the rest of the corps was abroad for the second time, these three
companies were ordered to embark, in March 1748, to join the regiment
in Flanders. But the preliminaries of peace having been soon afterwards
signed, the order was countermanded, and they were reduced.
During the time that Campbell of Inverawe's company was occupied in the
unpleasant duty to which I have alluded, he had been on one occasion
compelled to march into the district of Lorn, and to burn and destroy
the houses and effects of a few small gentlemen, who were of that
resolute description that they would have sacrificed all they had,
and even life itself, rather than yield to what they held to be the
government of an usurper. Having been thus led to pursue his route,
in a certain direction, for many a mile, he happened, on his return,
to be detained behind his men by some accidental circumstance, and
having lost his way after night-fall, he wandered about alone for
several hours, until he became considerably oppressed with hunger and
fatigue. With the expectation of gathering some better knowledge of
his way, he left the lower grounds, where the darkness of night had
settled more deeply and decidedly down, and he climbed the side of a
hill with the hope of benefiting, in some degree, by the half twilight
which lingers longer upon these elevations, continuing to rest upon
them sometimes for hours after it has altogether deserted their lower
regions. With the dogged perseverance of one who labours on because he
has no other alternative, he blindly pursued his hap-hazard course in
a diagonal line along the abrupt face, always rising as he proceeded,
until his way became every moment more and more difficult. The side
of the hill became steeper and steeper at every step, until he began
to be satisfied that he had no chance of reaching its brow, except
by retracing his steps, in order to discover some other means of
ascending to it. To any such alternative as this he could by no means
make up his mind. He cursed his own folly for allowing his company to
march on without him. He uttered many a wish that he was with them. He
felt sufficiently convinced that he had acted imprudently in having
thus exposed himself alone, in the midst of a district which was
yet reeking with the vengeance which his duty had compelled him so
unwillingly to pour out upon it. But his courage was indomitable, and
his way lay onwards, and onwards he without hesitation resolved to go.
He had not proceeded far, until high cliffs began to rear themselves
over his head, whilst, from his very feet, perpendicular precipices
shot down into the deep night that prevailed below. The goat or deer
track that he followed became every moment more and more blocked
up with stony fragments, until at length it offered one continuous
series of dangerous steps, requiring his utmost care and attention
to preserve him from a slip or fall that might have been fatal.
Whilst he was thus proceeding, with his whole attention occupied in
self-preservation, he was suddenly challenged in Gaelic by a rough
voice in his front.
"Who comes there?"
"A friend," replied Inverawe, in the same language in which he was
addressed.
"I am not sure of that," said the same voice hoarsely and bitterly. "Is
he alone?"
"He is alone," said a voice a little way behind Inverawe; "We are
quite safe."
"Come on then, sir," said the voice in front, "you have nothing
to fear."
"Fear!" cried Inverawe, in a tone which implied that any such feeling
had ever been a stranger to him; "I fear nothing."
"I know you to be a brave man, Inverawe!" said the man who now appeared
in front of him. "Come on then without apprehension. You need not put
your hand into the guard of your claymore, for no one here will harm
you. But what strange chance has brought you here?"
"The loss of my way," replied Inverawe. "But how do you come to know
me so well?"
"It is no matter how I know you," replied the other. "It is sufficient
that I do know you, and know you to be a brave man, to whom, as such,
I am prepared to do what kindness I can. What are your wants then,
and what can I do for you?"
"My wants are, simply to find my lost way, and then to procure some
food, of which I stand much in need," replied Inverawe.
"Be at ease then, for I shall help you to both," replied the person
with whom he was conversing; "but methinks your last want requires
to be first attended to, as the most urgent; so follow me, and look
sharply to your footing." Then, speaking in a louder tone to some
individuals, who, though unseen, were posted somewhere in the obscurity
to the rear of Inverawe, he said, "Look well to your post, lads, I
shall be with you by and bye." And then again turning to Inverawe,
he added--"Come on, sir, you must climb up this way; the ascent is
steep, and you will require to use hands as well as feet. Goats were
wont to be the only travellers here, and even they must have been
hardy ones. But troublous times will often people the desert cliffs
themselves with human beings, and scare the very eagle from her aerie,
that she may yield her lodging to weary man."
