CHAPTER XV.

BLACK ANDIE’S TALE OF TOD LAPRAIK

I have yet said little of the Highlanders. They were all three of the

followers of James More, which bound the accusation very tight about

their master’s neck. All understood a word or two of English, but Neil

was the only one who judged he had enough of it for general converse,

in which (when once he got embarked) his company was often tempted to

the contrary opinion. They were tractable, simple creatures; showed

much more courtesy than might have been expected from their raggedness

and their uncouth appearance, and fell spontaneously to be like three

servants for Andie and myself.

Dwelling in that isolated place, in the old falling ruins of a prison,

and among endless strange sounds of the sea and the sea-birds, I

thought I perceived in them early the effects of superstitious fear.

When there was nothing doing they would either lie and sleep, for which

their appetite appeared insatiable, or Neil would entertain the others

with stories which seemed always of a terrifying strain. If neither of

these delights were within reach—if perhaps two were sleeping and the

third could find no means to follow their example—I would see him sit

and listen and look about him in a progression of uneasiness, starting,

his face blenching, his hands clutched, a man strung like a bow. The

nature of these fears I had never an occasion to find out, but the

sight of them was catching, and the nature of the place that we were in

favourable to alarms. I can find no word for it in the English, but

Andie had an expression for it in the Scots from which he never varied.

“Ay,” he would say, “_it’s an unco place_, _the Bass_.”

It is so I always think of it. It was an unco place by night, unco by

day; and these were unco sounds, of the calling of the solans, and the

plash of the sea and the rock echoes, that hung continually in our

ears. It was chiefly so in moderate weather. When the waves were anyway

great they roared about the rock like thunder and the drums of armies,

dreadful but merry to hear; and it was in the calm days that a man

could daunt himself with listening—not a Highlandman only, as I several

times experimented on myself, so many still, hollow noises haunted and

reverberated in the porches of the rock.

This brings me to a story I heard, and a scene I took part in, which

quite changed our terms of living, and had a great effect on my

departure. It chanced one night I fell in a muse beside the fire and

(that little air of Alan’s coming back to my memory) began to whistle.

A hand was laid upon my arm, and the voice of Neil bade me to stop, for

it was not “canny musics.”

“Not canny?” I asked. “How can that be?”

“Na,” said he; “it will be made by a bogle and her wanting ta heid upon

his body.” [13]

“Well,” said I, “there can be no bogles here, Neil; for it’s not likely

they would fash themselves to frighten geese.”

“Ay?” says Andie, “is that what ye think of it! But I’ll can tell ye

there’s been waur nor bogles here.”

“What’s waur than bogles, Andie?” said I.

“Warlocks,” said he. “Or a warlock at the least of it. And that’s a

queer tale, too,” he added. “And if ye would like, I’ll tell it ye.”

To be sure we were all of the one mind, and even the Highlander that

had the least English of the three set himself to listen with all his

might.

The Tale of Tod Lapraik

My faither, Tam Dale, peace to his banes, was a wild, sploring lad in

his young days, wi’ little wisdom and little grace. He was fond of a

lass and fond of a glass, and fond of a ran-dan; but I could never hear

tell that he was muckle use for honest employment. Frae ae thing to

anither, he listed at last for a sodger and was in the garrison of this

fort, which was the first way that ony of the Dales cam to set foot

upon the Bass. Sorrow upon that service! The governor brewed his ain

ale; it seems it was the warst conceivable. The rock was proveesioned

free the shore with vivers, the thing was ill-guided, and there were

whiles when they but to fish and shoot solans for their diet. To crown

a’, thir was the Days of the Persecution. The perishin’ cauld chalmers

were all occupeed wi’ sants and martyrs, the saut of the yearth, of

which it wasnae worthy. And though Tam Dale carried a firelock there, a

single sodger, and liked a lass and a glass, as I was sayin,’ the mind

of the man was mair just than set with his position. He had glints of

the glory of the kirk; there were whiles when his dander rase to see

the Lord’s sants misguided, and shame covered him that he should be

haulding a can’le (or carrying a firelock) in so black a business.

