FRENCH GOLD
A thin moon was drifting above the scattered clouds when Muckle John
and Rob reached the head of a wild and desolate glen in Stratherrick,
and here for the first time since their flight from Culloden they
drew rein and alighted. So stiff and weary was Rob that his
companion was compelled to lift him down, and lay him in the heather.
The horse, utterly done, stood with his head hanging forlornly, and
the sweat dripping from his neck upon the heather. Few horses would
have carried them both so gallantly.
Muckle John had long since discarded his English wig and coat. He
stood in his shirt and with his hair fluttering in the night wind
regarding with sombre eyes the blinking lights of a house down the
valley, a square white house two stories high. Twice during the
brief halt a man had crept out of the encircling darkness and
scrutinized them narrowly. There was no sound beyond the wind
sighing amongst the corries, but each time Muckle John had seen the
heather quiver before something noiseless and stealthy that
disappeared as softly as it had come. Once from far up the hill he
heard a long whistle like a curlew on the wing.
At last he turned his head and let his eyes rest on Rob, and then
again upon the grey horse with its drooping head. With a faint shrug
of his shoulders he shook the boy.
"Rob," said he, "do you ken yon house?"
With a groan Rob struggled up.
"Gortuleg House," he replied, "I know it well."
Muckle John of a sudden turned his head and raised his hand for
silence.
From far away along the track they had come was a sharp click-clack
like the rattle of a loose stone on a horse's hoof.
"Ye hear, Rob," he whispered, "there'll be few abed to-night. Come
away, boy, this is a daft-like place to be found in."
From up the hill came the mournful whistle once again. It was
answered by another far down the glen.
"The place is hotching with Frasers," he muttered, lifting Rob upon
the horse, "and where the Frasers are a man must feel his way, saving
your presence, Rob."
"They are our friends," said Rob stoutly, "and my people."
"I'm no denying it--though maybe ye had safer speak for yersel', Rob,
but to-day will end many a friendship, and I'm no trusting Lochiel
himsel' until I'm clear of this business."
Nearer they drew to the lights of Gortuleg House, but the closer they
came the more cautious grew Muckle John, feeling his way with
immoderate care, and with a hand upon the horse's nostrils for fear
of a whinny. To the rear of the house there stood a wall with a few
stunted fruit-trees in an orchard. In the same anxious silence
Muckle John hitched the bridle to a branch and lifted Rob down.
"Bide here," he whispered, "until I come, and if any one speaks to
you say that you're waiting upon Lord Lovat."
"Lord Lovat?"
"Who else?"
"But is he here?"
"Man Rob, I've no time to teach you elements of common sense. If ye
see a wheen corbies driving across the sky what do ye ken?"
"That there's carrion," said Rob to humour his temper.
"And if ye see muckle muir-fowl cowering among the heather?"
"A hawk."
"You're doing finely, Rob;" he paused and leaning nearer added in a
whisper, "I am no sure but that the hawk is nearer than ye think..."
and with that he was gone, leaving Rob beneath the shadow of the
broken masonry.
Barely five minutes had passed before the thud of horses' flying feet
came beating down the glen. The moon riding high in the sky glinted
on steel and silver, and at the commotion the door of Gortuleg House
opened and the figure of an old bent man was silhouetted in the
doorway, leaning upon a stick. He was a grotesque enough
spectacle--very ponderous and unwieldy, large-faced and ruddy and
with shifty, speeding eyes almost buried in a mass of flesh. He was
dressed in a loose coat, rough baggy breeches and stockings, with
large flat buckled shoes, and as he peered and craned his head he
tapped in a fever of impatience upon the flagged stone at the doorway.
A single ray of light made a yellow bar upon the open space in front.
Nearer and nearer came the racket of galloping horses--the jingling
of bits and scabbards--the hoarse shout of a man's voice, and into
the lit space plunged a powerful roan horse all dirty grey with foam
and spent mud. Upon its back there sat a young man rocking with
fatigue and with his head uncovered and his coat opened to the night
wind. The old man standing in the doorway shuffled forward a step
and laid a hand upon his bridle-reins.
