KIDNAPPED & CATRIONA: The Adventures of David Balfour (Illustrated). Robert Louis Stevenson

sunburnt very dark, and heavily freckled and pitted with the smallpox; his eyes were unusually light and had a kind of dancing madness in them, that was both engaging and alarming; and when he took off his greatcoat, he laid a pair of fine silver-mounted pistols on the table, and I saw that he was belted with a great sword. His manners, besides, were elegant, and he pledged the captain handsomely. Altogether I thought of him, at the first sight, that here was a man I would rather call my friend than my enemy.

      The captain, too, was taking his observations, but rather of the man’s clothes than his person. And to be sure, as soon as he had taken off the greatcoat, he showed forth mighty fine for the roundhouse of a merchant brig: having a hat with feathers, a red waistcoat, breeches of black plush, and a blue coat with silver buttons and handsome silver lace; costly clothes, though somewhat spoiled with the fog and being slept in.

      “I’m vexed, sir, about the boat,” says the captain.

      “There are some pretty men gone to the bottom,” said the stranger, “that I would rather see on the dry land again than half a score of boats.”

      “Friends of yours?” said Hoseason.

      “You have none such friends in your country,” was the reply. “They would have died for me like dogs.”

      “Well, sir,” said the captain, still watching him, “there are more men in the world than boats to put them in.”

      “And that’s true, too,” cried the other, “and ye seem to be a gentleman of great penetration.”

      “I have been in France, sir,” says the captain, so that it was plain he meant more by the words than showed upon the face of them.

      “Well, sir,” says the other, “and so has many a pretty man, for the matter of that.”

      “No doubt, sir” says the captain, “and fine coats.”

      “Oho!” says the stranger, “is that how the wind sets?” And he laid his hand quickly on his pistols.

      “Don’t be hasty,” said the captain. “Don’t do a mischief before ye see the need of it. Ye’ve a French soldier’s coat upon your back and a Scotch tongue in your head, to be sure; but so has many an honest fellow in these days, and I dare say none the worse of it.”

      “So?” said the gentleman in the fine coat: “are ye of the honest party?” (meaning, Was he a Jacobite? for each side, in these sort of civil broils, takes the name of honesty for its own).

      “Why, sir,” replied the captain, “I am a true-blue Protestant, and I thank God for it.” (It was the first word of any religion I had ever heard from him, but I learnt afterwards he was a great church-goer while on shore.) “But, for all that,” says he, “I can be sorry to see another man with his back to the wall.”

      “Can ye so, indeed?” asked the Jacobite. “Well, sir, to be quite plain with ye, I am one of those honest gentlemen that were in trouble about the years forty-five and six; and (to be still quite plain with ye) if I got into the hands of any of the red-coated gentry, it’s like it would go hard with me. Now, sir, I was for France; and there was a French ship cruising here to pick me up; but she gave us the go-by in the fog — as I wish from the heart that ye had done yoursel’! And the best that I can say is this: If ye can set me ashore where I was going, I have that upon me will reward you highly for your trouble.”

      “In France?” says the captain. “No, sir; that I cannot do. But where ye come from — we might talk of that.”

      And then, unhappily, he observed me standing in my corner, and packed me off to the galley to get supper for the gentleman. I lost no time, I promise you; and when I came back into the roundhouse, I found the gentleman had taken a money-belt from about his waist, and poured out a guinea or two upon the table. The captain was looking at the guineas, and then at the belt, and then at the gentleman’s face; and I thought he seemed excited.

      “Half of it,” he cried, “and I’m your man!”

      The other swept back the guineas into the belt, and put it on again under his waistcoat. “I have told ye sir” said he, “that not one doit of it belongs to me. It belongs to my chieftain,” and here he touched his hat, “and while I would be but a silly messenger to grudge some of it that the rest might come safe, I should show myself a hound indeed if I bought my own carcase any too dear. Thirty guineas on the seaside, or sixty if ye set me on the Linnhe Loch. Take it, if ye will; if not, ye can do your worst.”

      “Ay,” said Hoseason. “And if I give ye over to the soldiers?”

      “Ye would make a fool’s bargain,” said the other. “My chief, let me tell you, sir, is forfeited, like every honest man in Scotland. His estate is in the hands of the man they call King George; and it is his officers that collect the rents, or try to collect them. But for the honour of Scotland, the poor tenant bodies take a thought upon their chief lying in exile; and this money is a part of that very rent for which King George is looking. Now, sir, ye seem to me to be a man that understands things: bring this money within the reach of Government, and how much of it’ll come to you?”

      “Little enough, to be sure,” said Hoseason; and then, “if they, knew” he added, drily. “But I think, if I was to try, that I could hold my tongue about it.”

“Ah, but I’ll begowk* ye there!” cried the gentleman. “Play me false, and I’ll play you cunning. If a hand is laid upon me, they shall ken what money it is.”

* Befool.

      “Well,” returned the captain, “what must be must. Sixty guineas, and done. Here’s my hand upon it.”

      “And here’s mine,” said the other.

      And thereupon the captain went out (rather hurriedly, I thought), and left me alone in the roundhouse with the stranger.

      At that period (so soon after the forty-five) there were many exiled gentlemen coming back at the peril of their lives, either to see their friends or to collect a little money; and as for the Highland chiefs that had been forfeited, it was a common matter of talk how their tenants would stint themselves to send them money, and their clansmen outface the soldiery to get it in, and run the gauntlet of our great navy to carry it across. All this I had, of course, heard tell of; and now I had a man under my eyes whose life was forfeit on all these counts and upon one more, for he was not only a rebel and a smuggler of rents, but had taken service with King Louis of France. And as if all this were not enough, he had a belt full of golden guineas round his loins. Whatever my opinions, I could not look on such a man without a lively interest.

      “And so you’re a Jacobite?” said I, as I set meat before him.

“Ay,” said he, beginning to eat. “And you, by your long face, should be a Whig?”*

* Whig or Whigamore was the cant name for those who were loyal to King George.

      “Betwixt and between,” said I, not to annoy him; for indeed I was as good a Whig as Mr. Campbell could make me.

      “And that’s naething,” said he. “But I’m saying, Mr. Betwixt-and-Between,” he added, “this bottle of yours is dry; and it’s hard if I’m to pay sixty guineas and be grudged a dram upon the back of it.”

      “I’ll go and ask for the key,” said I, and stepped on deck.

      The fog was as close as ever, but the swell almost down. They had laid the brig to, not knowing precisely where they were, and the wind (what little there was of it) not serving well for their true course. Some of the hands were still hearkening for breakers; but the captain and the two officers were in the waist with their