Kidnapped

Clare West (Author), Robert Louis Stevenson (Author), Tricia Hedge (Author)
1
David meets his uncle
It was early in the month of June, 1751, when I shut the door of our house behind me for the last time. All my life I
had lived in the uiet little villa!e of "ssendean, in the #owlands of $cotland, where my father had been the dominie, or
schoolteacher. %ut now that he and my mother were both dead, I had to leave the house. &he new dominie would soon
arrive, and he would teach at the school and live in the dominie's house. $o, althou!h I was only seventeen, there was
nowhere for me to live, and no reason for me to stay in "ssendean.
%ut my heart was beatin! with e(citement as I wal)ed down the road, because in my hand I carried the letter that
my father had !iven me *ust before he died. 'Davie,' he had said, 'when I am dead, ta)e this to the house of $haws,
near +ramond. &hat's where I came from, and that's where you must !o. ,ut this letter into the hands of "bene-er
%alfour.'
%alfour. &he same name as my own. It was the first time I had heard of any of our family outside "ssendean.
$o I decided to wal) to +ramond, hopin! that perhaps this /r %alfour, in his fine bi! house, would receive me )indly,
and help me to become a rich man one day. 0ith my plaid over my shoulder, I wal)ed fast up the hill away from the
villa!e. 0hat an adventure, to leave that sleepy place, where nothin! ever happened, and !o to a !reat, busy house, to
be with rich and important people of my own name and blood. %ut when I reached the top of the hill, I turned a little
sadly, to ta)e my last loo) at the dominie's house, and "ssendean churchyard, where my father and mother lay.
/y *ourney northwards too) almost two days. %y midday on the second day I could see the smo)in! chimneys of
"dinbur!h in front of me, and soon I arrived in +ramond.
1ow I be!an to as) people on the road for the house of $haws. &heir answers worried me a little. $ome people
seemed surprised, some afraid, and some an!ry, when I spo)e the name of "bene-er %alfour. I could not understand
this, but it was too far to !o bac) to "ssendean that day, and I wanted to find the rest of the %alfour family very much.
$o I continued on my way, and when I met a dar), wild2loo)in! woman comin! towards me, I as)ed her where the
house of $haws was. $he too) me to the top of the ne(t hill, and showed me a lar!e buildin! standin! alone in the
bottom of the ne(t valley. Althou!h the fields around were !reen, and the farmland was e(cellent, the house itself
loo)ed unfinished and empty. ,art of its roof was missin!. &here was no road to it, and no smo)e comin! from any of
its chimneys, nor was there any !arden.
'&hat.' I cried. '1o, it can't be.'
'It is.' cried the woman an!rily. '&hat is the house of $haws. %lood built it, blood stopped the buildin! of it, and blood
shall brin! it down. %lac) is the heart of "bene-er %alfour. 3e can tell him from me that I hope to see him die, and his
house fall down around him.'
&he woman turned and disappeared. I stood where she left me, sha)in! li)e a leaf, and loo)in! down at the house
for a lon! time. %ut when it be!an to !et dar), I noticed some smo)e comin! out of the chimney, and felt a little more
hopeful. '&here must be a fire, and coo)in!, and people in the house,' I thou!ht. $o I wal)ed up to the front door. &he
house seemed loc)ed up and unwelcomin!, but there was fireli!ht shinin! throu!h the )itchen window, and I could hear
someone tal)in! uietly to himself. %ravely, I lifted my hand and )noc)ed loudly on the stron! wooden door. &he house
was suddenly silent, and there was no reply. I )noc)ed and )noc)ed, and shouted as loudly as I could. 4inally, the
window opened, and a man holdin! a !un put his head out. '0hat do ye want5' he as)ed.
'I've come here with a letter for /r "bene-er %alfour of $haws. Is he here5'
'0ho is it from5' as)ed the man with the !un.
'&hat's none of your business,' I replied, !ettin! an!ry.
'0ell, put the letter down by the door, and leave.'
'I will not.' I answered sharply. 'I'm !oin! to !ive it to /r %alfour himself. &he letter introduces me to him.'
