THE END OF A TALE
All that weeping night of rain Rob travelled towards Glen Lyon glad
for every foot of heather between him and the weird house upon the
loch. Passing through the country of the Mackenzies he reached
Killin, and there fell in with a band of gipsies sitting round their
camp fire. They numbered about a score--men, women, and little brown
children--and they welcomed him to share their meat in the kindliest
manner, asking no questions and displaying no curiosity in his
affairs. Only the chief knew Gaelic, and he was all the more ready
to hear the news of the north from Rob, who gathered that his
affection for the red-coats was by no means warm.
Rob accepted his kindness with a qualm of self reproach. It had
suddenly occurred to him that in accepting such a wealth of
hospitality he was endangering them to the vengeance of the
Government. Such a prospect was not to be contemplated.
"Let me speak to you alone," he said to the chief.
In the privacy of the tent he told him all.
"I will not attempt to deny," said he, "that there are those who
would give much to capture me, not for any importance I may have, but
because of another...."
The gipsy followed his words with expressionless attention. Then
rising he drew a paper from his pocket.
"Read," he said simply.
It was a Government notice for posting up under gibbets and suchlike,
intimating that anyone who laid one, Rob Fraser, by the heels, dead
or alive, would receive a reward of fifty pounds. Rob turned cold at
the dreadful wording of it. It described him minutely, and went on
to say that he was last seen with the notorious rebel called "Muckle
John."
"You knew?" said he at last.
The other laughed softly.
"What does it matter?" he replied, "but I thank you for your
confidence, and when next you see Muckle John say that Gloom the
Gipsy has not forgotten him."
"Are you a friend of Muckle John?"
"I may be counted such, though he has no lack of friends--or enemies."
"But I cannot imperil your people, it is more than is reasonable."
"Rob Fraser," said Gloom very gravely, "you are as good as taken.
The soldiers are watching for you on the Highland Line, and from here
to Stirling is alive with spies. To-morrow we will carry you through
Balquhidder, for if you fell foul of the wild caterans there it would
be a short shift for you."
"Balquhidder--I have heard the name...."
He laughed outright at that.
"It's clear ye are north country bred," he said, "there are more
thieves Balquhidder way than in Lochaber itself."
Thankful indeed for his good fortune Rob bade his friend good-night,
and lying down before the fire was soon fast asleep.
With the dawn they were marching towards Crianlarich where they took
to the heather, and crossing the hills came down upon Loch Doine at
the head of Balquhidder. As they streamed into the flat country at
the top of the loch they passed a square thatched house at the foot
of the slope facing the amber stream.
"That is Inverlochlarig where Rob Roy died," said Gloom. "I mind him
well, a great red man with a heart of gold. But his sons are
corbies, and I am hoping we do not meet them."
All up the side of the stream the cottages of the Macgregors
clustered, with the thin veil of peat reek hanging above them in a
kind of haze.
Without halting they passed over the flat marshy land that lay
between the two ranges of mountain, and approached a small compactly
built house upon the other side of the burn.
"We will stop here for the night," said Gloom, "and maybe Invernenty
will see us. He is no friend of the Macgregors, being son of John
Maclaren who was murdered by Robin Oig."
Leaving Rob he crossed the narrow stream and knocking upon the door
exchanged some words with a woman who opened it. But to all that he
said she only shook her head, and he returned somewhat discomfited.
"She says that Invernenty is not at home," he said, calling him by
the name of his place, "and yet I am doubting her unless he is taken."
Without delay they set their camp, and during the day several
Macgregors came over and eyed them secretly, red men in a red
tartan--querulous, hot-blooded fellows.
Rob, ill at ease in a strange country, kept in the background, but in
the afternoon seeing a great crowd of them gathered about a place up
the glen he accompanied Gloom, being wearied of sitting alone.
The Macgregors with a sprinkling of Maclarens were handling a curious
smooth stone with holes for a finger and a thumb, and competing with
one another in lifting it upon a small rock that stood in close
proximity.
A tall dark sombre-looking man leaning upon a rude crutch and with a
pale harassed face was regarding the scene from a little distance.
He was dressed in riding clothes and with a greatcoat buttoned up
closely as though he were ill. Rob was on the point of asking who he
was when he became aware of the other's close scrutiny.
