The King of Andaman. A saviour of society

Prologue

PAGE I. — WIND AND THE WINDING OF THE WEB, . . I II. — 'THERE IS A SPIRIT IN MAN !' . . . 8 III. — THE THREADS OF FATE, . . . . 14 CHAP. I. — LEPINE AND SON, ..... 25 II. — THE TRYST IN THE HAUGH, • • • 33 III. — THE MASTER OF HUTCHEON, . . . 40 IV. — THE BAILIE'S OFFER, .... 47 V. — THE MASTER AND THE BAII.IE, ... 54 VI. — CONSPIRACY, ...... 6l VII. — HOW O'RHEA MADE FRIENDS WITH THE BAILIF, 68 VIII. — 'A MAN'S FOES. . . . ,' . . . . 75 IX. — THE ADVENTURES OF HAMISH'S PENNY, . . 83 X. — NEWS FROM A FAR COUNTRY, ... CONTENTS vi CHAP. PACK XI. — HOW THE MASTER TALKED AND O'RHEA SNIGGERED, . . . .101 XII. — A BROKEN SABBATH, . . . . 109 XIII.— AIMEE, . . . . . .118 XIV. — HOW THE MASTER DID NOT TAKE OUT A PATENT, . . . . .128 XV. — THE END OF 'THE WHAMLEERIE,' . . I35 XVI. — 'VOILA LE SOLEIL ! ' . . . 142 XVII.— VISIONS AND DREAMS, .... 152 XVIII. — aimee's AID, ..... 158 XIX. — THE BOY AND THE MAN, . . . 169 XX. — 'DEAR QUEEN — ' . . . 177 XXI.— HOW TAM WAS WON, .... 184 XXII. — 'ON HER MAJESTY'S SERVICE,' . . . 192 XXIII. — VIEWS OF KINGSHIP, .... 203 XXIV. — 'THE WOOING O'Tl' . . . 2IO XXV. — THE KING'S FIRST COUNCIL, . . . 217 XXVI.— HOW THE QUEEN'S LETTER WAS RECEIVED, . 225 XXVII. — AFFAIRS OF STATE, AND OTHER MATTERS, . 232 XXVIII. — 'OH, LOVE, LOVE! — ' .... 24O XXIX. — LOVE TRAVERSED, .... 249 XXX. — A SYMPOSIUM, ..... 258 XXXI. — ON TO THE RAPIDS, ....

CONTENTS vii CHAP. PAGE XXXII.— CRISIS ...... 274 XXXIII. — A STRANGE MARRIAGE, .... 282 XXXIV.— A PLOT, ...... 289 XXXV. — THE PLOT THICKENS, .... 295 XXXVI. — INQUISITION, ..... 302 XXXVII. — HOW O'RHEA FARED, .... 310 XXXVIII. — THE MASTER IS EXAMINED, . . . 317 XXXIX. — THE HOUSE ON THE MOSS, . . . 326 XL. — EXODUS, ...... THE STORY OF A SAVIOUR OF SOCIETY PROLOGU E i WIND AND THE WINDING OF THE WEB ILKASTANE is now built about with houses of the genteel villa description, possessing bow-windows, door-bells, iron railings, a shrub or two, and all the other tokens of respectability. It is now practically one in life and interest, as it is one in corporation, with the busy city of Inverdoon. But in the year 1848 it was a wretched and rather remote suburb, the thread of whose connection with the city, both in life and interest, was of extreme tenuity.

The year '48 is memorable in home annals for the final, desperate, and unsuccessful attempt of the Chartists to compel attention to their demands by other than ' moral force.' None had been more reckless, and none felt their failure more keenly than the Chartist weavers of Ilkastane. There were other craftsfolk there besides weavers who were Chartists, but the suburb was so distinctively a weaving community, and weaving seemed so inseparable from Chartism, that weaver and Chartist were synonymous — at least, in the timid and prejudiced view of the neighbouring townspeople. Ilkastane in itself was a hard, forbidding place, though it had field and stream and tree at its doors. Its single street, 'the Loan,' with its open gutter on either side, and its gaping, dark-mouthed closes, was built of rough-hewn granite, plastered ('harled' is the word) with rough-cast, A which, since it is now seldom seen, may be explained as a kind of thin mortar mixed with rough gravel, rendering a wall covered with it scarifyingly painful to lean against.