"Who are ye?" he asked in a shrill querulous voice, "and what news do
you bring?"
For a long time there was no reply, and in the silence the candle in
the old man's hand fluttered desperately and went out.
"I am the Prince," said the man upon the horse in a dull voice as
though he were half dreaming, "I am the Prince and..." his voice
trailed into silence.
[Illustration: "I AM THE PRINCE," SAID THE MAN UPON THE HORSE.]
Round him in a half-circle the companions of that wild flight were
gathered--their faces looking very dim and white like the faces of
ghosts. For an instant the old man seemed to shrink into himself.
His great head drooped,--the hand that gripped the bridle fell with a
low thud against his side. But only for an instant. There was
within that disease-racked body an energy that defied the penalties
of age.
"Dhia gleidh sinn," he cried harshly, "are you tongueless all of you?
Come--come in--would you sit glooming there all night? Your
Highness," he said, breaking off and looking up again, "this is a wae
meeting and like to be our last...."
"You are Lord Lovat," said the Prince with more life in his voice.
"It is a name," the old man replied, with a sudden twisted grin,
"that I would I could disown."
A few gillies had gathered about the horsemen, and when they had
dismounted their tired beasts were led away to an outhouse, and the
whole party followed Lord Lovat within.
Inside the room where they made their way a great fire was burning.
A table stood in the centre, upon which was a bottle of claret and
some glasses. He had waited news for hours back.
In the firelight Lord Lovat regarded his visitors with sour
displeasure. Now that the news of Culloden had come, and the first
biting terror over, he resumed his habitual demeanour of inscrutable
cynicism. He congratulated the Prince on arriving so soon, and
poured out his glass of wine--he asked the names of the various
gentlemen with him and expressed polite ignorance when he was
informed, only remarking that he had always admired Irishmen because
they took so much interest in other people's affairs. And all the
time he was cursing his utter folly for having supported the Jacobite
cause and plotting, plotting, plotting in his inmost mind what was
the safest course to take.
Only once did his self-possession desert him, and that was when the
Prince said to Sir Thomas Sheridan that they must make for the Isles.
"Make for the Isles," he cried, glaring at them like an aged
wolf-hound, "what sort of talk is that? Will you desert us all and
not make a stand in the hills? What is one defeat? You must make
terms, sir, or you'll have more to answer for than ever your father
had."
"It is no good," replied the Prince dejectedly.
"Oh, why," cried Lovat, trembling with fury and vexation, "did ye
come and ruin us at all?"
At that they tried to soothe him, telling him that he had taken no
part--that he was an old man--that he could hide for a season. To
all of which Lovat shook his great head. He never deceived himself.
"More than that," went on the Irishman, Sheridan, pacing up and down
before the open window, "all is not lost. The clans will assemble
again, and French gold is even now on its way. Gold," he added,
"will unite us again as quick as honour."
He smiled, little guessing how far he erred in that while Lovat
listened absently.
"French gold," he repeated, "and how can they land gold now?"
"They make for Lochnanuagh," replied Sheridan, "and...." but the
Prince broke in:
"Come, gentlemen," he cried, "let us to horse. We must reach
Invergarry before dawn. There is no sleep for us yet awhile..." and
he raised his harassed eyes to the cold sky. "My lord," he said, a
moment later, taking Lovat by the hand, "do not give way to
despair--we are not beaten yet."
But the melancholy tone in which he sought to cheer the old man went
like a chill to their hearts, and brought the old satirical grin to
Lovat's mouth.
"Farewell," replied the old man with all the natural dignity that
neither age nor dishonour could rob him, "I doubt we shall never meet
again."
At that they all rose, and after shaking him by the hand passed down
the stairs. He accompanied them to the door and stood with no
further word while they mounted their beasts. The gillies letting
the reins, fell back into the night leaving him alone. He took off
his hat, but made no other sign.
Of a sudden in the cold night there rang a wild tumult of horses'
hoofs and they were gone as they had come.
For long Lord Lovat stood in the doorway listening, with his eyes
upon the black way they had taken, and then shivering violently he
turned and stumbled upstairs.
