Ian; "that's not to be boasted of now. The fruits of fighting for
him have been nothing but danger and starvation, so far as we have
gathered them; and now we have no prospect before us but the risk of
hanging. Methinks you would have shewn more wisdom if you had sent
this fellow away from your door. To have us three hunted men here,
is enough to make the place too hot, without bringing in another to
add to the fire."
"Never mind, Ian," said MacCallum; "why may we not make our own of
him? You know very well that John MacAllister told us that he could
make our peace, and save our lives, if we could only prove our loyalty
to the King, by bringing in a rebel or two."
"Very true," said Hamish; "and an excellent advice it was."
"Most excellent," said Ian; "and if we act wisely, and as I advise,
this fellow shall be our first peace-offering."
"Oh, boys, boys!" cried the old man; "would you buy your own lives
by treachery of so black a die?"
"Oh, life is sweet!" cried the old woman--"and the lives of my
bairns----"
"Hold your foolish tongue, woman!" interrupted the old man. "No, no,
boys! I'll never consent to it."
"Oh life is sweet! life is sweet!" cried the old woman again; "and
the lives of both my bonny boys--the life of Ian, the father of this
poor lassie!----"
"Oh, my father's life!" whimpered the little girl.
"This is no place to talk of such things," said the old man, leading
the way into the apartment at the opposite end of the house, to that
where John Smith was sleeping, and followed by all but Morag, who,
having slipped towards the door, to listen after he had closed it,
heard him say, "What made you speak that way before the stranger lass?"
"Who and what is she at all?" demanded Ian.
"A poor tired lass, weary with the long way she has been to see her
friends," said the old woman; "but she'll be gone very soon."
"If she does not go of her own accord, we must take strong measures
with her too," said Ian.
"God forgive you, boys, what would you do?" said the old man. "Let
not the Devil tempt you thus. Would you bring foul treason upon
this humble, but hitherto spotless shed of mine, by violating the
sacred rights of hospitality to a woman, and by giving up a man to an
ignominious death, who, upon the faith of it, is now soundly sleeping
under my roof, in the other end of the house? Fye, fye, boys! I tell
you plainly I will be a party to no such wickedness."
"So you would rather be a party to assist in hanging Hamish and me,
your own flesh and blood?" said Ian. "But you need be no party to
either; for we shall take all the guilt of this fellow's death upon
ourselves."
"You shall never do this foul treason, if I can prevent it," said
the old man, with determination.
"Poof!" said Ian, "how could you prevent us?"
"By rousing the man to defend himself," said the father rather
unguardedly.
"Ha! say you so?" cried Ian. "What! would you rouse up an armed man
to fight against your own children? Then must we take means to prevent
your so doing."
"Oh, Ian!" cried the old woman. "Oh, Hamish! Oh, boys! boys!"
"What! what! what boys!" cried the old man with great excitement,
whilst there was a sound of feet as of a struggle. "Would you lay
your impious hands upon your own father?"
"Oh, don't hurt poor granny!" cried the little girl, in the bitterest
tone of grief.
"Be quiet, I tell you, Kirstock!" cried Ian, in an angry tone. "Hold
out of my way, mother! We'll do him no harm! we are only going to
bind him that he may not interfere."
"Boys, boys!" cried the old man; "you have been tempted by the
Devil! There is no wonder that you should have seen him once to-night;
and I should not wonder if he was to appear to you again, for you
seem resolved to be his children, and not mine."
"Sit down--sit down quietly in this chair," said Ian; "sit down, I
say quietly, and let MacCallum put the rope about you. By the great
oath you had better!"
"Oh, boys!" cried the old woman; "Och, Hamish! Och, Ian."