Its people were like unto it ; in the main, a large-boned, rough-hewn folk, gritty of temper, and rough-cast in manner. Long before the Chartist days, the weavers of Ilkastane had a reputation for riot and devilry — and that in a city itself unmannerly and riotous enough. Respectable townsfolk would rather pass round than through it ; if ever a well-dressed stranger adventured into it he had to run the gauntlet of rude, glowering eyes and uncouth, discourteous speech, flung sideways at him ; and if he left it without some of its dirt higher than his heels he might reckon himself lucky. He might, indeed, see the young people slapped and cuffed for their rudeness by the women, but by no means better instructed by their example. Even the ministers and missionaries of the town, who, in the fervour of the new Evangelical zeal of that period, launched them selves upon Ilkastane, had to withdraw baffled, though not maltreated.

The Ilkastanians had too much theoretic respect for the Kirk, and the Free Kirk both, not to respect their messengers. The earnest students and ' pro bationers ' who visited Ilkastane got entangled in argumenta tive quandaries with the weavers about ' Election ' and ' Free Will,' or were drily repulsed by the wives, who scarcely paused at their windingwheels to say, ' Na ; we dinna want no tracts. Na ; we've neither time nor claithes to gang to the Kirk.' So, what with rude manners, rough speech, Sabbath-breaking, Chartism and poverty, Ilkastane seemed, to all church-going, psalm-singing, well-dressed people of Inverdoon, completely self-devoted to the devil and his works. When, therefore, the Chartists of town and suburb left off assembling in waste places to drill with pike and banner, or to be harangued by inflamed and ill-dressed orators, when they left off marching up and down to the detriment of business, and the extreme disquiet of douce, aproned shop-folk, when they were compelled to skulk to their lairs by the uplifted hand and whip of law and order, the excellent public who paid rates and taxes, who had clothes to their back, food for their belly, and money in their purse, breathed freely again and openly rejoiced.

Some WIND AND THE WINDING OF THE WEB 3 of these excellent rate-paying people even went further, and denounced as arch-traitors and ringleaders of the sedition several Chartists whom they knew by name, and gave directions to the agents of the Law in their attempts to lay hands on them, directions which took them invariably to Ilkastane or its neighbourhood. The quality of mercy meted out to the Chartists of the north and of the south, who had already been arrested and tried, did not encourage those of Ilkastane to let them selves be quietly caught when they knew they were wanted. So it came to pass that two Ilkastane men, who had been set down as notably dangerous and influential, were assidu ously sought for without being found. They were George Hutcheon and Fergus O'Rhea. Neither of them was a weaver.

O'Rhea, indeed, as his name suggests, was not even a native of Ilkastane. He had visited these parts as a Chartist agitator, and had remained as inspirer and director of Chartist action. He was commonly believed to be an Irishman ; but he disclaimed that honour, saying he was only an Ulsterman, and, but for his name, as Scotch in blood as any of them. He was a ' physical force man,' and had done more, it was reckoned, to ruin ' The Cause,' than any half-dozen besides. George Hutcheon was a ' moral force man,' but very subject to the influence of O'Rhea. He was regarded as a scholar and a gentleman, because he had been to college and had never hardened his hands with labour. He was a young man of romantic feeling, and fluent, flowery speech ; and before his public appearance as a Chartist leader, he had been a student at Dunblair for the Episcopalian ministry.

It was at the end of October that the authorities in the city had word sent them anonymously that efforts were being made by the friends of the two Chartist leaders to raise money — to send them out of the country, no doubt — and that both men would be certain to be about Ilkastane on the Saturday, when money would be given them by James Hutcheon, the brother of George. It was probable, the message said, they would then attempt to make their escape. The Fiscal and the New Police were weary of this Chartist-hunting, but it was necessary for them to seem to go through it with alacrity. Arrangements were made to effect an arrest on the Saturday. In the meantime, the Ilkastane ' loan ' lay full in the sunshine. Windows were rattling, and doors slamming, and dust and leaves flying, for it was very windy.

