 Preface and Dedication and Disclaimer to Kidnapped. While my husband and Mr. Henley were engaged in writing plays in Bournemouth, they made a number of titles, hoping to use them in the future. Dramatic composition was not what my husband preferred, but the tort of Mr. Henley's enthusiasm swept him off his feet. However, after several plays had been finished, and his health seriously impaired by his endeavors to keep up with Mr. Henley, playwriting was abandoned forever, and my husband returned to his legitimate vocation. Having added one of the titles, The Hanging Judge, to the list of projected plays now thrown aside, and emboldened by my husband's offer to give me any help needed, I concluded to try and write it myself. As I wanted a trial scene in the Old Bailey, I chose the period of 1700 for my purpose, but being shamefully ignorant of my subject and my husband confessing to little more knowledge than I possessed, a London bookseller was commissioned to send us everything he could procure bearing on Old Bailey trials. A great package came in response to our order, and very soon we were both absorbed, not so much in the trials, as in following the brilliant career of a Mr. Garrow who appeared as counsel in many of the cases. We sent for more books, and yet more, still intent on Mr. Garrow, whose subtle cross-examination of witnesses and masterly, if sometimes startling, methods of arriving at the truth, seemed more thrilling to us than any novel. Occasionally other trials than those in the Old Bailey would be included in the package of books we received from London. Among these, my husband found in red with avidity the trial of James Stewart in O'Carn, Endurer of Apen, for the murder of Colin Campbell of Glenure, EFQ, factor for his majesty on the forfeited estate of Artfield. My husband was always interested in this period of his country's history, and had already the intention of writing a story that should turn on the Apen murder. The tale was to be of a boy, David Balfour, supposed to belong to my husband's own family, who should travel in Scotland as though it were a foreign country, meeting with various adventures and misadventures, by the way. From the trial of James Stewart, my husband gleaned much valuable material for his novel, the most important being the character of Alan Brick. Aside from having described him as smallish in stature, my husband seems to have taken Alan Brick's personal appearance even to his clothing from the book. A letter from James Stewart to Mr. John MacFarlane introduced his evidence in the trial says, There is one Alan Stewart, a distant friend of the late Hardeals, who is in the French service, and came over in March last, as he said to some in order to settle at home, to others, that he was to go soon back, and was, as I hear, the day that the murder was committed, seen not far from the place where it happened, and is not now to be seen, by which it is believed he was the actor. He is a desperate foolish fellow, and if he is guilty, came to the country for that very purpose. He is a tall, pock-pitted lad, very black hair, and wore a blue coat and metal buttons, an old red vest, and breeches of the same color. A second witness testified to having seen him wearing a blue coat with silver buttons, a red waistcoat, black shag breeches, tartan hose, and a feathered hat with a big coat, done colored, a costume referred to by one of the counsel as French clothes, which were remarkable. There are many incidents given in the trial that point to Alan's fiery spirit and highling quickness to take offense. One witness declared also that the said Alan Brick threatened that he would challenge Bally Violin and his sons to fight because of his removing the declarant last year from Glenduror. On another page, Duncan Campbell, change-keeper at Annett, aged thirty-five years, married, witness-sighted, sworn, purged, and examined, a tsupra de Pones, that in the month of April last the deponent met with Alan Brick Stewart, with whom he was not acquainted, and John Stewart, in Oknachuan, in the house of the Walkmiller of Ockelfragan, and went on with them to the house. Alan Brick Stewart said that he hated all the name of Campbell, and the deponent said he had no reason for doing so. But Alan said he had very good reason for it, that thereafter they left that house, and, after drinking a dram at another house, came to the deponent's house where they went in and drunk some drams, and Alan Brick renewed the former conversation. And the deponent, making the same answer, Alan said that if the deponent had any respect for his friends, he would tell them that if they offered to turn out the possessors of Ardheel's estate, he would make black cocks of them before they entered into possession, by which the deponent understood shooting them, it being a common phrase in the country. Some time after the publication of Kidnapped we stopped for a short while in the Appan country, where we were surprised and interested to discover that the feeling concerning the murder of Glenure, the Red Fox, also called Colin Roy, was almost as keen as though the tragedy had taken place the day before. For several years my husband received letters of expostulation or commendation from members of the Campbell and Stewart clans. I have in my possession a paper, yellow with age, that was sent soon after the novel appeared, containing the pedigree of the family of Apin, wherein it is said that Alan III Baron of Apin was not killed at Floodown, though there but lived to a great old age. He married Cameron's daughter to Ewan Cameron of Lockheel. Following this is a paragraph stating that John Stewart first of Ardheel of his descendants, Alan Breck, had better be omitted, Duncan Bain Stewart in Ackenderach, his father was a bastard. One day while my husband was busily at work, I sat beside him reading an old cookery book called The Complete Housewife, an accomplished gentlewoman's companion. In the midst of receipts for rabbits and chickens mumbled, pickled sam-fire, skirt pie, baked tansy, and other forgotten delicacies, there were directions for the preparation of several lotions for the preservation of beauty. One of these was so charming that I interrupted my husband to read it aloud. Just what I wanted, he exclaimed, and the receipt for the lily of the valley water was instantly incorporated into kidnapped. SIGNED. F. V. D. E. G. S. TEDICATION. My dear Charles Baxter, if you ever read this tale you will likely ask yourself more questions than I should care to answer, as, for instance, how the Apin murder has come to fall in the year 1751, how the tauren rocks have crept so nearer to air raid, or why the printed trial is silent as to all the touches David Balfour. These are nuts beyond my ability to crack. But if you tried me on the point of Alan's guilt or innocence, I think I could defend the reading of the text. To this day you will find the tradition of Apin clear in Alan's favour. If you inquire you may even hear that the descendants of the other man who fired the shot are in the country to this day. But that other man's name inquire as you please. You shall not hear. For the Highlander values a secret for itself, and for the congenial exercise of keeping it, I might go on for long to justify one point and own another indefensible. It is more honest to confess at once how little I am touched by the desire of accuracy. This is no furniture for the scholar's library, but a book for the winter evening schoolroom when the tasks are over and the hour for bed draws near. An honest Alan, who was a grim old fire-eater in his day, has in this new avatar no more desperate purpose than to steal some young gentleman's attention from his ovid, carry him a while into the Highlands in the last century, and pack him to bed with some engaging images to mingle with his dreams. As for you, my dear Charles, I do not even ask you to like this tale, but perhaps when he is older, your son will. He may then be pleased to find his father's name on the fly-leaf, and in the meanwhile it pleases me to set it there in memory of many days that were happy and some now perhaps as pleasant to remember that were sad. It is strange for me to look back from a distance both in time and space on these bygone adventures of our youth. It must be stranger for you who tread the same streets, who may tomorrow open the door of the old speculative where we began to rank with Scott and Robert Emmett and the beloved and inglorious McBean. Or may pass the corner of the close where that great society, the LJR, held its meetings and drank its beer. Sitting in the seats of Burns and his companions, I think I see you, moving there by plain daylight, beholding with your natural eyes those places that have now become for your companion a part of the scenery of dreams. How, in the interval of present business, the past must echo in your memory. Let it not echo often without some kind thoughts of your friend, Robert Louis Stevenson, signed in scary-bore Bournemouth. And now a disclaimer. Your reader is an American. I'm sorry. I will do my absolute level best to pronounce the Scots words accurately and the names as well, but I cannot promise that they are accurate. Neither can I pretend to a Highland or a Lowland-Scots accent. I will make some kind of an attempt, but please bear with me when I fall short. Thank you and good listening. The Myth of Simpsonville, South Carolina Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson Chapter 1 I Set Off Upon My Journey to the House of Shaw's I will begin the story of my adventures with a certain morning early in the month of June, the year of Grace, 1751, when I took the key for the last time out of the door of my father's house. The sun began to shine upon the summit of the hills as I went down the road, and by the time I had come as far as the mants, the black birds were whistling in the garden lilacs, and the mist that hung around the valley in the time of the dawn was beginning to arise and die away. Mr. Campbell, the minister of Essendine, was waiting for me by the garden gate, good man. He asked me if I had breakfasted, and hearing that I lacked for nothing, he took my hand in both of his and clapped it kindly under his arm. Well, David Lad, said he, I will go with you as far as the Ford to set you on the way, and we began to walk forward in silence. Are you sorry to leave Essendine? said he, after a while. Why, sir, said I, if I knew where I was going, or what was likely to become of me, I would tell you candidly, Essendine is a good place indeed, and I have been very happy there, but then I have never been anywhere else. My father and mother, since they are both dead, I shall be no nearer to an Essendine than in the kingdom of Hungary, and to speak truth, if I thought I had a chance to better myself where I was going, I would go with a good will. I, said Mr. Campbell, very well, David, then it behooves me to tell your fortune, or so far as I may. When your mother was gone, and your father, the worthy Christian man, began to sicken for his end, he gave me in charge a certain letter, which he said was your inheritance. So soon, says he, as I am gone, and the house is read up and the gear disposed of, all which David hath been done, give my boy this letter into his hand, and start him off to the house of Shaw's, not far from Cremend. That is the place I came from, he said, and it's where it befits that my boy should return. He is a steady lad, your father said, and it can he gore, and I doubt not he will come safe and be well liked where