Watson Muckle John

1. Auflage 2022
ISBN: 978-3-98744-919-2
Verlag: OTB eBook publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 172 Seiten

Reihe: Classics To Go

Excerpt: All the world knows the tale of the Rising of 1745. It is a story that each generation cherishes with undiminished affection. Some have called it the last burst of chivalry in modern history, and doubtless for that reason when other more vital aspects are forgotten, the campaign of Prince Charlie will sustain its fascination and its glamour. In an age peculiarly commonplace and sordid, it carried the spirit of romance well-nigh to the throne itself; in a period almost destitute of loyalty and patriotism it glorified the reckless gallantry and self-sacrifice of devotion. That Charles Edward Stuart could land with only seven followers and carry all before him into the very heart of England is wonderful enough. But that in the days of his misfortune and flight no one was found to claim the reward for his life is finer still. That poor, unarmed, uneducated men were ready to die in hundreds is a testimony not easily forgotten. Of those great days when the Jacobite army marched south much has been written, and the facts are familiar to all. But of those grey days following Culloden Moor less is known, and in the last fluttering of the Jacobite Cause there is much that must necessarily baffle and perplex the casual reader. The Highlands were to a large extent divided in opinion. There were Jacobite clans, and Hanoverian clans, while between the two were men like Major Fraser of our story, anxious to keep clear of both. There were devoted chiefs like Lochiel, scheming chiefs like Lovat, chiefs who wavered and trifled like Macleod, or were downright traitors like Glengarry and Barisdale, and there were the tragi-comedians like poor Murray of Broughton, who was more hated than he deserved. Finally there were, like poppies in the grain, the adventurers, men with nothing to lose and something to gain (such as Muckle John himself), serving no chief, nor clan, marauders more Jacobite than Hanoverian, like birds of prey hovering for the kill. It is of this side of the '45 that I have principally treated. Clan jealousies again must not be forgotten, and the universal hatred of the Campbells played, as always, its miserable part. Those who condemn Cumberland and his troops must not forget that in the persecution after Culloden the hunting down of the fugitives was ardently pursued by the Highland militia and the men from Argyllshire. The story of a campaign is but a lightning flash in the history of a nation. Long after, the thunder rolls into silence. The Rebellion of the '45 was only the fuse that destroyed at a blow the clan system of centuries. From Culloden onwards the transit of the old into the new was swift and tragic in its coming.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Watson, Frederick