Windy! The blast, tearing down through the close called Wilson's, and turning the corner suddenly, almost snatched the mutch from Kirsty Kyle's grey head, and slammed the entry door in her face, as she came forth for her Saturday's sand ; and it so beset the sand cadger's pony that, with his thin mane and tail driven this way and that, it was all he could do to keep his feet. As if with a wild guffaw at the quandary of the old woman and the old horse, the wind flew up Hutcheon's close, spread its great flapping wings and sped away over the low weaving-shops, away — tearing, whistling, howling, catching and bearing away the vile odours of Poverty and Chartism — away, over potato-patches and kail-yards, bare fields of oat-stubble, and bleak pastures, over the northern end of the town, to the wide links, the sands and the sea.

Kirsty, tying her mutch closer, reached the sand-cart, little disturbed. ' Some windy, man,' said she, looking the cadger straight in the eye. The man glanced up the close, noting the progress of the blast, and said, — ' Windy, ay. But it's no so windy but I've seen it windier mysel'. But ye ken, mistress, what they say ? — " It's aye an ill wind that blaws naebody good." And that's what I'm just thinkin' ; for it's lucky that it's windy for some folk, I expect.' He put his face in saying that very close to Kirsty's. ' What does the man mean ? ' said she, holding back and staring at him. ' I ken ye can be trusted, Kirsty,' said the cadger. ' I ha'e an errand for Maister Hutcheon. I canna see him mysel', 'cause he's no in, I ken that.' ' It's mair than I ken. Weel, I suppose ye want me to do your errand for ye.

What is't ? ' The man looked at her a moment as if weighing her trustworthiness. ' This'll do,' said he, tearing a piece of paper from his pocket, putting some sand in it and twisting it up, and then tearing another piece, finding a stone and twisting WIND AND THE WINDING OF THE WEB 5 it up. ' See Maister Hutcheon as soon as ye can, and gi'e him them, and say, " That if it's windy " (putting his hand on the stone packet), " and that if it's no windy " (putting his hand on the sand packet). ' Weel ; what mair ? ' ' Naething.' ' I'm to say naething a body can understand ? If I'm no to be trusted wi' a reasonable word, ye can do your gowk's errand yoursel' ! ' She threw the two packets into his cart. ' Kirsty,' said the man, ' it's a matter o' life or death,' and he returned the two packets into her hand. ' What am I to say ? ' insisted she.

He repeated his former words, and then at once resumed crying ' Sa-and ! ' and urged on his pony. She saw something in the man's eye which made her turn ; an officer of the New Police was passing. 'Some windy,' said she to him by way of salutation, as she recrossed the gutter and entered her own door. Some windy, indeed ! In a little while it was a storm of wind, the like of which the old asthmatic, M'Kay, could not remember for fifty years. And all the while the sun was shining brightly and there was not a speck of cloud in the sky. Chimney-pots and tiles were whipped from the houses and dashed into the loan. Sharp dust and stour whirled about the person and into the eyes and throat. Yet the loan and the door-steps were busy with feet and clatter ing pails, for it was Saturday, ' dies iræ, dies ilia ' of washing, and scrubbing and sanding floors.

The schoolmaster was execrated for resting on Saturday, of all days in the week, and the children were hustled out into the wind, which, in its large, clumsy way, made merry with them, running them off on errands they never meant to go, driving them against sharp corners, and whirling them into dusty nooks. The afternoon was wearing late when Kirsty Kyle again came to her door to look out for ' Maister Hutcheon.' The Hutcheons (for reasons which shall be explained hereafter) were held in great regard by the Ilkastanians, and Kirsty was especially anxious now to fulfil the commission she had undertaken for the elder — the simpler, and the quieter of the two. ' Maister Hutcheon ' at length came striding down the loan, with his hand clapped on his broad bonnet. How he buffeted the wind and forced his way in spite of it and its flying missiles, as if he enjoyed the encounter !

He turned to pass up the close called by his own name, and then the wind thought to drive him before it ; but he laughed a low, solemn laugh, leaned trustfully back upon it, and kept his own pace. The fickle, nimble wind, however, faced him again and — ' Tak' care, James, tak' care,' said Kirsty Kyle, with her eye on him. ' Dinna lean upon the wind, man. It's little support to a trustin' back. Lippenin' * the wind '11 be the ruin o' ye. I've a bit figment o' an errand to ye. That (a bit stane) if it's windy ; that (a wee puckle sand) if it's no windy ; and if ye can mak' sense o' that ye've mair head than maist folk.' ' Wha gave ye't ? ' ' Cadger Jock.' ' Oh, ay ; it's a' right, Kirsty, I understand. I'm obliged to ye, Kirsty. Yes, I'll see to't. And, Kirsty, I doubt we'll ha'e the New Police down on us.

