Chapter XIX: The Dance of the Mackenzies

During the mending time of Muckle John's ankle they lay hid in the broken castle, and such a tale was told about the banshee that the place was given a wide berth. Each of the four soldiers related the terrible experience to a dozen other soldiers and those added a trifle of their own and handed it on so that within a day the whole of Fort Augustus knew of it, and soon it was spreading to the searching parties amongst the hills and within a week Edinburgh was posting it down to London.

Many, indeed, scoffed at the thing but, as none came to give the banshee a personal test--the desire of Muckle John for absolute quiet was gratified. The castle was treated with profound respect for fully a century afterwards.

It fell to Rob to scour the neighbouring country at night for food, and so a week passed peacefully enough, and one evening with a promise of fine weather and a starlit night they prepared to set out again.

"Let us make for Loch Carron, Rob," said Muckle John, "the country thereabouts is clear of troops and when we hear news of a French ship in the Sound of Sleat we can go south."

"Must we go to France, Muckle John?"

"That or Holland, Rob--but only for a while. This will all blow over, and when you have grown a beard, back you will come and none will know ye."

"But won't you return too?"

"I? That depends, Rob, I doubt but the country will be too quiet for me. The Highlands are no what they were. I mind the day when a gentleman could lift a few head of cattle at his good pleasure. But there'll be little of that soon, Rob, and I was not brought up to trade like a lowland bailie."

Somewhat depressed by such a prospect, Muckle John sighed, and so they set out again and reached Glen Affrick before the dawn. There they lay hid under the shelter of a crag until the evening, when they set out as before and two days later halted on the shores of Loch Carron, having encountered no dangers on the road.

At the head of the lock was a small, mean-looking inn, and outside, sitting on their haunches, half a dozen rough-looking men--swarthy, black-haired fellows in the Mackenzie tartan. They were chattering together like monkeys as Muckle John and Rob approached, but on seeing them they fell silent and stared at them both with hostile, insolent eyes. There was not a man there who did not think of Culloden the moment he saw them--Muckle John with his limp and Rob with hunted Jacobite written all over him. There was little welcome for strangers in those days when a body of red-coats on the smallest pretext might burn an unoffending village to the ground.

But they said nothing, glowering up at them under their shaggy brows.

Muckle John took them in at a glance. He read just what was in their minds, and with a quiet good-day he passed them and entered the inn.

"Rob," he whispered, "not a move till I tell ye."

A haggard old woman was sitting upon a stool before the peats. She raised her eyes and stared at them both for a time without speech--then something in the build of Muckle John set her staring afresh until he bent his head and looked into her lined, yellow face.

"Tha sibh an so," she cried huskily, "you here?"

"Whisht!" said Muckle John, "how is it with you, Sheen?"

She crooned at the name he used.

"It is well," she replied, "but what of you--and what is it I can do?"

"Tell me, Sheen," said he, "what of this place--is it safe?"

She shook her head.

"There is death here," she said, "Neil Mackenzie is back from the wars--he is new come from the pursuit of the Prince--you must fly, and the boy with you. Did they see you outside?"

He nodded, with his eyes on the door.

"We are awaiting news from France," he said, "how can we leave here--they would overtake us."

Over the face of the old woman there crept a look of fear.

"Hark!" she said, "there are footsteps along the road."

They all stood listening intently.

Nearer and nearer came the thud of feet.

"It is himself," she whispered, "Neil Mackenzie new come from Skye."

Muckle John smiled grimly.

"From the frying-pan into the fire, Rob," said he, and sat down beside the fire.

Out upon the roadway they heard muffled voices and once a man's face looked in at the window-hole and disappeared very sharply.

As for Muckle John he appeared greatly interested in the peats upon which he was sitting.

Suddenly there appeared in the doorway a man of about fifty, of middle height, but with the broadest shoulders and chest that Rob had ever seen. He was in full Highland dress, with a claymore at his side, and one hand rested on the hilt of it and the other on his hip. His attitude was cool and insolent. His features were broad and coarse and his smooth, clean-shaven face over fat and pink, but there was no denying the spirit of the man. His eyes were full of it--that, and an ugly malice.

Muckle John glanced at him very casually and fell to examining his finger-nails, while Rob stared at the stranger in open wonder.

Behind the man in the doorway there clustered a half-dozen dirty Mackenzies like cattle beasts nosing at a gate.

Neil Mackenzie, for he it was, set about ordering a drink for himself and then sitting down upon a stool he stared at Muckle John in the same insolent manner, while into the room trooped the men from the roadside, intent on the sport. They had seen Neil at this game before. He was the rare one to lay a stranger by the heels.

"Maybe you've travelled far the day?" he asked in a voice like the bark of a fox.

Muckle John looked him over slowly.

"Maybe," he replied, and warmed his hands at the peats.

Mackenzie stirred upon his stool.

"You are not the only one on the road with a hacked ankle to-day," he said.

"A hacked ankle," retorted Muckle John, "is mair consoling than a hewn head."

