CHAPTER XVI.

THE MISSING WITNESS

On the seventeenth, the day I was trysted with the Writer, I had much

rebellion against fate. The thought of him waiting in the _King’s

Arms_, and of what he would think, and what he would say when next we

met, tormented and oppressed me. The truth was unbelievable, so much I

had to grant, and it seemed cruel hard I should be posted as a liar and

a coward, and have never consciously omitted what it was possible that

I should do. I repeated this form of words with a kind of bitter

relish, and re-examined in that light the steps of my behaviour. It

seemed I had behaved to James Stewart as a brother might; all the past

was a picture that I could be proud of, and there was only the present

to consider. I could not swim the sea, nor yet fly in the air, but

there was always Andie. I had done him a service, he liked me; I had a

lever there to work on; if it were just for decency, I must try once

more with Andie.

It was late afternoon; there was no sound in all the Bass but the lap

and bubble of a very quiet sea; and my four companions were all crept

apart, the three Macgregors higher on the rock, and Andie with his

Bible to a sunny place among the ruins; there I found him in deep

sleep, and, as soon as he was awake, appealed to him with some fervour

of manner and a good show of argument.

“If I thoucht it was to do guid to ye, Shaws!” said he, staring at me

over his spectacles.

“It’s to save another,” said I, “and to redeem my word. What would be

more good than that? Do ye no mind the scripture, Andie? And you with

the Book upon your lap! _What shall it profit a man if he gain the

whole world_?”

“Ay,” said he, “that’s grand for you. But where do I come in! I have my

word to redeem the same’s yoursel’. And what are ye asking me to do,

but just to sell it ye for siller?”

“Andie! have I named the name of siller?” cried I.

“Ou, the name’s naething”, said he; “the thing is there, whatever. It

just comes to this; if I am to service ye the way that you propose,

I’ll lose my lifelihood. Then it’s clear ye’ll have to make it up to

me, and a pickle mair, for your ain credit like. And what’s that but

just a bribe? And if even I was certain of the bribe! But by a’ that I

can learn, it’s far frae that; and if _you_ were to hang, where would

_I_ be? Na: the thing’s no possible. And just awa’ wi’ ye like a bonny

lad! and let Andie read his chapter.”

I remember I was at bottom a good deal gratified with this result; and

the next humour I fell into was one (I had near said) of gratitude to

Prestongrange, who had saved me, in this violent, illegal manner, out

of the midst of my dangers, temptations, and perplexities. But this was

both too flimsy and too cowardly to last me long, and the remembrance

of James began to succeed to the possession of my spirits. The 21st,

the day set for the trial, I passed in such misery of mind as I can

scarce recall to have endured, save perhaps upon Isle Earraid only.

Much of the time I lay on a brae-side betwixt sleep and waking, my body

motionless, my mind full of violent thoughts. Sometimes I slept indeed;

but the court-house of Inverary and the prisoner glancing on all sides

to find his missing witness, followed me in slumber; and I would wake

again with a start to darkness of spirit and distress of body. I

thought Andie seemed to observe me, but I paid him little heed. Verily,

my bread was bitter to me, and my days a burthen.

Early the next morning (Friday, 22nd) a boat came with provisions, and

Andie placed a packet in my hand. The cover was without address but

sealed with a Government seal. It enclosed two notes. “Mr. Balfour can

now see for himself it is too late to meddle. His conduct will be

observed and his discretion rewarded.” So ran the first, which seemed

to be laboriously writ with the left hand. There was certainly nothing

in these expressions to compromise the writer, even if that person

could be found; the seal, which formidably served instead of signature,

was affixed to a separate sheet on which there was no scratch of

writing; and I had to confess that (so far) my adversaries knew what

they were doing, and to digest as well as I was able the threat that

peeped under the promise.