If ye'd just keep your e'e on the loan, Kirsty.' And Hutcheon went on his way and left Kirsty to fight with the wind for the possession of her mutch and little tartan shawl. Anon a dead calm fell, and through it there rose a strange eerie sound — a sustained, plaintive moan, as of a creature in pain. It seemed as if the wind had subdued itself to listen. Hearing it, the women of Hutcheon's close ceased their talk and their noisy occupations to congratulate each other on its happy meaning. It was the sound of the winding of a web. ' Eh, sirs ! ' said old Kirsty Kyle, putting her head out of window and addressing her gossips, ' doesna that sound do the heart good like a psalm ? ' ' It's the first wab this six months ! ' answered one of the women. The six months' sharp hunger and want of work, wild hope and black despair were at an end ; now there would be regular work and regular wages, regular meals and regular sleep, even if there were only little of either one or * Trusting.

WIND AND THE WINDING OF THE WEB 7 another — that was the meaning, for the women, of that melancholy sound of the winding of the web. It meant for the men something altogether different — as different as the gloom of the weaving-shop was from the sunshine of the close. Judging from the aspect of those engaged in the operation of winding, there might have been written over the door of the weaving-shop, 'Leave hope behind all ye who enter here.' The ' shop ' was a large, low-roofed, chilly place, with a faint earthy smell, as of a tomb. The looms (of which there were more than a dozen), with their dark beams and cross-pieces, and their cords and threads and finer fila ments, many and regular, which caught the light struggling in through the small, paper-patched windows, looked mysterious and awful enough to be those at which the Fates eternally sit weaving the destinies of men.

Within and about the loom in the furthest corner (all the rest stood silent and deserted) were six men. Two of them were at the end of the beam, turning it with a spoke, slowly bending each to the other like automata, and looking enor mously tall in the gloom, with their heads almost touching the low, black ceiling. Two others stood before the beam, letting the coils of yarn out with a tight hold, hand over hand. The great coils rose, writhing like snakes, from the piles at the feet of the men, glided slowly across the loom, round a smooth pole, and then through a ' guide ' (held by two other men), which with its teeth separated the coils into very small skeins and spread them out upon the beam. The beam moaned and complained, but the six men performed their duty in grim silence, without so much as a look at each other.

For them the winding of the web meant the surrender of all they had struggled, spoken, and starved for — a bitter return to the house of bondage. ' Wo-o-oa ! ' (The sound might have been the cry of a sad Jeremiah to a doomed people.) The beam was silent ; the men who were turning it stood still. James Hutcheon (one of the two who sat and held the 'guide') had spied some entanglement in the web which his patient fingers unravelled. Old M'Cree glowered through his brass-rimmed spectacles from the other end of the guide in angry impatience with the delay. ' Recht ! ' cried he in a rough, full-mouthed voice, and round again turned the beam, moaning and honing ; — and so the winding of the web went on. After some time the moaning beam was again brought to pause, and the men were struck into a hunted, desperate aspect by a loud ' Stop ! ' and by the vision of three men with bright brass buttons. 'James Hutcheon ! ' called the foremost of the three. 'That's me,' answered Hutcheon calmly.

To which the man replied by turning a blue sheet of paper to the light. While he was reading from it, Hutcheon laid his hand on the coil next him and gently pulled it ; the other end was in the hand of Steven, an old soldier with one eye. Hutcheon thus drew Steven's attention and shot a quick, meaning glance at the wall near Steven's head. Steven put out his hand and pulled a loose string, which was instantly drawn up somewhere out of sight. All that took but a few seconds, and the officer the while was reading his paper, which proved to be a warrant to search the premises of James Hutcheon for the outlawed persons of George Hutcheon and Fergus O'Rhea. II 'THERE IS A SPIRIT IN MAN' ' r I THIS is my premises,' said Hutcheon, 'this, and up the stairs. Ye're free to do your errand. Ye see, -*- there's nobody ye want here.' The officer seemed not sure of that.

