Kidnapped

by Robert Louis Stevenson

  CHAPTER XXIX

  I COME INTO MY KINGDOM

  For some time Alan volleyed upon the door, and his knocking only rousedthe echoes of the house and neighbourhood. At last, however, I couldhear the noise of a window gently thrust up, and knew that my unclehad come to his observatory. By what light there was, he would see Alanstanding, like a dark shadow, on the steps; the three witnesses werehidden quite out of his view; so that there was nothing to alarm anhonest man in his own house. For all that, he studied his visitor awhilein silence, and when he spoke his voice had a quaver of misgiving.

  "What's this?" says he. "This is nae kind of time of night for decentfolk; and I hae nae trokings* wi' night-hawks. What brings ye here? Ihave a blunderbush."

  * Dealings.

  "Is that yoursel', Mr. Balfour?" returned Alan, stepping back andlooking up into the darkness. "Have a care of that blunderbuss; they'renasty things to burst."

  "What brings ye here? and whae are ye?" says my uncle, angrily.

  "I have no manner of inclination to rowt out my name to thecountry-side," said Alan; "but what brings me here is another story,being more of your affair than mine; and if ye're sure it's what yewould like, I'll set it to a tune and sing it to you."

  "And what is't?" asked my uncle.

  "David," says Alan.

  "What was that?" cried my uncle, in a mighty changed voice.

  "Shall I give ye the rest of the name, then?" said Alan.

  There was a pause; and then, "I'm thinking I'll better let ye in," saysmy uncle, doubtfully.

  "I dare say that," said Alan; "but the point is, Would I go? Now I willtell you what I am thinking. I am thinking that it is here upon thisdoorstep that we must confer upon this business; and it shall be here ornowhere at all whatever; for I would have you to understand that I am asstiffnecked as yoursel', and a gentleman of better family."

  This change of note disconcerted Ebenezer; he was a little whiledigesting it, and then says he, "Weel, weel, what must be must," andshut the window. But it took him a long time to get down-stairs, and astill longer to undo the fastenings, repenting (I dare say) and takenwith fresh claps of fear at every second step and every bolt and bar. Atlast, however, we heard the creak of the hinges, and it seems my uncleslipped gingerly out and (seeing that Alan had stepped back a pace ortwo) sate him down on the top doorstep with the blunderbuss ready in hishands.

  "And, now" says he, "mind I have my blunderbush, and if ye take a stepnearer ye're as good as deid."

  "And a very civil speech," says Alan, "to be sure."

  "Na," says my uncle, "but this is no a very chanty kind of a proceeding,and I'm bound to be prepared. And now that we understand each other,ye'll can name your business."

  "Why," says Alan, "you that are a man of so much understanding, willdoubtless have perceived that I am a Hieland gentleman. My name has naebusiness in my story; but the county of my friends is no very far fromthe Isle of Mull, of which ye will have heard. It seems there was aship lost in those parts; and the next day a gentleman of my family wasseeking wreck-wood for his fire along the sands, when he came upon a ladthat was half drowned. Well, he brought him to; and he and some othergentleman took and clapped him in an auld, ruined castle, where fromthat day to this he has been a great expense to my friends. My friendsare a wee wild-like, and not so particular about the law as some thatI could name; and finding that the lad owned some decent folk, and wasyour born nephew, Mr. Balfour, they asked me to give ye a bit call andconfer upon the matter. And I may tell ye at the off-go, unless we canagree upon some terms, ye are little likely to set eyes upon him. For myfriends," added Alan, simply, "are no very well off."

  My uncle cleared his throat. "I'm no very caring," says he. "He wasnae agood lad at the best of it, and I've nae call to interfere."

  "Ay, ay," said Alan, "I see what ye would be at: pretending ye don'tcare, to make the ransom smaller."

  "Na," said my uncle, "it's the mere truth. I take nae manner of interestin the lad, and I'll pay nae ransome, and ye can make a kirk and a millof him for what I care."

  "Hoot, sir," says Alan. "Blood's thicker than water, in the deil's name!Ye cannae desert your brother's son for the fair shame of it; and ifye did, and it came to be kennt, ye wouldnae be very popular in yourcountry-side, or I'm the more deceived."

  "I'm no just very popular the way it is," returned Ebenezer; "and Idinnae see how it would come to be kennt. No by me, onyway; nor yet byyou or your friends. So that's idle talk, my buckie," says he.

  "Then it'll have to be David that tells it," said Alan.

  "How that?" says my uncle, sharply.

