MUCKLE JOHN

BY

FREDERICK WATSON

AUTHOR OF "SHALLOWS"

CONTAINING EIGHT FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR BY ALLAN STEWART

LONDON ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK SOHO SQUARE

Published September 1914

TO MRS. STEPHEN WILLIAMSON MY FATHER'S FRIEND AND MINE

CONTENTS

CHAP.

FOREWORD I. HOW PRINCE CHARLIE CAME TO INVERNESS II. THE COMING OF MUCKLE JOHN III. THE END OF THE JACOBITE CAUSE IV. FRENCH GOLD V. LOCH ARKAIG VI. THE WATCHERS BY NIGHT VII. BURIED TREASURE VIII. FLIGHT IX. THE TURN OF THE SCALES X. THE LAST FLICKER XI. A NARROW ESCAPE XII. IN THE HANDS OF THE DUKE XIII. MISS MACPHERSON COMES TO FORT AUGUSTUS XIV. MUCKLE JOHN SHOWS HIS HAND XV. "A MUIR-FOWL SNARED" XVI. THE CAVE IN GLENMORISTON XVII. THE HOLDING OF THE PASS XVIII. THE WHISTLE OF THE BANSHEE XIX. THE DANCE OF THE MACKENZIES XX. AN UNWILLING ACCOMPLICE XXI. THE CAPTURE OF LORD LOVAT XXII. MISS MACPHERSON AND THE DUKE XXIII. THE HOUSE OF THE FOUR MEN XXIV. THE END OF A TALE

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

IN COLOUR

All about Rob were hoarse cries, groans, eddying smoke, and the roar and clatter of arms (see p. 43) Frontispiece

"Madam," said he, "I crave your pardon for this seeming incivility"

"I am the Prince," said the man upon the horse

He peered through the heather upon the beach

The holding of the pass

He was in full highland dress, with a claymore at his side

He watched one of the men unsheath his dirk and make a gesture significant enough

With a great rattle of chains the gibbet's burden dropped with a clatter

FOREWORD

All the world knows the tale of the Rising of 1745. It is a story that each generation cherishes with undiminished affection. Some have called it the last burst of chivalry in modern history, and doubtless for that reason when other more vital aspects are forgotten, the campaign of Prince Charlie will sustain its fascination and its glamour.

In an age peculiarly commonplace and sordid, it carried the spirit of romance well-nigh to the throne itself; in a period almost destitute of loyalty and patriotism it glorified the reckless gallantry and self-sacrifice of devotion.

That Charles Edward Stuart could land with only seven followers and carry all before him into the very heart of England is wonderful enough. But that in the days of his misfortune and flight no one was found to claim the reward for his life is finer still. That poor, unarmed, uneducated men were ready to die in hundreds is a testimony not easily forgotten.

Of those great days when the Jacobite army marched south much has been written, and the facts are familiar to all. But of those grey days following Culloden Moor less is known, and in the last fluttering of the Jacobite Cause there is much that must necessarily baffle and perplex the casual reader.

The Highlands were to a large extent divided in opinion. There were Jacobite clans, and Hanoverian clans, while between the two were men like Major Fraser of our story, anxious to keep clear of both. There were devoted chiefs like Lochiel, scheming chiefs like Lovat, chiefs who wavered and trifled like Macleod, or were downright traitors like Glengarry and Barisdale, and there were the tragi-comedians like poor Murray of Broughton, who was more hated than he deserved.

Finally there were, like poppies in the grain, the adventurers, men with nothing to lose and something to gain (such as Muckle John himself), serving no chief, nor clan, marauders more Jacobite than Hanoverian, like birds of prey hovering for the kill. It is of this side of the '45 that I have principally treated.

Clan jealousies again must not be forgotten, and the universal hatred of the Campbells played, as always, its miserable part. Those who condemn Cumberland and his troops must not forget that in the persecution after Culloden the hunting down of the fugitives was ardently pursued by the Highland militia and the men from Argyllshire.

The story of a campaign is but a lightning flash in the history of a nation. Long after, the thunder rolls into silence. The Rebellion of the '45 was only the fuse that destroyed at a blow the clan system of centuries. From Culloden onwards the transit of the old into the new was swift and tragic in its coming.

FREDERICK WATSON

MUCKLE JOHN

CHAPTER I HOW PRINCE CHARLIE CAME TO INVERNESS

It is often your stupidest boy who is most likeable in a helpless sort of way. Not that Rob Fraser was a nincompoop, but there was a confiding innocency in his shadowless blue eyes that only a rascal could have turned to his own advantage.

