The Project Gutenberg eBook ofMuckle JohnThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Muckle JohnAuthor: Frederick WatsonIllustrator: Allan StewartRelease date: October 21, 2022 [eBook #69196]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United Kingdom: Adam and Charles Black, 1914Credits: Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MUCKLE JOHN ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Muckle JohnAuthor: Frederick WatsonIllustrator: Allan StewartRelease date: October 21, 2022 [eBook #69196]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United Kingdom: Adam and Charles Black, 1914Credits: Al Haines
Title: Muckle John
Author: Frederick WatsonIllustrator: Allan Stewart
Author: Frederick Watson
Illustrator: Allan Stewart
Release date: October 21, 2022 [eBook #69196]
Language: English
Original publication: United Kingdom: Adam and Charles Black, 1914
Credits: Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MUCKLE JOHN ***
ALL ABOUT ROB WERE HOARSE CRIES, GROANS, EDDYING SMOKE, AND THE ROAR AND CLATTER OF ARMS.ALL ABOUT ROB WERE HOARSE CRIES, GROANS, EDDYING SMOKE,AND THE ROAR AND CLATTER OF ARMS.
BY
FREDERICK WATSON
AUTHOR OF "SHALLOWS"
CONTAINING EIGHT FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONSIN COLOUR BY ALLAN STEWART
LONDONADAM AND CHARLES BLACKSOHO SQUARE
Published September 1914
TOMRS. STEPHEN WILLIAMSONMY FATHER'S FRIENDAND MINE
CONTENTS
CHAP.
FOREWORDI.HOW PRINCE CHARLIE CAME TO INVERNESSII.THE COMING OF MUCKLE JOHNIII.THE END OF THE JACOBITE CAUSEIV.FRENCH GOLDV.LOCH ARKAIGVI.THE WATCHERS BY NIGHTVII.BURIED TREASUREVIII.FLIGHTIX.THE TURN OF THE SCALESX.THE LAST FLICKERXI.A NARROW ESCAPEXII.IN THE HANDS OF THE DUKEXIII.MISS MACPHERSON COMES TO FORT AUGUSTUSXIV.MUCKLE JOHN SHOWS HIS HANDXV."A MUIR-FOWL SNARED"XVI.THE CAVE IN GLENMORISTONXVII.THE HOLDING OF THE PASSXVIII.THE WHISTLE OF THE BANSHEEXIX.THE DANCE OF THE MACKENZIESXX.AN UNWILLING ACCOMPLICEXXI.THE CAPTURE OF LORD LOVATXXII.MISS MACPHERSON AND THE DUKEXXIII.THE HOUSE OF THE FOUR MENXXIV.THE END OF A TALE
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
IN COLOUR
All about Rob were hoarse cries, groans, eddying smoke, and the roar and clatter of arms(seep. 43) Frontispiece
"Madam," said he, "I crave your pardon for this seeming incivility"
"I am the Prince," said the man upon the horse
He peered through the heather upon the beach
The holding of the pass
He was in full highland dress, with a claymore at his side
He watched one of the men unsheath his dirk and make a gesture significant enough
With a great rattle of chains the gibbet's burden dropped with a clatter
FOREWORD
All the world knows the tale of the Rising of 1745. It is a story that each generation cherishes with undiminished affection. Some have called it the last burst of chivalry in modern history, and doubtless for that reason when other more vital aspects are forgotten, the campaign of Prince Charlie will sustain its fascination and its glamour.
In an age peculiarly commonplace and sordid, it carried the spirit of romance well-nigh to the throne itself; in a period almost destitute of loyalty and patriotism it glorified the reckless gallantry and self-sacrifice of devotion.
That Charles Edward Stuart could land with only seven followers and carry all before him into the very heart of England is wonderful enough. But that in the days of his misfortune and flight no one was found to claim the reward for his life is finer still. That poor, unarmed, uneducated men were ready to die in hundreds is a testimony not easily forgotten.
Of those great days when the Jacobite army marched south much has been written, and the facts are familiar to all. But of those grey days following Culloden Moor less is known, and in the last fluttering of the Jacobite Cause there is much that must necessarily baffle and perplex the casual reader.
The Highlands were to a large extent divided in opinion. There were Jacobite clans, and Hanoverian clans, while between the two were men like Major Fraser of our story, anxious to keep clear of both. There were devoted chiefs like Lochiel, scheming chiefs like Lovat, chiefs who wavered and trifled like Macleod, or were downright traitors like Glengarry and Barisdale, and there were the tragi-comedians like poor Murray of Broughton, who was more hated than he deserved.
Finally there were, like poppies in the grain, the adventurers, men with nothing to lose and something to gain (such as Muckle John himself), serving no chief, nor clan, marauders more Jacobite than Hanoverian, like birds of prey hovering for the kill. It is of this side of the '45 that I have principally treated.
Clan jealousies again must not be forgotten, and the universal hatred of the Campbells played, as always, its miserable part. Those who condemn Cumberland and his troops must not forget that in the persecution after Culloden the hunting down of the fugitives was ardently pursued by the Highland militia and the men from Argyllshire.
The story of a campaign is but a lightning flash in the history of a nation. Long after, the thunder rolls into silence. The Rebellion of the '45 was only the fuse that destroyed at a blow the clan system of centuries. From Culloden onwards the transit of the old into the new was swift and tragic in its coming.
FREDERICK WATSON
MUCKLE JOHN
It is often your stupidest boy who is most likeable in a helpless sort of way. Not that Rob Fraser was a nincompoop, but there was a confiding innocency in his shadowless blue eyes that only a rascal could have turned to his own advantage.
Rob was not accounted promising at school, and during the study of such subjects as Latin and Greek his mind appeared to be focussed upon the next county, nor was he regarded as reliable at games, for his movements were in tune with his thoughts, which were more often on the trout in the pool than on the ball in his hand.
It was this abstraction that divided him from the other boys of his age, not because he was unpopular, not because he lacked pluck, but just because he was silent for days at a time, and made no confidences. It was a state of mind that drove his aunt, good woman, to a kind of arctic fury. For years she strove to beat it out of him, but it served no purpose except to send him upon the hills for days together.
There comes a time when you can't beat a boy larger than yourself. Not that Rob would have complained or refused to submit. He was indifferent to such things. He had plenty of spirit of a dogged and inflammatory character, but it did not lie that way. If it consoled his aunt to beat him, then let her do so by all means. For all he knew it might be the time-honoured custom of maiden aunts.
