Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson

by Robert Louis Stevenson

  “Bury my French clothes!” cried Alan. “Troth, no!” And he laid hold upon the packet and retired into the barn to shift himself, recommending me in the meanwhile to his kinsman.

  James carried me accordingly into the kitchen, and sat down with me at table, smiling and talking at first in a very hospitable manner. But presently the gloom returned upon him; he sat frowning and biting his fingers; only remembered me from time to time; and then gave me but a word or two and a poor smile, and back into his private terrors. His wife sat by the fire and wept, with her face in her hands; his eldest son was crouched upon the floor, running over a great mass of papers and now and again setting one alight and burning it to the bitter end; all the while a servant lass with a red face was rummaging about the room, in a blind hurry of fear, and whimpering as she went; and every now and again one of the men would thrust in his face from the yard, and cry for orders.

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

  A little after he observed his son burning a paper which he thought should have been kept; and at that his excitement burst out so that it was painful to witness. He struck the lad repeatedly.

  “Are you gone gyte?”* 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.

  * Mad.

  This was all wretched for a stranger like myself to hear and see; and I was right glad when Alan returned, looking like himself in his fine French clothes, though (to be sure) they were now grown almost too battered and withered to deserve the name of fine. I was then taken out in my turn by another of the sons, and given that change of clothing of which I had stood so long in need, and a pair of Highland brogues made of deer-leather, rather strange at first, but after a little practice very easy to the feet.

  By the time I came back Alan must have told his story; for it seemed understood that I was to fly with him, and they were all busy upon our equipment. They gave us each a sword and pistols, though I professed my inability to use the former; and with these, and some ammunition, a bag of oatmeal, an iron pan, and a bottle of right French brandy, we were ready for the heather. Money, indeed, was lacking. I had about two guineas left; Alan’s belt having been despatched by another hand, that trusty messenger had no more than seventeen-pence to his whole fortune; and as for James, it appears he had brought himself so low with journeys to Edinburgh and legal expenses on behalf of the tenants, that he could only scrape together three-and-five-pence-halfpenny, the most of it in coppers.

  “This’ll no do,” said Alan.

  “Ye must find a safe bit somewhere near by,” said James, “and get word sent to me. Ye see, ye’ll have to get this business prettily off, Alan. This is no time to be stayed for a guinea or two. They’re sure to get wind of ye, sure to seek ye, and by my way of it, sure to lay on ye the wyte of this day’s accident. If it falls on you, it falls on me that am your near kinsman and harboured ye while ye were in the country. And if it comes on me — —” he paused, and bit his fingers, with a white face. “It would be a painful thing for our friends if I was to hang,” said he.

  “It would be an ill day for Appin,” says Alan.

  “It’s a day that sticks in my throat,” said James. “O man, man, man — man Alan! you and me have spoken like two fools!” he cried, striking his hand upon the wall so that the house rang again.

  “Well, and that’s true, too,” said Alan; “and my friend from the Lowlands here” (nodding at me) “gave me a good word upon that head, if I would only have listened to him.”

  “But see here,” said James, returning to his former manner, “if they lay me by the heels, Alan, it’s then that you’ll be needing the money. For with all that I have said and that you have said, it will look very black against the two of us; do ye mark that? Well, follow me out, and ye’ll, I’ll see that I’ll have to get a paper out against ye mysel’; have to offer a reward for ye; ay, will I! It’s a sore thing to do between such near friends; but if I get the dirdum* of this dreadful accident, I’ll have to fend for myself, man. Do ye see that?”

  * Blame.

  He spoke with a pleading earnestness, taking Alan by the breast of the coat.

  “Ay” said Alan, “I see that.”

  “And ye’ll have to be clear of the country, Alan — ay, and clear of Scotland — you and your friend from the Lowlands, too. For I’ll have to paper your friend from the Lowlands. Ye see that, Alan — say that ye see that!”

  I thought Alan flushed a bit. “This is unco hard on me that brought him here, James,” said he, throwing his head back. “It’s like making me a traitor!”

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

  “There’s one thing,” said Alan, musingly, “that naebody kens his name.”

  “Nor yet they shallnae, Alan! There’s my hand on that,” cried James, for all the world as if he had really known my name and was foregoing some advantage. “But just the habit he was in, and what he looked like, and his age, and the like? I couldnae well do less.”

  “I wonder at your father’s son,” cried Alan, sternly. “Would ye sell the lad with a gift? Would ye change his clothes and then betray him?”

  “No, no, Alan,” said James. “No, no: the habit he took off — the habit Mungo saw him in.” But I thought he seemed crestfallen; indeed, he was clutching at every straw, and all the time, I dare say, saw the faces of his hereditary foes on the bench, and in the jury-box, and the gallows in the background.