Inverawe now began to clamber after his guide up a steep, tortuous,
and dangerous ascent, where in some places they were compelled to pull
up their bodies by the strength of their hands and arms. It lasted
for some time; and he of the Black Watch, albeit well accustomed to
such work, was beginning to be very weary of it, when at length they
landed on a tolerably wide natural ledge, where Inverawe perceived that
the cliffs that arose from the inner angle of it so overhung their
base as to render it self-evident that all farther ascent in this
direction was cut off by them. Rounding a huge fallen mass of rock,
which lay poised on the very edge of the precipice, they came suddenly
on a ravine, or rift, in the face of the cliff above, on climbing a
few paces up which, they discovered the low, arched mouth of a cave,
whence issued a faint gleam of light, and an odour of smoke. His
guide stooped under the projection of the cliff that hung over it, and
let himself down through the narrow entrance. Inverawe followed his
example without fear, and found himself in a cavern of an irregular
form, from ten to twenty feet in diameter. This he discovered partly
by the light of a fire of peats that smouldered near the entrance,
and partially filled the place with smoke, but more perfectly by a
torch of bog-fir which his guide immediately lighted. But he felt no
curiosity about this, in comparison with that which he experienced
in regard to the figure and features of his guide, with which he was
intensely anxious to make himself acquainted.
He was a tall and remarkably fine looking man, considerably below
middle age. He was dressed in a grey plaid and kilt, betokening
disguise, but with the full complement of Highland armour about
him. His hair hung in long black curls around his head. His face was
very handsome, his nose aquiline, his mouth small and well formed,
having its upper lip graced by a dark and well-trimmed moustache. His
eyes, and his whole general expression, were extremely benignant. After
scanning his face with great attention, Inverawe was satisfied
that he never had seen him before, and he had ample opportunity of
ascertaining the reverse, if it had been otherwise, for the man stood
with the bog-fir torch blazing in his hand, as if he wished to give
his guest the fullest advantage of it in his scrutiny of him, and then,
as if guessing the conclusion to which that scrutiny had brought him,
he at last began to speak.
"Aye," said he calmly, "you are right, Inverawe. Your eyes have
never beheld me until this moment. But I have seen you to my cost. I
was looking on all the while that you and your men were burning and
destroying my house, goods, and gear, this blessed morning, and I
can never forget you."
"I know you not, that is certain," replied Inverawe; "and the cruel
duty we were on to-day was so extensive in its operation, that I
cannot even guess whom you are."
"You shall never know it from me, Inverawe," replied the other.
"And why not?" demanded Inverawe.
"From no fear for myself," replied the stranger; "but because I would
not add to that remorse, which you must feel, from being compelled
to execute deeds which are as unworthy of you, as I know they are
contrary to your generous and kindly nature. I have suffered from
you deeply--deeply indeed have I suffered. But I look upon you but
as an involuntary minister of the vengeance of a cruel Government,
and perhaps as an agent in the hand of a just God, who would punish me
for those sins and frailties which are inherent in my human nature. I
blame not you, and I can have no feeling of anger against you, far
less of revenge. Give me, then, the right hand of fellowship."
"Willingly, most willingly!" said Inverawe, cordially shaking hands
with him. "You are a noble high-minded man; for certainly I can
imagine what your feelings might have very naturally been against me,
and I know that I am now in your power."
"All I ask, Inverawe, is this," continued the stranger; "that as I
have been, and will continue to be honourable towards you, you will
be the same to me; and in asking that, I know that I am asking what
is sure to be granted. The confidence in your honour which I have
shown by bringing you here, will not be betrayed."
"Never!" said Inverawe, with energy. "Never while I have life!"
"I know I can rely upon you," said the stranger; "and now let me
hasten to give you such refreshment as I possess. Sit down, I pray
you, as near to the ground as possible, you will find that the smoke
will annoy you less."
