Rob Roy

by Walter Scott

  I looked up in astonishment. The speaker was no other than Campbell. He had a basket-hilted broadsword drawn in his hand, which he made to whistle around his head as he spoke, as if for the purpose of enforcing his mediation. Rashleigh and I stared in silence at this unexpected intruder, who proceeded to exhort us alternately: ‘Do you., Maister Francis, opine that ye will re-establish your father’s credit by cutting your kinsman’s thrapple, or getting your ain sneckit instead thereof in the College-yards of Glasgow?—Or do you, Mr. Rashleigh, think men will trust their lives and fortunes wi’ and, that, when in point of trust and in point of confidence wi’ a great political interest, gangs about brawling like a drunken gillie?—Nay never look gash or grim at me, man—if ye‘re angry, ye ken how to turn the buckle o’ your belt behind you.’

  ‘You presume on my present situation,’ replied Rashleigh, ‘or you would have hardly dared to interfere where my honour is concerned.’

  ‘Hout, tout, tout!—Presume?—And what for should it be presuming?—Ye may be the richer man, Mr. Osbaldi-stone, as is maist likely; and ye may be the mair learned man, whilk I dispute not: but I reckon ye are neither a prettier man nor a better gentleman than mysell—and it will be news to me when I hear ye are as gude. And dare too?—Muckle daring there is about it—I trow here I stand, that hae slashed as het a haggis as ony o’ the twa o’ ye, and thought no muckle o’ my morning’s wark when it was dune. If my foot were on the heather as it’s on the causeway, or this pickle gravel, that’s little better, I hae been waur mis-trysted than if I were set to gie ye baith your ser‘ing o’t.’

  Rashleigh had by this time recovered his temper completely. ‘My kinsman,’ he said, ‘will acknowledge he forced this quarrel on me. It was none of my seeking. I am glad we are interrupted before I chastised his forwardness more severely.’

  ‘Are ye hurt, lad?’ enquired Campbell of me, with some appearance of interest.

  ‘A very slight scratch,’ I answered, ‘which my kind cousin would not long have boasted of had not you come between us.’

  ‘In troth, and that’s true, Maister Rashleigh,’ said Campbell; ‘for the cauld iron and your best bluid were like to hae become acquaint when I mastered Mr. Frank’s right hand. But never look like a sow playing upon a trump for the luve o’ that, man—come and walk wi’ me. I hae news to tell ye, and ye’ll cool amd come to yoursell, like McGibbon’s crowdy, when he set it out at the window-bole.’

  ‘Pardon me, sir,’ said I. ‘Your intentions have seemed friendly to me on more occasions than one; but I must not, and will not, quit sight of this person until he yields up to me those means of doing justice to my father’s engagements, of which he has treacherously possessed himself.’

  ‘Ye’ re daft, man,’ replied Campbell, ‘it will serve ye nae-thing to follow us e‘enow; ye hae just enow o’ ae man, wad ye bring twa on your head, and might bide quiet?’

  ‘Twenty,’ I replied, ‘if it be necessary.’

  I laid my hand on Rashleigh’s collar, who made no resistance, but said, with a sort of scornful smile, ‘You hear him, MacGregor! he rushes on his fate—will it be my fault if he falls into it?—The warrants are by this time ready, and all is prepared.’

  The Scotchman was obviously embarrassed. He looked around, and before, and behind him, and then said: ‘The ne‘er a bit will I yield my consent to his being ill-guided, for standing up for the father that got him—and I gie God’s malison and mine to a’ sort o’ magistrates, justices, bailies, sheriffs, sheriff-officers, constables, and sic-like black cattle, that hae been the plagues o’ puir auld Scotland this hunder year;—it was a merry warld when every man held his ain gear wi’ his ain grip, and when the contry side wasna fashed wi’ warrants and poindings and apprizings, and a’ that cheatry craft. And ance mair I say it, my conscience winna see this puir thoughtless lad ill-guided, and especially wi’that sort o’ trade. I wad rather ye fell till’t again, and fought it out like douce honest men.’

  ‘Your conscience, MacGregor!’ said Rashleigh; ‘you forget how long you and I have known each other.’