There were nights of it when he was here on sentry, the place a’

wheesht, the frosts o’ winter maybe riving in the wa’s, and he would

hear ane o’ the prisoners strike up a psalm, and the rest join in, and

the blessed sounds rising from the different chalmers—or dungeons, I

would raither say—so that this auld craig in the sea was like a pairt

of Heev’n. Black shame was on his saul; his sins hove up before him

muckle as the Bass, and above a’, that chief sin, that he should have a

hand in hagging and hashing at Christ’s Kirk. But the truth is that he

resisted the spirit. Day cam, there were the rousing compainions, and

his guid resolves depairtit.

In thir days, dwalled upon the Bass a man of God, Peden the Prophet was

his name. Ye’ll have heard tell of Prophet Peden. There was never the

wale of him sinsyne, and it’s a question wi’ mony if there ever was his

like afore. He was wild’s a peat-hag, fearsome to look at, fearsome to

hear, his face like the day of judgment. The voice of him was like a

solan’s and dinnle’d in folks’ lugs, and the words of him like coals of

fire.

Now there was a lass on the rock, and I think she had little to do, for

it was nae place far decent weemen; but it seems she was bonny, and her

and Tam Dale were very well agreed. It befell that Peden was in the

gairden his lane at the praying when Tam and the lass cam by; and what

should the lassie do but mock with laughter at the sant’s devotions? He

rose and lookit at the twa o’ them, and Tam’s knees knoitered thegether

at the look of him. But whan he spak, it was mair in sorrow than in

anger. “Poor thing, poor thing!” says he, and it was the lass he lookit

at, “I hear you skirl and laugh,” he says, “but the Lord has a deid

shot prepared for you, and at that surprising judgment ye shall skirl

but the ae time!” Shortly thereafter she was daundering on the craigs

wi’ twa-three sodgers, and it was a blawy day. There cam a gowst of

wind, claught her by the coats, and awa’ wi’ her bag and baggage. And

it was remarked by the sodgers that she gied but the ae skirl.

Nae doubt this judgment had some weicht upon Tam Dale; but it passed

again and him none the better. Ae day he was flyting wi’ anither

sodger-lad. “Deil hae me!” quo’ Tam, for he was a profane swearer. And

there was Peden glowering at him, gash an’ waefu’; Peden wi’ his lang

chafts an’ luntin’ een, the maud happed about his kist, and the hand of

him held out wi’ the black nails upon the finger-nebs—for he had nae

care of the body. “Fy, fy, poor man!” cries he, “the poor fool man!

_Deil hae me_, quo’ he; an’ I see the deil at his oxter.” The

conviction of guilt and grace cam in on Tam like the deep sea; he flang

doun the pike that was in his hands—“I will nae mair lift arms against

the cause o’ Christ!” says he, and was as gude’s word. There was a sair

fyke in the beginning, but the governor, seeing him resolved, gied him

his discharge, and he went and dwallt and merried in North Berwick, and

had aye a gude name with honest folk free that day on.

It was in the year seeventeen hunner and sax that the Bass cam in the

hands o’ the Da’rymples, and there was twa men soucht the chairge of

it. Baith were weel qualified, for they had baith been sodgers in the

garrison, and kent the gate to handle solans, and the seasons and

values of them. Forby that they were baith—or they baith seemed—earnest

professors and men of comely conversation. The first of them was just

Tam Dale, my faither. The second was ane Lapraik, whom the folk ca’d

Tod Lapraik maistly, but whether for his name or his nature I could

never hear tell. Weel, Tam gaed to see Lapraik upon this business, and

took me, that was a toddlin’ laddie, by the hand. Tod had his dwallin’

in the lang loan benorth the kirkyaird. It’s a dark uncanny loan, forby

that the kirk has aye had an ill name since the days o’ James the Saxt

and the deevil’s cantrips played therein when the Queen was on the

seas; and as for Tod’s house, it was in the mirkest end, and was little

liked by some that kenned the best. The door was on the sneck that day,

and me and my faither gaed straucht in. Tod was a wabster to his trade;

his loom stood in the but. There he sat, a muckle fat, white hash of a

man like creish, wi’ a kind of a holy smile that gart me scunner. The

hand of him aye cawed the shuttle, but his een was steeked. We cried to

him by his name, we skirled in the deid lug of him, we shook him by the

shou’ther. Nae mainner o’ service! There he sat on his dowp, an’ cawed

the shuttle and smiled like creish.

