Rob Roy

by Walter Scott

  At an old oaken table, adjoining to the fire, sat three men, guests apparently, whom it was impossible to regard with indifference. Two were in the Highland dress; the one, a little dark-complexioned man, with a lively, quick, and irritable expression of features, wore the trews, or close pantaloons, wove out of a sort of chequered stocking stuff. The Bailie whispered me, that ‘he behoved to be a man of some consequence, for that naebody but their Duinhé-wassels wore the trews; they were ill to weave exactly to their Highland pleasure.’

  The other mountaineer was a very tall, strong man, with a quantity of reddish hair, freckled face, high cheek-bones, and long chin—a sort of caricature of the national features of Scotland. The tartan which he wore differed from that of his companion, as it had much more scarlet in it, whereas the shades of black and dark-green predominated in the chequers of the other. The third, who sate at the same table, was in the Lowland dress,—a bold stout-looking man, with a cast of military daring in his eye and manner, his riding-dress showily and profusely laced, and his cocked hat of formidable dimensions. His hanger and a pair of pistols lay on the table before him. Each of the Highlanders had their naked dirks stuck upright in the board beside him,—an emblem, I was afterwards informed, but surely a strange one, that their computation was not to be interrupted by any brawl. A mighty pewter measure, containing about an English quart of usquebaugh, a liquor nearly as strong as brandy, which the Highlanders distil from malt, and drink undiluted in excessive quantities, was placed before these worthies. A broken glass, with a wooden foot, served as a drinking cup to the whole party, and circulated with a rapidity, which, considering the potency of the liquor, seemed absolutely marvellous. These men spoke loud and eagerly together, sometimes in Gaelic, at other times in English. Another Highlander, wrapt in his plaid, reclined on the floor, his head resting on a stone from which it was only separated by a wisp of straw, and slept, or seemed to sleep, without attending to what was going on around him. He also was probably a stranger, for he lay in full dress, and accoutred with the sword and target, the usual arms of his countrymen when on a journey. Cribs there were of different dimensions beside the walls, formed, some of fractured boards, some of shattered wicker-work or plaited boughs, in which slumbered the family of the house, men, women, and children, their places of repose only concealed by the dusky wreaths of vapour which arose above, below, and around them.

  Our entrance was made so quietly, and the carousers I have described were so eagerly engaged in their discussions, that we escaped their notice for a minute or two. But I observed the Highlander who lay beside the fire raise himself on his elbow as we entered, and, drawing his plaid over the lower part of his face, fix his look on us for a few seconds, after which he resumed his recumbent posture, and seemed again to betake himself to the repose which our entrance had interrupted.

  We advanced to the fire, which was an agreeable spectacle after our late ride, during the dullness of an autumn evening among the mountains, and first attracted the attention of the guests who had preceded us, by calling for the landlady. She approached, looking doubtfully and timidly, now at us, now at the other party, and returned a hesitating and doubtful answer to our request to have something to eat.

  ‘She didna ken,’ she said, ‘she wasna sure there was ony thing in the house,’ and then modified her refusal with the qualification,—‘that is, ony thing fit for the like of us.’

  I assured her we were indifferent to the quality of our supper; and looking round for the means of accommodation, which were not easily to be found, I arranged an old hen-coop as a seat for Mr. Jarvie, and turned down a broken tub to serve for my own. Andrew Fairservice entered presently afterwards, and took a place in silence behind our backs. The natives, as I may call them, continued staring at us, with an air as if confounded by our assurance, and we, at least I myself, disguised as well as we could, under an appearance of indifference, any secret anxiety we might feel concerning the mode in which we were to be received by those whose privacy we had disturbed.

  At length, the lesser Highlander, addressing himself to me said, in very good English, and in a tone of great haughtiness, ‘Ye make yourself at home, sir, I see.’

  ‘I usually do so,’ I replied, ‘when I come into a house of public entertainment.’

  ‘And did she na see,’ replied the taller man, ‘by the white wand at the door, that gentlemans had taken up the public-house on their ain business?’

  ‘I do not pretend to understand the customs of this country; but I am yet to learn,’ I replied, ‘how three persons should be entitled to exclude all other travellers from the only place of shelter and refreshment for miles round.’

