Chapter XIV: Muckle John Shows His Hand

Miss Macpherson, saying good-bye to Captain Strange, and acquainting him of Rob's present obstinacy, but bidding him not to despair, took her way through the porter's gates, and turned her horse's head towards the north. After travelling in a leisurely manner for some six miles, she drew in her beast, and dismounting led him into a small coppice upon the hill-side.

All around her lay the lifeless stretches of heather and grey crag. Near her side gurgled a little stream passing through the trees and down the vacant, wine-red moor. Behind her the stark, open slope of brae, around her the huddle of lonely hills, and no sound at all.

The softest noise, like the rustle of an autumn leaf, made her turn her head. Within a few feet of her, regarding her keenly, stood Muckle John. Where he had come from, and how he had come, she did not attempt to guess.

"Well," said he, "and how's Mistress Macpherson the day?"

"Finely."

"And the little business?"

"Is completed."

"Good!" he said, and smiled with great good humour.

"I handed Rob your letter."

"And did he tak' my meaning?"

"He said I was to thank ye, and give ye this bit o' paper, which he tore from your message."

His mouth tightened suddenly. A slight frown wrinkled his brow, and his eyes flickered quickly upon her, and then to the paper in her hand.

Suddenly, as though a nameless fear had gripped him, he glowered at her, and snatched the thing out of her fingers. Then, turning his back, he read it at a glance, and, flinging it upon the ground, burst into a torrent of Gaelic, his face a deep scarlet with fury. His unruffled composure was gone. In its place was the blazing Highland temper. Words poured from his lips, his eyes flashed with impotent rage, his whole body trembled with passion.

"Are you ill, sir?" cried Miss Macpherson, fearing he had gone mad.

But he only snarled at her. Then, swinging about, he began to stride backwards and forwards between the trees, muttering in low tones, his hands clenched, and his chin upon his chest. After a dozen turns in this fashion he seemed to recollect her presence and, halting a little below her, he raised his gleaming eyes to hers.

"Madam," he said, in a trembling, harsh tone, "I would give all I possess that you and your precious nephew had never seen the light of day. Oh--it is too much!" He broke off, kicking savagely at a tuft of grass.

"But, sir..." she broke in, for once considerably alarmed.

"Don't sir me!" raved Muckle John, snapping her up. "But go, and let me never see your face again!"

"But Rob?"

"The sly ninny! The whey-faced, ungrateful gowk! Let him go hang for his ain dourness! A pretty fool he has made o' me, madam; and no man nor boy either shall live to fling that in my teeth."

With the strength of a sudden terror she caught him by the arm.

"What sort of talk is this?" she cried. "Have I no done my share, and sent Rob half-way to his death in order that you may snatch him back? Oh, I said you were no honest man!"

"Honest?" he snapped, with a bitter laugh. "Oh, you're right enough there. Heaven preserve me frae being called 'honest,' I'm no shopkeeper, madam."

"Ye were anxious enough about Rob's safety last night."

Muckle John ceased from glowering at the glen beneath them.

"The boy's safety go hang," he retorted. "Did ye think I cared two bawbees for that?"

"It has occurred to me that you promised," returned Miss Macpherson.

"Promised! What are promises between you and me?"

"Then Rob is to be left to his fate?"

"No."

"What do you mean?"

Muckle John turned, and threw back his shoulders.

"You have yet to learn," he said stiffly, "that the oath of a Highland gentleman can never be broken. I swore on the dirk I would bring him safe from prison, and that I will do."

Once more he seemed on the point of falling into another fit of fury; but fought it down, and pointed instead to her horse.

"Go!" he cried. "And not a word of this or I'll string you up to your ain roof-tree, and no' so sorry to have the excuse."

"Mercy me!" murmured Miss Macpherson, and made for her beast.

Then, mounting, she sent him through the heather towards the track.

A hundred yards down the hill-side she looked back. But the little cluster of trees was empty of life. Muckle John had vanished as though he had never been. With a sudden fear clutching at her heart, she dug her heels into the horse's ribs, and broke into a disjointed canter.

