Redgauntlet: A Tale Of The Eighteenth Century

‘Do you know,’ said Alan Fairford, ‘the Laird of Redgauntlet?’

‘Now Heaven defend me from treason and rebellion!’ exclaimed Trumbull. ‘Young gentleman, you are importunate. I live here among my own people, and do not consort with Jacobites and mass-mongers.’

He seemed about to shut the door, but did NOT shut it, a circumstance which did not escape Alan’s notice.

‘Mr. Redgauntlet is sometimes,’ he said, ‘called Herries of Birrenswork; perhaps you may know him under that name.’

‘Friend, you are uncivil,’ answered Mr. Trumbull; ‘honest men have enough to do to keep one name undefiled. I ken nothing about those who have two. Good even to you, friend.’

He was now about to slam the door in his visitor’s face without further ceremony, when Alan, who had observed symptoms that the name of Redgauntlet did not seem altogether so indifferent to him as he pretended, arrested his purpose by saying, in a low voice, ‘At least you can tell me what age the moon is?’

The old man started, as if from a trance, and before answering, surveyed the querist with a keen penetrating glance, which seemed to say, ‘Are you really in possession of this key to my confidence, or do you speak from mere accident?’

To this keen look of scrutiny, Fairford replied by a smile of intelligence.

The iron muscles of the old man’s face did not, however, relax, as he dropped, in a careless manner, the countersign, ‘Not light enough to land a cargo.’

‘Then plague of all Aberdeen Almanacks!’

‘And plague of all fools that waste time,’ said Thomas Trumbull, ‘Could you not have said as much at first? And standing wasting time, and encouraging; lookers-on, in the open street too? Come in by – in by.’

He drew his visitor into the dark entrance of the house, and shut the door carefully; then putting his head into an apartment which the murmurs within announced to be filled with the family, he said aloud, ‘A work of necessity and mercy – Malachi, take the book – You will sing six double verses of the hundred and nineteen-and you may lecture out of the Lamentations. And, Malachi,’ – this he said in an undertone, – ‘see you give them a a creed of doctrine that will last them till I come back; or else these inconsiderate lads will be out of the house, and away to the publics, wasting their precious time, and, it may be, putting themselves in the way of missing the morning tide.’

An inarticulate answer from within intimated Malachi’s acquiescence in the commands imposed; and, Mr. Trumbull, shutting the door, muttered something about fast bind, fast find, turned the key, and put it into his pocket; and then bidding his visitor have a care of his steps, and make no noise, he led him through the house, and out at a back-door, into a little garden. Here a plaited alley conducted them, without the possibility of their being seen by any neighbour, to a door in the garden-wall, which being opened, proved to be a private entrance into a three-stalled stable; in one of which was a horse, that whinnied on their entrance. ‘Hush, hush!’ cried the old man, and presently seconded his exhortations to silence by throwing a handful of corn into the manger, and the horse soon converted his acknowledgement of their presence into the usual sound of munching and grinding his provender.

As the light was now failing fast, the old man, with much more alertness than might have been expected from the rigidity of his figure, closed the window-shutters in an instant, produced phosphorus and matches, and lighted a stable-lantern, which he placed on the corn-bin, and then addressed Fairford. ‘We are private here, young man; and as some time has been wasted already, you will be so kind as to tell me what is your errand. Is it about the way of business, or the other job?’

‘My business with you, Mr. Trumbull, is to request you will find me the means of delivering this letter, from Mr. Maxwell of Summertrees to the Laird of Redgauntlet.’

‘Humph – fashious job! Pate Maxwell will still be the auld man – always Pate-in-Peril – Craig-in-Peril, for what I know. Let me see the letter from him.’

He examined it with much care, turning it up and down, and looking at the seal very attentively. ‘All’s right, I see; it has the private mark for haste and speed. I bless my Maker that I am no great man, or great man’s fellow; and so I think no more of these passages than just to help them forward in the way of business. You are an utter stranger in these parts, I warrant?’

Fairford answered in the affirmative.

‘Aye – I never saw them make a wiser choice – I must call some one to direct you what to do – Stay, we must go to him, I believe. You are well recommended to me, friend, and doubtless trusty; otherwise you may see more than I would like to show, or am in the use of showing in the common line of business.’

