Chapter IV: French Gold

A thin moon was drifting above the scattered clouds when Muckle John and Rob reached the head of a wild and desolate glen in Stratherrick, and here for the first time since their flight from Culloden they drew rein and alighted. So stiff and weary was Rob that his companion was compelled to lift him down, and lay him in the heather.

The horse, utterly done, stood with his head hanging forlornly, and the sweat dripping from his neck upon the heather. Few horses would have carried them both so gallantly.

Muckle John had long since discarded his English wig and coat. He stood in his shirt and with his hair fluttering in the night wind regarding with sombre eyes the blinking lights of a house down the valley, a square white house two stories high. Twice during the brief halt a man had crept out of the encircling darkness and scrutinized them narrowly. There was no sound beyond the wind sighing amongst the corries, but each time Muckle John had seen the heather quiver before something noiseless and stealthy that disappeared as softly as it had come. Once from far up the hill he heard a long whistle like a curlew on the wing.

At last he turned his head and let his eyes rest on Rob, and then again upon the grey horse with its drooping head. With a faint shrug of his shoulders he shook the boy.

"Rob," said he, "do you ken yon house?"

With a groan Rob struggled up.

"Gortuleg House," he replied, "I know it well."

Muckle John of a sudden turned his head and raised his hand for silence.

From far away along the track they had come was a sharp click-clack like the rattle of a loose stone on a horse's hoof.

"Ye hear, Rob," he whispered, "there'll be few abed to-night. Come away, boy, this is a daft-like place to be found in."

From up the hill came the mournful whistle once again. It was answered by another far down the glen.

"The place is hotching with Frasers," he muttered, lifting Rob upon the horse, "and where the Frasers are a man must feel his way, saving your presence, Rob."

"They are our friends," said Rob stoutly, "and my people."

"I'm no denying it--though maybe ye had safer speak for yersel', Rob, but to-day will end many a friendship, and I'm no trusting Lochiel himsel' until I'm clear of this business."

Nearer they drew to the lights of Gortuleg House, but the closer they came the more cautious grew Muckle John, feeling his way with immoderate care, and with a hand upon the horse's nostrils for fear of a whinny. To the rear of the house there stood a wall with a few stunted fruit-trees in an orchard. In the same anxious silence Muckle John hitched the bridle to a branch and lifted Rob down.

"Bide here," he whispered, "until I come, and if any one speaks to you say that you're waiting upon Lord Lovat."

"Lord Lovat?"

"Who else?"

"But is he here?"

"Man Rob, I've no time to teach you elements of common sense. If ye see a wheen corbies driving across the sky what do ye ken?"

"That there's carrion," said Rob to humour his temper.

"And if ye see muckle muir-fowl cowering among the heather?"

"A hawk."

"You're doing finely, Rob;" he paused and leaning nearer added in a whisper, "I am no sure but that the hawk is nearer than ye think..." and with that he was gone, leaving Rob beneath the shadow of the broken masonry.

Barely five minutes had passed before the thud of horses' flying feet came beating down the glen. The moon riding high in the sky glinted on steel and silver, and at the commotion the door of Gortuleg House opened and the figure of an old bent man was silhouetted in the doorway, leaning upon a stick. He was a grotesque enough spectacle--very ponderous and unwieldy, large-faced and ruddy and with shifty, speeding eyes almost buried in a mass of flesh. He was dressed in a loose coat, rough baggy breeches and stockings, with large flat buckled shoes, and as he peered and craned his head he tapped in a fever of impatience upon the flagged stone at the doorway.

A single ray of light made a yellow bar upon the open space in front.

Nearer and nearer came the racket of galloping horses--the jingling of bits and scabbards--the hoarse shout of a man's voice, and into the lit space plunged a powerful roan horse all dirty grey with foam and spent mud. Upon its back there sat a young man rocking with fatigue and with his head uncovered and his coat opened to the night wind. The old man standing in the doorway shuffled forward a step and laid a hand upon his bridle-reins.