  ‘There’s nae reason for’t, gentlemen,’ said the Bailie; ‘we mean nae offence—but there’s neither law nor reason for’t—but as far as a stoup o’ gude brandy wad make up the quarrel, we, being peaceable folk, wad be willing——’

  ‘Damn your brandy, sir!’ said the Lowlander, adjusting his cocked-hat fiercely upon his head; ‘we desire neither your brandy nor your company,’ and up he rose from his seat. His companions also arose, muttering to each other, drawing up their plaids, and snorting and snuffing the air after the manner of their countrymen when working themselves into a passion.

  ‘I tauld ye what wad come, gentlemen,’ said the landlady, ‘an ye wad hae been tauld—get awa’ wi’ ye out o’ my house, and make nae disturbance here—there’s nae gentleman be disturbed at Jeanie MacAlpine’s an she can hinder. A wheen idle English loons, gaun about the country under cloud o’ night, and disturbing honest peaceable gentlemen that are drinking their drap drink at the fireside!’

  At another time I should have thought of the old Latin adage

  ‘Dat veniam corvis, vexat censura columbas——’

  But I had not any time for classical quotation, for there was obviously a fray about to ensue, at which, feeling myself indignant at the inhospitable insolence with which I was treated, I was totally indifferent, unless on the Bailie’s account, whose person and qualities were ill qualified for such an adventure. I started up, however, on seeing the others rise, and dropped my cloak from my shoulders, that I might be ready to stand on the defensive.

  ‘We are three to three,’ said the lesser Highlander, glancing his eye at our party; ‘if ye be pretty men, draw!’ and, unsheathing his broadsword, he advanced on me. I put myself in a posture of defence, and, aware of the superiority of my weapon, a rapier or small-sword, was little afraid of the issue of the contest. The Bailie behaved with unexpected mettle. As he saw the gigantic Highlander confront him with his weapon drawn, he tugged for a second or two at the hilt of his shabble, as he called it; but finding it loth to quit the sheath, to which it had long been secured by rust and disuse, he seized, as a substitute, on the red-hot coulter of a plough which had been employed in arranging the fire by way of a poker, and brandished it with such effect, that at the first pass, he set the Highlander’s plaid on fire, and compelled him to keep a respectful distance till he could get it extinguished. Andrew, on the contrary, who ought to have faced the Lowland champion, had, I grieve to say it, vanished at the very commencement of the fray. But his antagonist, crying, ‘Fair play! fair play!’ seemed courteously disposed to take no share in the scuffle. Thus we commenced our rencontre on fair terms as to numbers. My own aim was, to possess myself, if possible, of my antagonist’s weapon; but I was deterred from closing for fear of the dirk which he held in his left hand, and used in parrying the thrusts of my rapier. Meantime the Bailie, notwithstanding the success of his first onset, was sorely bested. The weight of his weapon, the corpulence of his person, the very effervescence of his own passions were rapidly exhausting both his strength and his breath, and he was almost at the mercy of his antagonist, when up started the sleeping Highlander, from the floor on which he reclined, with his naked sword and target in his hand, and threw himself between the discomfited magistrate and his assailant, exclaiming, ‘Her nain-sell has eaten the town pread at the Cross o�
� Glasgow, and py her troth she’ll fight for Bailie Sharvie at the Clachan of Aberfoil—tat will she e’en!’ And seconding his words with deeds, this unexpected auxiliary made his sword whistle about the ears of his tall countryman, who, nothing abashed, returned his blows with interest. But being both accoutred with round targets made of wood, studded with brass, and covered with leadier, with which they readily parried each other’s strokes, their combat was attended with much more noise and clatter than serious risk of damage. It appeared, indeed, that there was more of bravado than of serious attempt to do us any injury; for the Lowland gentleman, who, as I mentioned, had stood aside for want of an antagonist when the brawl commenced, was now pleased to act the part of moderator and peace-maker.

  ‘Haud your hands—haud your hands—eneugh done— eneugh done!—the quarrel’s no mortal. The strange gentlemen have shown themselves men of honour, and gien reasonable satisfaction. I’ll stand on mine honour as kittle as ony man, but I hate unnecessary bloodshed.’

  It was not, of course, my wish to protract the fray—my adversary seemed equally disposed to sheath his sword—the Bailie, gasping for breath, might be considered as hors de combat, and our two sword-and-buckler men gave up their contest with as much indifference as they had entered into it.

