MISTER Redgauntlet! He was Sir Henry Redgauntlet, as his son, if the child now lives, will be Sir Arthur–I called him Harry from intimacy, and Redgauntlet, as the chief of his name–His proper style was Sir Henry Redgauntlet.’
‘His son, therefore, is dead?’ said Alan Fairford. ‘It is a pity so brave a line should draw to a close.’
‘He has left a brother,’ said Summertrees, ‘Edward Hugh Redgauntlet, who has now the representation of the family. And well it is; for though he be unfortunate in many respects, he will keep up the honour of the house better than a boy bred up amongst these bitter Whigs, the relations of his elder brother Sir Henry’s lady. Then they are on no good terms with the Redgauntlet line–bitter Whigs they are in every sense. It was a runaway match betwixt Sir Henry and his lady. Poor thing, they would not allow her to see him when in confinement–they had even the meanness to leave him without pecuniary assistance; and as all his own property was seized upon and plundered, he would have wanted common necessaries, but for the attachment of a fellow who was a famous fiddler–a blind man–I have seen him with Sir Henry myself, both before the affair broke out and while it was going on. I have heard that he fiddled in the streets of Carlisle, and carried what money he got to his master, while he was confined in the castle.’
‘I do not believe a word of it,’ said Mrs. Crosbie, kindling with indignation. ‘A Redgauntlet would have died twenty times before he had touched a fiddler’s wages.’
‘Hout fye–hout fye–all nonsense and pride,’ said the Laird of Summertrees. ‘Scornful dogs will eat dirty puddings, cousin Crosbie–ye little ken what some of your friends were obliged to do yon time for a sowp of brose, or a bit of bannock. G–d, I carried a cutler’s wheel for several weeks, partly for need, and partly for disguise–there I went bizz–bizz–whizz–zizz, at every auld wife’s door; and if ever you want your shears sharpened, Mrs. Crosbie, I am the lad to do it for you, if my wheel was but in order.’
‘You, must ask my leave first,’ said the provost; ‘for I have been told you had some queer fashions of taking a kiss instead of a penny, if you liked your customer.’
‘Come, come, provost,’ said the lady; rising, ‘if the maut gets abune the meal with you, it is time for me to take myself away– And you will come to my room, gentlemen, when you want a cup of tea.’
Alan Fairford was not sorry for the lady’s departure. She seemed too much alive to the honour of the house of Redgauntlet, though only a fourth cousin, not to be alarmed by the inquiries which he proposed to make after the whereabout of its present head. Strange confused suspicions arose in his mind, from his imperfect recollection of the tale of Wandering Willie, and the idea forced itself upon him that his friend Darsie Latimer might be the son of the unfortunate Sir Henry. But before indulging in such speculations, the point was to discover what had actually become of him. If he were in the hands of his uncle, might there not exist some rivalry in fortune, or rank, which might induce so stern a man as Redgauntlet to use unfair measures towards a youth whom he would find himself unable to mould to his purpose? He considered these points in silence, during several revolutions of the glasses as they wheeled in galaxy round the bowl, waiting until the provost, agreeably to his own proposal, should mention the subject, for which he had expressly introduced him to Mr. Maxwell of Summertrees.
Apparently the provost had forgot his promise, or at least was in no great haste to fulfil it. He debated with great earnestness upon the Stamp Act, which was then impending over the American colonies, and upon other political subjects of the day, but said not a word of Redgauntlet. Alan soon saw that the investigation he meditated must advance, if at all, on his own special motion, and determined to proceed accordingly.
Acting upon this resolution, he took the first opportunity afforded by a pause in the discussion of colonial politics, to say, ‘I must remind you, Provost Crosbie, of your kind promise to procure some intelligence upon the subject I am so anxious about.’
‘Gadso!’ said the provost, after a moment’s hesitation, ‘it is very true.–Mr. Maxwell, we wish to consult you on a piece of important business. You must know indeed I think you must have heard, that the fishermen at Brokenburn, and higher up the Solway, have made a raid upon Quaker Geddes’s stake-nets, and levelled all with the sands.’
‘In troth I heard it, provost, and I was glad to hear the scoundrels had so much pluck left as to right themselves against a fashion which would make the upper heritors a sort of clocking- hens, to hatch the fish that folk below them were to catch and eat.’
‘Well, sir,’ said Alan, ‘that is not the present point. But a young friend of mine was with Mr. Geddes at the time this violent procedure took place, and he has not since been heard of. Now, our friend, the provost, thinks that you may be able to advise’–
Here he was interrupted by the provost and Summertrees speaking out both at once, the first endeavouring to disclaim all interest in the question, and the last to evade giving an answer.
‘Me think!’ said the provost; ‘I never thought twice about it, Mr. Fairford; it was neither fish, nor flesh, nor salt herring of mine.’
‘And I “able to advise”!’ said Mr. Maxwell of Summertrees; ‘what the devil can I advise you to do, excepting to send the bellman through the town to cry your lost sheep, as they do spaniel dogs or stray ponies?’
‘With your pardon,’ said Alan, calmly, but resolutely, ‘I must ask a more serious answer.’
‘Why, Mr. Advocate,’ answered Summertrees, ‘I thought it was your business to give advice to the lieges, and not to take it from poor stupid country gentlemen.’
‘If not exactly advice, it is sometimes our duty to ask questions, Mr. Maxwell.’
‘Aye, sir, when you have your bag-wig and your gown on, we must allow you the usual privilege of both gown and petticoat, to ask what questions you please. But when you are out of your canonicals, the case is altered. How come you, sir, to suppose that I have any business with this riotous proceeding, or should know more than you do what happened there? the question proceeds on an uncivil supposition.’
‘I will explain,’ said Alan, determined to give Mr. Maxwell no opportunity of breaking off the conversation. ‘You are an intimate of Mr. Redgauntlet–he is accused of having been engaged in this affray, and of having placed under forcible restraint the person of my friend, Darsie Latimer, a young man of property and consequence, whose fate I am here for the express purpose of investigating. This is the plain state of the case; and all parties concerned,–your friend, in particular,–will have reason to be thankful for the temperate manner in which it is my purpose to conduct the matter, if I am treated with proportionate frankness.’
‘You have misunderstood me,’ said Maxwell, with a tone changed to more composure; ‘I told you I was the friend of the late Sir Henry Redgauntlet, who was executed, in 1745, at Hairibie, near Carlisle, but I know no one who at present bears the name of Redgauntlet.’
‘You know Mr. Herries of Birrenswork,’ said Alan, smiling, ‘to whom the name of Redgauntlet belongs?’
Maxwell darted a keen reproachful look towards the provost, but instantly smoothed his brow, and changed his tone to that of confidence and candour.
‘You must not be angry, Mr. Fairford, that the poor persecuted nonjurors are a little upon the QUI VIVE when such clever young men as you are making inquiries after us. I myself now, though I am quite out of the scrape, and may cock my hat at the Cross as I best like, sunshine or moonshine, have been yet so much accustomed to walk with the lap of my cloak cast over my face, that, faith, if a redcoat walk suddenly up to me, I wish for my wheel and whetstone again for a moment. Now Redgauntlet, poor fellow, is far worse off–he is, you may have heard, still under the lash of the law,–the mark of the beast is still on his forehead, poor gentleman,–and that makes us cautious–very cautious, which I am sure there is no occasion to be towards you, as no one of your appearance and manners would wish to trepan a gentleman under misfortune.’
‘On the contrary, sir,’ said Fairford, ‘I wish to afford Mr. Redgauntlet’s friends an opportunity to get him out of the scrape, by procuring the instant liberation of my friend Darsie Latimer. I will engage that if he has sustained no greater bodily harm than a short confinement, the matter may be passed over quietly, without inquiry; but to attain this end, so desirable for the man who has committed a great and recent infraction of the laws, which he had before grievously offended, very speedy reparation of the wrong must be rendered.’
Maxwell seemed lost in reflection, and exchanged a glance or two, not of the most comfortable or congratulatory kind, with his host the provost. Fairford rose and walked about the room, to allow them an opportunity of conversing together; for he was in hopes that the impression he had visibly made upon Summertrees was likely to ripen into something favourable to his purpose. They took the opportunity, and engaged in whispers to each other, eagerly and reproachfully on the part of the laird, while the provost answered in an embarrassed and apologetical tone. Some broken words of the conversation reached Fairford, whose presence they seemed to forget, as he stood at the bottom of the room, apparently intent upon examining the figures upon a fine Indian screen, a present to the provost from his brother, captain of a vessel in the Company’s service. What he overheard made it evident that his errand, and the obstinacy with which he pursued it, occasioned altercation between the whisperers.
Maxwell at length let out the words, ‘A good fright; and so send him home with his tail scalded, like a dog that has come a- privateering on strange premises.’
The provost’s negative was strongly interposed–‘Not to be thought of’–‘making bad worse’–‘my situation’–‘my utility’– ‘you cannot conceive how obstinate–just like his father’.
They then whispered more closely, and at length the provost raised his drooping crest, and spoke in a cheerful tone. ‘Come, sit down to your glass, Mr. Fairford; we have laid our heads thegither, and you shall see it will not be our fault if you are not quite pleased, and Mr. Darsie Latimer let loose to take his fiddle under his neck again. But Summertrees thinks it will require you to put yourself into some bodily risk, which maybe you may not be so keen of.’
‘Gentlemen,’ said Fairford, ‘I will not certainly shun any risk by which my object may be accomplished; but I bind it on your consciences–on yours, Mr. Maxwell, as a man of honour and a gentleman; and on yours, provost, as a magistrate and a loyal subject, that you do not mislead me in this matter.’
‘Nay, as for me,’ said Summertrees, ‘I will tell you the truth at once, and fairly own that I can certainly find you the means of seeing Redgauntlet, poor man; and that I will do, if you require it, and conjure him also to treat you as your errand requires; but poor Redgauntlet is much changed–indeed, to say truth, his temper never was the best in the world; however, I will warrant you from any very great danger.’
‘I will warrant myself from such,’ said Fairford, ‘by carrying a proper force with me.’
‘Indeed,’ said Summertrees, ‘you will, do no such thing; for, in the first place, do you think that we will deliver up the poor fellow into the hands of the Philistines, when, on the contrary, my only reason for furnishing you with the clue I am to put into your hands, is to settle the matter amicably on all sides? And secondly, his intelligence is so good, that were you coming near him with soldiers, or constables, or the like, I shall answer for it, you will never lay salt on his tail.’
Fairford mused for a moment. He considered that to gain sight of this man, and knowledge of his friend’s condition, were advantages to be purchased at every personal risk; and he saw plainly, that were he to take the course most safe for himself, and call in the assistance of the law, it was clear he would either be deprived of the intelligence necessary to guide him, or that Redgauntlet would be apprised of his danger, and might probably leave the country, carrying his captive along with him. He therefore repeated, ‘I put myself on your honour, Mr. Maxwell; and I will go alone to visit your friend. I have little; doubt I shall find him amenable to reason; and that I shall receive from him a satisfactory account of Mr. Latimer.’
