Chapter XXIV. The Flight in the Heather: The Quarrel

by Robert Louis Stevenson

　　Alan and I were put across Loch Errocht under cloud of night, andwent down its eastern shore to another hiding-place near the headof Loch Rannoch, whither we were led by one of the gillies fromthe Cage. This fellow carried all our luggage and Alan'sgreat-coat in the bargain, trotting along under the burthen, farless than the half of which used to weigh me to the ground, likea stout hill pony with a feather; yet he was a man that, in plaincontest, I could have broken on my knee.Doubtless it was a great relief to walk disencumbered; andperhaps without that relief, and the consequent sense of libertyand lightness, I could not have walked at all. I was but newrisen from a bed of sickness; and there was nothing in the stateof our affairs to hearten me for much exertion; travelling, as wedid, over the most dismal deserts in Scotland, under a cloudyheaven, and with divided hearts among the travellers.For long, we said nothing; marching alongside or one behind theother, each with a set countenance: I, angry and proud, anddrawing what strength I had from these two violent and sinfulfeelings; Alan angry and ashamed, ashamed that he had lost mymoney, angry that I should take it so ill.The thought of a separation ran always the stronger in my mind;and the more I approved of it, the more ashamed I grew of myapproval. It would be a fine, handsome, generous thing, indeed,for Alan to turn round and say to me: "Go, I am in the mostdanger, and my company only increases yours." But for me to turnto the friend who certainly loved me, and say to him: "You are ingreat danger, I am in but little; your friendship is a burden;go, take your risks and bear your hardships alone ----" no, thatwas impossible; and even to think of it privily to myself, mademy cheeks to burn.And yet Alan had behaved like a child, and (what is worse) atreacherous child. Wheedling my money from me while I layhalf-conscious was scarce better than theft; and yet here he wastrudging by my side, without a penny to his name, and by what Icould see, quite blithe to sponge upon the money he had driven meto beg. True, I was ready to share it with him; but it made merage to see him count upon my readiness.These were the two things uppermost in my mind; and I could openmy mouth upon neither without black ungenerosity. So I did thenext worst, and said nothing, nor so much as looked once at mycompanion, save with the tail of my eye.At last, upon the other side of Loch Errocht, going over asmooth, rushy place, where the walking was easy, he could bear itno longer, and came close to me."David," says he, "this is no way for two friends to take a smallaccident. I have to say that I'm sorry; and so that's said. Andnow if you have anything, ye'd better say it.""O," says I, "I have nothing."He seemed disconcerted; at which I was meanly pleased."No," said he, with rather a trembling voice, "but when I say Iwas to blame?""Why, of course, ye were to blame," said I, coolly; "and you willbear me out that I have never reproached you.""Never," says he; "but ye ken very well that ye've done worse.Are we to part? Ye said so once before. Are ye to say it again?There's hills and heather enough between here and the two seas,David; and I will own I'm no very keen to stay where I'm nowanted."This pierced me like a sword, and seemed to lay bare my privatedisloyalty."Alan Breck!" I cried; and then: "Do you think I am one to turnmy back on you in your chief need? You dursn't say it to myface. My whole conduct's there to give the lie to it. It'strue, I fell asleep upon the muir; but that was from weariness,and you do wrong to cast it up to me----""Which is what I never did," said Alan."But aside from that," I continued, "what have I done that youshould even me to dogs by such a supposition? I never yet faileda friend, and it's not likely I'll begin with you. There arethings between us that I can never forget, even if you can.""I will only say this to ye, David," said Alan, very quietly,"that I have long been owing ye my life, and now I owe ye money.Ye should try to make that burden light for me."This ought to have touched me, and in a manner it did, but thewrong manner. I felt I was behaving, badly; and was now not onlyangry with Alan, but angry with myself in the bargain; and itmade me the more cruel."You asked me to speak," said I. "Well, then, I will. You ownyourself that you have done me a disservice; I have had toswallow an affront: I have never reproached you, I never namedthe thing till you did. And now you blame me," cried I, "becauseI cannae laugh and sing as if I was glad to be affronted. Thenext thing will be that I'm to go down upon my knees and thankyou for it! Ye should think more of others, Alan