But the second enclosure was by far the more surprising. It was in a

lady’s hand of writ. “_Maister Dauvit Balfour is informed a friend was

speiring for him and her eyes were of the grey_,” it ran—and seemed so

extraordinary a piece to come to my hands at such a moment and under

cover of a Government seal, that I stood stupid. Catriona’s grey eyes

shone in my remembrance. I thought, with a bound of pleasure, she must

be the friend. But who should the writer be, to have her billet thus

enclosed with Prestongrange’s? And of all wonders, why was it thought

needful to give me this pleasing but most inconsequent intelligence

upon the Bass? For the writer, I could hit upon none possible except

Miss Grant. Her family, I remembered, had remarked on Catriona’s eyes

and even named her for their colour; and she herself had been much in

the habit to address me with a broad pronunciation, by way of a sniff,

I supposed, at my rusticity. No doubt, besides, but she lived in the

same house as this letter came from. So there remained but one step to

be accounted for; and that was how Prestongrange should have permitted

her at all in an affair so secret, or let her daft-like billet go in

the same cover with his own. But even here I had a glimmering. For,

first of all, there was something rather alarming about the young lady,

and papa might be more under her domination than I knew. And, second,

there was the man’s continual policy to be remembered, how his conduct

had been continually mingled with caresses, and he had scarce ever, in

the midst of so much contention, laid aside a mask of friendship. He

must conceive that my imprisonment had incensed me. Perhaps this little

jesting, friendly message was intended to disarm my rancour?

I will be honest—and I think it did. I felt a sudden warmth towards

that beautiful Miss Grant, that she should stoop to so much interest in

my affairs. The summoning up of Catriona moved me of itself to milder

and more cowardly counsels. If the Advocate knew of her and our

acquaintance—if I should please him by some of that “discretion” at

which his letter pointed—to what might not this lead! _In vain is the

net prepared in the sight of any fowl_, the Scripture says. Well, fowls

must be wiser than folk! For I thought I perceived the policy, and yet

fell in with it.

I was in this frame, my heart beating, the grey eyes plain before me

like two stars, when Andie broke in upon my musing.

“I see ye has gotten guid news,” said he.

I found him looking curiously in my face; with that there came before

me like a vision of James Stewart and the court of Inverary; and my

mind turned at once like a door upon its hinges. Trials, I reflected,

sometimes draw out longer than is looked for. Even if I came to

Inverary just too late, something might yet be attempted in the

interests of James—and in those of my own character, the best would be

accomplished. In a moment, it seemed without thought, I had a plan

devised.

“Andie,” said I, “is it still to be to-morrow?”

He told me nothing was changed.

“Was anything said about the hour?” I asked.

He told me it was to be two o’clock afternoon.

“And about the place?” I pursued.

“Whatten place?” says Andie.

“The place I am to be landed at?” said I.

He owned there was nothing as to that.

“Very well, then,” I said, “this shall be mine to arrange. The wind is

in the east, my road lies westward: keep your boat, I hire it; let us

work up the Forth all day; and land me at two o’clock to-morrow at the

westmost we’ll can have reached.”

“Ye daft callant!” he cried; “ye would try for Inverary after a’!”

“Just that, Andie,” says I.

“Weel, ye’re ill to beat!” says he. “And I was a kind o’ sorry for ye

a’ day yesterday,” he added. “Ye see, I was never entirely sure till

then, which way of it ye really wantit.”

Here was a spur to a lame horse!

“A word in your ear, Andie,” said I. “This plan of mine has another

advantage yet. We can leave these Hielandman behind us on the rock, and

one of your boats from the Castleton can bring them off to-morrow. Yon

Neil has a queer eye when he regards you; maybe, if I was once out of

the gate there might be knives again; these red-shanks are unco

grudgeful. And if there should come to be any question, here is your

excuse. Our lives were in danger by these savages; being answerable for

my safety, you chose the part to bring me from their neighbourhood and

detain me the rest of the time on board your boat: and do you know,

Andie?” says I, with a smile, “I think it was very wisely chosen.”