“God be guid to us,” says Tam Dale, “this is no canny?”

He had jimp said the word, when Tod Lapraik cam to himsel’.

“Is this you, Tam?” says he. “Haith, man! I’m blythe to see ye. I

whiles fa’ into a bit dwam like this,” he says; “its frae the stamach.”

Weel, they began to crack about the Bass and which of them twa was to

get the warding o’t, and little by little cam to very ill words, and

twined in anger. I mind weel that as my faither and me gaed hame again,

he cam ower and ower the same expression, how little he likit Tod

Lapraik and his dwams.

“Dwam!” says he. “I think folk hae brunt for dwams like yon.”

Aweel, my faither got the Bass and Tod had to go wantin’. It was

remembered sinsyne what way he had ta’en the thing. “Tam,” says he, “ye

hae gotten the better o’ me aince mair, and I hope,” says he, “ye’ll

find at least a’ that ye expeckit at the Bass.” Which have since been

thought remarkable expressions. At last the time came for Tam Dale to

take young solans. This was a business he was weel used wi’, he had

been a craigsman frae a laddie, and trustit nane but himsel’. So there

was he hingin’ by a line an’ speldering on the craig face, whaur its

hieest and steighest. Fower tenty lads were on the tap, hauldin’ the

line and mindin’ for his signals. But whaur Tam hung there was naething

but the craig, and the sea belaw, and the solans skirlin and flying. It

was a braw spring morn, and Tam whustled as he claught in the young

geese. Mony’s the time I’ve heard him tell of this experience, and aye

the swat ran upon the man.

It chanced, ye see, that Tam keeked up, and he was awaur of a muckle

solan, and the solan pyking at the line. He thocht this by-ordinar and

outside the creature’s habits. He minded that ropes was unco saft

things, and the solan’s neb and the Bass Rock unco hard, and that twa

hunner feet were raither mair than he would care to fa’.

“Shoo!” says Tam. “Awa’, bird! Shoo, awa’ wi’ ye!” says he.

The solan keekit doon into Tam’s face, and there was something unco in

the creature’s ee. Just the ae keek it gied, and back to the rope. But

now it wroucht and warstl’t like a thing dementit. There never was the

solan made that wroucht as that solan wroucht; and it seemed to

understand its employ brawly, birzing the saft rope between the neb of

it and a crunkled jag o’ stane.

There gaed a cauld stend o’ fear into Tam’s heart. “This thing is nae

bird,” thinks he. His een turnt backward in his heid and the day gaed

black aboot him. “If I get a dwam here,” he toucht, “it’s by wi’ Tam

Dale.” And he signalled for the lads to pu’ him up.

And it seemed the solan understood about signals. For nae sooner was

the signal made than he let be the rope, spried his wings, squawked out

loud, took a turn flying, and dashed straucht at Tam Dale’s een. Tam

had a knife, he gart the cauld steel glitter. And it seemed the solan

understood about knives, for nae suner did the steel glint in the sun

than he gied the ae squawk, but laighter, like a body disappointit, and

flegged aff about the roundness of the craig, and Tam saw him nae mair.

And as sune as that thing was gane, Tam’s heid drapt upon his shouther,

and they pu’d him up like a deid corp, dadding on the craig.

A dram of brandy (which he went never without) broucht him to his mind,

or what was left of it. Up he sat.

“Rin, Geordie, rin to the boat, mak’ sure of the boat, man—rin!” he

cries, “or yon solan’ll have it awa’,” says he.

The fower lads stared at ither, an’ tried to whilly-wha him to be

quiet. But naething would satisfy Tam Dale, till ane o’ them had

startit on aheid to stand sentry on the boat. The ithers askit if he

was for down again.

“Na,” says he, “and niether you nor me,” says he, “and as sune as I can

win to stand on my twa feet we’ll be aff frae this craig o’ Sawtan.”

