But when at last the echoes died away and I found myself still alive, I opened my eyes, and looked back. The troop of Redcoats was galloping along the ridge of the hill on the far side of the glen, and following them any number of villagers on horse and on foot, all whooping with the excitement of the hunt. To my utter joy and amazement I could see now that they had not been hunting me at all, but were after quite another quarry, one I could not rightly discern for it was far away, and sprang so swiftly through the heather, at once too big for a fox, and too small for a deer.
Both quarry and hunters were soon gone away over the crest of the hill, leaving me on my knees and thanking God in His mercy for my lucky escape. But my prayers of thanksgiving were interrupted by the sound of more shooting, a thunderous volley that clattered about the glen, and was followed by the emptiness of a terrible and ominous silence. I heard then, resounding through the hills, the same triumphant blood-curdling yell I had heard on the battlefield at Culloden Moor when the Redcoats had charged us and put us to flight. I knew that the hunt had made its kill, and I pitied the unfortunate beast whatever it was, and thanked God most fervently that it was not me.
I lay still on the heather for some time and watched the Redcoats and the hunters returning to the village, the poor creature swinging from a pole. At dusk a mist came down over the hills and hid me from their sight, after which I felt it safe enough to move. I made my way down the glen, across the tumbling burn and up over the steep hillside beyond where the hunt had made their kill. This was my only way out, for there was, I knew, a high and impassable mountain at my back and a village full of Redcoats below me, both of which I knew I must avoid. So I set out southwards along a rough trail, having now no idea where I should go, only that I must put as much distance between myself and the troop of Redcoats as I could.
I had not gone far when I came upon a great flat rock, and freshly painted in blood upon it, I found these words, which I read in the last glimmer of day: Near this rock was killed the last wolf in Scotland. 24 April 1746.
I knew not if this claim were true or false. Indeed, at that time I knew little enough of wolves, only that by repute the wolf was a species of wild and savage dog that stalked the countryside, preying on sheep, and even sometimes, it was believed, on human flesh, so that whenever and wherever they were found they were mercilessly hunted down and killed.
As I stood there contemplating how strange it was that my own life had been saved by such a creature, I heard at some small distance from me in the dark of the heather the sound of whining and yelping. Within a dozen paces I came upon what I perceived at once to be a wolf pup. I was not fearful for I could see that he was too weak to do me harm. Neither, it seemed, was he in the least fearful of me. He paid me not the slightest heed when I crouched over him, but instead licked the ground, crying piteously as though his heart would break. I talked to him as I crouched down and gentled him.
‘Come,’ I said, feeling at once an instant kinship between us, the kinship of orphans, the kinship of fugitives, ‘this is no place for you. This is no place for either of us. I live now only because your mother died. So I shall care for you as she would. That much I owe her. That much I owe you. You are alone in this world as I am. But if we are together then we are not alone, are we? We shall go where we go always together. Trust me.’
With some difficulty, for he was heavier than I had thought, I gathered him up and held him in my arms. Though he struggled against me, and snarled and snapped, he was not strong enough to do me much hurt. ‘And I shall call you Charlie,’ I told him, ‘for you are bonnie, and a prince among wolves.’
From that day on, I had always two mouths to feed, two reasons to survive, and therefore my resolve to do so was redoubled. I passed the long summer months hidden away with Charlie in a deserted croft high in the hills, living only on what I could catch or trap from the streams and hills about me. Being summer, there were rabbits and hares enough, and trout too in the burn. And Charlie needed little encouragement to eat. The more I fed him, the more he came to trust me. Though I looked for it at first, and feared it too, I saw in him no sign of a wolf’s reputed savagery. He curled his lip and bared his teeth at me only in jest as we played together. And play indeed we did, romping and rolling in the heather, wrestling with one another like children. Even when he bit me, he bit only gently, in affection, leaving me with raw knuckles perhaps, but with no real hurt ever done to me.