Inverawe did as his host had recommended, and, seating himself on some
heather which lay on the floor of the place, the stranger opened a
wicker pannier that stood in a low recess, and speedily produced from
it various articles of food, of no mean description, together with a
bottle of French wine, and, spreading the viands before his guest, he
seated himself by him, and they ate and drank together. They had little
conversation; and the stranger no sooner saw that Inverawe's hunger
was satisfied, than he arose, and proposed that he should now guide
him on his journey. Creeping from the hole, therefore, they descended
the crags together, with all that care which the steepness of the
declivity rendered necessary, until they came to the spot where they
had first encountered each other, and then the stranger began to guide
Inverawe onwards in the same direction he had been formerly pursuing.
They had not proceeded far, until they were challenged by voices among
the rocks, showing that his host's place of retreat was protected
by sentinels in all quarters. His guide answered the challenge, and
they then went on without molestation. After about an hour's walk
over very rugged ground, during which they wound over the mountain,
and threaded their way through various bogs and woods, that completely
bewildered Inverawe, his guide suddenly brought him out upon a road
which he well knew, and then shaking hands with him, and bidding him
farewell, he dived again into the wood, and disappeared.
Inverawe rejoined his company at their night's quarters. They had
spent an anxious time, regarding him, during his absence, and they
were clamorous in their enquiries as to what had become of him. He
gave them an account of the circumstance of his losing his way; but he
told them not a syllable of his adventure with the stranger, resolving
that it should be for ever buried in his own bosom. There, however,
it produced many a thought; and often did he earnestly hope, that
chance might again bring him into contact with the man who had taken
so noble a revenge of him--to whom he felt as an honest bankrupt might
do towards his generous and forgiving creditor; and whose person and
features he had engraven so deeply on his recollection, to be embalmed
there amidst the warmest and kindliest affections of his heart.
It was soon after the disbanding of his company, that Campbell of
Inverawe returned to his own romantic territory, and to his ancient
castle, standing in the midst of beautiful natural lawns, surrounded
by wooded banks and knolls, lying at the north-western base of the
mighty Ben-Cruachan. Speaking in a general way, the country around
was thickly covered with oak and birch woods, giving double value,
both in point of beauty and utility, to the rich, glady pastures,
which were seen to spread their verdant surface to the sun, along
the course of the river Awe. Behind the grey towers of the building,
broken rocks arose here and there, in bare masses, in the direction of
the mountain,--whilst the blue expanse of Loch Etive stretched away
from the eye towards the north-east, as well as to the west. To the
south-west, the groves, and grassy slopes, were abruptly broken off
by the perpendicular crags of the romantic ravine through which the
river makes its way, to pour itself across the open haughs of Bunawe,
and into Loch Etive. To sketch out the remainder of the neighbourhood,
so that you may be fully aware of the nature of the country, which was
the scene, where one of the most important circumstances of my tale
took place, I may add, that about a mile above the ravine, the river
has its origin from a long narrow arm of Loch Awe, which presents one
of the most romantic ranges of scenery in Scotland. The lake in the
bottom, is there every where about eighty or an hundred yards wide
only; and whilst a bare, rocky mountain front, furrowed by many a
misty cataract, rises sheer up out of the water on its western side,
the steep, lofty, and rugged face of Cruachan shuts it in on the
eastern side, forming the grand and wild pass of Brandera. Here the
mountain exhibits every variety of picturesque form,--of prominent
crag, and half-concealed hollow, among which the grey mists are
continually playing and producing magical effects; together with
deep torrent beds, and innumerable waterfalls, thundering downwards
unseen, save in glimpses, amid the thick copse which, generation
after generation, has sprung from the stools of those giant oaks,
which were once permitted to rear their spreading heads, and to throw
their bold arms freely abroad, athwart the rocky steeps that rear
themselves so high up above, as to be softened by distance and air,
till they almost melt from human vision.
Having thus put you in possession of the scenery, I shall now proceed
to tell you, that Campbell of Inverawe, after his long absence from
home on military duty, felt all the luxury of enjoyment which these
his own quiet scenes could bestow, and his mind expanding to all
his old friendships, he largely exercised all the hospitalities of
life. Frequently did he fill the hall of his fathers with gay and
merry feasters, and his own hilarious disposition, always made him
the very soul of the mirth that prevailed among them.