Miss Macpherson was, above all, a practical woman, and it was Rob's dreamy obliviousness to facts that fretted her. To sit watching muirfowl for hours together was more than any sensible body could tolerate. And that was Rob all over. He knew where the two-pound trout lay in the burn up in the hills. He could bring a curlew from the next glen in a perfect frenzy of agitation to learn what was the matter. He would spend nights together watching fox cubs playing under the moon. But of school and its tasks he had no tolerance.
He was lying on the bank of a stream that spring day when it all came about. He did not hear the footsteps nor did he see the shadow on the water, but of a sudden there stood a very large and pleasant gentleman beside him, dressed in riding clothes, and with a handsome claymore at his side.
"Cuddling?" said he very affably. "I mind the day when I could lay the bonnie ones in rows upon the bank."
Rob stared at him with his ingenuous eyes.
"It is fine to be young," went on the strange gentleman, "but there were no days like the old days."
"Why do you say that?" asked Rob.
The stranger suppressed a smile at his eager curiosity.
"They have said that," he replied, "since Robert the Bruce heard it from his grandfather."
"But were the old days so fine?"
"Fine enough," he replied absently; "fine enough and yet none sae fine either—there is a bit tune I'm minded of..." and he took a curious little instrument out of his pocket made of reed, shaped like a piccolo.
Then sitting upon a rock he played a tender little air with one eye glued to Rob to see how he took it, and his head cocked very drolly upon the side.
"There's the 'Brogues of Fortune' for ye," he said.
"Is it a very old tune?" asked Rob, greatly taken with the gentleman.
"As old as the hills, laddie, and that's past counting—as old as the burn and the shadows on the brae, for it's part and parcel of them all, just strung together by mysel'."
"You made it?"
"Hech! there's nothing to skirl about. I make them all day. I canna eat my dinner but my feet are dirling to a tune that has no name and must have the go-by until I have a spare moment. Make them indeed!"
"What else do you do?" asked Rob, in his innocent blunt way.
The stranger laughed.
"I can hear the owl passing over the brae in the night, I can see the stag hunkered amongst the crags, I can catch the otter at his play."
"Can you call the weasel from his hole?" asked Rob.
"Maybe I can," replied the other, "but try you first."
At that, getting rather red in the face, Rob uttered a thin squeal such as a wounded rabbit gives, like the squeal of a rat for shrillness. Again and again he made it, but nothing moved in the broken place under the bank.
"None so bad," said the stranger, and distending his lips he sent forth such a screech that it froze Rob's blood. In it was the terror of the chase—the fear of what was following, and the drawing of blood.
And before their eyes, not four feet away, at the very first note the lithe form of a weasel leapt quivering upon the heather.
"It takes a deal of practice," said the stranger gentleman for fear he might seem overproud.
But Rob was utterly crushed.
Back dived the weasel for his lair, and lying down, the stranger told Rob of the ways of wild things until it was dusk. Presently without so much as a good-day but only a nod he buttoned his coat and crossing the burn set off up the hill, and Rob saw him no more, at least not for two full years and over, not indeed until the Jacobites came to Inverness in the year '46.
It was about nine of the clock on the morning of February the 18th, 1746, that two horsemen rode into the town of Inverness.
Now there might seem nothing strange in that, but rather in the manner of their coming, which was at a headlong gallop. Rob Fraser, hurrying to the Grammar School, had scarce time to leap aside as they careered up Church Street, their beasts in a lather with sweat. Rob gave them one quick glance as they thundered by, noting that one had lost his hat, and the other his stirrup-irons; that both horses were fresh, grass fed beasts new from the fields, and then, on swift, light feet he sped in pursuit.
The Grammar School saw little of Rob when promise of news was going. For it must be told that in the year 1746 Inverness was in a rare tumult, and none knew just how the future lay.
In August of the preceding year Prince Charles Edward Stuart had landed in Scotland, had won the clans to his banner, had defeated the Government forces at Prestonpans, and had marched into England. Receiving no support in the south, he returned to the north with his gallant little army. Then came the second victory at Falkirk, and the retreat towards Inverness with the Duke of Cumberland on their trail.
It was at such a time that two horsemen galloping recklessly through the streets of Inverness were bound to create a commotion. None could say what would befall within the next few weeks. Inverness was Jacobite by instinct; but there was no pleasant flavour about the word "rebel." In truth, the good people of the town were at their wits' end to know which way to cry.
But not so Rob Fraser. Despite the opinions of his father, despite the sour words of Ephraim Macaulay, the schoolmaster, and the dour face of the minister—Rob Fraser was a Jacobite beyond recall.
For a boy of sixteen he was slightly built, but lithe and wiry as a hill-fox. His hair was longer than is customary to-day, and covered by a broad blue bonnet. His features were regular and clean-cut, the eyes dark and sombre, his cheeks and neck tanned by wind and wild weather. In his rough jacket and faded kilt, with his torn and patched stockings and his soaking brogues, he made a queer enough spectacle—not one would say the ideal picture of a hero of romance. He wore no sporran, such luxuries were not for him, and his kilt was but a roll of tartan belted about his middle, but he carried himself with all the dignity of his race. He was a schoolboy, but out of school he was a Fraser, and were the Frasers not in the field with the Master of Lovat? Those were days when schoolboys had small time for lessons. Only the night before Lauchlain Macintosh had eluded the sentinels and given warning of the plan to capture Prince Charlie at Moy Hall. There was no speaking to Lauchlain at the Grammar School for months after. Indeed, things were too critical for sums and tags of grammar. Already the Prince was threatening Inverness. At any moment there might be a battle at the very gates of the town, and who could say what might happen then?
Meanwhile the two horsemen had pulled up their steaming beasts in the market place, and the one who had lost his hat raised himself in his stirrups and shouted for silence. Rob, worming his way through the people, arrived in time to hear his opening words.
"We have ridden hot-foot," the man cried, speaking in Gaelic, "for the Pretender's army is even now marching on your town."
At that there was a sudden clamour of voices, some cheering, and not a little hooting, for the name "Pretender" was not pleasant in Jacobite ears.
But Inverness was in Hanoverian hands, and so the noise died away, and all eyes were turned again upon the man on the horse. He was a great, red-faced fellow, very pompous and self sufficient, and had his hair not looked so laughable through the loss of his hat, might have impressed his auditors enormously.
The news he had brought sent a strange stir through the town. People began to talk in little clusters in the roadway, taverns quickly filled with gossipers, shutters began to rattle together, and anxious faces peered round the corners of windows.