Breck. If yethought more of others, ye would perhaps speak less aboutyourself; and when a friend that likes you very well has passedover an offence without a word, you would be blithe to let itlie, instead of making it a stick to break his back with. Byyour own way of it, it was you that was to blame; then itshouldnae be you to seek the quarrel.""Aweel," said Alan, "say nae mair."And we fell back into our former silence; and came to ourjourney's end, and supped, and lay down to sleep, without anotherword.The gillie put us across Loch Rannoch in the dusk of the nextday, and gave us his opinion as to our best route. This was toget us up at once into the tops of the mountains: to go round bya circuit, turning the heads of Glen Lyon, Glen Lochay, and GlenDochart, and come down upon the lowlands by Kippen and the upperwaters of the Forth. Alan was little pleased with a route whichled us through the country of his blood-foes, the GlenorchyCampbells. He objected that by turning to the east, we shouldcome almost at once among the Athole Stewarts, a race of his ownname and lineage, although following a different chief, and comebesides by a far easier and swifter way to the place whither wewere bound. But the gillie, who was indeed the chief man ofCluny's scouts, had good reasons to give him on all hands, namingthe force of troops in every district, and alleging finally (aswell as I could understand) that we should nowhere be so littletroubled as in a country of the Campbells.Alan gave way at last, but with only half a heart. "It's one ofthe dowiest countries in Scotland," said he. "There's naethingthere that I ken, but heath, and crows, and Campbells. But I seethat ye're a man of some penetration; and be it as ye please!"We set forth accordingly by this itinerary; and for the best partof three nights travelled on eerie mountains and among thewell-heads of wild rivers; often buried in mist, almostcontinually blown and rained upon, and not once cheered by anyglimpse of sunshine. By day, we lay and slept in the drenchingheather; by night, incessantly clambered upon break-neck hillsand among rude crags. We often wandered; we were often soinvolved in fog, that we must lie quiet till it lightened. Afire was never to be thought of. Our only food was drammach anda portion of cold meat that we had carried from the Cage; and asfor drink, Heaven knows we had no want of water.This was a dreadful time, rendered the more dreadful by the gloomof the weather and the country. I was never warm; my teethchattered in my head; I was troubled with a very sore throat,such as I had on the isle; I had a painful stitch in my side,which never left me; and when I slept in my wet bed, with therain beating above and the mud oozing below me, it was to liveover again in fancy the worst part of my adventures -- to see thetower of Shaws lit by lightning, Ransome carried below on themen's backs, Shuan dying on the round-house floor, or ColinCampbell grasping at the bosom of his coat. From such brokenslumbers, I would be aroused in the gloaming, to sit up in thesame puddle where I had slept, and sup cold drammach; the raindriving sharp in my face or running down my back in icy trickles;the mist enfolding us like as in a gloomy chamber -- or, perhaps,if the wind blew, falling suddenly apart and showing us the gulfof some dark valley where the streams were crying aloud.The sound of an infinite number of rivers came up from all round.In this steady rain the springs of the mountain were broken up;every glen gushed water like a cistern; every stream was in highspate, and had filled and overflowed its channel. During ournight tramps, it was solemn to hear the voice of them below inthe valleys, now booming like thunder, now with an angry cry. Icould well understand the story of the Water Kelpie, that demonof the streams, who is fabled to keep wailing and roaring at theford until the coming of the doomed traveller. Alan I sawbelieved it, or half believed it; and when the cry of the riverrose more than usually sharp, I was little surprised (though, ofcourse, I would still be shocked) to see him cross himself in themanner of the Catholics.During all these horrid wanderings we had no familiarity,scarcely even that of speech. The truth is that I was sickeningfor my grave, which is my best excuse. But besides that I was ofan unforgiving disposition from my birth, slow to take offence,slower to forget it, and now incensed both against my companionand myself. For the best part of two days he was unweariedlykind; silent, indeed, but always ready to help, and always hoping(as I could very well see) that my displeasure would blow by.For the same length of time I stayed in myself, nursing my anger,roughly refusing his services, and passing him over with my eyesas