  ‘Yes, my conscience,’ reiterated Campbell, or MacGregor, or whatever was his name; ‘I hae such a thing about me, Maister Osbaldistone; and therein it may weel chance that I hae the better o’ you. As to our knowledge of each other, —if ye ken what I am, ye ken what usage it was made me what I am; and, whatever you may think, I would not change states with the proudest of the oppressors that hae driven me to tak the heather-bush for a beild. What you are, Maister Rashleigh, and what excuse ye hae for being what you are, is between your ain heart and the lang day.—And now, Maister Francis, let go his collar; for he says truly, that ye are in mair danger from a magistrate than he is, and were your cause as straight as an arrow, he wad find a way to put you wrang—So let go his craig, as I was saying.’

  He seconded his words with an effort so sudden and unexpected, that he freed Rashleigh from my hold, and securing me, notwithstanding my struggles, in his own Herculean gripe, he called out, ‘Take the bent, Mr. Rashleigh. Make ae pair o’ legs worth twa pair o’ hands; ye hae dune that before now.’

  ‘You may thank this gentleman, kinsman,’ said Rashleigh, ‘if I leave any part of my debt to you unpaid; and if I quit you now, it is only in the hope we shall soon meet again without the possibility of interruption.’

  He took up his sword, wiped it, sheathed it, and was lost among the bushes.

  The Scotchman, partly by force, partly by remonstrance, prevented my following him; indeed, I began to be of opinion my doing so would be to little purpose.

  ‘As I live by bread,’ said Campbell, when, after one or two struggles in which he used much forbearance towards me, he perceived me inclined to stand quiet, ‘I never saw sae daft a callant! I wad hae gien the best man in the country the breadth o’ his back gin he had gien me sic a kemping as ye hae dune. What wad ye do?—Wad ye follow the wolf to his den?—I tell ye, man, he has the auld trap set for ye—He has got the collector-creature Morris to bring up a’ the auld story again, and ye maun look for nae help frae me here, as ye got at Justice Inglewood’s—It isna good for my health to come in the gate o’ the whigamore bailie bodies. Now gang your ways hame, like a gude bairn—jouk and let the jaw gae by—Keep out o’ sight o’ Rashleigh, and Morris, and that MacVittie animal—Mind the Clachan of Aberfoil, as I said before, and, by the word of a gentleman, I wunna see ye wranged. But keep a calm sough till we meet again—I maun gae and get Rashleigh out o’ the town afore waur comes o’t, for the neb o’ him’s never out o’ mischief—Mind the Clachan of Aberfoil.’

  He turned upon his heel, and left me to meditate on the singular events which had befallen me. My first care was to adjust my dress and re-assume my cloak, disposing it so as to conceal the blood which flowed down my right side. I had scarcely accomplished this, when, the classes of the College being dismissed, the gardens began to be filled with parties of the students. I therefore left them as soon as possible; and in my way towards Mr. Jarvie’s, whose dinner hour was now approaching, I stopped at a small, unpretending shop, the sign of which intimated the indweller to be Christopher Nielson, surgeon and apothecary. I requested of a little boy who was pounding some stuff in a mortar, that he would procure me an audience of this learned pharmacopolist. He opened the door of the back-shop, where I found a lively elderly man, who shook his head incredulously at some idle account I gave him of having been wounded accidentally by the button breaking off my antagonist’s foil while I was engaged in a fencing match. When he had applied some lint and somewhat else he thought proper to the trifling wound I had received, he observed, ‘There never was button on the foil that made this hurt. Ah! young blood! young blood!—But we surgeons are a secret generation—If it werena for hot blood and ill blood, what would become of the twa learned faculties?’

  With which moral reflection he dismissed me; and I experienced very little pain or inconvenience afterwards from the scratch I had received.

  CHAPTER XXVI


  An iron race the mountain-cliffs maintain,

  Foes to the gentler genius of the plain.

  • • • • •

  Who, while their rocky ramparts round they see,

  The rough abode of want and liberty,

  As lawless force from confidence will grow,

  Insult the plenty of the vales below.

  Gray

  ‘WHAT made ye sae late?’ said Mr. Jarvie, as I entered the dining-parlour of that honest gentleman; ‘it is chappit ane the best feck o’ five minutes by-gane. Mattie has been twice at the door wi’the dinner, and weel for you it was a tup’s head, for that canna suffer by delay. A sheep’s head ower muckle boiled is rank poison, as my worthy father used to say—he lickit the lug o’ ane weel, honest man.’

