第 十二 章 · I HEAR OF THE “RED FOX”

. I HEAR OF THE “RED FOX”

Before we had done cleaning out the round-house, a breeze sprang up from

a little to the east of north. This blew off the rain and brought out

the sun.

And here I must explain; and the reader would do well to look at a map.

On the day when the fog fell and we ran down Alan’s boat, we had been

running through the Little Minch. At dawn after the battle, we lay

becalmed to the east of the Isle of Canna or between that and Isle

Eriska in the chain of the Long Island. Now to get from there to the

Linnhe Loch, the straight course was through the narrows of the Sound of

Mull. But the captain had no chart; he was afraid to trust his brig so

deep among the islands; and the wind serving well, he preferred to go by

west of Tiree and come up under the southern coast of the great Isle of

Mull.

All day the breeze held in the same point, and rather freshened than

died down; and towards afternoon, a swell began to set in from round the

outer Hebrides. Our course, to go round about the inner isles, was to

the west of south, so that at first we had this swell upon our beam, and

were much rolled about. But after nightfall, when we had turned the end

of Tiree and began to head more to the east, the sea came right astern.

Meanwhile, the early part of the day, before the swell came up, was

very pleasant; sailing, as we were, in a bright sunshine and with

many mountainous islands upon different sides. Alan and I sat in the

round-house with the doors open on each side (the wind being straight

astern), and smoked a pipe or two of the captain’s fine tobacco. It was

at this time we heard each other’s stories, which was the more important

to me, as I gained some knowledge of that wild Highland country on which

I was so soon to land. In those days, so close on the back of the great

rebellion, it was needful a man should know what he was doing when he

went upon the heather.

It was I that showed the example, telling him all my misfortune; which

he heard with great good-nature. Only, when I came to mention that good

friend of mine, Mr. Campbell the minister, Alan fired up and cried out

that he hated all that were of that name.

“Why,” said I, “he is a man you should be proud to give your hand to.”

“I know nothing I would help a Campbell to,” says he, “unless it was a

leaden bullet. I would hunt all of that name like blackcocks. If I lay

dying, I would crawl upon my knees to my chamber window for a shot at

one.”

“Why, Alan,” I cried, “what ails ye at the Campbells?”

“Well,” says he, “ye ken very well that I am an Appin Stewart, and the

Campbells have long harried and wasted those of my name; ay, and got

lands of us by treachery--but never with the sword,” he cried loudly,

and with the word brought down his fist upon the table. But I paid the

less attention to this, for I knew it was usually said by those who have

the underhand. “There’s more than that,” he continued, “and all in the

same story: lying words, lying papers, tricks fit for a peddler, and the

show of what’s legal over all, to make a man the more angry.”

“You that are so wasteful of your buttons,” said I, “I can hardly think

you would be a good judge of business.”

“Ah!” says he, falling again to smiling, “I got my wastefulness from

the same man I got the buttons from; and that was my poor father, Duncan

Stewart, grace be to him! He was the prettiest man of his kindred; and

the best swordsman in the Hielands, David, and that is the same as to

say, in all the world, I should ken, for it was him that taught me.

He was in the Black Watch, when first it was mustered; and, like other

gentlemen privates, had a gillie at his back to carry his firelock for

him on the march. Well, the King, it appears, was wishful to see Hieland

swordsmanship; and my father and three more were chosen out and sent to

London town, to let him see it at the best. So they were had into the

palace and showed the whole art of the sword for two hours at a stretch,

before King George and Queen Carline, and the Butcher Cumberland, and

many more of whom I havenae mind. And when they were through, the King

(for all he was a rank usurper) spoke them fair and gave each man three

guineas in his hand. Now, as they were going out of the palace, they

had a porter’s lodge to go by; and it came in on my father, as he was

perhaps the first private Hieland gentleman that had ever gone by that

door, it was right he should give the poor porter a proper notion of

their quality. So he gives the King’s three guineas into the man’s hand,

as if it was his common custom; the three others that came behind him

did the same; and there they were on the street, never a penny the

better for their pains. Some say it was one, that was the first to fee

the King’s porter; and some say it was another; but the truth of it is,

that it was Duncan Stewart, as I am willing to prove with either sword

or pistol. And that was the father that I had, God rest him!”

“I think he was not the man to leave you rich,” said I.

“And that’s true,” said Alan. “He left me my breeks to cover me, and

little besides. And that was how I came to enlist, which was a black

spot upon my character at the best of times, and would still be a sore

job for me if I fell among the red-coats.”

“What,” cried I, “were you in the English army?”

“That was I,” said Alan. “But I deserted to the right side at Preston

Pans--and that’s some comfort.”

I could scarcely share this view: holding desertion under arms for an

unpardonable fault in honour. But for all I was so young, I was wiser

than say my thought. “Dear, dear,” says I, “the punishment is death.”

“Ay” said he, “if they got hands on me, it would be a short shrift and

a lang tow for Alan! But I have the King of France’s commission in my

pocket, which would aye be some protection.”

“I misdoubt it much,” said I.

