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; 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 would have rather lain alone in the rain on my cold isle, than in that warm wood beside a murderer.

‘I liked you very well, Alan, but your ways are not mine, and they’re not God’s: and the short and the long of it is just that we must twine.’

‘I will hardly twine from ye, David, without some kind of reason for the same,’ said Alan, mighty gravely. ‘If ye ken anything against my reputation, it’s the least thing that ye should do, for old acquaintance’ sake, to let me hear the name of it.’

‘Alan,’ said I, ‘what is the sense of this? Ye ken very well yon Campbell-man lies in his blood upon the road.’

‘I will tell you first of all, Mr. Balfour of Shaws, as one friend to another,’ said Alan, ‘that if I were going to kill a gentleman, it would not be in my own country, to bring trouble on my clan; and I would not go wanting sword and gun, and with a long fishing-rod upon my back.’

‘Well,’ said I, ‘that’s true!’

‘And now,’ continued Alan, taking out his dirk and laying his hand upon it in a certain manner, ‘I swear upon the Holy Iron I had neither art nor part, act nor thought in it.’

‘I thank God for that!’ cried I, and offered him my hand.

He did not appear to see it.

‘And here is a great deal of work about a Campbell!’ said he. ‘They are not so scarce, that I ken!’

‘At least,’ said I, ‘you cannot justly blame me, for you know very well what you told me in the brig. But the temptation and the act are different, I thank God again for that. We may all be tempted; but to take a life in cold blood, Alan!’ And I could say no more for the moment. ‘And do you know who did it?’ I added.

‘Do you know that man in the black coat? Can you swear that you don’t know him, Alan?’ I cried.

‘Not yet,’ says he; ‘but I’ve a grand memory for forgetting, David.’

‘And yet there was one thing I saw clearly,’ said I;

‘and that was, that you exposed yourself and me to draw the soldiers.’

‘It’s very likely,’ said Alan; ‘and so would any gentleman. You and me were innocent of that transaction.

The 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. I think we would be a good deal obliged to him oursel’s if he would draw the soldiers.’

When it came to this, I gave Alan up. Alan’s morals were all tail-first; but he was ready to give his life for them, such as they were.

‘Alan,’ said I, ‘I’ll not say it’s the good Christianity as I understand it, but it’s good enough. And here I offer ye my hand for the second time.’

Whereupon he gave me both of his, saying surely I had cast a spell upon him, for he could forgive me anything. Then he grew very grave, and said we had not much time to throw away, but must both flee that country.

‘O!’ says I, willing to give him a little lesson, ‘I have no fear of the justice of my country.’

‘Man, I whiles wonder at ye,’ said Alan. ‘This is a Campbell that’s been killed. Well, it’ll be tried in Inveraray, the Campbells’ head place; with fifteen Campbells in the jury-box and the biggest Campbell of all (and that’s the Duke) sitting cocking on the bench. Justice, David? The same justice, by all the world, as Glenure found awhile ago at the roadside. We’re in the Hielands, David; and when I tell ye to run, take my word and run. Nae doubt it’s a hard thing to skulk and starve in the Heather, but it’s harder yet to lie shackled in a red-coat prison.’

I asked him whither we should flee; and as he told me ‘to the Lowlands,’ I was a little better inclined to go with him; for, indeed, I was growing impatient to get back and have the upper hand of my uncle.

‘I’ll chance it, Alan,’ said I. ‘I’ll go with you.’

‘But mind you,’ said Alan, ‘it’s no small thing. Ye maun lie bare and hard, and brook many an empty belly. Your bed shall be the moorcock’s, and your life shall be like the hunted deer’s, and ye shall sleep with your hand upon your weapons. 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.

‘Ay,’ said he, ‘you and me, David, can sit down and eat a bite, and breathe a bit longer, and take a dram from my bottle. Then we’ll strike for Aucharn, the house of my kinsman, James of the Glens, where I must get my clothes, and my arms, and money to carry us along; and then, David, we’ll cry, “Forth, Fortune!” and take a cast among the heather.’

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; and had one glimpse of me clinging on the yard. It was this that put him in some hope I would maybe get to land after all, and made him leave those clues and messages.

In the meanwhile, those still on the brig had got the skiff launched, and one or two were on board of her already, when there came a second wave greater than the first, and heaved the brig out of her place, and would certainly have sent her to the bottom, had she not struck and caught on some projection of the reef. But now her stern was thrown in the air, and the bows plunged under the sea.

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; 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. The sailors began to spread out and come behind him.

‘And then,’ said Alan, ‘the little man with the red head – I havenae mind of the name that he is called.’

‘Riach,’ said I.

‘Ay,’ said Alan, ‘Riach! Well, it was him that took up the clubs for me, asked the men if they werenae feared of a judgment, and, says he “Dod, I’ll put my back to the Hielandman’s mysel’.’ That’s none such an entirely bad little man, yon little man with the red head,’ said Alan. ‘He has some spunks of decency. The little man cried to me to run, and indeed I thought it was a good observe, and ran. 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.’

Chapter XIX

The House of Fear

Night fell as we were walking, and the clouds, which had broken up in the afternoon, settled in and thickened, so that it fell extremely 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 directed himself.