On the same morning that saw Miss Macpherson urging her mount towards Inverness, in a cave upon a wild and desolate mountain-top three men were seated playing a hand of cards. They were all in the Highland dress, and armed to the teeth--lean, swarthy men, burned by the sun to a deep black-red--sitting silent as statues, eyes intent upon the game. Beside one of them lay a handful of gold coins. Near the mouth of the cave, lying on his stomach, was a boy of about fifteen, watching the hill-side.

Suddenly he uttered a low word in Gaelic, and instantly but in the same grave silence the men ended their play, and gathering up the cards one slipped them into his sporran.

A moment later the mouth of the cave darkened and the huge form of Muckle John filled the entrance. He nodded to each of them as they saluted him, and motioning them to be seated he lay for a long time gnawing his lip and staring gloomily upon the ground. They appeared not unused to such behaviour for they drew together at the farthest corner and the man with the cards in his sporran took them out again and, dealing them round, the game went on as before. An hour passed and Muckle John had said no word--had made no sign. Of a sudden, however, a slow smile began to creep into his eyes and soften the corners of his mouth. A droll expression flitted across his face and vanished.

Then, taking a piece of clean paper from his pocket, and a pencil, he studied Rob's writing in a deep pause, and began to write in a close imitation, as follows:

"This to tell you that the treasure is discovered, and that unless it be put in a safe place, all will be lost. The bearer of this letter can be trusted. Come to me at a place that this man will show you, for the Prince is with me, and is in need of you and some gold. ROB FRASER."

This he addressed to Dr. Archibald Cameron in the Braes of Lochaber, and turning towards the crouching circle in the corner, he called one of them, Donald Grant by name, to him, and instructed him for some time in a very earnest voice.

"Listen, Donald," he said, "and let there be no bungling, for I am not minded to be soft-spoken if aught goes wrong. In Lochaber there lies a gentleman by name Archibald Cameron--a brother to Lochiel. He is skulking with Murray of Broughton. I heard so much two days since. Hand him this paper and keep a slow tongue, but if he presses you say you were sent by a laddie--a reddish, blue-eyed Fraser boy, and that maybe he minds the words--'there's a muirfowl snared.' Bring him with you and keep him under close guard until I come back. But before you do that, give this second strip of tartan to John Murray of Broughton, and bid him hand it to Lord Lovat as a warning from one he kens well."

With these words he dismissed the man, who slid through the entrance and set out at a slow indefatigable trot for the south.

In the same active, masterful manner he summoned the remainder of the party and addressed them rapidly in Gaelic.

"Now," said he at last, "is all clear? Evan Grant, who is in the stables of Fort Augustus, will see that the cart is ready. When the confusion is at its height he will put in the horse. You, Donald Chisholm, will lead the horses below the rampart during the night and mind they do not whinny at the dawn. There I will join you at cock-crow and a boy with me that will serve our purpose. He is like enough to another I ken of to hoodwink a pack of red-coats. Should aught go wrong make for the hills, and turn the beasts loose. Should they be deceived as I know they will, lead them into bog-land and scatter. You understand?"

They all nodded their heads.

"This day week then, for I have other work till then. Now go--but leave the lad there to watch the glen."

Silently they crawled out of the cave-mouth, and were lost among the neighbouring rocks.

Then, wrapping himself in his great-coat, Muckle John took the reed from his pocket and began to play a Skye song that the oarsmen sing for keeping time. But soon he tired of that and played an old Highland lament that is as full of sorrow as the hollow of the hills with snow. He played it in a heart-breaking fashion with an eye upon the boy in the cave-mouth, who was a Macpherson and easily moved. And when he saw the tears coursing down his brown cheeks he could not but gulp too, partly through sympathy but most of all because of his own grand playing.

