Chapter XVII: The Holding of the Pass

He was very different to the gallant figure of Inverness and Edinburgh days. Weeks of wandering in the wildest Highland country had brought out his finest, most admirable qualities. Hardship, that strange test of man, had made him far dearer and more romantic than he had ever been before. There was no jealousy of Irish favourites now--no dread of English influence when St. James's should be reached--all that was gone never to return. There was instead a Prince in a tattered kilt, and a dirty shirt, bare-footed and with a gun in his hand, a pistol and dirk by his side--a man just like themselves and thrown by the harshness of destiny upon their loyalty and succour.

Here was a Prince indeed, one who could march and shoot and have a merry word at the end of the day. Had they known what was in him a year before, who can say but the Highlands would have risen to a man.

To Rob he was wonderful, just because he was human and in distress. Even to Muckle John, strange medley of contradictions as he was, there was present in the harassed figure in the opening to the cave an emotional appeal like the lilt of an old song. Some day he knew he would compose a melody for his beloved chanter. The very notion of it brought a lump to his throat.

Meanwhile the Prince had looked them all over with his keen frank eyes.

"Gentlemen," he said in an utterly exhausted voice, "I crave your pardon for interrupting your sport; but I am, as you see, a fugitive and hard pressed. It is good to come upon you, Dr. Cameron, so unexpectedly, for I have sore need of your guidance at this time."

Then, turning to Muckle John, he looked him up and down.

"I seem to remember your face, sir," he said. "If this is your country, may I claim the rights of Highland hospitality?"

"Your Highness..." broke out Cameron. But he shook his head at him.

"No Prince to-day," he said, "but only a hunted man, with more thought for his next meal than the Crown of England itself."

With a start Muckle John came forward and knelt at his feet.

"Your Highness," said he, "I hold this country by right of my claymore, and the guns of these men of mine; what my name is, is neither here nor there, and what my manner of life is ye can maybe guess, and why these two gentlemen are here ye will learn from their ain lips. But it will never be said I took advantage of any man's distress, least of all the sad plight of your Royal Highness."

Cameron, who had been fidgeting during these remarks, broke in hurriedly with a very red face.

"I cannot imagine to what you refer, sir," he said, eyeing Muckle John. "No one has anything to learn from Rob and me regarding one who is as true to the Prince as you, sir."

"Sir," returned Muckle John bowing to him gravely, "you will not find me forgetful of such words."

Before any one could say further the Prince interrupted them, and thanked Muckle John in a broken voice. Then, taking Cameron aside, he asked him how soon they could win their way to Badenoch, where he was to meet Cluny Macpherson, and to hear news of the French ships.

Cameron was about to reply, when a shout from somewhere down the glen made them both halt and look towards the watchful figure of Muckle John.

Something seemed to have turned his body to stone. Rob, who was nearest to him, stepped quickly to the spy-hole commanding the valley, and stared down the rocky slope.

For a moment he detected nothing; then, with a gasp of horror, he observed tiny blots of red running like ants among the rocks, coming ever nearer--red-coats following upon the trail.

A hand touched him upon the shoulder.

"Not a word of this to the Prince," whispered Muckle John, "but do as I bid." And he led him a little away.

"Now, Rob," he said, "let what happened in the past have the go-by, and dinna think ower hardly of Muckle John. I liked ye fine, Rob, and when you wrote that letter from the fort I could have cried at the daft spirit of it. Well, Rob, there's the English, and here are we; and some one must hold this pass if the Prince is to win through."

"But cannot we run for it?"

"He is too tired for that, Rob, and in the open country we should be shot down like hares. Now, away with ye all, and take Grant here to guide you. Make for the south, and dinna stop putting leg to earth for an hour. After that I can promise no more." Turning aside he beckoned to his men, and placed them in position along the side of the slope.

Rob rejoined the Prince and Dr. Cameron, and described the situation. For long Charles was set upon aiding in the defence; but the knowledge that such a course would probably seal the fate of his friends, persuaded him on flight. There was not a moment to spare.

Accompanied by the man Grant, and bidding a hasty and melancholy farewell to Muckle John, they hurried down the hill-side and disappeared.

Rob let them go in silence. The Prince was safe for the present, and with him Cameron and the keys to the treasure. For him, as for Muckle John, there was nothing but danger, even if they won through in the defence of the pass.

Presently the first shot rang re-echoing down the desolate glen, and he crept forward to where Muckle John sat with a musket across his knees.

"Rob!" he cried, in a voice half anger, half surprise.

"I could not go," he said simply.

For a moment Muckle John looked at him queerly.

"Man, Rob," he said at last, "you're a rare one. But what of Mistress Macpherson? Promise me that you will take to your heels when I tell ye, and go straight for Inverness. She will shield you till better times. Promise, Rob."