On one occasion, it happened that he had congregated a large party
together. The wine circulated freely. The fire bickered on the hearth,
and threw a cheerful blaze over the walls of the hall, reddening the
very roof, and gleaming on the warlike weapons that hung around. The
wine was good,--the jests were merry,--and the conversation sparkling,
so that the guests were as loath to depart as their kind host was
unwilling to let them go. His lady had retired to her chamber--but
still they sat on, making the old building ring again with their jocund
laughter. But all things must have an end. The parting cup, to their
host's rooftree, was proposed by a certain young man called George
Campbell, and it was filled to the brim. But as all were on their
legs to drain it, with heart and good will, to the bottom,--a rattling
peal of thunder rolled directly over their heads. There was not a man
of them that did not feel that the omen was appalling. Some hardy
ones tried to laugh it off, as a salvo from heaven in homologation
of their good wishes to the house of Inverawe. But the pleasantry
went ill down with the rest. Servants were called for,--horses were
ordered, and out poured their owners to mount them,--when they were
all surprised to see the heavens quite serene and tranquil. But not
a word of remark was ventured by any one on this so very strange a
circumstance. Their hospitable entertainer saw every man of them take
his stirrup cup; and they galloped away, one after the other.
After they were all gone, Inverawe paced about in the court-yard for
some time, in sombre thought, which stole involuntarily upon him. He
then sought his way up stairs, and lifting an oaken chair towards
the great hearth, where the billets had by this time begun to burn
red, and without flame, he sat down in it for a while, listlessly to
ponder over the events of the evening. The weary servants had gladly
stolen away to bed, and the whole castle was soon as silent as the
grave. Not a sound was to be heard within the walls, but the dull,
drowsy buzzing of a large fly, which the flickering light of a solitary
lamp, left on the table, had prevented from retiring to some cranny of
repose. The master of the mansion smiled for a moment, as the whimsical
idea crossed him, that this tiny insect was perhaps the only thing
of life, which, at that time, kept watch with him within the castle.
Inverawe's thoughts reverted to the last toast which had been given by
his young friend Campbell, and the strange circumstances by which it
had been accompanied. He had an only son, called Donald, a promising
young man, who was the prop of his house, and to whose future career
in life he looked forward with all a father's anxiety. He had been
long accustomed to weave a silken tissue of anticipated happiness,
and honours, for the young man, and to view him, in his mind's eye, as
the father of many generations to come. The youth was at that time from
home; and this was the very first moment of his life that the notion
of there being any chance of his being one day left childless, had ever
occurred to him. He tried to shake off these gloomy presentiments, but
still they returned, and clung to him, with a force and pertinacity
that no reason could conquer. He would fain have risen to go to his
chamber, but he felt as if some powerful, though unseen hand, had
held him down to his chair,--and he continued to sit on, absorbed in
contemplative musings on these gloomy and painful dreams, till the
billets on the hearth had consumed themselves to their red embers.
Suddenly all such thoughts were put to flight from his mind. He
distinctly heard the great outer door of the castle creak upon its
hinges. He remembered, that although he had not locked it, he had shut
it behind him when he came in. It now banged against its doorway, and
sent a hollow sound echoing up the long turnpike stair. Faint, quick,
and stealthy footsteps, were then heard ascending. One or two other
doors were moved in succession. The footsteps approached with cautious
expedition. And as Inverawe listened with breathless attention,
the door of the hall was thrust open,--a human countenance appeared
for an instant in the dusky aperture--and then a man, with a naked
dirk in his hand,--his clothes dripping wet--his long hair hanging
streaming over his shoulders, and half veiling his glaring eyes, and
pale and haggard countenance, rushed in, and made straight up to him.
Inverawe started to his feet, drew his dirk, and prepared to defend
himself from this unlooked for attempt at assassination. But ere he
had well plucked it forth from its sheath, the intruder assumed the
attitude of a suppliant.