'0ho are ye then5' was the ne(t uestion.
'I'm not ashamed of my name. It's David %alfour.'
&he man almost dropped his !un. After a lon! while, he as)ed in a chan!ed voice, 'Is your father dead5' I was too
surprised to answer, but he continued, 'Aye, he must be dead, and that's why ye have come. 0ell, man, I'll let ye in,'
and he disappeared from the window.
1ow the door was unloc)ed, and a voice from the dar)ness said, '6o into the )itchen and touch nothin!.' I obeyed,
while the man loc)ed the heavy door carefully a!ain. I found myself in the emptiest )itchen that I had ever seen. &here
was a fire, but no other li!ht. 7n the table was a bowl of porrid!e and a !lass of water, in front of the only chair. Around
the walls were several loc)ed chests. &here was no other furniture. &he man who now appeared in the )itchen was
small, mean2loo)in! and white2faced, between fifty and seventy years old, and wearin! a dirty old ni!ht2shirt. &he worst
thin! about him was that he could neither ta)e his eyes away from me, nor loo) strai!ht into my face.
'If ye're hun!ry,' he said, 'ye can eat that porrid!e. It's !rand food, porrid!e. #et me see the letter.'
'It's for /r %alfour, not you,' I replied.
'And who do ye thin) I am5 6ive me Ale(ander's letter. 3e may not li)e me or my house or my porrid!e, but I'm your
born uncle, Davie, my man.'
&his was the end of all my hopes. I was too tired and miserable to spea), so I silently !ave him the letter, and sat
down to eat the porrid!e.
'3our father's been dead a lon! time5' he as)ed, !ivin! me a uic) loo) from his sharp eyes.
Kidnapped 1
'&hree wee)s, sir,' I said.
'8e was a secretive man, Ale(ander was. ,erhaps he didn't tal) much about me5 7r about the house of $haws5'
'I never )new he had a brother, sir, or ever heard the name of $haws.'
'&o thin) of that.' he replied. 'A stran!e man.' %ut he seemed very pleased, and be!an to loo) at me with more
interest. $oon he *umped up and said, '0e're !oin! to !et on well, Davie. 0hat's mine is yours, man, and what's yours
is mine. %lood's thic)er than water, and there's only ye and me of the name of %alfour. 1ow I'll show ye to your bed.'
8e too) me up some dar) stairs and showed me into a room. I could not see anythin!.
'+an I have a li!ht, sir5' I as)ed.
'1o, ye can't. 1o li!hts in this house. I'm afraid of fires, ye see. 6ood ni!ht to ye, Davie, my man.' And before I had
time to reply, he pulled the door shut and loc)ed it from the outside. &he room was very cold, but luc)ily I had my plaid
with me, so I covered myself with it li)e a blan)et, and soon fell asleep.
&he ne(t day my uncle and I had a small bowl of porrid!e and a !lass of water for brea)fast, lunch and supper. 8e
did not spea) much to me, but was clearly thin)in! hard. I often noticed him loo)in! at me, while pretendin! to do
somethin! different, and he never left me alone in the )itchen with the loc)ed chests, in which, I supposed, he )ept his
money. I did not li)e the way he loo)ed at me, and be!an to wonder if he was a little cra-y, and perhaps dan!erous.
After supper he said suddenly, 'Davie, I've been thin)in!. I promised your father a bit of money for ye before ye were
born. A promise is a promise 2 and so I'm !oin! to !ive ye... forty pounds.' &hese last words seemed very painful to
him. 8e added, in a )ind of scream, '$cots.'
A $cottish pound was the same as an "n!lish shillin!. I could see that his story was a lie, so I lau!hed at him,
sayin!, '7h, thin) a!ain, sir. English pounds, surely.'
'&hat's what I said,' replied my uncle uic)ly. '6o outside for a moment, and I'll !et the money for ye.'
I was smilin! as I went out, sure that he would !ive me nothin! at all. It was a dar) ni!ht, and I could hear wind in
the hills. '&here may be thunder later,' I thou!ht, not )nowin! how important the weather would be to me that ni!ht.