‘I have little doubt that you will,’ said Mr. Maxwell of Summertrees; ‘but still I think it will be only in the long run, and after having sustained some delay and inconvenience. My warrandice goes no further.’
‘I will take it as it is given,’ said Alan Fairford. ‘But let me ask, would it not be better, since you value your friend’s safety so highly and surely would not willingly compromise mine, that the provost or you should go with me to this man, if he is within any reasonable distance, and try to make him hear reason?’
‘Me!–I will not go my foot’s length,’ said the provost; and that, Mr. Alan, you may be well assured of. Mr. Redgauntlet is my wife’s fourth cousin, that is undeniable; but were he the last of her kin and mine both, it would ill befit my office to be communing with rebels.’
‘Aye, or drinking with nonjurors,’ said Maxwell, filling his glass. ‘I would as soon expect; to have met Claverhouse at a field-preaching. And as for myself, Mr. Fairford, I cannot go, for just the opposite reason. It would be INFRA DIG. in the provost of this most flourishing and loyal town to associate with Redgauntlet; and for me it would be NOSCITUR A SOCIO. There would be post to London, with the tidings that two such Jacobites as Redgauntlet and I had met on a braeside–the Habeas Corpus would be suspended–Fame would sound a charge from Carlisle to the Land’s End–and who knows but the very wind of the rumour might blow my estate from between my fingers, and my body over Errickstane-brae again? No, no; bide a gliff–I will go into the provost’s closet, and write a letter to Redgauntlet, and direct you how to deliver it.’
‘There is pen and ink in the office,’ said the provost, pointing to the door of an inner apartment, in which he had his walnut- tree desk and east-country cabinet.
‘A pen that can write, I hope?’ said the old laird.
‘It can write and spell baith in right hands,’ answered the provost, as the laird retired and shut the door behind him.
CHAPTER XII
NARRATIVE OF ALAN FAIRFORD, CONTINUED
The room was no sooner deprived of Mr. Maxwell of Summertrees’s presence, than the provost looked very warily above, beneath, and around the apartment, hitched his chair towards that of his remaining guest, and began to speak In a whisper which could not have startled ‘the smallest mouse that creeps on floor.’
‘Mr. Fairford,’ said he, ‘you are a good lad; and, what is more, you are my auld friend your father’s son. Your father has been agent for this burgh for years, and has a good deal to say with the council; so there have been a sort of obligations between him and me; it may have been now on this side and now on that; but obligations there have been. I am but a plain man, Mr. Fairford; but I hope you understand me?’
‘I believe you mean me well, provost; and I am sure,’ replied Fairford, ‘you can never better show your kindness than on this occasion.’
‘That’s it–that’s the very point I would be at, Mr. Alan,’ replied the provost; ‘besides, I am, as becomes well my situation, a stanch friend to kirk and king, meaning this present establishment in church and state; and so, as I was saying, you may command my best–advice.’
‘I hope for your assistance and co-operation also,’ said the youth.
‘Certainly, certainly,’ said the wary magistrate. ‘Well, now, you see one may love the kirk, and yet not ride on the rigging of it; and one may love the king, and yet not be cramming him eternally down the throat of the unhappy folk that may chance to like another king better. I have friends and connexions among them, Mr. Fairford, as your father may have clients–they are flesh and blood like ourselves, these poor Jacobite bodies–sons of Adam and Eve, after all; and therefore–I hope you understand me?–I am a plain-spoken man.’
‘I am afraid I do not quite understand you,’ said Fairford; ‘and if you have anything to say to me in private, my dear provost, you had better come quickly out with it, for the Laird of Summertrees must finish his letter in a minute or two.’
‘Not a bit, man–Pate is a lang-headed fellow, but his pen does not clear the paper as his greyhound does the Tinwald-furs. I gave him a wipe about that, if you noticed; I can say anything to Pate-in-Peril–Indeed, he is my wife’s near kinsman.’
‘But your advice, provost,’ said Alan, who perceived that, like a shy horse, the worthy magistrate always started off from his own purpose just when he seemed approaching to it.
‘Weel, you shall have it in plain terms, for I am a plain man. Ye see, we will suppose that any friend like yourself were in the deepest hole of the Nith, sand making a sprattle for your life. Now, you see, such being the case, I have little chance of helping you, being a fat, short-armed man, and no swimmer, and what would be the use of my jumping in after you?’
‘I understand you, I think,’ said Alan Fairford. ‘You think that Darsie Latimer is in danger of his life?’
‘Me!–I think nothing about it, Mr. Alan; but if he were, as I trust he is not, he is nae drap’s blood akin to you, Mr. Alan.’
‘But here your friend, Summertrees,’ said the young lawyer, ‘offers me a letter to this Redgauntlet of yours–What say you to that?’
‘Me!’ ejaculated the provost, ‘me, Mr. Alan? I say neither buff nor stye to it–But ye dinna ken what it is to look a Redgauntlet in the face;–better try my wife, who is but a fourth cousin, before ye venture on the laird himself–just say something about the Revolution, and see what a look she can gie you.’
I shall leave you to stand all the shots from that battery, provost.’ replied Fairford. ‘But speak out like a man–Do you think Summertrees means fairly by me?’
‘Fairly–he is just coming–fairly? I am a plain man, Mr. Fairford–but ye said FAIRLY?’
‘I do so,’ replied Alan, ‘and it is of importance to me to know, and to you to tell me if such is the case; for if you do not, you may be an accomplice to murder before the fact, and that under circumstances which may bring it near to murder under trust.’
‘Murder!–who spoke of murder?’ said the provost; no danger of that, Mr. Alan–only, if I were you–to speak my plain mind’– Here he approached his mouth to the ear of the young lawyer, and, after another acute pang of travail, was safely delivered of his advice in the following abrupt words:–‘Take a keek into Pate’s letter before ye deliver it.’
Fairford started, looked the provost hard in the face, and was silent; while Mr. Crosbie, with the self-approbation of one who has at length brought himself to the discharge of a great duty, at the expense of a considerable sacrifice, nodded and winked to Alan, as if enforcing his advice; and then swallowing a large glass of punch, concluded, with the sigh of a man released from a heavy burden, ‘I am a plain man, Mr. Fairford.’
‘A plain man?’ said Maxwell, who entered the room at that moment, with the letter in his hand,–‘Provost, I never heard you make use of the word but when you had some sly turn of your own to work out.’
The provost looked silly enough, and the Laird of Summertrees directed a keen and suspicious glance upon Alan Fairford, who sustained it with professional intrepidity.–There was a moment’s pause.
‘I was trying,’ said the provost, ‘to dissuade our young friend from his wildgoose expedition.’
‘And I,’ said Fairford, ‘am determined to go through with it. Trusting myself to you, Mr. Maxwell, I conceive that I rely, as I before said, on the word of a gentleman.’
‘I will warrant you,’ said Maxwell, ‘from all serious consequences–some inconveniences you must look to suffer.’
‘To these I shall be resigned,’ said Fairford, ‘and stand prepared to run my risk.’
‘Well then,’ said Summertrees, ‘you must go’–
‘I will leave you to yourselves, gentlemen,’ said the provost, rising; ‘when you have done with your crack, you will find me at my wife’s tea-table.’
‘And a more accomplished old woman never drank catlap,’ said Maxwell, as he shut the door; ‘the last word has him, speak it who will–and yet because he is a whillywhaw body, and has a plausible tongue of his own, and is well enough connected, and especially because nobody could ever find out whether he is Whig or Tory, this is the third time they have made him provost!–But to the matter in hand. This letter, Mr. Fairford,’ putting a sealed one into his hand, ‘is addressed, you observe, to Mr. H– of B–, and contains your credentials for that gentlemen, who is also known by his family name of Redgauntlet, but less frequently addressed by it, because it is mentioned something invidiously in a certain Act of Parliament. I have little doubt he will assure you of your friend’s safety, and in a short time place him at freedom–that is, supposing him under present restraint. But the point is, to discover where he is–and, before you are made acquainted with this necessary part of the business, you must give me your assurance of honour that you will acquaint no one, either by word or letter, with the expedition which you now propose to yourself.’
‘How, sir?’ answered Alan; ‘can you expect that I will not take the precaution of informing some person of the route I am about to take, that in case of accident it may be known where I am, and with what purpose I have gone thither?’
‘And can you expect,’ answered Maxwell, in the same tone, ‘that I am to place my friend’s safety, not merely in your hands, but in those of any person you may choose to confide in, and who may use the knowledge to his destruction? Na–na–I have pledged my word for your safety, and you must give me yours to be private in the matter–giff-gaff, you know.’
Alan Fairford could not help thinking that this obligation to secrecy gave a new and suspicious colouring to the whole transaction; but, considering that his friend’s release might depend upon his accepting the condition, he gave it in the terms proposed, and with the purpose of abiding by it.
‘And now, sir,’ he said, ‘whither am I to proceed with this letter? Is Mr. Herries at Brokenburn?’
‘He is not; I do not think he will come thither again until the business of the stake-nets be hushed up, nor would I advise him to do so–the Quakers, with all their demureness, can bear malice as long as other folk; and though I have not the prudence of Mr. Provost, who refuses to ken where his friends are concealed during adversity, lest, perchance, he should be asked to contribute to their relief, yet I do not think it necessary or prudent to inquire into Redgauntlet’s wanderings, poor man, but wish to remain at perfect freedom to answer, if asked at, that I ken nothing of the matter. You must, then, go to old Tom Trumbull’s at Annan,–Tam Turnpenny, as they call him,–and he is sure either to know where Redgauntlet is himself, or to find some one who can give a shrewd guess. But you must attend that old Turnpenny will answer no question on such a subject without you give him the passport, which at present you must do, by asking him the age of the moon; if he answers, “Not light enough to land a cargo,” you are to answer, “Then plague on Aberdeen Almanacks,” and upon that he will hold free intercourse with you. And now, I would advise you to lose no time, for the parole is often changed–and take care of yourself among these moonlight lads, for laws and lawyers do not stand very high in their favour.’
‘I will set out this instant,’ said the young barrister; ‘I will but bid the provost and Mrs. Crosbie farewell, and then get on horseback so soon as the ostler of the George Inn can saddle him;–as for the smugglers, I am neither gauger nor supervisor, and, like the man who met the devil, if they have nothing to say to me, I have nothing to say to them.’
‘You are a mettled young man,’ said Summertrees, evidently with increasing goodwill, on observing an alertness and contempt of danger, which perhaps he did not expect from Alan’s appearance and profession,–‘a very mettled young fellow indeed! and it is almost a pity’–Here he stopped abort.
‘What is a pity?’ said Fairford.
‘It is almost a pity that I cannot go with you myself, or at least send a trusty guide.’
They walked together to the bedchamber of Mrs. Crosbie, for it was in that asylum that the ladies of the period dispensed their tea, when the parlour was occupied by the punch-bowl.
