CHAPTER XXII

THE FLIGHT IN THE HEATHER: THE MOOR

Some seven hours’ incessant, hard travelling brought us early in the
morning to the end of a range of mountains. In front of us there lay a
piece of low, broken, desert land, which we must now cross. The sun was
not long up, and shone straight in our eyes; a little, thin mist went up
from the face of the moorland like a smoke; so that (as Alan said) there
might have been twenty squadron of dragoons there and we none the wiser.

We sat down, therefore, in a howe of the hill-side till the mist should
have risen, and made ourselves a dish of drammach, and held a council of
war.

“David,” said Alan, “this is the kittle bit. Shall we lie here till it
comes night, or shall we risk it, and stave on ahead?”

“Well,” said I, “I am tired indeed, but I could walk as far again, if
that was all.”

“Ay, but it isnae,” said Alan, “nor yet the half. This is how we stand:
Appin’s fair death to us. To the south it’s all Campbells, and no to be
thought of. To the north; well, there’s no muckle to be gained by going
north; neither for you, that wants to get to Queensferry, nor yet for
me, that wants to get to France. Well, then, we’ll can strike east.”

“East be it!” says I, quite cheerily; but I was thinking in to myself:
“O, man, if you would only take one point of the compass and let me take
any other, it would be the best for both of us.”

“Well, then, east, ye see, we have the muirs,” said Alan. “Once there,
David, it’s mere pitch-and-toss. Out on yon bald, naked, flat place,
where can a body turn to? Let the red-coats come over a hill, they can
spy you miles away; and the sorrow’s in their horses’ heels, they would
soon ride you down. It’s no good place, David; and I’m free to say, it’s
worse by daylight than by dark.”

“Alan,” said I, “hear my way of it. Appin’s death for us; we have none
too much money, nor yet meal; the longer they seek, the nearer they
may guess where we are; it’s all a risk; and I give my word to go ahead
until we drop.”

Alan was delighted. “There are whiles,” said he, “when ye are altogether
too canny and Whiggish to be company for a gentleman like me; but there
come other whiles when ye show yoursel’ a mettle spark; and it’s then,
David, that I love ye like a brother.”

The mist rose and died away, and showed us that country lying as waste
as the sea; only the moorfowl and the pewees crying upon it, and far
over to the east, a herd of deer, moving like dots. Much of it was red
with heather; much of the rest broken up with bogs and hags and peaty
pools; some had been burnt black in a heath fire; and in another place
there was quite a forest of dead firs, standing like skeletons. A
wearier-looking desert man never saw; but at least it was clear of
troops, which was our point.

We went down accordingly into the waste, and began to make our toilsome
and devious travel towards the eastern verge. There were the tops of
mountains all round (you are to remember) from whence we might be spied
at any moment; so it behoved us to keep in the hollow parts of the moor,
and when these turned aside from our direction to move upon its naked
face with infinite care. Sometimes, for half an hour together, we must
crawl from one heather bush to another, as hunters do when they are hard
upon the deer. It was a clear day again, with a blazing sun; the water
in the brandy bottle was soon gone; and altogether, if I had guessed
what it would be to crawl half the time upon my belly and to walk much
of the rest stooping nearly to the knees, I should certainly have held
back from such a killing enterprise.

Toiling and resting and toiling again, we wore away the morning; and
about noon lay down in a thick bush of heather to sleep. Alan took the
first watch; and it seemed to me I had scarce closed my eyes before I
was shaken up to take the second. We had no clock to go by; and Alan
stuck a sprig of heath in the ground to serve instead; so that as soon
as the shadow of the bush should fall so far to the east, I might know
to rouse him. But I was by this time so weary that I could have slept
twelve hours at a stretch; I had the taste of sleep in my throat; my
joints slept even when my mind was waking; the hot smell of the heather,
and the drone of the wild bees, were like possets to me; and every now
and again I would give a jump and find I had been dozing.

The last time I woke I seemed to come back from farther away, and
thought the sun had taken a great start in the heavens. I looked at the
sprig of heath, and at that I could have cried aloud: for I saw I had
betrayed my trust. My head was nearly turned with fear and shame; and at
what I saw, when I looked out around me on the moor, my heart was like
dying in my body. For sure enough, a body of horse-soldiers had come
down during my sleep, and were drawing near to us from the south-east,
spread out in the shape of a fan and riding their horses to and fro in
the deep parts of the heather.

