Tales within a tale, just like books that are mentioned
within a novel, have always fascinated me. In this case I am not sure whether
it is the tale itself or whether it is the particularity of listening to a protagonist’s
narrative. This is a fragment from that story within a story, from
Catriona by Robert Louis Stevenson.
Catriona is a sequel to Kidnapped.It is a story told by
Andie Dale, one of the protagonists of the story, of his father’s time being
stationed at the Bass, a now abandoned fort and prison. This story, as well as
the novel, mimics a Scottish voice.
The Tale of Tod Lapraik
'My faither, Tam Dale, peace to his banes, was a wild,
sploring lad in his young days, wi’ little wisdom and little grace. He was fond of a lass and fond of a glass,
and fond of a ran-dan; but I could never hear tell that he was muckle use for
honest employment. Frae ae thing to
anither, he listed at last for a sodger and was in the garrison of this fort,
which was the first way that ony of the Dales cam to set foot upon the Bass. Sorrow upon that service! The governor brewed his ain ale; it seems it
was the warst conceivable. The rock was
proveesioned free the shore with vivers, the thing was ill-guided, and there
were whiles when they but to fish and shoot solans for their diet. To crown a’, thir was the Days of the
Persecution. The perishin’ cauld
chalmers were all occupeed wi’ sants and martyrs, the saut of the yearth, of
which it wasnae worthy. And though Tam
Dale carried a firelock there, a single sodger, and liked a lass and a glass,
as I was sayin,’ the mind of the man was mair just than set with his
position. He had glints of the glory of
the kirk; there were whiles when his dander rase to see the Lord’s sants
misguided, and shame covered him that he should be haulding a can’le (or
carrying a firelock) in so black a business.
There were nights of it when he was here on sentry, the place a’
wheesht, the frosts o’ winter maybe riving in the wa’s, and he would hear ane
o’ the prisoners strike up a psalm, and the rest join in, and the blessed
sounds rising from the different chalmers—or dungeons, I would raither say—so
that this auld craig in the sea was like a pairt of Heev’n.
In thir days, dwalled upon the Bass a man of God, Peden the
Prophet was his name. Ye’ll have heard
tell of Prophet Peden. There was never
the wale of him sinsyne, and it’s a question wi’ mony if there ever was his
like afore. He was wild’s a peat-hag,
fearsome to look at, fearsome to hear, his face like the day of judgment. The voice of him was like a solan’s and
dinnle’d in folks’ lugs, and the words of him like coals of fire.
Now there was a lass on the rock, and I think she had little
to do, for it was nae place far decent weemen; but it seems she was bonny, and
her and Tam Dale were very well agreed.
It befell that Peden was in the gairden his lane at the praying when Tam
and the lass cam by; and what should the lassie do but mock with laughter at
the sant’s devotions? He rose and lookit
at the twa o’ them, and Tam’s knees knoitered thegether at the look of him. But whan he spak, it was mair in sorrow than
in anger. “Poor thing, poor thing!” says
he, and it was the lass he lookit at, “I hear you skirl and laugh,” he says,
“but the Lord has a deid shot prepared for you, and at that surprising judgment
ye shall skirl but the ae time!” Shortly
thereafter she was daundering on the craigs wi’ twa-three sodgers, and it was a
blawy day. There cam a gowst of wind,
claught her by the coats, and awa’ wi’ her bag and baggage. And it was remarked by the sodgers that she
gied but the ae skirl.
Nae doubt this judgment had some weicht upon Tam Dale; but
it passed again and him none the better.
Ae day he was flyting wi’ anither sodger-lad. “Deil hae me!” quo’ Tam, for he was a profane
swearer. And there was Peden glowering
at him, gash an’ waefu’; Peden wi’ his lang chafts an’ luntin’ een, the maud
happed about his kist, and the hand of him held out wi’ the black nails upon
the finger-nebs—for he had nae care of the body. “Fy, fy, poor man!” cries he, “the poor fool
man! Deil hae me, quo’ he; an’ I see the
deil at his oxter.” The conviction of
guilt and grace cam in on Tam like the deep sea; he flang doun the pike that
was in his hands—“I will nae mair lift arms against the cause o’ Christ!” says
he, and was as gude’s word.
It was in the year seeventeen hunner and sax that the Bass
cam in the hands o’ the Da’rymples, and there was twa men soucht the chairge of
it. Baith were weel qualified, for they
had baith been sodgers in the garrison, and kent the gate to handle solans, and
the seasons and values of them. Forby
that they were baith—or they baith seemed—earnest professors and men of comely
conversation. The first of them was just
Tam Dale, my faither. The second was ane
Lapraik, whom the folk ca’d Tod Lapraik maistly, but whether for his name or
his nature I could never hear tell.