he goes. The house of Shaw's, I cried, what had my poor father to do with the house of Shaw's? Nay, said Mr. Campbell, who can tell that for assurity? But the name of that family, David Boy, is the name you bear. Balfour's of Shaw's, an ancient, honest, reputable house, per adventure in these latter days, decayed. Your father, too, was a man of learning as befitted his position. No man more plausibly conducted school, nor had he the manner or the speech of a common dominey. But, as ye will yourself remember, I took I a pleasure to have him to the mats to meet the gentry, and those of my own house, Campbell of Kilrennit, Campbell of Dunswire, Campbell of Minch, and others, all well-kenned gentlemen, had pleasure in his society. Lastly, to put all the elements of this affair before you, here is the testamentary letter itself, superscribed by the own hand of our departed brother. He gave me the letter which was addressed in these words. To the hands of Ebenezer Balfour, Esquire of Shaw's, in his house of Shaw's, these will be delivered by my son, David Balfour. My heart was beating hard at this great prospect, now suddenly opening before a lad of seventeen years of age, the son of a poor country dominey in the forest of Ettrick. Mr. Campbell, I stammered, and if you were in my shoes, would you go? Of assurity, said the minister, that would I, and without pause. A pretty lad like you should get to Cramond, which is near in by Edinburgh, in two days of walk. If the worst come to the worst, and your high relations, as I cannot but suppose them to be somewhat of your blood, should put you to the door. You can but walk the two days back again and respect the man's door. But I would rather hope that you should be well received, as your poor father forecast for you, and for anything that I can, come to be a great man in time. And here, Davy Letty, he resumed, it lies near upon my conscience to improve this parting, and set you on the right guard against the dangers of the world. Here he cast about for a comfortable seat, lighted on a big boulder under a birch by the trackside, sat down upon it with a very long, serious upper lip, and the son now shining in upon us between two peaks, put his pocket handkerchief over his cock-tat to shelter him. There, then, with uplifted forefinger, he first put me on my guard against a considerable number of heresies, to which I had no temptation, and urged upon me to be instant in my prayers and reading of the Bible. That done he drew a picture of the great house that I was bound to, and how I should conduct myself with its inhabitants. Be suple, Davy, in things immaterial, said he, Bear ye this in mind that, though gentle-born, you have a country rearing. Dineshamus, Davy, Dineshamus, in young great muckle-house with all these domestics, upper and under, show yourself as nice, as circumspect, as quick at the conception, and as slow of speech as any. As for the Laird, remember he's the Laird. I say no more. Honour to whom honour? It's a pleasure to obey a Laird, or should be, to the young. Well, sir, said I, it may be, and I'll promise you I'll try to make it so. Why, very well said, replied Mr. Campbell heartily, and now to come to the material, or to make a quibble, to the immaterial. I have here a little packet which contains four things. He tugged it as he spoke, and with some great difficulty, from the skirt pocket of his coat. Of these four things the first is your legal due, the little pickle-money for your father's books in plenishing, which I have bought, as I explained from the first, in the design of reselling at a profit to the incoming domini. The other three are gifties that Mrs. Campbell and myself would be blithe of your acceptance. The first, which is round, will likely please your best at the first off-go. But, O Davey, laddie, it's but a drop of water in the sea. It'll help you but a step, and vanish like the morning. The second, which is flat and square and written upon, will stand by you through life, like a good staff for the road, and a good pillow to your head in sickness. And as for the last, which is cubicle, that'll see you, it's my prayerful wish, into a better land. With that he got upon his feet, took off his hat, and prayed a little while aloud, and in affecting terms, for a young man setting out into the world, then suddenly took me in his arms and embraced me very hard. Then held me at arm's length, looking at me with his face all working with sorrow, and then whipped about, and crying good-bye to me, set off backward by the way that we had come at a sort of jogging run. It might have been laughable to another, but I was in no mind to laugh. I watched him as long as he was in sight, and he never stopped hurrying, nor once looked back. Then it came in upon my mind that this was all his sorrow at my departure, and my conscience smote me hard and fast, because I, for my part, was overjoyed to get out of that quiet countryside, and go to a great, busy house among rich and respected gentlefolk of my own name and blood. Davy, Davy, I thought, was ever seen such black in gratitude. Can you forget old favours and old friends at the mere whistle of a name? Why, why, think shame! And I sat down on the boulder the good man had just left, and opened the parcel to see the nature of my gifts. That which he had called cubicle I had never had much doubt of. Sure enough it was a little Bible to carry in a plaid nook. That which he had called round I found to be a shilling-piece, and the third, which was to help me so wonderfully both in health and sickness all the days of my life, was a little piece of coarse yellow paper, written upon thus in red ink. To make lily of the valley water. Take the flowers of lily of the valley and distill them in sack, and drink a spoonful or two as there is occasion. It restores speech to those that have the dumb palsy. It is good against the gout. It comforts the heart and strengthens the memory. And the flowers put into a glass, close stopped, and set into a hill of ants for a month, then take it out, and you will find a liquor which comes from the flowers, which keep in a vial. It is good, ill or well, and whether man or woman. And then in the minister's own hand was added. Likewise for sprains rub it in, and for the colic a great spoonful in the hour. To be sure I laughed over this, but it was rather tremulous laughter, and I was glad to get my bundle on my staff's end and set out over the ford and up the hill upon the farther side, till, just as I came on the green drove-road running wide through the heather, I took my last look of Kirk Essendine, the trees about the mants, and the big rowans in the Kirkyard, where my father and my mother lay. CHAPTER 2 I COME TO MY JOURNEY'S END On the forenoon of the second day, coming to the top of a hill, I saw all the country fall away before me down to the sea, and in the midst of this descent, on a long ridge, the city of Edinburgh smoking like a kiln. There was a flag upon the castle, and ships moving or lying anchored in the furth, both of which, for as far away as they were, I could distinguish clearly, and both brought my country-heart into my mouth. Presently after, I came by a house where a shepherd lived, and got a rough direction for the neighbourhood of Cremond, and so, from one to another, worked my way to the westward of the capital by Collenton, till I came out upon the Glasgow Road, and there to my great pleasure and wonder I beheld a regiment marching to the fives every foot in time, an old red-faced general on a grey horse at the one end, and at the other the company of grenadiers with their popes hats. The pride of life seemed to mount into my brain at the sight of the red coats, and the hearing of that merry music. A little further on, and I was told I was in Cremond to perish, and began to substitute in my inquiries the name of the house of Shaw's. It was a word that seemed to surprise those of whom I sought my way. At first I thought the plainness of my appearance in my country habit, and that all dusty from the road, consort it ill with the greatness of the place to which I was bound. But after two or maybe three had given me the same look and the same answer, I began to take it in my head that there was something strange about the Shaw's itself. The better to set this fear at rest, I changed the form of my inquiries, and spying an honest fellow coming along a lane on the shaft of his cart, I asked him if he had ever heard tell of a house that called the House of Shaw's. He stopped his cart and looked at me like the others. I, said he, what for? It's a great house, I asked. Doubtless, says he, the house is a big muckle-house. I, said I, but the folk that are in it? Folk, cried he, are you daft, than they folks there to call folk? What, say I, not Mr. Ebenezer? Oh, I, says the man, there's the lad to be sure, if it's him you're wanting. What'll I be your business, Manny? I was led to think that I would get a situation, I said, looking as modest as I could. What! cries the Carter in so sharp a note that his very horse started, and then— Well, Manny, he added, it's none of my affairs, but you seem a decent spoken lad, and if you'll take a word from me you'll keep clear of the Shaw's. The next person I came across was a dapper little man and a beautiful white wig, whom I saw to be a barber on his rounds, and knowing well that barbers were great gossips, I asked him plainly what sort of a man was Mr. Balfour of the Shaw's. Hoot, hoot, hoot! said the barber. Not kind of a man, not kind of a man at all! and began to ask me very shrewdly what my business was, but I was more than a match for him at that, and he went on to his next customer no wiser than he came. I cannot well describe the blow this dealt to my illusions. The more indistinct the accusations were the less I liked them, for they left the wider field to fancy. What kind of a great house was this that all the parish should start and stare to be asked the way to it? Or what sort of a gentleman that his ill fame should be thus current on the wayside? If an hour's walking would have brought me back to Essendine I would have left my adventure then and there, and returned to Mr. Campbell's. But when I had come so far away already, mere shame would not suffer me to desist till I had put the matter to the touch of proof. I was bound out of mere self-respect to carry it through, and little as I liked the sound of what I heard, and slow as I began to travel I still kept asking my way and still kept advancing. I was drawing on to sundown when I met a stout, dark, sour-looking woman coming trudging down a hill, and she, when I had put my usual question, turned sharp about, accompanied me back to the summit she had just left, and pointed to a great bulk of building standing very bare upon a green in the bottom of the next valley. The country was pleasant roundabout, running in low hills, pleasantly watered and wooded, and the crops to my eyes wonderfully good. But the house itself seemed to be a kind of ruin, no road led up to it, no smoke arose from any of the chimneys, nor was there any semblance of a garden. My heart sank. That I cried. The woman's face lit up with a malignant anger. That is the house of shores, she cried. Blood built it, blood stopped the building of it, blood shall bring it down. See here, she cried again. I spit upon the ground, and crack my thumb at it. Black be its fall. If you see the Laird, tell him what you hear, tell him this makes the twelve-hunter in nineteen-time that Jannick Cleuston has called down the curse on him