Morag hardly waited to hear so much of this dialogue as I have given,
when she resolved to be the means, if possible, of saving the life
of the poor wounded man, whom the wretches had thus determined
so traitorously to give up to the tender mercies of the Duke of
Cumberland. She had her hand upon the door of the chamber where he
slept, in order to go in and rouse him, when she remembered that,
in this way, her own safety was almost certain to be compromised. She
therefore immediately adopted a plan, which she considered might be
equally effectual for her purpose as regarded the stranger, whilst
it would leave to herself some chance of escape. Slipping on tiptoe
to the outer door, she quietly opened it, and, letting herself out,
she moved quickly round the house, towards a little window belonging
to the room at that end of it, where she knew the wounded man was
lying. It consisted of two small panes of glass, placed in a frame
that moved inwards upon hinges. She put her ear to it, but no sound
reached her save that of deep snoring. Morag pushed gently against
the frame, and it yielded to the pressure. Having inserted her head,
and looked eagerly about, in the hope of descrying the sleeper, by
the partial stream of moonlight that was admitted into the place,
she could discover nothing but the heap of straw in the bedstead in
a dark corner, where, wrapped in a blanket, he lay so buried as to be
altogether invisible. She called to him, at first in a low voice, and
afterwards in a somewhat louder tone, till at length she awaked him.
"Who is there?" demanded he in Gaelic.
"Rise! rise, and escape!" said she, in a low but distinct voice,
and in the same language; "Your liberty! your life is in danger! Up,
up, and fly from this house!" Having said this, she retreated her
head a little from the window, to watch the effect of her warning,
so that the moon shone brightly upon her countenance, and completely
illuminated every feature of it.
There was a quick rustling noise among the straw, and then she heard
the slow heavy step of the man within. Suddenly a head was thrust
out of the window, and the moonbeam falling fully upon it, disclosed
to the terrified eyes of Morag, the features of John Smith--pale,
bloody, and death-like, with all the fearful appendages which he bore,
the whole combination being such as to leave not a doubt in her mind
that she beheld his ghost. With one shrill scream, which she could
not control, she vanished in a moment from before the window. John
Smith, filled in his turn with superstitious awe, as well as with
the strangeness of the manner in which he had been roused from the
deep sleep into which he had been plunged,--and struck by the well
known though hollow voice in which he had been addressed--the solemn
warning which he had received, and, above all, the distinct, though
most unaccountable appearance of Morag, with whose features he was
so perfectly acquainted--together with the wild and sudden manner in
which the vision had departed--all tended to convince him that the
whole was a supernatural visitation. For some moments his powers of
action were suspended; but steps and voices in the outer apartment
speedily recalled his presence of mind. He drew his claymore, summoned
up his resolution, and banging up the door with one kick of his foot,
he took a single stride into the middle of the floor. The fire was
still blazing, and it threw on his terrible figure the full benefit of
its light. The three villains having tied the old man into his chair,
and locked him and his wife and grandchild into the place where their
conference was held, had been at that moment preparing to steal in
upon the sleeping stranger. Suddenly they beheld the same apparition
which they had seen in the churchyard, burst from the very room which
they were about to enter. The threatening words of the old man recurred
to them all.
"Oh, the devil! the devil! the devil!" cried the terrified group,
and bearing back upon one another, they tripped, and, in one moment,
all their heels were dancing the strangest possible figures in the
air, to the music of their own mingled screams and yells. You will
easily believe, gentlemen, that John Smith tarried not a moment
to inquire after their bruises, but pushing up the outer door, and
slapping it to after him, he again pursued his way towards the farm
of the Pensassenach.
Winged by her fears, and in dreadful apprehension that the ghost
of John Smith was still following her, Morag flew with an unnatural
swiftness and impetus. She was quite unconscious of noticing any of
the familiar objects by the way; yet, by a species of instinct, she
reached home, in so short a time, that she could hardly believe her
own senses. But still in dreadful fear of the ghost, she thundered
at the door, and roared out to her mistress for admittance. The
kind-hearted Pensassenach had been sitting up in a state of the
cruellest anxiety regarding Morag, of whose intended expedition she
had received no inkling, nor had she been informed of her departure,
until long after she was gone. She no sooner heard her voice, and
her knock, than she hastened to admit her.
"Foolish girl that you are!" said she, "I am thankful to see you
alive. My stars and garters, what a draggled figure you are!--But
come away into this room here, and let me hear all you have to tell me
about the battle. The rebels were defeated, were they not?--eh?--Why,
what is the matter with the girl? she pants as if she was dying. Sit
down, sit down, child, and compose yourself; you look for all the
world as if you had seen a ghost."