“I have doubts mysel’,” said Alan drily.

“And, good heaven, man,” cried I, “you that are a condemned rebel, and a

deserter, and a man of the French King’s--what tempts ye back into this

country? It’s a braving of Providence.”

“Tut!” says Alan, “I have been back every year since forty-six!”

“And what brings ye, man?” cried I.

“Well, ye see, I weary for my friends and country,” said he. “France is

a braw place, nae doubt; but I weary for the heather and the deer. And

then I have bit things that I attend to. Whiles I pick up a few lads

to serve the King of France: recruits, ye see; and that’s aye a

little money. But the heart of the matter is the business of my chief,

Ardshiel.”

“I thought they called your chief Appin,” said I.

“Ay, but Ardshiel is the captain of the clan,” said he, which scarcely

cleared my mind. “Ye see, David, he that was all his life so great a

man, and come of the blood and bearing the name of kings, is now brought

down to live in a French town like a poor and private person. He that

had four hundred swords at his whistle, I have seen, with these eyes

of mine, buying butter in the market-place, and taking it home in a

kale-leaf. This is not only a pain but a disgrace to us of his family

and clan. There are the bairns forby, the children and the hope of

Appin, that must be learned their letters and how to hold a sword, in

that far country. Now, the tenants of Appin have to pay a rent to King

George; but their hearts are staunch, they are true to their chief; and

what with love and a bit of pressure, and maybe a threat or two, the

poor folk scrape up a second rent for Ardshiel. Well, David, I’m the

hand that carries it.” And he struck the belt about his body, so that

the guineas rang.

“Do they pay both?” cried I.

“Ay, David, both,” says he.

“What! two rents?” I repeated.

“Ay, David,” said he. “I told a different tale to yon captain man; but

this is the truth of it. And it’s wonderful to me how little pressure

is needed. But that’s the handiwork of my good kinsman and my father’s

friend, James of the Glens: James Stewart, that is: Ardshiel’s

half-brother. He it is that gets the money in, and does the management.”

This was the first time I heard the name of that James Stewart, who was

afterwards so famous at the time of his hanging. But I took little heed

at the moment, for all my mind was occupied with the generosity of these

poor Highlanders.

“I call it noble,” I cried. “I’m a Whig, or little better; but I call it

noble.”

“Ay” said he, “ye’re a Whig, but ye’re a gentleman; and that’s what does

it. Now, if ye were one of the cursed race of Campbell, ye would gnash

your teeth to hear tell of it. If ye were the Red Fox...” And at that

name, his teeth shut together, and he ceased speaking. I have seen many

a grim face, but never a grimmer than Alan’s when he had named the Red

Fox.

“And who is the Red Fox?” I asked, daunted, but still curious.

“Who is he?” cried Alan. “Well, and I’ll tell you that. When the men of

the clans were broken at Culloden, and the good cause went down, and the

horses rode over the fetlocks in the best blood of the north, Ardshiel

had to flee like a poor deer upon the mountains--he and his lady and his

bairns. A sair job we had of it before we got him shipped; and while he

still lay in the heather, the English rogues, that couldnae come at his

life, were striking at his rights. They stripped him of his powers; they

stripped him of his lands; they plucked the weapons from the hands of

his clansmen, that had borne arms for thirty centuries; ay, and the very

clothes off their backs--so that it’s now a sin to wear a tartan plaid,

and a man may be cast into a gaol if he has but a kilt about his legs.

One thing they couldnae kill. That was the love the clansmen bore their

chief. These guineas are the proof of it. And now, in there steps a man,

a Campbell, red-headed Colin of Glenure----”

“Is that him you call the Red Fox?” said I.

“Will ye bring me his brush?” cries Alan, fiercely. “Ay, that’s the man.

In he steps, and gets papers from King George, to be so-called King’s

factor on the lands of Appin. And at first he sings small, and is

hail-fellow-well-met with Sheamus--that’s James of the Glens, my

chieftain’s agent. But by-and-by, that came to his ears that I have just

told you; how the poor commons of Appin, the farmers and the crofters

and the boumen, were wringing their very plaids to get a second rent,

and send it over-seas for Ardshiel and his poor bairns. What was it ye

called it, when I told ye?”

“I called it noble, Alan,” said I.

“And you little better than a common Whig!” cries Alan. “But when it

came to Colin Roy, the black Campbell blood in him ran wild. He sat

gnashing his teeth at the wine table. What! should a Stewart get a bite

of bread, and him not be able to prevent it? Ah! Red Fox, if ever I

hold you at a gun’s end, the Lord have pity upon ye!” (Alan stopped to

swallow down his anger.) “Well, David, what does he do? He declares all

the farms to let. And, thinks he, in his black heart, ‘I’ll soon get

other tenants that’ll overbid these Stewarts, and Maccolls, and Macrobs’

(for these are all names in my clan, David); ‘and then,’ thinks he,

‘Ardshiel will have to hold his bonnet on a French roadside.’”

“Well,” said I, “what followed?”

Alan laid down his pipe, which he had long since suffered to go out, and

set his two hands upon his knees.