‘You have been good bairns to-night, gentlemen,’ said Mrs. Crosbie; ‘I am afraid, Summertrees, that the provost has given you a bad browst; you are not used to quit the lee-side of the punch-bowl in such a hurry. I say nothing to you, Mr. Fairford, for you are too young a man yet for stoup and bicker; but I hope you will not tell the Edinburgh fine folk that the provost has scrimped you of your cogie, as the sang says?’
‘I am much obliged for the provost’s kindness, and yours, madam,’ replied Alan; ‘but the truth is, I have still a long ride before me this evening and the sooner I am on horse-back the better.’
‘This evening?’ said the provost, anxiously; ‘had you not better take daylight with you to-morrow morning?’
‘Mr. Fairford will ride as well in the cool of the evening,’ said Summertrees, taking the word out of Alan’s mouth.
The provost said no more, nor did his wife ask any questions, nor testify any surprise at the suddenness of their guest’s departure.
Having drunk tea, Alan Fairford took leave with the usual ceremony. The Laird of Summertrees seemed studious to prevent any further communication between him and the provost, and remained lounging on the landing-place of the stair while they made their adieus–heard the provost ask if Alan proposed a speedy return, and the latter reply that his stay was uncertain, and witnessed the parting shake of the hand, which, with a pressure more warm than usual, and a tremulous, ‘God bless and prosper you!’ Mr. Crosbie bestowed on his young friend. Maxwell even strolled with Fairford as far as the George, although resisting all his attempts at further inquiry into the affairs of Redgauntlet, and referring him to Tom Trumbull, alias Turnpenny, for the particulars which he might find it necessary to inquire into.
At length Alan’s hack was produced–an animal long in neck, and high in bone, accoutred with a pair of saddle-bags containing the rider’s travelling wardrobe. Proudly surmounting his small stock of necessaries, and no way ashamed of a mode of travelling which a modern Mr. Silvertongue would consider as the last of degradations, Alan Fairford took leave of the old Jacobite, Pate- in-Peril, and set forward on the road to the loyal burgh of Annan. His reflections during his ride were none of the most pleasant. He could not disguise from himself that he was venturing rather too rashly into the power of outlawed and desperate persons; for with such only, a man in the situation of Redgauntlet could be supposed to associate. There were other grounds for apprehension, Several marks of intelligence betwixt Mrs. Crosbie and the Laird of Summertrees had not escaped Alan’s acute observation; and it was plain that the provost’s inclinations towards him, which he believed to be sincere and good, were not firm enough to withstand the influence of this league between his wife and friend. The provost’s adieus, like Macbeth’s amen, had stuck in his throat, and seemed to intimate that he apprehended more than he dared give utterance to.
Laying all these matters together, Alan thought, with no little anxiety on the celebrated lines of Shakespeare,
— A drop,
That in the ocean seeks another drop, &c.
But pertinacity was a strong feature in the young lawyer’s character. He was, and always had been, totally unlike the ‘horse hot at hand,’ who tires before noon through his own over eager exertions in the beginning of the day. On the contrary, his first efforts seemed frequently inadequate to accomplishing his purpose, whatever that for the time might be; and it was only as the difficulties of the task increased, that his mind seemed to acquire the energy necessary to combat and subdue them. If, therefore, he went anxiously forward upon his uncertain and perilous expedition, the reader must acquit him of all idea, even in a passing thought, of the possibility of abandoning his search, and resigning Darsie Latimer to his destiny.
A couple of hours’ riding brought him to the little town of Annan, situated on the shores of the Solway, between eight and nine o’clock. The sun had set, but the day was not yet ended; and when he had alighted and seen his horse properly cared for at the principal inn of the place, he was readily directed to Mr. Maxwell’s friend, old Tom Trumbull, with whom everybody seemed well acquainted. He endeavoured to fish out from the lad that acted as a guide, something of this man’s situation and profession; but the general expressions of ‘a very decent man’– ‘a very honest body’–‘weel to pass in the world,’ and such like, were all that could be extracted from him; and while Fairford was following up the investigation with closer interrogatories, the lad put an end to them by knocking at the door of Mr. Trumbull, whose decent dwelling was a little distance from the town, and considerably nearer to the sea. It was one of a little row of houses running down to the waterside, and having gardens and other accommodations behind. There was heard within the uplifting of a Scottish psalm; and the boy saying, ‘They are at exercise, sir,’ gave intimation they might not be admitted till prayers were over.
When, however, Fairford repeated the summons with the end of his whip, the singing ceased, and Mr. Trumbull himself, with his psalm-book in his hand, kept open by the insertion of his forefinger between the leaves, came to demand the meaning of this unseasonable interruption.
Nothing could be more different than his whole appearance seemed to be from the confidant of a desperate man, and the associate of outlaws in their unlawful enterprises. He was a tall, thin, bony figure, with white hair combed straight down on each side of his face, and an iron-grey hue of complexion; where the lines, or rather, as Quin said of Macklin, the cordage, of his countenance were so sternly adapted to a devotional and even ascetic expression, that they left no room for any indication of reckless daring or sly dissimulation. In short, Trumbull appeared a perfect specimen of the rigid old Covenanter, who said only what he thought right, acted on no other principle but that of duty, and, if he committed errors, did so under the full impression that he was serving God rather than man.
‘Do you want me, sir?’ he said to Fairford, whose guide had slunk to the rear, as if to escape the rebuke of the severe old man,–‘We were engaged, and it is the Saturday night.’
Alan Fairford’s preconceptions were so much deranged by this man’s appearance and manner, that he stood for a moment bewildered, and would as soon have thought of giving a cant password to a clergyman descending from the pulpit, as to the respectable father of a family just interrupted in his prayers for and with the objects of his care. Hastily concluding Mr. Maxwell had passed some idle jest on him, or rather that he had mistaken the person to whom he was directed, he asked if he spoke to Mr. Trumbull.
‘To Thomas Trumbull,’ answered the old man–‘What may be your business, sir?’ And he glanced his eye to the book he held in his hand, with a sigh like that of a saint desirous of dissolution.
‘Do you know Mr. Maxwell of Summertrees?’ said Fairford.
‘I have heard of such a gentleman in the country-side, but have no acquaintance with him,’ answered Mr. Trumbull; ‘he is, as I have heard, a Papist; for the whore that sitteth on the seven hills ceaseth not yet to pour forth the cup of her abomination on these parts.’
‘Yet he directed me hither, my good friend,’ said Alan. ‘Is there another of your name in this town of Annan?’
‘None,’ replied Mr. Trumbull, ‘since my worthy father was removed; he was indeed a shining light.–I wish you good even, sir.’
‘Stay one single instant,’ said Fairford; ‘this is a matter of life and death.’
‘Not more than the casting the burden of our sins where they should be laid,’ said Thomas Trumbull, about to shut the door in the inquirer’s face.
‘Do you know,’ said Alan Fairford, ‘the Laird of Redgauntlet?’
‘Now Heaven defend me from treason and rebellion!’ exclaimed Trumbull. ‘Young gentleman, you are importunate. I live here among my own people, and do not consort with Jacobites and mass- mongers.’
He seemed about to shut the door, but did NOT shut it, a circumstance which did not escape Alan’s notice.
‘Mr. Redgauntlet is sometimes,’ he said, ‘called Herries of Birrenswork; perhaps you may know him under that name.’
‘Friend, you are uncivil,’ answered Mr. Trumbull; ‘honest men have enough to do to keep one name undefiled. I ken nothing about those who have two. Good even to you, friend.’
He was now about to slam the door in his visitor’s face without further ceremony, when Alan, who had observed symptoms that the name of Redgauntlet did not seem altogether so indifferent to him as he pretended, arrested his purpose by saying, in a low voice, ‘At least you can tell me what age the moon is?’
The old man started, as if from a trance, and before answering, surveyed the querist with a keen penetrating glance, which seemed to say, ‘Are you really in possession of this key to my confidence, or do you speak from mere accident?’
To this keen look of scrutiny, Fairford replied by a smile of intelligence.
The iron muscles of the old man’s face did not, however, relax, as he dropped, in a careless manner, the countersign, ‘Not light enough to land a cargo.’
‘Then plague of all Aberdeen Almanacks!’
‘And plague of all fools that waste time,’ said Thomas Trumbull, ‘Could you not have said as much at first? And standing wasting time, and encouraging; lookers-on, in the open street too? Come in by–in by.’
He drew his visitor into the dark entrance of the house, and shut the door carefully; then putting his head into an apartment which the murmurs within announced to be filled with the family, he said aloud, ‘A work of necessity and mercy–Malachi, take the book–You will sing six double verses of the hundred and nineteen-and you may lecture out of the Lamentations. And, Malachi,’–this he said in an undertone,–‘see you give them a a creed of doctrine that will last them till I come back; or else these inconsiderate lads will be out of the house, and away to the publics, wasting their precious time, and, it may be, putting themselves in the way of missing the morning tide.’
An inarticulate answer from within intimated Malachi’s acquiescence in the commands imposed; and, Mr. Trumbull, shutting the door, muttered something about fast bind, fast find, turned the key, and put it into his pocket; and then bidding his visitor have a care of his steps, and make no noise, he led him through the house, and out at a back-door, into a little garden. Here a plaited alley conducted them, without the possibility of their being seen by any neighbour, to a door in the garden-wall, which being opened, proved to be a private entrance into a three- stalled stable; in one of which was a horse, that whinnied on their entrance. ‘Hush, hush!’ cried the old man, and presently seconded his exhortations to silence by throwing a handful of corn into the manger, and the horse soon converted his acknowledgement of their presence into the usual sound of munching and grinding his provender.
As the light was now failing fast, the old man, with much more alertness than might have been expected from the rigidity of his figure, closed the window-shutters in an instant, produced phosphorus and matches, and lighted a stable-lantern, which he placed on the corn-bin, and then addressed Fairford. ‘We are private here, young man; and as some time has been wasted already, you will be so kind as to tell me what is your errand. Is it about the way of business, or the other job?’
‘My business with you, Mr. Trumbull, is to request you will find me the means of delivering this letter, from Mr. Maxwell of Summertrees to the Laird of Redgauntlet.’
‘Humph–fashious job! Pate Maxwell will still be the auld man– always Pate-in-Peril–Craig-in-Peril, for what I know. Let me see the letter from him.’
He examined it with much care, turning it up and down, and looking at the seal very attentively. ‘All’s right, I see; it has the private mark for haste and speed. I bless my Maker that I am no great man, or great man’s fellow; and so I think no more of these passages than just to help them forward in the way of business. You are an utter stranger in these parts, I warrant?’
Fairford answered in the affirmative.
‘Aye–I never saw them make a wiser choice–I must call some one to direct you what to do–Stay, we must go to him, I believe. You are well recommended to me, friend, and doubtless trusty; otherwise you may see more than I would like to show, or am in the use of showing in the common line of business.’