Saying this, he placed his lantern on the ground, beside the post of one of the empty stalls, drew up a small spring bolt which secured it to the floor, and then forcing the post to one side, discovered a small trap-door. ‘Follow me,’ he said, and dived into the subterranean descent to which this secret aperture gave access.

Fairford plunged after him, not without apprehensions of more kinds than one, but still resolved to prosecute the adventure.

The descent, which was not above six feet, led to a very narrow passage, which seemed to have been constructed for the precise purpose of excluding every one who chanced to be an inch more in girth than was his conductor. A small vaulted room, of about eight feet square, received them at the end of this lane. Here Mr. Trumbull left Fairford alone, and returned for an instant, as he said, to shut his concealed trap-door.

Fairford liked not his departure, as it left him in utter darkness; besides that his breathing was much affected by a strong and stifling smell of spirits, and other articles of a savour more powerful than agreeable to the lungs. He was very glad, therefore, when he heard the returning steps of Mr. Trumbull, who, when once more by his side, opened a strong though narrow door in the wall, and conveyed Fairford into an immense magazine of spirit-casks, and other articles of contraband trade.

There was a small, light at the end of this range of well-stocked subterranean vaults, which, upon a low whistle, began to flicker and move towards them. An undefined figure, holding a dark lantern, with the light averted, approached them, whom Mr. Trumbull thus addressed: – ‘Why were you not at worship, Job; and this Saturday at e’en?’

‘Swanston was loading the JENNY, sir; and I stayed to serve out the article.’

‘True – a work of necessity, and in the way of business. Does the JUMPING JENNY sail this tide?’

‘Aye, aye, sir; she sails for’ —

‘I did not ask you WHERE she sailed for, Job,’ said the old gentleman, interrupting him. ‘I thank my Maker, I know nothing of their incomings or outgoings. I sell my article fairly and in the ordinary way of business; and I wash my hands of everything else. But what I wished to know is, whether the gentleman called the Laird of the Solway Lakes is on the other side of the Border even now?’

‘Aye, aye,’ said Job, ‘the laird is something in my own line, you know – a little contraband or so, There is a statute for him – But no matter; he took the sands after the splore at the Quaker’s fish-traps yonder; for he has a leal heart, the laird, and is always true to the country-side. But avast – is all snug here?’

So saying, he suddenly turned on Alan Fairford the light side of the lantern he carried, who, by the transient gleam which it threw in passing on the man who bore it, saw a huge figure, upwards of six feet high, with a rough hairy cap on his head, and a set of features corresponding to his bulky frame. He thought also he observed pistols at his belt.

‘I will answer for this gentleman,’ said Mr. Trumbull; ‘he must be brought to speech of the laird.’

‘That will be kittle steering,’ said the subordinate personage; ‘for I understood that the laird and his folk were no sooner on the other side than the land-sharks were on them, and some mounted lobsters from Carlisle; and so they were obliged to split and squander. There are new brooms out to sweep the country of them, they say; for the brush was a hard one; and they say there was a lad drowned; – he was not one of the laird’s gang, so there was the less matter.’

‘Peace! prithee, peace, Job Rutledge,’ said honest, pacific Mr. Trumbull. ‘I wish thou couldst remember, man, that I desire to know nothing of your roars and splores, your brooms and brushes. I dwell here among my own people; and I sell my commodity to him who comes in the way of business; and so wash my hands of all consequences, as becomes a quiet subject and an honest man. I never take payment, save in ready money.’

‘Aye, aye,’ muttered he with the lantern, ‘your worship, Mr. Trumbull, understands that in the way of business.’

‘Well, I hope you will one day know, Job,’ answered Mr. Trumbull, – ‘the comfort of a conscience void of offence, and that fears neither gauger nor collector, neither excise nor customs. The business is to pass this gentleman to Cumberland upon earnest business, and to procure him speech with the Laird of the Solway Lakes – I suppose that can be done? Now I think Nanty Ewart, if he sails with the brig this morning tide, is the man to set him forward.’