There was something dangerously interested in the manner he
stared--taking him in with his dark cunning eyes, measuring his
height in his mind--the set of his face, conjuring up every detail
circumspectly.
"Gloom," said Rob in a whisper, "there's a man up on the brae has a
notion who I am."
Very casually the gipsy turned about.
"Misfortune take it," he murmured, "but it is James More, son of Rob
Roy, new come from Culloden. He was wounded, ye mind."
Presently without a word or any sign James Macgregor moved painfully
away and entered Inverlochlarig.
"Come, Rob," said Gloom, "I would not trust that man a foot. He is
up to mischief, and it's like enough we were better over Glenbucket
than here."
Evening drew on, but there was no sign of trouble. At the rising of
the moon, however, a tall gaunt woman with a plaid over her head
asked for a word with the gipsy. They went apart together and
conferred in low tones. And then as silently as she had come the
woman vanished into the shadows.
"Rob," said Gloom, "there's danger threatening--when was there not in
this wild country? Who do you think that was?"
Rob shook his head.
"Who but John Maclaren himself, new come from giving the red-coats
the go-bye on the road to Carlisle. He says James is up to his
pranks, and that the clan are scared to death at the very sight of
you in the heart of their country. It is away we must go, Rob," and
summoning his men they prepared to set out, leaving their camp fires
burning in case their flight was suspected. Over the cleft in the
hills they went, and crossing the top of Beinn-an-Shithein, came down
on Strathyre and Castle Murdoch.
"There is a strange man lives there," said the gipsy to Rob, "it's
like enough he will send us about our business should we stop."
"Who are ye?" snarled a voice at that moment from the wall of the
place, "ye canna bide hereabouts."
The moon had risen and under its clear rays Rob looked up and saw a
white-haired man watching them from the rampart.
"What kind of night skulking is this?" he cried.
"I am Gloom," replied the gipsy.
"And who is that with you, he is none of your people."
"He is a friend, Murdoch."
"Bring him here--this is an ill time for friends," and he disappeared.
A few minutes later they saw him crossing the courtyard, a lamp
swinging in his hand, limping through a shortness of his right leg,
and frowning at them as he peered through the shattered iron gates.
"Come nearer," he rasped, "you boy there with the borrowed claes."
Rob took a step towards him so that the light streamed down upon his
features.
"Humph!" grunted Murdoch, cocking his eyes at the gipsy, "it is queer
company ye're taken up with, my man. Do ye ken who that is with his
innocent face and braw blue eyes? That's the lad of Muckle John."
"Whist!" warned Gloom, "the very rocks have ears."
At that moment a little girl came running over the courtyard.
"What did ye say of Muckle John?" she asked.
"Gang to your bed, Ethlenn," screamed the old man. "Janet, away with
the bairn."
A woman ran out into the twilight. There was a noise of sudden
crying and a door banged.
"Can we bide the night here?" asked the gipsy, but with poor enough
heart in it.
"Bide the night," echoed Murdoch sharply, "bide the night in company
with yon? Can ye--by the dogs of Lorn I think ye're crazed. What
have I ever done to ye that ye should mak' me sic a daft-like
proposal?"
"It is no use, Rob," said Gloom sadly.
With a kind of horror at his own notoriety Rob turned away and passed
down the slope. He heard the voice of Murdoch raised in shrill anger
and falling into nothingness on the wind. Behind him trooped the
gipsies, uncomplaining but dispirited, streaming towards Strathyre.
And so passing through the sleeping village they reached the narrow
defile at the head of Loch Lubnaig, and ascending the hillside passed
a dreary night.
It was just before the dawn of the next day that Rob came to a
decision, which appeared to him the only wise and honest thing to do.
He wrote a brief note to Gloom thanking him for his great kindness,
and stating that he would be far towards the south by the morning.
Then stepping between the gipsies' sleeping forms he came down upon
the loch and set off at a trot for Kilmahog.
Many days afterwards--days full to the brim of danger and heavy
travelling, Rob reached Edinburgh and wandered about the High Street.
He had managed to purchase another set of clothes, and for the
present he deemed himself safe, and on the morrow he would keep his
tryst with Muckle John at Leith.
It was about midday that he saw a great coach lumbering over the rude
cobbles jolting and groaning, and about it a party of dragoons. A
sudden fear gripped him that perchance this was a prisoner, who
knew--perhaps Muckle John himself.
