Rensselaer Republican, Volume 25, Number 18, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 29 December 1892 — The Master Of Ballantrae [ARTICLE]

The Master Of Ballantrae

CHAPTER V.— Continued. i “My dear man,” said be, “a thousand apologies for disturbing you, but I’m in the most awkward position. 4-nd there's a son of a- tern rod there that I should know the looks of, and more betoken I believe that he knows mine. ' Being in this family, sir, and in a place of some responsibility (which was the cause I took the liberty to send for you.) you are doubtless of the honest party?” ■'You may be sure, at least,” said I, “that allot that party are quite safe in Durrisdeef. ” "" T - “My dear man, it is my very thought," says he. “You see I have £st been set on shore here by a very >nest man, whose name I cannot renje über, and who is to stand oft' and on for me till morning, at some danger to himself, and, to be clear with you, lama littl concerned lest l it should be at some to me. I have saved my life so often, Mr. —I forget your name, wh ch is* a very good one—that, faith, I would be very loath to lose it after all. And the son of a ramrod, whom I believe I saw before Carlisle—’’ “Oh, sir," said I, “you can trust Maccono.hiountil to-morrow.’, . “Well, and it's ade ight to hear your say io," says the stranger. “The truth is that my name is not a very ; uitable one in this country of Scotland With a gentleman like you, my d ar man, I would have no concealment of course; and by your leay.e, I’ll just breath eitjn your ear. They call me Francis Burke —Colonel Francis Burk *; and I am here..at a most damnabb risk to to see your mast rs—if you 11 excu e me, my good man,for g ving them the name, for I’m sure it is a circumstance I would n ver have guessed from your appearance. And if you woud g ust be so very pbliging as to take my name to them, you might say that I come bearing 1 tters which I am sure they will be very rejoiced to have the reading of ” Colon 1 Franci i Burke was one of the prince’s Iri hm n, that did his cause ar. infinity of hurt and w< r * so much di tasted of the Scots at the time of the rebellion; and it came at once into my mind how the Master of Ballantrae had astonished all men by going with that party. In the same moment a strong foreboding of truth posseted my soul “If you will.-tep in here,” said I, opening -a chamber door, “I will let my lord know.’’ “And I am sure it is very good of , you, Mr. What is-your-name?” says s, the Colonel. Up to the hall I went, slow footed. There they were all three, my old ford in his place, Mrs. benry at work by the window. Mr. Henry fas was hfs custom/ pacing the low end. In the midst whs the table laid for supper, I told them brie ;y what I had to say. My old lord lay backyn bis seat. Mrs Henry sprung up standing with a mechanical motion, and she and her husband stared at each other s eyes across the room; it was the strangest chai lenging look these two exchanged, and as they looked .the color faded in their faces. Then Mr. Henry . turned to me: not to speak, only to » sighn with his linger; but th t was enough, and I went down again for the Colonel. When we returned these three were in much the same position I had left them in. I believe no word bad passed. “My Lord Durrisdeer, no doubt?" says the Colonel bowing, and my lord bowed in answer. “And this,” conth.u s the colonel, “should be the Master of Ballantrae?” . “I have never taken that name," said Mr. Henry; “but I am Henry Dorie, at your service.” .Then the colonel turns to Mrs. Henry, bowing with his hat upon his heart and the most killing airs of go'lantry. “Tehre can be no mistake about so fine a figure of a lady,” says he. ‘I address the seductive Miss Alison, of whom I have so often heard?’’ v | Once more husband and wife exchanged a look.’ “1 am Mrs. Henry Durie,” said she; “btit before my marriage my na ne was Alison Graeme." Then my lord spoke up. “lam an o d man Colonel Burke," said he, “and a frail one. It will be mercy .on your part to ba expeditious. Do you bring me news of—" ho hesitated, and then- the wor s broke from him with a singular changeof voice—“my spn?" ' “My'dear lord, I will be round with ydu like a soldier,” said the colonel. "I do " My lord held out a wavering hand; he t*4‘emV(l to* wave, a signal, but , whether it was to give him timeor to speak on, was more than we could I gt Sh. At length, he got out the one word Good!" “n ny the very best in the creation!" cries the colonel. “For my good friend and admired comrade is nt this hour in the tine city of Faris, and as like as not, if I know anything o his habits, he will b • drawing in h s chair to a piece of dinner. 1 Bed ad, 1 believe the la ly’s fainting.”' Mrs. Henry was indeed the color of death, and drooped against the window frame But when Mr Henry mad< a movement us if to run to her. he straightened with u sort of shiver. “I am well,” she said, with her white lips. pi- Mr. Henry stopped, and his face had a strong twitch of anger. Th© next nroment he hud turned to the

BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

colonel, “You must not blame yourself." says he, “for this effect on Mrs. Durie. It is only natural; we were-all brought up like brother and sister." Mrs. Henry looked at her husband with something like relief or even gratitude. In my way of thinking that speech was the first step he made in her good graces. “You must try to forgive me, Mrs. Durie. for indeed and I am just an IrisKsavage," said thecolonel. “and I deserve to be shot for not breaking the matt r more artistically to a lady. But here are the master’s own letters; one for each of the three of you; and to ba sure (if I knew anything of my fri nd’s genius) he will tell his own story with a better grace. ” He brought the three letters forth as be spok ). arranged them by their superscriptions presented the first to my lord, who took it greddily, atid advanced toward Mrs. Henry holding out the second. But tire lady waved it back. “To my husband," says she, with a choked voice. The colonel was a very quick man. but at this he was somewhat nonplussed. > “To be sure, ” says he, “ how very dull of me I To be sure.” But he still held the letter. At last Mr, Henry reached forth his hand, and there was nothing to be done but give it up. Mr. Henry: took the letters (both hers and his own) and looked upon their outside, with his brows knit hard as if he were thinking. He had surprised me all through by his excellent behavior ; but he was to excel himself now. t “Let me give you a hand to your room, ” said he to his wife. “ This has come something of the suddenest; and at any rate, you will wish to read your letter by yourself. ” Again she looked upon him with the same thought of wonder; but he gave her no time, coming straight to where she stood. “It will be better so. believe me, ’’ said he, “ and Colonel Burke is too considerate not to excuse you. ” And with that he took her hand by the fingers, and led her from the hall. Mr. Henry returned 'no more that night; " ind when Mr. Henry went to visit her ne vt morning, as I heard long afterwards, she gave him the letter again, still unopened. “Oh, read it and be done I ” he had cried. “Spare me that, ’’ said she. And by these two speeches, to my way of thinking, each undid a great part of what they had previously done well. But the letter, sure enough, came into my hands and by me was burned, unopened. * * * *

To be very exact as to the adventures of the master after Culloden, I wrote not long ago to Colonel Burke, now a Chevalier of the Order of St. Louis, begging him for some notes in writing, since I could scarce depend upon my memory, at so great an interval. To confess the truth, 1 have been somewhat embarrassed by his response; for he sent me the complete memoirs of his life, touching only in places on the master; running to a much greater length than my whole story, and not everywhere (as it seemed to me) designed for edification. He begged in bis letter, dated from Ettenheim, that I would find a publisher for the whole, after I had made what use of it I required : and I think I shall best answer my own purpose and fulfill his wishes by printing certain parts of it in full. In way my readers will have a detailed and I believe a very genuine account of some essential matters ; and if aay publisher should take a fancy to the chevalier's manner of narration.he knows where iio apply for the test, of which there is plehty at his service. I put in my first extract here, so that it may stand in the place of what the chevalier told us over our wine in the hall of Durrisdefer; but you are td suppose it was not the brutal fact, but a very varnished version that he offered to my lord. T'" l ”

ll,—The Master’s Wanderings. [From Ute Memoirs of the Chevalier de Burka] CHAPTER VI. I left Ruthven (it's hardly necessary to remark) with much greater satisfaction than I had come to it: but whether I missed my way in the deserts, dr whether my companions failed me, I soon found myself alone. This was a predicament’very disagreeable : for I never understood this horrid country or savage people, ami the last stroke of the prince’s withdrawal had made us of the Irish more unpopular than ever. I was reflecting on my poor chances when I saw another horseman on the hill, ( whom I 'Supposed at first to have been a phantom, the news of his death in the very front at Culloden being current in the army generally. This was the Master of Ballantrae, my Lord Durrisdeer’s son. a young n bleman of the rarest gallantry and parts, and equally designed, by nature to adorn a court and to reap laurels in the field. Our meeting was the more welcome to both, -as he was ■ one of the few Scots who bad used , the Irish with consideration ana as ! he might now be of very high utility |in aiding ,my escape. Yet what founded our particular friendship was a circumstance by itself, as romantic as any fable of King Arthur. ■ This was qb the second day of our flight, after we bud sle]/. mod night in the rain upon the iodination of a