"Och, och, memm!--och, hoch!" replied the girl very much appalled,
that her mistress should thus, as she thought, so immediately see
the truth written in her very face. "Och, hoch! an' a ghaist Morag
has surely seen. Has ta ghaist put her mark upon her face?--Och,
hoch! she'll ne'er won ower wi't!"
"The poor girl's head has been turned by the horrible scenes of
carnage she has witnessed," said the Pensassenach.
"Och, hoch!" said Morag, with her hands on her knees, and rocking to
and fro with nervous agitation; "terrible sights! terrible sights,
surely, surely!"
"Here, my poor Morag," said the Pensassenach, after she had dropped
into a cup a small quantity of some liquid nostrum of her own, from
a phial, hastily taken from a little medicine chest, and added some
water to it, "drink this, my good girl!"
"Och, hoch!" said Morag, after she had swallowed it; "she thinks she
sees ta ghaist yet."
"What ghost did you see?" demanded the Pensassenach.
"Och, hoch! Och, hoch, memm!" replied Morag, trembling more than ever;
"Shon Smiss ghaist; Shon Smiss, as sure as Morag is in life, an'
ta leddy stannin' in ta body tare afore her e'en."
"John Smith's ghost!" cried the Pensassenach. "Pooh, nonsense! But
again I ask you, how went the battle? The rumour is, that the rebels
have been signally defeated, and all cut to pieces."
"Och, hoch! is tat true?" said Morag, weeping. "Och, hoch, poor
Shon Smiss!"
"Did you not see the rout?" demanded the Pensassenach. "Did you not
witness the battle, and behold the glorious triumph of the royal army?"
"Och, hoch, no!" replied the girl. "Morag saw nae pattals, nor naesin'
but hearin' terrible shots o' guns, an' twa or sree red cotted sodgers
tat pursued her for her life."
"Well, well!" replied the Pensassenach; "Come now! tell me your
whole history."
Morag's nerves being now somewhat composed, she gave her mistress
as clear an outline as she could, of all that had befallen her. The
Pensassenach dropped some tears, to mingle with those which Morag
shed, when she recounted the evidence of John Smith's death, which
she felt to be but too probably true. But when she came to talk of
the ghost, she did all she could to laugh the girl out of her fears,
insisting with her that she had been deceived by terror and weakness,
and seeing how much the poor girl was worn out, she desired her to
take some refreshment, and to go to bed directly; and she had no
sooner retired, than the Pensassenach prepared to follow her example.
Morag, overcome with the immense fatigue she had undergone, had not
strength left to undo much more than half her dress, when she dropped
down on her bed, and fell over into a slumber. She had been lying
in this state for fully half an hour or more, during part of which
she had been dreaming of John Smith, mixed up with many a strange
incident, with all of which his slaughter, and his pale countenance
and bloody figure were invariably connected, when she was awaked by
a tapping at the window of her apartment, which was upon the ground
floor. She looked up and stared, but the moon was by this time gone
down, and all without was dark as pitch.
"Morag! Morag!" cried John Smith, who knowing well where she slept,
went naturally to her window to get her to come round and give him
admission to the house, and yet at the same time half doubting,
after the strange visitation which he had had, from what he
believed to be her wraith, that he could hardly expect to find her
alive. "Morag! Morag!" cried he again in his faint hollow voice.
"Och, Lord have mercy upon me, there it is!" cried Morag, in her native
tongue, and shaking from head to foot with terror. "Who is there?"
"Its me, your own Ian," cried John, in a tender tone. "Let me in,
Morag, for the love of God!"
"Och, Ian, Ian!" cried Morag. "Och, Ian, my darling dear Ian! are you
sure that it is really yourself in real flesh and blood?--for I have
got such a fright already this night. But if it really and truly be
you, go round to the door and I'll be with you in a minute. Och, och,
the Lord be praised, if it really be him after all!"