Saying this, he placed his lantern on the ground, beside the post of one of the empty stalls, drew up a small spring bolt which secured it to the floor, and then forcing the post to one side, discovered a small trap-door. ‘Follow me,’ he said, and dived into the subterranean descent to which this secret aperture gave access.
Fairford plunged after him, not without apprehensions of more kinds than one, but still resolved to prosecute the adventure.
The descent, which was not above six feet, led to a very narrow passage, which seemed to have been constructed for the precise purpose of excluding every one who chanced to be an inch more in girth than was his conductor. A small vaulted room, of about eight feet square, received them at the end of this lane. Here Mr. Trumbull left Fairford alone, and returned for an instant, as he said, to shut his concealed trap-door.
Fairford liked not his departure, as it left him in utter darkness; besides that his breathing was much affected by a strong and stifling smell of spirits, and other articles of a savour more powerful than agreeable to the lungs. He was very glad, therefore, when he heard the returning steps of Mr. Trumbull, who, when once more by his side, opened a strong though narrow door in the wall, and conveyed Fairford into an immense magazine of spirit-casks, and other articles of contraband trade.
There was a small, light at the end of this range of well-stocked subterranean vaults, which, upon a low whistle, began to flicker and move towards them. An undefined figure, holding a dark lantern, with the light averted, approached them, whom Mr. Trumbull thus addressed:–‘Why were you not at worship, Job; and this Saturday at e’en?’
‘Swanston was loading the JENNY, sir; and I stayed to serve out the article.’
‘True–a work of necessity, and in the way of business. Does the JUMPING JENNY sail this tide?’
‘Aye, aye, sir; she sails for’–
‘I did not ask you WHERE she sailed for, Job,’ said the old gentleman, interrupting him. ‘I thank my Maker, I know nothing of their incomings or outgoings. I sell my article fairly and in the ordinary way of business; and I wash my hands of everything else. But what I wished to know is, whether the gentleman called the Laird of the Solway Lakes is on the other side of the Border even now?’
‘Aye, aye,’ said Job, ‘the laird is something in my own line, you know–a little contraband or so, There is a statute for him–But no matter; he took the sands after the splore at the Quaker’s fish-traps yonder; for he has a leal heart, the laird, and is always true to the country-side. But avast–is all snug here?’
So saying, he suddenly turned on Alan Fairford the light side of the lantern he carried, who, by the transient gleam which it threw in passing on the man who bore it, saw a huge figure, upwards of six feet high, with a rough hairy cap on his head, and a set of features corresponding to his bulky frame. He thought also he observed pistols at his belt.
‘I will answer for this gentleman,’ said Mr. Trumbull; ‘he must be brought to speech of the laird.’
‘That will be kittle steering,’ said the subordinate personage; ‘for I understood that the laird and his folk were no sooner on the other side than the land-sharks were on them, and some mounted lobsters from Carlisle; and so they were obliged to split and squander. There are new brooms out to sweep the country of them, they say; for the brush was a hard one; and they say there was a lad drowned;–he was not one of the laird’s gang, so there was the less matter.’
‘Peace! prithee, peace, Job Rutledge,’ said honest, pacific Mr. Trumbull. ‘I wish thou couldst remember, man, that I desire to know nothing of your roars and splores, your brooms and brushes. I dwell here among my own people; and I sell my commodity to him who comes in the way of business; and so wash my hands of all consequences, as becomes a quiet subject and an honest man. I never take payment, save in ready money.’
‘Aye, aye,’ muttered he with the lantern, ‘your worship, Mr. Trumbull, understands that in the way of business.’
‘Well, I hope you will one day know, Job,’ answered Mr. Trumbull,–‘the comfort of a conscience void of offence, and that fears neither gauger nor collector, neither excise nor customs. The business is to pass this gentleman to Cumberland upon earnest business, and to procure him speech with the Laird of the Solway Lakes–I suppose that can be done? Now I think Nanty Ewart, if he sails with the brig this morning tide, is the man to set him forward.’
‘Aye, aye, truly is he,’ said Job; ‘never man knew the Border, dale and fell, pasture and ploughland, better than Nanty; and he can always bring him to the laird, too, if you are sure the gentleman’s right. But indeed that’s his own look-out; for were he the best man in Scotland, and the chairman of the d–d Board to boot, and had fifty men at his back, he were as well not visit the laird for anything but good. As for Nanty, he is word and blow, a d–d deal fiercer than Cristie Nixon that they keep such a din about. I have seen them both tried, by’–
Fairford now found himself called upon to say something; yet his feelings, upon finding himself thus completely in the power of a canting hypocrite, and of his retainer, who had so much the air of a determined ruffian, joined to the strong and abominable fume which they snuffed up with indifference, while it almost deprived him of respiration, combined to render utterance difficult. He stated, however, that he had no evil intentions towards the laird, as they called him, but was only the bearer of a letter to him on particular business, from Mr. Maxwell of Summertrees.
‘Aye, aye,’ said Job, ‘that may be well enough; and if Mr. Trumbull is satisfied that the service is right, why, we will give you a cast in the JUMPING JENNY this tide, and Nanty Ewart will put you on a way of finding the laird, I warrant you.’
‘I may for the present return, I presume, to the inn where I left my horse?’ said Fairford.
‘With pardon,’ replied Mr. Trumbull, ‘you have been ower far ben with us for that; but Job will take you to a place where you may sleep rough till he calls you. I will bring you what little baggage you can need–for those who go on such errands must not be dainty. I will myself see after your horse, for a merciful man is merciful to his beast–a matter too often forgotten in our way of business.’
‘Why, Master Trumbull,’ replied Job, ‘you know that when we are chased, it’s no time to shorten sail, and so the boys do ride whip and spur.’ He stopped in his speech, observing the old man had vanished through the door by which he had entered–‘That’s always the way with old Turnpenny,’ he said to Fairford; ‘he cares for nothing of the trade but the profit–now, d–me, if I don’t think the fun of it is better worth while. But come along, my fine chap; I must stow you away in safety until it is time to go aboard.’
CHAPTER XIII
NARRATIVE OF ALAN FAIRFORD, CONTINUED
Fairford followed his gruff guide among a labyrinth of barrels and puncheons, on which he had more than once like to have broken his nose, and from thence into what, by the glimpse of the passing lantern upon a desk and writing materials, seemed to be a small office for the dispatch of business. Here there appeared no exit; but the smuggler, or smuggler’s ally, availing himself of a ladder, removed an old picture, which showed a door about seven feet from the ground, and Fairford, still following Job, was involved in another tortuous and dark passage, which involuntarily reminded him of Peter Peebles’s lawsuit. At the end of this labyrinth, when he had little guess where he had been conducted, and was, according to the French phrase, totally DESORIENTE, Job suddenly set down the lantern, and availing himself of the flame to light two candles which stood on the table, asked if Alan would choose anything to eat, recommending, at all events, a slug of brandy to keep out the night air. Fairford declined both, but inquired after his baggage.
‘The old master will take care of that himself,’ said Job Rutledge; and drawing back in the direction in which he had entered, he vanished from the farther end of the apartment, by a mode which the candles, still shedding an imperfect light, gave Alan no means of ascertaining. Thus the adventurous young lawyer was left alone in the apartment to which he had been conducted by so singular a passage.
In this condition, it was Alan’s first employment to survey, with some accuracy, the place where he was; and accordingly, having trimmed the lights, he walked slowly round the apartment, examining its appearance and dimensions. It seemed to be such a small dining-parlour as is usually found in the house of the better class of artisans, shopkeepers, and such persons, having a recess at the upper end, and the usual furniture of an ordinary description. He found a door, which he endeavoured to open, but it was locked on the outside. A corresponding door on the same side of the apartment admitted him into a closet, upon the front shelves of which were punch-bowls, glasses, tea-cups, and the like, while on one side was hung a horseman’s greatcoat of the coarsest materials, with two great horse-pistols peeping out of the pocket, and on the floor stood a pair of well-spattered jack- boots, the usual equipment of the time, at least for long journeys,
Not greatly liking the contents of the closet, Alan Fairford shut the door, and resumed his scrutiny round the walls of the apartment, in order to discover the mode of Job Rutledge’s retreat. The secret passage was, however, too artificially concealed, and the young lawyer had nothing better to do than to meditate on the singularity of his present situation. He had long known that the excise laws had occasioned an active contraband trade betwixt Scotland and England, which then, as now, existed, and will continue to exist until the utter abolition of the wretched system which establishes an inequality of duties betwixt the different parts of the same kingdom; a system, be it said in passing, mightily resembling the conduct of a pugilist, who should tie up one arm that he might fight the better with the other. But Fairford was unprepared for the expensive and regular establishments by which the illicit traffic was carried on, and could not have conceived that the capital employed in it should have been adequate to the erection of these extensive buildings, with all their contrivances for secrecy of communication. He was musing on these circumstances, not without some anxiety for the progress of his own journey, when suddenly, as he lifted his eyes, he discovered old Mr. Trumbull at the upper end of the apartment, bearing in one hand a small bundle, in the other his dark lantern, the light of which, as he advanced, he directed full upon Fairford’s countenance.
Though such an apparition was exactly what he expected, yet he did not see the grim, stern old man present himself thus suddenly without emotion; especially when he recollected, what to a youth of his pious education was peculiarly shocking, that the grizzled hypocrite was probably that instant arisen from his knees to Heaven, for the purpose of engaging in the mysterious transactions of a desperate and illegal trade.
The old man, accustomed to judge with ready sharpness of the physiognomy of those with whom he had business, did not fail to remark something like agitation in Fairford’s demeanour. ‘Have ye taken the rue?’ said he. ‘Will ye take the sheaf from the mare, and give up the venture?’
‘Never!’ said Fairford, firmly, stimulated at once by his natural spirit, and the recollection of his friend; ‘never, while I have life and strength to follow it out!’
‘I have brought you,’ said Trumbull, ‘a clean shirt, and some stockings, which is all the baggage you can conveniently carry, and I will cause one of the lads lend you a horseman’s coat, for it is ill sailing or riding without one; and, touching your valise, it will be as safe in my poor house, were it full of the gold of Ophir, as if it were in the depth of the mine.’ ‘I have no doubt of it,’ said Fairford.
‘And now,’ said Trumbull, again, ‘I pray you to tell me by what name I am to name you to Nanty (which is Antony) Ewart?’
‘By the name of Alan Fairford,’ answered the young lawyer.
‘But that,’ said Mr. Trumbull, in reply, ‘is your own proper name and surname.’
‘And what other should I give?’ said the young man; ‘do you think I have any occasion for an alias? And, besides, Mr. Trumbull,’ added Alan, thinking a little raillery might intimate confidence of spirit, ‘you blessed yourself, but a little while since, that you had no acquaintance with those who defiled their names so far as to be obliged to change them.’