mountain. There was an Appin man, Alan Black Stewart (or soms such name,t but I have seen him since in France) who chanced to be passing the same way, and had a jealous/ of my companion. Ve?y uncivil expressions were exchangee), and Stewart calls upon the master to alight and have it out. “Why, Mr. says the master, “I think at the present time 1 would prefer to run a with you.” And with the word daps spurs to-his, horse. > : Stewart ran after us, a childish thing to do, for morethan a mile;and 1 could not help laughing as I looked back at last and saw him on a hill holding his hand to .his side and nearly burst with running. “But all the same,"-! could not help saying - to my companion, “I would let no man run after me for any such proper purpose and not gi ve him fils desire. It was a good jest, but it smells a trifle cowardly.” He bent his brows at me. “I do pretty well," says he, “when I saddle myself with the most unpopular with the naked eye. And if you like not my company, you can ‘saddle’ yourself on some one else. ” ‘ Colonel. Burke.” says he, “do not let us quarrel; and to that effect, let me assure you l am the least patient man in the world.” “I am as little patient as yourself,” said I. “I care not who knows that.” “At this rate," said he, reining in. “we shall not go very far. Andi propose we do one of two things up on the instant: either quarrel and be done, or make a sure bargain to bear everything at each other’s hands.” “Like a pair of brothers?” said I. “I said no foolishness,” he replied. “I have a brother of my own, and I think no more of him than of a colewort. But if we are to have our noses rubbed together in this course of flight, let us each dare to be ourselves like Ravages, and each swear that he will neither resent nor deprecate the other. lam a pretty bad fellow at bottom, and I find the pretense of virtues very irksome.” “Oh, I am as bad as yourself,” said I. ‘‘There is no skim milk in Francis Burke. But which is it to be? Fight or make friends?” “Why,” says he, “I think it will be the best manner to spin a coin for it.”

This proposition was too highly chivalrous not to take my fancy; and strange as it may seem of two well born gentlemen of to day, we spun a half crown (like a pair of ancient paladins) whether we were to cut each other’s throats or be sworn friends. A more romantic Circumstancecan rarely have.occurred; and it is one of those points in my memoirs, by which we -may see the old tales of Homer and the poets are equally true to-day, at least of the noble and genteel. The coin fell for peace, and we shook hands upon our bargain. And then it was that my companion explained to me his thought in running away from. Mr. Stewart, which was certainly worthy ui ui» political intellect. The report of his death, he said, was a great guard to him; 'Mr. Stewart having recognized him, had become a danger; and he had taken the briefest road to that gentleman's silence. “For," said he, “Alan Black is too vain amuQ to narrate .any s uch .story of himself.”

Toward afternoon we came down to the shores qf that loch for which we were heading; and there was the ship but newly come to anchor. She was the “Sainte-Marie-des-Anges,” out of the port, of Havre-de-Grace. The master, after we had signaled for a boat, asked ine if I knew the captain. I told him he was a countryman of mine, of the most unblemished integrity, but, I was afraid, a rather timorous man. “No matter," says he. “For all that, he should certainly hear the truth.” I asked him if he meant about the battle; for if the captain once knew the standard was down, he would certainly put to sea again at once. “And even then!” said he; “the arms are now of no sort of utility.” “Aly dear man,” said I, “who thinks of the arms? But to be sure we must remember our friends. They will be close upon our heels, perhaps the prince himself, and if the ship be gone, a great number of valuable lives may be imperiled.” “The captain and the crew have lives also, if you come to that,” says Ballantrae.

This I declared was but a quibble, and that I would not hear of the captain being told; and then it was that Ballantrae made me a witty answer, for the sake of which (and also cause I have been blamed myself in.this business of the “Sainte-Marle-des-Agnes”) I have related the ‘whole conversation as it passed. “Frank,” said he, “remember our bargain. I must not object to your holding your tongue, which I hereby even encourage you to do; but by the same terms, you are nbt to resent tty ' r ’ ~ —t.————— I could not help laughing at this; though I still forewarned him what would come of it. “The devil may come of it for what I care,” says the"reckless fellow. “I have always done exactly as I felt inclined." As is well known, my prediction came true. The captain had no sooner heard the news than be cutnis cable and to sea agairf; and before morning broke, wo were In the Great Minch. -The ship was very old; and the skipper although the most honest of men (and Irish too) was one of the least capable The wind blew very boisterous, and ♦NOT® MR* Should not th -be Alan BrookStawart, afterward notorious as toe Appin tnuruerer. The chevalier U toawUmea very weak on uamea. t