It was now the month of May, and still Rob lay in his cell. During the past ten days every source of refined torture had been applied to break down his silence. Starved, beaten, threatened, he maintained a stony front, until Strange in despair had left him to himself for two whole days. It was on the morning of the third day that he returned, and Rob saw by the elation in his eyes that something had happened. He could only guess that it meant another disaster to the hunted Jacobites.

"Up, you dog!" he cried; "and hear the news. What has your silence earned you, do you think? It has made you a traitor, Master Rob Fraser--a name that your clan will revile for all time. Ho, ho, ho! Think of that now--there's fame for ye! I'd give twenty guineas to hear what Lovat says when he learns that he was betrayed by..."

"Stop!" cried Rob, "why should he believe such a lie?"

"Because we shall have to break it to him. Otherwise he might guess who is really telling secrets, Rob, and that would spoil all."

With a mournful groan, the boy covered his face with his hands.

"Why do you not kill me now?" he asked in a hopeless voice.

"Kill you?" echoed Strange. "Man alive, there'd be poor sense in that! It is just because we will not hang ye that people will know just why. No, no, Rob. You'll live like a fighting-cock, whether ye like it or no."

"It will take more than you to find Lord Lovat," broke out Rob.

Strange shook his head gleefully.

"Shall I whisper where he lies hid?" he said. "There's an island at the foot of Arkaig, called Moror--am I no right?" and he shook with silent laughter.

At that the floor beneath Rob's feet seemed to dance up and down, and a great despair made him deaf to all that Strange said--deaf to the shutting of the door--to the brooding silence that settled once again upon his solitude.

When he opened his eyes the sun was sinking, and he was alone. The bitterness of the situation stunned him utterly. How could anyone deny that he had turned informer, especially when the report went round that it was to save his life. He thought he had valued his neck; but now he knew there were things infinitely worse than death. What would he not give now to have lured on Muckle John, and so won his freedom by pretending he had the plan?

And as he brooded deeply, out of the twilight, like a bird's note dropping into silence, came the soft music of a chanter. With a cry he started to his feet and listened.

Again it reached him--a thin bar of wistful melody, the sign of Muckle John.

Snatching up his bonnet he waved it out of the narrow window, and at that the whistle sounded for the last time far away, and died on the wind. Muckle John was ready. Hastily Rob took out the file and pistol, and laid them upon the floor. There was little chance that anyone would visit him again that night. He had eight hours before him to file through the bars of his cell, and conceal himself, just before the dawn, upon the cart of hay below. His chains he had already filed nearly through, concealing the marks with mud scraped off the damp floor of his cell.

But in case of a surprise visit he left his chains on, and set upon the rusty bars of the window, scraping and rasping until his fingers began to peel and bleed, and his arms ached with weariness. At midnight one bar was filed through and laid inside the cell. Weak and dizzy with want of food and exercise, he was forced to rest for half an hour, and then, crawling back, he attacked the cross-bar; and two hours later he had cut it away, and the main part of the work was done. It took him only a few minutes to work himself loose of his chains.

Then, uncoiling the rope, he tied one end to the fragment of iron bar left in the window casement, and unwinding it softly he let it run down the rough, grey wall.

All was very quiet and dark. No sound reached him from below. Far away, on the outer guard, he caught the dull tramp of the sentry, marching to and fro in the wintry darkness.

The time was ripe. Slipping his pistol about his waist, Rob wormed his way, legs first, through the open window, and coiling his feet about the rope, he took a grip of it with his hands and began to slide slowly downwards.

Down, down he went; past rooms where all was dark, skinning his knees upon the sharp edges of stone, bumping and swaying, but nearing ground at every yard, and with the breath of sweet night air upon his cheek.

And so at last, without misadventure, he reached the inner courtyard, and looked about for the cart of hay.

The dawn was not far distant now, and he crept about the place feeling his way, seeing but dimly, and fearful that there was no cart at all.

At last, however, some ten yards away, his hand touched a wheel. With a gasp of relief he ran his fingers through soft wisps of hay over his head. Then climbing up, he wormed his way beneath a bundle of horse-cloths, and waited for the morning.