"I promise," replied he.

Next moment the firing started in earnest.

Rob took in the situation at a glance. It was very improbable that the soldiers had come upon them by accident. They most certainly knew that the Prince was in hiding in the cleft of the hill. To surround the place was impossible. The only way was to rush the defence, and carry the pass by storm. The reckless manner in which they exposed themselves pointed to the prize they had in view.

As he looked down the glen, lying full length upon a smooth-faced boulder, something in the appearance of a soldier standing a little apart made him call to Muckle John and point him out.

At that very moment, however, the man took off his hat to wipe his brow, and they recognized the cunning features of Captain Strange.

"The crows are gathering," said Muckle John in his sombre voice, and taking careful aim he fired at him, and sent his hat flying from his hand.

"A miss!" he cried, bitterly; and, as though the report of his gun were the signal for the advance, the soldiers began to move rapidly towards them.

What Strange was shouting to them Rob could not hear; but probably, elated at the chance of capturing the Prince, and vying with one another in scrambling up the precipitous place, they were surprised to see a dozen of their number riddled with bullets before they had come to within a hundred yards of the pass.

Then, taking cover, they began to move their way upwards, firing as they came. It was a case of a hundred against a dozen; but after an hour the rocks were dotted with silent red-coats, and still the little garrison held out. Two Highlanders were killed and one wounded.

The Prince had had his chance. Unless some unforeseen misfortune had overtaken him he was safe by now.

Calling his men softly, Muckle John dispatched two with the one who was wounded, thus reducing his forces to seven, and, lighting a pipe, he calmly awaited the next attack.

It came with a wild rush, and a shattering fire some ten minutes later. The English had planted a dozen marksmen up the hill sides to command the pass, and under the protection of their fire the remainder began to run towards the narrow defile.

Half a dozen dropped and still they came on, and three more of the little band of defenders fell under the storm of bullets.

"Claymores!" cried Muckle John suddenly, and unsheathing his great blade, he flung down his musket and charged upon the foremost of the advancing soldiers.

Rushing fresh and swiftly, with the slope to aid them, they drove the enemy back in confusion, hewing them down like corn under the scythe. But two more men were lost and the holding of the pass was nearing its end.

Last of all to retrace his footsteps into the narrow pathway was Muckle John, and even as Rob turned to speak to him a shot rang out and a bullet lodged in his ankle-bone.

"It's all over now, Rob," he said, looking at the wound. "I couldn't cover a hundred yards like this. Go, laddie, and you, Grant, and you, Macpherson--away with you. I can hold the place for a time." With the help of the man Macpherson he bound a piece of his shirt tightly about his ankle, and rested upon his other leg.

All was very quiet outside. Evidently the enemy were gaining breath for the next and final assault.

"Away with you," said Muckle John.

But the two men would not leave him. They stood with Rob, awaiting his fury--and they had not to wait long.

"Grant," he screamed, "what is this? Are you not sworn to obey me? And you, Macpherson? Oh, that I should be flouted to my very face! Begone, or I will kill you with my own sword!"

They were now in full view of the soldiers, but no shot fell. Possibly the sight of a wrangle at such a time was too amazing to be missed.

Avoiding his eyes the two Highlanders drew apart from their infuriated leader, and spoke together in Gaelic.

"Are you going?" roared Muckle John.

They nodded, and passing him, strode down the pass towards the soldiery.

Even Muckle John was taken by surprise. With a sharp cry he attempted to stop them, but it was too late. They were twenty yards away before he had scrambled along the track.

Then leaning heavily upon the smooth face of the rock, he watched them with wistful eyes, saying no more.

"Farewell!" he cried at last; and fetching out his chanter he began to play the "Battle of the Clans," at which they turned and saluted him, and then, swinging their claymores, rushed upon the soldiers, and slashing right and left, fell amongst a heap of slain.

In the pause that followed Muckle John changed the tune to the "Lament for the Children," which is like a moonlit sea for sadness. All the glen lay silent for a space at his playing; In a kind of superstitious fear the red-coats waited, dreading the black hills and menacing landscape, but dreading most of all the stricken player up above. It was Captain Strange who shook them from their panic.

Very cautiously they began to creep upwards, and at that, Muckle John put away his whistle, and turning for his sword, saw Rob standing beside him, a bare claymore in his hand.

"You here!" he cried. "I thought you had gone. It was dreaming I was, Rob. Run, boy, for the night is close upon us. Ye won't? Well, well--it's a rare spirit ye have, Rob, but it's like to trip you up this night," and he swept the passage with his sword.

"Guard you my legs, Rob, and when I'm tired of standing on one foot, I'll lean against the wall." So in the deepening gloom, without further word they awaited the attack.