At last, about half-past ten of the clock, we came to the top of a brae, and saw lights below us. It seemed a house door stood open and let out a beam of fire and candle-light; and all round the house and steading five or six persons were moving hurriedly about, each carrying a lighted brand.

Hereupon he whistled three times, in a particular manner. It was strange to see how, at the first sound of it, all the moving torches came to a stand, as if the bearers were affrighted; and how, at the third, the bustle began again as before.

We came down the brae, and were met at the yard gate by a tall, handsome man of more than fifty, who cried out to Alan in the Gaelic.

‘James Stewart,’ said Alan, ‘I will ask ye to speak in Scotch, for here is a young gentleman with me that has nane of the other. This is him, but I am thinking it will be the better for his health if we give his name the go-by.’

James of the Glens turned to me for a moment, and greeted me courteously enough; the next he had turned to Alan. ‘This has been a dreadful accident,’ he cried. ‘It will bring trouble on the country.’ And he wrung his hands.

‘Hoots!’ said Alan, ‘ye must take the sour with the sweet, man. Colin Roy is dead, and be thankful for that!’

‘Ay,’ said James, ‘and by my troth, I wish he was alive again! It’s all very fine to blow and boast beforehand; but now it’s done, Alan; and who’s to bear the wyte of it? The accident fell out in Appin – mind ye that, Alan; it’s Appin that must pay; and I am a man that has a family.’

While this was going on I looked about me at the servants. Some were on ladders, digging in the thatch of the house or the farm buildings, from which they brought out guns, swords, and different weapons of war; others carried them away; and by the sound of mattock blows from somewhere farther down the brae, I suppose they buried them.

Though they were all so busy, there prevailed no kind of order in their efforts. James was continually turning about from his talk with Alan, to cry out orders which were apparently never understood.

Then Alan 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.

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.

At last James could keep his seat no longer, and begged my permission to be so unmannerly as walk about. ‘I am but poor company altogether, sir,’ says he, ‘but I can think of nothing but this dreadful accident, and the trouble it is like to bring upon quite innocent persons.’

I was right glad when Alan returned, looking like himself in his fine French clothes. I was then taken out in my turn by another of the sons, and given that change of clothing of which I had stood so long in need, and a pair of Highland brogues made of deer-leather, rather strange at first, but after a little practice very easy to the feet.

By the time I came back Alan must have told his story; for it seemed understood that I was to fly with him, and they were all busy upon our equipment. They gave us each a sword and pistols, some ammunition, a bag of oatmeal, an iron pan, and a bottle of right French brandy, we were ready for the heather.

‘Ye must find a safe bit somewhere nearby,’ said James, ‘and get word sent to me. Ye see, ye’ll have to get this business prettily off, Alan. They’re sure to get wind of ye, sure to seek ye, and by my way of it, sure to lay on ye the wyte of this day’s accident. If it falls on you, it falls on me that am your near kinsman and harboured ye while ye were in the country. And if it comes on me —’ he paused, and bit his fingers, with a white face. ‘It would be a painful thing for our friends if I was to hang,’ said he.

‘It would be an ill day for Appin,’ says Alan.

‘But see here,’ said James, returning to his former manner, ‘if they lay me by the heels, Alan, I’ll have to get a paper out against ye mysel’; have to offer a reward for ye; ay, will I! It’s a sore thing to do between such near friends; but if I get the dirdum 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. ‘It’s like making me a traitor!’

‘Now, Alan, man!’ cried James. ‘Look things in the face! He’ll be papered anyway; Mungo Campbell’ll be sure to paper him; what matters if I paper him too? And then, Alan, I am a man that has a family.’ And then, after a little pause on both sides, ‘And, Alan, it’ll be a jury of Campbells,’ said he.

‘Well, sir,’ says Alan, turning to me, ‘what say ye to, that? Ye are here under the safeguard of my honour; and it’s my part to see nothing done but what shall please you.’

‘I have but one word to say,’ said I; ‘for to all this dispute I am a perfect stranger. But the plain common sense is to set the blame where it belongs, and that is on the man who fired the shot. Paper him, as ye call it, set the hunt on him; and let honest, innocent folk show their faces in safety.’ But at this both Alan and James cried out in horror; bidding me hold my tongue with such innocent earnestness, that my hands dropped at my side and I despaired of argument.

‘Very well, then,’ said I, ‘paper me, if you please, paper Alan, paper King George! We’re all three innocent, and that seems to be what’s wanted. But at least, sir,’ said I to James, recovering from my little fit of annoyance, ‘I am Alan’s friend, and if I can be helpful to friends of his, I will not stumble at the risk.’

I thought it best to put a fair face on my consent, for I saw Alan troubled; and, besides (thinks I to myself), as soon as my back is turned, they will paper me, as they call it, whether I consent or not. But in this I saw I was wrong; for I had no sooner said the words, than Mrs. Stewart leaped out of her chair, came running over to us, and wept first upon my neck and then on Alan’s, blessing God for our goodness to her family.

‘Hoot, hoot,’ said Alan. ‘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 running of red-coats; and it behoves you and me to the sooner be gone.’

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