  I made a suitable apology for my breach of punctuality, and was soon seated at table, where Mr. Jarvie presided with great glee and hospitality, compelling, however, Owen and myself to do rather more justice to the Scottish dainties with which his board was charged, than was quite agreeable to our southern palates. I escaped pretty well, from having those habits of society which enable one to elude this species of well-meant persecution. But it was ridiculous enough to see Owen, whose ideas of politeness were more rigorous and formal, and who was willing, in all acts of lawful compliance, to evince his respect for the friend of the firm, eating, with rueful complaisance, mouthful after mouthful of singed wool, and pronouncing it excellent in a tone in which disgust almost overpowered civility.

  When the cloth was removed, Mr. Jarvie compounded with his own hands a very small bowl of brandy-punch, the first which I had ever the fortune to see.

  ‘The limes,’ he assured us, ‘were from his own little farm yonder-awa,’ (indicating the West Indies with a knowing shrug of his shoulders,) ‘and he had learned the art of composing the liquor from auld Captain Coffinkey who acquired it,’ he added in a whisper, ‘as maist folk thought amang the Buccaniers. But it’s excellent liquor,’ said he, helping us round; ‘and good ware has aften come frae a wicked market. And as for Captain Coffinkey, he was a decent man when I kent him, only he used to swear awfully —But he’s dead, and gaen to his account, and I trust he’s accepted—I trust he’s accepted.’

  We found the liquor exceedingly palatable, and it led to a long conversation between Owen and our host on the opening which the Union had afforded to trade between Glasgow and the British colonies in America and the West Indies, and on the facilities, which Glasgow possessed of making up sortable cargoes for that market. Mr. Jarvie answered some objection which Owen made on the difficulty of sorting a cargo for America, without buying from England, with vehemence and volubility.

  ‘Na, na, sir, we stand on our ain bottom—we pickle in our ain pock-neuk—We hae our Stirling serges, Musselburgh stuffs, Aberdeen hose, Edinburgh shalloons, and the like, for our woollen or worsted goods—and we hae linens of a’ kinds better and cheaper than you hae in Lunnon itsell —and we can buy your north of England wares, as Manchester wares, Sheffield wares, and Newcastle earthen-ware, as cheap as you can at Liverpool—And we are making a fan-spell at cottons and muslins—Na, na! let every herring hing by its ain head, and every sheep by its ain shank, and ye’ll find, sir, us Glasgow folk no sae far ahint but what we may follow.—This is but poor entertainment for you, Mr. Osbaldistone,’ (observing that I had been for some time silent,) ‘but ye ken cadgers maun aye be speaking about cart-saddles.’

  I apologized, alleging the painful circumstances of my own situation, and the singular adventures of the morning, as the causes of my abstraction and absence of mind. In this manner I gained what I sought—an opportunity of telling my story distinctly and without interruption. I only omitted mentioning the wound I had received, which I did not think worthy of notice. Mr. Jarvie listened with great attention and apparent interest, twinkling his little grey eyes, taking snuff, and only interrupting me by brief interjections. When I came to the account of the rencounter, at which Owen folded his hands and cast up his eyes to Heaven, the very image of woeful surprise, Mr. Jarvie broke in upon the narration with ‘Wrang now—clean wrang—to draw a sword on your kinsman is inhibited by the laws o’ God and man; and to draw a sword on the streets of a royal burgh, is punishable by fine and imprisonment—and the College-yards are nae better privileged—they should be a place of peace and quietness, I trow. The College didna get gude £600 a-year out o’ bishop’s rents, (sorrow fa’ the brood o’ bishops and their rents too!) nor yet a lease o’ the Arch-bishoprick o’ Glasgow the sell o’t, that they suld let folk tuilzie in their yards, or the wild callants bicker there wi’ snawba’s as they whiles do, that when Mattie and I gae through, we are fain to make a baik and a bow, or rin the risk o’ our harns being knocked out—it suld be looked to.1— But come awa’ wi’ your tale—what fell neist?’

  On my mentioning the appearance of Mr. Campbell, Jarvie arose in great surprise, and paced the room, exclaiming, ‘Robin again!—Robert’s mad—clean wud, and waur —Rob will be hanged and disgrace a’ his kindred, and that will be seen and heard tell o’. My father the deacon wrought him his first hose—odd, I am thinking Deacon Threeplie, the rape-spinner, will be twisting his last cravat. Ay, ay, puir Robin is in a fair way o’ being hanged—But come awa —come awa‘—let‘s hear the lave o’t.’

  I told the whole story as pointedly as I could; but Mr. Jarvie still found something lacking to make it clear, until I went back, though with considerable reluctance, on the whole story of Morris, and of my meeting with Campbell at the house of Justice Inglewood. Mr. Jarvie inclined a serious ear to all this, and remained silent for some time after I had finished my narrative.