So far they had spoken in Scots, but now, as though to let his men hear how the matter went, Mackenzie rose to his feet and swaggering across to Rob gave him a cuff on the head and said:

"Whose young bantam are you, lad, and what kind of tartan is that for the Mackenzie country?"

Now Rob was not the one to take blows from any one, least of all before a crowd of jeering strangers, and had Muckle John not given him a look there is no saying but that he might have acted rashly.

"There are times," answered Muckle John, "when a man is grateful for small mercies."

Instantly Mackenzie grew very red and took to breathing quickly, like all Highlanders in a passion.

"I seem to know your face," said he, "but I do not know the tartan you wear."

"It is a strange people you are," said Muckle John, "who do not know a bard when you see one."

"A bard," echoed Mackenzie, "then sing or play," and he laughed at the rest of them and winked for what was to follow.

"My boy here carries my instrument," he said, and he drew Rob aside under pretence of conferring with him.

"Rob," he whispered, "hark to the tune that runs just so," and he hummed a bar, "maybe it will be called 'Mackenzie's Dance.' When I have played it once do as I tell," and he laid his mouth close to the boy's ear. "Make your way out and take the old woman with ye, for she can give you a hand."

Then, turning on the Mackenzies, he smiled like a man on a pleasant errand, and standing with his back to the fire began to sing, and at the first note a strange hush fell over the Mackenzies, for none had ever listened to singing like that.

The sun had set an hour since and the grey mist of the gloaming was creeping over the loch and along the beach. Far out at sea a boat was heading shorewards. Muckle John saw it through the open window-space. It was a boat swiftly rowed and carrying a flag at the stern. Mackenzie was watching it too--a derisive smile upon his lips. And as Muckle John sang he saw the smile and measured the distance that divided the boat from the land with a swift glance.

"Brawly sung," cried the Mackenzies, laughing in their sleeves at the rude awakening the stranger would have.

Muckle John paused a moment and drew his whistle out of his pocket.

"If you were to give me the space of an elbow," said he, "I would play you a tune."

"Way there," cried Mackenzie, and they fell back, leaving a passage to the door.

At that Muckle John broke into a lament called "The Glen of Tears," and in the wail of it was the sadness of twilight and the story of it was the passing of years. Sorrow--sorrow and the old days that are gone for always--backwards and forwards went Muckle John and tears trickled down the cheeks of the Mackenzies, while Neil, their leader, hung his head and said in his mind, "We will not fall on him yet, but wait awhile until we have heard another tune."

And all the time the boat was nearing the shore.

Without pausing Muckle John swung out a reel, and so brisk was his way with the fingering and so lively the measure that they fell to dancing there and then, turning and hooching, and best of them Neil Mackenzie, a scoundrel if ever there was one.

None noticed how Muckle John had reached the open doorway. It was only the pause that he made (which was pure reckless madness of him) until they found themselves staring at each other shamefacedly and looking at Neil to see what was in his mind. But he only grinned, thinking of the rare joke that was coming and nodded to Muckle John.

"Go on," he shouted.

Muckle John bowed his head. On his lips was a dangerous smile.

"I will play a tune," said he, "called 'The Dance of the Mackenzies'--it came running in my head an hour back."

"It is the quick mind he has," muttered a black Mackenzie to his neighbour.

"I am not liking the look in his eyes," was the reply, "he is no fool that big man."

But Muckle John was already fingering his whistle, and it was certainly a taking tune and yet with something queer about it--something that made them glance at each other under their eyes for dread of they knew not what.

And Neil Mackenzie started from his lethargy too late.

For at the last bar there was the noise of crackling upon the roof--and the thatch was in a blaze.

With a shout he drew his sword and rushed for the door, but the stranger was ready for him and no man in the Highlands single-handed could hold his own for a minute against the long claymore of Muckle John. He stood in the narrow doorway leaning a little forward, and with a dirk in his left hand.

"Dance!" he shouted derisively as the noise of the fired thatch grew to a sullen roar. "Dance, you dogs!" and flicking the claymore from Neil Mackenzie's hand he ran him through the sword arm.

Then they came at him altogether, a bristling, snarling crowd, armed with dirks only and helpless against his long blade. He drove them back with harsh laughter--fought them back into the blinding smoke, and standing in the doorway burst into song again, putting words to the tune he had played. In a stricken silence they listened, while out in the darkness a boat on the loch halted and rested oars watching the red flames curling up into the night.

"Dance--dance on the feet of fire!" sang Muckle John, "Mackenzies tripping it brawly."

Suddenly from the room where the smoke was dense and black a voice called on him to hear them. It was Neil himself.

"What do you want with us?" he cried.

Muckle John stared into the mirk.

"Throw out your arms," said he, "and you, Neil Mackenzie, come out first and stand on one side."

There was an instant clatter of dirks and one broadsword.

"Rob," cried Muckle John, "take this man away there and pistol him if he shows mischief, though I sliced his arm prettily enough."

Then turning back, Muckle John collected the arms together and called on the Mackenzies to come out. This they did readily enough, gasping and coughing in the glare of the fire, and rubbing the smart of it from their aching eyes.

