Adventure stories; Scotland -- History -- 18th century -- Fiction
What was I doing it for? I asked, as I went down the high Street and
out north by Leith Wynd. First I said it was to save James Stewart; and
no doubt the memory of his distress, and his wife’s cries, and a word
or so I had let drop on that occasion worked upon me strongly. At the
same time I reflected that it was (or ought to be) the most indifferent
matter to my father’s son, whether James died in his bed or from a
scaffold. He was Alan’s cousin, to be sure; but so far as regarded
Alan, the best thing would be to lie low, and let the King, and his
Grace of Argyll, and the corbie crows, pick the bones of his kinsman
their own way. Nor could I forget that, while we were all in the pot
together, James had shown no such particular anxiety whether for Alan
or me.
Next it came upon me I was acting for the sake of justice: and I
thought that a fine word, and reasoned it out that (since we dwelt in
polities, at some discomfort to each one of us) the main thing of all
must still be justice, and the death of any innocent man a wound upon
the whole community. Next, again, it was the Accuser of the Brethren
that gave me a turn of his argument; bade me think shame for pretending
myself concerned in these high matters, and told me I was but a prating
vain child, who had spoken big words to Rankeillor and to Stewart, and
held myself bound upon my vanity to make good that boastfulness. Nay,
and he hit me with the other end of the stick; for he accused me of a
kind of artful cowardice, going about at the expense of a little risk
to purchase greater safety. No doubt, until I had declared and cleared
myself, I might any day encounter Mungo Campbell or the sheriff’s
officer, and be recognised, and dragged into the Appin murder by the
heels; and, no doubt, in case I could manage my declaration with
success, I should breathe more free for ever after. But when I looked
this argument full in the face I could see nothing to be ashamed of. As
for the rest, “Here are the two roads,” I thought, “and both go to the
same place. It’s unjust that James should hang if I can save him; and
it would be ridiculous in me to have talked so much and then do
nothing. It’s lucky for James of the Glens that I have boasted
beforehand; and none so unlucky for myself, because now I’m committed
to do right. I have the name of a gentleman and the means of one; it
would be a poor duty that I was wanting in the essence.” And then I
thought this was a Pagan spirit, and said a prayer in to myself, asking
for what courage I might lack, and that I might go straight to my duty
like a soldier to battle, and come off again scatheless, as so many do.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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