Whatever incantation the intrepid initiate recited, it served to raise the Kelpie. There was a slip and slither of stealthy footsteps in the cave above; and then he came down with a rush and a rattle of pebbles. I saw his bulk dimly in the half light, with the great club raised; then my friend wheeled nimbly into the shelter of the rock that had served me that morning. At the same time he struck down strongly with his heavy stick, and with a horrible cry the threatening figure overbalanced and tumbled headlong.
I hastened up the slope. At the top, my friend stood motionless and grave. At the foot of the cliff the fallen figure lay horribly still at the pool’s edge.
“If he appear to his mother this time,” muttered Dr. Johnson, “I’ll know that she has the second sight.”
“It mazes me,” I remarked when once more we sat together at the Laird’s fireside, “how in a record of second sight thrice confirmed, you, sir, managed to read the unsupernatural truth.”
“Man’s power of ratiocination,” returned Dr. Johnson, “is his truest second sight.”
“Doubtless,” remarked Colin MacQueen, “old Kirstie, poor thing, was just as amazed at the learned Doctor’s perceptions as we were at hers.”
“Pray explain, then, how ratiocination led you to the truth.”
“Sir, ’tis my earnest endeavour to instruct myself in your Highland phænomenon of second sight, of whose existence I have heard so much. I repeat, I am willing to be convinced; but of each demonstration I remain a skeptick. I ask: Is second sight possible? and I reply in the affirmative. Of each separate occurrence I then ask: Is this second sight? Could not it be something else? I have yet to hear of the case that would not admit of some other explanation. Such was my frame of mind when first I heard of old Kirstie and her feats of second sight.”
“She prophesied Rory’s death,” said Colin.
JOHNSON: “Nay, sir, she warned you of his danger. Her reputation for second sight enabled her to do so without betraying her son. She foresaw what happened, not by second sight, but by her knowledge of her son’s murderous frame of mind.”
BOSWELL: “Then her story of her son rising out of the sea before her in the night was a pure invention.”
JOHNSON: “Nay, sir, ’twas pure truth, save for the one detail that he was alive.”
MACQUEEN: “How knew you that?”
JOHNSON: “Sir, I had concluded before I heard of this second apparition that the first one was a lie. If the second was a lie, it had one of two motives: if her son was dead, to add to her reputation for second sight; if alive, to contribute to his safety by confirming his supposed death. Thus far had ratiocination carried me when we visited her hut and heard her third prophecy. I had no faith in this third apparition, which I took, wrongly, to be a second warning.”
BOSWELL: “Why a warning?”
JOHNSON: “Because, sir, I saw in the hut that which convinced me that Black Fergus was alive and on the island.”
BOSWELL: “What?”
JOHNSON: “Why, sir, the great pair of breeks which we caught her drying at the fire, that she quickly hid under the bedstead. Think you that that poor wizened body had been wearing them, even were the women of Raasay given to masculine attire?”
“But with my own eyes I saw him leap into the sea and rise no more,” objected Dr. MacLeod.
“You saw him leap,” returned Dr. Johnson. “I saw when I stood in the Kelpie’s Window how a strong and intrepid swimmer could leap outward and take no harm, for the Kelpie Pool is deep and calm, and for his life a man can swim a long stretch under water. Had you looked along the cliffs instead of down into the pool, Dr. MacLeod, you might have seen his head breaking water, like a seal’s, to breathe. So it was that he came dripping to his mother out of the sea by night, and she comforted him, and hid him in the cave, and they plotted how he should reappear disguised when the nine-days’ wonder had died down.”
“Did ratiocinating on a single pair of sodden breeches tell you all this?” I rallied my learned friend.
“Not so,” replied Dr. Johnson. “I concluded only to keep a sharp eye for signs of where she had hidden him. By the cave I saw the remains of his hunting—we have scotched your fox, Dr. MacLeod—and the charcoal of his fire ground into the sand; and in the cave we saw the fern he had couched on. From Dr. MacLeod I learned of the fresh spring and the chambers above; and I saw the Kelpie’s Window and the pool below. Then we found the unfortunate young Angus, and the thing was certain. I knew at once how he had met his death.”