He took the names of all present ; then he satisfied himself there was no one hidden about any of the idle looms, or in the dug-out beds in which the treadles worked, or in the coal-hole under the stairs. At length all three ascended to Hutcheon's living rooms. Hutcheon rose to go also. ' They might tak' something that's no set down in their paper,' said he in answer to the silent inquiry all his com rades turned on him. 'THERE IS A SPIRIT IN MAN' 9 While Hutcheon and the officers were in the rooms above, the others remained silent in rigid attention, with their eye": half-raised to the ceiling, and following in fancy the move ments here and there overhead. This alertness was maintained till the police walked across the floor to the further — the sleeping — room, when those below exchanged a look of marked emphasis, as much as to say, ' Now ! ' But presently the police were heard descending the stairs, and then the strained attention of those waiting at the loom relaxed, and M'Cree sucked up a great pinch of snuff into his resonant Roman nose, and cleared his throat with a loud ' Bu-h-h ! ' ' Weel,' said he when Hutcheon returned, ' that's ower.

Bu-h-h!' (M'Cree always made great ado about clearing his throat. ) ' I would like fine to ken whaur that deevil O'Rhea is.' ' Gin ye dinna ken, ye winna tell, Saunders,' said Steven, the one-eyed soldier. ' By Jingo, ye winna ! ' and he cast with his one eye many rapid, fiery winks at his neighbours. ' If there's one Chartist mair than anither deserves to be ta'en and tried for his life,' said M'Cree with full-mouthed emphasis, ' it's Fergus O'Rhea. Bu-h-h ! Ye a' ken he ruined the Cause wi' his voilence.' 'Ye're wrong, and wrong again, and ten times wrong,' said Hutcheon. ' Hoot ! ' said old Loudoun, fidgeting — it was his web that was being delayed. ' What for should we gang ower that ground again. The Cause is asdead'asaherrin' : What matters now wha did it ? The Cause is dead — ' 'But we're living, Loudoun, man !' exclaimed Hutcheon. ' Ay, we're livin',' said Loudoun, with a disconsolate shrug, ' so it behoves us to get something to live upon.

Ca' on ! ' So these two outer men resumed their spoke, the winding of the web went on again, and there was no sound heard for some time but the weary, plaintive moan of the beam. They all sank back into the apathy from which the interlude of the police had scarce roused them. Their hunger marked unshaven faces reflected no indignation, scarcely even interest ; from under their grizzled eyebrows (all except Hutcheon and Steven were over forty) looked only the primal instinct of a strong race — the grim resolve to live somehow. And the two at the beam slowly rose and bent ; hand over hand passed out the coils, untwining and spreading out fan-wise as they approached the 'guide,' to be drawn thro' its many teeth and laid upon the beam, which sustained its monotonous moan. Gradually the familiar movement and sound seemed to wake memory and feeling in all the winders.

They con tinued sad, silent, and absorbed, but a flash of the eye, a grim compression of the mouth, or a hitch of the shoulder as if, to ease it under a burden, showed that their minds were awake. If their thoughts had found voice they would have spoken thus : — ' Are not this winding of the web and its future weaving a type of our life ? Our web has been drawn thro' the teeth of circumstance and spread upon the beam, and it has been woven into fabric, as this will be, piece by piece ; piece by piece it has been taken from us as this will be taken by its owner — and now there is left us nothing but the thrums,! There is no man regardeth our case ; none careth whether we live or die.' But suddenly there came upon their ears, like a beautiful embroidery wrought on the monotonous moaning of the beam, a soft, melodious, measured sound.

It was distinctly from above, and at once the winders guessed what it was and who discoursed it. It was from a three-foot marvel of a flute, which they had often heard played with exquisite feeling by the same mouth and fingers as then compelled its music — those of Hutcheon's outlawed brother. The voice of the flute was at first distressed and bewildered as their feelings, but it ended in a pæan of triumph ; it was as the voice of toiling humanity — the voice of sad reminiscence and shame ful defeat, but defeat like that of Antæus, who drew new hope and strength from his overthrow ; it was the voice of their hearts as they glanced at each other and then turned their eyes away. The flute passed from one air to another. It sounded a quick march — ' Over the mountains, over the main ! ' M'Cree and Loudoun exchanged a glance.