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

  “I have but one word to say,” said I; “for to all this dispute I am a perfect stranger. But the plain common-sense is to set the blame where it belongs, and that is on the man who fired the shot. Paper him, as ye call it, set the hunt on him; and let honest, innocent folk show their faces in safety.” But at this both Alan and James cried out in horror; bidding me hold my tongue, for that was not to be thought of; and asking me what the Camerons would think? (which confirmed me, it must have been a Cameron from Mamore that did the act) and if I did not see that the lad might be caught? “Ye havenae surely thought of that?” said they, with such innocent earnestness, that my hands dropped at my side and I despaired of argument.

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

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

  “As for you, Alan, it was no more than your bounden duty,” she said. “But for this lad that has come here and seen us at our worst, and seen the goodman fleeching like a suitor, him that by rights should give his commands like any king — as for you, my lad,” she says, “my heart is wae not to have your name, but I have your face; and as long as my heart beats unde
r my bosom, I will keep it, and think of it, and bless it.” And with that she kissed me, and burst once more into such sobbing, that I stood abashed.

  “Hoot, hoot,” said Alan, looking mighty silly. “The day comes unco soon in this month of July; and to-morrow there’ll be a fine to-do in Appin, a fine riding of dragoons, and crying of ‘Cruachan!’* and running of red-coats; and it behoves you and me to the sooner be gone.”

  * The rallying-word of the Campbells.

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

  CHAPTER XX

  THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER: THE ROCKS

  Sometimes we walked, sometimes ran; and as it drew on to morning, walked ever the less and ran the more. Though, upon its face, that country appeared to be a desert, yet there were huts and houses of the people, of which we must have passed more than twenty, hidden in quiet places of the hills. When we came to one of these, Alan would leave me in the way, and go himself and rap upon the side of the house and speak awhile at the window with some sleeper awakened. This was to pass the news; which, in that country, was so much of a duty that Alan must pause to attend to it even while fleeing for his life; and so well attended to by others, that in more than half of the houses where we called they had heard already of the murder. In the others, as well as I could make out (standing back at a distance and hearing a strange tongue), the news was received with more of consternation than surprise.

  For all our hurry, day began to come in while we were still far from any shelter. It found us in a prodigious valley, strewn with rocks and where ran a foaming river. Wild mountains stood around it; there grew there neither grass nor trees; and I have sometimes thought since then, that it may have been the valley called Glencoe, where the massacre was in the time of King William. But for the details of our itinerary, I am all to seek; our way lying now by short cuts, now by great detours; our pace being so hurried, our time of journeying usually by night; and the names of such places as I asked and heard being in the Gaelic tongue and the more easily forgotten.

  The first peep of morning, then, showed us this horrible place, and I could see Alan knit his brow.

  “This is no fit place for you and me,” he said. “This is a place they’re bound to watch.”

  And with that he ran harder than ever down to the water-side, in a part where the river was split in two among three rocks. It went through with a horrid thundering that made my belly quake; and there hung over the lynn a little mist of spray. Alan looked neither to the right nor to the left, but jumped clean upon the middle rock and fell there on his hands and knees to check himself, for that rock was small and he might have pitched over on the far side. I had scarce time to measure the distance or to understand the peril before I had followed him, and he had caught and stopped me.

  So there we stood, side by side upon a small rock slippery with spray, a far broader leap in front of us, and the river dinning upon all sides. When I saw where I was, there came on me a deadly sickness of fear, and I put my hand over my eyes. Alan took me and shook me; I saw he was speaking, but the roaring of the falls and the trouble of my mind prevented me from hearing; only I saw his face was red with anger, and that he stamped upon the rock. The same look showed me the water raging by, and the mist hanging in the air: and with that I covered my eyes again and shuddered.

  The next minute Alan had set the brandy bottle to my lips, and forced me to drink about a gill, which sent the blood into my head again. Then, putting his hands to his mouth, and his mouth to my ear, he shouted, “Hang or drown!” and turning his back upon me, leaped over the farther branch of the stream, and landed safe.

  I was now alone upon the rock, which gave me the more room; the brandy was singing in my ears; I had this good example fresh before me, and just wit enough to see that if I did not leap at once, I should never leap at all. I bent low on my knees and flung myself forth, with that kind of anger of despair that has sometimes stood me in stead of courage. Sure enough, it was but my hands that reached the full length; these slipped, caught again, slipped again; and I was sliddering back into the lynn, when Alan seized me, first by the hair, then by the collar, and with a great strain dragged me into safety.

  Never a word he said, but set off running again for his life, and I must stagger to my feet and run after him. I had been weary before, but now I was sick and bruised, and partly drunken with the brandy; I kept stumbling as I ran, I had a stitch that came near to overmaster me; and when at last Alan paused under a great rock that stood there among a number of others, it was none too soon for David Balfour.