Out in the darkness Muckle John crept from the shadows. He had heard
all or nearly all. He looked all around him and then stared at the
upper window of Gortuleg. He could see the vast shadow of Lovat
seated by the table waiting his fate. For a few minutes he stood
pondering the situation, then on tiptoe he crossed the track and
opened the door. Closing it gently, he made his way up the narrow
stairs. The door to the room where Lovat sat was open. He halted in
the passage and looked in.
On a chair before the empty fire-grate sat the old man, his eyes
fixed upon the floor, his legs crossed his fingers intertwined. His
lips were moving ceaselessly, and once he frowned like a man frowns
to himself who is uncertain just what course to take.
At last he rose and made his way across the room and to a strong box
heavily clasped. This he unlocked and opened, extracting a heap of
documents and letters and laying them upon the table. Then setting
fire to the peats, he began to turn over the stuff, throwing some
into the flames and putting some back again into the box.
"A braw night to you," said Muckle John, standing full in the
doorway. The paper the old man held between his fingers fluttered
gently upon the floor. Over his face there travelled a grey tinge as
though he had grown of a sudden very old or ill. But he never moved
nor did he say anything.
Entering the room, Muckle John closed the door, and walking towards
the fire set about warming his hands in the coolest manner
imaginable. Then taking off his great coat he laid it over the
window.
"On such a night," he said, "it is better to do things quickly, my
lord, and privately."
The old man answered nothing. He seemed struck dumb with fear, or
rage, or some kindred emotion.
"I take it from your little preparations that you know how things
stand."
"I was looking through some old rubbish," said Lovat more at his ease.
"I know what sort of rubbish," replied Muckle John, extracting a
letter before the old man could check his hand, "how would this
sound, eh? It's no what we might call cordial to Geordie."
"I am an old sick man," said Lovat, with a suspicion of whining,
"scarce able to read or write. My memory is near gone and my
faculties all amiss. What do you want with me? It is late and I
have much to do."
"Perhaps your lordship will remember Castleleathers, who was once
your good friend."
"What of him?"
"He did me a service abroad. Yesterday I was with him in Inverness.
He told me much about you, my lord--and your promises."
Lovat shrugged his shoulders.
"It is easy to listen to one side of a matter," he replied tartly.
"Castleleathers is a fool--I have never suffered fools gladly."
"Even you make mistakes sometimes, my lord."
The fear of capture took Lovat by the throat.
"Aye," he gulped, "but this is no time to quarrel. Let bygones be
bygones. I did ye a wrong long since, I'll allow, but surely ye can
forgive and forget?"
"No," said Muckle John, "I never forgive nor forget."
"Then what is it you want--is it my life--there is little enough of
that to take--or is it money--I have a few guineas?"
"It is none of these. If I wanted your life I would set the red
coats on you. But they will need no guidance of mine. I want to
know where the gold is to be landed that is coming from France."
"Oho," cried Lovat, "so that's how the wind blows, is it?" and he
remained deep in thought for a while.
"Will you do something if I tell ye?" he asked cunningly.
"Maybe and maybe no."
Lovat moistened his dry lips.
"There are sore times coming," he said in his husky voice, and
speaking in Gaelic for the first time, "and I am not what I was.
There may be folk who will swear black is black instead of white--you
will be taking my meaning? Were I to fall into the hands of the
Government it might go badly with me. But there are ways...."
"And they?"
"I have not taken arms, though my son has. They would never harm him
being a mere boy, but they might forgive his old father should he
hand him over. It must happen one way or the other. But I cannot
lay hands on him. What would you say to that? It is for the boy's
good--"
"Impossible--you are pleased to insult me."
"Then what will you do should I tell you?"
"I will not dispatch these letters to the Duke of Newcastle."
A sickly grey colour crept into Lovat's cheeks.
"You would--you would?" he gasped. "You would play into English
hands, you would sell me?"
"There was an occasion," said Muckle John, coolly, "when you nearly
did the same to me."
"Long ago--long ago."
"In the year 1728 to be exact."
Lovat's eyes flickered over the strong box and back again.
"How did ye know there was treasure?" he said, to make time.
"You forgot to shut your window."
"You played eavesdropper?"
