Chapter XV: "a Muirfowl Snared"

Now the man that Muckle John had sent speeding from the cave-mouth to the south reached northern Lochaber, and halting in a place under a rock, waited for the dawn.

Very slowly the wintry night began to grow more grey. A cold wind fluttered the beard of the watcher under the rock. From the bleak hill-side a dog-fox barked, and with the passing of night a stag moved like a shadow up the brae and stood for a moment gazing backward, silhouetted against the skyline.

And still the man waited, watching the track below him. It must have been about seven o'clock, and the sun barely risen, when down the glen came two men walking very rapidly and saying no word to one another. Foremost came a short, strongly built man with a round, genial countenance and shrewd blue eyes. About four paces behind again there limped and tottered a broken cadaverous figure, heavily cloaked and yet coughing dismally in the bleak Highland air, and leaning his weight upon a stick.

All the way down the glen they never exchanged a word; but once the man who led the way halted, and drawing a flask from his pocket handed it to his companion, who tilted it up and then broke into a worse fit of coughing than before.

The messenger of Muckle John snug under the crag took them in with one long, penetrating glance, but no expression of surprise or triumph or relief crossed his face. He regarded them, as he had regarded the stag, with cold, inscrutable eyes.

Through the hanging mists they came, and when they had drawn level with his place of concealment he uttered a forlorn cry--such as the whaup sends falling over an empty moor. Instantly the little man who walked in front stopped in his stride, and sent his eyes sweeping the skyline above his head. But no whaup was there. Then turning he said a word to his companion, who only shook his head wearily, as though all the whaups in Scotland might have cried themselves hoarse for all he cared.

Presently the man under the rock whistled very softly.

"I hear ye, sir," said the short fellow, speaking in Gaelic but never raising his head; "and who might ye be there, like a fox in his earth?"

"It is Archibald Cameron I want," replied the messenger of Muckle John.

At that the tall, cadaverous man seemed to bestir himself, and began to speak in a low anxious tone to his companion, who cut him short, however, with scant courtesy.

"What is it you want?" he cried, turning his head towards the hill. "I am Archibald Cameron, and now your name, sir, and your business?"

"Will ye come up, Dr. Cameron? You will find me beneath the round rock ten paces from the burn."

"Come," said Cameron to the man with him; "there's maybe news of the Prince."

"No news," sighed the other, "is better than bad news."

Then taking to the hill-side they reached the hidden place and crept within.

It was a hole of about six feet by eight and three feet high, and with the sickly smell of a fox's lair.

"A couthy bit corner," said Cameron to his companion, dropping into broad Scots. "What wad we do, Broughton, had we no siclike places as this?" Saying which he yawned and eyed the other mischievously. "Man," he said, with twinkling eyes, "ye'd mak' a bonny scarecrow."

"Oh, have done!" broke out Murray of Broughton (for he it was) in a shrill, peevish voice. "What good can such filthy nooks and crannies avail us? I am like to die," he wailed on, and started coughing, with his hands clutching his sides. Already the Prince's secretary, broken in health, haunted by the constant fear that the Chevalier whom he loved sincerely was taken, oppressed also by his own danger, was coming nearer day by day to his disgrace, driven onward by the weakness of body and mind which may make of any man a coward in the face of death.

His face was drawn with sickness and anxiety. In his pale haunted eyes there flickered a sleepless dread. Murray had all the loyalty, but none of the reckless temerity of the true adventurer.

Meanwhile Cameron had taken tobacco from his pocket.

"A pipe," he said, "I must have, though all the Elector's red-coats were to sit around this spot and sniff the dear smell into their red faces."

Then blowing a cloud of smoke which sent poor Murray into a fit of coughing, he turned abruptly upon the messenger of Muckle John, saying in Gaelic:

"Do you understand Scots? For our friend here, whose name you are probably well acquainted with, has no Gaelic, poor creature!"

The man nodded.

"What is your name?" asked Cameron.

"My name is Donald Grant, and I am from Glenmoriston," said the other.

"A Grant," sniffed Cameron; "well, well, we canna all be Camerons."

He drew up his legs and sat with his elbows on his knees.

"What is your news?" he asked. "Is it of the Prince?"

"Partly--and partly not."

"That's a braw answer," snapped Cameron. "It's unco like maybe, and maybe no. Ye're muckle confidential, you Grants."