Sure eneuch, nae time was lost, and that was ower muckle; for before

they won to North Berwick Tam was in a crying fever. He lay a’ the

simmer; and wha was sae kind as come speiring for him, but Tod Lapraik!

Folk thocht afterwards that ilka time Tod cam near the house the fever

had worsened. I kenna for that; but what I ken the best, that was the

end of it.

It was about this time o’ the year; my grandfaither was out at the

white fishing; and like a bairn, I but to gang wi’ him. We had a grand

take, I mind, and the way that the fish lay broucht us near in by the

Bass, whaur we foregaithered wi’ anither boat that belanged to a man

Sandie Fletcher in Castleton. He’s no lang deid neither, or ye could

speir at himsel’. Weel, Sandie hailed.

“What’s yon on the Bass?” says he.

“On the Bass?” says grandfaither.

“Ay,” says Sandie, “on the green side o’t.”

“Whatten kind of a thing?” says grandfaither. “There cannae be naething

on the Bass but just the sheep.”

“It looks unco like a body,” quo’ Sandie, who was nearer in.

“A body!” says we, and we none of us likit that. For there was nae boat

that could have brought a man, and the key o’ the prison yett hung ower

my faither’s at hame in the press bed.

We keept the twa boats close for company, and crap in nearer hand.

Grandfaither had a gless, for he had been a sailor, and the captain of

a smack, and had lost her on the sands of Tay. And when we took the

glass to it, sure eneuch there was a man. He was in a crunkle o’ green

brae, a wee below the chaipel, a’ by his lee lane, and lowped and flang

and danced like a daft quean at a waddin’.

“It’s Tod,” says grandfather, and passed the gless to Sandie.

“Ay, it’s him,” says Sandie.

“Or ane in the likeness o’ him,” says grandfaither.

“Sma’ is the differ,” quo’ Sandie. “De’il or warlock, I’ll try the gun

at him,” quo’ he, and broucht up a fowling-piece that he aye carried,

for Sandie was a notable famous shot in all that country.

“Haud your hand, Sandie,” says grandfaither; “we maun see clearer

first,” says he, “or this may be a dear day’s wark to the baith of us.”

“Hout!” says Sandie, “this is the Lord’s judgment surely, and be damned

to it,” says he.

“Maybe ay, and maybe no,” says my grandfaither, worthy man! “But have

you a mind of the Procurator Fiscal, that I think ye’ll have

foregaithered wi’ before,” says he.

This was ower true, and Sandie was a wee thing set ajee. “Aweel, Edie,”

says he, “and what would be your way of it?”

“Ou, just this,” says grandfaither. “Let me that has the fastest boat

gang back to North Berwick, and let you bide here and keep an eye on

Thon. If I cannae find Lapraik, I’ll join ye and the twa of us’ll have

a crack wi’ him. But if Lapraik’s at hame, I’ll rin up the flag at the

harbour, and ye can try Thon Thing wi’ the gun.”

Aweel, so it was agreed between them twa. I was just a bairn, an’ clum

in Sandie’s boat, whaur I thoucht I would see the best of the employ.

My grandsire gied Sandie a siller tester to pit in his gun wi’ the leid

draps, bein mair deidly again bogles. And then the as boat set aff for

North Berwick, an’ the tither lay whaur it was and watched the

wanchancy thing on the brae-side.

A’ the time we lay there it lowped and flang and capered and span like

a teetotum, and whiles we could hear it skelloch as it span. I hae seen

lassies, the daft queans, that would lowp and dance a winter’s nicht,

and still be lowping and dancing when the winter’s day cam in. But

there would be fowk there to hauld them company, and the lads to egg

them on; and this thing was its lee-lane. And there would be a fiddler

diddling his elbock in the chimney-side; and this thing had nae music

but the skirling of the solans. And the lassies were bits o’ young

things wi’ the reid life dinnling and stending in their members; and

this was a muckle, fat, creishy man, and him fa’n in the vale o’ years.

