Chapter 6
On the land, rugged and trackless, I had no better guide than my own nose. I came upon a house and old gentleman who sat smoking his pipe in the sun. In broken English, he hold me my shipmates had got safely ashore and had eaten in this same house the day before.
“Was there one,” I asked, “dressed like a gentleman?”
He said the first of them, the one came alone, wore breeches and stockings instead of the sailor’s clothes like the rest.
I smiled, partly because my friend was safe, partly remembering his vanity in dress. Then the old gentleman clapped his hand to his brow and cried out that I must be the lad with the silver button.
“Why, yes!” said I, in some wonder.
“Well, then,” said the old gentleman, “I have a word for you. You are to follow your friend to his country, by Torosay.” Then he gave me food and a place to sleep before I was on my way.
Along the road I met many grubbing in miserable fields that would not give enough food to support a cat. I could see that the English law was harshly applied. Soon after the rebellion, kilts were outlawed in hope of breaking the clan spirit, and the men here wore strange get-ups in place of trousers.
I fought a man who tried to cheat me and took his shoes and knife when I left him. A blind man armed with a gun tried to take my money, but I walked around him in circles, keeping myself some steps away. He cursed me and went his own way. The last man I met was a fine landlord. We talked and drank long into the night.
I had come almost one hundred miles in four days. I went to bed in far better heart and health of body at the end of that long tramp than I had been at the beginning.
There is a regular ferry from the mainland to Torosay. The skipper of the boat was called Neil Roy Macrob. Macrob was one of the names of Alan’s clansmen, and Alan himself had sent me to the ferry, so I was eager to talk to Neil Roy.
At Kinlochaline I got Neil Roy aside and asked if he was one of Ardshiel’s men.
“And what for?” said he.
“I am seeking somebody,” said I, “Alan Breck Stewart is his name.” I showed him the button lying in the hollow of my palm.
“You are the lad with the silver button,” said Neil, “and I have word to see that you come safe. But if you will pardon me to speak plainly,” said he, “there is a name you should never speak, and that is the name of Alan Breck.”
He gave me my directions quickly.
Early in the next day’s journey, I overtook a stout little man walking very slowly with his toes turned out. He read from a book and was dressed as a clergyman. His name was Henderland, and he knew my old friend, Mr. Campbell, from Essendean. I told him of my adventures, but said nothing of Alan. He seemed to have heard of Alan already.
“Alan Breck is a bold, desperate customer and well known to be James’ right hand. James is half-brother to the chief, Ardshiel. Breck’s here and away; here today and gone tomorrow’s a regular heather cat. He might be watching the two of us out of your bush; I wouldn’t wonder! There’s money on his head but I hear he’s a man to be respected.” I thought Alan would be pleased to hear this story of himself.
Mr. Henderland also told me he feared for Colin Roy Campbell, the Red Fox. He thought the Highlands would see fighting soon.
The next day Mr. Henderland found for me a man who had a boat of his own and was going to cross the Linnhe Loch to fish. It saved me a long day’s travel and the price of two public ferries.
It was near noon before we set out on a dark day with clouds. The mountains were high, rough and barren, very black and gloomy. It seemed a hard country to care as much about as Alan did.
At last we came so near the point of land that I begged to be set on shore. I sat down in a wood of birches to eat some of Mr. Henderland’s oat-bread and think. I wondered why I was going to join an outlaw and a would be murderer like Alan.
I saw four travellers come into view. The first was a great red-headed gentleman; him they called Red Fox. He asked me where I was going and why. As he turned, there came the shot of a firelock from higher up the hill. Colin Roy Campbell fell upon the road.
“Oh, I am dead!” he cried.
One of his companions caught him and held him in his arms. “I am dead,” said Campbell.
The murderer was still moving away at no great distance. He was a big man in a black coat.
“Here!” I cried, “I see him.”
I began running after him.
“Ten pounds if you take the lad!” cried one, “He helped the murderer. He made us stop to talk.”
My heart came to my mouth with quite a new kind of terror. I was all amazed and helpless.
“Duck in here among the tree,” said a voice close by. Just inside the shelter of the trees I found Alan Breck. “Come!” said he and set off running.
We ran among birches; we crawled among the heather. The pace was deadly. My heart seemed to be bursting against my ribs.
“Now,” said he, “it’s earnest. Do as I do, for your life.”
We traced back across the mountainside till at last Alan threw himself down in the upper wood and lay with his face in the ferns, panting like a dog.
My own sides ached, my head swam. My tongue hung out of my mouth with heat and dryness. I lay beside like one dead.