and his house, byer and stable, man, guest, and master, wife, miss, or bairn, black, black be their fall. And the woman, whose voice had ridden to a kind of eldritch sing-song, turned with a skip and was gone. I stood where she left me, with my hair on end. In those days folks still believed in witches and trembled at a curse, and this one, falling so pat, like a wayside omen, to arrest me ere I carried out my purpose, took the pith out of my legs. I sat me down and stared at the house of shores. The more I looked, the pleasanter that countryside appeared, being all set with hawthorn bushes full of flowers, the fields dotted with sheep, a fine flight of rooks in the sky and every sign of a kind soil and climate, and yet the barrack in the midst of it went sore against my fancy. Country folk went by from the fields as I sat there on the side of the ditch, but I lacked the spirit to give them a good in. At last the sun went down, and then, right up against the yellow sky, I saw a scroll of smoke go mounting. Not much thicker, as it seemed to me, than the smoke of a candle, but still there it was, a mental fire and warmth and cookery, and some living inhabitant that must have lit it, and this comforted my heart. So I set forward by a little faint track in the grass that led in my direction. It was very faint indeed, to be the only way to a place of habitation, yet I saw no other. Presently it brought me to stone uprights, with an unroofed lodge beside them, and coats of arms upon the top. A main entrance it was plainly meant to be, but never finished. Instead of gates of broad iron, a pair of hurdles were tied across with a straw rope, and as there were no park walls, nor any sign of avenue, the track that I was following passed on the right hand of the pillars, and went wandering on toward the house. The nearer I got to that, the drearer it appeared. It seemed like the one wing of a house that had never been finished. What should have been the inner end stood open on the upper floors, and showed against the sky with steps and stairs of uncompleted masonry. Many of the windows were unglazed, and bats flew in and out like doves out of a dove-coat. The night had begun to fall, as I got close, and in three of the lower windows, which were very high up and narrow and well barred, the changing light of a little fire began to glimmer. Was this the palace I had been coming to? Was it within these walls that I was to seek new friends and begin great fortunes? Why in my father's house on Esson Waterside the fire and the bright lights would show a mile away, and the door opened to a beggar's knock. I came forward cautiously, and giving ear as I came heard someone rattling with dishes a little dry, eager cough that came in fits, but there was no sound of speech, and not a dog barked. The door, as well as I could see it in the dim light, was a great piece of wood all studded with nails, and I lifted my hand with a faint heart under my jacket and knocked once. Then I stood and waited. The house had fallen into a dead silence. A whole minute passed away, and nothing stirred but the bats overhead. I knocked again and hearkened again. By this time my ears had grown so accustomed to the quiet that I could hear the ticking of the clock inside as it slowly counted out the seconds, but whoever was in that house kept deadly still and must have held his breath. I was in two minds whether to run away, but anger got the upper hand, and I began instead to rain kicks and buffets on the door, and to shout aloud for Mr. Balfour. I was in full career, when I heard the cough right overhead, and jumping back and looking up beheld a man's head in a tall night cap, and the bell-mouth of a blunder-bus at one of the first story windows. "'It's loaded,' said a voice. "'I have come here with a letter,' I said, to Mr. Ebenezer Balfour of Shaw's. "'Is he here?' "'From whom is it?' asked the man with the blunder-bus. "'That is neither here nor there,' said I, for I was growing very wroth.' "'Well,' was the reply, "'you can put it down upon the doorstep and be off with you.' "'I will do no such thing,' I cried. "'I will deliver it into Mr. Balfour's hands, as it was met I should. It is a letter of introduction.' "'A what?' cried the voice sharply. I repeated what I had said. "'Who are you, yourself?' was the next question, after a considerable pause. "'I'm not ashamed of my name,' said I. They call me David Balfour.' At that I made sure the man started, for I heard the blunder-bus rattle on the windowsill, and it was after quite a long pause, and with a curious change of voice, that the next question followed. "'Is your father dead?' "'I was so much surprised at this, that I could find no voice to answer, but stood staring. "'I,' the man resumed, "'he'll be dead, no doubt, and that will be what brings you chappin' to my door.' Another pause, and then defiantly. "'Well, man,' he said, "'I'll let you in.' And he disappeared from the window. End of chapter. CHAPTER III OF KITNAPPED. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. KIDNAPPED. By Robert Louis Stevenson. CHAPTER III I make acquaintance of my uncle. Presently there came a great rattling of chains and bolts, and the door was cautiously opened and shut to again behind me as soon as I had passed. "'Go into the kitchen and touch Nethin,' said the voice, and while the person of the house set himself to replacing the defences of the door, I groped my way forward and entered the kitchen. The fire had burned up fairly bright and showed me the barest room I think I ever put my eyes on. Half a dozen dishes stood upon the shelves. The table was laid for supper with a bowl of porridge, a horned spoon, and a cup of small beer. Besides what I have named there was not another thing in that great stone vaulted empty chamber, but lock-fast chests arranged along the wall, and a corner covered with a padlock. As soon as the last chain was up the man rejoined me. He was a mean, stooping, narrow-shouldered, clay-faced creature, and his age might have been anything between fifty and seventy. His nightcap was of flannel, and so was the nightgown that he wore, instead of coat and waistcoat over his ragged shirt. He was long unshaved, but what most distressed and even daunted me he would neither take his eyes away from me nor look me fairly in the face. What he was, whether by trade or birth, was more than I could fathom, but he seemed most like an old, unprofitable serving man who should have been left in charge of that big house upon board wages. Are you a sharp set? he asked, glancing at about the level of my knee. You can eat that drop, Perich. I said I feared it was his own supper. Oh, said he, I can do fine wanting it. I'll take the ale, though, for it slackens my cough. He drank the cup about half out, still keeping an eye upon me as he drank, and then suddenly held out his hand. Let's say the letter, said he. I told him the letter was for Mr. Balfour, not for him. And who do you think I am, says he. Give me Alexander's letter. You know my father's name? It would be strange if I did not. He returned, for he was my born brother, and little as you seem to like either me or my house or my good Perich, I'm your born uncle Davy, my man, and you my born nephew. So give us a letter and sit down and feel your kite. If I had been some years younger, what with shame, weariness, and disappointment, I believe I had burst into tears. As it was I could find no words, neither black nor white, but handed him the letter and sat down to the porridge with as little appetite for me as ever a young man had. Meanwhile my uncle, stooping over the fire, turned the letter over and over in his hands. Dear Ken, what's in it? he asked suddenly. You see for yourself, sir, said I, that the seal has not been broken. I, said he, but what brought you here? To give the letter, said I. No, says he cunningly, but you'll have some hopes, nadad. I confess, sir, said I, when I was told that I had kinsfolk well to do, I did indeed indulge the hope that they might help me in my life, but I am no beggar. I look for no favors at your hands, and I want none that are not freely given. For as poor as I appear, I have friends of my own that will be blithe to help me. Who toot, said Uncle Ebenezer, didn't I fly up in the snuff at me? We'll agree fine yet. And David, my man, if you're done with that bit of perich, I could just tick a sup of it myself. I, he continued, as soon as he had ousted me from the stool and spoon, there fine hails some food, their grand food, perich. He murmured a little grace to himself and fell too. Your father was very fond of his meat, I mind. He was a hearty, if not a great eater, but as for me I could never do more in pike at food. He took a pull at the small beer which probably reminded him of hospitable duties for his next speech ran thus. If you're dry you'll find water behind the door. To this I returned no answer, standing stiffly on my two feet, and looking down upon my uncle with a mighty angry heart. He, on his part, continued to eat like a man under some pressure of time, and to throw out little darting glances now at my shoes and now at my home-spun stockings. Once only, when he had ventured to look a little higher, our eyes met, and no thief taken with a hand in a man's pocket could have shown more lively signals of distress. This set me in amuse, whether his timidity arose from too long a disuse of any human company, or whether perhaps upon a little trial it might pass off, and my uncle changed into an altogether different man. From this I was awakened by his sharp voice. Your father's been long dead, he asked. Three weeks, sir, said I. He was a secret man, Alexander, a secret silent man. He continued, he never said muckle when he was young. He never have spoken muckle of me. I never knew, sir, till you told it me yourself that he had any brother. Dear me, dear me, said Ebenezer. Nor yet of Shaw, as I dare say. Not so much as the name, sir, said I. To think of that, said he, a strange nature of a man. For all that he seemed singularly satisfied, but whether with himself or me or with this conduct of my father's was more than I could read. Certainly, however, he seemed to be outgrowing that distaste or ill-will that he had conceived at first against my person, for presently he jumped up, came across the room behind me, and hit me a smack upon the shoulder. We'll agree fine yet. He cried. I ain't just as glad I let you in, and now come away to your bed. To my surprise he lit no lamp or candle, but set forth into the dark passage, groped his way, breathing deeply up a flight of steps, and paused before a door which he unlocked. I was close upon his heels, having stumbled after him as best I might, and then he bade me go in, for that was my chamber. I did his e-bed, but paused after a few steps and begged a light to go to bed with. Who-toot, said Uncle Ebenezer, there's a fine moon. Neither moon nor star, sir, and pit-merk, said I, I cannot see the bed. Who-toot, who-toot, said he, lights in a house is a thing I did not agree with. I'm Uncle Fair to Fires, good night to you, Davey, my man. And before I had time to add a further protest he pulled the door to, and I heard him lock me in from the outside. I did not know whether to laugh or cry. The room was as cold as so well, and the bed, when I had found my way to it, as damp as a peat-hag, but by good fortune I had caught up my bundle in my plaid and rolling myself in the ladder, I lay down upon the floor under lee of the big bed-stead and fell speedily asleep. With the first peep