Trembling, and agitated with the numerous contrary emotions of hope,
fear, and joy, by which she was assailed, Morag sprang out of bed,
lighted her lamp, hurried on just enough of her clothes as might make
her decent in the eyes of her lover, and with her bosom heaving, and
her heart beating, as if it would have burst through her side, she
ran to unlock the outer door. Her lamp flashed on the fearful figure
without. She again beheld the horrible spectre which had so recently
terrified her, and believing that it was John Smith's ghost which
she saw, and that it had followed her home to corroborate the fatal
tidings she had heard regarding his death, which had been already so
much strengthened by her dreams, she uttered a piercing shriek, and
fainted away on the floor. The shriek alarmed the Pensassenach, who
was not yet in bed. Hastily throwing a wrapper over her deshabille,
she seized her candle, and proceeded down stairs with all speed, and
was led by John's voice of lamentation to the kitchen, whither he had
carried Morag in his arms, and where the lady found him tearing his
hair, or rather the heathery turf which then appeared to be doing
duty for it, in the very extremity of mental agony. It is strange
how the same things, seen under different aspects and circumstances,
will produce the most opposite effects. There being nothing now
about John Smith, or his actions, that did not savour of humanity,
but his extraordinary head-dress, the Pensassenach had no doubt that
it was the real bodily man that she saw before her, she perceived
nothing but what was powerfully ludicrous in his strange costume,
the absurdity of which was heightened by his agonizing motions and
attitudes, and exclamations of intense anxiety about Morag, whose
fainting-fit gave no uneasiness to a woman of her experience. The
Pensassenach laughed heartily, and then hurried away for a bunch
of feathers to burn under Morag's nose, by which means she quickly
brought her out of her swoon, and by a little explanation she speedily
restored her to the full possession of her reason. This accomplished,
the Pensassenach entirely forgot John Smith's wretched appearance, in
the eagerness of her inquiries regarding the result of the engagement.
"How went the battle, John?" demanded she. "We heard the guns,
but the cannonade did not last long. The victory was soon gained,
and it was with the right cause, was it not?"
"Woe, woe! Oich, oich!" cried John, in a melancholy tone, and shaking
his head in utter despair. "Oich, oich, her head is sore, sore."
"Very true, very true!" cried the compassionate Pensassenach. "I had
forgotten you altogether, shame on me! Ah! poor fellow, how bloody
you are about the face! You must be grievously wounded."
"Troth she be tat," said John Smith. "She has gotten a wicked slash
on ta croon, tat maist spleeted her skull. An' she wad hae peen dead
lang or noo an it had na peen for tiss ponny peat plaister tat she
putten tilt. Morag tak' her awa' noo, for she has toon her turn,
and somesing lighter may serve."
"Och, hoch, hoch, tat is fearsome," said Morag, after she had removed
the clod from John's head. "She mak's Morag sick ta vera sight o't."
"Oich, but tat be easy noo," said John. "Hech, she was joost like an
if she had been carryin' a' ta hill o' Lethen Bar on her head."
"Poor fellow, poor fellow!" cried the Pensassenach, "that is a fearful
cut indeed. But I don't think the skull is fractured. How and where
did you get this fearful wound?"
"Fare mony a petter man's got more," replied John, yielding up his
head into the affectionate hands of Morag, who was now so far recovered
as to be able to look more narrowly at it.
"Oich, oich, fat a head!" cried the affectionate and feeling girl,
shuddering and growing pale, and then bursting into an agony of tears,
as she looked upon his gaping wound. "Oich, oich, she'll never do
good more! She canna leeve ava, ava!"
"Tut, tut!" cried John, with a ghastly smile, that was meant to
reassure Morag. "Fat nonsense, tat Morag pe speak! An' she pe traivel
a' ta way hame so far, fat for wad she pe deein' noo tat she is
at hame?"
"Alas, poor fellow!" said the Pensassenach, as she was directing
Morag to bind up his head, "I wish I may be able to make this your
home. After all our losses and sufferings for our loyalty by those
marauding rascals, three days ago, we shall next run the risk of
being punished for harbouring a rebel. But no matter. Happen what may,
you have large claims upon me, John, and as long as Morag can conceal
you here you shall be safe. You have been so short a time away that
few people can be aware of it, and still fewer can know the cause of
your absence."