Seeing that they meditated no attack Muckle John threw their dirks into the blazing house, and then marched up to them.

"I am taking your chief," he said, "as a safeguard. If I am followed I will claymore him as surely as my name is Muckle John."

"Muckle John!" they cried aghast.

"I thought he was no ordinary man," said the black Mackenzie to his neighbour.

"Muckle John!" repeated the other, "it is the rare fools we have been, Angus--I think I will be getting home."

"Come," said Muckle John to Neil Mackenzie, and without a word they started.

But of a sudden Muckle John stopped in his tracks.

"Rob," he said, "make due south, keeping the sea-line and halt two miles away on the shore. I have business here," and turning back he disappeared in the darkness.

Near the wrecked cottage he found the old woman weeping silently.

"Sheen, poor woman," he said, "it is not my father's son would ruin you who know my secret."

"You are still nameless?"

"Still nameless, Sheen, until I meet the man who killed my father."

"Who will he be?"

"Who, indeed? But I shall know him. I go abroad again when I can. Some day perhaps I shall come across him. They say he had a horror of the 'The Pedlars' Reel'--it was the tune my father died with in his throat, and it is the tune, Sheen, that I play whenever I meet such a man as he may be."

The old woman touched his arm.

"There is doom coming up the shore," she said, "I can feel it on the wind."

"The boat," said Muckle John, "who was coming so fast in the boat?"

"I do not know, but there is death in the air."

Muckle John caught her arm.

"Here," said he, "take this--it is a trifle but it will buy you another cottage, Sheen. Good-bye--it is long till we shall meet again."

He stepped past her and crept towards the beach. On the shore the boat was beached, and several men were scrambling up the sand. One, a tall thin man with a heavy cloak about him and a stick in his hand, was supported by two sailors.

Muckle John crept closer. Some Mackenzies were running to meet the newcomer full of what had happened.

He listened to the tale they told the tall man, who seemed so faint with illness or the sea that he had to sit down to hear them.

"Who was this man that Mackenzie sent for us to take?" asked one, the captain of a frigate evidently.

"Muckle John!" cried a voice.

At that new life seemed to stream into the crouching, broken figure on the sand.

"Muckle John!" he cried.

_It was the voice of Captain Strange_!

All that night Muckle John and Rob sped towards the south, and at the dawn they reached the country of the Macraes, where they parted with Mackenzie, and headed for the shores of Loch Hourn.

There on a desolate, rain-lashed moor, with salt upon the wind, and the sea birds crying over their heads, Muckle John called a halt.

It was near the end of May, but a bitter day even for Loch Hourn.

"Where do we go now?" asked Rob, shivering with cold.

"Where indeed, for now we are driven into the English line of march and Knoidart was the last place I hankered after. It is better that we should take different roads, Rob, we've travelled too long together. Make you for the south, Rob, and if all goes well wait news for me outside Leith. There is a gibbet there--shall we say this day month, and if I do not come then just go your ways and never say what took you there. And, Rob, change that kilt and for mercy's sake cover your legs with breeks and decent hose, for the like of you would be recognized from end to end of Scotland. They want you, Rob, never forget that--they want you as a rebel, but that's havers; as a prison breaker, but that's neither here nor there--they want you just because you ken where Lovat lies hid, and what came to the treasure of Arkaig. What did come to that same treasure, Rob? Where was it buried or was it not buried at all?"

"I cannot say," replied Rob, "for I do not know."

Muckle John sighed and then shaking him by the hand addressed the far distance with a pensive and melancholy gaze.

"Whether a man is mair injudicious as a fool or a knave must ever be a matter of argument," he mused aloud, "but I ken fine which I would have ye be, Rob," and shaking his head he began to move away.

Suddenly, however, he paused and coming back more quickly led Rob down to the edge of the loch.

"Tell me," he said, "what is there to prevent me from putting you in there?"

"Nothing," said Rob, "but I do not see what you would gain by that--I tell you I know nothing of the treasure. It was hid while I sat upon the beach."

Muckle John shook his head in the same forlorn fashion.

"I hardly like to leave you, Rob," said he sadly, "there are times when I wonder whether you are to be trusted alone. Many men would say you were daffing, Rob--but there's honesty written all over your face. I once met another just like yersel' so I know. It's a terrible responsibility to be so honest, Rob--it maks other folk uncomfortable. Good-bye to ye, Rob, and here's some siller just in case you are hungry or want a night's lodging. But be careful of the wandering bodies Rannoch way, for they'd cut your throat for a nod and follow you to London for the clink of a bawbee."

"Good-bye," said Rob, "where do you go now, Muckle John?"

"I make for Arisaig," he replied, "I have a debt to pay."

"A debt?"

"Not so surprised, Rob, no man pays his just debts like Muckle John. Dirk for dirk--shot for shot--chase for chase--there is no honester soul than Muckle John."

Rob laughed, though a trifle faint-heartedly, and in that manner they parted, Muckle John passing rapidly southwards while Rob watched him fade into the dreary landscape and become lost in the cold sea mist.