A NARROW ESCAPE
Now when Muckle John had heard the voice of Macaulay--or, to give him
his real name, Captain Strange--approaching the tent, he had moved
ever so slightly backward and loosened his dirk. The inevitable had
happened, and he had played with fire too long. And so, when the
officer hurried out to meet the new arrival, he did a number of
things very quickly.
But the first was the cutting of the canvas farthest from the
entrance. Then with a dive he was through, and with the tent between
him and his enemies.
To the right of him, about a hundred yards distant, was a sentry,
standing with his back turned, looking towards the hill opposite. On
his left again were a group of red-coats off duty and playing cards.
To cross the open space and reach the slope unseen would seem
impossible, and yet Muckle John did it, and what is more, took two
hours about it, which in a period of acute danger might seem
leisurely travelling.
What his quick eyes fell upon first was a horse grazing thirty yards
away. But that he put out of his mind as too hazardous a risk.
About half that distance away, however, a tussock of hay was lying--a
loosely bound pile about eight feet long and four broad.
When Muckle John saw that he breathed again, and taking off his hat,
he hurled it in the direction of the hay, then waited patiently.
Fortunately, no one saw it skim into the air and drop upon the ground.
By this time Strange had roused the officer's indignation and then
his alarm. He did exactly what any ordinary man would have done in
the circumstances. He dashed into the tent--he saw the tear and
peered quickly through it. But Muckle John was round the flap and
unseen. Then, realizing that his late guest had bolted, he darted
through the door of the tent again, and bawled the order to arms.
At that Muckle John moved like lightning. He did not dash for the
tussock of hay; he knew that such an obvious place of refuge would
attract them first. He quite softly re-entered the tent through the
slit, and, crawling under the bedding on the floor, he watched the
scurrying soldiers outside with keen and calculating eyes.
Half a dozen, headed by Campbell, charged the hay and turned it over
and over. Then Strange, not satisfied with that, drove his sword
into the midst of it, and poked and jabbed with extraordinary
determination, at which Muckle John smiled and lay still. He had not
to wait long, however, for the inevitable discovery of his hat sent
them post-haste towards the heather and the rough country beyond, and
saved a closer search nearer home, which was just what Muckle John
had feared and planned to prevent.
Away went the soldiers with Strange and the little red-faced officer,
and the camp, saving the sentries, was clear.
So the first onward move commenced. With a spring, Muckle John was
through the slit, and darting over the intervening space, he reached
the mangled tussock of hay and crawled beneath it. A rope bound it
loosely together. Slipping between this and the hay, and trusting to
luck that his boots were hid, he began to move in inches over the
ground.
By the time the first soldiers passed wearily and footsore into camp,
too hot and tired for further searching, he had covered twenty yards.
After them came Strange and the officer, deep in talk. They tramped
past and all was quiet again. And then, to his profound dismay, two
soldiers, late-comers from the pursuit, sank down upon the hay, and
prepared to rest themselves.
"Uncommon 'ard this 'ay," said one of them.
"That it be, Silas--but likewise uncommon soft after 'eather," and
one of them yawned and loosened his jacket.
"What wilt do with the youngster, think ye?" asked one.
"Shoot 'im at Fort Augustus," replied the other. "Heard Captain say
as 'ow we march there to-morrow. Seems cruel t'shoot a mere shaver,
Silas."
"It's not as if 'e was a Christian, belike, but only an 'Ighlander,"
replied Silas.
"That be so," answered the other, apparently reassured.
To Muckle John the information was of interest. But for the moment
he was more anxious about the future.
Fortunately, the short afternoon was closing in, and a cold spring
wind came blowing off the snow-topped hills. It set the soldiers
shivering and stumbling camp wards. It also set Muckle John free and
travelling slowly towards the rough land at the foot of the slope.
And then he thrust his head through the hay, like a tortoise out of
its shell, and looked about him.
To his right stood a sentry, apparently dozing, To his left, another
sentry, but marching to and fro to keep warm. Very patiently Muckle
John waited for several things to happen. It was inevitable that
darkness would fall soon, and that meant safety. It was also very
probable that the increasing cold would send both sentries tramping
up and down, and in that lay a chance to escape into the heather
unseen.
But against these two probabilities was the stern fact that horses
need fodder, and that every minute brought the search for the tussock
of hay nearer.
Had Muckle John been the kind of man who, having exercised a maximum
of caution, takes a minimum of risk through a very proper spirit, he
would have made a run for it, and dodging the sentries' bullets,
trusted to the twilight to cover his flight.
But Muckle John had a certain pride in these episodes. He liked to
complete a piece of work like this--to leave at his own good
pleasure; above all, not to give his enemies the empty satisfaction
of knowing just how he had managed it. At that moment the sentry who
dozed dropped his musket, and, hastily picking it up, tramped heavily
up and down like his companion. There was just a space of five
seconds exactly when both their heads were turned away from him.
Five times Muckle John tested it, leaving half a second for accidents
and the half-turns at the corners.
Then drawing himself clear of the hay, he waited, crouching on his
hands and knees. At last with a spring, he cleared the danger-spot,
and was flat with the heather when the sentries turned again.
The next five seconds saw him thirty yards away, the next another
forty, and then he fell to running with bent back--a shadow among
shadows, until he was gathered into the darkness and was seen no more.
It was on the evening of the next day that Muckle John, travelling
all night and resting by day, reached Inverness, and, muffling up his
face, trod through the silent town and knocked at the door of Miss
Macpherson. Inside all was utterly quiet, and for a moment he feared
that she had gone.