Weel, Tam gaed to see Lapraik upon this business, and took me, that was
a toddlin’ laddie, by the hand. Tod had
his dwallin’ in the lang loan benorth the kirkyaird. It’s a dark uncanny loan, forby that the kirk
has aye had an ill name since the days o’ James the Saxt and the deevil’s
cantrips played therein when the Queen was on the seas; and as for Tod’s house,
it was in the mirkest end, and was little liked by some that kenned the
best. The door was on the sneck that day,
and me and my faither gaed straucht in.
Tod was a wabster to his trade; his loom stood in the but. There he sat, a muckle fat, white hash of a
man like creish, wi’ a kind of a holy smile that gart me scunner. The hand of him aye cawed the shuttle, but
his een was steeked.
“God be guid to us,” says Tam Dale, “this is no canny?”
He had jimp said the word, when Tod Lapraik cam to himsel’.
“Is this you, Tam?” says he.
“Haith, man! I’m blythe to see
ye. I whiles fa’ into a bit dwam like
this,” he says; “its frae the stamach.”
Weel, they began to crack about the Bass and which of them
twa was to get the warding o’t, and little by little cam to very ill words, and
twined in anger. I mind weel that as my
faither and me gaed hame again, he cam ower and ower the same expression, how
little he likit Tod Lapraik and his dwams.
“Dwam!” says he. “I
think folk hae brunt for dwams like yon.”
Aweel, my faither got the Bass and Tod had to go
wantin’. It was remembered sinsyne what
way he had ta’en the thing. “Tam,” says
he, “ye hae gotten the better o’ me aince mair, and I hope,” says he, “ye’ll
find at least a’ that ye expeckit at the Bass.”
Which have since been thought remarkable expressions. At last the time came for Tam Dale to take
young solans. This was a business he was
weel used wi’, he had been a craigsman frae a laddie, and trustit nane but
himsel’. So there was he hingin’ by a
line an’ speldering on the craig face, whaur its hieest and steighest. Fower tenty lads were on the tap, hauldin’
the line and mindin’ for his signals.
But whaur Tam hung there was naething but the craig, and the sea belaw,
and the solans skirlin and flying.
It chanced, ye see, that Tam keeked up, and he was awaur of
a muckle solan, and the solan pyking at the line. He thocht this by-ordinar and outside the
creature’s habits. He minded that ropes
was unco saft things, and the solan’s neb and the Bass Rock unco hard, and that
twa hunner feet were raither mair than he would care to fa’.
“Shoo!” says Tam. “Awa’,
bird! Shoo, awa’ wi’ ye!” says he.
The solan keekit doon into Tam’s face, and there was
something unco in the creature’s ee.
Just the ae keek it gied, and back to the rope. But now it wroucht and warstl’t like a thing
dementit. There never was the solan made
that wroucht as that solan wroucht; and it seemed to understand its employ
brawly, birzing the saft rope between the neb of it and a crunkled jag o’
stane.
There gaed a cauld stend o’ fear into Tam’s heart. “This thing is nae bird,” thinks he. His een turnt backward in his heid and the
day gaed black aboot him. “If I get a
dwam here,” he toucht, “it’s by wi’ Tam Dale.”
And he signalled for the lads to pu’ him up.
And it seemed the solan understood about signals. For nae sooner was the signal made than he
let be the rope, spried his wings, squawked out loud, took a turn flying, and
dashed straucht at Tam Dale’s een. Tam
had a knife, he gart the cauld steel glitter.
And it seemed the solan understood about knives, for nae suner did the steel
glint in the sun than he gied the ae squawk, but laighter, like a body
disappointit, and flegged aff about the roundness of the craig, and Tam saw him
nae mair.
A dram of brandy (which he went never without) broucht him
to his mind, or what was left of it. Up
he sat.
“Rin, Geordie, rin to the boat, mak’ sure of the boat,
man—rin!” he cries, “or yon solan’ll have it awa’,” says he.
The fower lads stared at ither, an’ tried to whilly-wha him
to be quiet. But naething would satisfy
Tam Dale, till ane o’ them had startit on aheid to stand sentry on the
boat. The ithers askit if he was for
down again.
“Na,” says he, “and niether you nor me,” says he, “and as
sune as I can win to stand on my twa feet we’ll be aff frae this craig o’
Sawtan.”
Sure eneuch, nae time was lost, and that was ower muckle;
for before they won to North Berwick Tam was in a crying fever. He lay a’ the simmer; and wha was sae kind as
come speiring for him, but Tod Lapraik!
Folk thocht afterwards that ilka time Tod cam near the house the fever
had worsened. I kenna for that; but what
I ken the best, that was the end of it.
It was about this time o’ the year; my grandfaither was out
at the white fishing; and like a bairn, I but to gang wi’ him. We had a grand take, I mind, and the way that
the fish lay broucht us near in by the Bass, whaur we foregaithered wi’ anither
boat that belanged to a man Sandie Fletcher in Castleton. He’s no lang deid neither, or ye could speir
at himsel’. Weel, Sandie hailed.