Suddenly down the street sounded the tramp of feet, and a score of excited eyes were turned in the hope of seeing the Highland army march into the town. But no—it was the Hanoverian garrison some two thousand strong, commanded by Lord Loudon, about to evacuate. At that the confusion grew more intense, and ardent Jacobites could scarce refrain from donning the white cockade, while less ardent Hanoverians did not know whether to cheer or take to flight, and honest tradesfolk wore long faces thinking of their goods, for who could protect them against wild, Highland caterans, hungry from long marching?
Rob slipped from group to group, listening to a word here and there, feeling a bitter contempt in his heart for these people of streets and shops.
The Hanoverian soldiers had passed out of Inverness by midday, and crossing the Moray Firth retired into Ross-shire, and still the clatter of voices went on, and here and there a group of men were walking the streets with claymores at their sides, ready for the arrival of the Prince. At last Rob Fraser, grown weary of idling, turned in the direction of the school, and stealing inside the doorway was astonished to find it very quiet and empty, and with no sign of boy or master.
Of that master, whose name was the strange one of Ephraim Macaulay, something must be said.
He had arrived in Inverness three months earlier, on the introduction of the Lord President Forbes, and his predecessor had been asked to retire. The whole business was very mysterious. Some said the old schoolmaster (who was a whole-hearted Jacobite) would return, and others that he was in disgrace with the Government, and counted as a conspirator for the Stuarts. At any rate, Mr. Macaulay appeared, and from the moment he had entered the place Rob had hated him with all his heart.
Mr. Macaulay was an exceedingly tall, thin man, very straight and smileless, with a long, hatchet face. He was decently dressed in black clothes, and wore silver buckles on his shoes, but there was something strange in his manner, and in his secrecy, and there had been rumours that he saw overmuch of Lord Loudon. In his aspect there was a strong resemblance to a hawk, through his habit of staring unblinkingly into space. For minutes together he would stand thus, and then of a sudden he would start and stare keenly about him with his sombre black eyes, and awaken, as it were, to his duties, which he seemed to find utterly irksome and dejecting.
Rob went on tiptoe into the room where he was in the habit of listening (somewhat absently) to the words of Ephraim Macaulay, and crossing the floor, peered into the shadowy passage which led to the schoolmaster's study.
The door was ajar, and from the room beyond came the sound of voices, a low grumble in deep undertones, as though two men were in close conversation—and very full of it. He heard a chair fall as though a man had sprung to his feet, and while he hesitated Mr. Macaulay cried "Muckle John" in a tone of surprise and agitation. "In Inverness," replied another voice strange to Rob.
Rob turned to steal away, but even as he did so the murmur of voices ceased, and before he could make off, the study door was flung back, and the long arm of the schoolmaster shot out and clutched his shoulder. It was so quickly done that he could not even duck for safety, and before he could shake himself free, the master's companion had cut off his retreat and gripped his arms. He had been caught eavesdropping.
Mr. Macaulay glanced at Rob with unmistakable malice, then, springing to his feet, he laid hands upon his cane.
"What have ye heard?" he asked sharply, but with anxiety written all over his face.
"Nothing," said Rob stoutly, "I did not know there was any one there."
"Come, Rob," said the master speaking with a strong lowland accent, "I'll leather ye for eavesdropping if for nothing else," and he began slowly approaching, his fingers twitching at his sides, moistening his lips with the tip of his tongue.
"Are ye ready, Rob?" he said, passing round the table, his head thrust forward, and a grim smile upon his face.
The boy took a step backward, so that a stool lay between them, and flung a glance about him for a way of escape. To his back lay the fireplace, and to his right the open window, but high up and so small that only a cat could have reached it and passed through.
"You've learned your new trade quickly," said the stranger with a chuckle. It struck Rob, desperate though he was, as an odd thing to say.
Meanwhile the schoolmaster had begun to slowly unbutton his coat, and to turn back his shirtsleeves. His companion had seated himself near the door—to leave ample space for what was to come. The seconds were flying, and still Rob stood, his eyes darting hither and thither, until suddenly they rested upon the wall above the fireplace. Now an ancestor of the former master had been a man of some prowess, and it was his claymore which hung over the mantel-shelf, and so fascinated Rob's eyes. The basket hilt hung down to within three feet of his arm. Could he but reach that!
Slowly Mr. Macaulay folded his coat and laid it down. He relished this prolonging of agony. It was never his way to have done with a thing. He even waved the cane a little, the better to find its balance. And then with a swift spring Rob had leaped upon the stool and gripped the sword upon the wall.
Uttering a cry of rage, the schoolmaster sent his cane whistling downwards, but it fell short, and with a great wrench, Rob ripped the claymore free, and sent it whirling in a circle about him.
And at that moment, far away, rising and falling, the flaunting skirl of the bagpipes came floating in through the open window. For a moment they all stood like people in a tableau.
"The Pretender!" gasped the stranger, springing up.
The schoolmaster let the cane slide from his fingers upon the floor.
"Humph!" said he, eyeing Rob, "it's like we'll postpone your beating, my lad." He gloomed a little with a heavy frown upon his face, then slowly unlocking the door, he stood aside for him to pass. But when he saw Rob still retained the sword he hesitated and laid a hand upon the boy's arm.
"What's the meaning o' this?" he asked.
"It means," returned Rob, with head erect, "that I'm no pupil of yours, Mr. Macaulay—but a soldier, should the Prince have me."
"Oh, he'll have ye right enough," sneered the master; "he's nane sae many, and rope is cheap. Good-bye, my bonny recruit. We'll meet again belike."
Taking no notice of his words, Rob hurried to the doorway and out upon the road.
The clangour of the bagpipes was filling the narrow streets and the cheers of the townspeople rose and fell as the Prince's troops marched past.
Suddenly the volume of sound grew deafening, and hats were flung into the air on every side. For a moment he caught a glimpse of a young man riding upon a bay horse who smiled and nodded his head, holding his bonnet in his hand.
And in that swift vision Rob knew him for Prince Charlie, for whom he was prepared to risk his life.
The muffled tramp of feet went beating past along the road. That such an army should have caused such utter panic to the English throne and sent London into a condition of wild terror, was amazing, and must ever remain so. Ill clad, poorly armed, ragged, gaunt, undisciplined, it presented a spectacle more like an assemblage of starved vagrants than conquering soldiery.
Many were quite old men, many were stunted, sickly creatures, coughing terribly as they limped along. Boys, many without shoes or stockings, some not more than sixteen, made up a goodly part of that desperate force. Many of those who owned swords had them tied about their waists with ropes of straw. Perhaps a third of the entire force were capably equipped with targe, claymore and dirk, while a number had firelocks slung across their backs.
