty-six!”
“And what brings ye, man?” cried I.
“Well, ye see, I weary for my friends and country,” said he. “France is
a braw place, nae doubt; but I weary for the heather and the deer. And
then I have bit things that I attend to. Whiles I pick up a few lads
to serve the King of France: recruits, ye see; and that’s aye a
little money. But the heart of the matter is the business of my chief,
Ardshiel.”
“I thought they called your chief Appin,” said I.
“Ay, but Ardshiel is the captain of the clan,” said he, which scarcely
cleared my mind. “Ye see, David, he that was all his life so great a
man, and come of the blood and bearing the name of kings, is now brought
down to live in a French town like a poor and private person. He that
had four hundred swords at his whistle, I have seen, with these eyes
of mine, buying butter in the market-place, and taking it home in a
kale-leaf. This is not only a pain but a disgrace to us of his family
and clan. There are the bairns forby, the children and the hope of
Appin, that must be learned their letters and how to hold a sword, in
that far country. Now, the tenants of Appin have to pay a rent to King
George; but their hearts are staunch, they are true to their chief; and
what with love and a bit of pressure, and maybe a threat or two, the
poor folk scrape up a second rent for Ardshiel. Well, David, I’m the
hand that carries it.” And he struck the belt about his body, so that
the guineas rang.
“Do they pay both?” cried I.
“Ay, David, both,” says he.
“What! two rents?” I repeated.
“Ay, David,” said he. “I told a different tale to yon captain man; but
this is the truth of it. And it’s wonderful to me how little pressure
is needed. But that’s the handiwork of my good kinsman and my father’s
friend, James of the Glens: James Stewart, that is: Ardshiel’s
half-brother. He it is that gets the money in, and does the management.”
This was the first time I heard the name of that James Stewart, who was
afterwards so famous at the time of his hanging. But I took little heed
at the moment, for all my mind was occupied with the generosity of these
poor Highlanders.
“I call it noble,” I cried. “I’m a Whig, or little better; but I call it
noble.”
“Ay” said he, “ye’re a Whig, but ye’re a gentleman; and that’s what does
it. Now, if ye were one of the cursed race of Campbell, ye would gnash
your teeth to hear tell of it. If ye were the Red Fox...” And at that
name, his teeth shut together, and he ceased speaking. I have seen many