He grew quickly from a pup into a young wolf, and as he did so came to know me and to love me, perceiving me now as his provider and his friend, so that he would follow me wherever I went, his nose touching the back of my leg as if to remind me constantly of his presence, of his reliance upon me, of his affection for me. In my turn, I came to look upon Charlie as my only friend in a world full of enemies. I had no other. Wolf and rebel, we were inseparably bound together by the very nature of our common plight. So it was Charlie I talked to, Charlie I confided in, and like the good friend he was, he seemed always ready and willing to listen.
The summer months passed into autumn and we were still undisturbed in our remote hideaway in the hills. But with time to brood and winter approaching I was becoming ever more anxious about our predicament. To survive a winter in this barren place would be hard, and I feared too that even here we must surely one day be discovered and hunted down, that our good fortune, which had held for so long could not last much longer. I began to realize that if we were not to remain fugitives in these hills all our days, I must find some more permanent home elsewhere, across the sea, in some more hospitable land, in France perhaps. Some Frenchmen had fought bravely alongside us at Culloden, so I knew that the French were sympathetic to our rebellion and might give us sanctuary.
I had only once seen the sea, in Edinburgh. I remembered the ships lying at anchor, so I determined to return there as soon as possible. I thought we might be able to lose ourselves in amongst the great crowds that thronged the streets. But even here I knew I could scarce expect to remain unnoticed for long with Charlie at my side.
Tame though he was now, and biddable too, and in many respects much like any other large dog, there could be no doubt that Charlie did indeed by this time resemble what in fact he unmistakably was, a wolf. I knew well enough that almost no creature is more instantly recognizable than a wolf, and that none inspires more fear, nor more hatred either. Discovery would mean certain death for both of us, wolf and rebel alike, a circumstance I tried to explain to Charlie as I set about the business of disguising him.
I think I should never have discovered how this might be accomplished at all, had my eye not fallen one evening on a pair of discarded sheep shears hanging on the wall of the croft. I burned the rust off in the fire, sharpened the sheep shears on a stone, and set to work at once on Charlie. But Charlie made it plain that this was an indignity he deeply resented. He would growl at me and back away, refusing to stand still for me. Knowing that I could not restrain him against his will, for he was by now far too strong for me, I resorted to bribery, as I so often did with Charlie. I discovered that if I coaxed him almost constantly with rabbit meat he would, albeit unwillingly, stand and endure the sheep shears.
Until I began to cut his hair, I never imagined a wolf could grow so much of it and so thick. When, after some hours, I had done with my clipping, Charlie had taken on the appearance more of a bedraggled deerhound than a wolf. Although on close examination, his great webbed feet and his amber eyes might betray him, I was satisfied that he no longer had the shape and form of a wolf, that he might indeed pass for a large hound. I can mind how he stood there shivering in his humiliation and looking up at me out of baleful, accusing eyes, his tail between his legs. I would not, I thought, be easily forgiven. In this I was mistaken. It seemed not to be in Charlie’s nature to bear a grudge, and very soon we were once again the best of friends.
So, as the first flurries of snow fell about the croft, we left and travelled south to Edinburgh. Happily our journey proved less perilous
that I had feared. We saw fewer Redcoats that I had expected, and passed by unchallenged wherever we went, save only once. We encountered a traveller, sitting drunk by the wayside, and he stopped us, saying he had never in all his life set eyes upon such a strange looking creature as Charlie. ‘There is something wolfish about him,’ said he. ‘If he had more hair on him, I’d swear he was a wolf.’ I spoke not a word in reply, but waved cheerily, and passed on by without looking back, hoping against hope that he would not come after us. Thankfully he did not, and so I breathed again.
Once in the bustling streets of the city, I discovered that my earlier supposition had been justified, that there was indeed some safety in numbers, for no-one paid us any heed at all. By good chance I soon found work in a sailmaker’s loft on the dockside at Leith, and basement lodgings nearby. The place was rat-infested, but did not remain so for long, for Charlie soon hunted them to extinction. The sailmaking was arduous and long, and the pay scarcely sufficient. Yet we had a roof over our heads and the wherewithal to feed ourselves. We had much to be thankful for.