They may have been dusty, ragged, footsore, but to Rob they were heroes of romance. He looked beyond their haggard faces and their bleeding feet and shabby clothes. They were a veteran army as yet unbeaten. They carried themselves with the confidence of victory, accepting the cheers of Inverness with the air of men receiving their due.
Through a sort of mist Rob saw the tartans swinging, looked into unknown bearded faces, caught the glint of sunlight upon the cold whiteness of steel. The crowd about him began to thin; the last of the troops had passed. Already the road was a swaying, excited tumult of people.
Now at the back of Rob there stood a tavern owned by Major Fraser of Castleleathers, a former friend of Lord Lovat, but fallen into adversity. He was a great rubicund man some sixty-six years of age, and with no particular interest in either Jacobite or Whig. Rob knew him well. Many a happy evening had he spent listening to his stories of the great days of long ago.
Major Fraser thought things had come to a pretty pass when English troops were hounding good folk about the country side. Rob heard him say so from the tavern door. He was standing on the top step staring with half-closed eyes after the disappearing Highlanders. Above his broad red forehead, his white hair was fluttering in the quirky February wind.
"That you, Rob," he cried, "come your ways in lad," and he shivered and stamped within, Rob at his heels.
Inside the taproom there was a solitary occupant. He had evidently never stirred for the tumult outside, for his legs were upon the mantel-shelf, and his head was sunk upon his chest. All Rob could see was a very broad back and a great red neck. He took him to be an exceedingly powerful individual, and one more used to the saddle or the hills than taverns.
"Have they passed?" growled the man at the fire, in a deep contemptuous voice.
"They have," replied Castleleathers, shutting the door, "and Frasers amongst them."
"Like enough, and the Master but a boy, James, fresh from college. His father has muckle to answer for."
"I ken fine, but who knows how this will end? I'd no break my heart if old Sim had his neck thrawn...."
The man at the fire brought down his feet with a bang and swerved about on his chair. To Rob there was something strangely familiar about him.
"Leave your bad debts to me," he said, "I have a bone to pick with Lovat, and..." then seeing Rob, his eyes narrowed and he fell into a sudden silence.
"Whist!" said Castleleathers, "it's only Rob."
But the other said nothing further, only frowning at them both, and then of a sudden he uttered a low whistle, staring over their shoulders.
Now the window was some four feet above the ground—one single pane—and peering through it was Ephraim Macaulay, the school-master. For a single instant Rob saw him, then with a bound the stranger was at the door. He stood gazing up and down the street for a moment, then returned.
"James," he said, "I knew I was right, and when I see yon face I scent trouble brewing just as surely as when the corbies come sailing over the brae."
"It's the schoolmaster," said Rob.
But neither heeded him, and without a word the Major took him by the shoulders and pushed him out into the street, securely locking the door behind him. With the strangeness of it all fresh upon him Rob clutched his claymore and began to make his way homewards. He wondered where he had seen the great man in Fraser's tavern before, or whether he had dreamed of him. The memory of him though baffling, was curiously vivid in its way.
Rob lodged with his aunt, his mother's sister, and was not ashamed to admit that he had a wholesome terror for Miss Margaret Macpherson. What would she say to his plans? What, indeed?
Miss Macpherson was very tall and exceedingly gaunt. Her countenance was as bleak as a wind-swept hillside, and there was a stony glare in her grey eyes which seemed to turn the very atmosphere to frost. Her figure was all points and angles—jutting out where her shoulders rose towards her neck, and seeming to extend indefinitely into her arms. Rob knew those long, sinewy arms with their thin, gnarled hands ever ready to swoop. Miss Macpherson's customary attitude was like that of a great bird of prey, mightily beaked and clawed, pouncing swiftly, and rising again to sit and watch upon a crag.
She was sitting before the fire as he entered, and when she saw the sword in his hand there came over her grim countenance a quick change—a swift tightening, as though she had received a shock but would not own to it.
"Aunt Margaret," said Rob, with a rush to get it over, "I'm marching with Prince Charlie's men to-morrow."
She made as though to rise, then sat where she was, only her hands trembled as she held them to the fire.
"So schooling's over," she said, quietly, "and now we're off to the wars, are we? A fine spectacle that will be for your father's son. It's the gallows now, is it, along with a rag-tag and a bonny Prince? Ye'll want a polish to this sword, I'm thinking, and some bannocks for your travels. Oh, I'll cook ye bannocks, my mannie—fine, hot bannocks."
She watched him narrowly, all the time, wishing to frighten him, and finding that he remained unshaken she shrugged her shoulders and set about laying the table, her long, thin arms clutching the dishes. Rob noted with dejected eyes, that she was setting the things for one.
"How old are ye?" she asked at last, her back still turned.
"Sixteen past," he answered, slowly.
"Aye," said she, "I suppose ye are."
She stared at him then with a queer look in her face—as though she would have beaten him had she been able. Then, placing another platter upon the table, she jerked her head at him to sit beside her.
"Rob," she said, after a long silence, "to me you have always been undergrown for your years. It seems but yesterday since ye came."
"It was eight years ago," he answered, still upon his guard.
"So long?" said she, and took up her knife, but eating nothing.
The meal proceeded in utter silence. Rob would have given a world to be away. What was in his aunt's mind he did not know, he could not guess. Her face expressed nothing, only her eyes stared at him unblinkingly, like the unfathomable eyes of an eagle.
"Rob," said she, at last, "when do you get your marching orders?"
"To-morrow, Aunt Margaret," he replied. "You must not be grieved at my going; I cannot bide here when my people are out. Of course, we may not leave Inverness for a while."
"Yon old fox, Lovat, is safe at home," she retorted. "When the chief bides it is not good for the clansmen to stir."
"But the Master is out," he hastened to add, referring to Lord Lovat's son, who was in command of the clan Fraser.
"It is the sly pussie sits on the top of the wall. Well, well," she concluded, "what's done's done, and so off to bed wi' ye, and get your sleep."
Rob, concealing his delight at his aunt's apparent complacency, rose to his feet, and wishing her a very good night—for which she thanked him grimly—betook himself to the adjoining room, and flinging himself down on his bed was soon fast asleep.
It was pitch dark when he awoke some two hours later, and he awakened so suddenly that he started up in bed listening intently. Surely somebody had spoken in the room! But there was no sound, only the crying of the night wind in the street outside. And then there fell on his ears a muffled murmur of voices in the kitchen, and a faint noise like the falling of shoes upon the stone floor. Stealing across the room, he knelt before the door and listened with a sudden dread in his heart.