  ‘And now,’ said the worthy gentleman who acted as umpire, ‘let us drink and gree like honest fellows—The house will haud us a’. I propose that this good little gentleman that seems sair forfoughen, as I may say, in this tuilzie, shall send for a tass o’ brandy, and I’ll pay for another, by way of archilowe,1 and then we’ll birl our bawbees a’ round about, like brethren.’

  ‘And fa’s to pay my new ponnie plaid,’ said the larger Highlander, ‘wi’ a hole burnt in’t ane might put a kail-pat through? Saw ever ony body a decent gentleman fight wi’ a firebrand before?’

  ‘Let that be nae hinderance,’ said the Bailie, who had now recovered his breath, and was at once disposed to enjoy the triumph of having behaved with spirit, and avoid the necessity of again resorting to such hard and doubtful arbitrement;—’Gin I hae broken the head,’ he said, ‘I sall find the plaister. A new plaid sall ye hae, and o’ the best—your ain clan-colours, man—an ye will tell me where it can be sent t’ye frae Glaseo.’

  ‘I needna name my clan—I am of a king’s clan, as is weel kend,’ said the Highlander; ‘but ye may tak a bit o’ the plaid—figh, she smells like a singit sheep’s head!—and that’ll learn ye the sett—and a gentleman, that’s a cousin o’ my ain, that carries eggs doun frae Glencroe, will ca’ for’t about Martimas, an ye will tell her where ye bide. But, honest gentleman, neist time ye fight, an ye hae ony respect for your athversary, let it be wi’ your sword, man, since ye ware ane, and no wi’ thae het culters and fireprands, like a wild Indian.’

  ‘Conscience!’ replied the Bailie, ‘every man maun do as he dow—my sword hasna seen the light since Bothwell Brigg, when my father, that’s dead and gane, ware it; and I kenna weel if it was forthcoming than either, for the battle was o’ the briefest—At ony rate, it’s glewed to the scabbard now beyond my power to part them; and, finding that, I e’en grippit at the first thing I could make a fend wi’. I trow my fighting days is done, though I like ill to take the scorn, for a’ that.—But where’s the honest lad that tuik my quarrel on himsell sae frankly?—I’se bestow a gill o’ aquavits on him, an I suld never ca’ for anither.’

  The champion for whom he looked around was, however, no longer to be seen. He had escaped, unobserved by the Bailie, immediately when the brawl was ended, yet not before I had recognized, in his wild features and shaggy red hair, our acquaintance Dougal, the fugitive turnkey of the Glasgow jail. I communicated this observation in a whisper to the Bailie, who answered in the same tone, ‘Weel, weel, I see that him that ye ken o’ said very right. There is some glimmering o’ common sense about that creature Dougal; I maun see and think o’ something will do him some gude.’

  Thus saying, he sat down, and fetching one or two deep aspirations, by way of recovering his breath, called to the landlady; ‘I think, Luckie, now that I find that there’s nae hole in my wame, whilk I had muckle reason to doubt frae the doings o’ your house, I wad be the better o’ something to pit intill’t.’

  The dame, who was all officiousness so soon as the storm had blown over, immediately undertook to broil something comfortable for our supper. Indeed, nothing surprised me more, in the course of the whole matter, than the extreme calmness with which she and her household seemed to regard the martial tumult that had taken place. The good woman was only heard to call to some of her assistants,’Steek the door—steek the door!—Kill or be killed, let naebody pass out till they hae paid the lawin.’ And as for the slumberers in those lairs by the wall, which served the family for beds, they only raised their shirtless bodies to look at the fray, ejaculated, ‘Oigh! oigh!’ in the tone suitable to their respective sex and ages, and were, I believe, fast asleep again, ere our swords were well returned to their scabbards.

  Our landlady, however, now made a great bustle to get some victuals ready, and, to my surprise, very soon began to prepare for us, in the frying-pan, a savoury mess of venison collops, which she dressed in a manner that might well satisfy hungry men, if not epicures. In the meantime the brandy was placed on the table, to which the Highlanders, however partial to their native strong waters, showed no objection, but much the contrary; and the Lowland gentleman, after the first cup had passed round, became desirous to know our profession, and the object of our journey.

