‘Dooms hard!’ cries he. ‘And that’s what makes me think so much of ye—you that’s no Stewart—to stick your head so deep in Stewart business. And for what, I do not know: unless it was the sense of duty.’
‘I hope it will be that,’ said I.
‘Well,’ says he, ‘it’s a grand quality. But here is my clerk back; and, by your leave, we’ll pick a bit of dinner, all the three of us. When that’s done, I’ll give you the direction of a very decent man, that’ll be very fain to have you for a lodger. And I’ll fill your pockets to ye, forbye, out of your ain bag. For this business’ll not be near as dear as ye suppose—not even the ship part of it.’
I made him a sign that his clerk was within hearing.
‘Hoot, ye neednae mind for Robbie,’ cries he. ‘A Stewart, too, puir deevil! and has smuggled out more French recruits and trafficking Papists than what he has hairs upon his face. Why it’s Robin that manages that branch of my affairs. Who will we have now, Rob, for across the water?’
‘There’ll be Andie Scougal, in the Thristle,’ replied Rob. ‘I saw Hoseason the other day, but it seems he’s wanting the ship. Then there’ll be Tam Stobo; but I’m none so sure of Tam. I’ve seen him colloguing with some gey queer acquaintances; and if was anybody important, I would give Tam the go-by.’
‘The head’s worth two hundred pounds, Robin,’ said Stewart.
‘Gosh, that’ll no be Alan Breck?’ cried the clerk.
‘Just Alan,’ said his master.
‘Weary winds! that’s sayrious,’ cried Robin. ‘I’ll try Andie, then; Andie’ll be the best.’
‘It seems it’s quite a big business,’ I observed.
‘Mr Balfour, there’s no end to it,’ said Stewart.
‘There was a name your clerk mentioned,’ I went on: ‘Hoseason. That must be my man, I think: Hoseason, of the brig Covenant. Would you set your trust on him?’
‘He didnae behave very well to you and Alan,’ said Mr Stewart; ‘but my mind of the man in general is rather otherwise. If he had taken Alan on board his ship on an agreement, it’s my notion he would have proved a just dealer. How say ye, Rob?’
‘No more honest skipper in the trade than Eli,’ said the clerk. ‘I would lippen to Eli’s word—ay, if it was the Chevalier, or Appin himsel’,’ he added.
‘And it was him that brought the doctor, wasnae’t?’ asked the master.
‘He was the very man,’ said the clerk.
‘And I think he took the doctor back?’ says Stewart.
‘Ay, with his sporran full!’ cried Robin. ‘And Eli kent of that!’*
‘Well it seems it’s hard to ken folk rightly,’ said I.
‘That was just what I forgot when ye came in, Mr Balfour!’ says the Writer.
* This must have reference to Dr Cameron on his first visit d.b.
THE NEXT MORNING, I was no sooner awake in my new lodging than I was up and into my new clothes; and no sooner the breakfast swallowed, than I was forth on my adventures. Alan, I could hope, was fended for; James was like to be a more difficult affair, and I could not but think that enterprise might cost me dear, even as everybody said to whom I had opened my opinion. It seemed I was come to the top of the mountain only to cast myself down; that I had clambered up, through so many and hard trials, to be rich, to be recognised, to wear city clothes and a sword to my side, all to commit mere suicide at the last end of it, and the worst kind of suicide besides, which is to get hanged at the King’s charges.
What was I doing it for? I asked, as I went down the High Street and out north by Leith Wynd. First I said it was to save James Stewart; and no doubt the memory of his distress, and his wife’s cries, and a word or so I had let drop on that occasion worked upon me strongly. At the same time I reflected that it was (or ought to be) the most indifferent matter to my father’s son, whether James died in his bed or from a scaffold. He was Alan’s cousin, to be sure; but so far as regarded Alan, the best thing would be to lie low, and let the King, and his Grace of Argyll, and the corbie crows, pick the bones of his kinsman their own way. Nor could I forget that, while we were all in the pot together, James had shown no such particular anxiety whether for Alan or me.
Next it came upon me I was acting for the sake of justice: and I thought that a fine word, and reasoned it out that (since we dwelt in polities, at some discomfort to each one of us) the main thing of all must still be justice, and the death of any innocent man a wound upon the whole community. Next, again, it was the Accuser of the Brethren that gave me a turn of his argument; bade me think shame for pretending myself concerned in these high matters, and told me I was but a prating vain child, who had spoken big words to Rankeillor and to Stewart, and held myself bound upon my vanity to make good that boastfulness. Nay, and he hit me with the other end of the stick; for he accused me of a kind of artful cowardice, going about at the expense of a little risk to purchase greater safety. No doubt, until I had declared and cleared myself, I might any day encounter Mungo Campbell or the sheriff’s officer, and be recognised, and dragged into the Appin murder by the heels; and, no doubt, in case I could manage my declaration with success, I should breathe more free for ever after. But when I looked this argument full in the face I could see nothing to be ashamed of. As for the rest, ‘Here are the two roads,’ I thought, ‘and both go to the same place. It’s unjust that James should hang if I can save him; and it would be ridiculous in me to have talked so much and then do nothing. It’s lucky for James of the Glens that I have boasted beforehand; and none so unlucky for myself, because now I’m committed to do right. I have the name of a gentleman and the means of one; it would be a poor discovery that I was wanting in the essence.’ And then I thought this was a Pagan spirit, and said a prayer in to myself, asking for what courage I might lack, and that I might go straight to my duty like a soldier to battle, and come off again scatheless as so many do.
This train of reasoning brought me to a more resolved complexion; though it was far from closing up my sense of the dangers that surrounded me, nor of how very apt I was (if I went on) to stumble on the ladder of the gallows. It was a plain, fair morning, but the wind in the east. The little chill of it sang in my blood, and gave me a feeling of the autumn, and the dead leaves, and dead folks’ bodies in their graves. It seemed the devil was in it, if I was to die in that tide of my fortunes and for other folks’ affairs. On the top of the Calton Hill, though it was not the customary time of year for that diversion, some children were crying and running with their kites. These toys appeared very plain against the sky; I remarked a great one soar on the wind to a high altitude and then plump among the whins; and I thought to myself at sight of it, ‘There goes Davie.’
My way lay over Mouter’s Hill, and through an end of a clachan on the braeside among fields. There was a whirr of looms in it went from house to house; bees hummed in the gardens; the neighbours that I saw at the doorsteps talked in a strange tongue; and I found out later that this was Picardy, a village where the French weavers wrought for the Linen Company. Here I got a fresh direction for Pilrig, my destination; and a little beyond, on the wayside, came by a gibbet and two men hanged in chains. They were dipped in tar, as the manner is; the wind span them, the chains clattered, and the birds hung about the uncanny jumping-jacks and cried. The sight coming on me suddenly, like an illustration of my fears, I could scarce be done with examining it and drinking