When I waked Alan, he glanced first at the soldiers, then at the mark
and the position of the sun, and knitted his brows with a sudden, quick
look, both ugly and anxious, which was all the reproach I had of him.

“What are we to do now?” I asked.

“We’ll have to play at being hares,” said he. “Do ye see yon mountain?”
pointing to one on the north-eastern sky.

“Ay,” said I.

“Well, then,” says he, “let us strike for that. Its name is Ben Alder.
it is a wild, desert mountain full of hills and hollows, and if we can
win to it before the morn, we may do yet.”

“But, Alan,” cried I, “that will take us across the very coming of the
soldiers!”

“I ken that fine,” said he; “but if we are driven back on Appin, we are
two dead men. So now, David man, be brisk!”

With that he began to run forward on his hands and knees with an
incredible quickness, as though it were his natural way of going. All
the time, too, he kept winding in and out in the lower parts of the
moorland where we were the best concealed. Some of these had been burned
or at least scathed with fire; and there rose in our faces (which were
close to the ground) a blinding, choking dust as fine as smoke. The
water was long out; and this posture of running on the hands and knees
brings an overmastering weakness and weariness, so that the joints ache
and the wrists faint under your weight.

Now and then, indeed, where was a big bush of heather, we lay awhile,
and panted, and putting aside the leaves, looked back at the dragoons.
They had not spied us, for they held straight on; a half-troop, I think,
covering about two miles of ground, and beating it mighty thoroughly as
they went. I had awakened just in time; a little later, and we must have
fled in front of them, instead of escaping on one side. Even as it was,
the least misfortune might betray us; and now and again, when a grouse
rose out of the heather with a clap of wings, we lay as still as the
dead and were afraid to breathe.

The aching and faintness of my body, the labouring of my heart, the
soreness of my hands, and the smarting of my throat and eyes in the
continual smoke of dust and ashes, had soon grown to be so unbearable
that I would gladly have given up. Nothing but the fear of Alan lent me
enough of a false kind of courage to continue. As for himself (and you
are to bear in mind that he was cumbered with a great-coat) he had first
turned crimson, but as time went on the redness began to be mingled
with patches of white; his breath cried and whistled as it came; and his
voice, when he whispered his observations in my ear during our halts,
sounded like nothing human. Yet he seemed in no way dashed in spirits,
nor did he at all abate in his activity, so that I was driven to marvel
at the man’s endurance.

At length, in the first gloaming of the night, we heard a trumpet sound,
and looking back from among the heather, saw the troop beginning to
collect. A little after, they had built a fire and camped for the night,
about the middle of the waste.

At this I begged and besought that we might lie down and sleep.

“There shall be no sleep the night!” said Alan. “From now on, these
weary dragoons of yours will keep the crown of the muirland, and none
will get out of Appin but winged fowls. We got through in the nick
of time, and shall we jeopard what we’ve gained? Na, na, when the day
comes, it shall find you and me in a fast place on Ben Alder.”

“Alan,” I said, “it’s not the want of will: it’s the strength that I
want. If I could, I would; but as sure as I’m alive I cannot.”

“Very well, then,” said Alan. “I’ll carry ye.”

I looked to see if he were jesting; but no, the little man was in dead
earnest; and the sight of so much resolution shamed me.

“Lead away!” said I. “I’ll follow.”

He gave me one look as much as to say, “Well done, David!” and off he
set again at his top speed.

It grew cooler and even a little darker (but not much) with the coming
of the night. The sky was cloudless; it was still early in July, and
pretty far north; in the darkest part of that night, you would have
needed pretty good eyes to read, but for all that, I have often seen it
darker in a winter mid-day. Heavy dew fell and drenched the moor like
rain; and this refreshed me for a while. When we stopped to breathe,
and I had time to see all about me, the clearness and sweetness of
the night, the shapes of the hills like things asleep, and the fire
dwindling away behind us, like a bright spot in the midst of the moor,
anger would come upon me in a clap that I must still drag myself in
agony and eat the dust like a worm.

