My uncle cleared his throat. “I’m no very caring,” says he. “He wasnae a good lad at the best of it, and I’ve nae call to interfere.”
“Ay, ay,” said Alan, “I see what ye would be at: pretending ye don’t care, to make the ransom smaller.”
“Na,” said my uncle, “it’s the mere truth. I take nae manner of interest in the lad, and I’ll pay nae ransome, and ye can make a kirk and a mill of him for what I care.”
“Hoot, sir,” says Alan. “Blood’s thicker than water, in the deil’s name! Ye cannae desert your brother’s son for the fair shame of it; and if ye did, and it came to be kennt, ye wouldnae be very popular in your country-side, or I’m the more deceived.”
“I’m no just very popular the way it is,” returned Ebenezer; “and I dinnae see how it would come to be kennt. No by me, onyway; nor yet by you or your friends. So that’s idle talk, my buckie,” says he.
“Then it’ll have to be David that tells it,” said Alan.
“How that?” says my uncle, sharply.
“Ou, just this way,” says Alan. “My friends would doubtless keep your nephew as long as there was any likelihood of siller to be made of it, but if there was nane, I am clearly of opinion they would let him gang where he pleased, and be damned to him!”
“Ay, but I’m no very caring about that either,” said my uncle. “I wouldnae be muckle made up with that.”
“I was thinking that,” said Alan.
“And what for why?” asked Ebenezer.
“Why, Mr. Balfour,” replied Alan, “by all that I could hear, there were two ways of it: either ye liked David and would pay to get him back; or else ye had very good reasons for not wanting him, and would pay for us to keep him. It seems it’s not the first; well then, it’s the second; and blythe am I to ken it, for it should be a pretty penny in my pocket and the pockets of my friends.”
“I dinnae follow ye there,” said my uncle.
“No?” said Alan. “Well, see here: you dinnae want the lad back; well, what do ye want done with him, and how much will ye pay?”
My uncle made no answer, but shifted uneasily on his seat.
“Come, sir,” cried Alan. “I would have you to ken that I am a gentleman; I bear a king’s name; I am nae rider to kick my shanks at your hall door. Either give me an answer in civility, and that out of hand; or by the top of Glencoe, I will ram three feet of iron through your vitals.”
“Eh, man,” cried my uncle, scrambling to his feet, “give me a meenit! What’s like wrong with ye? I’m just a plain man and nae dancing master; and I’m tryin to be as ceevil as it’s morally possible. As for that wild talk, it’s fair disrepitable. Vitals, says you! And where would I be with my blunderbush?” he snarled.
“Powder and your auld hands are but as the snail to the swallow against the bright steel in the hands of Alan,” said the other. “Before your jottering finger could find the trigger, the hilt would dirl on your breast-bane.”
“Eh, man, whae’s denying it?” said my uncle. “Pit it as ye please, hae’t your ain way; I’ll do naething to cross ye. Just tell me what like ye’ll be wanting, and ye’ll see that we’ll can agree fine.”
“Troth, sir,” said Alan, “I ask for nothing but plain dealing. In two words: do ye want the lad killed or kept?”
“O, sirs!” cried Ebenezer. “O, sirs, me! that’s no kind of language!”
“Killed or kept!” repeated Alan.
“O, keepit, keepit!” wailed my uncle. “We’ll have nae bloodshed, if you please.”
“Well,” says Alan, “as ye please; that’ll be the dearer.”
“The dearer?” cries Ebenezer. “Would ye fyle your hands wi’ crime?”
“Hoot!” said Alan, “they’re baith crime, whatever! And the killing’s easier, and quicker, and surer. Keeping the lad’ll be a fashious34 job, a fashious, kittle business.”
“I’ll have him keepit, though,” returned my uncle. “I never had naething to do with onything morally wrong; and I’m no gaun to begin to pleasure a wild Hielandman.”
“Ye’re unco scrupulous,” sneered Alan.
“I’m a man o’ principle,” said Ebenezer, simply; “and if I have to pay for it, I’ll have to pay for it. And besides,” says he, “ye forget the lad’s my brother’s son.”
“Well, well,” said Alan, “and now about the price. It’s no very easy for me to set a name upon it; I would first have to ken some small matters. I would have to ken, for instance, what ye gave Hoseason at the first off-go?”
“Hoseason!” cries my uncle, struck aback. “What for?”
“For kidnapping David,” says Alan.
“It’s a lee, it’s a black lee!” cried my uncle. “He was never kidnapped. He leed in his throat that tauld ye that. Kidnapped? He never was!”
“That’s no fault of mine nor yet of yours,” said Alan; “nor yet of Hoseason’s, if he’s a man that can be trusted.”
“What do ye mean?” cried Ebenezer. “Did Hoseason tell ye?”
“Why, ye donnered auld runt, how else would I ken?” cried Alan. “Hoseason and me are partners; we gang shares; so ye can see for yoursel’ what good ye can do leeing. And I must plainly say ye drove a fool’s bargain when ye let a man like the sailor-man so far forward in your private matters. But that’s past praying for; and ye must lie on your bed the way ye made it. And the point in hand is just this: what did ye pay him?”