He pushed his way to the front of the crowd. Nearer clattered the
dragoons, a braver sight than when they had entered that same street
in the year '45. The horses straining at the coach were level with
him now, and he bent forward, his eyes glued to the window. It was
but a flash, but he never forgot it.
For lolling forward, leering grotesquely either in derision or some
kindred emotion, sat Simon, Lord Lovat, bound for London and Tower
Hill.
His small shrewd eyes travelling over the crowd settled for an
instant upon Rob, and contracted suddenly as though he half
recollected him, but was not sure. Then he was gone, and that was
the last of the Fraser.
The scene sobered what little foolhardiness there was left in Rob.
It made him walk less abroad. The arm of the law was long, but the
arm of the Government was longer.
More than once he had a curious intuition on that afternoon that he
was being followed. It might be only an accident, but he had run
into two slouching frowsy rascals on two separate occasions, and each
time they had stared very hard and looked back at him over their
shoulders.
At last overcome by fear of capture he had taken to his heels and run
up one close and down another, being quite unfamiliar with the City,
but only anxious to shake off any shadowing. After he had doubled
and dodged for a full half-hour he took cover upon an ancient
stairway beside the White Horse Inn, and there he waited to see what
would happen and whether there were really any upon his trail. It
was about five minutes later that the noise of a man panting up the
lane set him keeking down to see who came so hastily. To his dismay
it was one of the loafers of the afternoon, and hard on his heels the
other. They passed at a run and their footsteps died away.
Then speeding in the opposite direction Rob found a lodging in
another inn, and slept far into the following day--the day on which
he was to meet Muckle John and win to freedom at last. After all the
turmoil and distress of the weeks following Culloden, it was a
strange enough sensation to think of the great towns ahead in Holland
or France, where there was no dire necessity to keep one eye over
your shoulder and the other cocked upon the end of the street, and
where a Jacobite was not considered food for the nearest gallows tree.
So thinking (and yet with misgiving for all that) Rob passed cannily
out of Edinburgh and along the way to Leith, and again the dread fear
that he was being followed took possession of him. The sun was
falling when he saw the lonesome gibbet tree stuck up against the
skyline. On it the body of some luckless creature was swinging in
its chains--he could just catch the dreary creaking on the wind.
He looked backward for the twentieth time. But all the desolate
landscape seemed empty of living soul or beast.
And yet he could have sworn that he had seen a head dodge behind the
tussock of coarse rank grass just on the top of the mound. He was so
sure of it he ran back, but when he reached it there was nothing.
Then bending as a true hillsman reads the ground he saw the fresh
mark of a boot in the wet sand.
There was danger lurking amongst the dunes, and still no sign of
Muckle John.
Out on the Firth of Forth a ship was running up her canvas to the
breeze, and it set him wondering in an idle fashion whether Muckle
John might not be already aboard starting for France.
And then the sunlight faded and the greyness of the gloaming crept up
from the sea.
Clink, clink, went the chains upon the forlorn gibbet tree, and with
a deeper rustier note as the wood groaned and shuddered in its joints.
He walked slowly up the sloping sandy path. Above him, black above
the evening sky swung the dead man--some poor soul less guilty of
wrong maybe than he himself.
Then sitting upon a heap of sand beside the dreary burden with its
dismal refrain he waited for what might befall. That there was
danger afoot he knew instinctively, but his great reliance upon
Muckle John seemed to almost dissipate such perils. There was a
mountain of strength in Muckle John.
The darkness was falling fast when of a sudden, like the spring of a
leopard for swiftness, a man was upon his back and with the crook of
his arm around his throat. Uttering one faint cry Rob tumbled
backwards, and before he could struggle to his feet, his legs were
gripped by another man and a third flung himself bodily upon his
chest.
As far as Rob was concerned the question of France was over and done
with. It was a sad enough ending to all his brave adventures to be
bowled over by three vagabonds on Leith sands, and trussed like a hen.
But there was more in it than that.
For out of the twilight came a tall man walking at his leisure, and
even before he spoke Rob knew him for Captain Strange.
"Well," he said quietly, "so this is the end, Rob, and what a braw
place to be sure. It was almost tempting providence with that
clinking cratur to warn ye."