  A great rock I have said; but by rights it was two rocks leaning together at the top, both some twenty feet high, and at the first sight inaccessible. Even Alan (though you may say he had as good as four hands) failed twice in an attempt to climb them; and it was only at the third trial, and then by standing on my shoulders and leaping up with such force as I thought must have broken my collar-bone, that he secured a lodgment. Once there, he let down his leathern girdle; and with the aid of that and a pair of shallow footholds in the rock, I scrambled up beside him.

  Then I saw why we had come there; for the two rocks, being both somewhat hollow on the top and sloping one to the other, made a kind of dish or saucer, where as many as three or four men might have lain hidden.

  All this while Alan had not said a word, and had run and climbed with such a savage, silent frenzy of hurry, that I knew that he was in mortal fear of some miscarriage. Even now we were on the rock he said nothing, nor so much as relaxed the frowning look upon his face; but clapped flat down, and keeping only one eye above the edge of our place of shelter scouted all round the compass. The dawn had come quite clear; we could see the stony sides of the valley, and its bottom, which was bestrewed with rocks, and the river, which went from one side to another, and made white falls; but nowhere the smoke of a house, nor any living creature but some eagles screaming round a cliff.

  Then at last Alan smiled.

  “Ay” said he, “now we have a chance;” and then looking at me with some amusement, “Ye’re no very gleg* at the jumping,” said he.

  * Brisk.

  At this I suppose I coloured with mortification, for he added at once, “Hoots! small blame to ye! To be feared of a thing and yet to do it, is what makes the prettiest kind of a man. And then there was water there, and water’s a thing that dauntons even me. No, no,” said Alan, “it’s no you that’s to blame, it’s me.”

  I asked him why.

  “Why,” said he, “I have proved myself a gomeral this night. For first of all I take a wrong road, and that in my own country of Appin; so that the day has caught us where we should never have been; and thanks to that, we lie here in some danger and mair discomfort. And next (which is the worst of the two, for a man that has been so much among the heather as myself) I have come wanting a water-bottle, and here we lie for a long summer’s day with naething but neat spirit. Ye may think that a small matter; but before it comes night, David, ye’ll give me news of it.”

  I was anxious to redeem my character, and offered, if he would pour out the brandy, to run down and fill the bottle at the river.

  “I wouldnae waste the good spirit either,” says he. “It’s been a good friend to you this night; or in my poor opinion, ye would still be cocking on yon stone. And what’s mair,” says he, “ye may have observed (you that’s a man of so much penetration) that Alan Breck Stewart was perhaps walking quicker than his ordinar’.”

  “You!” I cried, “you were running fit to burst.”

  “Was I so?” said he. “Well, then, ye may depend upon it, there was nae time to be lost. And now here is enough said; gang you to your sleep, lad, and I’ll watch.”

  Accordingly, I lay down to sleep; a little peaty earth had drifted in between the top of the two rocks, and some bracken grew there, to be a bed to me; the last thing I heard was still the crying of the eagles.
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br />   I dare say it would be nine in the morning when I was roughly awakened, and found Alan’s hand pressed upon my mouth.

  “Wheesht!” he whispered. “Ye were snoring.”

  “Well,” said I, surprised at his anxious and dark face, “and why not?”

  He peered over the edge of the rock, and signed to me to do the like.

  It was now high day, cloudless, and very hot. The valley was as clear as in a picture. About half a mile up the water was a camp of red-coats; a big fire blazed in their midst, at which some were cooking; and near by, on the top of a rock about as high as ours, there stood a sentry, with the sun sparkling on his arms. All the way down along the river-side were posted other sentries; here near together, there widelier scattered; some planted like the first, on places of command, some on the ground level and marching and counter-marching, so as to meet half-way. Higher up the glen, where the ground was more open, the chain of posts was continued by horse-soldiers, whom we could see in the distance riding to and fro. Lower down, the infantry continued; but as the stream was suddenly swelled by the confluence of a considerable burn, they were more widely set, and only watched the fords and stepping-stones.

  I took but one look at them, and ducked again into my place. It was strange indeed to see this valley, which had lain so solitary in the hour of dawn, bristling with arms and dotted with the red coats and breeches.

  “Ye see,” said Alan, “this was what I was afraid of, Davie: that they would watch the burn-side. They began to come in about two hours ago, and, man! but ye’re a grand hand at the sleeping! We’re in a narrow place. If they get up the sides of the hill, they could easy spy us with a glass; but if they’ll only keep in the foot of the valley, we’ll do yet. The posts are thinner down the water; and, come night, we’ll try our hand at getting by them.”