if he had been a bush or a stone.The second night, or rather the peep of the third day, found usupon a very open hill, so that we could not follow our usual planand lie down immediately to eat and sleep. Before we had reacheda place of shelter, the grey had come pretty clear, for though itstill rained, the clouds ran higher; and Alan, looking in myface, showed some marks of concern."Ye had better let me take your pack," said he, for perhaps theninth time since we had parted from the scout beside LochRannoch."I do very well, I thank you," said I, as cold as ice.Alan flushed darkly. "I'll not offer it again," he said. "I'mnot a patient man, David.""I never said you were," said I, which was exactly the rude,silly speech of a boy of ten.Alan made no answer at the time, but his conduct answered forhim. Henceforth, it is to be thought, he quite forgave himselffor the affair at Cluny's; cocked his hat again, walked jauntily,whistled airs, and looked at me upon one side with a provokingsmile.The third night we were to pass through the western end of thecountry of Balquhidder. It came clear and cold, with a touch inthe air like frost, and a northerly wind that blew the cloudsaway and made the stars bright. The streams were full, ofcourse, and still made a great noise among the hills; but Iobserved that Alan thought no more upon the Kelpie, and was inhigh good spirits. As for me, the change of weather came toolate; I had lain in the mire so long that (as the Bible has it)my very clothes "abhorred me." I was dead weary, deadly sick andfull of pains and shiverings; the chill of the wind went throughme, and the sound of it confused my ears. In this poor state Ihad to bear from my companion something in the nature of apersecution. He spoke a good deal, and never without a taunt."Whig" was the best name he had to give me. "Here," he wouldsay, "here's a dub for ye to jump, my Whiggie! I ken you're afine jumper!" And so on; all the time with a gibing voice andface.I knew it was my own doing, and no one else's; but I was toomiserable to repent. I felt I could drag myself but littlefarther; pretty soon, I must lie down and die on these wetmountains like a sheep or a fox, and my bones must whiten therelike the bones of a beast. My head was light perhaps; but Ibegan to love the prospect, I began to glory in the thought ofsuch a death, alone in the desert, with the wild eagles besiegingmy last moments. Alan would repent then, I thought; he wouldremember, when I was dead, how much he owed me, and theremembrance would be torture. So I went like a sick, silly, andbad-hearted schoolboy, feeding my anger against a fellow-man,when I would have been better on my knees, crying on God formercy. And at each of Alan's taunts, I hugged myself. "Ah!"thinks I to myself, "I have a better taunt in readiness; when Ilie down and die, you will feel it like a buffet in your face;ah, what a revenge! ah, how you will regret your ingratitude andcruelty!"All the while, I was growing worse and worse. Once I had fallen,my leg simply doubling under me, and this had struck Alan for themoment; but I was afoot so briskly, and set off again with such anatural manner, that he soon forgot the incident. Flushes ofheat went over me, and then spasms of shuddering. The stitch inmy side was hardly bearable. At last I began to feel that Icould trail myself no farther: and with that, there came on meall at once the wish to have it out with Alan, let my angerblaze, and be done with my life in a more sudden manner. He hadjust called me "Whig." I stopped."Mr. Stewart," said I, in a voice that quivered like afiddle-string, "you are older than I am, and should know yourmanners. Do you think it either very wise or very witty to castmy politics in my teeth? I thought, where folk differed, it wasthe part of gentlemen to differ civilly; and if I did not, I maytell you I could find a better taunt than some of yours."Alan had stopped opposite to me, his hat cocked, his hands in hisbreeches pockets, his head a little on one side. He listened,smiling evilly, as I could see by the starlight; and when I haddone he began to whistle a Jacobite air. It was the air made inmockery of General Cope's defeat at Preston Pans:"Hey, Johnnie Cope, are ye waukin' yet?And are your drums a-beatin' yet?"And it came in my mind that Alan, on the day of that battle, hadbeen engaged upon the royal side."Why do ye take that air, Mr. Stewart?" said I. "Is that toremind me you have been beaten on both sides?"The air stopped on Alan's lips. "David!" said he."But it's time these manners ceased," I continued; "and I meanyou shall henceforth speak civilly of my King and my good friendsthe Campbells.""I am a Stewart --" began Alan."O!" says I, "I ken ye bear a king's name. But you are toremember, since I have been in the Highlands, I have seen a goodmany of those that bear it; and the best I can say of them isthis, that they would be none the worse of washing.""Do you know that you insult me?" said Alan, very low."I am sorry for that," said I, "for I am not done; and if youdistaste the sermon, I doubt the pirliecue[29] will please you aslittle. You have been chased in the field by the grown men of myparty; it seems a poor kind of pleasure to out-face a boy. Boththe Campbells and the Whigs have beaten you; you have run beforethem like a hare. It behoves you to speak of them as of yourbetters."