“What’s yon on the Bass?” says he.
“On the Bass?” says grandfaither.
“Ay,” says Sandie, “on the green side o’t.”
“Whatten kind of a thing?” says grandfaither. “There cannae be naething on the Bass but
just the sheep.”
“It looks unco like a body,” quo’ Sandie, who was nearer in.
“A body!” says we, and we none of us likit that. For there was nae boat that could have
brought a man, and the key o’ the prison yett hung ower my faither’s at hame in
the press bed.
We keept the twa boats close for company, and crap in nearer
hand. Grandfaither had a gless, for he
had been a sailor, and the captain of a smack, and had lost her on the sands of
Tay. And when we took the glass to it,
sure eneuch there was a man. He was in a
crunkle o’ green brae, a wee below the chaipel, a’ by his lee lane, and lowped
and flang and danced like a daft quean at a waddin’.
“It’s Tod,” says grandfather, and passed the gless to
Sandie.
“Ay, it’s him,” says Sandie.
“Or ane in the likeness o’ him,” says grandfaither.
“Sma’ is the differ,” quo’ Sandie. “De’il or warlock, I’ll try the gun at him,”
quo’ he, and broucht up a fowling-piece that he aye carried, for Sandie was a
notable famous shot in all that country.
“Haud your hand, Sandie,” says grandfaither; “we maun see
clearer first,” says he, “or this may be a dear day’s wark to the baith of us.”
“Hout!” says Sandie, “this is the Lord’s judgment surely,
and be damned to it,” says he.
“Maybe ay, and maybe no,” says my grandfaither, worthy
man! “But have you a mind of the
Procurator Fiscal, that I think ye’ll have foregaithered wi’ before,” says he.
This was ower true, and Sandie was a wee thing set
ajee. “Aweel, Edie,” says he, “and what
would be your way of it?”
“Ou, just this,” says grandfaither. “Let me that has the fastest boat gang back
to North Berwick, and let you bide here and keep an eye on Thon. If I cannae find Lapraik, I’ll join ye and
the twa of us’ll have a crack wi’ him.
But if Lapraik’s at hame, I’ll rin up the flag at the harbour, and ye
can try Thon Thing wi’ the gun.”
Aweel, so it was agreed between them twa. I was just a bairn, an’ clum in Sandie’s
boat, whaur I thoucht I would see the best of the employ. My grandsire gied Sandie a siller tester to
pit in his gun wi’ the leid draps, bein mair deidly again bogles. And then the as boat set aff for North
Berwick, an’ the tither lay whaur it was and watched the wanchancy thing on the
brae-side.
A’ the time we lay there it lowped and flang and capered and
span like a teetotum, and whiles we could hear it skelloch as it span. I hae seen lassies, the daft queans, that
would lowp and dance a winter’s nicht, and still be lowping and dancing when
the winter’s day cam in. But there would
be fowk there to hauld them company, and the lads to egg them on; and this
thing was its lee-lane. And there would
be a fiddler diddling his elbock in the chimney-side; and this thing had nae
music but the skirling of the solans.
And the lassies were bits o’ young things wi’ the reid life dinnling and
stending in their members; and this was a muckle, fat, creishy man, and him
fa’n in the vale o’ years. Say what ye
like, I maun say what I believe. It was
joy was in the creature’s heart, the joy o’ hell, I daursay: joy whatever.
Weel, at the hinder end, we saw the wee flag yirk up to the
mast-heid upon the harbour rocks. That
was a’ Sandie waited for. He up wi’ the
gun, took a deleeberate aim, an’ pu’d the trigger. There cam’ a bang and then ae waefu’ skirl
frae the Bass. And there were we rubbin’
our een and lookin’ at ither like daft folk.
For wi’ the bang and the skirl the thing had clean disappeared. The sun glintit, the wund blew, and there was
the bare yaird whaur the Wonder had been lowping and flinging but ae second
syne.
The hale way hame I roared and grat wi’ the terror o’ that
dispensation. The grawn folk were nane
sae muckle better; there was little said in Sandie’s boat but just the name of
God; and when we won in by the pier, the harbour rocks were fair black wi’ the
folk waitin’ us. It seems they had fund
Lapraik in ane of his dwams, cawing the shuttle and smiling. Ae lad they sent to hoist the flag, and the
rest abode there in the wabster’s house.
You may be sure they liked it little; but it was a means of grace to
severals that stood there praying in to themsel’s (for nane cared to pray out
loud) and looking on thon awesome thing as it cawed the shuttle. Syne, upon a suddenty, and wi’ the ae
dreidfu’ skelloch, Tod sprang up frae his hinderlands and fell forrit on the wab,
a bluidy corp.
When the corp was examined the leid draps hadnae played buff
upon the warlock’s body; sorrow a leid drap was to be fund! but there was
grandfaither’s siller tester in the puddock’s heart of him.'
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