“Why? Why did Black Fergus wish to harm him?” burst forth Colin MacQueen bitterly.
“Your brother ventured into the cave, torch in hand, to fetch those specimens of petrifications he promised me. There he came face to face with his brother’s murderer, and knew him. So much is certain. I think he fled, and was struck down from behind.”
“How came he in the Kelpie Pool, then?”
“Ratiocination tells me,” replied Dr. Johnson, smiling slightly, “that guilt and terror obscured the man’s reason. Instead of hiding the body where it might never have been found, he endeavoured to simulate an accident, by flinging the body from the Kelpie’s Window. He then swam or waded by night to his mother’s hut and implored her to facilitate his flight. There he lay hid while the old beldame dried his garments.”
“Was he, then, in the very house when the old woman ‘prophesied’ Angus’s death?”
“Was he elsewhere, without his breeches?” countered Dr. Johnson. “When I saw Angus lying murdered, I knew who had done it, I knew what he must do next. I resolved to stop his flight.”
“Why you? Why single-handed?”
“Since the ’45, there is no law on Raasay, save what is brought from the mainland. I, an Englishman, a stranger, might most safely take justice upon myself. By night, I returned to the hut.”
“How dared you seek him out on his own ground?”
“I preferred to face him on ground I had chosen. By the ostentatiousness of my arrival I gave such warning as drove him from the hut to his hiding-place in the cave. Mr. Boswell will confess that though I am scarce fit for Italian opera, my rendition of an Erse song has a peculiar carrying power. For the same purpose I thundered, sir,—” turning to Colin, “upon your boat, which the murderer had stolen and beached, ready for his flight. Having thus assured the murderer’s presence in the cave, I entered in search of him.”
“Good heavens, sir!” cried Colin impetuously, “to venture thus into the lair of a wild beast, and hope to surprize him ere he can surprize you!”
“I had no such hope,” replied my intrepid friend. “He was sure to perceive me and attack me first. I permitted him to do so, only choosing my ground with some care.”
“The Kelpie’s Window hardly seems like favourable ground.”
“On the contrary,” replied Dr. Johnson. “If I was to bait my own trap, I had to have visibility, a quality provided in the whole cave only by the Kelpie’s Window. There also shelter is provided, as Mr. Boswell found.”
“Do you mean to say, sir,” cried Dr. MacLeod, “that you stood in that orifice, contemplating such a declivity, and permitted a desperate murderer to creep up on you in the dark?”
“I expected him; I detected his approach; I was able to evade him at the crucial moment. That he fell from the Kelpie’s Window was no part of my plan, for I had counted on taking him with my pistol.”
“Sir, sir,” I cried, “you took a grave risk thus staking your life on your hearing.”
“Nor did I so,” replied Dr. Johnson, half smiling. “You forget that Black Fergus had been supping on cocky-leeky. It takes neither ratiocination nor second sight, sir, to detect the proximity of your pervasive Scottish leek!”
The Flying Highwayman
“Sir,” remarked my illustrious friend Mr. Sam: Johnson, “I am sorry to hear of the insolent behaviour of your landlord; but you need not take the law of him in order to be quit of your bargain. For consider: if he determines to hold you, and the lodgings mus
t be yours for a year, you may certainly use them as you think fit. So, sir, you may quarter two lifeguardsmen upon him; or you may send the greatest scoundrel you can find into your apartments; or you may say that you want to make some experiments in natural philosophy, and may burn a large quantity of assafœtida in his house.”
I was torn between laughter and admiration at the wonderful fertility of Johnson’s mind; but betwixt the two I was still determined to carry the matter before the magistrate, if only to acquaint myself at first hand with the police of the great metropolis. I had not resided in London many months, and being a raw Scotch lad of twenty-three, I still looked with eagerness upon the crowded scene and desired to be a part of it.
Yielding to my whim, Dr. Johnson carried me with him to the publick office in Bow Street, and thus I came to have a part in the strange affair of the Flying Highwayman.
“You will find here,” he instructed me as we turned out of Drury Lane, “the most famous magistrate in the kingdom. Henry Fielding the novelist sat here till his death, and now his brother John sits in his room. Stay, this is the house.”