"Who are ye?" he asked in a shrill querulous voice, "and what news do you bring?"

For a long time there was no reply, and in the silence the candle in the old man's hand fluttered desperately and went out.

"I am the Prince," said the man upon the horse in a dull voice as though he were half dreaming, "I am the Prince and..." his voice trailed into silence.

Round him in a half-circle the companions of that wild flight were gathered--their faces looking very dim and white like the faces of ghosts. For an instant the old man seemed to shrink into himself. His great head drooped,--the hand that gripped the bridle fell with a low thud against his side. But only for an instant. There was within that disease-racked body an energy that defied the penalties of age.

"Dhia gleidh sinn," he cried harshly, "are you tongueless all of you? Come--come in--would you sit glooming there all night? Your Highness," he said, breaking off and looking up again, "this is a wae meeting and like to be our last...."

"You are Lord Lovat," said the Prince with more life in his voice.

"It is a name," the old man replied, with a sudden twisted grin, "that I would I could disown."

A few gillies had gathered about the horsemen, and when they had dismounted their tired beasts were led away to an outhouse, and the whole party followed Lord Lovat within.

Inside the room where they made their way a great fire was burning. A table stood in the centre, upon which was a bottle of claret and some glasses. He had waited news for hours back.

In the firelight Lord Lovat regarded his visitors with sour displeasure. Now that the news of Culloden had come, and the first biting terror over, he resumed his habitual demeanour of inscrutable cynicism. He congratulated the Prince on arriving so soon, and poured out his glass of wine--he asked the names of the various gentlemen with him and expressed polite ignorance when he was informed, only remarking that he had always admired Irishmen because they took so much interest in other people's affairs. And all the time he was cursing his utter folly for having supported the Jacobite cause and plotting, plotting, plotting in his inmost mind what was the safest course to take.

Only once did his self-possession desert him, and that was when the Prince said to Sir Thomas Sheridan that they must make for the Isles.

"Make for the Isles," he cried, glaring at them like an aged wolf-hound, "what sort of talk is that? Will you desert us all and not make a stand in the hills? What is one defeat? You must make terms, sir, or you'll have more to answer for than ever your father had."

"It is no good," replied the Prince dejectedly.

"Oh, why," cried Lovat, trembling with fury and vexation, "did ye come and ruin us at all?"

At that they tried to soothe him, telling him that he had taken no part--that he was an old man--that he could hide for a season. To all of which Lovat shook his great head. He never deceived himself.

"More than that," went on the Irishman, Sheridan, pacing up and down before the open window, "all is not lost. The clans will assemble again, and French gold is even now on its way. Gold," he added, "will unite us again as quick as honour."

He smiled, little guessing how far he erred in that while Lovat listened absently.

"French gold," he repeated, "and how can they land gold now?"

"They make for Lochnanuagh," replied Sheridan, "and...." but the Prince broke in:

"Come, gentlemen," he cried, "let us to horse. We must reach Invergarry before dawn. There is no sleep for us yet awhile..." and he raised his harassed eyes to the cold sky. "My lord," he said, a moment later, taking Lovat by the hand, "do not give way to despair--we are not beaten yet."

But the melancholy tone in which he sought to cheer the old man went like a chill to their hearts, and brought the old satirical grin to Lovat's mouth.

"Farewell," replied the old man with all the natural dignity that neither age nor dishonour could rob him, "I doubt we shall never meet again."

At that they all rose, and after shaking him by the hand passed down the stairs. He accompanied them to the door and stood with no further word while they mounted their beasts. The gillies letting the reins, fell back into the night leaving him alone. He took off his hat, but made no other sign.

Of a sudden in the cold night there rang a wild tumult of horses' hoofs and they were gone as they had come.

For long Lord Lovat stood in the doorway listening, with his eyes upon the black way they had taken, and then shivering violently he turned and stumbled upstairs.