  ‘We are bits o’ Glasgow bodies, if it please your honour,’ said the Bailie, with an affectation of great humility, ‘travelling to Stirling to get in some siller that is awing us.’

  I was so silly as to feel a little disconcerted at the unassuming account which he chose to give of us; but I recollected my promise to be silent, and allow the Bailie to manage the matter his own way. And, really, when I recollected, Will, that I had not only brought the honest man a long journey from home, which even in itself had been some inconvenience, (if I were to judge from the obvious pain and reluctance with which he took his seat or arose from it,) but had also put him within a hair’s-breadth of the loss of his life, I could hardly refuse him such a compliment. The spokesman of the other party, snuffing up his breath through his nose, repeated the words with a sort of sneer;—‘You Glasgow tradesfolks hae naething to do but to gang frae the tae end o’ the west o’ Scotland to the ither, to plague honest folks that may chance to be awee ahint the hand, like me.’

  ‘If our debtors were a’ sic honest gentlemen as I believe you to be, Garschattachin,’ replied the Bailie, ‘conscience! we might save ourselves a labour, for they wad come to seek us.’

  ‘Eh! what! how!’ exclaimed the person whom he had addressed, ‘as I shall live by bread, (not forgetting beef and brandy,) it’s my auld friend Nicol Jarvie, the best man that ever counted doun merks on a band till a distressed gentleman. Were ye na coming up my way?—were ye na coming up the Endrick to Garschattachin?’

  ‘Troth no, Maister Galbraith,’ replied the Bailie, ‘I had other eggs on the spit—and I thought ye wad be saying I cam to look about the annual rent that’s due on the bit heritable band that’s between us.’

  ‘Damn the annual rent!’ said the laird, with an appearance of great heartiness,—‘Diel a word o’ business will you or I speak, now that ye’re sae near my country—To see how a trot-cosey and a joseph can disguise a man—that I suldna ken my auld feal friend the deacon!’

  ‘The bailie, if ye please,’ resumed my companion; ‘but I ken what gars ye mistak—the band was granted to my father that’s happy, and he was deacon; but his name was Nicol as weel as mine. I dinna mind that there’s been a payment of principal sum or annual rent on it in my day, and doubtless that has made the mistake.’

  ‘Weel, the devil take the mistake and all that occasioned it!’ replied Mr. Galbraith. ‘But I am glad ye are a bailie. Gentlemen, fill a brimmer—this is my excellent friend, Bailie
Nicol Jarvie’s health—I kend him and his father these twenty years. Are ye a’ cleared kelty aff?—Fill anither. Here’s to his being sune provost—I say provost—Lord Provost Nicol Jarvie!—and them that affirms there’s a man walks the Hie-street o’ Glasgow that’s fitter for the office, they will do weel not to let me, Duncan Galbraith of Garschattachin, hear them say sae—that’s all.’ And therewith Duncan Galbraith martially cocked his hat, and placed it on one side of his head with an air of defiance.

  The brandy was probably the best recommendation of these complimentary toasts to the two Highlanders, who drank them without appearing anxious to comprehend their purport. They commenced a conversation with Mr. Galbraith in Gaelic, which he talked with perfect fluency, being, as I afterwards learned, a near neighbour to the Highlands.

  ‘I kend that Scant-o’-grace weel eneugh frae the very outset,’ said the Bailie, in a whisper to me; ‘but when blude was warm, and swords were out at ony rate, wha kens what way he might hae thought o’ paying his debts? it will be lang or he does it in common form. But he’s a honest lad, and has a warm heart too; he disna come often to the Cross o’ Glasgow, but mony a buck and blackcock he sends us doun frae the hills. And I can want my siller weel eneugh. My father the deacon had a great regard for the family of Garschattachin.’

  Supper being now nearly ready, I looked round for Andrew Fairservice; but that trusty follower had not been seen by any one since the beginning of the rencontre. The hostess, however, said that she believed our servant had gone into the stable, and offered to light me to the place, saying that ‘no entreaties of the bairns or hers could make him give any answer; and that truly she caredna to gang into the stable hersell at this hour. She was a lone woman, and it was weel kend how the Brownie of Ben-ye-gask guided the gudewife of Ardnagowan; and it was aye judged there was a Brownie in our stable, which was just what garr’d me gie ower keeping an hostler.’