%ut when my uncle called me in a!ain, he counted thirty2ei!ht "n!lish pounds in !old into my hands. It clearly hurt
him to do it, and he )ept bac) the last two pounds, but I did not mind that. $urprised and pleased, I than)ed him
warmly.
'1ow,' he said, loo)in! cleverly at me, 'ye can !ive me somethin!, Davie. I'm !ettin! old now, and I need help.'
'7f course, sir,' I answered. '0hat can I do5'
'0ell, !o outside and climb the stairs at the other end of the house, where the buildin! isn't finished yet. 6o up to
the room at the top, and brin! down the chest that ye'll find there. It's !ot valuable papers in it.'
'+an I have a li!ht, sir5' I as)ed.
'1o,' he said sharply. '1o li!hts in my house.'
'9ery well, sir. Are the stairs !ood5'
'&hey're !rand,' said he. '&he stairs are !rand.'
7ut I went into the ni!ht. As I was feelin! my way alon! the outside wall, there was a sudden flash of li!htnin!, then
blac) dar)ness a!ain. I found the stairs and started climbin!. I was about fifteen metres above the !round, when there
was another flash of li!htnin!. &hat was luc)y for me, because it showed me that the steps were uneven, and that I
could easily fall to my death. '&hese are the !rand stairs.' I thou!ht. ',erhaps my uncle wants me to die.' 1ow I was
very careful, and I felt each step with my hands before I put my foot on it. A few steps later my hand felt cold stone, and
then nothin! more. &he stairs ended there, twenty metres above the !round. I felt cold with fear, when I thou!ht of the
dan!er that I had been in. $endin! a stran!er up those stairs in the dar) was sendin! him strai!ht to his death.
An!rily, I turned and felt my way down. &here was a crash of thunder, and suddenly the rain came down. At the
bottom of the stairs I loo)ed towards the )itchen, and could see, in the ne(t flash of li!htnin!, a fi!ure standin! still in
the doorway, listenin!. 0hen the thunder sounded a!ain, louder than before, he ran bac) inside, and I followed as
softly as I could. I found him sittin! in the )itchen, drin)in! whis)y strai!ht from the bottle, and sha)in! with fear. :uietly
I came up behind him, and, puttin! my hands suddenly on his shoulders, cried, 'Ah.'
/y uncle !ave a )ind of bro)en cry, and fell to the floor li)e a dead man. 8is face was a stran!e blue colour, and I
be!an to thin) that he really was dead. At last his eyes opened, and he loo)ed up and saw me. '7h man, are ye alive or
a !host5' he cried. '6et me my medicine, Davie 2 it's for my heart.' I found the medicine bottle and !ave him some. 8e
soon be!an to loo) a little better.
'0hy did you lie to me5' I as)ed an!rily. '0hy did you !ive me money5 And why did you try to )ill me5 Answer me.'
'I'll tell ye tomorrow, Davie, I promise. 8elp me to bed now, will ye5' 8e still loo)ed very ill, so I could not refuse. %ut
this time I loc)ed his bedroom door, and went to sleep in front of the )itchen fire.
0hen I wo)e up in the mornin!, I felt very pleased with myself. '8e thin)s he's cleverer than me, but he isn't.' I
thou!ht. 0hen I let my uncle out of his room, I as)ed him a!ain for an e(planation. After a while, he said, 'Davie, I have
some business with a ship's captain at :ueensferry. 1ow, we could wal) over there, and when I've done my business,
we could visit the lawyer, /r ;an)eillor. 8e'll answer all your uestions. 8e's an honest man, and he )new your father.
0hat do ye say to that5'
I thou!ht for a moment. I had never seen the sea, but had always wanted to. 'It's a !rand idea,' I said.
It was a mornin!'s wal) to :ueensferry, which was west of "dinbur!h, but we did not say a word to each other on
the way. $uddenly, at the top of a hill, we could see the 4irth of 4orth below us, blue and calm, with white sails on it.
'3e see that public house5' as)ed my uncle. '+aptain 8oseason's there, to do business with me. &here's the ship's
boat on the beach, waitin! to ta)e him to the ship. And there's the ship itself. A !rand ship.'