  "Ou, just this way," says Alan. "My friends would doubtless keep yournephew as long as there was any likelihood of siller to be made of it,but if there was nane, I am clearly of opinion they would let him gangwhere he pleased, and be damned to him!"

  "Ay, but I'm no very caring about that either," said my uncle. "Iwouldnae be muckle made up with that."

  "I was thinking that," said Alan.

  "And what for why?" asked Ebenezer.

  "Why, Mr. Balfour," replied Alan, "by all that I could hear, there weretwo ways of it: either ye liked David and would pay to get him back; orelse ye had very good reasons for not wanting him, and would pay for usto keep him. It seems it's not the first; well then, it's the second;and blythe am I to ken it, for it should be a pretty penny in my pocketand the pockets of my friends."

  "I dinnae follow ye there," said my uncle.

  "No?" said Alan. "Well, see here: you dinnae want the lad back; well,what do ye want done with him, and how much will ye pay?"

  My uncle made no answer, but shifted uneasily on his seat.

  "Come, sir," cried Alan. "I would have you to ken that I am a gentleman;I bear a king's name; I am nae rider to kick my shanks at your halldoor. Either give me an answer in civility, and that out of hand; or bythe top of Glencoe, I will ram three feet of iron through your vitals."

  "Eh, man," cried my uncle, scrambling to his feet, "give me a meenit!What's like wrong with ye? I'm just a plain man and nae dancing master;and I'm tryin to be as ceevil as it's morally possible. As for that wildtalk, it's fair disrepitable. Vitals, says you! And where would I bewith my blunderbush?" he snarled.

  "Powder and your auld hands are but as the snail to the swallow againstthe bright steel in the hands of Alan," said the other. "Before yourjottering finger could find the trigger, the hilt would dirl on yourbreast-bane."

  "Eh, man, whae's denying it?" said my uncle. "Pit it as ye please, hae'tyour ain way; I'll do naething to cross ye. Just tell me what like ye'llbe wanting, and ye'll see that we'll can agree fine."

  "Troth, sir," said Alan, "I ask for nothing but plain dealing. In twowords: do ye want the lad killed or kept?"

  "O, sirs!" cried Ebenezer. "O, sirs, me! that's no kind of language!"

  "Killed or kept!" repeated Alan.

  "O, keepit, keepit!" wailed my uncle. "We'll have nae bloodshed, if youplease."

  "Well," says Alan, "as ye please; that'll be the dearer."

  "The dearer?" cries Ebenezer. "Would ye fyle your hands wi' crime?"

  "Hoot!" said Alan, "they're baith crime, whatever! And the killing'seasier, and quicker, and surer. Keeping the lad'll be a fashious* job, afashious, kittle business."

  * Troublesome.

  "I'll have him keepit, though," returned my uncle. "I never had naethingto do with onything morally wrong; and I'm no gaun to begin to pleasurea wild Hielandman."

  "Ye're unco scrupulous," sneered Alan.

  "I'm a man o' principle," said Ebenezer, simply; "and if I have to payfor it, I'll have to pay for it. And besides," says he, "ye forget thelad's my brother's son."

  "Well, well," said Alan, "and now about the price. It's no very easy forme to set a name upon it; I would first have to ken some small matters.I would have to ken, for instance, what ye gave Hoseason at the firstoff-go?"

  "Hoseason!" cries my uncle, struck aback. "What for?"

  "For
kidnapping David," says Alan.

  "It's a lee, it's a black lee!" cried my uncle. "He was never kidnapped.He leed in his throat that tauld ye that. Kidnapped? He never was!"

  "That's no fault of mine nor yet of yours," said Alan; "nor yet ofHoseason's, if he's a man that can be trusted."

  "What do ye mean?" cried Ebenezer. "Did Hoseason tell ye?"

  "Why, ye donnered auld runt, how else would I ken?" cried Alan."Hoseason and me are partners; we gang shares; so ye can see foryoursel' what good ye can do leeing. And I must plainly say ye drove afool's bargain when ye let a man like the sailor-man so far forward inyour private matters. But that's past praying for; and ye must lie onyour bed the way ye made it. And the point in hand is just this: whatdid ye pay him?"

  "Has he tauld ye himsel'?" asked my uncle.

  "That's my concern," said Alan.

  "Weel," said my uncle, "I dinnae care what he said, he leed, and thesolemn God's truth is this, that I gave him twenty pound. But I'll beperfec'ly honest with ye: forby that, he was to have the selling of thelad in Caroliny, whilk would be as muckle mair, but no from my pocket,ye see."