For a moment he heard nothing at all, then to his horror he caught the whisper of a voice he knew too well—the shrill, nasal accents of Mr. Macaulay, the schoolmaster, in close conversation with his aunt.
So near were they both to the door that he could hear every word they said.
"I tell you I saw him," said the schoolmaster.
"But what of that? Every one knows that old Castleleathers is safe as Mr. Hossack himself."
"Who cares two pins for Castleleathers—it is the other I want..."
"Ye mean the big man..."
"That I do. If I can lay hands on him I'll fling a net over more rebels than if we had Lovat himsel'."
"But Rob knows nothing of this. He's only a laddie gone daft over soldiers. He'll have forgotten all about it in the morning."
"Not he—but if he can tell me where one whose name I'll no breathe to you nor to any one else, can be found, I'll see his neck is safe."
"Then on wi' ye," whispered Miss Macpherson, "for I doubt we must save Rob if we can. Ye hae the rope."
"That have I," returned the master.
Then followed complete silence, and a second later the faint creaking of the door behind which he crouched. Rob sprang to his feet, and paused irresolutely. He was unarmed and helpless.
Very slowly the door began to open. He knew it by the draught of air upon his face. In the pitch darkness he leaned close to the wall waiting for them to pass him towards the bed.
But at that moment there sounded very faintly, like the sighing of the wind—the far-off catch of a tune—a little twisted coil of melody such as the fairies dance to.
"Hold!" whispered Macaulay, in a low tense voice.
"It is but a laddie's whistle," snapped Miss Macpherson, "haste ye."
But he appeared to have a dread of something in his mind.
"That is no boy's whistle," he replied sullenly, "but the pipe o' Muckle John."
Then Rob could have shouted for joy, for he knew in a trice who the great man in Fraser's tavern had been, who but the stranger on the moor who had lured the weasel from his lair. Nearer came the ripple of music, and then sounded a lusty banging at the street door and a man's voice shouting for entry.
"Whist!" said his aunt, and again came the knocking.
"Wha's there?" she cried.
"Open!" returned the voice—a deep bass voice like the noise of a bull. "Open in the name of the King!"
"Better open, Mistress Macpherson," counselled the master; "though I would I were out of here. If I had a sword, but who ever saw a dominie with such a thing?" and he laughed ruefully, while a furious knocking beat upon the door. Presently Rob saw the yellow light of a candle, and heard the falling back of the bolts.
A cold burst of night air rushed into the place, and with it there entered a great, formidable looking man, so tall that he must needs bend nearly double to enter, dressed in riding clothes, and with his hat rammed down upon his face.
Rob slid into the room. Beside him stood Mr. Macaulay, the rope still dangling in his hands. His aunt was facing the stranger, holding the candle high so that its rays fell upon his face.
So they stood for a moment, and then the stranger closed the door behind him, swung off his hat, and made a sweeping bow.
"MADAM," SAID HE, "I CRAVE YOUR PARDON FOR THIS SEEMING INCIVILITY.""MADAM," SAID HE, "I CRAVE YOUR PARDON FOR THIS SEEMING INCIVILITY."
"Madam," said he, "I crave your pardon for this seeming incivility; but I am new come to Inverness, and am quartered here until to-morrow."
(Not so new-come thought Rob, mindful of Fraser's tavern.)
All the time the stranger's alert blue eyes were speeding hither and thither about the room. They paused for a moment on the rope in the master's hands, took in Rob at a glance (but with no appearance of recognition which grieved him), and then returned to Miss Macpherson, who had never acknowledged his presence by word or nod.
"Sir," said Rob to the stranger, "Mr. Macaulay was even now enquiring for you."
"Thank ye," he replied, "but I have already seen the rope in his hands. Maybe it could be used for a better purpose..."
Mr. Macaulay was as near to the door as the stranger. With a bound he reached it, and flung it back. And then with another swirl of air he was gone into the night.
The stranger watched his departure with upraised brows and a smile upon his lips, then he stepped to the door and closed it, bolting it with careful hands.
"For the present," said he, turning to Rob, "he's gone: You are not afraid of my company, are you?"
He grasped him gently by each shoulder as he spoke, and looked into his eyes.
Rob shook his head. Afraid of the man of the moor! He was suddenly overtaken by a curious shyness of this mysterious man with his shrewd, inscrutable blue eyes, his great Highland nose, the whimsical twist that lurked at the corners of his mouth, and his massive head far up near the rafters through the vast height of him.
His clothes had a foreign cut, and he betrayed the inflection of a strange accent underlying his words accompanied by occasional gestures of the hands that strike a northerner as affected and womanly. His voice was very deep and soft and so persuasive that few could withstand him. Even in anger it was never harsh—but some said he never permitted himself to grow angry and for that very reason always won his own way. Even Miss Macpherson only angered him once.
Meanwhile the stranger was eyeing them both with droll intentness. If only the honest can meet another's gaze without flinching then he must have been a very honest man indeed, for there were few he could not stare down, and what is more take a relish in so doing.
"How are you named?" he asked, still grasping the boy by the shoulder.
"My name is Rob Fraser," he replied, "and this is my aunt, Miss Macpherson."
"Then I am in good company," he said, and letting go of Rob began to warm his hands at the fire, turning them backwards and forwards to the blaze. "It is good," he mused after a while, "to have peat reek in one's nostrils once again. What a bonny room this is. There are few pans like those in Inverness I'll warrant. I would like fine to taste a bannock of your cooking, Miss Macpherson. I know a good bannock when I see it, and it's long since I've had a taste of old Scotland..." at which he sighed and stared upon the ground.
Somewhat mollified, despite herself, Miss Macpherson set the table again, and busied herself amongst her household utensils. Over the peat fire a pot was swinging on a chain from a cross beam above. The place was full of the rare smell of it. But the stranger said nothing, though he must have been eying out for a basinful. Instead he drew Rob to the fire, and spoke to him in his low musical voice, sitting upon a stool with his great coat hung up upon a peg beside him and the steam rising from it and losing itself in the blueness of the peat reek.
"I saw ye the day," he said. "It was just after our forces, heaven help them, had passed. I canna bear to look at them. I feel like a man watching a procession of bairns and dying men..."
"Have you been in another war?" asked Rob.
"War," said he, "this is not war. Man Rob, I've served all over Europe and seen the armies of Frederick advance like the thunder of surf on a western isle. I have seen service in Poland, Austria, and the Netherlands. I have fought under Saxe."
He paused and seemed to draw some pleasure from Rob's flushed face and eager eyes.