I had to a!ree with him. &he sailors were !ettin! the ship ready for sailin!, and I thou!ht what an e(citin! adventure
that would be 2 to sail away to a forei!n country.
Author: Andriy Kuzmenok, Ukraine, mob tel 80662810323 Kidnapped 2
0e wal)ed down the hill to the public house and met the captain there. 8e was a tall, dar), serious2loo)in! man,
who shoo) hands politely with me. $tupidly, I left these two men to their business, and ran down to the beach, to tal) to
the sailors and loo) at the boats. It was all new and very interestin! to me.
As I was comin! bac), I met the owner of the public house.
'6ood mornin!,' he said. 'Did ye come with "bene-er5'
'I did,' I replied. '8e isn't well li)ed, I understand.'
'&hat's true,' he answered. '1obody spea)s well of him. It all started with that story about /r Ale(ander, his brother.'
'What story5' I as)ed.
'7h, *ust that "bene-er had )illed him. Did ye never hear that5'
'And why would he )ill my f2, I mean, Ale(ander5'
'&o !et the house, of course, the house of $haws.'
'Aye, man5 0as my 2 was Ale(ander older than "bene-er5'
'Indeed he was. 1o other reason for )illin! him.'
&his was a !reat surprise to me. I had thou!ht that my father was the younger brother, and I now understood why
my uncle had lied to me, and wanted to )ill me. &he house of $haws had belon!ed to my father, not my uncle, and now
I had inherited it. &he poor country boy who had wal)ed from "ssendean was the owner of a fine house and farmland.
/y head was full of the wonderful thin!s that I could do in my life, as I loo)ed, unseein!, at the sea.
Just then my uncle and the captain came out of the public house. &he captain smiled in a friendly way as he spo)e
to me. '$ir,' he said, '/r %alfour has told me a lot about ye. I'm only sorry I haven't time to !et to )now ye better. %ut I'd
li)e ye to come on to my ship for half an hour, before we sail, and have a drin) with me.'
1ow, more than anythin! in the world, I wanted to see the inside of a ship, but I remembered that I had to be
careful. '/y uncle and I have to see the lawyer, sir,' I replied, 'so I'm afraid we may not have enou!h time.'
'Aye, aye,' he answered, 'I )now, but ye see, the ship's boat can put ye both down near ;an)eillor's house, after
ye've seen the ship, so ye won't lose any time.' $uddenly he said uietly in my ear, '0atch out for the old man 2 he
wants to hurt ye. +ome and tal) about it.' ,uttin! his arm in mine, he said loudly, '0hat can I brin! ye bac) from my
travels5 A friend of /r %alfour's is a friend of mine.'
%y this time we were on the beach, and he was helpin! my uncle and me into the boat. I thou!ht that I had found a
!ood friend and helper, and I was very e(cited as we came closer to the !reat ship, full of busy, noisy sailors. &he
captain and I were the first to climb up the ship's side, and at the top the captain immediately put his arm throu!h mine
and be!an to tal) about the ship.
'%ut where is my uncle5' I as)ed suddenly. I pulled myself away from the captain's arm, and ran to the side of the
ship. $ure enou!h, there was the boat returnin! to :ueensferry, with my uncle sittin! in it. I screamed, '8elp, help.
/urder.' and my uncle slowly turned to loo) at me.
I did not see any more. Already stron! hands were pullin! me away. &hen somethin! hit my head< I saw a !reat
flash of fire, and fell to the !round.
= Kidnapped.
0hen I wo)e up in dar)ness, my head was hurtin! badly, and I was unable to move my hands or feet. I could hear
the sailors' shouts and the sound of the wind and the waves. &he whole world seemed to !o up, up, up, and then down
a!ain. I felt very ill, and at first could not understand what was happenin!. After a while I realised that I must be
somewhere inside the ship, which was movin! very fast throu!h the water. 'I've been )idnapped.' I thou!ht an!rily. It
was clear that my uncle and the captain had planned it to!ether. I be!an to feel fri!htened and hopeless, as I lay there
in the dar).