‘True, very true,’ said Mr. Trumbull; ‘nevertheless, young man, my grey hairs stand unreproved in this matter; for, in my line of business, when I sit under my vine and my fig-tree, exchanging the strong waters of the north for the gold which is the price thereof, I have, I thank Heaven, no disguises to keep with any man, and wear my own name of Thomas Trumbull, without any chance that the same may be polluted. Whereas, thou, who art to journey in miry ways, and amongst a strange people, mayst do well to have two names, as thou hast two shirts, the one to keep the other clean.’
Here he emitted a chuckling grunt, which lasted for two vibrations of the pendulum exactly, and was the only approach towards laughter in which old Turnpenny, as he was nicknamed, was ever known to indulge.
‘You are witty, Mr. Trumbull,’ said Fairford; ‘but jests are no arguments–I shall keep my own name.’
‘At your own pleasure,’ said the merchant; ‘there is but one name which,’ &c. &c, &c.
We will not follow the hypocrite through the impious cant which he added, in order to close the subject.
Alan followed him, in silent abhorrence, to the recess in which the beaufet was placed, and which was so artificially made as to conceal another of those traps with which the whole building abounded. This concealment admitted them to the same winding passage by which the young lawyer had been brought thither. The path which they now took amid these mazes, differed from the direction in which he had been guided by Rutledge. It led upwards, and terminated beneath a garret window. Trumbull opened it, and with more agility than his age promised, clambered out upon the leads. If Fairford’s journey had been hitherto in a stifled and subterranean atmosphere, it was now open, lofty, and airy enough; for he had to follow his guide over leads and slates, which the old smuggler traversed with the dexterity of a cat. It is true, his course was facilitated by knowing exactly where certain stepping-places and holdfasts were placed, of which Fairford could not so readily avail himself; but, after a difficult and somewhat perilous progress along the roofs of two or three houses, they at length descended by a skylight into a garret room, and from thence by the stairs into a public-house; for such it appeared, by the ringing of bells, whistling for waiters and attendance, bawling of ‘House, house, here!’ chorus of sea songs, and the like noises.
Having descended to the second story, and entered a room there in which there was a light, old Mr. Trumbull rang the bell of the apartment thrice, with an interval betwixt each, during which he told deliberately the number twenty. Immediately after the third ringing the landlord appeared, with stealthy step, and an appearance of mystery on his buxom visage. He greeted Mr. Trumbull, who was his landlord as it proved, with great respect, and expressed some surprise at seeing him so late, as he termed it, ‘on Saturday e’en.’
‘And I, Robin Hastie,’ said the landlord to the tenant, am more surprised than pleased, to hear sae muckle din in your house, Robie, so near the honourable Sabbath; and I must mind you that it is contravening the terms of your tack, whilk stipulates that you should shut your public on Saturday at nine o’clock, at latest.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Robin Hastie, no way alarmed at the gravity of the rebuke, ‘but you must take tent that I have admitted naebody but you, Mr. Trumbull (who by the way admitted yoursell), since nine o’clock for the most of the folk have been here for several hours about the lading, and so on, of the brig. It is not full tide yet, and I cannot put the men out into the street. If I did, they would go to some other public, and their souls would be nane the better, and my purse muckle the waur; for how am I to pay the rent if I do not sell the liquor?’
‘Nay, then,’ said Thomas Trumbull, ‘if it is a work of necessity, and in the honest independent way of business, no doubt there is balm in Gilead. But prithee, Robin, wilt thou see if Nanty Ewart be, as is most likely, amongst these unhappy topers; and if so, let him step this way cannily, and speak to me and this young gentleman. And it’s dry talking, Robin–you must minister to us a bowl of punch–ye ken my gage,’
‘From a mutchkin to a gallon, I ken your honour’s taste, Mr. Thomas Trumbull,’ said mine host; ‘and ye shall hang me over the signpost if there be a drap mair lemon or a curn less sugar than just suits you. There are three of you–you will be for the auld Scots peremptory pint-stoup for the success of the voyage?’ [The Scottish pint of liquid measure comprehends four English measures of the same denomination. The jest is well known of my poor countryman, who, driven to extremity by the raillery of the Southern, on the small denomination of the Scottish coin, at length answered, ‘Aye, aye! But the deil tak them that has the LEAST PINT-STOUP.’]
‘Better pray for it than drink for it, Robin,’ said Mr. Trumbull. ‘Yours is a dangerous trade, Robin; it hurts mony a ane–baith host and guest. But ye will get the blue bowl, Robin–the blue bowl–that will sloken all their drouth, and prevent the sinful repetition of whipping for an eke of a Saturday at e’en. Aye, Robin, it is a pity of Nanty Ewart–Nanty likes the turning up of his little finger unco weel, and we maunna stint him, Robin, so as we leave him sense to steer by.’
‘Nanty Ewart could steer through the Pentland Firth though he were as drunk as the Baltic Ocean,’ said Robin Hastie; and instantly tripping downstairs, he speedily returned with the materials for what he called his BROWST, which consisted of two English quarts of spirits, in a huge blue bowl, with all the ingredients for punch in the same formidable proportion. At the same time he introduced Mr. Antony or Nanty Ewart, whose person, although he was a good deal flustered with liquor, was different from what Fairford expected. His dress was what is emphatically termed the shabby genteel–a frock with tarnished lace–a small cocked hat, ornamented in a similar way–a scarlet waistcoat, with faded embroidery, breeches of the same, with silver knee- bands, and he wore a smart hanger and a pair of pistols in a sullied swordbelt.
‘Here I come, patron,’ he said, shaking hands with Mr. Trumbull. ‘Well, I see you have got some grog aboard.’
‘It is not my custom, Mr. Ewart,’ said the old gentleman, ‘as you well know, to become a chamberer or carouser thus late on Saturday at e’en; but I wanted to recommend to your attention a young friend of ours, that is going upon a something particular journey, with a letter to our friend the Laird from Pate-in- Peril, as they call him.’
‘Aye–indeed?–he must be in high trust for so young a gentleman. I wish you joy, sir,’ bowing to Fairford. ‘By’r lady, as Shakespeare says, you are bringing up a neck for a fair end. Come, patron, we will drink to Mr. What-shall-call-um. What is his name? Did you tell me? And have I forgot it already.’
‘Mr. Alan Fairford,’ said Trumbull.
‘Aye, Mr. Alan Fairford–a good name for a fair trader–Mr. Alan Fairford; and may he be long withheld from the topmost round of ambition, which I take to be the highest round of a certain ladder.’
While he spoke, he seized the punch-ladle, and began to fill the glasses. But Mr. Trumbull arrested his hand, until he had, as he expressed himself, sanctified the liquor by a long grace; during the pronunciation of which he shut indeed his eyes, but his nostrils became dilated, as if he were snuffing up the fragrant beverage with peculiar complacency.
When the grace was at length over, the three friends sat down to their beverage, and invited Alan Fairford to partake. Anxious about his situation, and disgusted as he was with his company, he craved, and with difficulty obtained permission, under the allegation of being fatigued, heated, and the like, to stretch himself on a couch which was in the apartment, and attempted at least to procure some rest before high-water, when the vessel was to sail.
He was at length permitted to use his freedom, and stretched himself on the couch, having his eyes for some time fixed on the jovial party he had left, and straining his ears to catch if possible a little of their conversation. This he soon found was to no purpose for what did actually reach his ears was disguised so completely by the use of cant words and the thieves-latin called slang, that even when he caught the words, he found himself as far as ever from the sense of their conversation. At length he fell asleep.
It was after Alan had slumbered for three or four hours, that he was wakened by voices bidding him rise up and prepare to be jogging. He started up accordingly, and found himself in presence of the same party of boon companions; who had just dispatched their huge bowl of punch. To Alan’s surprise, the liquor had made but little innovation on the brains of men who were accustomed to drink at all hours, and in the most inordinate quantities. The landlord indeed spoke a little thick, and the texts of Mr. Thomas Trumbull stumbled on his tongue; but Nanty was one of those topers, who, becoming early what bon vivants term flustered, remain whole nights and days at the same point of intoxication; and, in fact, as they are seldom entirely sober, can be as rarely seen absolutely drunk. Indeed, Fairford, had he not known how Ewart had been engaged whilst he himself was asleep, would almost have sworn when he awoke, that the man was more sober than when he first entered the room.
He was confirmed in this opinion when they descended below, where two or three sailors and ruffian-looking fellows awaited their commands. Ewart took the whole direction upon himself, gave his orders with briefness and precision, and looked to their being executed with the silence and celerity which that peculiar crisis required. All were now dismissed for the brig, which lay, as Fairford was given to understand, a little farther down the river, which is navigable for vessels of light burden till almost within a mile of the town.
When they issued from the inn, the landlord bid them goodbye. Old Trumbull walked a little way with them, but the air had probably considerable effect on the state of his brain; for after reminding Alan Fairford that the next day was the honourable Sabbath, he became extremely excursive in an attempt to exhort him to keep it holy. At length, being perhaps sensible that he was becoming unintelligible, he thrust a volume into Fairford’s hand–hiccuping at the same time–‘Good book–good book–fine hymn-book–fit for the honourable Sabbath, whilk awaits us to- morrow morning.’ Here the iron tongue of time told five from the town steeple of Annan, to the further confusion of Mr. Trumbull’s already disordered ideas. ‘Aye? Is Sunday come and gone already? Heaven be praised! Only it is a marvel the afternoon is sae dark for the time of the year–Sabbath has slipped ower quietly, but we have reason to bless oursells it has not been altogether misemployed. I heard little of the preaching–a cauld moralist, I doubt, served that out–but, eh–the prayer–I mind it as if I had said the words mysell.’ Here he repeated one or two petitions, which were probably a part of his family devotions, before he was summoned forth to what he called the way of business. ‘I never remember a Sabbath pass so cannily off in my life.’ Then he recollected himself a little, and said to Alan, ‘You may read that book, Mr. Fairford, to-morrow, all the same, though it be Monday; for, you see, it was Saturday when we were thegither, and now it’s Sunday and it’s dark night–so the Sabbath has slipped clean away through our fingers like water through a sieve, which abideth not; and we have to begin again to-morrow morning, in the weariful, base, mean, earthly employments, whilk are unworthy of an immortal spirit–always excepting the way of business.’
Three of the fellows were now returning to the town, and, at Ewart’s command, they cut short the patriarch’s exhortation, by leading him back to his own residence. The rest of the party then proceeded to the brig, which only waited their arrival to get under weigh and drop down the river. Nanty Ewart betook himself to steering the brig, and the very touch of the helm seemed to dispel the remaining influence of the liquor which he had drunk, since, through a troublesome and intricate channel, he was able to direct the course of his little vessel with the most perfect accuracy and safety.