  ‘Upon all these matters I am now to ask your advice, Mr. Jarvie, which, I have no doubt, will point out the best way to act for my father’s advantage and my own honour.’

  ‘Ye’re right, young man—ye’re right,’ said the Bailie. ‘Aye take the counsel of those who are aulder and wiser than yoursell, and binna like the godless Rehoboam, who took the advice o’ a wheen beardless callants, neglecting the old counsellors who had sate at die feet o’ his fadier Solomon, and, as it was weel put by Mr. Meiklejohn, in his lecture on the chapter, were doubtless partakers of his sapience. But I maun hear naething about honour—we ken naething here but about credit. Honour is a homicide and a bloodspiller, that gangs about making frays in die street; but Credit is a decent honest man, that sits at hame, and makes the pat play.’

  ‘Assuredly, Mr. Jarvie,’ said our friend Owen, ‘credit is the sum total; and if we can but save that, at whatever discount——’

  ‘Ye are right, Mr. Owen—ye are right; ye speak weel and wisely; and I trust bowls will row right, though they are awee ajee e’enow. But touching Robin, I am of opinion he will befriend this young man if it is in his power. He has a gude heart, puir Robin; and though I lost a matter o’ twa hunder punds wi’ his former engagements, and haena muckle expectation ever to see back my thousand pund Scots that he promises me e’enow, yet I will never say but what Robin means fair by a’ men.’

  ‘I am then to consider him,’ I replied,’as an honest man?’

  ‘Umph!’ replied Jarvie, with a precautionary sort of cough,—‘Ay, he has a kind o’ Hieland honesty—he‘s honest after a sort, as they say. My father the deacon used aye to laugh when he tauld me how that by-word came up. Ane Captain Costlett was cracking crouse about his loyalty to King Charles, and Clerk Pettigrew (ye’ll hae heard mony a tale about him) asked him after what manner he served the king, when he was fighting again him at Wor’ster in Cromwell’s army; and Captain Costlett was a ready body, and said that he served him after a sort. My father used to laugh weel at that sport—and sae the by-word came up.’

  ‘But do you think,’ I said, ‘that this man will be able to serve me after a sort, or should I trust myself to this place of rendezvous which he has given me?’

  ‘Frankly and fairly, it’s worth trying. Ye see yoursell there’s some risk in your staying here. This bit body Morris
has gotten a custom-house place doun at Greenock—that’s a port on the Firth doun by here; and tho’ a’ the warld kens him to be but a twa-leggit creature, wi’ a goose’s head and a hen’s heart, that goes about on the quay plaguing folk about permits, and cockits, and dockits, and a’ that vexatious trade, yet if he lodge an information—ou, nae doubt a man in magisterial duty maun attend to it, and ye might come to be clapped up between four wa’s, whilk wad be ill-convenient to your father’s affairs.’

  ‘True,’ I observed; ‘yet what service am I likely to render him by leaving Glasgow, which, it is probable, will be the principal scene of Rashleigh’s machinations, and committing myself to the doubtful faith of a man of whom I know little but that he fears justice, and has doubtless good reasons for doing so; and that for some secret, and probably dangerous purpose, he is in close league and alliance with the very person who is like to be the author of our ruin?’

  ‘Ah! but ye judge Rob hardly,’ said the Bailie,—‘ye judge him hardly, puir chield; and the truth is, that ye ken nae-thing about our hill country, or Hielands, as we ca’ them. They are clean anither set frae the like o’ huz; there’s nae bailie-courts amang them—nae magistrates that dinna bear the sword in vain, like the worthy deacon that’s awa’—and, I may say’t, like mysell and other present magistrates in this city—But it’s just the laird‘s command, and the loon maun loup and the never another law hae they but the length o’ their dirks—the broadsword’s pursuer, or plaintiff, as you Englishers ca’ it, and the target is the defender; the stoutest head bears langest out—and there’s a Hieland plea for ye.’

  Owen groaned deeply; and I allow that the description did not greatly increase my desire to trust myself in a country so lawless as he described these Scottish mountains.

  ‘Now, sir,’ said Jarvie, ‘we speak little o’ thae things, because they are familiar to oursells; and where’s the use o’ vilifying ane’s country, and bring a discredit on ane’s kin, before southrons and strangers? it’s an ill bird that files its ain nest.’