The cart had apparently unloaded and was ready to leave the fort. Fortunately for Rob the cloths were heavy, and the horses' nose-bags and other articles made sufficient to entirely conceal his presence. But how Muckle John could hope to avert suspicion falling on such an obvious place of concealment, he could not imagine.

Very gradually the grey, flickering lights of another day glimmered above the fort, and still there was no sound of alarm--no sign of Muckle John.

Now the side of the fort where Rob's cell lay was not much frequented until broad daylight, the sentry rarely coming so far along--an item with which Muckle John was well acquainted. Opposite this part the hill sloped upwards towards broken country, commanding a clear view from the walls.

It was not until seven o'clock, for the morning was dark and cold, that a man passing through the inner courtyard to water the horses saw the rope dangling down the wall, and with a frenzied shout brought the sentry at a run towards him.

"Prisoner escaped!" yelled the fellow.

With an answering cry the sentry raced away. A moment later a bugle sounded the call to arms. Clatter of muskets, hoarse voices, commands, questions, running footsteps--all the characteristic commotion of a sudden alarm--reached Rob in his hiding-place, and set him wondering whether Muckle John had failed him, or whether he had dreamed he heard the reed.

For his position was precarious. He had escaped for the time; but he was like a rat in a trap--able neither to go backwards nor forwards.

The voice of Strange interrupted his anxious thoughts.

"Guard the gates!" he ordered. "Come with me, you men, and search the cell." Up the stairs they stamped and their footsteps died away.

Rob imagined them tearing up the stone steps to his cell. He could almost see Strange peering through the window with its filed bars.

Suddenly he heard him shout from far above him as though his head were thrust out of the window:

"There he is! There he is!" It sent a shiver through his limbs.

But no one approached the cart.

Instead, the excitement grew even more intense, and the courtyard about the cart became thronged with hurrying soldiers. On the outer walls he heard muskets firing, and cries of "There they go!" as though they aimed at men upon the hill. It was all very baffling and mysterious.

Was Muckle John attempting a rescue by force of arms? Rob lay very still, and then his perplexity was set at ease, for he heard a voice he knew well call from a window some twenty feet above him:

"Vot is it, Strange?" and Strange, despite his hurry replied:

"The prisoner, Rob Fraser, your Highness, is riding away up the hill with another man."

"Then after 'im, Strange!" roared the Duke. "Ten pounds to the man who catches 'im. Open the gates; I vill take 'orse myself!"

With a rattle the gates rolled back. The soldiers galloped through, Strange at their head. A few moments later and troopers were spurring up the hill-side--the whole fort was deserted for such a steeplechase. Ten pounds seemed within the grasp of many that day.

The last trooper had hardly dashed away before a man came quickly across the courtyard leading a heavy horse. With swift hands he hitched it to the wagon, and, swinging himself up on the side with his feet upon Rob, he started towards the gates.

A solitary soldier challenged him with a broad grin.

"No rebels in that cart?" he said, peeping over the top.

The man in the cart laughed heartily.

"He was more than a match for you," he replied.

"That 'e was," agreed the soldier. "But 'ow anyone can get out of this fort beats me. Somebody will look foolish over this."

"Be glad it is not you," returned the man in the cart.

"Me?" cried the other, for they were now twenty yards down the road. "There'd be few rebels lost if I had a word in it."

"I can see that," shouted back the man in the cart.

And so they passed along the moorside, and out of sight of the fort.

Half an hour later they encountered the soldiers returning.

"Not got him?" asked the man in the cart.

A sergeant stopped while the rest of them trudged on.

"No; they left their horses and took to the crags."

"Where are the dragoons?"

"Led into a bog, and still there."

Then, shaking his head, the soldier marched after his company.

Long after Rob threw back the rugs, and sitting up blinked in the sunlight.

"Well, Rob," said the man in the cart, but with little warmth of manner.

It was Muckle John!