I looked with interest upon the tall, narrow structure, and hastened to mount the exiguous stair and come into the presence of the magistrate.
We found Sir John Fielding in the publick room. ’Twas a long, empty chamber. At one end and along the sides extended benches, now deserted, for ’twas past dinner-time. One or two nondescript men stood about; but ’twas upon Sir John Fielding, seated in his great chair, that my eyes became rivetted.
I saw a burly man in middle life, with a strong, handsome face. He was decently attired in brown stuff with horn buttons, and wore his own hair, prematurely white, combed in loose curls. In his hand he held a light wand, and about his head over his eyes he wore a narrow band of black silk. He turned towards us as we entered—not his eyes, for they were tight shut; but he turned his whole frame and inclined towards us with parted lips. I saw with a shock that the famous Westminster magistrate was blind.
Sir John greeted Sam: Johnson as an old friend, and me as a new one; and of my vexatious affair it need only be said, that by Sir John’s instructions all went off to a wish, and my impertinent landlord plagued me no more.
“Pray, Sir John,” said I then, “will not you acquaint me with the police of this metropolis?”
“I will do better than that,” replied the blind magistrate with a smile. “You shall see it at first hand. I am now to visit the watch at Stamford Hill turnpike, and I shall be honoured if you and Dr. Johnson will accept of a place in my carriage.”
We consented eagerly, and soon we were bowling briskly along on the Hertford Road, leading north out of London. As we rode, Sir John explained our errand.
“You must know, Mr. Boswell, that the metropolis is plagued by miscreants of every description, by Abram coves, by sky-farmers, by the running-smobble; most of all by the gentlemen of the high toby.”
“Highwaymen,” glossed my learned friend.
“To remedy which evil,” pursued the blind magistrate, “there has recently been established the horse patrole, thief-takers in my employ, well mounted, who patrole the turnpikes and raise the hue and cry so soon as they hear of any robbery upon the highway; for now every idle ’prentice who can come by a horse takes to the high toby, and that with too little fear of capture. One such, whom we have striven in vain to capture, is he whom we know only as the Flying Highwayman. He haunts this very road, out Enfield way. The horse patrole watches for him at Stamford Hill turnpike to the south of Enfield, and mans a barrier by Turner’s Hill to the north; but barrier nor pike stays him no more than a bird; he comes and goes at will like a ghost. I am resolved he shall be taken, and I make this visit to the turnpike and the barrier to hearten up my brave lads of the patrole.”
Chatting thus, we came to the turnpike. ’Twas but a long pole across the road, fitted to swing upon a stock or stump at one side. Barriers on either side prevented the wayfarer from going around and so cheating the turnpike man of his toll. The house of the turnpike man was close by. A man on horseback was at the alert by the side of the road. Our chaise drew up at the pike, and the man came to the chaise-side and saluted Sir John.
“Ah, Barrock,” said Sir John at the sound of his voice, “and where is Watchett? Sure you have not permitted him to leave his post?”
“He’s rid on patrole, if you please, sir,” replied the fellow hoarsely. He was a stumpy, powerful fellow in middle life, with a broad blank face.
“Being,” he added, “but a young ’un, d’ye see, and new to the patrole, and having scant patience for waiting here at the barrier.”
“Very good, Barrock, so he’s not doing his patrole at the Rose and Crown with the serving-wench on his knee. Is all quiet here?”
“Dead quiet, sir. Never a rider has passed over the barrier since dinner-time.”
’Twas as the man spoke that Sir John lifted his head and listened.
“Here’s a rider coming now,” said he.
I listened, and heard nothing. ’Twas a full minute before my less sharp ears caught the beat of horse’s hoofs, and longer before the animal appeared, coming towards us from the Enfield side of the turnpike. For a moment I thought we might be face to face with the Flying Highwayman. The rider was young and strong-built, with heavy dark brows and a resolute jutting chin. He wore a long sand-coloured horseman’s greatcoat; on his shoulders the dust of the road lay thick, though by its dun colour scarce visible. As he drew near the pole I saw the wicked long horse-pistols riding loose in his saddle-holsters. He put his grey to the barrier, cleared it at a bound, and came to us in the chaise.