He motioned to the men to leave them, and sitting down began to talk
in an affable pleasant manner as though he were discussing the
weather or the price of stocks.
"Hark ye, Rob," he said, "I ken fine who ye're waiting for. It's
Muckle John no less, and what I have in my mind I must say quickly.
Now we want this little business carried through expeditiously and
with discretion. We do not want any pranks, mind ye, and ye ken
Muckle John as a man as full of tricks as a monkey. I want ye to sit
here, Rob, until he comes, and promise me no to say a word to set him
thinking. If ye carry this out I will say what I can for you when
the time comes."
"I will shout a warning while I have breath in my body," cried Rob.
"Very good," replied Strange, "very good; in that case I will gag you
surely enough, and here goes."
With that he stuffed a pad of cloth into his mouth and fastened a
bandage round his cheeks. Then springing to his feet he listened
intently. Very faintly the sound of whistling drifted up from the
sands. Up above the gibbet chains creaked to and fro, and in the
tragic silence of the twilight the man came trudging to his doom.
Strange darted into the dunes for his men: It was like to go hard
with Muckle John.
It was all over as the newcomer stooped over Rob. With a muffled
shout he fell and rose again, and writhing spasmodically was stunned
to silence. From the size of him Rob knew it could be none other
than Muckle John.
"A light!" cried Strange, in high glee over it all.
They swung a lantern nearer and turned their prisoner over upon his
back.
And there, glaring up at them with apoplectic rage lay James Fraser
of Castleleathers. It was a moment full of gall for Strange.
As for Castleleathers, worthy man, being much bruised and scratched
and with a bump like an egg on his head, it was a mercy that he had
no breath to express his feelings on the matter. But when he did he
only added to Strange's mortification. For on hearing of the plan to
capture Muckle John which (being a professed Hanoverian) he could not
criticize adversely, he expressed a deep regret that he had not
beguiled the rebel with his conversation, having met him upon the
road a mile back.
"A mile back," cried Strange, "then he will come here yet."
"No," said Castleleathers in his methodical tone, "no, I think not,
for he has boarded a ship for France."
Strange uttered an exclamation of disgust.
"I told you he would throw you over, Rob, when the time came," said
he with a sour look.
Certainly it appeared like it.
But Castleleathers had more to say.
"Will you give me a hearin'," he broke in peevishly. "Muckle John
would have come, but I counselled him not."
"You did?" screamed Strange. "But this is open treason, Major
Fraser."
"No," said Castleleathers stoutly, "oh no, I assure you there is no
more loyal servant of the King than I. But I saw no service that he
could render Rob, except to endanger him as an associate of a
notorious Jacobite."
"Indeed," said Strange, "but Rob is none so far removed from that
himsel'. He is like enough to take the place of the hanged one above
ye, Major Fraser."
"Pardon me, no," replied Castleleathers blandly, "here I have a
pardon for Rob signed by the Duke himsel'."
"It's a forgery," cried Strange hotly, "let me see it."
"In my hands, Captain Strange--no, stand back a wee--hold the light
higher, now can ye see? Will you dispute that, my man? There is his
royal signature, bless him!"
Strange eyed it gloomily.
"There is something queer about this," he said. "I will see the
Duke."
Castleleathers smiled.
"All the way to London?" he asked. "The Duke will not thank ye."
Over their heads the haunted chains jingled merrily. It must have
been a rare joke to send them clinking like that. Suddenly from the
ends of nowhere there was a sound like a smothered laugh.
"What was that?" whispered Strange, looking furtively about.
"I heard nothing," replied Castleleathers, then starting to his feet,
"but surely there is the noise of a horse."
"A horse," said Strange, "who knows it may be Muckle John himself."
"No," corrected Castleleathers composedly, "no, I think not. I
think--in fact I am sure--it is my wife."
"Your wife!" cried Rob, who had worked the gag out at last, and who
had been apparently overlooked in the discussion.
Castleleathers switched about.
"Bless us," he said, "I had clean forgotten ye, Rob, you were so
quiet. What's amiss with you?"
"I am bound hand and foot."
"Mercy me," said Castleleathers, "but you have a queer way with you,
Captain Strange. There ye are, Rob," and he set him free, "and now
what's there so wonderful in my having a wife? She's your ain aunt
Macpherson. It's my nephew ye are, Rob, and if I ever hear of this
Jacobite business again I'll skelp ye mair than she ever did, poor
woman."