“Ay,” said he, “ye’ll never guess that! For these same Stewarts, and

Maccolls, and Macrobs (that had two rents to pay, one to King George

by stark force, and one to Ardshiel by natural kindness) offered him a

better price than any Campbell in all broad Scotland; and far he

sent seeking them--as far as to the sides of Clyde and the cross of

Edinburgh--seeking, and fleeching, and begging them to come, where there

was a Stewart to be starved and a red-headed hound of a Campbell to be

pleasured!”

“Well, Alan,” said I, “that is a strange story, and a fine one, too. And

Whig as I may be, I am glad the man was beaten.”

“Him beaten?” echoed Alan. “It’s little ye ken of Campbells, and less

of the Red Fox. Him beaten? No: nor will be, till his blood’s on the

hillside! But if the day comes, David man, that I can find time and

leisure for a bit of hunting, there grows not enough heather in all

Scotland to hide him from my vengeance!”

“Man Alan,” said I, “ye are neither very wise nor very Christian to

blow off so many words of anger. They will do the man ye call the Fox no

harm, and yourself no good. Tell me your tale plainly out. What did he

next?”

“And that’s a good observe, David,” said Alan. “Troth and indeed,

they will do him no harm; the more’s the pity! And barring that about

Christianity (of which my opinion is quite otherwise, or I would be nae

Christian), I am much of your mind.”

“Opinion here or opinion there,” said I, “it’s a kent thing that

Christianity forbids revenge.”

“Ay” said he, “it’s well seen it was a Campbell taught ye! It would be

a convenient world for them and their sort, if there was no such a thing

as a lad and a gun behind a heather bush! But that’s nothing to the

point. This is what he did.”

“Ay” said I, “come to that.”

“Well, David,” said he, “since he couldnae be rid of the loyal commons

by fair means, he swore he would be rid of them by foul. Ardshiel was to

starve: that was the thing he aimed at. And since them that fed him in

his exile wouldnae be bought out--right or wrong, he would drive them

out. Therefore he sent for lawyers, and papers, and red-coats to stand

at his back. And the kindly folk of that country must all pack and

tramp, every father’s son out of his father’s house, and out of the

place where he was bred and fed, and played when he was a callant. And

who are to succeed them? Bare-leggit beggars! King George is to whistle

for his rents; he maun dow with less; he can spread his butter thinner:

what cares Red Colin? If he can hurt Ardshiel, he has his wish; if he

can pluck the meat from my chieftain’s table, and the bit toys out of

his children’s hands, he will gang hame singing to Glenure!”

“Let me have a word,” said I. “Be sure, if they take less rents, be

sure Government has a finger in the pie. It’s not this Campbell’s fault,

man--it’s his orders. And if ye killed this Colin to-morrow, what better

would ye be? There would be another factor in his shoes, as fast as spur

can drive.”

“Ye’re a good lad in a fight,” said Alan; “but, man! ye have Whig blood

in ye!”

He spoke kindly enough, but there was so much anger under his contempt

that I thought it was wise to change the conversation. I expressed my

wonder how, with the Highlands covered with troops, and guarded like

a city in a siege, a man in his situation could come and go without

arrest.

“It’s easier than ye would think,” said Alan. “A bare hillside (ye see)

is like all one road; if there’s a sentry at one place, ye just go by

another. And then the heather’s a great help. And everywhere there are

friends’ houses and friends’ byres and haystacks. And besides, when folk

talk of a country covered with troops, it’s but a kind of a byword at

the best. A soldier covers nae mair of it than his boot-soles. I have

fished a water with a sentry on the other side of the brae, and killed a

fine trout; and I have sat in a heather bush within six feet of another,

and learned a real bonny tune from his whistling. This was it,” said he,

and whistled me the air.

“And then, besides,” he continued, “it’s no sae bad now as it was in

forty-six. The Hielands are what they call pacified. Small wonder, with

never a gun or a sword left from Cantyre to Cape Wrath, but what tenty[17]

folk have hidden in their thatch! But what I would like to ken, David,

is just how long? Not long, ye would think, with men like Ardshiel in

exile and men like the Red Fox sitting birling the wine and oppressing

the poor at home. But it’s a kittle thing to decide what folk’ll bear,

and what they will not. Or why would Red Colin be riding his horse all

over my poor country of Appin, and never a pretty lad to put a bullet in

him?”

[17] Careful.

And with this Alan fell into a muse, and for a long time sate very sad

and silent.

I will add the rest of what I have to say about my friend, that he

was skilled in all kinds of music, but principally pipe-music; was a

well-considered poet in his own tongue; had read several books both in

French and English; was a dead shot, a good angler, and an excellent

fencer with the small sword as well as with his own particular weapon.

For his faults, they were on his face, and I now knew them all. But

the worst of them, his childish propensity to take offence and to pick

quarrels, he greatly laid aside in my case, out of regard for the battle

of the round-house. But whether it was because I had done well myself,

or because I had been a witness of his own much greater prowess, is more

than I can tell. For though he had a great taste for courage in other

men, yet he admired it most in Alan Breck.