of day I opened my eyes, to find myself in a great chamber, hung with snapped leather, furnished with fine embroidered furniture, and lit by three fair windows. Ten years ago, or perhaps twenty, it must have been as pleasant a room to lie down or to awaken as a man could wish, but damp, dirt, disuse, and the mice and spiders had done their worst since then. Many of the window-panes, besides, were broken, and indeed this was so common a feature in that house that I believe my Uncle must at some time have stood a siege from his indignant neighbors, perhaps with Genek Klustin at their head. Meanwhile the sun was shining outside, and being very cold in that miserable room, I knocked and shouted till my jailer came and let me out. He carried me to the back of the house, where there was a draw-well, and told me to wash my face there, if I wanted. And when that was done, I made the best of my own way back to the kitchen, where he had lit the fire and was making the porridge. The table was laid with two bowls and two horn-spoons, but the same single measure of small beer. Perhaps my eye rested on this particular with some surprise, and perhaps my Uncle observed it, for he spoke up as if an answer to my thought, asking me if I would like to drink ale, for so he called it. I told him such was my habit, but not to put himself about. Nah, nah, said he. I'll deny you nothing in reason. He fetched another cup from the shelf, and then to my great surprise, instead of drawing more beer, he poured an acrid half from one cup to the other. There was a kind of nobleness in this that took my breath away. If my Uncle was certainly a miser, he was one of that thoroughbreed that goes near to make the vice respectable. When we had made an end of our meal, my Uncle Ebenezer unlocked a drawer and drew out of it a clay pipe and a lump of tobacco, from which he cut one fill before he locked it up again. Then he sat down in the sun at one of the windows and silently smoked. From time to time his eyes came coasting round to me, and he shot me out one of his questions, once it was, And your mother? And when I had told him that she, too, was dead. Ah, she was a bonny lassie. Then after another long pause. Where were these friends of yours? I told them they were different gentlemen of the name of Campbell, though indeed there was only one, and that the minister, that had ever taken the least note of me, but I began to think my Uncle made too light of my position, and finding myself all alone with him, I did not wish him to suppose me helpless. He seemed to turn this over in his mind, and then, David, my man, said he, you've come to the right bit when you come to your Uncle Ebenezer. I have a great notion of the family, and I mean to do the right by you. But while I've taken a bit of think to myself of what's the best thing to put you to, whether the law, or the ministry, or maybe the army, Wilk is what boys are fondest of. I wouldn't have liked the Balfourers to be humbled before our Ween Island Campbells, and I'll ask you to keep your tongue within your teeth. No letters, no messages, no kind of work to anybody, or else. There's my door. Uncle Ebenezer, said I, I've no manner of reason to suppose you mean anything but well by me. For all that, I would have you to know that I have a pride of my own. It was by no will of mine that I came seeking you, and if you show me your door again, I'll take you at the word. He seemed grievously put out. Who toot, said he, cacanny man, cacanny, buy it a day or two. I'm no warlock, to find a fortune for you in the bottom of a parrot's bowl, but just you give me a day or two, say nothing to nobody, and I'm a sure as sure I'll do the right by you. Very well, said I, enough said. But you want to help me, there's no doubt, but I'll be glad of it, and none but I'll be grateful. It seemed to me, too soon, I daresay, that I was getting the upper hand of my uncle, and I began next to say that I must have the bed and bed-clothes aired and put to sun-dry, for nothing would make me sleep in such a pickle. Is this my house or yours? said he, in his keen voice, and then all of a sudden broke off. Nah, nah, said he, I didn't mean that. What's mine is yours, David of a man, and what's yours is mine. Blood's thicker than water, and there's nobody but you and me that ought the name. Then on he rambled about the family, and its ancient greatness, and his father that began to enlarge the house, and himself that stopped the building as a sinful waste, and this put it in my head to give him Genic Cluston's message. The limmer, he cried, twelve hundred and fifteen, that's every day since I had the limmer roped it. Dog, David, I'll have a roasted on red-peats before I'm by with it. A witch! A proclaimed witch! I'll often see the session, Clark. With that he opened a chest, and got out a very old and well-preserved blue coat and waistcoat, and a good enough beaver hat, both without lace. These he threw on anyway, and taking a staff from the cupboard, locked all up again, and was first setting out when a thought arrested him. I cannot leave you by yourself in the house, said he, I have to lock you out. The blood came to my face. If you lock me out, I said, it'll be the last you'll see of me and friendship. He turned very pale, and sucked his mouth in. This is not the way, he said, looking wickedly at a corner of the floor. This is not the way to win my favor, David. Sir, says I, with a proper reverence for your age and our common blood, I do not value your favor at a bottle's purchase. I was brought up to have a good conceit of myself, and if you were all the uncle and all the family I had in the world ten times over, I wouldn't buy your liking at such prices. Uncle Ebenezer went and looked out of the window for a while. I could see him all trembling and twitching like a man with palsy, but when he turned round he had a smile upon his face. Well, well, said he, we must bear and forebear. I'll now go. That's all to be said of it. Uncle Ebenezer, I said, I can make nothing out of this. You use me like a thief. You hate to have me in this house. You let me see it every word in every minute. It's not possible that you can like me. And as for me, I've spoken to you as I've never thought to speak to any man. Why do you seek to keep me, then? Let me gang back. Let me gang back to the friends I have that liked me. Na, na, na, na, he said very earnestly. I like you fine. We'll agree fine yet. And for the honour of the house I couldn't let you leave the way you came. Bide here quiet. There's a good lad. Just you bide here quiet, a pity. And you'll find that we agree. Well, sir, said I, after I'd thought the matter out in silence. I'll stay a while. It's more just I should be helped by my own blood than strangers, and if we don't agree, I'll do my best it shall be through no fault of mine." End of chapter 4 of Kidnapped This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson. Chapter 4 I run a great danger in the house of Shaw's. For a day that was begun so ill, the day passed fairly well. We had the porridge cold again at noon and hot porridge at night. The porridge and small beer was my uncle's diet. He spoke but little, and that in the same way as before, shooting a question at me after a long silence, and when I sought to lead him to talk about my future, slipped out of it again. In a room next door to the kitchen where he suffered me to go, I found a great number of books, both Latin and English, in which I took great pleasure all the afternoon. Indeed, the time passed so lightly in this good company that I began to be almost reconciled to my residence at Shaw's, and nothing but the sight of my uncle and his eyes playing a hide-and-seek with mine revived the force of my distrust. One thing I discovered which put me in some doubt, there was an entry on the fly-leaf of a chap-book, one of Patrick Walker's, plainly written by my father's hand and thus conceived, to my brother Ebenezer on his fifth birthday. Now what puzzled me was this, that as my father was, of course, the younger brother, he must either have made some strange error, or he must have written, before he was yet five, an excellent, clear, manly hand of writing. I tried to get this out of my head, but though I took down many interesting authors, old and new, history, poetry, and story-book, this notion of my father's hand of writing stuck to me. And when at length I went back into the kitchen and sat down once more to porridge and small beer, the first thing I said to Uncle Ebenezer was to ask him if my father had not been very quick at his book. Alexander, know him, was the reply. I was far quicker myself. I was a clever chappy when I was young. Why, I could read as soon as he could. This puzzled me yet more, and a thought coming into my head, I asked if he and my father had been twins. He jumped upon his stool, and the hornspoon fell out of his hand upon the floor. Look, Gars, you asked that! He said, and he caught me by the breast of the jacket, and looked this time straight into my eyes, his own were little and light, and bright like a bird's, blinking and winking strangely. What do you mean? I asked very calmly, for I was far stronger than he, and not easily frightened. Take your hand for my jacket. This is no way to behave. My uncle seemed to make a great effort upon himself. Died, man David, he said. You shouldn't have speak to me about your father. That's where the mistake is. He sat a while and shook, blinking in his plate. He was all the brother that ever I had. He added, with no heart in his voice, and then he caught up his spoon and fell to supper again, but still shaking. Now this last passage, this laying of hands upon my person, and sudden profession of love for my dead father, went so clean beyond my comprehension that it put me into both fear and hope. On the one hand I began to think my uncle was perhaps insane and might be dangerous. On the other, there came up into my mind, quite unbidden by me and even discouraged, a story like some ballad I had heard folks singing, of a poor lad that was a rightful heir, and a wicked kinsman that tried to keep him from his own. But why should my uncle play a part with a relative that came almost a beggar to his door, unless in his heart he had some cause to fear him? With this notion, all unacknowledged, but nevertheless getting firmly settled in my head, I now began to imitate his covert looks, so that we sat at table like a cat and a mouse, each stealthily observing the other. Not another word had he to say to me, black or white, but he was busy turning something secretly over in his mind, and the longer we sat and the more I looked at him, the more certain I became that the something was unfriendly to myself. When he had cleared the platter, he got out a single pipeful of tobacco, just as in the morning, turned round a stool into the chimney-corner, and sat a while smoking with his back to me. "'David,' he said at length, "'I've been thinking,' then he paused and said it again. "'There's a wee bit siller that I have promised you before you was born,' he continued, "'promised it to your father. "'Oh, nothing legal, you understand, just gentlemen daffin' at their wine? Well, I keep it that bit of money separate. It was a great expense, but a promise, he is a promise, and it has grown by now to be a matter of just precisely, just exactly,' and here he paused and stumbled, "'I just exactly forty pounds.'" This last he wrapped out with a side-long glance over his shoulder, and the next moment he added, almost with a scream, "'Scots!'' The