Still wary of discovery, I did not frequent the seamen’s taverns, and so far as was practicable, withdrew from all human company for fear that one of us might reveal himself for what he was. At the approach of any Redcoat – and there were always Redcoats aplenty down by the port in Leith – I would pass by on the other side averting my eyes from their gaze.
Each evening in the quiet of our lodgings I would trim Charlie’s hair so that I might maintain his disguise. He had by now become quite accustomed to this ritual, standing quite still for the shears as if he understood the need for it. I would tell him, as I clipped him, of my hopes and my dreams, of how we would one day find a ship and sail away to some far distant shore where neither of us would be hunted, where we might be free to roam without threat or hindrance wherever we wished. I worked for it by day in the heat of the sail loft, dreamed of it constantly and prayed for it on my knees at night, as poor dead Mary had taught me. Had she not told me that God would always be listening? I do not think I ever quite believed her, until the day I met Captain McKinnon.
Late each evening with the streets empty of people, it was my custom to take Charlie for a walk. On one such evening in summer I had paused, as I often did, and was gazing out to sea, with Charlie at my side, when I encountered a stranger, or rather I should say that he encountered me. By his dress I could see he was a gentleman and a sea captain. By the direct look in his eyes, I perceived at once that he was an honest man. But nonetheless I was on my guard as I always was with strangers. I did not yet know it, but this was the man who was to change the course of my life, and Charlie’s, for ever. He stopped nearby to light his pipe, and having done so engaged me in friendly conversation.
‘It’s a fine-looking hound you have there, my lad,’ he said, ‘if indeed that is what it is.’
‘What do you mean by that, sir?’ I asked, at once alarmed.
‘I mean that unless my eyes deceive me, that is as close to being a wolf as any dog I’ve ever clapped eyes on,’ said the sea captain.
‘But there are no wolves in Scotland,’ I insisted, ‘not any more.’
‘Maybe not,’ he replied. ‘But we have Redcoats aplenty in their place, do we not? If you understand my meaning.’ The look we exchanged was one of silent conspiracy, of immediate and mutual understanding. I knew then I need harbour no more suspicions of this man, that I had nothing whatsoever to fear from him.
‘I have seen you sitting here often of an evening, you and your hound, side by side,’ the sea captain went on. ‘And always you look far out to sea as if you long to go there. Am I right in this?’ I could not deny it. The sea captain’s eyes glowed in the light of his pipe. ‘Where is it you wish to go? To France? To America perhaps? I have seen wolves in America, bigger than this hound of yours maybe, and with a thicker coat, but much the same. I tell you, he has the same eyes as they do. He has the eyes of a wolf.’
‘You know America, sir?’ I asked, seeking to divert his gaze and his attention from Charlie. ‘You have been there?’
‘Aye, I have been there many a time,’ said he. ‘It is a country as close to paradise as you’ll find on this earth. You should go there. Every man should go there. You should see it for yourself. Thousands of miles of wilderness. I tell you, a man could lose himself in such a place. There is peace to be found there, peace and prosperity too; aye and, besides these, the one thing a man needs and desires most of all.’
‘And what might that be?’ I asked him.
‘Freedom,’ said the sea captain, and as he spoke he looked me in the eye so hard, so deep that I thought he might read my very soul. ‘If it is freedom you seek, my lad, as I believe it might be, then perhaps I may be of some service to you.’ He lifted his cap. ‘Pray allow me to introduce myself. My name is Captain McKinnon. I am master of the Pelican, the two-masted brig you see over yonder at the quayside. We sail within a few days, first to France, to Bordeaux, with a cargo of wool, and thence to America carrying good French wine. You would be most welcome to join us on our voyage.’
‘But I have no money to pay for such a passage,’ I told him.