Muckle John sighed.
"The hour is late," he replied, meaningly.
"I am in your hands," said Lovat.
"Then tell me where the gold is to be landed. I could not catch the
name of the place."
The old man leant forward suddenly.
"It is on the coast of Knoidart," he replied.
"You swear it?"
"Such were the words that Sheridan said."
"It sounded unlike Knoidart, but I could not hear."
"It was Knoidart."
For long Muckle John tried to read truth or lies in his face. But
the expression of Lovat was guileless.
"If you have lied," said Muckle John at last, "I will hound you down."
Lovat gently drew the palms of his hands together.
"Why should I lie?" he said.
"Then good-bye, my lord, and look to your papers, for to-morrow will
bring dragoons and..."
"Enough," broke in Lovat, "I am not afraid."
He sat perfectly still until Muckle John had gone down the stairs,
then with a grim smile he set about sorting his papers.
"Knoidart," he chuckled, "it's little gold would remain in Knoidart."
Out in the night Muckle John stood deep in thought, then climbing
softly over the wall he reached Rob and the great grey horse.
"I must leave you for a while, Rob," he whispered, "but I'll return,
never fear, and keep watch for the bit tune--ye mind the way it
goes--" and he whistled a bar. "Keep on the top of the hills,
laddie, but mind the skyline, and never stir by day. It's advice
easily given but a weary business to follow," and putting his foot in
the stirrup he mounted and walked softly down the glen.
A great loneliness stole over Rob, left as he was in a country he
hardly knew, and with a throbbing wound, and a keen hunger on him.
Stealing round to the house he made his way to the hall, and hearing
no sound of human souls anywhere he entered the kitchen and happened
upon a plate of cold porridge. This he devoured, and re-entering the
hall he lay down before the fire and fell asleep.
Upstairs Lovat crouched before the fire. Hour after hour passed and
still he spelt out with his tired weak eyes the contents of one sheet
upon another. Once he nodded and a letter passed unread--a letter
that was to weigh in the scales against him later. For an hour he
slept altogether. But as the dawn was creeping back over that
stricken country, the day following Culloden found him still bending
with a haggard countenance over his correspondence, every letter of
which might bring him to the scaffold.
At dawn on the same morning that saw the Prince speeding westward and
Muckle John upon the road, before the moon had sunk behind the hills,
Rob Fraser stole out of the hall and made his way into the open air.
Already rumours were drifting through the village that the English
were on the march towards Gortuleg, and all who were suspected of
having taken arms for the Prince would be summarily dealt with, and
their houses given to the flames.
Round the premises of Gortuleg dwelt the same melancholy silence as
on the night before. Every living thing seemed to have fled. The
very kennels were empty. Only one shaggy Highland pony whinnied in
the desolate stable, hungry and alone.
A grey mist was driving down the glen, and a thin drizzle of rain had
set in with the coming day.
As Rob peered up at the windows wondering what had befallen, he
caught for an instant a pair of eyes fixed upon him, and heard a
noise of shuffling feet. Coming from that deserted place it sounded
so dreary that he was near taking to his heels. Before he could
move, however, the huge bulk of Lord Lovat loomed into the shadowy
doorway. Leaning heavily upon his stick with hunched shoulders, and
a face unshaved and the grey colour of chalk, he stood with muttering
lips. Then shuffling forward a step he stared blankly at Rob like a
man whose thoughts are far away on another errand.
"What o'clock is it?" he rasped at last; and pulling off his wig,
patted it idly, and rammed it again upon his head.
"Six o'clock, your lordship," said Rob, in a great awe of him.
"Six o'clock!" He frowned suddenly, looking all around him with
pursed lips. "Where are my servants?" he cried. And when no answer
came he quoted a scrap of Latin, and chuckled as though the context
tickled him.
"Well, well," said he at last, "and who are you, boy?"
"Rob Fraser, sir."
"Thank ye," he snarled, speaking in broad Scots; "but it's a name as
common as muir-fowl hereabouts. Why are ye no with the Master, that
unscrupulous rebel, my son? Mind how I spoke of him, Rob, should
they ever dare to take me."