“The truth is I have nae goo for Neil,” says Andie, “nor he for me, I’m

thinking; and I would like ill to come to my hands wi’ the man. Tam

Anster will make a better hand of it with the cattle onyway.” (For this

man, Anster, came from Fife, where the Gaelic is still spoken.) “Ay,

ay!” says Andie, “Tam’ll can deal with them the best. And troth! the

mair I think of it, the less I see we would be required. The place—ay,

feggs! they had forgot the place. Eh, Shaws, ye’re a lang-heided chield

when ye like! Forby that I’m awing ye my life,” he added, with more

solemnity, and offered me his hand upon the bargain.

Whereupon, with scarce more words, we stepped suddenly on board the

boat, cast off, and set the lug. The Gregara were then busy upon

breakfast, for the cookery was their usual part; but, one of them

stepping to the battlements, our flight was observed before we were

twenty fathoms from the rock; and the three of them ran about the ruins

and the landing-shelf, for all the world like ants about a broken nest,

hailing and crying on us to return. We were still in both the lee and

the shadow of the rock, which last lay broad upon the waters, but

presently came forth in almost the same moment into the wind and

sunshine; the sail filled, the boat heeled to the gunwale, and we swept

immediately beyond sound of the men’s voices. To what terrors they

endured upon the rock, where they were now deserted without the

countenance of any civilised person or so much as the protection of a

Bible, no limit can be set; nor had they any brandy left to be their

consolation, for even in the haste and secrecy of our departure Andie

had managed to remove it.

It was our first care to set Anster ashore in a cove by the Glenteithy

Rocks, so that the deliverance of our maroons might be duly seen to the

next day. Thence we kept away up Firth. The breeze, which was then so

spirited, swiftly declined, but never wholly failed us. All day we kept

moving, though often not much more; and it was after dark ere we were

up with the Queensferry. To keep the letter of Andie’s engagement (or

what was left of it) I must remain on board, but I thought no harm to

communicate with the shore in writing. On Prestongrange’s cover, where

the Government seal must have a good deal surprised my correspondent, I

writ, by the boat’s lantern, a few necessary words, aboard and Andie

carried them to Rankeillor. In about an hour he came again, with a

purse of money and the assurance that a good horse should be standing

saddled for me by two to-morrow at Clackmannan Pool. This done, and the

boat riding by her stone anchor, we lay down to sleep under the sail.

We were in the Pool the next day long ere two; and there was nothing

left for me but to sit and wait. I felt little alacrity upon my errand.

I would have been glad of any passable excuse to lay it down; but none

being to be found, my uneasiness was no less great than if I had been

running to some desired pleasure. By shortly after one the horse was at

the waterside, and I could see a man walking it to and fro till I

should land, which vastly swelled my impatience. Andie ran the moment

of my liberation very fine, showing himself a man of his bare word, but

scarce serving his employers with a heaped measure; and by about fifty

seconds after two I was in the saddle and on the full stretch for

Stirling. In a little more than an hour I had passed that town, and was

already mounting Alan Water side, when the weather broke in a small

tempest. The rain blinded me, the wind had nearly beat me from the

saddle, and the first darkness of the night surprised me in a

wilderness still some way east of Balwhidder, not very sure of my

direction and mounted on a horse that began already to be weary.

In the press of my hurry, and to be spared the delay and annoyance of a

guide, I had followed (so far as it was possible for any horseman) the

line of my journey with Alan. This I did with open eyes, foreseeing a

great risk in it, which the tempest had now brought to a reality. The

last that I knew of where I was, I think it must have been about Uam

Var; the hour perhaps six at night. I must still think it great good

fortune that I got about eleven to my destination, the house of Duncan

Dhu. Where I had wandered in the interval perhaps the horse could tell.

I know we were twice down, and once over the saddle and for a moment

carried away in a roaring burn. Steed and rider were bemired up to the

eyes.