What the Pensassenach said was true, for as most of her people had run
away when the Highland party appeared, there were few who certainly
knew the cause of John Smith's absence, and those few who did know
were not very likely to tell any thing about it. Trusting to this,
she gave out that she had sent him after the rebels, to keep an eye on
her husband's horses, and to endeavour to recover them if he could,
and that, in making this attempt, he had received his wound. To give
the better colour to this story, she called her people together, and
offered a handsome reward to such of them as would go immediately and
try to find and bring back the horses, telling them that John Smith
could describe to them whereabouts they were most likely to fall in
with them, he having, at one time, actually got possession of most of
them, but that they had escaped from him, having been scared away by
the thundering of the artillery. But not a man of them would venture
upon such a search among the gibbets, where, as they were told,
so many of their murdered countrymen were still hanging, and where,
without much inquiry or ceremony, any one who might go on such an
errand might be tucked up to swing in company with them. Every hour
increased this terror, by bringing accounts of fresh executions, and
indeed the fears of the Pensassenach's men turned out to be by no means
groundless, for it is a truth but too well known, that many innocent
servants who were sent to seek their master's horses never returned.
The Pensassenach did not suffer for her kindness in thus protecting
John Smith; and she and her husband were ultimately no losers from the
havoc which the Highlanders committed on their farm. Their damage was
reported to the Duke of Cumberland, and the lady's conduct having been
highly extolled, as that of a very loyal Englishwoman, who had been
thus persecuted for the open expression of her sentiments, the most
ample remuneration was assigned to her by the government.
John Smith, nursed as he was by Morag, soon recovered. After he was
quite restored to health, he only waited until he could scrape a little
money together to enable him to furnish a cottage, ere he should make
her his wife. The penetration of the Pensassenach soon enabled her
to discover how matters stood between them, and she found means to
make all smooth for them in the manner which was most flattering to
John, that is, by presenting him with a very handsome purse of money,
as a reward for the eminent services he had rendered her. John was
so proud of the purse that he did not know whether most to value
it or the gold pieces it contained, and much as he loved Morag,
and eager as he was for their union, he had some doubt whether he
could ever bring himself to part, even with one of those pretty
pieces which he so respected for the Pensassenach's sake. And,
alas, as it so happened, he was never called upon to spend them as
it was intended they should have been spent. Fain would I have made
my story end happily, gentlemen; but, as I am narrating a piece of
actual history, I must be verawcious. John had made all preparation
for their marriage, when, alas, Morag was seized with some acute
complaint about the region of the heart and lungs, which all the
medical attendants that the Pensassenach could command could not
fathom or relieve. John watched her with the tenderest and most
unremitting solicitude. But it pleased God that his unwearied care
of her, should not be blessed with the same happy result, which hers
had been with regard to him, for after a long and lingering illness,
poor Morag died on the very day she should have been his bride. The
probability was, that the unheard of fatigue of body, and agitation
of mind, which she underwent during her heroic expedition in search
of her lover, had produced some fatal organic change within her.
John Smith was inconsolable for the loss of Morag. For some time he
was more like a walking clod than a man. Even the kind attempts of
his master and mistress to rouse him were unavailing. When at length
he was able to go about his usual duties on the farm, to do which his
honest regard for his employer's interest stimulated him, he suffered
so much mental agony from the painful recollections which every object
around him suggested to his mind, that he felt he could no longer go
rationally about his master's affairs. Being at last convinced that he
was in danger of falling into utter and hopeless despair, he came to
the resolution of enlisting in the army, and having once formed this
determination, he went through a very touching scene of parting with
the kind Pensassenach and her husband, and shouldering his small kitt,
he went and joined the gallant Forty-Second, then the Black Watch. He
served with distinguished approbation in all the actions in which that
brave corps was in his time engaged. He was made a serjeant at Bunker's
Hill; and after time had in some degree assuaged his affliction, he
married a very active, intelligent, and economical woman, with whose
aid he undertook to keep the regimental mess. John could neither read
nor write, and he always spoke English imperfectly. But his clever wife
enabled him to carry on the business for so many years, with so much
credit to himself, and so successfully, that he ultimately retired with
her at an advanced period of life, with the enjoyment of his pension,
and such an accumulation of fortune as made him perfectly comfortable.