‘Did I ask you for money?’ replied the sea captain. ‘If you are willing to work, then I am willing to hire you. I still have need for one more good strong deckhand to crew my ship. I pay nothing, but be assured, I will feed you well, and will do all in my power to bring you safe to America.’
‘If I go,’ said I, ‘then my dog goes with me. We stay together. I have promised him as much.’
The sea captain laughed at this and clapped me on the shoulder. ‘I like your spirit, my lad,’ said he. ‘Well then, he can be ship’s dog, can he not? He can chase off the rats. He can bark and bay at the wind and the waves. Be sure we shall have plenty of both. I’ve no doubt he can earn his keep. What do you say then? Will you join us?’ At this he offered his hand to me, and I took it willingly, accepting his kind offer and thanking him from the very bottom of my heart.
So I joined the crew of the Pelican and within the week left the shores of my native country behind me for ever, with, I confess, very little sadness in my heart, for saving my few brief years with Sean and Mary I had known little but misery in the land of my birth.
I was very soon to discover just how good and noble a man was this Captain McKinnon. We had not been many hours at sea and were scarcely out of sight of the land, when he ordered the ship’s hold to be opened up. To my utter astonishment, up onto the deck came more than two dozen men, women and children, shielding their eyes against the unaccustomed brightness. All looked thin and ragged and destitute. Some stood at the ship’s side and wept to see the last hills of Scotland disappear from view, but many more fell to their knees thanking God for deliverance out of the hands of their enemies.
It was evident to me that they, like me, like Charlie, like every man in the crew were followers of Bonnie Prince Charlie, Jacobite sympathizers, and every one of us fleeing for our lives. For all of us on that ship Captain McKinnon had been our saviour and our guardian angel. This nobility of purpose was born, as I later heard, out of his own grief. His only son, being like me barely sixteen at the time, had been slain at the battle on Culloden Moor, and his poor wife had died soon after of a broken heart.
Thereafter the Captain had taken it upon himself to save all those hunted fugitives he could find and to spirit them secretly away to America and safety. I swear no braver man nor kindlier one was ever born. He proved to be a fine seaman too, able to read the waves and the weather as well and as wisely as he read men’s hearts and minds, able too to avoid the ships of the English fleet that were now a constant threat to our liberty, to our very lives. With such a man as our Captain at the helm little could go amiss, I thought. But in this I was to be sorely mistaken.
Charlie was never entirely happy below decks where there was always a great press of people about us. Accustomed as we were to the wide open spaces of the Highlands, the crowded and stifling condition
s of our close confinement made us both restless. So, whether I was on watch or not, we lived as much as possible, when the weather allowed, up on deck where we could breathe in the wind, where we could see the great expanse of the sky and the ocean, where we could be more alone and at our ease. There were many nights too, when, to avoid the heat and the stench below decks we would curl up together on deck and sleep under the stars, a habit my fellow fugitives found altogether incomprehensible and strange.
But as time passed I began to notice that Charlie had taken to pacing anxiously up and down the deck on his own, forever stopping and looking out to sea, longing, as I supposed, for some sight of land. I noticed too that at the approach of a storm he could always be found standing forward at the bow. There he would stay, like a sentry on duty, alert to danger, his ears pricked, his entire body trembling with anticipation and excitement. Then, on a sudden whim, and for no reason I could understand at first, he would lift his head and howl into the wind, a most baleful sound that much unnerved and upset everyone on board.
Upon hearing this, murmurings soon went about the ship that Charlie howled like a wolf, and that perhaps he might indeed be a wolf, which presumption of course I hotly denied. But my denials went unheeded. ‘Devil dog’ some began to call him, or ‘Jonah dog’. Despite all my protestations on Charlie’s behalf, all my reassurances, mothers began to keep their children away from him, and from me too, children who until now had always played quite contentedly with both of us. I found myself at first shunned, then cast out like a leper, and friendless, except it must be said for the good Captain who always remained steadfast in his kindness towards me and towards Charlie.