"Last year I lay before Tournay under a starlit sky while all around me breathed thousands of men who lay before many hours on the field of Fontenoy. That is war, Rob, not skirling up and down the country with a few hundred puir Hielan' bodies."
"But I am enlisting," he said, considerably chilled by such words.
The stranger sniffed over the pot most audibly. The savour was more than a hungry man could tolerate.
"You would make a rare campaigner, Miss Macpherson," he said, "Rob is surely daft to think of losing such a stew for all the thrones of Europe."
"It is only an ordinary stew," she said, with a faint flush on her cheeks.
"It may be for you, Miss Macpherson—I'll no deny it—but as a man not strange to stews I'd call it by another name..." and he smacked his lips and drew in another draught of it with relish.
"Weel, weel," murmured Miss Macpherson, and taking off the lid she set a knife into a piece of meat and with a spoon she emptied the gravy upon a plate.
"Draw in your stool," she said, and laid the bannocks beside him. Then after a momentary hesitation she laid a round black bottle upon the table. "It is from Laggan way," she said.
"A bonny country," he replied, and without delay set to with the greatest zest.
Meanwhile Rob drew near the fire, and laid a peat or two upon the dying glow. He suddenly remembered how near he had been to falling the prey to his aunt's schemes, and yet to look at her face one would have said she suffered no disappointment or resentment. There was a strong vein of fatalism in Miss Macpherson.
When the stranger had finished eating he pushed back his stool, and wiped his mouth very genteelly with a kerchief.
"And now, sir," said he, addressing Rob, "what is this talk of the wars?"
"Aye," re-echoed Miss Macpherson, brightening, "ye may well ask that, Mister..." she hesitated.
"No matter," he replied quickly, "my name will keep."
"I want to fight for the Prince," said Rob, sturdily; "I have this claymore." And he brought it from the corner where it lay.
One look was sufficient for the stranger.
"Ye are a hundred years too late, my man," he said, regarding the rusty sword with a critical eye.
"It is all I have," said Rob.
"And all ye are good for," retorted his aunt.
The stranger meanwhile sat with his chin resting on one hand, a frown upon his face. Of a sudden he stirred fretfully.
"What sort of talk is this?" he cried. "To-morrow or the next day will see us scattered like muir fowl; but we've had a run for our money, whereas, you, poor lad, will have a sair run for your life. Bide a wee—there will be other risings," at which he stopped, and won a smile from Miss Macpherson for his brave advice.
"Thank ye, sir," she said, cordially; "and listen to the gentleman, Rob, for he speaks true words."
Rob was about to break in when the stranger motioned him to silence.
"Tak' your time," said he, "and choose your ain gait, for there's a kind of empty satisfaction in that at a time—and I will play a bit tune, if I may." At which he bowed to Miss Macpherson, and she bowed back, and that none so stiffly.
Then drawing the selfsame reed from his greatcoat pocket that Rob had heard two years before, he began to play, and the manner of his playing was like the singing of a mavis at twilight. He played tunes both Scottish and foreign, strange, melancholy snatches of music very haunting to hear, and then, quite suddenly, he broke into a Jacobite melody, and Rob sat with eyes glued upon him, while a great stillness crept over the place.
The fire had died down, and the room fallen into darkness when he ceased, and it was only to lay the pipe upon the table. For out of the silence came the most wonderful voice; and the strange gentleman, rising to his feet, was singing an old Highland lament as though his heart would break. Rob stole a look at his aunt, and saw her lip—that iron, resolute lip—was trembling. Even the stranger's voice broke through the utter sadness of it all, at which he coughed and smiled, and then before Rob could raise his eyes (it seemed to him to have no beginning at all, so quickly was it done) the stranger was upon his feet, and even while Miss Macpherson was secretively concealing a tear he had snatched up his whistle and was in the very middle of a Highland reel. With his fingers rippling up and down the holes of the thing, and the rakish tilt of his head, and the manner in which he kept time with his feet, and his shoulders and his whole body—with all of this and the dancing firelight and the wind shut out upon the street—the thing was like the work of a bogie. Had he been a little man with silver buttons and silver-buckle shoes and a velvet jacket, then there is no saying but that he might have played himself up the chimney and over the heather, with Rob and Miss Macpherson at his coat-tails.
The music grew faster. It grew wilder. It brought Rob to his feet and sent him skipping and snapping his fingers in a frenzy. The stranger was here and there, missing notes because he could not do everything at once, and turn at the same time. And then just when the rant was at its height Miss Macpherson was at it too, first skirts held daintily from the ground, then arms akimbo, bowing, twirling, spinning. The stranger threw aside his pipe. He sang the lilt of it instead, and so facing Miss Macpherson they capered and linked arms and clapped their hands and hooched until the stools were jumping all over the floor and the bannocks after them, and the table rocked upon its legs in the corner.
"Well, my lad," panted the gentleman after it was over, wiping his face, "have ye settled the matter?"
"Sir," cried Rob, "it's the Prince for me."
"Well, well," said he, seating himself again, as though he had guessed as much.
"I believe ye sang so on purpose," snapped Mistress Macpherson, now thoroughly awakened to the danger, and considerably ashamed of herself.
"On my oath, madam," he replied, "I advised the lad against it—ye heard me with your ain ears."
"But thae songs?"
"Tuts," he said, "what are songs?"
The dawn was already in the east, and a faint grey light shone beneath the door.
With a start, the stranger rose to his feet.
"The day is near," he said, sombrely, "I must be stepping"; and for a breath or two he looked Rob in the eyes.
"And I, too, if I may go with you," said Rob, casting a glance at his aunt.
For a moment she struggled with her anger, then, taking him roughly by the shoulder, she shook him.
"Go then," she cried, "but dinna say it was with my leave. And you, sir, do what you can for him."
"Madam," said the stranger, wrapping his greatcoat about him, "I promise you that."
"What name do ye go by?" asked Mistress Macpherson, of a sudden.
He appeared for an instant slightly put about.
"The name I go by," repeated he, "is Muckle John."
"That's no sort of name," she snapped.
"It's sufficient for me," he replied, and touching Rob on the shoulder, they passed into the street.
From far away came the shrill notes of many bagpipes, and the faint stirring of assembling men.
"Rob," said Muckle John, slyly, "I thought you had forgotten."
"I knew you at once," said Rob, "but you never looked at me."
"Did I no," said Muckle John, "maybe there were reasons, Rob—there are folk would do the world for a friend of mine, but there are others, Rob—there are others."