$ome hours later, a li!ht shone in my face. /r ;iach, one of the ship's officers, stood loo)in! down at me. 8e
washed the cut on my head, !ave me some water, and told me )indly to !o to sleep. &he ne(t time he came, I was
feelin! very hot and ill. 8e had brou!ht +aptain 8oseason with him.
'1ow, sir, see for yourself,' said /r ;iach. '&he lad's seriously ill. 0e must ta)e him out of this unhealthy hole at
once.'
'&hat's none of your business,' answered the captain. '3e're paid to do your *ob, not worry about the boy. 8e's
stayin! down here.'
'I'm only paid to be an officer on this ship,' replied /r ;iach sharply. 8e loo)ed hard at the captain. 'I'm not paid, li)e
you, to )idnap and murder>'
8oseason turned on him an!rily. '0hat did ye say5' he cried. '0hat do ye mean5'
'3ou understand,' said /r ;iach, loo)in! calmly at him.
'3ou should )now me by now, /r ;iach. I'm a hard man. %ut if ye say the lad will die>'
'Aye, he will.' said /r ;iach.
'0ell, sir, put him where ye li)e.'
$o I was carried up into the sunli!ht a few minutes later, and put in a cabin where some of the sailors were sleepin!.
It was a wonderful feelin! to see the dayli!ht and to be able to tal) to people a!ain. I lay in the cabin for several days,
and after a while be!an to feel better. &he sailors were )ind to me in their way. &hey brou!ht me food and drin), and
told me about their families at home. I discovered from them that the ship was sailin! to the +arolinas, in 1orth
America. &here the captain was plannin! to sell me as a slave, to wor) in a rich man's house or on a farm.
I also learnt that both the ship's officers, /r ;iach and /r $huan, en*oyed drin)in! far too much. &he sailors li)ed /r
$huan, but said that he was sometimes violent when he had drun) a lot. 7ne of the sailors was a youn! boy, called
;ansome. 8is *ob was to brin! meals to the captain and officers in the round2house, a bi! cabin on the top of the ship,
where the officers slept and ate. 0hen ;ansome dropped somethin! or did somethin! wron!, /r $huan used to hit
him, and I often saw the poor boy cryin!.
Kidnapped 3
7ne ni!ht, about nine o'cloc), I heard one of the sailors in the cabin sayin! uietly to the others, '$huan's )illed him
at last.' 0e all )new who he meant. Just then the captain came in. I was surprised to see him wal) towards me and say
)indly, '/y man, we want ye to help us in the round2house. 4rom now on, ye'll sleep there instead of ;ansome.' As he
spo)e, two sailors carried ;ansome into the cabin. 8is face was as white as a sheet, and he did not move. /y blood
ran cold when I saw him.
I obeyed the captain, and ran to the round2house. It was a lar!e room, with a table, a bench and loc)ed cupboards.
All the best food and drin) was )ept there, under the captain's eye, as well as the !uns. 0hen I entered, I saw /r
$huan sittin! at the table, with a bottle of whis)y in front of him. 8e did not seem to notice what was happenin! around
him, and was loo)in! fi(edly at the table.
/r ;iach soon *oined the captain and me. 8e loo)ed at 8oseason meanin!fully, and I understood from his loo) that
;ansome was dead. 0e all three stood silently loo)in! down at /r $huan.
$uddenly the captain stepped forward. 'Do ye )now what ye've done5' he cried. '3e've murdered the boy.'
/r $huan put a hand to his head. '0ell,' he said, 'he brou!ht me a dirty !lass.'
&he captain and /r ;iach and I loo)ed at each other, almost fri!htened. &hen 8oseason too) /r $huan by the arm,
and told him to !o to bed. &he murderer cried a little at first, but he too) off his boots and lay down, li)e a small child.
'/r ;iach,' said the captain, when we could see that /r $huan was asleep, 'nobody on land must )now what
happened toni!ht. 0e'll say that the boy fell into the sea. 6et us a drin), David, we both need one,' and he !ave me the
)ey to the cupboards.