“Has he tauld ye himsel’?” asked my uncle.
“That’s my concern,” said Alan.
“Weel,” said my uncle, “I dinnae care what he said, he leed, and the solemn God’s truth is this, that I gave him twenty pound. But I’ll be perfec’ly honest with ye: forby that, he was to have the selling of the lad in Caroliny, whilk would be as muckle mair, but no from my pocket, ye see.”
“Thank you, Mr. Thomson. That will do excellently well,” said the lawyer, stepping forward; and then mighty civilly, “Good-evening, Mr. Balfour,” said he.
And, “Good-evening, Uncle Ebenezer,” said I.
And, “It’s a braw nicht, Mr. Balfour,” added Torrance.
Never a word said my uncle, neither black nor white; but just sat where he was on the top door-step and stared upon us like a man turned to stone. Alan filched away his blunderbuss; and the lawyer, taking him by the arm, plucked him up from the doorstep, led him into the kitchen, whither we all followed, and set him down in a chair beside the hearth, where the fire was out and only a rush-light burning.
There we all looked upon him for a while, exulting greatly in our success, but yet with a sort of pity for the man’s shame.
“Come, come, Mr. Ebenezer,” said the lawyer, “you must not be down-hearted, for I promise you we shall make easy terms. In the meanwhile give us the cellar key, and Torrance shall draw us a bottle of your father’s wine in honour of the event.” Then, turning to me and taking me by the hand, “Mr. David,” says he, “I wish you all joy in your good fortune, which I believe to be deserved.” And then to Alan, with a spice of drollery, “Mr. Thomson, I pay you my compliment; it was most artfully conducted; but in one point you somewhat outran my comprehension. Do I understand your name to be James? or Charles? or is it George, perhaps?”
“And why should it be any of the three, sir?” quoth Alan, drawing himself up, like one who smelt an offence.
“Only, sir, that you mentioned a king’s name,” replied Rankeillor; “and as there has never yet been a King Thomson, or his fame at least has never come my way, I judged you must refer to that you had in baptism.”
This was just the stab that Alan would feel keenest, and I am free to confess he took it very ill. Not a word would he answer, but stepped off to the far end of the kitchen, and sat down and sulked; and it was not till I stepped after him, and gave him my hand, and thanked him by title as the chief spring of my success, that he began to smile a bit, and was at last prevailed upon to join our party.
By that time we had the fire lighted, and a bottle of wine uncorked; a
good supper came out of the basket, to which Torrance and I and Alan set ourselves down; while the lawyer and my uncle passed into the next chamber to consult. They stayed there closeted about an hour; at the end of which period they had come to a good understanding, and my uncle and I set our hands to the agreement in a formal manner. By the terms of this, my uncle bound himself to satisfy Rankeillor as to his intromissions, and to pay me two clear thirds of the yearly income of Shaws.
So the beggar in the ballad had come home; and when I lay down that night on the kitchen chests, I was a man of means and had a name in the country. Alan and Torrance and Rankeillor slept and snored on their hard beds; but for me who had lain out under heaven and upon dirt and stones, so many days and nights, and often with an empty belly, and in fear of death, this good change in my case unmanned me more than any of the former evil ones; and I lay till dawn, looking at the fire on the roof and planning the future.
* * *
33 Dealings.
34 Troublesome.
CHAPTER 30
Good-bye
So far as I was concerned myself, I had come to port; but I had still Alan, to whom I was so much beholden, on my hands; and I felt besides a heavy charge in the matter of the murder and James of the Glens. On both these heads I unbosomed to Rankeillor the next morning, walking to and fro about six of the clock before the house of Shaws, and with nothing in view but the fields and woods that had been my ancestors’ and were now mine. Even as I spoke on these grave subjects, my eye would take a glad bit of a run over the prospect, and my heart jump with pride.
About my clear duty to my friend, the lawyer had no doubt. I must help him out of the county at whatever risk; but in the case of James, he was of a different mind.
“Mr. Thomson,” says he, “is one thing, Mr. Thomson’s kinsman quite another. I know little of the facts, but I gather that a great noble (whom we will call, if you like, the D. of A.35) has some concern and is even supposed to feel some animosity in the matter. The D. of A. is doubtless an excellent nobleman; but, Mr. David, timeo qui nocuere deos. If you interfere to balk his vengeance, you should remember there is one way to shut your testimony out; and that is to put you in the dock. There, you would be in the same pickle as Mr. Thomson’s kinsman. You will object that you are innocent; well, but so is he. And to be tried for your life before a Highland jury, on a Highland quarrel and with a Highland Judge upon the bench, would be a brief transition to the gallows.”
Now I had made all these reasonings before and found no very good reply to them; so I put on all the simplicity I could. “In that case, sir,” said I, “I would just have to be hanged—would I not?”
“My dear boy,” cries he, “go in God’s name, and do what you think is right. It is a poor thought that at my time of life I should be advising you to choose the safe and shameful; and I take it back with an apology. Go and do your duty; and be hanged, if you must, like a gentleman. There are worse things in the world than to be hanged.”