‘Aye, aye, truly is he,’ said Job; ‘never man knew the Border, dale and fell, pasture and ploughland, better than Nanty; and he can always bring him to the laird, too, if you are sure the gentleman’s right. But indeed that’s his own look-out; for were he the best man in Scotland, and the chairman of the d – d Board to boot, and had fifty men at his back, he were as well not visit the laird for anything but good. As for Nanty, he is word and blow, a d – d deal fiercer than Cristie Nixon that they keep such a din about. I have seen them both tried, by’ —

Fairford now found himself called upon to say something; yet his feelings, upon finding himself thus completely in the power of a canting hypocrite, and of his retainer, who had so much the air of a determined ruffian, joined to the strong and abominable fume which they snuffed up with indifference, while it almost deprived him of respiration, combined to render utterance difficult. He stated, however, that he had no evil intentions towards the laird, as they called him, but was only the bearer of a letter to him on particular business, from Mr. Maxwell of Summertrees.

‘Aye, aye,’ said Job, ‘that may be well enough; and if Mr. Trumbull is satisfied that the service is right, why, we will give you a cast in the JUMPING JENNY this tide, and Nanty Ewart will put you on a way of finding the laird, I warrant you.’

‘I may for the present return, I presume, to the inn where I left my horse?’ said Fairford.

‘With pardon,’ replied Mr. Trumbull, ‘you have been ower far ben with us for that; but Job will take you to a place where you may sleep rough till he calls you. I will bring you what little baggage you can need – for those who go on such errands must not be dainty. I will myself see after your horse, for a merciful man is merciful to his beast – a matter too often forgotten in our way of business.’

‘Why, Master Trumbull,’ replied Job, ‘you know that when we are chased, it’s no time to shorten sail, and so the boys do ride whip and spur.’ He stopped in his speech, observing the old man had vanished through the door by which he had entered – ‘That’s always the way with old Turnpenny,’ he said to Fairford; ‘he cares for nothing of the trade but the profit – now, d – me, if I don’t think the fun of it is better worth while. But come along, my fine chap; I must stow you away in safety until it is time to go aboard.’

CHAPTER XIII

NARRATIVE OF ALAN FAIRFORD, CONTINUED

Fairford followed his gruff guide among a labyrinth of barrels and puncheons, on which he had more than once like to have broken his nose, and from thence into what, by the glimpse of the passing lantern upon a desk and writing materials, seemed to be a small office for the dispatch of business. Here there appeared no exit; but the smuggler, or smuggler’s ally, availing himself of a ladder, removed an old picture, which showed a door about seven feet from the ground, and Fairford, still following Job, was involved in another tortuous and dark passage, which involuntarily reminded him of Peter Peebles’s lawsuit. At the end of this labyrinth, when he had little guess where he had been conducted, and was, according to the French phrase, totally DESORIENTE, Job suddenly set down the lantern, and availing himself of the flame to light two candles which stood on the table, asked if Alan would choose anything to eat, recommending, at all events, a slug of brandy to keep out the night air. Fairford declined both, but inquired after his baggage.

‘The old master will take care of that himself,’ said Job Rutledge; and drawing back in the direction in which he had entered, he vanished from the farther end of the apartment, by a mode which the candles, still shedding an imperfect light, gave Alan no means of ascertaining. Thus the adventurous young lawyer was left alone in the apartment to which he had been conducted by so singular a passage.

In this condition, it was Alan’s first employment to survey, with some accuracy, the place where he was; and accordingly, having trimmed the lights, he walked slowly round the apartment, examining its appearance and dimensions. It seemed to be such a small dining-parlour as is usually found in the house of the better class of artisans, shopkeepers, and such persons, having a recess at the upper end, and the usual furniture of an ordinary description. He found a door, which he endeavoured to open, but it was locked on the outside. A corresponding door on the same side of the apartment admitted him into a closet, upon the front shelves of which were punch-bowls, glasses, tea-cups, and the like, while on one side was hung a horseman’s greatcoat of the coarsest materials, with two great horse-pistols peeping out of the pocket, and on the floor stood a pair of well-spattered jack-boots, the usual equipment of the time, at least for long journeys.