By what I have read in books, I think few that have held a pen were ever
really wearied, or they would write of it more strongly. I had no care
of my life, neither past nor future, and I scarce remembered there was
such a lad as David Balfour. I did not think of myself, but just of each
fresh step which I was sure would be my last, with despair--and of Alan,
who was the cause of it, with hatred. Alan was in the right trade as a
soldier; this is the officer’s part to make men continue to do things,
they know not wherefore, and when, if the choice was offered, they would
lie down where they were and be killed. And I dare say I would have made
a good enough private; for in these last hours it never occurred to me
that I had any choice but just to obey as long as I was able, and die
obeying.

Day began to come in, after years, I thought; and by that time we were
past the greatest danger, and could walk upon our feet like men, instead
of crawling like brutes. But, dear heart have mercy! what a pair we must
have made, going double like old grandfathers, stumbling like babes,
and as white as dead folk. Never a word passed between us; each set his
mouth and kept his eyes in front of him, and lifted up his foot and set
it down again, like people lifting weights at a country play;[27] all the
while, with the moorfowl crying “peep!” in the heather, and the light
coming slowly clearer in the east.

[27] Village fair.

I say Alan did as I did. Not that ever I looked at him, for I had enough
ado to keep my feet; but because it is plain he must have been as stupid
with weariness as myself, and looked as little where we were going, or
we should not have walked into an ambush like blind men.

It fell in this way. We were going down a heathery brae, Alan leading
and I following a pace or two behind, like a fiddler and his wife; when
upon a sudden the heather gave a rustle, three or four ragged men leaped
out, and the next moment we were lying on our backs, each with a dirk at
his throat.

I don’t think I cared; the pain of this rough handling was quite
swallowed up by the pains of which I was already full; and I was too
glad to have stopped walking to mind about a dirk. I lay looking up in
the face of the man that held me; and I mind his face was black with the
sun, and his eyes very light, but I was not afraid of him. I heard Alan
and another whispering in the Gaelic; and what they said was all one to
me.

Then the dirks were put up, our weapons were taken away, and we were set
face to face, sitting in the heather.

“They are Cluny’s men,” said Alan. “We couldnae have fallen better.
We’re just to bide here with these, which are his out-sentries, till
they can get word to the chief of my arrival.”

Now Cluny Macpherson, the chief of the clan Vourich, had been one of the
leaders of the great rebellion six years before; there was a price on
his life; and I had supposed him long ago in France, with the rest of
the heads of that desperate party. Even tired as I was, the surprise of
what I heard half wakened me.

“What,” I cried, “is Cluny still here?”

“Ay, is he so!” said Alan. “Still in his own country and kept by his own
clan. King George can do no more.”

I think I would have asked farther, but Alan gave me the put-off. “I am
rather wearied,” he said, “and I would like fine to get a sleep.” And
without more words, he rolled on his face in a deep heather bush, and
seemed to sleep at once.

There was no such thing possible for me. You have heard grasshoppers
whirring in the grass in the summer time? Well, I had no sooner closed
my eyes, than my body, and above all my head, belly, and wrists, seemed
to be filled with whirring grasshoppers; and I must open my eyes again
at once, and tumble and toss, and sit up and lie down; and look at the
sky which dazzled me, or at Cluny’s wild and dirty sentries, peering out
over the top of the brae and chattering to each other in the Gaelic.

That was all the rest I had, until the messenger returned; when, as it
appeared that Cluny would be glad to receive us, we must get once more
upon our feet and set forward. Alan was in excellent good spirits, much
refreshed by his sleep, very hungry, and looking pleasantly forward to
a dram and a dish of hot collops, of which, it seems, the messenger had
brought him word. For my part, it made me sick to hear of eating. I had
been dead-heavy before, and now I felt a kind of dreadful lightness,
which would not suffer me to walk. I drifted like a gossamer; the ground
seemed to me a cloud, the hills a feather-weight, the air to have a
current, like a running burn, which carried me to and fro. With all
that, a sort of horror of despair sat on my mind, so that I could have
wept at my own helplessness.

I saw Alan knitting his brows at me, and supposed it was in anger; and
that gave me a pang of light-headed fear, like what a child may have. I
remember, too, that I was smiling, and could not stop smiling, hard as
I tried; for I thought it was out of place at such a time. But my good
companion had nothing in his mind but kindness; and the next moment,
two of the gillies had me by the arms, and I began to be carried forward
with great swiftness (or so it appeared to me, although I dare say it
was slowly enough in truth), through a labyrinth of dreary glens and
hollows and into the heart of that dismal mountain of Ben Alder.