That was the air to which they, when thoughtless striplings with a mind for glory, marched out of Ilkastane to help the great Wellington to beat Napoleon on the battlefields of Europe. Who would ever guess that old Sandy Loudoun, with his bald crown, his thin grey whisker brushed carefully forward, his watery eye, and his broken, disconsolate manner — that he had ever been a wild cat in a Highland regiment 'THERE IS A SPIRIT IN MAN' 11 that he had been one of those who had dashed into the famous fight clinging to a trooper's stirrup ? The flute blew out the wild notes of ' The Campbells are coming I' which made the simple, cheery Steven flush and wink, and whistle in unison. Ah, thought the old men as they wagged their heads at each other, those were the tunes — stirring, warlike, patriotic things — with which Governments befooled them.

They drew them skipping and dancing forth to do their will — to strive and cry, to shed their blood and waste their life — and all for what ? To be cast aside and trodden on ! But, ha ! they were not slaves yet ! Fools they might be, but slaves never! 'En avant I Ens ants de la Patrie ! ' The music had flown into the blood-stirring strain of 'La Marseillaise! It made their breath come quicker, and the dormant fever of revolt wake in their veins. They looked at each other and set their teeth hard. What wild impulses strove in them? Such as had helped to bring them to their present pass of humiliation and want ! A growl, which was half-sneer, half-snarl, passed among them as they glanced at each other. ' Mad French thing ! ' muttered Loudoun, loud enough to be heard. They had let the hope that inspired that music move them before, and what had come of it ?

What had all their vows, all their efforts — their marches and meetings, their drums and their speeches — brought them but the bitter lesson that they will take who have the power, and they will keep who can? But still sounded the 'mad French thing,' stirring their blood in spite of them — ' En avant I Enfants de la Patrie ! ' Surely, woe to the people the best of whose life lies in remembrance ! There was a future still to be fought for and won ! — ' En avant I Enfants de la Patrie ! ' sounded the flute like the clear pipe of an organ, and then in accompaniment, ' Marchons ! Marchons ! ' swelled out in a rich, bass voice from somewhere close at hand. ' Wha's that?' exclaimed M'Cree, glaring at Hutcheon. A step was heard ascending the stairs, and then a loud voice addressing the player of the flute. ' By Jingo ! ' cried Steven, ' it's O'Rhea ! ' ' Wo-o-oa ! ' called Hutcheon, as the end ofthe coils came close to his guide.

So the web was wound ; the spell was broken. The moan of the beam and the music above had both ceased, and disappeared like memory and hope ; there remained only the hard and dismal realities of the present. Hutcheon straightway left the weaving-shop and ascended the stairs. M'Cree, without a word or look to the others, resolutely followed him, upon which Steven, distributing nods and winks to those left behind, followed M'Cree. O'Rhea was talking in a loud voice to George Hutcheon in the garret. ' By Gosh ! ' exclaimed Steven, aside to James Hutcheon, ' he's been at the whisky.' ' Who said whisky ? ' asked O'Rhea, turning quickly. ' Have you got a drop ? If you have, for God's sake give me a mouthful, for I'm parched and poisoned by some fiendish distillation of vitriol and naphtha I laid hands on on the top shelf in Steven's shanty.' ' What for hae ye come oot ? ' asked Hutcheon in return. ' D'ye not ken the police have been round the loan and in here speirin' for ye ?

And ye risk meeting them for the sake o' a suck at a whisky-bottle ! ' 'Bu-h-h!' said M'Cree, who had been impatiently clearing his throat ready to throw in his word. ' That's jusht it ! ' ' What's just it, my patriarch ? ' demanded O'Rhea. He turned a full front upon him, and the light fell upon a figure that would make a man look and think twice wherever it was seen; especially would the strong fighting head and shoulders, the clipped red beard, the abundant crop of incontrollable red hair, and the grey-blue eye with its fearless expression of alertness and intelligence. ' What's just it ? ' he asked. ' I'm always risking life and limb for something no better than a toothful of spirits ; if that's what you mean, you're right. I've always done that, and, by the living Jingo! I daresay I'll go on djing it till the end of the chapter.' 'Bu-h-h!' resumed M'Cree. ' Ye used to read your Bible, M'Cree, I suppose, before ye became a wicked Chartist and imperilled your immortal sou'.