Alan Fairford, for some time, availed himself of the clearness of the summer morning to gaze on the dimly seen shores betwixt which they glided, becoming less and less distinct as they receded from each other, until at length, having adjusted his little bundle by way of pillow, and wrapped around him the greatcoat with which old Trumbull had equipped him, he stretched himself on the deck, to try to recover the slumber out of which he had been awakened. Sleep had scarce begun to settle on his eyes, ere he found something stirring about his person. With ready presence of mind he recollected his situation, and resolved to show no alarm until the purpose of this became obvious; but he was soon relieved from his anxiety, by finding it was only the result of Nanty’s attention to his comfort, who was wrapping around him, as softly as he could, a great boatcloak, in order to defend him from the morning air.
‘Thou art but a cockerel,’ he muttered, ‘but ’twere pity thou wert knocked off the perch before seeing a little more of the sweet and sour of this world–though, faith, if thou hast the usual luck of it, the best way were to leave thee to the chance of a seasoning fever.’
These words, and the awkward courtesy with which the skipper of the little brig tucked the sea-coat round Fairford, gave him a confidence of safety which he had not yet thoroughly possessed. He stretched himself in more security on the hard planks, and was speedily asleep, though his slumbers were feverish and unrefreshing.
It has been elsewhere intimated that Alan Fairford inherited from his mother a delicate constitution, with a tendency to consumption; and, being an only child, with such a cause for apprehension, care, to the verge of effeminacy, was taken to preserve him from damp beds, wet feet, and those various emergencies to which the Caledonian boys of much higher birth, but more active habits, are generally accustomed. In man, the spirit sustains the constitutional weakness, as in the winged tribes the feathers bear aloft the body. But there is a bound to these supporting qualities; and as the pinions of the bird must at length grow weary, so the VIS ANIMI of the human struggler becomes broken down by continued fatigue.
When the voyager was awakened by the light of the sun now riding high in heaven, he found himself under the influence of an almost intolerable headache, with heat, thirst, shooting across the back and loins, and other symptoms intimating violent cold, accompanied with fever. The manner in which he had passed the preceding day and night, though perhaps it might have been of little consequence to most young men, was to him, delicate in constitution and nurture, attended with bad and even perilous consequences. He felt this was the case, yet would fain have combated the symptoms of indisposition, which, indeed, he imputed chiefly to sea-sickness. He sat up on deck, and looked on the scene around, as the little vessel, having borne down the Solway Firth, was beginning, with a favourable northerly breeze, to bear away to the southward, crossing the entrance of the Wampool river, and preparing to double the most northerly point of Cumberland.
But Fairford felt annoyed with deadly sickness, as well as by pain of a distressing and oppressive character; and neither Criffel, rising in majesty on the one hand, nor the distant yet more picturesque outline of Skiddaw and Glaramara upon the other, could attract his attention in the manner in which it was usually fixed by beautiful scenery, and especially that which had in it something new as well as striking. Yet it was not in Alan Fairford’s nature to give way to despondence, even when seconded by pain. He had recourse, in the first place, to his pocket; but instead of the little Sallust he had brought with him, that the perusal of a classical author might help to pass away a heavy hour, he pulled out the supposed hymn-book with which he had been presented a few hours before, by that temperate and scrupulous person, Mr. Thomas Trumbull, ALIAS Turnpenny. The volume was bound in sable, and its exterior might have become a psalter. But what was Alan’s astonishment to read on the title page the following words:–‘Merry Thoughts for Merry Men; or Mother Midnight’s Miscellany for the Small Hours;’ and turning over the leaves, he was disgusted with profligate tales, and more profligate songs, ornamented with figures corresponding in infamy with the letterpress.
‘Good God!’ he thought, ‘and did this hoary reprobate summon his family together, and, with such a disgraceful pledge of infamy in his bosom, venture to approach the throne of his Creator? It must be so; the book is bound after the manner of those dedicated to devotional subjects, and doubtless the wretch, in his intoxication, confounded the books he carried with him, as he did the days of the week.’ Seized with the disgust with which the young and generous usually regard the vices of advanced life, Alan, having turned the leaves of the book over in hasty disdain, flung it from him, as far as he could, into the sea. He then had recourse to the Sallust, which he had at first sought for in vain. As he opened the book, Nanty Ewart, who had been looking over his shoulder, made his own opinion heard.
‘I think now, brother, if you are so much scandalized at a little piece of sculduddery, which, after all, does nobody any harm, you had better have given it to me than have flung it into the Solway.’
‘I hope, sir,’ answered Fairford, civilly, ‘you are in the habit of reading better books.’
‘Faith,’ answered Nanty, ‘with help of a little Geneva text, I could read my Sallust as well as you can;’ and snatching the book from Alan’s hand, he began to read, in the Scottish accent:– “‘IGITUR EX DIVITIIS JUVENTUTEM LUXURIA ATQUE AVARITIA CUM SUPERBILI INVASERE: RAPERE, CONSUMERE; SUA PARVI PENDERE, ALIENA CUPERE; PUDOREM, AMICITIAM, PUDICITIAM, DIVINA ATQUE HUMANA PROMISCUA, NIHIL PENSI NEQUE MODERATI HABERE.” [The translation of the passage is thus given by Sir Henry Steuart of Allanton:– ‘The youth, taught to look up to riches as the sovereign good, became apt pupils in the school of Luxury. Rapacity and profusion went hand in hand. Careless of their own fortunes, and eager to possess those of others, shame and remorse, modesty and moderation, every principle gave way.’–WORKS OF SALLUST, WITH ORIGINAL ESSAYS, vol. ii. p.17.]–There is a slap in the face now, for an honest fellow that has been buccaneering! Never could keep a groat of what he got, or hold his fingers from what belonged to another, said you? Fie, fie, friend Crispus, thy morals are as crabbed and austere as thy style–the one has as little mercy as the other has grace. By my soul, it is unhandsome to make personal reflections on an old acquaintance, who seeks a little civil intercourse with you after nigh twenty years’ separation. On my soul, Master Sallust deserves to float on the Solway better than Mother Midnight herself.’
‘Perhaps, in some respects, he may merit better usage at our hands,’ said Alan; ‘for if he has described vice plainly, it seems to have been for the purpose of rendering it generally abhorred.’
‘Well,’ said the seaman, ‘I have heard of the Sortes Virgilianae, and I dare say the Sortes Sallustianae are as true every tittle. I have consulted honest Crispus on my own account, and have had a cuff for my pains. But now see, I open the book on your behalf, and behold what occurs first to my eye!–Lo you there–“CATILINA . . . OMNIUM FLAGITIOSORUM ATQUE FACINOROSORUM CIRCUM SE HABEBAT.” And then again–“ETIAM SI QUIS A CULPA VACUUS IN AMICITIAM EJUS INCIDIDERAT QUOTIDIANO USU PAR SIMILISQUE CAETERIS EFFICIEBATUR.” [After enumerating the evil qualities of Catiline’s associates, the author adds, ‘If it happened that any as yet uncontaminated by vice were fatally drawn into his friendship, the effects of intercourse and snares artfully spread, subdued every scruple, and early assimilated them to their conductors.’–Ibidem, p. 19.] That is what I call plain speaking on the part of the old Roman, Mr. Fairford. By the way, that is a capital name for a lawyer.
‘Lawyer as I am,’ said Fairford, ‘I do not understand your innuendo.’
‘Nay, then,’ said Ewart, ‘I can try it another way, as well as the hypocritical old rascal Turnpenny himself could do. I would have you to know that I am well acquainted with my Bible-book, as well as with my friend Sallust.’ He then, in a snuffling and canting tone, began to repeat the Scriptural text–‘”DAVID THEREFORE DEPARTED THENCE, AND WENT TO THE CAVE OF ADULLAM. AND EVERY ONE THAT WAS IN DISTRESS, AND EVERY ONE THAT WAS IN DEBT, AND EVERY ONE THAT WAS DISCONTENTED, GATHERED THEMSELVES TOGETHER UNTO HIM, AND HE BECAME A CAPTAIN OVER THEM.” What think you of that?’ he said, suddenly changing his manner. ‘Have I touched you now, sir?’
‘You are as far off as ever,’ replied Fairford.
‘What the devil! and you a repeating frigate between Summertrees and the laird! Tell that to the marines–the sailors won’t believe it. But you are right to be cautious, since you can’t say who are right, who not. But you look ill; it’s but the cold morning air. Will you have a can of flip, or a jorum of hot rumbo? or will you splice the mainbrace’ (showing a spirit- flask). ‘Will you have a quid–or a pipe–or a cigar?–a pinch of snuff, at least, to clear your brains and sharpen your apprehension?’
Fairford rejected all these friendly propositions.
‘Why, then,’ continued Ewart, ‘if you will do nothing for the free trade, I must patronize it myself.’
So saying, he took a large glass of brandy.
‘A hair of the dog that bit me,’ he continued,–‘of the dog that will worry me one day soon; and yet, and be d–d to me for an idiot, I must always have hint at my throat. But, says the old catch’–Here he sang, and sang well–
‘Let’s drink–let’s drink–while life we have; We’ll find but cold drinking, cold drinking in the grave.
All this,’ he continued, ‘is no charm against the headache. I wish I had anything that could do you good. Faith, and we have tea and coffee aboard! I’ll open a chest or a bag, and let you have some in an instant. You are at the age to like such catlap better than better stuff.’
Fairford thanked him, and accepted his offer of tea.
Nanty Ewart was soon heard calling about, ‘Break open yon chest– take out your capful, you bastard of a powder-monkey; we may want it again. No sugar? all used up for grog, say you? knock another loaf to pieces, can’t ye? and get the kettle boiling, ye hell’s baby, in no time at all!’
By dint of these energetic proceedings he was in a short time able to return to the place where his passenger lay sick and exhausted, with a cup, or rather a canful, of tea; for everything was on a large scale on board of the JUMPING JENNY. Alan drank it eagerly, and with so much appearance of being refreshed that Nanty Ewart swore he would have some too, and only laced it, as his phrase went, with a single glass of brandy. [See Note 8.]
CHAPTER XIV
NARRATIVE OF ALAN FAIRFORD, CONTINUED
We left Alan Fairford on the deck of the little smuggling brig, in that disconsolate situation, when sickness and nausea, attack a heated and fevered frame, and an anxious mind. His share of sea-sickness, however, was not so great as to engross his sensations entirely, or altogether to divert his attention from what was passing around. If he could not delight in the swiftness and agility with which the ‘little frigate’ walked the waves, or amuse himself by noticing the beauty of the sea-views around him, where the distant Skiddaw raised his brow, as if in defiance of the clouded eminence of Criffel, which lorded it over the Scottish side of the estuary, he had spirits and composure enough to pay particular attention to the master of the vessel, on whose character his own safety in all probability was dependent.
Nanty Ewart had now given the helm to one of his people, a bald-pated, grizzled old fellow, whose whole life had been spent in evading the revenue laws, with now and then the relaxation of a few months’ imprisonment, for deforcing officers, resisting seizures, and the like offences.
Nanty himself sat down by Fairford, helped him to his tea, with such other refreshments as he could think of, and seemed in his way sincerely desirous to make his situation as comfortable as things admitted. Fairford had thus an opportunity to study his countenance and manners more closely.