“All’s clear, sir,” he reported to Sir John in a piping boyish voice, “’twixt here and the barrier; and no rider has come over the barrier this two hours past.”
’Twas Watchett, the restless lad of the horse patrole.
Instead of answering, Sir John once more raised his head to listen.
“Here’s a wayfarer coming,” said he, “and this time on foot.”
Dr. Johnson peered nearsightedly into the gathering gloom; from which gradually emerged a strange and bedraggled figure.
’Twas a woebegone young man of fashion that stumbled towards us. His attire was rich, but marred with dust and disarray, and indecorously scanty. He wore once-snowy buckskins, and boots of Russia leather, and a shirt of finest linen, richly embroidered and beruffled with lace—and nothing else. As to his person, he was of middle size, and well-made. He had a noble profile and a handsome head, but made strange and bare by the fact that he had no wig, only his own fair hair in short curls. He smelled of otto.
’Twixt chattering teeth he cursed the Flying Highwayman. Watchett and Barrock exchanged glances of dismay as the newcomer approached the chaise-side. When he saw my venerable companions, he gave over his profane swearing and altered his tone.
“Your pardon, gentlemen,” he said suavely, “for appearing before you in this disarray; for which you must not blame me, but the Flying Highwayman, whom I have but now to my disadvantage encountered upon the road. The scoundrel has had, not only my purse, but my phaeton and pair, and my very garments as well. Pray, can you not help me to some rag to cover me?”
Almost before he spoke I had doffed my greatcoat and thrown it around him, a courtesy which he acknowledged with a graceful salute.
“Sir,” replied Sir John, “you have fortuned to come upon the right man, for I can help you to what you stand most in need of, namely, justice, and your goods again. Sir John Fielding, at your service, sir.”
The modish young fellow bowed low.
“William Page, of Waltham Cross; yours to command.”
“Say then, Mr. Page, where you had the misfortune to encounter this pernitious miscreant.”
“Not a quarter-mile below the Rose and Crown.”
Without more ado Sir John despatched the men of the horse patrole to ride thither in pursuit. Then we repaired to the house of the turnpike man to hear the story at large.
The turnpike keeper was a little weasel of a man with quick beady eyes. He set before us gin and small beer, a meagre entertainment which appealed to none of us save the shivering victim. Of the gin he downed a full four fingers, not without a grimace of distaste, before he told his tale.
“You must know, Sir John, my elder brother is Lord Mountcairn. My father being lately dead, Mountcairn takes the estate, d’ye see, and I’m left with my choice of the horses or the women. I take the horses, they’re the less kittle cattle. I’ve as pretty a pair of matched blacks to my phaeton as you’ll see in Middlesex, and I drive them myself, and now this confounded knight of the pad has got ’em, curse him!
“Well, sir, I left my house at Waltham Cross to drive to London, and coming over the barrier I most particularly enquired if the road were clear, for this Flying Highwayman is the scourge of that stretch of road. ‘O yes sir,’ says they, ‘for here’s Watchett has ridden off but now, and he says all’s quiet as the grave. You may drive to London in peace.’ Peace! Ha! I had scarce passed the Rose and Crown, when out of a copse steps this black-avised scoundrel. He’d a dun greatcoat about him, and a half-mask over his eyes, and dark hair tied behind, and a chest like a barrel. He rode a grey horse, and presented two deuced long horse-pistols, and ‘Stand!’ says he, ‘Stand and deliver.’ A brace of horse-pistols is a great perswader, Sir John and gentlemen. I stood, and I delivered. I delivered my purse, and my phaeton and pair, and the cloathes off my back, and the very wig off my head, and trudged off down the London road with the great black-browed scoundrel laughing behind me.”
“Sure, sir,” said Dr. Johnson thoughtfully, “this is something new in highwaymen. I muse what he wants with your cloathes and your wig.”
“Sir,” replied Sir John, “the whims of these gentry are past finding out. I have known in my time one knight of the high toby, that absolutely required two ladies, whom he robbed, to walk a minuet before him; and another who at pistol’s point forced a clergyman, his victim, to preach him a sermon upon the text, Thou shalt not steal.”
Dr. Sam Johnson, Detector Page 5