Not greatly liking the contents of the closet, Alan Fairford shut the door, and resumed his scrutiny round the walls of the apartment, in order to discover the mode of Job Rutledge’s retreat. The secret passage was, however, too artificially concealed, and the young lawyer had nothing better to do than to meditate on the singularity of his present situation. He had long known that the excise laws had occasioned an active contraband trade betwixt Scotland and England, which then, as now, existed, and will continue to exist until the utter abolition of the wretched system which establishes an inequality of duties betwixt the different parts of the same kingdom; a system, be it said in passing, mightily resembling the conduct of a pugilist, who should tie up one arm that he might fight the better with the other. But Fairford was unprepared for the expensive and regular establishments by which the illicit traffic was carried on, and could not have conceived that the capital employed in it should have been adequate to the erection of these extensive buildings, with all their contrivances for secrecy of communication. He was musing on these circumstances, not without some anxiety for the progress of his own journey, when suddenly, as he lifted his eyes, he discovered old Mr. Trumbull at the upper end of the apartment, bearing in one hand a small bundle, in the other his dark lantern, the light of which, as he advanced, he directed full upon Fairford’s countenance.

Though such an apparition was exactly what he expected, yet he did not see the grim, stern old man present himself thus suddenly without emotion; especially when he recollected, what to a youth of his pious education was peculiarly shocking, that the grizzled hypocrite was probably that instant arisen from his knees to Heaven, for the purpose of engaging in the mysterious transactions of a desperate and illegal trade.

The old man, accustomed to judge with ready sharpness of the physiognomy of those with whom he had business, did not fail to remark something like agitation in Fairford’s demeanour. ‘Have ye taken the rue?’ said he. ‘Will ye take the sheaf from the mare, and give up the venture?’

‘Never!’ said Fairford, firmly, stimulated at once by his natural spirit, and the recollection of his friend; ‘never, while I have life and strength to follow it out!’

‘I have brought you,’ said Trumbull, ‘a clean shirt, and some stockings, which is all the baggage you can conveniently carry, and I will cause one of the lads lend you a horseman’s coat, for it is ill sailing or riding without one; and, touching your valise, it will be as safe in my poor house, were it full of the gold of Ophir, as if it were in the depth of the mine.’ ‘I have no doubt of it,’ said Fairford.

‘And now,’ said Trumbull, again, ‘I pray you to tell me by what name I am to name you to Nanty (which is Antony) Ewart?’

‘By the name of Alan Fairford,’ answered the young lawyer.

‘But that,’ said Mr. Trumbull, in reply, ‘is your own proper name and surname.’

‘And what other should I give?’ said the young man; ‘do you think I have any occasion for an alias? And, besides, Mr. Trumbull,’ added Alan, thinking a little raillery might intimate confidence of spirit, ‘you blessed yourself, but a little while since, that you had no acquaintance with those who defiled their names so far as to be obliged to change them.’

‘True, very true,’ said Mr. Trumbull; ‘nevertheless, young man, my grey hairs stand unreproved in this matter; for, in my line of business, when I sit under my vine and my fig-tree, exchanging the strong waters of the north for the gold which is the price thereof, I have, I thank Heaven, no disguises to keep with any man, and wear my own name of Thomas Trumbull, without any chance that the same may be polluted. Whereas, thou, who art to journey in miry ways, and amongst a strange people, mayst do well to have two names, as thou hast two shirts, the one to keep the other clean.’

Here he emitted a chuckling grunt, which lasted for two vibrations of the pendulum exactly, and was the only approach towards laughter in which old Turnpenny, as he was nicknamed, was ever known to indulge.

‘You are witty, Mr. Trumbull,’ said Fairford; ‘but jests are no arguments – I shall keep my own name.’

‘At your own pleasure,’ said the merchant; ‘there is but one name which,’ &c. &c, &c.

We will not follow the hypocrite through the impious cant which he added, in order to close the subject.

Alan followed him, in silent abhorrence, to the recess in which the beaufet was placed, and which was so artificially made as to conceal another of those traps with which the whole building abounded. This concealment admitted them to the same winding passage by which the young lawyer had been brought thither. The path which they now took amid these mazes, differed from the direction in which he had been guided by Rutledge. It led upwards, and terminated beneath a garret window. Trumbull opened it, and with more agility than his age promised, clambered out upon the leads. If Fairford’s journey had been hitherto in a stifled and subterranean atmosphere, it was now open, lofty, and airy enough; for he had to follow his guide over leads and slates, which the old smuggler traversed with the dexterity of a cat. It is true, his course was facilitated by knowing exactly where certain stepping-places and holdfasts were placed, of which Fairford could not so readily avail himself; but, after a difficult and somewhat perilous progress along the roofs of two or three houses, they at length descended by a skylight into a garret room, and from thence by the stairs into a public-house; for such it appeared, by the ringing of bells, whistling for waiters and attendance, bawling of ‘House, house, here!’ chorus of sea songs, and the like noises.