But very slowly the door opened, and a pair of keen eyes looked into
his face, while a nose like an eagle's beak was thrust forward as
though on the point of striking.
"Wha's there?" she cried.
"Mistress Macpherson," said Muckle John; "let me in, for I am spent,
and this is no the place to exchange pleasantries..."
"Pleasantries indeed," she snorted. "Nothing was farther frae my
mind," but she let him in for all that, and bolted the door.
Then, raising the rush-light, she stared into his face.
"Oh!" she cried, "and I thought so. Good evening, Mr. Muckle John,
though no sae muckle in spirit as when last we met."
"No, madam--ye say true," he replied frowning at the fire-light.
"Tell me," said she, "before we go farther--what of Rob, the
obstinate, dour body?"
Muckle John shifted his eyes.
"Maybe he's no been as fortunate as we could have wished," he said,
slowly shaking his head.
"Dinna clash words wi' me!" she screamed. "Oot with it, ye Hieland
cateran--what o' Rob--where is he--is he in prison?"
"No, no," cried Muckle John, "though maybe no so far off, either."
The hawk eyes were now fixed fiercely on him.
"What did ye come here for?" she cried. "What has kept your feet
hammering the road for hours past? Was it just for the pleasure o' a
crack wi' me? Oh, no, my man, there's a bonny tale behind your
face," and she sat herself down, her chin resting on her hand.
With a shrug Muckle John told of the flight from Culloden (saying
nothing of his part that day), and of the meeting on the shore of
Arkaig, and the taking of Rob.
"He is meddling in business that I canna control," he said finally,
"and so he's bound for Fort Augustus, and out of it he must come or
my name's no Muckle John."
"Which is probably true," sniffed Miss Macpherson, "and no sae
comforting as maybe ye intended."
He gloomed at her a moment without speaking.
"Mistress Macpherson," he said at last, "listen to me. When Rob is
brought up in Fort Augustus, your friend Ephraim Macaulay, whose real
name is Captain Strange and a notorious spy, will seek to prove that
he was in arms at Culloden. They must prove that, to put the fear of
death on him for reasons best left unsaid. Who will know Rob better
than yersel', and who will come to the mind of Strange mair clearly?
Should he be asked to travel south, be prepared in advance, for it
rests wi' you whether Rob goes free or not."
"I always suspected yon Macaulay," remarked Miss Macpherson, "and his
Scots was no what I call sound Edinburgh."
"He has muckle strings to his bow, and who can say what arrow may
bring doon Rob? But when the message comes, Mistress Macpherson,
dinna deny that ye ken Rob, for that will prove his guilt at once,
for ithers can be found who will jump at the chance o' pleasing
Strange. Mak' a lot of him, and when ye say good-bye to him in his
cell, hand the man on guard a piece of siller, and shut the door.
There is one I ken in the fort will be glad to do me a favour, and he
will put Rob in one of the rooms overlooking the outer court."
"Go on, my man," said she; "I'm no slow in the uptak."
With a reddened face, Muckle John unloosened his jacket.
"Here," said he, "are one or two things that may serve our purpose,"
and he showed her a coil of slender rope, a file, a pistol, and a
skian-dhu.
"They're a bonny lot," said she, "but I'm no just catching their
connexion wi' mysel'."
"Mistress Macpherson," said Muckle John, growing still redder in the
face, "if ye could see your way to coiling this rope about your waist
and concealing the other things, I think Rob is as good as safe."
For long she sat silent.
"Sir," she said, "I believe you are an honest man, though I was
positive ye were a rogue until this very minute."
The face of Muckle John was, for once, a medley of expressions, with
that of irritation uppermost.
"I hope so," he replied shortly, "but I'm no perfect, ye ken."
"Why do ye want Rob out so much? He is no kin o' yours?"
He uttered an exclamation of impatience.
"What matter," he cried irritably. "Should I save his neck, is not
that enough? Maybe I have an affection for the boy. Maybe it is
because we are fellow-sufferers in the Cause."
"And maybe," broke in Miss Macpherson, "it is none of these good
reasons at all."
To which he answered nothing, but seemed on the point of bursting
into a violent rage, and then he fell back on silence, as though he
were bitterly offended.
"Mistress Macpherson," he said stiffly, "one thing I can swear to,
and that is that I mean Rob no ill; and this I promise you: that if
you do as I ask, I will answer for his ultimate escape and safety,"
and, whipping out his bared dirk, he prepared to take the oath.
"Whisht," said Miss Macpherson, "dinna behave like a play-actor; I'll
do what you want, and gladly, for his mither's sake, puir woman. But
ye said there is an outer courtyard. How will Rob manage to get over
that?"
"He will not need to do so," said Muckle John, and rose to his feet.
Footsteps suddenly sounded on the street without. A loud knock came
at the door--then another, and the noise of a horse's impatient hoofs
thumped and clattered on the cobbles.
Like a vast shadow, Muckle John passed silently inside the other
room, while Miss Macpherson drew back the bolts.
In the street was a trooper, holding a package in his hand.
"For Mistress Macpherson," said he, "from Captain Strange, now
stationed at Fort Augustus," and, mounting again, he walked slowly up
the street.
Inside, she tore open the paper. It requested her to travel to Fort
Augustus at dawn.
Muckle John read what it was at a glance.
Then, gathering up his coat, he bowed, and, meeting her eyes for a
moment, passed into the darkness of the street and was gone.