Say what ye like, I maun say what I believe. It was joy was in the

creature’s heart, the joy o’ hell, I daursay: joy whatever. Mony a time

I have askit mysel’ why witches and warlocks should sell their sauls

(whilk are their maist dear possessions) and be auld, duddy, wrunkl’t

wives or auld, feckless, doddered men; and then I mind upon Tod Lapraik

dancing a’ the hours by his lane in the black glory of his heart. Nae

doubt they burn for it muckle in hell, but they have a grand time here

of it, whatever!—and the Lord forgie us!

Weel, at the hinder end, we saw the wee flag yirk up to the mast-heid

upon the harbour rocks. That was a’ Sandie waited for. He up wi’ the

gun, took a deleeberate aim, an’ pu’d the trigger. There cam’ a bang

and then ae waefu’ skirl frae the Bass. And there were we rubbin’ our

een and lookin’ at ither like daft folk. For wi’ the bang and the skirl

the thing had clean disappeared. The sun glintit, the wund blew, and

there was the bare yaird whaur the Wonder had been lowping and flinging

but ae second syne.

The hale way hame I roared and grat wi’ the terror o’ that

dispensation. The grawn folk were nane sae muckle better; there was

little said in Sandie’s boat but just the name of God; and when we won

in by the pier, the harbour rocks were fair black wi’ the folk waitin’

us. It seems they had fund Lapraik in ane of his dwams, cawing the

shuttle and smiling. Ae lad they sent to hoist the flag, and the rest

abode there in the wabster’s house. You may be sure they liked it

little; but it was a means of grace to severals that stood there

praying in to themsel’s (for nane cared to pray out loud) and looking

on thon awesome thing as it cawed the shuttle. Syne, upon a suddenty,

and wi’ the ae dreidfu’ skelloch, Tod sprang up frae his hinderlands

and fell forrit on the wab, a bluidy corp.

When the corp was examined the leid draps hadnae played buff upon the

warlock’s body; sorrow a leid drap was to be fund! but there was

grandfaither’s siller tester in the puddock’s heart of him.

Andie had scarce done when there befell a mighty silly affair that had

its consequence. Neil, as I have said, was himself a great narrator. I

have heard since that he knew all the stories in the Highlands; and

thought much of himself, and was thought much of by others on the

strength of it. Now Andie’s tale reminded him of one he had already

heard.

“She would ken that story afore,” he said. “She was the story of

Uistean More M’Gillie Phadrig and the Gavar Vore.”

“It is no sic a thing,” cried Andie. “It is the story of my faither

(now wi’ God) and Tod Lapraik. And the same in your beard,” says he;

“and keep the tongue of ye inside your Hielant chafts!”

In dealing with Highlanders it will be found, and has been shown in

history, how well it goes with Lowland gentlefolk; but the thing

appears scarce feasible for Lowland commons. I had already remarked

that Andie was continually on the point of quarrelling with our three

MacGregors, and now, sure enough, it was to come.

“Thir will be no words to use to shentlemans,” says Neil.

“Shentlemans!” cries Andie. “Shentlemans, ye hielant stot! If God would

give ye the grace to see yoursel’ the way that ithers see ye, ye would

throw your denner up.”

There came some kind of a Gaelic oath from Neil, and the black knife

was in his hand that moment.

There was no time to think; and I caught the Highlander by the leg, and

had him down, and his armed hand pinned out, before I knew what I was

doing. His comrades sprang to rescue him, Andie and I were without

weapons, the Gregara three to two. It seemed we were beyond salvation,

when Neil screamed in his own tongue, ordering the others back, and

made his submission to myself in a manner the most abject, even giving

me up his knife which (upon a repetition of his promises) I returned to

him on the morrow.

Two things I saw plain: the first, that I must not build too high on

Andie, who had shrunk against the wall and stood there, as pale as

death, till the affair was over; the second, the strength of my own

position with the Highlanders, who must have received extraordinary

charges to be tender of my safety. But if I thought Andie came not very

well out in courage, I had no fault to find with him upon the account

of gratitude. It was not so much that he troubled me with thanks, as

that his whole mind and manner appeared changed; and as he preserved

ever after a great timidity of our companions, he and I were yet more

constantly together.