Having descended to the second story, and entered a room there in which there was a light, old Mr. Trumbull rang the bell of the apartment thrice, with an interval betwixt each, during which he told deliberately the number twenty. Immediately after the third ringing the landlord appeared, with stealthy step, and an appearance of mystery on his buxom visage. He greeted Mr. Trumbull, who was his landlord as it proved, with great respect, and expressed some surprise at seeing him so late, as he termed it, ‘on Saturday e’en.’

‘And I, Robin Hastie,’ said the landlord to the tenant, am more surprised than pleased, to hear sae muckle din in your house, Robie, so near the honourable Sabbath; and I must mind you that it is contravening the terms of your tack, whilk stipulates that you should shut your public on Saturday at nine o’clock, at latest.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Robin Hastie, no way alarmed at the gravity of the rebuke, ‘but you must take tent that I have admitted naebody but you, Mr. Trumbull (who by the way admitted yoursell), since nine o’clock for the most of the folk have been here for several hours about the lading, and so on, of the brig. It is not full tide yet, and I cannot put the men out into the street. If I did, they would go to some other public, and their souls would be nane the better, and my purse muckle the waur; for how am I to pay the rent if I do not sell the liquor?’

‘Nay, then,’ said Thomas Trumbull, ‘if it is a work of necessity, and in the honest independent way of business, no doubt there is balm in Gilead. But prithee, Robin, wilt thou see if Nanty Ewart be, as is most likely, amongst these unhappy topers; and if so, let him step this way cannily, and speak to me and this young gentleman. And it’s dry talking, Robin – you must minister to us a bowl of punch – ye ken my gage.’

‘From a mutchkin to a gallon, I ken your honour’s taste, Mr. Thomas Trumbull,’ said mine host; ‘and ye shall hang me over the signpost if there be a drap mair lemon or a curn less sugar than just suits you. There are three of you – you will be for the auld Scots peremptory pint-stoup for the success of the voyage?’ [The Scottish pint of liquid measure comprehends four English measures of the same denomination. The jest is well known of my poor countryman, who, driven to extremity by the raillery of the Southern, on the small denomination of the Scottish coin, at length answered, ‘Aye, aye! But the deil tak them that has the LEAST PINT-STOUP.‘]

‘Better pray for it than drink for it, Robin,’ said Mr. Trumbull. ‘Yours is a dangerous trade, Robin; it hurts mony a ane – baith host and guest. But ye will get the blue bowl, Robin – the blue bowl – that will sloken all their drouth, and prevent the sinful repetition of whipping for an eke of a Saturday at e’en. Aye, Robin, it is a pity of Nanty Ewart – Nanty likes the turning up of his little finger unco weel, and we maunna stint him, Robin, so as we leave him sense to steer by.’

‘Nanty Ewart could steer through the Pentland Firth though he were as drunk as the Baltic Ocean,’ said Robin Hastie; and instantly tripping downstairs, he speedily returned with the materials for what he called his BROWST, which consisted of two English quarts of spirits, in a huge blue bowl, with all the ingredients for punch in the same formidable proportion. At the same time he introduced Mr. Antony or Nanty Ewart, whose person, although he was a good deal flustered with liquor, was different from what Fairford expected. His dress was what is emphatically termed the shabby genteel – a frock with tarnished lace – a small cocked hat, ornamented in a similar way – a scarlet waistcoat, with faded embroidery, breeches of the same, with silver knee-bands, and he wore a smart hanger and a pair of pistols in a sullied swordbelt.

‘Here I come, patron,’ he said, shaking hands with Mr. Trumbull. ‘Well, I see you have got some grog aboard.’

‘It is not my custom, Mr. Ewart,’ said the old gentleman, ‘as you well know, to become a chamberer or carouser thus late on Saturday at e’en; but I wanted to recommend to your attention a young friend of ours, that is going upon a something particular journey, with a letter to our friend the Laird from Pate-in-Peril, as they call him.’

‘Aye – indeed? – he must be in high trust for so young a gentleman. I wish you joy, sir,’ bowing to Fairford. ‘By’r lady, as Shakespeare says, you are bringing up a neck for a fair end. Come, patron, we will drink to Mr. What-shall-call-um. What is his name? Did you tell me? And have I forgot it already.’