  "Thank you, Mr. Thomson. That will do excellently well," said thelawyer, stepping forward; and then mighty civilly, "Good-evening, Mr.Balfour," said he.

  And, "Good-evening, Uncle Ebenezer," said I.

  And, "It's a braw nicht, Mr. Balfour," added Torrance.

  Never a word said my uncle, neither black nor white; but just sat wherehe was on the top door-step and stared upon us like a man turned tostone. Alan filched away his blunderbuss; and the lawyer, taking himby the arm, plucked him up from the doorstep, led him into the kitchen,whither we all followed, and set him down in a chair beside the hearth,where the fire was out and only a rush-light burning.

  There we all looked upon him for a while, exulting greatly in oursuccess, but yet with a sort of pity for the man's shame.

  "Come, come, Mr. Ebenezer," said the lawyer, "you must not bedown-hearted, for I promise you we shall make easy terms. In themeanwhile give us the cellar key, and Torrance shall draw us a bottleof your father's wine in honour of the event." Then, turning to me andtaking me by the hand, "Mr. David," says he, "I wish you all joy in yourgood fortune, which I believe to be deserved." And then to Alan, witha spice of drollery, "Mr. Thomson, I pay you my compliment; it wasmost artfully conducted; but in one point you somewhat outran mycomprehension. Do I understand your name to be James? or Charles? or isit George, perhaps?"

  "And why should it be any of the three, sir?" quoth Alan, drawinghimself up, like one who smelt an offence.

  "Only, sir, that you mentioned a king's name," replied Rankeillor; "andas there has never yet been a King Thomson, or his fame at least hasnever come my way, I judged you must refer to that you had in baptism."

  This was just the stab that Alan would feel keenest, and I am free toconfess he took it very ill. Not a word would he answer, but stepped offto the far end of the kitchen, and sat down and sulked; and it was nottill I stepped after him, and gave him my hand, and thanked him by titleas the chief spring of my success, that he began to smile a bit, and wasat last prevailed upon to join our party.

  By that time we had the fire lighted, and a bottle of wine uncorked; agood supper came out of the basket, to which Torrance and I and Alanset ourselves down; while the lawyer and my uncle passed into the nextchamber to consult. They stayed there closeted about an hour; at the endof which period they had come to a good understanding, and my uncle andI set our hands to the agreement in a formal manner. By the termsof this, my uncle bound himself to satisfy Rankeillor as to hisintromissions, and to pay me two clear thirds of the yearly income ofShaws.

  So the beggar in the ballad had come home; and when I lay down thatnight on the kitchen chests, I was a man of means and had a name in thecountry. Alan and Torrance and Rankeillor slept and snored on their hardbeds; but for me who had lain out under heaven and upon dirt and stones,so many days and nights, and often with an empty belly, and in fearof death, this good change in my case unmanned me more than any of theformer evil ones; and I lay till dawn, looking at the fire on the roofand planning the future.

  CHAPTER XXX

  GOOD-BYE

  So far as I was concerned myself, I had come to port; but I had stillAlan, to whom I was so much beholden, on my hands; and I felt besides aheavy charge in the matter of the murder and James of the Glens. On boththese heads I unbosomed to Rankeillor the next morning, walking to andfro about six of the clock before the house of Shaws, and with nothingin view but the fields and woods that had been my ancestors' and werenow mine. Even as I spoke on these grave subjects, my eye would take aglad bit of a run over the prospect, and my heart jump with pride.

  About my clear duty to my friend, the lawyer had no doubt. I must helphim out of the county at whatever risk; but in the case of James, he wasof a different mind.

  "Mr. Thomson," says he, "is one thing, Mr. Thomson's kinsman quiteanother. I know little of the facts, but I gather that a great noble(whom we will call, if you like, the D. of A.)* has some concern andis even supposed to feel some animosity in the matter. The D. of A. isdoubtless an excellent nobleman; but, Mr. David, timeo qui nocuere deos.If you interfere to balk his vengeance, you should remember there isone way to shut your testimony out; and that is to put you in the dock.There, you would be in the same pickle as Mr. Thomson's kinsman. Youwill object that you are innocent; well, but so is he. And to be triedfor your life before a Highland jury, on a Highland quarrel and witha Highland Judge upon the bench, would be a brief transition to thegallows."

  * The Duke of Argyle.

  Now I had made all these reasonings before and found no very good replyto them; so I put on all the simplicity I could. "In that case, sir,"said I, "I would just have to be hanged--would I not?"