"I have a letter," said he, "from one well known to ye--Rob Fraser."

"Rob Fraser! I ken nane o' that name. Oh, bide a wee! Ye mean a laddie?"

Grant nodded.

"That same," he replied.

Cameron drew in a cloud of tobacco and sent it floating in rings above his head.

"Yon's a bonny one," he murmured, and then, cocking an eye upon the other. "Where's the letter?"

Grant drew it carefully from his stocking.

Cameron read:

"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."

"Humph!" grunted Cameron. Then he took to reading it again, weighing every word. Once he stared for a very long time at the messenger, but the followers of Muckle John were chosen carefully. The expression of Grant's bearded face displayed no emotion whatever.

Presently, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, he pursed his lips, and handing the letter to Murray, frowned and pulled at one ear, humming and keeping time with his foot--the very picture of a man wanting to go all ways at one and the same time.

"It looks genuine enough," he said grudgingly in Murray's ear, "but I've no knowledge of the laddie's writing."

"Who is Rob Fraser?" asked Murray with shut eyes.

"I had near forgot myself; but he was useful that night on the shore of Arkaig. Maybe ye tak' my meaning?" Saying which he winked and looked meaningly at the other.

"Then what does he ken of where the stuff lies?" whispered Murray.

"About as much as the trout in the burn, which maybe is none so little after all." And again he winked and laughed.

"Will ye go, Archie?"

"I canna just say. It looks uncommon like a trap, and yet..." He broke off suddenly and addressed the man Grant.

"What is this boy like?" he asked sharply.

"He is short and open-faced, and is dressed in the Fraser tartan. He is dark and speaks good Gaelic."

"That's Rob sure enough. Where has he been since he left Lochaber?"

"He was captured and laid in Fort Augustus, but he has escaped and is now Glenmoriston way."

"Glenmoriston is a far cry," said Cameron. "Did he send no word beside this?"

"He said, 'There's a muirfowl snared,' though I did not take his meaning."

"He said that?" said Cameron in a sharp voice. Then turning to Murray he grasped his arm. "Ye hear that?" he cried. "It's Rob right enough, and the Prince with him." He snatched up the letter again. "Gold," he repeated, and back came the frown. "No," he said under his breath, "I'll take no gold. I seem to scent treachery in the word gold. What need has the Prince with such? It's something mair substantial he'll require. Murray," he broke off, "how much have ye upon you?"

"A hundred louis d'or--nae mair," said he. "But tak' it, Archie--only leave me ten for my ain needs."

The coins again changed hands and Cameron again addressed Grant.

"What other news do ye bring?" he asked.

"There is word," Grant replied, "that the soldiers are moving south."

He took to rummaging again in his shirt and drew out a piece of tartan--a tangled, stained fragment about the size of a man's hand.

"One who shall be nameless," said he, "has ordered me to give this to Murray of Broughton, begging him to put it into Lovat's own hands."

"It is a warning," gasped Cameron, "he says they are moving south."

Murray showed no relish for the business.

"I have no wish to speak with Lovat," he replied, "I am the last man from whom he would take such a message."

"Tuts, Broughton," said Cameron impatiently, "at a time like this private misunderstandings are out of the question--ye may save him from the scaffold."

"I would," retorted Murray sourly, "I could bring him to it. But give me the rubbish, I'll see he receives it, though it's poor thanks I'll get."

"You misjudge him, man--he's dour but he's old. This man here has brought it from the Prince belike, who else?" he swung round on the messenger of Muckle John, "you are a Jacobite I take it?" he asked.

The man shook his head.

"I am a Jacobite where my ain race are concerned," he replied, at which Cameron regarded him gravely, and seemed somewhat suspicious and uncertain what to make of him.

Then turning to Murray he drew him outside the place, and they lay about a dozen paces distant amongst the heather.

"Ye ken what this means, Murray?" he said. "There's some one must warn Lovat. It's the Prince has sent word--leastways, ye can tell Lovat so, it will hearten the old man. Should he be taken the Highlands will lose heart. Get him carried by night Badenoch way. Could he win to Cluny's cage he would be as snug as a rat in a hole--and no sic a bad simile, eh?"

"I'll go," said Murray, staring with tired eyes across the glen.