It was indeed Miss Macpherson (or rather Mrs. James Fraser of
Castleleathers), and at the sight of her Strange bowed very coldly,
remembering the escape from Fort Augustus, and calling his men
disappeared towards Edinburgh.
"Sit ye doon a moment," said Castleleathers, "though it's a dreary
enough place for family reunions."
But Rob only stared out to sea where the moon was pouring a broad
pathway of silver upon the quivering water.
"Did Muckle John not give ye a message for me?" he asked. "It will
be long ere we see him again."
Castleleathers took a keek over his shoulder.
"To be honest, Rob," he said, "I never saw him at all. Maybe he's
coming or maybe he is no sae far off as ye think."
"He was the queer yin," remarked Mrs. Fraser, "though he had a way
with him, mind ye. That night in Inverness, Rob--that was a scene.
There was I dancing like a young yin, and all to a scrap of a tune he
was whistling something like this..." and she tried to whistle, but
failed most signally.
"No," said Rob, "it was more like this," but he had not the twist of
it at all.
"Ye're all out together," cried a voice in the night. "Was it no
this?" and the west wind carried the rhythm of the reel into the
night.
"Where is he?" whispered Castleleathers, looking about.
"It's no canny," said his wife with a shiver.
"Muckle John!" cried Rob.
The tune stopped, and suddenly as it were in the midst of them with
the ghastly thing over their heads creaking and clacking, the voice
of Muckle John was singing, and these were the words he sang:
_Swing--swing in the hail and snow,
Dead banes clinkin' frae dawn to nicht,
Creak--creak to the hoodie crow
From rising sun to grey moonlicht._
_A lark soars blithe frae the sands o' Leith,
"Life's but a braw claymore," sang he.
"Death is nought but an empty sheath"
Creak, creak, creak, groans the Gibbet Tree._
_The waves gang jinkin' ower the shore,
A seagull laughs as he skims the sea,
But a feckless loon will laugh nae more
While he swings to and fro on the Gibbet Tree._
_The nicht creeps back o'er the cold grey tide,
The wind sighs over the barren lea,
Oh wad that the dark could for ever hide
The feckless loon on the Gibbet Tree._
_There comes a lad at the turn o' nicht,
"It's hereabouts that he said he'd be--
There's a ship at sea with a golden licht,
But no Muckle John 'neath the Gibbet Tree."_
_Swing--swing in the hail and snow,
Dead banes clinkin' frae dawn to nicht,
Creak--creak to the hoodie crow
From rising sun to grey moonlicht._
It was above them up in the air or they were going mad.
Suddenly the song ceased and with a great rattle of chains the
gibbet's burden dropped with a clatter, and at that Mrs. Fraser came
dangerously near to swooning for the first and last time in her life.
[Illustration: WITH A GREAT RATTLE OF CHAINS THE GIBBET'S BURDEN
DROPPED WITH A CLATTER.]
IT WAS MUCKLE JOHN!
"Good evening to you," he cried, "and rare luck to the bride and
bridegroom. Well, Rob, so it's fine to be a free man and a good
ending to a brave cause."
"But you, Muckle John--what of you? Do you go to sea to-night?"
He shook his head.
"Not yet," he said, and held Rob by the hand for a moment saying
nothing. Then taking his whistle from his pocket he broke into a
jig, and in the yellow light of the lantern he started dancing under
the empty gibbet tree.
It took doucer people than the Frasers to stand still when that kind
of thing was afoot. Once again Rob and his aunt tripped it finely,
and Castleleathers, that mountain of flesh and brawn, was not
backward.
It was a strange sight that, with the forlorn place, and the crying
from the sea, and the blinking weird light and the black figures
skipping like ghosts beneath a starlit sky.
They danced till all the breath was clean gone out of them, and they
stopped just because the music was no longer there. For unseen to
any Muckle John had stolen softly away playing as he went, passing
like a shadow, or a dream, or a memory, into the vast darkness.
They stood for a space catching the lingering notes of it, and then
it was gathered into the night, and became part of the sea, and the
wind, and the soft song of the rustling heath, and so was gone.
And that was the last of Muckle John.
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