pound scots, being the same thing as an English shilling, the difference made by this second thought, was considerable. I could see, besides, that the whole story was a lie, invented with some end which it puzzled me to guess, and I made no attempt to conceal the tone of railery in which I answered, "'Oh, think again, sir, pound sterling, I believe.'" "'That's what I said,' returned my uncle, "'pound sterling, and if you'll step out by to the door a minute, just to see what kind of a night it is, I'll get it out to you and call you in again.'" I did his will, smiling to myself in my contempt that he should think I was so easily to be deceived. It was a dark night, with a few stars low down, and as I stood just outside the door I heard a hollow moaning of wind far off among the hills. I said to myself there was something thundery and changeful in the weather, and little knew of what a vast importance that should prove to me before the evening passed. When I was called in again, my uncle counted out into my hand seven and thirty gold and guinea pieces. The rest was in his hand in small gold and silver, but his heart failed him there and he crammed the change into his pocket. "'There,' said he, "'that'll show you, I'm a queer man and strange with strangers, but my word is my bond and there's the proof of it.'" Now, my uncle seemed so miserly that I was struck dumb by the sudden generosity and could find no words in which to thank him. "'No word,' he said, "'no thanks, I want no thanks. I do my duty. I'm no saying that everybody would have done it. But for my part, though I'm a careful body, too, it's a pleasure to me to do the right by my brother's son, and it's a pleasure to me to think that now we'll agree as such near friend should.' I spoke him in return as handsomely as I was able, but all the while I was wondering what would come next and why he had parted with his precious guineas, for as to the reason he had given a baby would have refused it. Suddenly he looked towards me sideways. "'And see here,' said he, "'tick for tat.'" I told him I was ready to prove my gratitude in any reasonable degree, and then waited, looking for some monstrous demand. And yet, when at last he plucked up courage to speak, it was only to tell me, very properly, as I thought, that he was growing old and a little broken, and that he would expect me to help him with the house and the bill-garden. I answered and expressed my readiness to serve. "'Well,' said he, "'let's begin.'" He pulled out of his pocket a rusty key. "'There,' says he, "'there's the key of the stair-tower at the far end of the house. You can only win into it from the outside, for that part of the house is no finished. Gang you in there, and up the stairs, and bring me down the chest that's at the top. There's papers in it,' he added. "'Can I have a light, sir?' said I. "'Nah,' said he, very cunningly. "'No lights in my house.' "'Very well, sir,' said I. "'Are the stairs good?' "'The grand,' said he. And then as I was going, "'Keep to the wall,' he added. "'There's no banisters, but the stairs are grand underfoot.'" But I went into the night. The wind was still moaning in the distance, though never a breath of it came near the house of Shaw's. It had fallen blacker than ever, and I was glad to feel along the wall, till I came the length of the stair-tower door at the far end of the unfinished wing. I had got the key into the keyhole, and had just turned it, when all of a sudden, without sound of wind or thunder, the whole sky lighted up with wild fire, and went black again. I had to put my hand over my eyes to get back to the colour of the darkness, and indeed I was already half-blinded when I stepped into the tower. It was so dark inside, it seemed a body could scarce breathe, but I pushed out with foot in hand, and presently struck the wall with the one, and the lowermost round of the stair with the other. The wall, by the touch, was a fine-hewn stone. The steps, too, though somewhat steep and narrow, were of polished mason work, and regular and solid underfoot. Minding my uncle's word about the banisters, I kept close to the tower's side, and felt my weight in the pitch darkness with a beating heart. The house of Shaw's stood some five full stories high, not counting lofts. Well as I advanced, it seemed to me the stair grew airier and a thought more lightsome, and I was wondering what might be the cause of this change when a second blink of the summer lightning came and went. If I did not cry out it was because fear had me by the throat, and if I did not fall it was more by Heaven's mercy than my own strength. It was not only that the flash shone in on every side through breaches and the wall, so that I seemed to be clambering aloft upon an open scaffold, but the same passing brightness showed me the steps were of unequal length, and that one of my feet rested that moment within two inches of the well. This was the grand stare, I thought, and with the thought a gust of a kind of angry courage came into my heart. My uncle had sent me here certainly to run great risks, perhaps to die. I swore I would settle that, perhaps, if I should break my neck for it. Got me down upon my hands and knees, and as slowly as a snail, feeling before me every inch, and testing the solidity of every stone, I continued to ascend the stair. The darkness, by contrast with the flash, appeared to have redoubled, nor was that all, for my ears were now troubled and my mind confounded by a great stir of bats in the top part of the tower, and the foul beasts flying downwards sometimes beat about my face and body. The tower, I should have said, was square, and in every corner the step was made of a great stone of a different shape to join the flights. Well I had come close to one of these turns, when, feeling forward as usual, my hand slipped upon an edge and found nothing but emptiness beyond it. The stair had been carried no higher. To set a stranger mounting it in the darkness was to send him straight to his death, and, although thanks to the lightning in my own precautions I was safe enough, the mere thought of the peril in which I might have stood, and the dreadful hide I might have fallen from, brought out the sweat upon my body, and relaxed my joints. But I knew what I wanted now, and turned and groped my way down again, with a wonderful anger in my heart. About half way down the wind sprang up in a clap, and shook the tower, and died again. The rain followed, and before I had reached the ground level it fell in buckets. I put out my head into the storm and looked along towards the kitchen. The door, which I had shut behind me when I left, now stood open and shed a little glimmer of light, and I thought I could see a figure standing in the rain, quite still, like a man harkening. And then there came a blinding flash which showed me my uncle plainly, just where I had fancied him to stand, and hard upon the heels of it a great toro of thunder. Now, whether my uncle thought the crash to be the sound of my fall, or whether he heard in it God's voice denouncing murder, I will leave you to guess. Certain it is, at least, that he was seized on by a kind of panic fear, and that he ran into the house and left the door open behind him. I followed as softly as I could, and coming unheard into the kitchen stood and watched him. He had found time to open the corner cupboard and bring out a great case-bottle of aquavite, and now sat with his back towards me at the table. Ever and again he would be seized with a fit of deadly shuddering and groan aloud, and carrying the bottle to his lips, drink down the raw spirits by the mouthful. I stepped forward, came close behind him where he sat, and suddenly clapping my two hands down upon his shoulders, ah, cried I. My uncle gave a kind of broken cry like a sheep's bleat, flung up his arms and tumbled to the floor like a dead man. I was somewhat shocked at this, but I had myself to look to, first of all, and I did not hesitate to let him lie as he had fallen. The keys were hanging in the cupboard, and it was my design to furnish myself with arms before my uncle should come again to his senses, and the power of devising evil. In the cupboard were a few bottles, some apparently of medicine, a great many bills and other papers, which I should willingly enough have rummaged had I had the time, and a few necessaries that were nothing to my purpose. Thence I turned to the chests. The first was full of meal. The second of money-bags and papers tied into sheaves. In the third, with many other things, and these for the most part close, I found a rusty, ugly-looking Highland Dirk without the scabbard. This then I concealed inside my waistcoat, and turned to my uncle. He lay as he had fallen, all huddled, with one knee up and one arm sprawling abroad. His face had a strange colour of blue, and he seemed to have ceased breathing. There came on me that he was dead. Then I got water and dashed it in his face, and with that he seemed to come a little to himself, working his mouth and fluttering his eyelids. At last he looked up and saw me, and there came into his eyes a terror that was not of this world. "'Come, come,' said I, "'sit up.' "'Are you alive?' he sobbed. "'Oh, man, are you alive?' "'That am I,' said I, "'small thanks to you.' He had begun to seek for his breath with deep sighs. "'The blue-file,' said he, "'in the almerie, the blue-file.' His breath came slower still. I ran to the cupboard, and sure enough found there a blue-file of menacing, with the dose written on it on a paper, and this I administered to him with what speed I might. "'That's the trouble,' said he, reviving a little. "'I have a trouble, Davy. It's the heart.' I set him on a chair and looked at him. It is true I felt some pity for a man that looks so sick. But I was full besides of righteous anger, and I numbered over before him the points on which I wanted explanation. Why he lied to me at every word. Why he feared that I should leave him. Why he disliked it to be hinted that he and my father were twins. Is that because it is true?' I asked. Why he had given me money to which I was convinced I had no claim. And last of all, why he had tried to kill me. He heard me all through in silence, and then, in a broken voice, begged me to let him go to bed. "'I'll tell you the morn,' he said, "'as sure as death I will.' And so weak was he that I could do nothing but consent. I locked him into his room, however, and pocketed the key. And then returning to the kitchen, made up such a blaze as had not shown there for many a long year, and wrapping myself in my plaid, lay down upon the chests, and fell asleep. End of chapter. Chapter 5 of Kidnapped This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson. Chapter 5 I Go To The Queen's Fairy Much rain fell in the night, and the next morning there blew a bitter wintry wind out of the northwest, driving scattered clouds. For all that, and before the sun began to peep or the last of the stars had vanished, I made my way to the side of the burn, and had a plunge in a deep whirling pool. All aglow from my bath I sat down once more beside the fire, which I replenished, and began gravely to consider my position. There was now no doubt about my uncle's enmity. There was no doubt I carried my life in my hand, and he would leave no stone unturned that he might compass my destruction. But I was young and spirited, and like most lads that have been country-bred, I had a great opinion of my shrewdness. I had come to his door no better than a beggar, and little more than a child. He