Rob was not accounted promising at school, and during the study of such subjects as Latin and Greek his mind appeared to be focussed upon the next county, nor was he regarded as reliable at games, for his movements were in tune with his thoughts, which were more often on the trout in the pool than on the ball in his hand.

It was this abstraction that divided him from the other boys of his age, not because he was unpopular, not because he lacked pluck, but just because he was silent for days at a time, and made no confidences. It was a state of mind that drove his aunt, good woman, to a kind of arctic fury. For years she strove to beat it out of him, but it served no purpose except to send him upon the hills for days together.

There comes a time when you can't beat a boy larger than yourself. Not that Rob would have complained or refused to submit. He was indifferent to such things. He had plenty of spirit of a dogged and inflammatory character, but it did not lie that way. If it consoled his aunt to beat him, then let her do so by all means. For all he knew it might be the time-honoured custom of maiden aunts.

Miss Macpherson was, above all, a practical woman, and it was Rob's dreamy obliviousness to facts that fretted her. To sit watching muirfowl for hours together was more than any sensible body could tolerate. And that was Rob all over. He knew where the two-pound trout lay in the burn up in the hills. He could bring a curlew from the next glen in a perfect frenzy of agitation to learn what was the matter. He would spend nights together watching fox cubs playing under the moon. But of school and its tasks he had no tolerance.

He was lying on the bank of a stream that spring day when it all came about. He did not hear the footsteps nor did he see the shadow on the water, but of a sudden there stood a very large and pleasant gentleman beside him, dressed in riding clothes, and with a handsome claymore at his side.

"Cuddling?" said he very affably. "I mind the day when I could lay the bonnie ones in rows upon the bank."

Rob stared at him with his ingenuous eyes.

"It is fine to be young," went on the strange gentleman, "but there were no days like the old days."

"Why do you say that?" asked Rob.

The stranger suppressed a smile at his eager curiosity.

"They have said that," he replied, "since Robert the Bruce heard it from his grandfather."

"But were the old days so fine?"

"Fine enough," he replied absently; "fine enough and yet none sae fine either—there is a bit tune I'm minded of..." and he took a curious little instrument out of his pocket made of reed, shaped like a piccolo.

Then sitting upon a rock he played a tender little air with one eye glued to Rob to see how he took it, and his head cocked very drolly upon the side.

"There's the 'Brogues of Fortune' for ye," he said.

"Is it a very old tune?" asked Rob, greatly taken with the gentleman.

"As old as the hills, laddie, and that's past counting—as old as the burn and the shadows on the brae, for it's part and parcel of them all, just strung together by mysel'."

"You made it?"

"Hech! there's nothing to skirl about. I make them all day. I canna eat my dinner but my feet are dirling to a tune that has no name and must have the go-by until I have a spare moment. Make them indeed!"

"What else do you do?" asked Rob, in his innocent blunt way.

The stranger laughed.

"I can hear the owl passing over the brae in the night, I can see the stag hunkered amongst the crags, I can catch the otter at his play."

"Can you call the weasel from his hole?" asked Rob.

"Maybe I can," replied the other, "but try you first."

At that, getting rather red in the face, Rob uttered a thin squeal such as a wounded rabbit gives, like the squeal of a rat for shrillness. Again and again he made it, but nothing moved in the broken place under the bank.

"None so bad," said the stranger, and distending his lips he sent forth such a screech that it froze Rob's blood. In it was the terror of the chase—the fear of what was following, and the drawing of blood.

And before their eyes, not four feet away, at the very first note the lithe form of a weasel leapt quivering upon the heather.

"It takes a deal of practice," said the stranger gentleman for fear he might seem overproud.

But Rob was utterly crushed.

Back dived the weasel for his lair, and lying down, the stranger told Rob of the ways of wild things until it was dusk. Presently without so much as a good-day but only a nod he buttoned his coat and crossing the burn set off up the hill, and Rob saw him no more, at least not for two full years and over, not indeed until the Jacobites came to Inverness in the year '46.

It was about nine of the clock on the morning of February the 18th, 1746, that two horsemen rode into the town of Inverness.

Now there might seem nothing strange in that, but rather in the manner of their coming, which was at a headlong gallop. Rob Fraser, hurrying to the Grammar School, had scarce time to leap aside as they careered up Church Street, their beasts in a lather with sweat. Rob gave them one quick glance as they thundered by, noting that one had lost his hat, and the other his stirrup-irons; that both horses were fresh, grass fed beasts new from the fields, and then, on swift, light feet he sped in pursuit.