[29] A second sermon.Alan stood quite still, the tails of his great-coat clappingbehind him in the wind."This is a pity" he said at last. "There are things said thatcannot be passed over.""I never asked you to," said I. "I am as ready as yourself.""Ready?" said he."Ready," I repeated. "I am no blower and boaster like some thatI could name. Come on!" And drawing my sword, I fell on guardas Alan himself had taught me."David!" he cried . "Are ye daft? I cannae draw upon ye, David.It's fair murder.""That was your look-out when you insulted me," said I."It's the truth!" cried Alan, and he stood for a moment, wringinghis mouth in his hand like a man in sore perplexity. "It's thebare truth," he said, and drew his sword. But before I couldtouch his blade with mine, he had thrown it from him and fallento the ground. "Na, na," he kept saying, "na, na -- I cannae, Icannae."At this the last of my anger oozed all out of me; and I foundmyself only sick, and sorry, and blank, and wondering at myself.I would have given the world to take back what I had said; but aword once spoken, who can recapture it? I minded me of allAlan's kindness and courage in the past, how he had helped andcheered and borne with me in our evil days; and then recalled myown insults, and saw that I had lost for ever that doughtyfriend. At the same time, the sickness that hung upon me seemedto redouble, and the pang in my side was like a sword forsharpness. I thought I must have swooned where I stood.This it was that gave me a thought. No apology could blot outwhat I had said; it was needless to think of one, none couldcover the offence; but where an apology was vain, a mere cry forhelp might bring Alan back to my side. I put my pride away fromme. "Alan!" I said; "if ye cannae help me, I must just diehere."He started up sitting, and looked at me."It's true," said I. "I'm by with it. O, let me get into thebield of a house -- I'll can die there easier." I had no need topretend; whether I chose or not, I spoke in a weeping voice thatwould have melted a heart of stone."Can ye walk?" asked Alan."No," said I, "not without help. This last hour my legs havebeen fainting under me; I've a stitch in my side like a red-hotiron; I cannae breathe right. If I die, ye'll can forgive me,Alan? In my heart, I liked ye fine -- even when I was theangriest.""Wheesht, wheesht!" cried Alan. "Dinna say that! David man, yeken --" He shut his mouth upon a sob. "Let me get my arm aboutye," he continued; "that's the way! Now lean upon me hard. Gudekens where there's a house! We're in Balwhidder, too; thereshould be no want of houses, no, nor friends' houses here. Do yegang easier so, Davie?""Ay" said I, "I can be doing this way;" and I pressed his armwith my hand.Again he came near sobbing. "Davie," said he, "I'm no a rightman at all; I have neither sense nor kindness; I could naeremember ye were just a bairn, I couldnae see ye were dying onyour feet; Davie, ye'll have to try and forgive me.""O man, let's say no more about it!" said I. "We're neither oneof us to mend the other -- that's the truth! We must just bearand forbear, man Alan. O, but my stitch is sore! Is there naehouse?""I'll find a house to ye, David," he said, stoutly. "We'llfollow down the burn, where there's bound to be houses. My poorman, will ye no be better on my back?""O, Alan," says I, "and me a good twelve inches taller?""Ye're no such a thing," cried Alan, with a start. "There may bea trifling matter of an inch or two; I'm no saying I'm justexactly what ye would call a tall man, whatever; and I dare say,"he added, his voice tailing off in a laughable manner, "now whenI come to think of it, I dare say ye'll be just about right. Ay,it'll be a foot, or near hand; or may be even mair!"It was sweet and laughable to hear Alan eat his words up in thefear of some fresh quarrel. I could have laughed, had not mystitch caught me so hard; but if I had laughed, I think I musthave wept too."Alan," cried I, "what makes ye so good to me? What makes yecare for such a thankless fellow?""'Deed, and I don't, know" said Alan. "For just precisely what Ithought I liked about ye, was that ye never quarrelled: -- andnow I like ye better!"