It was plain, Ewart, though a good seaman, had not been bred upon that element. He was a reasonably good scholar, and seemed fond of showing it by recurring to the subject of Sallust and Juvenal; while, on the other hand, sea-phrases seldom chequered his conversation. He had been in person what is called a smart little man; but the tropical sun had burnt his originally fair complexion to a dusty red; and the bile which was diffused through his system, had stained it with a yellowish black–what ought to have been the white part of his eyes, in particular, had a hue as deep as the topaz. He was very thin, or rather emaciated, and his countenance, though still indicating alertness and activity, showed a constitution exhausted with excessive use of his favourite stimulus.
‘I see you look at me hard,’ said he to Fairford. ‘Had you been an officer of the d–d customs, my terriers’ backs would have been up. He opened his breast, and showed Alan a pair of pistols disposed between his waistcoat and jacket, placing his finger at the same time upon the cock of one of them. ‘But come, you are an honest fellow, though you’re a close one. I dare say you think me a queer customer; but I can tell you, they that see the ship leave harbour know little of the seas she is to sail through. My father, honest old gentleman, never would have thought to see me master of the JUMPING JENNY.’
Fairford said, it seemed very clear indeed that Mr. Ewart’s education was far superior to the line he at present occupied.
‘Oh, Criffel to Solway Moss!’ said the other. Why, man, I should have been an expounder of the word, with a wig like a snow-wreath, and a stipend like–like–like a hundred pounds a year, I suppose. I can spend thrice as much as that, though, being such as I am. Here he sang a scrap of an old Northumbrian ditty, mimicking the burr of the natives of that county:–
‘Willy Foster’s gone to sea,
Siller buckles at his knee,
He’ll come back and marry me–
Canny Willy Foster.’
‘I have no doubt,’ said Fairford, ‘your present occupation is more lucrative; ‘but I should have thought the Church might have been more’–
He stopped, recollecting that it was not his business to say anything disagreeable.
‘More respectable, you mean, I suppose?’ said Ewart, with a sneer, and squirting the tobacco-juice through his front teeth; then was silent for a moment, and proceeded in a tone of candour which some internal touch of conscience dictated. ‘And so it would, Mr. Fairford–and happier, too, by a thousand degrees– though I have had my pleasures too. But there was my father (God bless the old man!) a true chip of the old Presbyterian block, walked his parish like a captain on the quarterdeck, and was always ready to do good to rich and poor–Off went the laird’s hat to the minister, as fast as the poor man’s bonnet. When the eye saw him–Pshaw! what have I to do with that now?–Yes, he was, as Virgil hath it, “VIR SAPIENTIA ET PIETATE GRAVIS.” But he might have been the wiser man, had he kept me at home, when he sent me at nineteen to study Divinity at the head of the highest stair in the Covenant Close. It was a cursed mistake in the old gentleman. What though Mrs. Cantrips of Kittlebasket (for she wrote herself no less) was our cousin five times removed, and took me on that account to board and lodging at six shillings instead of seven shillings a week? it was a d–d bad saving, as the case proved. Yet her very dignity might have kept me in order; for she never read a chapter excepting out of a Cambridge Bible, printed by Daniel, and bound in embroidered velvet. I think I see it at this moment! And on Sundays, when we had a quart of twopenny ale, instead of butter-milk, to our porridge, it was always served up in a silver posset-dish. Also she used silver-mounted spectacles, whereas even my father’s were cased in mere horn. These things had their impression at first, but we get used to grandeur by degrees. Well, sir!–Gad, I can scarce get on with my story–it sticks in my throat–must take a trifle to wash it down. Well, this dame had a daughter–Jess Cantrips, a black-eyed, bouncing wench–and, as the devil would have it, there was the d–d five-story stair–her foot was never from it, whether I went out or came home from the Divinity Hall. I would have eschewed her, sir–I would, on my soul; for I was as innocent a lad as ever came from Lammermuir; but there was no possibility of escape, retreat, or flight, unless I could have got a pair of wings, or made use of a ladder seven stories high, to scale the window of my attic. It signifies little talking– you may suppose how all this was to end–I would have married the girl, and taken my chance–I would, by Heaven! for she was a pretty girl, and a good girl, till she and I met; but you know the old song, “Kirk would not let us be.” A gentleman, in my case, would have settled the matter with the kirk-treasurer for a small sum of money; but the poor stibbler, the penniless dominie, having married his cousin of Kittlebasket, must next have proclaimed her frailty to the whole parish, by mounting the throne of Presbyterian penance, and proving, as Othello says, “his love a whore,” in face of the whole congregation.
‘In this extremity I dared not stay where I was, and so thought to go home to my father. But first I got Jack Radaway, a lad from the same parish, and who lived in the same infernal stair, to make some inquiries how the old gentleman had taken the matter. I soon, by way of answer, learned, to the great increase of my comfortable reflections, that the good old man made as much clamour as if such a thing as a man’s eating his wedding dinner without saying grace had never happened since Adam’s time. He did nothing for six days but cry out, “Ichabod, Ichabod, the glory is departed from my house!” and on the seventh he preached a sermon, in which he enlarged on this incident as illustrative of one of the great occasions for humiliation, and causes of national defection. I hope the course he took comforted himself –I am sure it made me ashamed to show my nose at home. So I went down to Leith, and, exchanging my hoddin grey coat of my mother’s spinning for such a jacket as this, I entered my name at the rendezvous as an able-bodied landsman, and sailed with the tender round to Plymouth, where they were fitting out a squadron for the West Indies. There I was put aboard the FEARNOUGHT, Captain Daredevil–among whose crew I soon learned to fear Satan (the terror of my early youth) as little as the toughest Jack on board. I had some qualms at first, but I took the remedy’ (tapping the case-bottle) ‘which I recommend to you, being as good for sickness of the soul as for sickness of the stomach– What, you won’t?–very well, I must, then–here is to ye.’
‘You would, I am afraid, find your education of little use in your new condition?’ said Fairford.
‘Pardon me, sir,’ resumed the captain of the JUMPING JENNY; ‘my handful of Latin, and small pinch of Greek, were as useless as old junk, to be sure; but my reading, writing and accompting, stood me in good stead, and brought me forward; I might have been schoolmaster–aye, and master, in time; but that valiant liquor, rum, made a conquest of me rather too often, and so, make what sail I could, I always went to leeward. We were four years broiling in that blasted climate, and I came back at last with a little prize-money. I always had thoughts of putting things to rights in the Covenant Close, and reconciling myself to my father. I found out Jack Hadaway, who was TUPTOWING away with a dozen of wretched boys, and a fine string of stories he had ready to regale my ears withal. My father had lectured on what he called “my falling away,” for seven Sabbaths, when, just as his parishioners began to hope that the course was at an end, he was found dead in his bed on the eighth Sunday morning. Jack Hadaway assured me, that if I wished to atone for my errors, by undergoing the fate of the first martyr, I had only to go to my native village, where the very stones of the street would rise up against me as my father’s murderer. Here was a pretty item– well, my tongue clove to my mouth for an hour, and was only able at last to utter the name of Mrs. Cantrips. Oh, this was a new theme for my Job’s comforter. My sudden departure–my father’s no less sudden death–had prevented the payment of the arrears of my board and lodging–the landlord was a haberdasher, with a heart as rotten as the muslin wares he dealt in. Without respect to her age or gentle kin, my Lady Kittlebasket was ejected from her airy habitation–her porridge-pot, silver posset-dish, silver-mounted spectacles, and Daniel’s Cambridge Bible, sold, at the Cross of Edinburgh, to the caddie who would bid highest for them, and she herself driven to the workhouse, where she got in with difficulty, but was easily enough lifted out, at the end of the month, as dead as her friends could desire. Merry tidings this to me, who had been the d–d’ (he paused a moment) ‘ORIGO MALI–Gad, I think my confession would sound better in Latin than in English!
‘But the best jest was behind–I had just power to stammer out something about Jess–by my faith he HAD an answer! I had taught Jess one trade, and, like a prudent girl, she had found out another for herself; unluckily, they were both contraband, and Jess Cantrips, daughter of the Lady Kittlebasket, had the honour to be transported to the plantations, for street-walking and pocket-picking, about six months before I touched shore.’
He changed the bitter tone of affected pleasantry into an attempt to laugh, then drew his swarthy hand across his swarthy eyes, and said in a more natural accent, ‘Poor Jess!’
There was a pause–until Fairford, pitying the poor man’s state of mind, and believing he saw something in him that, but for early error and subsequent profligacy, might have been excellent and noble, helped on the conversation by asking, in a tone of commiseration, how he had been able to endure such a load of calamity.
‘Why, very well,’ answered the seaman; ‘exceedingly well–like a tight ship in a brisk gale. Let me recollect. I remember thanking Jack, very composedly, for the interesting and agreeable communication; I then pulled out my canvas pouch, with my hoard of moidores, and taking out two pieces, I bid Jack keep the rest till I came back, as I was for a cruise about Auld Reekie. The poor devil looked anxiously, but I shook him by the hand, and ran downstairs, in such confusion of mind, that notwithstanding what I had heard, I expected to meet Jess at every turning.
It was market-day, and the usual number of rogues and fools were assembled at the Cross. I observed everybody looked strange on me, and I thought some laughed. I fancy I had been making queer faces enough, and perhaps talking to myself, When I saw myself used in this manner, I held out my clenched fists straight before me, stooped my head, and, like a ram when be makes his race, darted off right down the street, scattering groups of weatherbeaten lairds and periwigged burgesses, and bearing down all before me. I heard the cry of “Seize the madman!” echoed, in Celtic sounds, from the City Guard, with “Ceaze ta matman!”–but pursuit and opposition were in vain. I pursued my career; the smell of the sea, I suppose, led me to Leith, where, soon after, I found myself walking very quietly on the shore, admiring the tough round and sound cordage of the vessels, and thinking how a loop, with a man at the end of one of them, would look, by way of tassel.
‘I was opposite to the rendezvous, formerly my place of refuge– in I bolted–found one or two old acquaintances, made half a dozen new ones–drank for two days–was put aboard the tender– off to Portsmouth–then landed at the Haslar hospital in a fine hissing-hot fever. Never mind–I got better–nothing can kill me–the West Indies were my lot again, for since I did not go where I deserved in the next world, I had something as like such quarters as can be had in this–black devils for inhabitants– flames and earthquakes, and so forth, for your element. Well, brother, something or other I did or said–I can’t tell what–How the devil should I, when I was as drunk as David’s sow, you know? But I was punished, my lad–made to kiss the wench that never speaks but when she scolds, and that’s the gunner’s daughter, comrade. Yes, the minister’s son of no matter where–has the cat’s scratch on his back! This roused me, and when we were ashore with the boat, I gave three inches of the dirk, after a stout tussle, to the fellow I blamed most, and took the bush for it. There were plenty of wild lads then along shore–and, I don’t care who knows–I went on the account, look you–sailed under the black flag and marrow-bones–was a good friend to the sea, and an enemy to all that sailed on it.’