The Grammar School saw little of Rob when promise of news was going. For it must be told that in the year 1746 Inverness was in a rare tumult, and none knew just how the future lay.

In August of the preceding year Prince Charles Edward Stuart had landed in Scotland, had won the clans to his banner, had defeated the Government forces at Prestonpans, and had marched into England. Receiving no support in the south, he returned to the north with his gallant little army. Then came the second victory at Falkirk, and the retreat towards Inverness with the Duke of Cumberland on their trail.

It was at such a time that two horsemen galloping recklessly through the streets of Inverness were bound to create a commotion. None could say what would befall within the next few weeks. Inverness was Jacobite by instinct; but there was no pleasant flavour about the word "rebel." In truth, the good people of the town were at their wits' end to know which way to cry.

But not so Rob Fraser. Despite the opinions of his father, despite the sour words of Ephraim Macaulay, the schoolmaster, and the dour face of the minister—Rob Fraser was a Jacobite beyond recall.

For a boy of sixteen he was slightly built, but lithe and wiry as a hill-fox. His hair was longer than is customary to-day, and covered by a broad blue bonnet. His features were regular and clean-cut, the eyes dark and sombre, his cheeks and neck tanned by wind and wild weather. In his rough jacket and faded kilt, with his torn and patched stockings and his soaking brogues, he made a queer enough spectacle—not one would say the ideal picture of a hero of romance. He wore no sporran, such luxuries were not for him, and his kilt was but a roll of tartan belted about his middle, but he carried himself with all the dignity of his race. He was a schoolboy, but out of school he was a Fraser, and were the Frasers not in the field with the Master of Lovat? Those were days when schoolboys had small time for lessons. Only the night before Lauchlain Macintosh had eluded the sentinels and given warning of the plan to capture Prince Charlie at Moy Hall. There was no speaking to Lauchlain at the Grammar School for months after. Indeed, things were too critical for sums and tags of

grammar. Already the Prince was threatening Inverness. At any moment there might be a battle at the very gates of the town, and who could say what might happen then?

Meanwhile the two horsemen had pulled up their steaming beasts in the market place, and the one who had lost his hat raised himself in his stirrups and shouted for silence. Rob, worming his way through the people, arrived in time to hear his opening words.

"We have ridden hot-foot," the man cried, speaking in Gaelic, "for the Pretender's army is even now marching on your town."

At that there was a sudden clamour of voices, some cheering, and not a little hooting, for the name "Pretender" was not pleasant in Jacobite ears.

But Inverness was in Hanoverian hands, and so the noise died away, and all eyes were turned again upon the man on the horse. He was a great, red-faced fellow, very pompous and self sufficient, and had his hair not looked so laughable through the loss of his hat, might have impressed his auditors enormously.

The news he had brought sent a strange stir through the town. People began to talk in little clusters in the roadway, taverns quickly filled with gossipers, shutters began to rattle together, and anxious faces peered round the corners of windows.

Suddenly down the street sounded the tramp of feet, and a score of excited eyes were turned in the hope of seeing the Highland army march into the town. But no—it was the Hanoverian garrison some two thousand strong, commanded by Lord Loudon, about to evacuate. At that the confusion grew more intense, and ardent Jacobites could scarce refrain from donning the white cockade, while less ardent Hanoverians did not know whether to cheer or take to flight, and honest tradesfolk wore long faces thinking of their goods, for who could protect them against wild, Highland caterans, hungry from long marching?

Rob slipped from group to group, listening to a word here and there, feeling a bitter contempt in his heart for these people of streets and shops.

The Hanoverian soldiers had passed out of Inverness by midday, and crossing the Moray Firth retired into Ross-shire, and still the clatter of voices went on, and here and there a group of men were walking the streets with claymores at their sides, ready for the arrival of the Prince. At last Rob Fraser, grown weary of idling, turned in the direction of the school, and stealing inside the doorway was astonished to find it very quiet and empty, and with no sign of boy or master.

Of that master, whose name was the strange one of Ephraim Macaulay, something must be said.

He had arrived in Inverness three months earlier, on the introduction of the Lord President Forbes, and his predecessor had been asked to retire. The whole business was very mysterious. Some said the old schoolmaster (who was a whole-hearted Jacobite) would return, and others that he was in disgrace with the Government, and counted as a conspirator for the Stuarts. At any rate, Mr. Macaulay appeared, and from the moment he had entered the place Rob had hated him with all his heart.

