The Master of Ballantrae Chapter 3

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Chapter 3 of The Master of Ballantrae.

This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Thomas Copeland. Chapter 3 The Master's Wanderings. From the Memoirs of the Chevalier de Bourque.

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 or 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, and the last stroke with the prince's withdrawal had made us, or 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 of Culloden being current in the army generally. This was the Master of Ballantrae, my lord Durris dear son, a young nobleman 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 had used the Irish with consideration, and 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 on the second day of our flight, after we had slept one night in the rain upon the inclination of a mountain. There was an Appen man, Alan Black Stewart, or some such name.

Note by Mr. McKellar. Should not this be Alan Breck Stewart, afterwards notorious as the Appen murderer? The Chevalier is sometimes very weak on names. Return to text. But I have seen him since, in France, who chanced to be passing the same way, and had a jealousy of my companion. Very uncivil expressions were exchanged, and Stewart calls upon the Master to alight and have it out. Why, Mr. Stewart, says the Master, I think at the present time I would prefer to run a race with you, and with the word clap spurs to his horse.

Stewart ran after us, a childish thing to do, for more than a mile, and I 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, I could not help saying to my companion, I would let no man run after me for any such proper purpose and not give him his 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 man in Scotland and let that suffice for courage. No, but, Dad, says I, I could show you a more unpopular with the naked eye, and if you like not my company, you can saddle yourself on someone else.

Colonel Burke, says he, do not let us quarrel, and to that effect let me assure you, I 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, says he, reigning in, we shall not go very far, and I propose we do one of two things upon 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 such foolishness, he replied. I have a brother of my own, and I think no more of him than of a coal-wort, but if we are to have our noses rubbed together in this course of light, let us each dare to be ourselves like savages, and each swear that he will neither resent nor deprecate the other. I am a pretty bad fellow at bottom, and I find the pretence 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 today, we span 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 circumstance can 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 today, 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. Stuart, which was certainly worthy of his political intellect. The report of his death, he said, was a great guard to him. Mr. Stuart, having recognized him, had become a danger, and he had taken the briefest road to that gentleman's silence. For, says he, Alan Black is too vain a man to narrate any such story of himself. Towards afternoon we came down to the shores of that loch for which we were heading, and there was the ship, but new to come to anchor. She was the Sainte-Maurie des Anges, out of the port of Avre-de-Crasse. The Master, after we had signaled for a boat, asked me 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.