Fairford, though uneasy in his mind at finding himself, a lawyer, so close to a character so lawless, thought it best, nevertheless, to put a good face on the matter, and asked Mr. Ewart, with as much unconcern as he could assume, ‘whether he was fortunate as a rover?’
‘No, no–d–n it, no,’ replied Nanty; ‘the devil a crumb of butter was ever churned that would stick upon my bread. There was no order among us–he that was captain to-day, was swabber to-morrow; and as for plunder–they say old Avery, and one or two close hunks, made money; but in my time, all went as it came; and reason good, for if a fellow had saved five dollars, his throat would have been cut in his hammock. And then it was a cruel, bloody work.–Pah,–we’ll say no more about it. I broke with them at last, for what they did on board of a bit of a snow–no matter what it was bad enough, since it frightened me–I took French leave, and came in upon the proclamation, so I am free of all that business. And here I sit, the skipper of the JUMPING JENNY–a nutshell of a thing, but goes through the water like a dolphin. If it were not for yon hypocritical scoundrel at Annan, who has the best end of the profit, and takes none of the risk, I should be well enough–as well as I want to be. Here is no lack of my best friend,’–touching his case-bottle;–‘but, to tell you a secret, he and I have got so used to each other, I begin to think he is like a professed joker, that makes your sides sore with laughing if you see him but now and then; but if you take up house with him, he can only make your head stupid. But I warrant the old fellow is doing the best he can for me, after all.’
‘And what may that be?’ said Fairford.
‘He is KILLING me,’ replied Nanty Ewart; ‘and I am only sorry he is so long about it.’
So saying he jumped on his feet, and, tripping up and down the deck, gave his orders with his usual clearness and decision, notwithstanding the considerable quantity of spirits which he had contrived to swallow while recounting his history.
Although far from feeling well, Fairford endeavoured to rouse himself and walk to the head of the brig, to enjoy the beautiful prospect, as well as to take some note of the course which the vessel held. To his great surprise, instead of standing across to the opposite shore from which she had departed, the brig was going down the Firth, and apparently steering into the Irish Sea. He called to Nanty Ewart, and expressed his surprise at the course they were pursuing, and asked why they did not stand straight across the Firth for some port in Cumberland.
‘Why, this is what I call a reasonable question, now,’ answered Nanty; ‘as if a ship could go as straight to its port as a horse to the stable, or a free-trader could sail the Solway as securely as a King’s cutter! Why, I’ll tell ye, brother–if I do not see a smoke on Bowness, that is the village upon the headland yonder, I must stand out to sea for twenty-four hours at least, for we must keep the weather-gage if there are hawks abroad.’
‘And if you do see the signal of safety, Master Ewart, what is to be done then?’
‘Why then, and in that case, I must keep off till night, and then run you, with the kegs and the rest of the lumber, ashore at Skinburness,’
‘And then I am to meet with this same laird whom I have the letter for?’ continued Fairford.
‘That,’ said Ewart, ‘is thereafter as it may be; the ship has its course–the fair trader has his port–but it is not easy to say where the laird may be found. But he will be within twenty miles of us, off or on–and it will be my business to guide you to him.’
Fairford could not withstand the passing impulse of terror which crossed him, when thus reminded that he was so absolutely in the power of a man, who, by his own account, had been a pirate, and who was at present, in all probability, an outlaw as well as a contraband trader. Nanty Ewart guessed the cause of his involuntary shuddering.
‘What the devil should I gain,’ he said, ‘by passing so poor a card as you are? Have I not had ace of trumps in my hand, and did I not play it fairly? Aye, I say the JUMPING JENNY can run in other ware as well as kegs. Put SIGMA and TAU to Ewart, and see how that will spell–D’ye take me now?’
‘No indeed,’ said Fairford; ‘I am utterly ignorant of what you allude to.’
‘Now, by Jove!’ said Nanty Ewart, ‘thou art either the deepest or the shallowest fellow I ever met with–or you are not right after all. I wonder where Summertrees could pick up such a tender along-shore. Will you let me see his letter?’
Fairford did not hesitate to gratify his wish, which, he was aware, he could not easily resist. The master of the JUMPING JENNY looked at the direction very attentively, then turned the letter to and fro, and examined each flourish of the pen, as if he were judging of a piece of ornamented manuscript; then handled it back to Fairford, without a single word of remark.
‘Am I right now?’ said the young lawyer.
‘Why, for that matter,’ answered Nanty, ‘the letter is right, sure enough; but whether you are right or not, is your own business rather than mine.’ And, striking upon a flint with the back of a knife, he kindled a cigar as thick as his finger, and began to smoke away with great perseverance.
Alan Fairford continued to regard him with a melancholy feeling, divided betwixt the interest he took in the unhappy man, and a not unnatural apprehension for the issue of his own adventure.
Ewart, notwithstanding the stupefying nature of his pastime, seemed to guess what was working in his passenger’s mind; for, after they had remained some time engaged in silently observing each other, he suddenly dashed his cigar on the deck, and said to him, ‘Well then, if you are sorry for me, I am sorry for you. D–n me, if I have cared a button for man or mother’s son, since two years since when I had another peep of Jack Hadaway. ‘The fellow was got as fat as a Norway whale–married to a great Dutch-built quean that had brought him six children. I believe he did not know me, and thought I was come to rob his house; however, I made up a poor face, and told him who I was. Poor Jack would have given me shelter and clothes, and began to tell me of the moidores that were in bank, when I wanted them. Egad, he changed his note when I told him what my life had been, and only wanted to pay me my cash and get rid of me. I never saw so terrified a visage. I burst out a-laughing in his face, told him it was all a humbug, and that the moidores were all his own, henceforth and for ever, and so ran off. I caused one of our people send him a bag of tea and a keg of brandy, before I left– poor Jack! I think you are the second person these ten years, that has cared a tobacco-stopper for Nanty Ewart.’
‘Perhaps, Mr. Ewart,’ said Fairford, ‘you live chiefly with men too deeply interested for their own immediate safety, to think much upon the distress of others?’
‘And with whom do you yourself consort, I pray?’ replied Nanty, smartly. ‘Why, with plotters, that can make no plot to better purpose than their own hanging; and incendiaries, that are snapping the flint upon wet tinder. You’ll as soon raise the dead as raise the Highlands–you’ll as soon get a grunt from a dead sow as any comfort from Wales or Cheshire. You think because the pot is boiling, that no scum but yours can come uppermost–I know better, by –. All these rackets and riots that you think are trending your way have no relation at all to your interest; and the best way to make the whole kingdom friends again at once, would be the alarm of such an undertaking as these mad old fellows are trying to launch into.
‘I really am not in such secrets as you seem to allude to,’ said Fairford; and, determined at the same time to avail himself as far as possible of Nanty’s communicative disposition, he added, with a smile,’ And if I were, I should not hold it prudent to make them much the subject of conversation. But I am sure, so sensible a man as Summertrees and the laird may correspond together without offence to the state.’
‘I take you, friend–I take you,’ said Nanty Ewart, upon whom, at length, the liquor and tobacco-smoke began to make considerable innovation. ‘As to what gentlemen may or may not correspond about, why we may pretermit the question, as the old professor used to say at the Hall; and as to Summertrees, I will say nothing, knowing him to be an old fox. But I say that this fellow the laird is a firebrand in the country ; that he is stirring up all the honest fellows who should be drinking their brandy quietly, by telling them stories about their ancestors and the Forty-five ; and that he is trying to turn all waters into his own mill-dam, and to set his sails to all winds. And because the London people are roaring about for some pinches of their own, he thinks to win them to his turn with a wet finger. And he gets encouragement from some, because they want a spell of money from him; and from others, because they fought for the cause once and are ashamed to go back; and others, because they have nothing to lose; and others, because they are discontented fools. But if he has brought you, or any one, I say not whom, into this scrape, with the hope of doing any good, he’s a d–d decoy-duck, and that’s all I can say for him; and you are geese, which is worse than being decoy-ducks, or lame-ducks either. And so here is to the prosperity of King George the Third, and the true Presbyterian religion, and confusion to the Pope, the Devil, and the Pretender! I’ll tell you what, Mr. Fairbairn, I am but tenth owner of this bit of a craft, the JUMPING JENNY–but tenth owner and must sail her by my owners’ directions. But if I were whole owner, I would not have the brig be made a ferry-boat for your Jacobitical, old-fashioned Popish riff-raff, Mr. Fairport–I would not, by my soul; they should walk the plank, by the gods, as I have seen better men do when I sailed under the What-d’ye- callum colours. But being contraband goods, and on board my vessel, and I with my sailing orders in my hand, why, I am to forward them as directed–I say, John Roberts, keep her up a bit with the helm.–and so, Mr. Fairweather, what I do is–as the d–d villain Turnpenny says–all in the way of business.’
He had been speaking with difficulty for the last five minutes, and now at length dropped on the deck, fairly silenced by the quantity of spirits which he had swallowed, but without having showed any glimpse of the gaiety, or even of the extravagance, of intoxication.
The old sailor stepped forward and flung a sea-cloak over the slumberer’s shoulders, and added, looking at Fairford, ‘Pity of him he should have this fault; for without it, he would have been as clever a fellow as ever trod a plank with ox leather.’
‘And what are we to do now?’ said Fairford.
‘Stand off and on, to be sure, till we see the signal, and then obey orders.’
So saying, the old man turned to his duty, and left the passenger to amuse himself with his own meditations. Presently afterward a light column of smoke was seen rising from the little headland.
‘I can tell you what we are to do now, master,’ said the sailor. ‘We’ll stand out to sea, and then run in again with the evening tide, and make Skinburness; or, if there’s not light, we can run into the Wampool river, and put you ashore about Kirkbride or Leaths, with the long-boat.’
Fairford, unwell before, felt this destination condemned him to an agony of many hours, which his disordered stomach and aching head were ill able to endure. There was no remedy, however, but patience, and the recollection that he was suffering in the cause of friendship. As the sun rose high, he became worse; his sense of smell appeared to acquire a morbid degree of acuteness, for the mere purpose of inhaling and distinguishing all the various odours with which he was surrounded, from that of pitch to all the complicated smells of the hold. His heart, too, throbbed under the heat, and he felt as if in full progress towards a high fever.
The seamen, who were civil and attentive considering their calling, observed his distress, and one contrived to make an awning out of an old sail, while another compounded some lemonade, the only liquor which their passenger could be prevailed upon to touch. After drinking it off, he obtained, but could not be said to enjoy, a few hours of troubled slumber.
CHAPTER XV
NARRATIVE OF ALAN FAIRFORD, CONTINUED
Alan Fairford’s spirit was more ready to encounter labour than his frame was adequate to support it. In spite of his exertions, when he awoke, after five or six hours’ slumber, he found that he