"I'm no taken with this fellow here," went on Cameron, looking over his shoulder, "and yet what more can I want? He carries the daft words I gave to Rob just to impress him, and send him like a hare out of Arkaig--he warns us for Lovat. Oh, John, what can ye mak' o' it?"

For a long time the other continued to stare into empty space. Then turning his head slowly he let his tragic eyes rest on Cameron.

"I know he is no true man," he said, sombrely, "but how I know I cannot tell you. And yet he is no Government man--that I am sure. So I give it up!" His tone dropped into silence, and sighing heavily he drew in his breath to cough.

"Then I will go," said Cameron abruptly. "Good-bye, John; keep watch for a French ship and send word when it shall come."

So shaking hands they parted without another word, never to meet again.

The sun was up and the glen lay clear and lifeless when Cameron and Grant began their weary journey northwards. The last they saw of Murray was his stooping form crawling over the brow of the hill opposite, leaning heavily upon his stick, like a wounded crow limping with broken wings.

After the futile scheme for the continuation of the war--which as all the world knows resulted in only a few hundred men (no Frasers) assembling--all further resistance was at an end, and Lord Lovat, who throughout had no intention of giving any personal demonstration of disloyalty, returned to his island in Loch Morar.

On a spring day late in May when the countryside was bright with the promise of flowers and the birds sang upon every tree, Murray of Broughton visited him, and inside the hut where he lay waiting for news of a French ship, handed him the fateful scrap of tartan--the second warning of Muckle John.

Lovat was lying upon the floor with his back against that same strong box that Rob had carried from Gortuleg House, unshaven and dishevelled with privation and distress, and none too glad to see his visitor.

At the four sides of the island a Fraser was on guard watching the shore--a dozen more sat around the hut, while on the surrounding hills about Morar there were others spying the glens below, intent on the chance approach of the soldiers.

Lovat, who flattered himself he could guess any man's errand, greeted Murray distantly and waved him to a stool. He took a pinch of snuff himself, but seemed in no mind to show a like hospitality to his guest.

"I thought you were in France by now," he said at last. "It were best for us all if you could steer clear of the Government."

"I do not take your lordship's meaning," answered Murray flushing. "I, at any rate, have had no dealings with the Government."

"But that same Government would like fine to have some dealings with you, my man, and supposing they had, supposing they had..."

He looked at him keenly, then laid one finger against another in a manner very typical.

"It was a wicked business," he said, "and had I not moments of dotage I would never have even seemed to have sympathized with it, Murray. But what could an old man do? I had no power--no influence--I was deserted by the Lord-President, a man I trusted like a brother. It was a cruel attack on the crown, Murray, and well ye ken it. What men can do to rectify the wrong we should do, even if it goes against the grain."

Murray listened at first without much comprehension, then with a quickening suspicion of treachery in the air. He realized that Lovat was ready as ever to turn his coat.

"No, no," he cried, "I am not here for that."

Lovat, who had never imagined he was there for any other purpose, regarded him with his customary contempt.

"Then you are a greater fool," he rasped, "than even I took ye for. What have you to gain by your silence? This is the last rising for the Stuarts. There will be nothing now but the English and the English tongue. It makes me sick to see a man crying out against what must be."

Murray shook his head and rose to his feet.

"I have come," he said simply, "at some inconvenience to myself, to do you a service. Here is a token that I doubt not ye ken well and so I wish you good-bye," and handing Lovat the piece of tartan he prepared to leave. But with a strange hoarse cry the old man struggled to his feet. He was beside himself with rage.

Murray, too amazed to move, hesitated in the doorway, and catching up a stick Lovat struck him down before he could raise an arm to defend himself, or avert the blows. Indeed, he lay as though stunned with horror or too broken in body to protect himself.

There was a noise of footsteps outside and a dozen men prevented the Fraser from injuring him further, and after a while he rose and leaving the hut reached his boat. His face was white as death, but in his eyes, hollow with fever and privation, there gleamed like a secret fire such a mad hate and anger that the boatman pulling him out upon the silent loch watched him narrowly until they reached the shore. For a minute or two he did not move, but still crouched with his eyes upon the way they had come, then groping with his hands until he reached the beach, paid them without question, and saying no word passed up the shore and out of their sight--a man long since broken in health for the cause and full of bitterness of heart, but now fired with an undying personal hatred.