It came very suddenly. Two soldiers rushed with a wild shout down the echoing passageway. One was pierced on the instant by the point of Muckle John's sword; the other swung about, and was caught on the turn by a lunge from Rob.

"Two," said Muckle John softly, and eased his dirk for the short upward stab. A moment's pause, and four men came at a cautious pace towards them. Muskets they carried, but they did not level them for fear of hitting the Prince, for so they took the indistinct figure of Rob to be. Instead, they clubbed them, and prepared to smash down the defence of their sword-play. At that, however, Muckle John slipped a pistol out of his belt, and discharged it in their faces, to their utmost confusion. One man screamed, and, holding his hands to his eyes, dashed headlong down the slope. His cries sent a chill to Rob's very heart.

Then suddenly they charged the place, driving the foremost men onward from the rear, and even the quick thrust and stab of Muckle John could not resist that reckless onslaught. Within a few minutes the heap of the dead and fallen men was up to their elbows in that narrow place.

The voice of Strange urging on the fragments of his force now reached them. But only muttering curses and sullen voices followed, and with a laugh, Muckle John whistled a Highland rant--a mischievous, derisive tune, with a world of insolence in it.

It brought its reply, for even as he whistled, a single man came down the black passage-way, staying his pace only when he stood within sword-thrust.

"Muckle John," he said quietly.

The other ceased his whistling.

"At your service, Captain Strange," he replied, with a faint note of amusement in his voice.

"Will you have it out with me, Muckle John?" went on Strange. "Let it be to the death, for they will never forgive me this night's work."

"Oho!" cried Muckle John. "Here's a ploy! Did they think that such as you could take me?"

"Not you; but one whom you have sheltered, Heaven alone knows why. Is he still here?"

"He left two hours ago and more. You must search Lochaber, Captain Strange. I doubt you've made a sair muddle of this."

The moon was topping the hills, and a soft grey light stole suddenly down the crags, and fell upon the face of Strange.

"What of your men?" asked Muckle John at last.

Strange gave a bitter laugh.

"They will not stir," he said, "and if they do, Rob here can hold the pass."

"I am not an executioner," said Muckle John, "and I have only one leg."

"Then I must say that Muckle John was mair glib with his tongue than his sword. But I will not say Muckle John--I will say..."

"Enough! Let that name bide its time."

For a minute Muckle John remained silent, then limping towards the flat place before the cave-mouth, he took a long draught of water.

"Come on, sir," he cried, "and you, Rob, guard the pass."

He saluted Strange, who had flung off his coat and rolled up his sleeves, but suddenly he lowered his sword.

"Should I fall," he said, "what of Rob here?"

"He shall go free."

With that they fell to, and the rasping of steel upon steel was the only sound in the grim silence.

Muckle John, supporting his weight upon one leg, foiled the vicious thrusts of his opponent with steady endurance. That Strange was a skilled fencer of the rapier school he realized at once. That he was also cunning and agile he took for granted.

Had he been able to act on the offensive, and bring his vast strength to the attack, no rapier play could have warded off his great blade and iron arm, and yet the growing strain upon his sound ankle was already telling. He was like a man fighting against time.

With a feint Strange lunged for his neck--only a flicker of cold steel, but Muckle John was a fraction of a second quicker, and his opponent, recovering, crouched in the moonlight like a panther foiled in its spring.

Rob, in the meantime, had striven to watch the passage; but no sign of an attack came to set him on his guard, and few could have turned their backs upon that fierce contest amongst the grey, watching crags.

For now Strange had changed his tactics, and strove to lure on Muckle John and catch him off his balance; but there was more in it than that, for nearing the moon sailed a belt of black cloud, and much can be done by one active as a cat in the darkness. But Muckle John was also aware of the cloud and when it drifted over the moon, and they were plunged in darkness, he turned silently to his right, and, kneeling upon one knee, pointed his sword upwards, leaning meanwhile upon his naked dirk.

That Strange would attack on his wounded side so as to ensure a speedy dispatch, was more than probable. It was not the first time that Muckle John had fought in the black darkness. A moment, and a whistle of steel passed close to his ear, and lunging upwards with a twist of the wrist, he felt the blade win home, and a dreadful cry broke the stillness.

Slowly the moon passed out of the clouds, and streamed its feeble light upon the open space between the rocks.

On the smooth surface Strange lay with one arm outstretched and the other clutching his breast.

"He fought hard," said Muckle John, staggering to his feet. "I doubt I've killed him."

The wounded man began to cough, and then, without a spoken word, turned a little away from them, and with a shudder lay utterly still.

For a moment they stood above him, then Muckle John turned to Rob.

"Come," said he, "for we must be far from here before the dawn."

And so they passed out of that terrible place, with all its silent forms on the hill-side and that one lonely figure huddled in the moonlight, Muckle John leaning upon Rob's shoulder, limping towards the west.