Leseproben

CHAPTER I

HOW PRINCE CHARLIE CAME TO INVERNESS
It is often your stupidest boy who is most likeable in a helpless sort of way. Not that Rob Fraser was a nincompoop, but there was a confiding innocency in his shadowless blue eyes that only a rascal could have turned to his own advantage. Rob was not accounted promising at school, and during the study of such subjects as Latin and Greek his mind appeared to be focussed upon the next county, nor was he regarded as reliable at games, for his movements were in tune with his thoughts, which were more often on the trout in the pool than on the ball in his hand. It was this abstraction that divided him from the other boys of his age, not because he was unpopular, not because he lacked pluck, but just because he was silent for days at a time, and made no confidences. It was a state of mind that drove his aunt, good woman, to a kind of arctic fury. For years she strove to beat it out of him, but it served no purpose except to send him upon the hills for days together. There comes a time when you can't beat a boy larger than yourself. Not that Rob would have complained or refused to submit. He was indifferent to such things. He had plenty of spirit of a dogged and inflammatory character, but it did not lie that way. If it consoled his aunt to beat him, then let her do so by all means. For all he knew it might be the time-honoured custom of maiden aunts. Miss Macpherson was, above all, a practical woman, and it was Rob's dreamy obliviousness to facts that fretted her. To sit watching muirfowl for hours together was more than any sensible body could tolerate. And that was Rob all over. He knew where the two-pound trout lay in the burn up in the hills. He could bring a curlew from the next glen in a perfect frenzy of agitation to learn what was the matter. He would spend nights together watching fox cubs playing under the moon. But of school and its tasks he had no tolerance. He was lying on the bank of a stream that spring day when it all came about. He did not hear the footsteps nor did he see the shadow on the water, but of a sudden there stood a very large and pleasant gentleman beside him, dressed in riding clothes, and with a handsome claymore at his side. "Cuddling?" said he very affably. "I mind the day when I could lay the bonnie ones in rows upon the bank." Rob stared at him with his ingenuous eyes. "It is fine to be young," went on the strange gentleman, "but there were no days like the old days." "Why do you say that?" asked Rob. The stranger suppressed a smile at his eager curiosity. "They have said that," he replied, "since Robert the Bruce heard it from his grandfather." "But were the old days so fine?" "Fine enough," he replied absently; "fine enough and yet none sae fine either—there is a bit tune I'm minded of..." and he took a curious little instrument out of his pocket made of reed, shaped like a piccolo. Then sitting upon a rock he played a tender little air with one eye glued to Rob to see how he took it, and his head cocked very drolly upon the side. "There's the 'Brogues of Fortune' for ye," he said. "Is it a very old tune?" asked Rob, greatly taken with the gentleman. "As old as the hills, laddie, and that's past counting—as old as the burn and the shadows on the brae, for it's part and parcel of them all, just strung together by mysel'." "You made it?" "Hech! there's nothing to skirl about. I make them all day. I canna eat my dinner but my feet are dirling to a tune that has no name and must have the go-by until I have a spare moment. Make them indeed!" "What else do you do?" asked Rob, in his innocent blunt way. The stranger laughed. "I can hear the owl passing over the brae in the night, I can see the stag hunkered amongst the crags, I can catch the otter at his play." "Can you call the weasel from his hole?" asked Rob. "Maybe I can," replied the other, "but try you first." At that, getting rather red in the face, Rob uttered a thin squeal such as a wounded rabbit gives, like the squeal of a rat for shrillness. Again and again he made it, but nothing moved in the broken place under the bank. "None so bad," said the stranger, and distending his lips he sent forth such a screech that it froze Rob's blood. In it was the terror of the chase—the fear of what was following, and the drawing of blood. And before their eyes, not four feet away, at the very first note the lithe form of a weasel leapt quivering upon the heather. "It takes a deal of practice," said the stranger gentleman for fear he might seem overproud. But Rob was utterly crushed. Back dived the weasel for his lair, and lying down, the stranger told Rob of the ways of wild things until it was dusk. Presently without so much as a good-day but only a nod he buttoned his coat and crossing the burn set off up the hill, and Rob saw him no more, at least not for two full years and over, not indeed until the Jacobites came to Inverness in the year '46. It was about nine of the clock on the morning of February the 18th, 1746, that two horsemen rode into the town of Inverness. Now there might seem nothing strange in that, but rather in the manner of their coming, which was at a headlong gallop. Rob Fraser, hurrying to the Grammar School, had scarce time to leap aside as they careered up Church Street, their beasts in a lather with sweat. Rob gave them one quick glance as they thundered by, noting that one had lost his hat, and the other his stirrup-irons; that both horses were fresh, grass fed beasts new from the fields, and then, on swift, light feet he sped in pursuit. The Grammar School saw little of Rob when promise of news was going. For it must be told that in the year 1746 Inverness was in a rare tumult, and none knew just how the future lay. In August of the preceding year Prince Charles Edward Stuart had landed in Scotland, had won the clans to his banner, had defeated the Government forces at Prestonpans, and had marched into England. Receiving no support in the south, he returned to the north with his gallant little army. Then came the second victory at Falkirk, and the retreat towards Inverness with the Duke of Cumberland on their trail. It was at such a time that two horsemen galloping recklessly through the streets of Inverness were bound to create a commotion. None could say what would befall within the next few weeks. Inverness was Jacobite by instinct; but there was no pleasant flavour about the word "rebel." In truth, the good people of the town were at their wits' end to know which way to cry. But not so Rob Fraser. Despite the opinions of his father, despite the sour words of Ephraim Macaulay, the schoolmaster, and the dour face of the minister—Rob Fraser was a Jacobite beyond recall. For a boy of sixteen he was slightly built, but lithe and wiry as a hill-fox. His hair was longer than is customary to-day, and covered by a broad blue bonnet. His features were regular and clean-cut, the eyes dark and sombre, his cheeks and neck tanned by wind and wild weather. In his rough jacket and faded kilt, with his torn and patched stockings and his soaking brogues, he made a queer enough spectacle—not one would say the ideal picture of a hero of romance. He wore no sporran, such luxuries were not for him, and his kilt was but a roll of tartan belted about his middle, but he carried himself with all the dignity of his race. He was a schoolboy, but out of school he was a Fraser, and were the Frasers not in the field with the Master of Lovat? Those were days when schoolboys had small time for lessons. Only the night before Lauchlain Macintosh had eluded the sentinels and given warning of the plan to capture Prince Charlie at Moy Hall. There was no speaking to Lauchlain at the Grammar School for months after. Indeed, things were too critical for sums and tags of grammar. Already the Prince was threatening Inverness. At any moment there might be a battle at the very gates of the town, and who could say what might happen then? Meanwhile the two horsemen had pulled up their steaming beasts in the market place, and the one who had lost his hat raised himself in his stirrups and shouted for silence. Rob, worming his way through the people, arrived in time to hear his opening words. "We have ridden hot-foot," the man cried, speaking in Gaelic, "for the Pretender's army is even now marching on your town." At that there was a sudden clamour of voices, some cheering, and not a little hooting, for the name "Pretender" was not pleasant in Jacobite ears. But Inverness was in Hanoverian hands, and so the noise died away, and all eyes were turned again upon the man on the horse. He was a great, red-faced fellow, very pompous and self sufficient, and had his hair not looked so laughable through the loss of his hat, might have impressed his auditors enormously. The news he had brought sent a strange stir through the town. People began to talk in little clusters in the roadway, taverns quickly filled with gossipers, shutters began to rattle together, and anxious faces peered round the corners of windows. Suddenly down the street sounded the tramp of feet, and a score of excited eyes were turned in the hope of seeing the Highland army march into the town. But no—it was the Hanoverian garrison some two thousand strong, commanded by Lord Loudon, about to evacuate. At that the confusion grew more intense, and ardent Jacobites could scarce refrain from donning the white cockade, while less ardent Hanoverians did not know whether to cheer or take to...