Out in the darkness Muckle John crept from the shadows. He had heard all or nearly all. He looked all around him and then stared at the upper window of Gortuleg. He could see the vast shadow of Lovat seated by the table waiting his fate. For a few minutes he stood pondering the situation, then on tiptoe he crossed the track and opened the door. Closing it gently, he made his way up the narrow stairs. The door to the room where Lovat sat was open. He halted in the passage and looked in.

On a chair before the empty fire-grate sat the old man, his eyes fixed upon the floor, his legs crossed his fingers intertwined. His lips were moving ceaselessly, and once he frowned like a man frowns to himself who is uncertain just what course to take.

At last he rose and made his way across the room and to a strong box heavily clasped. This he unlocked and opened, extracting a heap of documents and letters and laying them upon the table. Then setting fire to the peats, he began to turn over the stuff, throwing some into the flames and putting some back again into the box.

"A braw night to you," said Muckle John, standing full in the doorway. The paper the old man held between his fingers fluttered gently upon the floor. Over his face there travelled a grey tinge as though he had grown of a sudden very old or ill. But he never moved nor did he say anything.

Entering the room, Muckle John closed the door, and walking towards the fire set about warming his hands in the coolest manner imaginable. Then taking off his great coat he laid it over the window.

"On such a night," he said, "it is better to do things quickly, my lord, and privately."

The old man answered nothing. He seemed struck dumb with fear, or rage, or some kindred emotion.

"I take it from your little preparations that you know how things stand."

"I was looking through some old rubbish," said Lovat more at his ease.

"I know what sort of rubbish," replied Muckle John, extracting a letter before the old man could check his hand, "how would this sound, eh? It's no what we might call cordial to Geordie."

"I am an old sick man," said Lovat, with a suspicion of whining, "scarce able to read or write. My memory is near gone and my faculties all amiss. What do you want with me? It is late and I have much to do."

"Perhaps your lordship will remember Castleleathers, who was once your good friend."

"What of him?"

"He did me a service abroad. Yesterday I was with him in Inverness. He told me much about you, my lord--and your promises."

Lovat shrugged his shoulders.

"It is easy to listen to one side of a matter," he replied tartly. "Castleleathers is a fool--I have never suffered fools gladly."

"Even you make mistakes sometimes, my lord."

The fear of capture took Lovat by the throat.

"Aye," he gulped, "but this is no time to quarrel. Let bygones be bygones. I did ye a wrong long since, I'll allow, but surely ye can forgive and forget?"

"No," said Muckle John, "I never forgive nor forget."

"Then what is it you want--is it my life--there is little enough of that to take--or is it money--I have a few guineas?"

"It is none of these. If I wanted your life I would set the red coats on you. But they will need no guidance of mine. I want to know where the gold is to be landed that is coming from France."

"Oho," cried Lovat, "so that's how the wind blows, is it?" and he remained deep in thought for a while.

"Will you do something if I tell ye?" he asked cunningly.

"Maybe and maybe no."

Lovat moistened his dry lips.

"There are sore times coming," he said in his husky voice, and speaking in Gaelic for the first time, "and I am not what I was. There may be folk who will swear black is black instead of white--you will be taking my meaning? Were I to fall into the hands of the Government it might go badly with me. But there are ways...."

"And they?"

"I have not taken arms, though my son has. They would never harm him being a mere boy, but they might forgive his old father should he hand him over. It must happen one way or the other. But I cannot lay hands on him. What would you say to that? It is for the boy's good--"

"Impossible--you are pleased to insult me."

"Then what will you do should I tell you?"

"I will not dispatch these letters to the Duke of Newcastle."

A sickly grey colour crept into Lovat's cheeks.

"You would--you would?" he gasped. "You would play into English hands, you would sell me?"

"There was an occasion," said Muckle John, coolly, "when you nearly did the same to me."

"Long ago--long ago."

"In the year 1728 to be exact."

Lovat's eyes flickered over the strong box and back again.

"How did ye know there was treasure?" he said, to make time.

"You forgot to shut your window."

"You played eavesdropper?"

Muckle John sighed.