“Not many, sir,” said I, smiling.
“Why, yes, sir,” he cried, “very many. And it would be ten times better for your uncle (to go no farther afield) if he were dangling decently upon a gibbet.”
Thereupon he turned into the house (still in a great fervour of mind, so that I saw I had pleased him heartily) and there he wrote me two letters, making his comments on them as he wrote.
“This,” says he, “is to my bankers, the British Linen Company, placing a credit to your name. Consult Mr. Thomson, he will know of ways; and you, with this credit, can supply the means. I trust you will be a good husband of your money; but in the affair of a friend like Mr. Thomson, I would be even prodigal. Then for his kinsman, there is no better way than that you should seek the Advocate, tell him your tale, and offer testimony; whether he may take it or not, is quite another matter, and will turn on the D. of A. Now, that you may reach the Lord Advocate well recommended, I give you here a letter to a namesake of your own, the learned Mr. Balfour of Pilrig, a man whom I esteem. It will look better that you should be presented by one of your own name; and the laird of Pilrig is much looked up to in the Faculty and stands well with Lord Advocate Grant. I would not trouble him, if I were you, with any particulars; and (do you know?) I think it would be needless to refer to Mr. Thomson. Form yourself upon the laird, he is a good model; when you deal with the Advocate, be discreet; and in all these matters, may the Lord guide you, Mr. David!”
Thereupon he took his farewell, and set out with Torrance for the Ferry, while Alan and I turned our faces for the city of Edinburgh. As we went by the footpath and beside the gateposts and the unfinished lodge, we kept looking back at the house of my fathers. It stood there, bare and great and smokeless, like a place not lived in; only in one of the top windows, there was the peak of a nightcap bobbing up and down and back and forward, like the head of a rabbit from a burrow. I had little welcome when I came, and less kindness while I stayed; but at least I was watched as I went away.
Alan and I went slowly forward upon our way, having little heart either to walk or speak. The same thought was uppermost in both, that we were near the time of our parting; and remembrance of all the bygone days sate upon us sorely. We talked indeed of what should be done; and it was resolved that Alan should keep to the county, biding now here, now there, but coming once in the day to a particular place where I might be able to communicate with him, either in my own person or by messenger. In the meanwhile, I was to seek out a lawyer, who was an Appin Stewart, and a man therefore to be wholly trusted; and it should be his part to find a ship and to arrange for Alan’s safe embarkation. No sooner was this business done, than the words seemed to leave us; and though I would seek to jest with Alan under the name of Mr. Thomson, and he with me on my new clothes and my estate, you could feel very well that we were nearer tears than laughter.
We came the by-way over the hill of Corstorphine; and when we got near to the place called Rest-and-be-Thankful, and looked down on Corstorphine bogs and over to the city and the castle on the hill, we both stopped, for we both knew without a word said that we had come to where our ways parted. Here he repeated to me once again what had been agreed upon between us: the address of the lawyer, the daily hour at which Alan might be found, and the signals that were to be made by any that came seeking him. Then I gave what money I had (a guinea or two of Rankeillor’s) so that he should not starve in the meanwhile; and then we stood a space, and looked over at Edinburgh in silence.
“Well, good-bye,” said Alan, and held out his left hand.
“Good-bye,” said I, and gave the hand a little grasp, and went off down hill.
Neither one of us looked the other in the face, nor so long as he was in my view did I take one back glance at the friend I was leaving. But as I went on my way to the city, I felt so lost and lonesome, that I could have found it in my heart to sit down by the dyke, and cry and weep like any baby.
It was coming near noon when I passed in by the West Kirk and the Grassmarket into the streets of the capital. The huge height of the buildings, running up to ten and fifteen storeys, the narrow arched entries that continually vomited passengers, the wares of the merchants in their windows, the hubbub and endless stir, the foul smells and the fine clothes, and a hundred other particulars too small to mention, struck me into a kind of stupor of surprise, so that I let the crowd carry me to and fro; and yet all the time what I was thinking of was Alan at Rest-and-be-Thankful; and all the time (although you would think I would not choose but be delighted with these braws and novelties) there was a cold gnawing in my inside like a remorse for something wrong.
The hand of Providence brought me in my drifting to the very doors of the British Linen Company’s bank.
* * *
35 The Duke of Argyle.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Scottish writer Robert Louis Stevenson (1850–1894) traveled early and often, leaving behind his family business and an education in engineering and law to pursue a life of adventure. His f
irst books included An Inland Voyage, which contained tales of his travels—by canoe—from Antwerp to northern France.
Marriage took Stevenson even farther from home, as he and his wife Fanny settled in California, where he wrote short stories such as “The Treasure of Franchard” and “Markheim,” featuring themes that would appear in later novels.
Stevenson’s health declined in the 1880s, but his work flourished. He wrote Treasure Island while bedridden with a likely case of tuberculosis, and he followed up with The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Both were wildly popular when they were published in the 1880s, and they remain so today.
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