the sea raged extremely. All the day we had little heart whether to eat or drink; went early to rest in some concern of mind, and (as if to give us a lesson) in the night the wind chopped suddenly into the northeast and blew a hurricane. We were awakened by the dreadful thunder of the tempest and the stamping of the mariners on deck; so that I supposed our last hour was certainly come, and the terror of my mind was increased out of all measure by Ballantrae, who mocked at my devotions. It is hours like these that a man of any piety appears in his true light, and we find (what we are taught as babes) the small trust that can be set in worldly friends; 1 would be unworthy of my religion if I let this pass without particular remark. For three days we lay in the dark, in the cabin and had but a biscuit to nibble. On the fourth the wind fell, leaving the ship dismasted and heaving ou vast billows. The captain had not a guess of whither we were blown; he was stark ignorant of his trade and could do naught but bless the Holy Virgin; a very good thing, too, but scarce the whole of seamanship. It seemed our one hope was to bq picked up by another vessel, and if that should prove to be an English ship it might be no great blessing to the master and myself. The fifth and sixth days we tossed there helpless. The seventh some sail was got on her, but she was an unwieldy vessel at best and made little but leeway. All the time, indeed, we had been drifting to the south and west, and during the tempest must have been driven in that direction with unheard of violence. The ninth day was cold and black with a great sea running and every mark of foul weather. In this situation we were overjoyed to sight a small ship on the horizon and to perceive her go about and head for the “Salute Marie.” But our gratification did not very long endure, for when she had laid to and lowered a boat it was immediately filled with disorderly fellows, .who sang and shouted as they pulled across to us and swarmed on our deck with bare cutlasses, cursing lordly. Their leader was a horrible villain, with his face blacked and his whiskers curled in ringlets. Teach was his name, a most notorious pirate. He stamped about the deck raving and crying out that his name was Satan and his ship was called Hell. There was something about him like a wicked child or v half-witted person that daunted me beyond expression. J whispered to Ballantrae that I would not be the last to volunteer and only prayed God that they might be short of hands. He approved my purpose with a nod. “Bedad.” said Ito Master Teach, “if you are Satan, here is a divil for ye." The word pleased him, and (not to dwell upon these shocking incidents) Ballantrae and I and two others were taken as recruits, while the skipper and all the rest were cast into the sea t>y the method of walking the plank. It was the first time I had seen this done and my heart died within me at the spectacle, and Master Teach or one of his acolytes (for my head was too much lost to be precise) remarked upon my ‘pale face •in avery alarming manner. I had the strength to cut a step or two of jig and cry out some ribaldry, which saved me for that time, but my legs were like water when I must get into tfae skiff with those miscreants, and what with my horror of my company and fear of the monstrous billows it was all I could do to keep an Irish tongue and break a jest or two as we were pulled aboard. By the blessing of God there was a fiddle in the pirate ship, which I had no sooner seen than 1 fell upon, and in my quality of crowder I ha 1 the heavenly good luck to get favor in their eyes. Crowding Pat was the name they dubbed me with, and it was little I cared for a name so long as my skin was whole.

CHAPTER VII. What kind of a pandemonium that vessel was I cannot describe, but she was commanded by a lunatic and might be called a floating Bedlam. Drinking, roaring, singing, quarreling, dancing, they were never all sober at one time, and there were days together when if a squall had supervened it must have sent us to the bottom, oi{-if a king's ship had come along it would have been found quite helpless for defense. Once or twice we sighted a sail, and if wo were sober enough overhauled it. God forgive! and if we were too drunk she got away and I would bless the saints ‘under uiy breath Teach ruled, If you can call that rule watch brought no order, by the terror he created, and I observed the man was very vain of his position. I have ||nown marshals of France, aye,, and even Highland chieftains that were less openly puffed up, which throws a sini?Ular light on the pursuit of honor and glory. Indeed, the longer we live the more we perceive the sagacity of Aristotle and other old philosophers, and though I have all my life been eager for legitimate dis tinotions I can lay my hand upon my heart at the end of my career and declare there is not one —qo, nor yet life itself —which is worth acquiring or preserving at the slightest cost of dignity. It was long before I got private speech ot Ballantrae, but at fongth one night we crept out on the bowsprit, when the rest were better employed, and comiserated our position. “None can deliver us now but the saints," said I. “My mind is very different," answered Ballantrae. “for going to deliver myself. This Teach I is the poorest creature possible, we

mate bo profit of ht®, sad ne rn tinualiy ©pen to capture; and,” *ay> he, “I am not going to beatarn pirate for nothing, nor yet to hanj in chains if I can help it." And h( told me what was in his mind to better the state of the ship in the way ■ of discipline, which would give us safety for the present, and a soonet f hope of deli v erance when they should have gained enough and should break up their company. I confessed to him Ingeniously that j my nerya was quite shook amid these horrible surroundings, and I durst scarce toll him to count upon me. . .“I am not very easy frightened," said he, “not very easy at.best.” A few days after there befell an accident which had nearly hanged ( us all, and offers the most extraordinary picture of the folly that ruled in our concerns. We were all pretty drunk- and some bedlamite spying a sail, Teach put the ship about in chase without a glance, and we began to bustle up the arms and boast of the horrors that should follow. I observed Ballantrae stood quiet in the bows, looking under the shade of his hand; but for my part, true to my policy among these savages, I was at work with the busiest and passing Irish jests for their diversion. “Run up the colors," cried Teach. “Show the s the Jolly Roger.’’ It was the merest drunken braggadocio at such a stage, and might have lost us a valuable prize; but I thought it no part of mine to reason, and I ran up the black Flag with my own hand. Ballantrae stepped presently aft with a smile upon his face. “You may nerhaps like to know, you drunken dog," says he. “that you are chasing a king's ship.” (TO BE CONTINUED.) 4 ' - -