had met me with treachery and violence. It would be a fine consummation to take the upper hand and drive him like a herd of sheep. I sat there nursing my knee and smiling at the fire. And I saw myself in fancy smell out his secrets one after another, and grow to be that man's king and ruler. The warlock of Essendine, they say, had made a mirror in which men could read the future. It must have been of other stuff than burning coal, for in all the shapes and pictures that I sat and gazed at, there was never a ship, never a seaman with a hairy cap, never a big bludgeon for my silly head, or the lease sign of all those tribulations that were ripe to fall on me. Presently, all swollen with conceit, I went upstairs and gave my prisoner his liberty. He gave me good-morning civilly, and I gave the same to him, smiling down upon him from the heights of my sufficiency. Soon we were set to breakfast as it might have been the day before. "'Well, sir,' said I, with a jeering tone, have you nothing more to say to me?' And then, as he made no articulate reply, "'It will be time, I think, to understand each other,' I continued. You took me for a country Johnny-Raw, with no more mother-wit or courage than a porridge-stick. I took you for a good man, or no worse than others at the least. It seems we were both wrong. What cause have you to fear me, to cheat me, and to attempt my life?' He murmured something about a jest, and that he liked a bit of fun. And then, seeing me smile, changed his tone, and assured me he would make all clear as soon as we had breakfasted. I saw by his face that he had no lie ready for me, though he was hard at work preparing one, and I think it was about to tell him so, when we were interrupted by knocking at the door. Bidding my uncle's sit where he was, I went to open it, and found on the doorstep a half-grown boy in sea clothes. He had no sooner see me than he began to dance some steps of the sea hornpipe, which I had never before heard of, far less seen, snapping his fingers in the air and footing it right cleverly. For all that he was blue with a cold, and there was something in his face, a look between tears and laughter, that was highly pathetic and consisted ill with this gaiety of manner. "'What's here, mate?' says he, with a cracked voice. I asked him soberly to name his pleasure. "'Oh, pleasure,' says he, and then began to sing, for it's my delight of a shiny night in the season of the year.' "'Well,' says I, if you have no business at all, I will even be so unmanorly as to shut you out.' "'Stay, brother,' he cried, have you no fun about you, or do you want to get me thrashed?' I've brought a letter from old Hesiosi to Mr. Belflower. He showed me a letter as he spoke. "'And I say, mate,' he added. "'I'm mortal-hungry.' "'Well,' said I, come into the house, and you shall have a bite if I go empty for it.' With that I brought him in, and set him down to my own place, where he fell too greedily on the remains of breakfast, winking to me between wiles and making many faces, which I think the poor soul considered manly. Meanwhile my uncle had read the letter in, sat thinking, then suddenly he got to his feet with a great air of liveliness, and pulled me apart into the farthest corner of the room. "'Read that,' said he, and put the letter in my hand. Here it is lying before me as I write.' The Haw's Inn at the Queen's Ferry. "'Sir, I lie here with my Haw'ser up and down, and send my cabin boy to inform. If you have any further commands for overseas, today will be the last occasion, as the wind will serve us well out of the Firth. I will not seek to deny that I have had crosses with your doer, Mr. Rancyler, of which, if not speedily read up, you may look to see some losses follow. I have drawn a bill upon you, as per margin, and am, sir, your most obedient, humble servant, Elias Ho season, agent. "'You see, Davy,' resumed my uncle, as soon as he saw that I had done, I have a venture with this man, Ho season, the captain of a trading-brick, the Covenant of Dysart. Now, if you and me was to walk over with young lad, I could see the captain of the Haw's, and maybe on board the Covenant if there were papers to be signed, and so far from a loss of time we can jog on to the lawyer, Mr. Rancyler's. After that's come and gone, you would be swirred to believe me upon my naked word, but you'll believe, Rancyler. He's factored a half the gentry in these parts, an old man, for by, highly respected, and he caned your father.' I stood a while in thought. I was going to some place of shipping, which was doubtless populous, and where my uncle durst attempt no violence, and indeed even the society of the cabin-boys so far protected me. Once there I believed I could force on the visit to the lawyer, even if my uncle were now in sincere in proposing it, and perhaps in the bottom of my heart. I wished a nearer view of the sea and ships. You are to remember I had lived all my life in the inland hills, and just two days before had my first sight of the furth lying like a blue floor, and the sailed ships moving on the face of it, no bigger than toys. One thing with another I made up my mind. Very well, says I. Let us go to the ferry. My uncle got into his hat and coat, and buckled an old rusty cutlass on, and then we trod the fire out, locked the door, and set forth upon our walk. The wind, being in that cold quarter the north-west, blew nearly in our faces as we went. It was the month of June. The grass was all white with daisies, and the trees with blossoms, but to judge by our blue nails and aching wrists, the time might have been winter, and the whiteness of December frost. Uncle Ebenezer trudged in the ditch, jogging from side to side like an old plowman coming home from work. He never said a word the whole way, and I was thrown for talk on the cabin-boy. He told me his name was Ransom, and that he had followed the sea since he was nine, but could not say how old he was, as he had lost his reckoning. He showed me tattoo marks, bearing his breast in the teeth of the wind and in spite of my remonstrances, for I thought it was enough to kill him. He swore horribly whenever he remembered, but more like a silly school-boy than a man, and boasted of many wild and bad things that he had done, stealthy thefts, false accusations, eye, and even murder, but all was such a dearth of likelihood in the details, and such a weak and crazy swagger in the delivery as disposed me rather to pity than to believe him. I asked him of the brig, which he declared was the finest ship that sailed, and of Captain Ho season, in whose praise as he was equally loud. Eziosi, for so he still named the skipper, was a man by his account that minded for nothing either in heaven or earth, one that, as people said, would crack on all sail into the day of judgment, rough, fierce, unscrupulous, and brutal, and all this my poor cabin-boy had taught himself to admire as something semen-like and manly. He would only admit one flaw in his idol. He ain't no semen, he admitted. That's Mr. Shouan that navigates the bridge. He's the finest semen in the trade, only for drink. And I tell you I believe it. Why, look here. And turning down his stocking, he showed me a great raw red wound that made my blood run cold. He'd done that. Mr. Shouan did that. He said with a air of pride. What? I cried. Do you take such savage usage at his hands while you're no slave to be so handled? No, said the poor moon-calf, changing his tune at once. And so he'll find seer. And he showed me a great case-knife which he told me was stolen. Oh, says he. Let him see me. Try. I dare him to. I'll do for him. Oh, he ain't the first. And he confirmed it with a poor, silly, ugly oath. I have never felt such pity for any one in this wide world as I felt for that half-witted creature. And it began to come over me that the brig Covenant, for all her pious name, was little better than a hell upon the seas. Have you new friends? Said I. He said he had a father in some English seaport. I forget which. He was a fine man, too, he said. But he's dead. In heaven's name, cried I, can you find no reputable life on shore? Oh, no, says he, winking and looking very sly. They would put me to a trade. I know a trick worth two of that, I do. I asked him what trade could be so dreadful as the one he followed, where he ran the continual peril of his life, not alone from wind and sea, but by the horrid cruelty of those who were his masters. He said it was very true, and then began to praise the life and tell what a pleasure it was to get on shore with money in his pocket and spend it like a man, and buy apples, and swagger, and surprise what he called stick-in-the-mud boys. And then it's not all as bad as that, says he. There's worse off than me. There's the twenty-pounders. Oh, laws, you should see them taking on. Why, I've seen a man as old as you, I'd death say. To him, I seemed old. Ah, and he had a beard, too. Well, and as soon as we cleared out of the river, and he had the drug out of his head, my, how he cried and carried on. I made a fine full of him, I tell you. But then there's littleins, too, oh, little by me. I tell you, I keep them in order. When we carry littleins, I have a rope-sand of my own to wallop them. And so he ran on, until it came in on me what he meant by twenty pounders were those unhappy criminals who were sent overseas to slavery in North America, or the still more unhappy innocents who were kidnapped or tree-panned, as the word went, for private interest or vengeance. Just then we came to the top of the hill and looked down on the ferry and the hope. The Firth of Forth, as is very well known, narrows at this point to the width of a good-sized river, which makes a convenient ferry going north, and turns the upper reach into a landlocked haven for all manner of ships. Right in the midst of the narrows lies an islet with some ruins. On the south shore they have built a pier for the service of the ferry. And at the end of the pier, on the other side of the road, and backed against a pretty garden of holly trees and hawthorns, I could see the building which they called the Haws Inn. The town of Queen's Ferry lies further west, and the neighborhood of the Inn looked pretty lonely at that time of day, for the boat had just gone north with passengers. A skiff, however, lay beside the pier with some seamen sleeping on the thwarts. This, as Ransom told me, was the brig's boat waiting for the captain. And about half a mile off, and all alone in the anchorage, he showed me the Covenant herself. There was a sea-going bustle on board, yards were swinging into place, and as the wind blew from that quarter I could hear the song of the sailors as they pulled upon the ropes. After all I had listened to upon the way I looked at that ship with an extreme medborance, and from the bottom of my heart I pitied all poor souls that were condemned to sail in her. We had all three pulled up on the brow of the hill, and now I marched across the road and addressed my uncle. I think it right to tell you, sir, says I, there's nothing that will bring me on board that Covenant. He seemed to waken from a dream. Eh? He said. What's that? I told him over again. Well, well, he said, we'll have to please you, I suppose. But what are we standing here for? It's perishing cold, and if I'm no mistake in there busking the Covenant for sea. CHAPTER VI What befell at the Queen's Ferry As soon as we came to the inn ransom led us up the stair to a small room with a bed in it, and heated like an oven by a great fire of coal. At a table hard by the