[Illustration: Cover art]
[Frontispiece: ALL ABOUT ROB WERE HOARSE CRIES, GROANS, EDDYING
SMOKE, AND THE ROAR AND CLATTER OF ARMS.]
MUCKLE JOHN
BY
FREDERICK WATSON
AUTHOR OF "SHALLOWS"
CONTAINING EIGHT FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS
IN COLOUR BY ALLAN STEWART
LONDON
ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK
SOHO SQUARE
Published September 1914
TO
MRS. STEPHEN WILLIAMSON
MY FATHER'S FRIEND
AND MINE
CONTENTS
CHAP.
FOREWORD
I. HOW PRINCE CHARLIE CAME TO INVERNESS
II. THE COMING OF MUCKLE JOHN
III. THE END OF THE JACOBITE CAUSE
IV. FRENCH GOLD
V. LOCH ARKAIG
VI. THE WATCHERS BY NIGHT
VII. BURIED TREASURE
VIII. FLIGHT
IX. THE TURN OF THE SCALES
X. THE LAST FLICKER
XI. A NARROW ESCAPE
XII. IN THE HANDS OF THE DUKE
XIII. MISS MACPHERSON COMES TO FORT AUGUSTUS
XIV. MUCKLE JOHN SHOWS HIS HAND
XV. "A MUIR-FOWL SNARED"
XVI. THE CAVE IN GLENMORISTON
XVII. THE HOLDING OF THE PASS
XVIII. THE WHISTLE OF THE BANSHEE
XIX. THE DANCE OF THE MACKENZIES
XX. AN UNWILLING ACCOMPLICE
XXI. THE CAPTURE OF LORD LOVAT
XXII. MISS MACPHERSON AND THE DUKE
XXIII. THE HOUSE OF THE FOUR MEN
XXIV. 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 (_see_ p. 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
CHAPTER I
HOW PRINCE CHARLIE CAME TO INVERNESS
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.