"I heard ye, my lord."
"Aye, and speak up for an old man, Rob, whose havers may be
misinterpreted, ye ken. What is it ye will answer, Rob?"
"That you called your son, the Master, an unscrupulous rebel," he
replied.
Lovat nodded his great head approvingly.
"Bonny it sounds. That'll make the House o' Peers sit up. We'll
carry it with silver hairs and injured innocence, Rob--an auld man,
my lords, near doited with years and sorrow."
He paused, and the look of fear twisted his features once again.
"It would look better to bide here," said he, in a mutter to himself,
and so, with a pinch of snuff, he turned towards the door again. But
a moment later he was back, and this time his limbs fairly shook with
fear.
"No, no!" he gasped, one gout swollen hand upon his breast. "I canna
wait here like an auld maimed dog. There are places I can bide until
arrangements can be made. Quick, boy--saddle a horse and let us go."
"The horses are all gone, my lord," said Rob.
"All gone? So that is how they treat me. Then we must walk until we
find one. Surely my people will help their chief."
"There is a pony, your lordship," cried Rob, and going to the stable
he led out the powerful little beast.
Shuffling back to the house, Lovat crept up the creaking stairway and
returned some minutes later with his strong box.
"Fasten it behind the saddle, Rob," he said, "or better still can I
trust ye to carry it?"
He stood for a moment glooming at the ground and then begun to hunt
amongst his pockets for a piece of paper which, when he had found it,
he read most carefully and tittered in a strange falsetto manner to
himself.
Then taking a silver whistle from his waistcoat he blew it three
times and took to breathing upon his frozen fingers.
From the heather a hundred yards up the glen two men had risen at the
first note, and came running towards them--long-haired, ragged
gillies, Fraser by their tartan. They stood a little way from Lovat,
watching him like dogs ready for the trail. The frost of their night
watch stood upon their bonnets and their beards were stiff and
glistening. Waving Rob aside Lovat began to speak to them in a low
tone, but before he had said more than a dozen words his voice rose
to a scream through the influence of some private passion, and he
menaced them in Gaelic so that they quailed before his clenched fist.
But as suddenly his voice dropped and he caressed them, patting their
cheeks and then dismissing them, stood panting beside Rob--all the
fire gone--once more just an old sick man.
Very slowly he clambered upon the pony, and so they started and began
to pass the cluster of huts near Gortuleg. The frightened people
trooped out of their doors to see their chief go by, and a dozen
Frasers armed with muskets and swords gathered about him and trudged
in silence towards the west.
At the corner of the brae Lovat turned and looked back on Gortuleg.
Beneath his bullying, tyrannical, shifty character there was a kind
of bedrock of that highly coloured sentiment that is akin to
melodrama. He played to the gallery with infinite zest and genuine
enjoyment. It was a nice pose to combat the diminishing power of the
chieftainship--where force was a dangerous weapon, sentiment was
often a two-edged sword.
"Farewell," he said, in his deep voice and with honest tears in his
eyes, "for maybe I shall never see you again."
It did not matter that the house was not his, nor an imposing
habitation at the best of times. All that mattered was that he was
at the turn of the brae, going downward--an exiled chief. Fully
conscious that the setting was saga-like the clansmen set up a
piteous lamentation, and bowing his great head Lovat motioned them
on, and the journey continued. And in this fashion after many weary
hours they reached Loch Muilzie in Glenstrathfarar and for the time
being considered themselves in safety.
Far away, dimly discernible in that wilderness of heather, two men
were running like wolves on the trail--two men with dirks by their
sides, and death in their hearts--running tirelessly. On the
outskirts of the Fraser country they passed another man who was
watching the pass and without a word he joined them--three men
running in single file, bending double in open places--heading for
Knoidart.
Long after, when the sun was falling, Muckle John pulled in his horse
for the third time within an hour and listened intently. From the
drenched hillside a curlew was crying amongst the shadows, and from
up the hill came the clamour of a muir-fowl.
But no whisper of the danger that lurked unseen amongst the
silences--awaiting the night.
And then with troubled eyes he continued his way, taking cover where
he could, seeking a place of refuge.