From Duncan I had news of the trial. It was followed in all these

Highland regions with religious interest; news of it spread from

Inverary as swift as men could travel; and I was rejoiced to learn

that, up to a late hour that Saturday it was not yet concluded; and all

men began to suppose it must spread over the Monday. Under the spur of

this intelligence I would not sit to eat; but, Duncan having agreed to

be my guide, took the road again on foot, with the piece in my hand and

munching as I went. Duncan brought with him a flask of usquebaugh and a

hand-lantern; which last enlightened us just so long as we could find

houses where to rekindle it, for the thing leaked outrageously and blew

out with every gust. The more part of the night we walked blindfold

among sheets of rain, and day found us aimless on the mountains. Hard

by we struck a hut on a burn-side, where we got bite and a direction;

and, a little before the end of the sermon, came to the kirk doors of

Inverary.

The rain had somewhat washed the upper parts of me, but I was still

bogged as high as to the knees; I streamed water; I was so weary I

could hardly limp, and my face was like a ghost’s. I stood certainly

more in need of a change of raiment and a bed to lie on, than of all

the benefits in Christianity. For all which (being persuaded the chief

point for me was to make myself immediately public) I set the door of

the church with the dirty Duncan at my tails, and finding a vacant

place sat down.

“Thirteently, my brethren, and in parenthesis, the law itself must be

regarded as a means of grace,” the minister was saying, in the voice of

one delighting to pursue an argument.

The sermon was in English on account of the assize. The judges were

present with their armed attendants, the halberts glittered in a corner

by the door, and the seats were thronged beyond custom with the array

of lawyers. The text was in Romans 5th and 13th—the minister a skilled

hand; and the whole of that able churchful—from Argyle, and my Lords

Elchies and Kilkerran, down to the halbertmen that came in their

attendance—was sunk with gathered brows in a profound critical

attention. The minister himself and a sprinkling of those about the

door observed our entrance at the moment and immediately forgot the

same; the rest either did not hear or would not hear or would not be

heard; and I sat amongst my friends and enemies unremarked.

The first that I singled out was Prestongrange. He sat well forward,

like an eager horseman in the saddle, his lips moving with relish, his

eyes glued on the minister; the doctrine was clearly to his mind.

Charles Stewart, on the other hand, was half asleep, and looked

harassed and pale. As for Simon Fraser, he appeared like a blot, and

almost a scandal, in the midst of that attentive congregation, digging

his hands in his pockets, shifting his legs, clearing his throat, and

rolling up his bald eyebrows and shooting out his eyes to right and

left, now with a yawn, now with a secret smile. At times, too, he would

take the Bible in front of him, run it through, seem to read a bit, run

it through again, and stop and yawn prodigiously: the whole as if for

exercise.

In the course of this restlessness his eye alighted on myself. He sat a

second stupefied, then tore a half-leaf out of the Bible, scrawled upon

it with a pencil, and passed it with a whispered word to his next

neighbour. The note came to Prestongrange, who gave me but the one

look; thence it voyaged to the hands of Mr. Erskine; thence again to

Argyle, where he sat between the other two lords of session, and his

Grace turned and fixed me with an arrogant eye. The last of those

interested in my presence was Charlie Stewart, and he too began to

pencil and hand about dispatches, none of which I was able to trace to

their destination in the crowd.

But the passage of these notes had aroused notice; all who were in the

secret (or supposed themselves to be so) were whispering

information—the rest questions; and the minister himself seemed quite

discountenanced by the flutter in the church and sudden stir and

whispering. His voice changed, he plainly faltered, nor did he again

recover the easy conviction and full tones of his delivery. It would be

a puzzle to him till his dying day, why a sermon that had gone with

triumph through four parts, should thus miscarry in the fifth.

As for me, I continued to sit there, very wet and weary, and a good

deal anxious as to what should happen next, but greatly exulting in my

success.