  "My dear boy," cries he, "go in God's name, and do what you think isright. It is a poor thought that at my time of life I should be advisingyou to choose the safe and shameful; and I take it back with an apology.Go and do your duty; and be hanged, if you must, like a gentleman. Thereare worse things in the world than to be hanged."

  "Not many, sir," said I, smiling.

  "Why, yes, sir," he cried, "very many. And it would be ten times betterfor your uncle (to go no farther afield) if he were dangling decentlyupon a gibbet."

  Thereupon he turned into the house (still in a great fervour of mind,so that I saw I had pleased him heartily) and there he wrote me twoletters, making his comments on them as he wrote.

  "This," says he, "is to my bankers, the British Linen Company, placing acredit to your name. Consult Mr. Thomson, he will know of ways; andyou, with this credit, can supply the means. I trust you will be a goodhusband of your money; but in the affair of a friend like Mr. Thomson,I would be even prodigal. Then for his kinsman, there is no better waythan that you should seek the Advocate, tell him your tale, and offertestimony; whether he may take it or not, is quite another matter, andwill turn on the D. of A. Now, that you may reach the Lord Advocate wellrecommended, I give you here a letter to a namesake of your own, thelearned Mr. Balfour of Pilrig, a man whom I esteem. It will look betterthat you should be presented by one of your own name; and the laird ofPilrig is much looked up to in the Faculty and stands well with LordAdvocate Grant. I would not trouble him, if I were you, with anyparticulars; and (do you know?) I think it would be needless to refer toMr. Thomson. Form yourself upon the laird, he is a good model; when youdeal with the Advocate, be discreet; and in all these matters, may theLord guide you, Mr. David!"

  Thereupon he took his farewell, and set out with Torrance for the Ferry,while Alan and I turned our faces for the city of Edinburgh. As we wentby the footpath and beside the gateposts and the unfinished lodge, wekept looking back at the house of my fathers. It stood there, bare andgreat and smokeless, like a place not lived in; only in one of the topwindows, there was the peak of a nightcap bobbing up and down and backand forward, like the head of a rabbit from a burrow. I had littlewelcome when I came, a
nd less kindness while I stayed; but at least Iwas watched as I went away.

  Alan and I went slowly forward upon our way, having little heart eitherto walk or speak. The same thought was uppermost in both, that we werenear the time of our parting; and remembrance of all the bygone dayssate upon us sorely. We talked indeed of what should be done; and itwas resolved that Alan should keep to the county, biding now here, nowthere, but coming once in the day to a particular place where I might beable to communicate with him, either in my own person or by messenger.In the meanwhile, I was to seek out a lawyer, who was an Appin Stewart,and a man therefore to be wholly trusted; and it should be his part tofind a ship and to arrange for Alan's safe embarkation. No sooner wasthis business done, than the words seemed to leave us; and though Iwould seek to jest with Alan under the name of Mr. Thomson, and he withme on my new clothes and my estate, you could feel very well that wewere nearer tears than laughter.

  We came the by-way over the hill of Corstorphine; and when we gotnear to the place called Rest-and-be-Thankful, and looked down onCorstorphine bogs and over to the city and the castle on the hill, weboth stopped, for we both knew without a word said that we had come towhere our ways parted. Here he repeated to me once again what had beenagreed upon between us: the address of the lawyer, the daily hour atwhich Alan might be found, and the signals that were to be made by anythat came seeking him. Then I gave what money I had (a guinea or two ofRankeillor's) so that he should not starve in the meanwhile; and then westood a space, and looked over at Edinburgh in silence.

  "Well, good-bye," said Alan, and held out his left hand.

  "Good-bye," said I, and gave the hand a little grasp, and went off downhill.

  Neither one of us looked the other in the face, nor so long as he was inmy view did I take one back glance at the friend I was leaving. But asI went on my way to the city, I felt so lost and lonesome, that I couldhave found it in my heart to sit down by the dyke, and cry and weep likeany baby.

  It was coming near noon when I passed in by the West Kirk and theGrassmarket into the streets of the capital. The huge height of thebuildings, running up to ten and fifteen storeys, the narrow archedentries that continually vomited passengers, the wares of the merchantsin their windows, the hubbub and endless stir, the foul smells and thefine clothes, and a hundred other particulars too small to mention,struck me into a kind of stupor of surprise, so that I let the crowdcarry me to and fro; and yet all the time what I was thinking of wasAlan at Rest-and-be-Thankful; and all the time (although you would thinkI would not choose but be delighted with these braws and novelties)there was a cold gnawing in my inside like a remorse for somethingwrong.

  The hand of Providence brought me in my drifting to the very doors ofthe British Linen Company's bank.