chimney a tall, dark, sober-looking man sat riding. In spite of the heat of the room he wore a thick sea-jacket, button to the neck, and a tall hairy cap drawn down over his ears. Yet I never saw any man, not even a judge upon the bench, look cooler or more studious and self-possessed than this ship-captain. He got to his feet at once, and coming forward offered his large hand to Ebenezer. I am proud to see Mr. Balfour, said he in a fine, deep voice, and glad that you are here in time. The wind's fair, and the tide upon the turn, we'll see the old coal-bucket burning on the Isle of May before to-night. In ho season, returned my uncle, you keep your room unca-hot. It's a habit I have, Mr. Balfour, said the skipper. I'm a cold-rife man by my nature. I have a cold blood, sir. There's neither fern nor flannel, no sir, nor hot rum, will warm up what they call the temperature. Sir, it's the same with most men that have been carbonado'd, as they call it, in the tropic seas. Well, well, captain, replied my uncle, we must all be the way we're made. But a chance that's as fancy as the captain's had a great share in my misfortunes. For though I had promised myself not to let my kinsmen out of sight, I was both so impatient for a nearer look of the sea, and so sickened by the closeness of the room, that when he told me to run downstairs and play myself a while, I was full enough to take him at his word. A way I went, therefore, leaving the two men sitting down to a bottle and a great mass of papers, and crossing the road in front of the inn, walked down upon the beach. With the wind in that quarter, only little wavelets, not much bigger than I had seen upon a lake, beat upon the shore. But the weeds were new to me, some green, some brown and long, and some with little bladders that crackled between my fingers. Even so far up the furth, the smell of the seawater was exceedingly salt and stirring. The covenant besides was beginning to shake out her sails, which hung upon the yards and clusters, and the spirit of all that I beheld put me in thoughts of far voyages and foreign places. I looked, too, at the seamen with the skiff, big brown fellows, some in shirts, some with jackets, some with colored handkerchiefs about their throats, one with a brace of pistols stuck into his pockets, two or three with knotty bludgeons, and all with their case-knives. I passed the time of day with one that looked less desperate than his fellows, and asked him of the sailing of the brig. He said they would get under way as soon as the ebbs set, and expressed his gladness to be out of a port where there were no taverns and fiddlers, but all with such horrifying oaths that I made haste to get away from him. This threw me back on ransom, who seemed the least wicked of that gang, and who soon came out of the inn and ran to me, crying for a bowl of punch. I told him I would give him no such thing, for neither he nor I was of an age for such indulgences. "'But a class of ale you may have, and welcome,' says I. He mopped and mawed at me, and called me names, but he was glad to get the ale for all that, and presently we were set down at a table in the front room of the inn, and both eating and drinking with a good appetite. Here it occurred to me that, as the landlord was a man of that county, I might do well to make a friend of him. I offered him a share, as was much the custom in those days, but he was far too great a man to sit with such poor customers as ransom in myself, and he was leaving the room when I called him back to ask if he knew Mr. Rangkyler. "'Hot I,' says he, and a very honest man, and oh, by the by,' says he, "'was it you who came in with Ebenezer?' And when I told him yes, you'd be no friend of his,' he asked, meaning in the Scottish way that I would be no relative. I told him no, none. "'I thought not,' said he, and yet you have a kind of glyph of Mr. Alexander. I said it seemed that Ebenezer was ill-seen in the country. "'Nay-doubt,' said the landlord, "'he's a wicked old man, and there's many would like to see him gurning in the toe. Janet Cleuston in many mar that he has harried out a house in him, and yet he was once a fine young fellow, too, but that was before the soft gate abroad about Mr. Alexander. That was like the death of him.' "'What was it?' I asked. "'Oh, just that he had killed him,' said the landlord, "'did you never hear that?' "'And what would he kill him for?' said I. "'And what for but just to get the place?' said he. "'The place?' said I. "'The shaws?' "'The other place that I can,' said he. "'I, man?' said I. "'Is that so? "'Was Alexander the eldest son?' "'Deed he was,' said the landlord. "'What else would he have killed him for?' And with that he went away, as he had been impatient to do from the beginning. Of course I had guessed it a long while ago, but it is one thing to guess another to know, and I sat stunned with my good fortune, and could scarce grow to believe that the same poor lad who had trudged in the dust from Ettrick Forest not two days ago was now one of the rich of the earth, and had a house and broad lands, and might mount his horse to-morrow. All these pleasant things, and a thousand others crowded into my mind, as I sat staring before me out of the inn window, and paying no heed to what I saw, only I remember that my eye lighted on Captain Ho season down on the pier among his seamen, and speaking with some authority. Presently he came marching back towards the house, with no mark of a sailor's clumsiness, but carrying his fine tall figure with a manly bearing, and still with the same sober, grave expression on his face. I wondered if it was possible that ransom stories could be true, and half disbelieve them. They fitted so ill with the man's looks. But indeed he was neither so good as I supposed him, nor quite so bad as ransom did, for in fact he was two men, and left the better one behind as soon as he set foot on board his vessel. The next thing I heard my uncle calling me, and found the pair in the road together. It was the captain who addressed me, and that was an air, very flattering to a young lad, of grave equality. Sir, says he, Mr. Balfour tells me great things of you, and for my own part, I like your looks. I wish I was for longer here, that we might make the better friends, but we'll make the most of what we have. You should come on board my brig for half an hour, till the eb sets, and drink a bowl with me. Now I longed to see the inside of a ship more than words can tell, but I was not going to put myself in jeopardy, and I told him my uncle and I had an appointment with a lawyer. I, I, said he. He passed me word of that. But you see, the boat will set you ashore at the town pier, and that's but a penny stone cast from Rancala's house. And here he suddenly leaned down and whispered in my ear, Take care of the old Todd, he means Mr., come aboard till I can get a word with you. And then, passing his arm through mine, he continued aloud, as he set off towards his boat. But come, what can I bring you from the Carolinas? Any friend of Mr. Balfour's can command. A roll of tobacco, Indian feather work, a skin of a wild beast, a stone pipe, the mockingbird that mews for all the world like a cat, the cardinal bird that is, as red as blood, take your pick and say your pleasure. By this time we were at the boat side and he was handing me in. I did not dream of hanging back. I thought, the poor fool, that I had found a good friend and helper, and I was rejoiced to see the ship. As soon as we were all set in our places, the boat was thrust off from the pier and began to move over the waters. And what with my pleasure in this new movement am I surprised at our low position, and the appearance of the shores, and the growing bigness of the brig as we drew near to it, I could hardly understand what the captain said, and must have answered him at random. As soon as we were alongside, where I sat fairly gaping at the ship's height, the strong humming of the tide against its sides, and the pleasant cries of the seamen at their work, Ho season, declaring that he and I must be the first aboard, ordered to tackle to be sent down from the main-yard. In this I was whipped into the air and set down again on the deck, where the captain stood ready waiting for me, and instantly slipped back his arm under mine. There I stood some while, a little dizzy with the unsteadiness of all around me, perhaps a little afraid, and yet vastly pleased with these strange sights, the captain meanwhile pointing out the strangest and telling me their names and uses. But where is my uncle, said I, suddenly? Hi! said Ho season, with a sudden grimness. That's the point. I felt I was lost. With all my strength I plucked myself clear of him and ran to the bulwarks. Sure enough there was the boat pulling for the town, with my uncle sitting in the stern. I caved a piercing cry. Help! Help! Murder! So that both sides of the anchorage rang with it, and my uncle turned round where he was sitting, and showed me a face full of cruelty and terror. It was the last I saw. Already strong hands had been plucking me back from the ship's side, and now a thunderbolt seemed to strike me. I saw a great flash of fire, and fell senseless. End of chapter. Chapter 7 of Kidnapped This is a Liebervox recording. All Liebervox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Liebervox.org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. Kidnapped By Robert Louis Stevenson Chapter 7 I go to see in the brig Covenant of Dysart. I came to myself in darkness, in great pain, bound hand and foot and deafened by many unfamiliar noises. There sounded in my ears a roaring of water, as of a huge mill-dam, the thrashing of heavy sprays, the thundering of the sails, and the shrill cries of seamen. The whole world now heaved giddily up, and now rushed giddily downward. And so sick and hurt was I in body, and my mind so much confounded that it took me a long while, chasing my thoughts up and down, and ever stunned again by a fresh stab of pain. I realized that I must be lying somewhere bound in the belly of that unlucky ship, and that the wind must have strengthened to a gale. With a clear perception of my plight there fell upon me a blackness of despair, a horror of vermouths at my own folly, and a passion of anger at my uncle, that once more bereft me of my senses. When I returned again to life, the same uproar, the same confused and violent movements shook and deafened me, and presently to my other pains and distresses there was added the sickness of an unused landsman on the sea. In that time of my adventurous youth I suffered many hardships, but none that was so crushing to my mind and body, or lit by so few hopes, as these first hours aboard the brig. I heard a gunfire, and suppose the storm had proved too strong for us, and we were firing signals of distress. The thought of deliverance, even by death in the deep sea, was welcome to me. Yet it was no such matter, but, as I was afterwards told, a common habit of the captains, which I here set down to show that even the worst man may have as kindly your side. We were then passing, it appeared, within some miles of Dysart, where the brig was built, and where old Mrs. Ho season, the captain's mother, had come some years before to live, and whether outward or inward bound the Covenant was never suffered to go by that place by day, without a gun fired and colors shown. I had no measure of time. Day and night were alike in that ill-smelling cavern of the ship's bowels, where I lay, and the misery of my situation drew out the