The position of Prince Charlie in Inverness was exceedingly critical. To the north lay the forces of Lord Loudon. To the east and south were the Hanoverian army commanded by the Duke of Cumberland now stationed at Aberdeen. But his position was rendered even more precarious by lack of foresight in ignoring the advice of Lord George Murray, and refusing to provide a supply of provision in the Highlands.
Judging that the Duke would not advance for some weeks, the Prince decided on the reduction of various forts and positions held by the enemy, and above all the destruction of Lord Loudon's army.
It was arranged, therefore, that Lord Cromartie (one of those incompetent officers who handicapped the Jacobite cause) should advance upon Lord Loudon in order that the menace from the north might be destroyed, and this, he prepared to do, accompanied by the Mackenzies, the Mackintoshes, Macgregors and others.
The preparations for this expedition were under discussion when Muckle John and Rob came into the main street. For a while they walked along in silence, Muckle John grown suddenly gravely absorbed, and taking such great strides that Rob was hard put to it to keep up. The dawn was come, and with it the town of Inverness began to hum and buzz like a hive of bees. Men, quartered in every house along the narrow street, commenced to pour out upon the highway, some putting on their sword-belts as they came, others wiping sleep out of their tired eyes with their knuckled hands.
It was the sight of their claymores that sent Muckle John's flickering eyes upon his companion.
"My lad," said he, stopping abruptly, "there's one thing we must be seeing too. For cutting firewood or driving bestial,* I have no doubt yon weapon might serve as well as another, but for the game of war it is disappointing," and whipping out his own sword he made a parry or two, and winked at him.
* Cattle.
"What do ye think o' that?" said he, and drove it home again into the scabbard.
"I think it's bonny," said Rob shivering with the chill wind.
"Bonny—you Fraser loon—what kind of word is that for the sword of Muckle John," and without a word, he turned his back and began to stride again up the street, snorting as he went.
"But, sir," cried Rob, at his heels, "what about me?"
"You," cried Muckle John in a huff, "what indeed?"
"I know nothing of swords," said Rob, anxious to appease him at all costs.
Presently Muckle John stopped and looked, first upon the ground and then at Rob, and so upon the ground again.
"Rob," said he at last, "had ye no better take your ways home?"
"Never!" cried he.
Without a word the other turned upon his heel, again, and so in a dour silence they reached the centre of the town.
"Rob," said Muckle John, "you see that house there? That is where the Prince is staying, and there at the door he is, and with him Lord George Murray, a braw soldier but no Irish, and so not above suspicion."
On the door-step stood Prince Charlie talking in a vexed, irritated manner to a very choleric-looking gentleman, who seemed in a bubble of anger, which he could ill control.
"Come ye with me, Rob," said Muckle John, "and keep your eyes open, and your mouth as tight as a gravestone."
As they approached, the Prince let his eyes rest on the massive figure of Muckle John, then nodded absently like a man whose thoughts are far away. Lord George Murray, on the other hand, greeted him with some cordiality, and turning again to the Prince, continued his conversation.
"I can assure your Highness that no aid will come from France," he said, "Fitzjames is captured, and that is not the last of it...."
The Prince gnawed his lip with bitter vexation.
"Your lordship was always most certain in disaster," he said peevishly, "a long face carries a long tale."
"Unless we drive back Loudon we are like rats in a trap," went on Murray ignoring the words.
"You forget Prestonpans, my lord."
The other shook his head fretfully.
"The men are tired and wearied of it all," he replied, "they want to go home—they are not regular soldiers...."
"What would you say to talk like this?" said the Prince, turning of a sudden upon Muckle John.
"Sir," he answered, "your troops are exhausted. But in the mountains you could resist the enemy until they recovered their strength."
"But there is no money—no sign of men nor arms. What of France—what of the English Jacobites?"
"What indeed?" said a low voice from the doorway.
Looking down upon them all stood a young man of about thirty—a thin, slight, anxious-looking man dressed in black, carefully tended clothes. It was Mr. Secretary Murray, or, to give him his full name, John Murray of Broughton.
"May the English Jacobites not escape their just punishment," he said gravely, "should disaster await us," and he sighed and stared out across the street.
"Shall I go north to assist Lord Cromartie?" asked Lord George Murray, who hated Broughton.
The Prince frowned as though he would like to know the inner purpose for such a plan. Then, seeing none but that of reason and loyal service, and yet doubting the latter very sincerely, he replied almost gruffly:
"We will see what Sir Thomas Sheridan has to advise," whereat the countenance of Lord George Murray grew dark with strangled rage. For a man who had risked his life and fortune and the lives of his people to be dependent upon the whim of an Irish adventurer with nothing to lose and everything to gain was enough to ruin any cause. Already the end of the '45 was in sight.
Muckle John bowed and drew Rob away. A few minutes later Lord George Murray passed them with a face like murder, bound for the North.
"Maybe ye see now," said Muckle John, "how the wind blows. There goes as good a soldier as can be, but ye'll find that whatever he advises will be contradicted by any poor Irish creature or Frenchman who may be passing. The longer Cumberland sits snug in Aberdeen the more time will there be for hectoring and desertion and the beginning of the end. Wae's me," he sighed, "I would give something to be upon the quay of Dunkirk, for there's nothing here for the likes o' me but a rope with a bit noose."
The business of procuring arms for Rob was next undertaken, and it was a proud day indeed when he strapped a targe on his back, and a claymore to his side. He was attached to Lord George Murray's flying column in pursuit of Lord Loudon, and so on the evening of that day he bade farewell to Muckle John.
The march north was uneventful, and in due course, with only a victorious expedition to his credit, Rob returned with the Duke of Perth to Inverness and was dispatched into Atholl with Lord George Murray's force.
During the succeeding weeks, the guerilla engagements of the detachments in Atholl and Lochaber were completely successful, while in the east the Prince kept at bay the dragoons of General Bland. It is not fully appreciated that the campaign around Inverness was no less brilliant and successful than the other engagements of the Jacobite rebellion.
But the war was nearing a crisis. Cumberland having waited for the spring, moved out of Aberdeen on April 8, his force consisting of six battalions of foot and a regiment of dragoons. At Strathbogie, General Bland, with six battalions, Kingston's Horse and Cobham's Dragoons, awaited his advance, while at Old Meldrum were three battalions under Brigadier Mordaunt. In this manner the entire army advanced on Inverness.
The swiftness of their approach was wellnigh fatal to the Prince. His troops were scattered on foraging and isolated expeditions, while Lord Cromartie was as far away as Sutherlandshire. Many clansmen had returned home while a great number were wandering the country-side in search of food.