Mr. Macaulay was an exceedingly tall, thin man, very straight and smileless, with a long, hatchet face. He was decently dressed in black clothes, and wore silver buckles on his shoes, but there was something strange in his manner, and in his secrecy, and there had been rumours that he saw overmuch of Lord Loudon. In his aspect there was a strong resemblance to a hawk, through his habit of staring unblinkingly into space. For minutes together he would stand thus, and then of a sudden he would start and stare keenly about him with his sombre black eyes, and awaken, as it were, to his duties, which he seemed to find utterly irksome and dejecting.

Rob went on tiptoe into the room where he was in the habit of listening (somewhat absently) to the words of Ephraim Macaulay, and crossing the floor, peered into the shadowy passage which led to the schoolmaster's study.

The door was ajar, and from the room beyond came the sound of voices, a low grumble in deep undertones, as though two men were in close conversation—and very full of it. He heard a chair fall as though a man had sprung to his feet, and while he hesitated Mr. Macaulay cried "Muckle John" in a tone of surprise and agitation. "In Inverness," replied another voice strange to Rob.

Rob turned to steal away, but even as he did so the murmur of voices ceased, and before he could make off, the study door was flung back, and the long arm of the schoolmaster shot out and clutched his shoulder. It was so quickly done that he could not even duck for safety, and before he could shake himself free, the master's companion had cut off his retreat and gripped his arms. He had been caught eavesdropping.

Mr. Macaulay glanced at Rob with unmistakable malice, then, springing to his feet, he laid hands upon his cane.

"What have ye heard?" he asked sharply, but with anxiety written all over his face.

"Nothing," said Rob stoutly, "I did not know there was any one there."

"Come, Rob," said the master speaking with a strong lowland accent, "I'll leather ye for eavesdropping if for nothing else," and he began slowly approaching, his fingers twitching at his sides, moistening his lips with the tip of his tongue.

"Are ye ready, Rob?" he said, passing round the table, his head thrust forward, and a grim smile upon his face.

The boy took a step backward, so that a stool lay between them, and flung a glance about him for a way of escape. To his back lay the fireplace, and to his right the open window, but high up and so small that only a cat could have reached it and passed through.

"You've learned your new trade quickly," said the stranger with a chuckle. It struck Rob, desperate though he was, as an odd thing to say.

Meanwhile the schoolmaster had begun to slowly unbutton his coat, and to turn back his shirtsleeves. His companion had seated himself near the door—to leave ample space for what was to come. The seconds were flying, and still Rob stood, his eyes darting hither and thither, until suddenly they rested upon the wall above the fireplace. Now an ancestor of the former master had been a man of some prowess, and it was his claymore which hung over the mantel-shelf, and so fascinated Rob's eyes. The basket hilt hung down to within three feet of his arm. Could he but reach that!

Slowly Mr. Macaulay folded his coat and laid it down. He relished this prolonging of agony. It was never his way to have done with a thing. He even waved the cane a little, the better to find its balance. And then with a swift spring Rob had leaped upon the stool and gripped the sword upon the wall.

Uttering a cry of rage, the schoolmaster sent his cane whistling downwards, but it fell short, and with a great wrench, Rob ripped the claymore free, and sent it whirling in a circle about him.

And at that moment, far away, rising and falling, the flaunting skirl of the bagpipes came floating in through the open window. For a moment they all stood like people in a tableau.

"The Pretender!" gasped the stranger, springing up.

The schoolmaster let the cane slide from his fingers upon the floor.

"Humph!" said he, eyeing Rob, "it's like we'll postpone your beating, my lad." He gloomed a little with a heavy frown upon his face, then slowly unlocking the door, he stood aside for him to pass. But when he saw Rob still retained the sword he hesitated and laid a hand upon the boy's arm.

"What's the meaning o' this?" he asked.

"It means," returned Rob, with head erect, "that I'm no pupil of yours, Mr. Macaulay—but a soldier, should the Prince have me."

"Oh, he'll have ye right enough," sneered the master; "he's nane sae many, and rope is cheap. Good-bye, my bonny recruit. We'll meet again belike."

Taking no notice of his words, Rob hurried to the doorway and out upon the road.

The clangour of the bagpipes was filling the narrow streets and the cheers of the townspeople rose and fell as the Prince's troops marched past.