hours to double. How long, therefore, I lay waiting to hear the ship split upon some rock, or to feel her real head foremost into the depths of the sea, I have not the means of computation. But sleep at length stole from me the consciousness of sorrow. I was awakened by the light of a hand lantern shining in my face. A small man of about thirty, with green eyes and a tangle of fair hair, stood looking down at me. Well, said he, how goes it? I answered by a sob, and my visitor then felt my pulse and temples and set himself to wash and dress the wound upon my scalp. I, said he, assortant, what man, cheer up, the world's no done, you've made a bad start of it, but you'll make it better. Have you had any meat? I said I could not look at it, and thereupon he gave me some brandy and water in a tin panacon, and left me once more to myself. The next time he came to see me, I was lying betwixt sleep and waking, my eye as wide open in the darkness. The sickness quite departed, but succeeded by a horrid giddiness in swimming that were almost worse to bear. I ached besides in every limb, and the cords that bound me seemed to be of fire. The smell of the hole in which I lay seemed to have become a part of me, and during the long interval since his last visit I had suffered tortures of fear, now from the scurrying of the ship's rats that sometimes pattered on my very face, and now from the dismal imaginings that haunt the bed of fever. The glimmer of the lantern as a trap opened, shone in like the heaven's sunlight, and though it only showed me the strong dark beams of the ship that was my prison, I could have cried aloud for gladness. The man with the green eyes was the first to descend the ladder, and I noticed that he came somewhat unsteadily. He was followed by the captain. Neither said a word, but the first set to and examined me, and dressed my wound as before, while Hoseason looked me in my face with an odd black look. "'Now, sir, you see for yourself,' said the first, "'a high fever, no appetite, no light, no meat you see for yourself, what that means.' "'I am no conjurer, Mr. Riach,' said the captain. "'Give me a leave, sir,' said Riach. "'You have a good head upon your shoulders, and a good scotch tongue to ask with, but I will leave you no manner of excuse. I want that boy taken out of this hole, and put in the forecastle.' "'What you may want, sir, is a matter of concern to nobody but yourself,' returned the captain, "'but I can tell you that which is to be. Here he is, here he shall bide.' "'Admitting that you have been paid in proportion,' said the other, "'I will crave leave humbly to say that I have not. Paid I am, and none too much, to be the second officer of this old tub, and you can very well if I do my best to earn it. But I was paid for nothing more.' "'If you could hold back your hand from the tin pan, Mr. Riach, I would have no complaint to make of you.' Returned the skipper, and instead of asking riddles, I make bold to say that you would hold your breath to cool your porridge. "'We'll be required on deck,' he added in a sharper note, and set one foot upon the ladder. But Mr. Riach called him by the sleeve. "'Admitting that you've been paid to do a murder,' he began. Hose season turned upon him with a flash. "'What's that?' he cried. "'What kind of talk is that?' "'It seems it is the talk that you can understand,' said Mr. Riach, looking him steadily in the face. "'Mr. Riach, I have sailed with three cruisers,' replied the captain. "'In all that time, sir, you should have learned to know me. I'm a stiff man, and a dour man. But for what you say, then, now? "'Fy! Fy! It comes from a bad heart and a black conscience. If you say the lad will die.' "'I, he will,' said Mr. Riach. "'Well, sir, is that not enough?' said Hose season. "'Flit him where you please.' Thereupon the captain ascended the ladder, and I, who had lain silent throughout this strange conversation, beheld Mr. Riach turn after how as low as to his knees in what was plainly a spirit of derision. Even in my then state of sickness I perceived two things, that the mate was touched with liquor, as the captain hinted, and that, drunk or sober, he was like to prove a valuable friend. Five minutes afterwards my bonds were cut. I was hoisted on a man's back, carried up to the forecastle, and laid in a bunk on some sea blankets, where the first thing that I did was to lose my senses. It was a blessed thing, indeed, to open my eyes again upon the daylight, and to find myself in the society of men. The forecastle was a roomy place enough, set all about with berths, in which the men of the watch below were seated smoking, or lying down asleep. The day being calm and the wind fair, the scuttle was open, and not only the good daylight, but from time to time, as the ship rolled, a dusty beam of sunlight shone in, and dazzled and delighted me. I had no sooner moved, moreover, than one of the men brought me a drink of something healing, which Mr. Riyach had prepared, and made me lie still, and I should soon be well again. There were no bones broken, he explained. The clower on the head were nothing. Man said he, it was me that gave it you. Here I lay for the space of many days a close prisoner, and not only got my health again, but came to know my companions. They were a rough lot indeed, as sailors mostly are, being men rooted out of all the kindly parts of life, and condemned to toss together on the rough seas with masters no less cruel. There were some among them that had sailed with the pirates, and seen things that would be a shame even to speak of. Some were men that had run from the king's ships, and went with a halter round their necks, of which they made no secret, and all, as the saying goes, wrought a word and a blow with their best friends. Yet I had not been many days shut up with them before I began to be ashamed of my first judgment, when I had drawn away from them at the ferry pier, as though they had been unclean beasts. No class of men is altogether bad, but each has its own faults and virtues, and these shipmates of mine were no exception to the rule. If they were, sure enough, and bad, I suppose, but they had many virtues, they were kind when it occurred to them, simple even beyond the simplicity of a country lad like me, and had some glimmerings of honesty. There was one man, of maybe forty, that would sit on my birth-side for hours and tell me of his wife and child. He was a fisher that had lost his boat, and thus been driven to the deep sea voyaging. Well, it is years ago now, but I have never forgotten him. His wife, who was young by him, as he often told me, waited in vain to see her man return. He would never again make the fire for her in the morning, nor yet keep the Baron when she was sick. Indeed, many of these poor fellows, as the event proved, were upon their last grooves. The deep seas and cannibal fish receive them, and it is a thankless business to speak ill of the dead. Among other good deeds that they did they returned my money, which had been shared among them, and though it was about a third short, I was very glad to get it, and hoped great good from it in the land I was going to. The ship was bound for the Carolinas, and you must not suppose that I was going to that place merely as an exile. The trade was even then much depressed, since that, and with the rebellion of the colonies and the formation of the United States, it has, of course, come to an end. But in those days of my youth, white men were still sold into slavery on the plantations, and that was the destiny to which my wicked uncle had condemned me. The cabin-boy ransom, from whom I had first heard of these atrocities, came in at times from the roundhouse, where he birthed and served, now nursing a bruised limb in silent agony, now raving against the cruelty of Mr. Shuan. It made my heart bleed, but the men had a great respect for the chief mate, who was, as they said, the only semen of the whole Jing Bang and none such a bad man when he was sober. Indeed, I found there was a strange peculiarity about our two mates, that Mr. Riach was sullen, unkind, and harsh when he was sober, and Mr. Shuan would not hurt a fly except when he was drinking. I asked about the captain, but I was told drink made no difference upon that man of iron. I did my best in the small time allowed me to make something like a man, or rather, I should say something like a boy, of the poor creature ransom. But his mind was scarce, truly human. He could remember nothing of the time before he came to sea, only that his father had made clocks, and had a starling in the parlor, which could whistle the North Country. All else had been blotted out in these years of hardship and cruelties. He had a strange notion of the dry land, picked up from sailor's stories, that it was a place where lads were put to some kind of slavery called a trade, and where apprentices were continually lashed and clapped into foul prisons. In a town he thought every second person a decoy, and every third house a place in which semen would be drugged and murdered. To be sure I would tell him how kindly I had myself been used upon that dry land he was so much afraid of, and how well fed and carefully taught, both by my friends and my parents. And if he had been recently hurt he would weep bitterly and swear to run away. But if he was, in his usual crack-brain humour, or still more, if he had had a glass of spirits in the roundhouse, he would deride the notion. It was Mr. Riyach, heaven forgive him, who gave the boy drink, and it was doubtless kindly meant, but besides that it was ruined to his health, it was the pitifulest thing in life to see this unhappy, unfriended creature staggering and dancing and talking he knew not what. Some of the men laughed, but not all. Others would grow as black as thunder, thinking perhaps of their own childhood or their own children, and bid him stop that nonsense and think what he was doing. As for me, I felt ashamed to look at him, and the poor child still comes about me in my dreams. All this time you should know the Covenant was meeting continual headwinds and tumbling up and down against head seas, so that the scuttle was almost constantly shut, and the forecastle lighted only by a swinging lantern on a beam. There was constant labour for all hands. The sales had to be made and shortened every hour, the strain told on the men's temper. There was a growl of quarreling all day, long from birth to birth, and as I was never allowed to set my foot on deck, you can picture to yourselves how weary of my life I grew to be, and how impatient for a change. And a change I was to get, as you shall hear, but I must first tell of a conversation I had with Mr. Riyach, which put a little heart in me to bear my troubles. Getting him in a favourable stage of drink, for indeed he never looked near me when he was sober, I pledged him to secrecy and told him my whole story. He declared it was like a ballad, that he would do his best to help me, that I should have paper, pen, and ink, and write one line to Mr. Campbell and another to Mr. Rankiler, and that if I had told the truth, ten to one he would be able, with their help, to pull me through and set me in my rights. And in the meantime, says he, keep your heart up. You're not the only one, I'll tell you that. There's many a man hoeing tobacco overseas that should be mountainous horse at his own door at home, many, and many. And life is all a very o'er him, at the best. Look at me! I'm a layered son, and more than half a doctor. And here I am, man-jacked the whole season.