On the morning of April 14 the drums began to beat and the pipes to sound through the streets of Inverness, and with Charles Edward at their head the Highlanders marched out of the town towards Culloden. On the 15th the Prince brought his army to Drummossie-Moor, with a view to engaging the enemy there. But the ground was flat and heathy and unsuitable for the method of attack most favoured by the Highlanders. Lord George Murray pleaded for more rugged and boggy country to disconcert the English cavalry, but Charles, tired of long waiting, was obdurate. It was decided that a night attack was under the circumstances the wisest plan of action. To attack the enemy crippled in artillery and cavalry work was on the surface a wise course, and accordingly about eight o'clock on that evening, Rob heard the order to prepare to march. It was with heavy steps that the Highlanders formed up, for only one biscuit per man had been served out that day and they were utterly exhausted for want of food. Moreover it was regarded as unwise to attack without the Mackenzies, the Frasers, the Macphersons, the Macgregors and Glengarry's men, all of whom were supposed to be hastening to Inverness.
However, the prospect of a night attack was sufficient to send them along with good heart, and so the twelve-mile march began, and all through the black night tramped the silent army, stumbling, falling, straying from the road, until the dawn gleamed faintly in the east and they realized that the plan had failed. To meditate attack under such circumstances was to court utter disaster. There was nothing for it but to return. The surprise had failed. The Prince, white and tired, seemed on the point of tears. All around him were haggard faces and lagging feet. Hardly a word was spoken. It was in sober truth the retreat of a beaten army....
The clansmen, now utterly exhausted, strayed back to Inverness in search of food. Many dropped in deep slumber upon the ground. In Culloden House the Prince sat in the deepest dejection. Not long after news reached him that the English forces were advancing. Once again the clans were gathered—messages were sent to Inverness to hasten the stragglers—everything was done to put as brave a face on it as possible. Lord George Murray again advised taking up a position more suited for the Highland charge, or retreating into the hills. But the Prince again rejected his counsel, and instead of seven thousand fresh troops only about five thousand exhausted men assembled on level country to meet Cumberland's veteran force.
To Rob, who looked on the Highland claymore as irresistible, the approaching conflict was none too soon, to others it came as a relief after weeks of waiting and hardship.
Of that ill-omened day everything is known, and little need be said: it was the inevitable conclusion of a forlorn hope.
The English opened fire, and for long enough bullets rained and sang through the sullen Highland ranks. At last Lord George Murray resolved on an advance, but before he could give the order the Mackintoshes, with the heroism that had ever distinguished that clan, charged recklessly, and at that all the regiments on the right moved forward, and the action began in earnest.
An aide-de-camp was dispatched to hurry the advance of the left wing, but he was shot on the way and this unhappy accident prevented the Highland advance concentrating its full shock. It has long been an established belief that the battle was lost largely owing to the defection of the Macdonalds, who refused to advance on a dispute of precedence. It is time that a story without historical foundation should be for ever discredited. The Macdonalds did not receive the command to charge until it was too late, and they found themselves faced by an impassable morass when they moved forward. When the battle was lost and the Prince in flight, they marched from the stricken moor in good order.
The English soldiery meanwhile had awaited the attack with levelled muskets and fixed bayonets, reserving their fire until the Highlanders were almost upon them. At close quarters they raked the close ranks of the clansmen with deadly aim.
The carnage was terrible. Whole ranks of the Highlanders were swept away. But it took more than that to stem that mad and dauntless charge. It broke through Barrel's and Monro's regiments, but farther they could not go, for they received a storm of grapeshot sufficient to decimate their numbers. Had the whole Highland line delivered its shock simultaneously the English army might have recoiled and taken to flight. But the failure of the extreme left to advance at all lessened the frail chance of such a tactic proving decisive, and within a few minutes the Jacobite cause was lost.
Rob, placed on the left wing, weary of waiting and sick at heart by the sight of men falling all about him, unloosed his claymore, and pulling his bonnet down upon his brows, prepared for his regiment to charge. At last they could stand the shattering fire no longer. With a hoarse noise of shouting rising from Gaelic tongues like the roar of a winter sea, they streamed forward in reckless bravery, and foremost of them Rob, running over the heavy ground towards the storm and thunder of the conflict.
Already, however, the main body of the Highlanders was wavering. The first wild charge had shattered their ranks. The English cavalry were advancing and some one shouted that the Prince was killed. Panic began to do its work. Soon after the left wing commenced to march off the field.
All about Rob arose hoarse cries, groans, eddying smoke, and the roar and clatter of arms. Into the thick of the conflict he struggled onwards. He thrust and parried and thrust again with his claymore. Well for him was it that his father had taught him the secrets of a stiff wrist and the upper cut. An English soldier rushed at him red with battle madness, and shouting as he came. Rob, receiving a blow from an upraised musket on his targe, drove home his claymore and heard the cry die out in the man's throat into a choking sob, and—silence.
Then, before he could disengage his sword, a dragoon, spurring his horse over the heaps of fallen men, slashed at his head with his sabre, and, missing him, pulled up his beast and charged again. For Rob the situation was desperate, but seeing a little solitary group of Highlanders near by, he took to his heels and reached them, picking up an English musket as he ran. He was barely in time; had not a huge Cameron armed with a broadsword hewn down his opponent, it would have fared badly indeed with him. As it was, he clubbed his musket, and standing back to back with the others, prepared to fall as hardly as possible.
The tide of battle swept backwards and forwards; but all over the fatal moor the Jacobite army was in retreat. Gradually the little group about him thinned, until only a bare dozen remained, and it was in a breathing-space that Rob suddenly perceived Muckle John amongst them.
His head was bound in a piece of tartan, and bleeding profusely; but the smile was in his eyes, and his claymore rose and fell, and every time a man floundered upon the ground. Before him there lay a heap of Englishmen as high as his elbow.
Presently the smoke of powder cleared a little, and over the moor came a squadron of dragoons at a loose canter, killing all who stood in their way, both wounded and unarmed. Round the little circle of faces Muckle John looked swiftly.
"Now," said he, "it is each for himself," and he whistled a sprig of a tune as he began to swing his sword-arm.
With a hoarse yell the dragoons were on them. Two fell to Muckle John, there was a wild clash, and a man beside Rob dropped with a groan. And then came an oppressive weight of horses kicking, plunging, rearing—and a blinding blow flung him unconscious beneath their flying feet.
It was well indeed for Rob that death seemed to have snatched him from the cruel hands of his enemies, and the pile of dead and dying about him sheltered his body from the search parties of Hanoverians now busy upon their work of butchery.