"For mercy's sake pardon my unceremonious entrance, Inverawe!" said
the stranger, in a hollow, husky, and exhausted voice. "And be
not alarmed, for I come with no hostile intention against you or
yours. I am an unfortunate wretch, who, in a sudden quarrel, have
shed the blood of a fellow-creature. He was a man of Lorn. I have been
hotly pursued by his friends, and though I have thrown those who are
after me considerably out, during the long chase they have kept up,
yet they are still pressing like blood-hounds on my track. To baffle
them, if possible, I threw myself into the river, and swam across it,
and I now claim that protection, and that hospitality, which no one
ever failed to find within the house of Inverawe."
"By Cruachan!" cried Inverawe, sheathing his dirk, and slapping it
smartly with the open palm of his hand. "By Cruachan, I swear that
you shall have both!"
Now, I must tell you, that this was considered as the most solemn
pledge that a Campbell of Inverawe could give. Their war-cry was,
"Coar-a-Cruachan," that is, "Help from Cruachan." And this expression
had a double meaning, inasmuch as the word Cruachan had reference both
to the mountain of that name, and to the hip where the dirk hung. To
swear by Cruachan, therefore, and to strengthen the oath by slapping
the dirk with the open palm, was to utter an oath, which must, under
all circumstances, be for ever held inviolable.
"But tell me," said Inverawe, "how happened this unlucky affair?"
"We were all met to make merry at a wedding," replied the stranger,
"when, as I was dancing with---- But hold!--I hear voices! They
approach the castle! I am lost if you do not hide me immediately."
"This way," said Inverawe, leading him to a certain obscure part of
the hall. "Aid me to lift this trap.--Now, down with ye and crouch
there.--They come."
Inverawe had barely time to drop the trap-door into its place,
to resume his seat at the fire, and to affect to be in a deep
sleep, when the voices and the sound of human footsteps were
heard ascending the stairs. Three men entered the hall in reeking
haste--claymores in hand. They rushed towards the fire-place, where
he was sitting. Inverawe started up as if just awaked by the noise
they made, and drew his dirk, as if to defend himself from their
meditated attack.
"Ha!" cried he, with well-feigned surprise. "Assassins: Then must I
sell my life as dearly as I can."
"Not assassins!" cried they. "We are not assassins, Inverawe. We
crave your pardon for this apparently rude intrusion, but we are in
pursuit of an assassin. We come to look for a man who has murdered
another. Have we your permission to search for him?"
"Certainly," said Inverawe, "wherever you please."
"He cannot be here," said one of the men. "I told you that he could
not be here. Don't you see plainly that he could not have come in
here without awaking Inverawe. We lose time here. We had better on
after our friends."
"Depend on't he has run up Loch Etive side," said another of them.
"What are all these wet foot-steps on the floor?" said the first
of them that spoke. "He might have been here without Inverawe's
knowledge."
"Don't you see that Inverawe has had a feast, and that wine, and water,
and whisky too, have been flowing in gallons in all directions?" said
the second man. "See there is a large pool of lost liquor. I verily
believe that some of these footsteps are my own, made this moment,
by walking accidentally through it. I tell you he never could have
come here."
"It is true that I have had a feast," said Inverawe, carelessly,
"as you may see from the wrecks of it that still remain on the table."
"I told you so," said the second man. "We only lose time here. If
you had only been guided by my counsel we might have been hard at
his heels by this time, as well as the rest."
"Haste, then, let us go!" said the first man.
"Away! away!" cried his companions, and, without waiting for farther
parley, they rushed out of the hall, and Inverawe heard with some
satisfaction, their footsteps hurrying down stairs, and the shouts
which they yelled forth after their companions, growing fainter
and fainter, until they were altogether lost in the direction of
Loch Etive.
Inverawe was no sooner certain that they were fairly gone, without
all risk of returning, than he proceeded, in the first place, to
secure the outer door of the castle, and then returning to the hall,
he went to the trap-door, and calling softly to the man concealed
below it, he desired him to aid him in raising it, by applying his
strength to force it upwards, and thus their united strength enabled
them speedily to open it, and to lift it up.
"Come forth now, unfortunate man," said Inverawe; "your pursuers
are gone."