"The hour is late," he replied, meaningly.

"I am in your hands," said Lovat.

"Then tell me where the gold is to be landed. I could not catch the name of the place."

The old man leant forward suddenly.

"It is on the coast of Knoidart," he replied.

"You swear it?"

"Such were the words that Sheridan said."

"It sounded unlike Knoidart, but I could not hear."

"It was Knoidart."

For long Muckle John tried to read truth or lies in his face. But the expression of Lovat was guileless.

"If you have lied," said Muckle John at last, "I will hound you down."

Lovat gently drew the palms of his hands together.

"Why should I lie?" he said.

"Then good-bye, my lord, and look to your papers, for to-morrow will bring dragoons and..."

"Enough," broke in Lovat, "I am not afraid."

He sat perfectly still until Muckle John had gone down the stairs, then with a grim smile he set about sorting his papers.

"Knoidart," he chuckled, "it's little gold would remain in Knoidart."

Out in the night Muckle John stood deep in thought, then climbing softly over the wall he reached Rob and the great grey horse.

"I must leave you for a while, Rob," he whispered, "but I'll return, never fear, and keep watch for the bit tune--ye mind the way it goes--" and he whistled a bar. "Keep on the top of the hills, laddie, but mind the skyline, and never stir by day. It's advice easily given but a weary business to follow," and putting his foot in the stirrup he mounted and walked softly down the glen.

A great loneliness stole over Rob, left as he was in a country he hardly knew, and with a throbbing wound, and a keen hunger on him. Stealing round to the house he made his way to the hall, and hearing no sound of human souls anywhere he entered the kitchen and happened upon a plate of cold porridge. This he devoured, and re-entering the hall he lay down before the fire and fell asleep.

Upstairs Lovat crouched before the fire. Hour after hour passed and still he spelt out with his tired weak eyes the contents of one sheet upon another. Once he nodded and a letter passed unread--a letter that was to weigh in the scales against him later. For an hour he slept altogether. But as the dawn was creeping back over that stricken country, the day following Culloden found him still bending with a haggard countenance over his correspondence, every letter of which might bring him to the scaffold.

At dawn on the same morning that saw the Prince speeding westward and Muckle John upon the road, before the moon had sunk behind the hills, Rob Fraser stole out of the hall and made his way into the open air. Already rumours were drifting through the village that the English were on the march towards Gortuleg, and all who were suspected of having taken arms for the Prince would be summarily dealt with, and their houses given to the flames.

Round the premises of Gortuleg dwelt the same melancholy silence as on the night before. Every living thing seemed to have fled. The very kennels were empty. Only one shaggy Highland pony whinnied in the desolate stable, hungry and alone.

A grey mist was driving down the glen, and a thin drizzle of rain had set in with the coming day.

As Rob peered up at the windows wondering what had befallen, he caught for an instant a pair of eyes fixed upon him, and heard a noise of shuffling feet. Coming from that deserted place it sounded so dreary that he was near taking to his heels. Before he could move, however, the huge bulk of Lord Lovat loomed into the shadowy doorway. Leaning heavily upon his stick with hunched shoulders, and a face unshaved and the grey colour of chalk, he stood with muttering lips. Then shuffling forward a step he stared blankly at Rob like a man whose thoughts are far away on another errand.

"What o'clock is it?" he rasped at last; and pulling off his wig, patted it idly, and rammed it again upon his head.

"Six o'clock, your lordship," said Rob, in a great awe of him.

"Six o'clock!" He frowned suddenly, looking all around him with pursed lips. "Where are my servants?" he cried. And when no answer came he quoted a scrap of Latin, and chuckled as though the context tickled him.

"Well, well," said he at last, "and who are you, boy?"

"Rob Fraser, sir."

"Thank ye," he snarled, speaking in broad Scots; "but it's a name as common as muir-fowl hereabouts. Why are ye no with the Master, that unscrupulous rebel, my son? Mind how I spoke of him, Rob, should they ever dare to take me."

"I heard ye, my lord."

"Aye, and speak up for an old man, Rob, whose havers may be misinterpreted, ye ken. What is it ye will answer, Rob?"

"That you called your son, the Master, an unscrupulous rebel," he replied.

Lovat nodded his great head approvingly.

"Bonny it sounds. That'll make the House o' Peers sit up. We'll carry it with silver hairs and injured innocence, Rob--an auld man, my lords, near doited with years and sorrow."

He paused, and the look of fear twisted his features once again.

"It would look better to bide here," said he, in a mutter to himself, and so, with a pinch of snuff, he turned towards the door again. But a moment later he was back, and this time his limbs fairly shook with fear.

"No, no!" he gasped, one gout swollen hand upon his breast. "I canna wait here like an auld maimed dog. There are places I can bide until arrangements can be made. Quick, boy--saddle a horse and let us go."

"The horses are all gone, my lord," said Rob.

"All gone? So that is how they treat me. Then we must walk until we find one. Surely my people will help their chief."

"There is a pony, your lordship," cried Rob, and going to the stable he led out the powerful little beast.

Shuffling back to the house, Lovat crept up the creaking stairway and returned some minutes later with his strong box.

"Fasten it behind the saddle, Rob," he said, "or better still can I trust ye to carry it?"

He stood for a moment glooming at the ground and then begun to hunt amongst his pockets for a piece of paper which, when he had found it, he read most carefully and tittered in a strange falsetto manner to himself.

Then taking a silver whistle from his waistcoat he blew it three times and took to breathing upon his frozen fingers.

From the heather a hundred yards up the glen two men had risen at the first note, and came running towards them--long-haired, ragged gillies, Fraser by their tartan. They stood a little way from Lovat, watching him like dogs ready for the trail. The frost of their night watch stood upon their bonnets and their beards were stiff and glistening. Waving Rob aside Lovat began to speak to them in a low tone, but before he had said more than a dozen words his voice rose to a scream through the influence of some private passion, and he menaced them in Gaelic so that they quailed before his clenched fist. But as suddenly his voice dropped and he caressed them, patting their cheeks and then dismissing them, stood panting beside Rob--all the fire gone--once more just an old sick man.

Very slowly he clambered upon the pony, and so they started and began to pass the cluster of huts near Gortuleg. The frightened people trooped out of their doors to see their chief go by, and a dozen Frasers armed with muskets and swords gathered about him and trudged in silence towards the west.

At the corner of the brae Lovat turned and looked back on Gortuleg. Beneath his bullying, tyrannical, shifty character there was a kind of bedrock of that highly coloured sentiment that is akin to melodrama. He played to the gallery with infinite zest and genuine enjoyment. It was a nice pose to combat the diminishing power of the chieftainship--where force was a dangerous weapon, sentiment was often a two-edged sword.

"Farewell," he said, in his deep voice and with honest tears in his eyes, "for maybe I shall never see you again."

It did not matter that the house was not his, nor an imposing habitation at the best of times. All that mattered was that he was at the turn of the brae, going downward--an exiled chief. Fully conscious that the setting was saga-like the clansmen set up a piteous lamentation, and bowing his great head Lovat motioned them on, and the journey continued. And in this fashion after many weary hours they reached Loch Muilzie in Glenstrathfarar and for the time being considered themselves in safety.

Far away, dimly discernible in that wilderness of heather, two men were running like wolves on the trail--two men with dirks by their sides, and death in their hearts--running tirelessly. On the outskirts of the Fraser country they passed another man who was watching the pass and without a word he joined them--three men running in single file, bending double in open places--heading for Knoidart.

Long after, when the sun was falling, Muckle John pulled in his horse for the third time within an hour and listened intently. From the drenched hillside a curlew was crying amongst the shadows, and from up the hill came the clamour of a muir-fowl.

But no whisper of the danger that lurked unseen amongst the silences--awaiting the night.

And then with troubled eyes he continued his way, taking cover where he could, seeking a place of refuge.