In the ne(t few days I was very busy, runnin! here and there with the officers' food and drin). /r ;iach and the
captain were surprisin!ly patient with me when I made mista)es. ,erhaps they were thin)in! of the poor boy who had
died. %ut /r $huan was very stran!e after ;ansome's death. 8e did not seem to )now what he had done, or to
reco!nise me. 7n my second day in the round2house, he loo)ed at me with a white face and fear in his eyes. '3ou
weren't here before5' he as)ed.
'1o, sir,' I replied.
'&here was another boy5' he as)ed. 'Ah. 3es, I thou!ht so,' and sittin! down, he called for some more whis)y.
It wasn't a hard life for me. I was able to eat well, and tal) to /r ;iach, who spo)e to me li)e a friend. %ut I could not
for!et poor ;ansome. As the days passed, I became more and more worried. I )new that, when the ship arrived in the
+arolinas, I would no lon!er be a free man, but a slave. I thou!ht hard, but there did not seem to be any way of
escapin!.
About a wee) later, we were sailin! round the roc)y coast of northern $cotland in very bad weather. It was difficult
to see anythin! because of the thic) fo!. 7ne evenin! there was a !reat crash, and the officers ran out to see what had
happened. I thou!ht we had hit a roc), but in fact it was a small boat. As we watched, the boat bro)e in two, and went
to the bottom with all its men, e(cept the one passen!er. At the moment of the crash, this man mana!ed to *ump up
and catch the side of the ship and pull himself up.
&he captain brou!ht him into the round2house. 8e was smallish but well2built, with an open, sunburnt face, and
bri!ht, amused eyes. 0hen he too) off his lon! coat, I could see that he had a pair of pistols and was wearin! a sword
at his side. Althou!h his life had clearly been in !reat dan!er, he seemed very calm, and spo)e politely to the captain.
8oseason was loo)in! with interest at the man's clothes. 8e was wearin! a hat with feathers, a blue coat with silver
buttons, and e(pensive2loo)in! lace round his nec).
'I'm sorry about the boat, sir,' said the captain.
'I've lost some !rand friends today,' replied the stran!er, 'and that's worse than losin! ten boats.'
'0ell, sir, there are more men in the world than boats,' replied the captain, still watchin! him closely. 'I )now,
because I've been in France, like you.'
8e said these last words clearly and carefully. &hey seemed to have a special meanin!. &he stran!er put his hand
uic)ly on his pistol.
'Don't worry,' said 8oseason. '3e've a 4rench soldier's coat on your bac) and a $cottish ton!ue in your head, that's
true, but so has many an honest man these days.'
'0ell, sir,' replied the stran!er, 'I must tell you that I'm one of those honest 8i!hlanders who were proud to fi!ht for
their homes, their clan and their country in 17?5, a!ainst the "n!lish Kin!. And I must tell you another thin!. If Kin!
6eor!e's soldiers find me, I'll be in trouble. I was on my way to 4rance, where some of my clansmen live now. %ut in
the fo! my boat missed the 4rench ship that was meetin! me. $o if you can ta)e me to 4rance, I'll pay you well.'
8e opened his purse and showed that it was full of !old coins. &he captain seemed e(cited as he loo)ed at the
money, and then at the man's face.
'&o 4rance5' he replied. '1o, I can't do that. %ut to the 8i!hlands, aye, we can discuss that.' &hey sat down to!ether,
and in the end a!reed that the captain would ta)e the stran!er to #och #innhe, on the north2west coast of $cotland, for
si(ty pounds. &here the 8i!hlander would be amon! friends, and safe from the "n!lish army. 8e and 8oseason shoo)
hands, and the captain left me alone with the stran!er.
8e had told the captain that the !old was not his own. $ome of the 8i!hlanders had escaped to 4rance after the
4orty24ive, but their friends and clansmen in $cotland sometimes mana!ed to find a little money to send them. It was
this man's *ob to ta)e the money across to 4rance, and he did this by travellin! secretly to $cotland as often as
possible. I thou!ht he was very brave. 'If he's cau!ht by the "n!lish army, they'll )ill him.' I told myself. I li)ed the way
he seemed to en*oy livin! dan!erously.
0hen he as)ed me for whis)y, I had to !o to as) the captain for the )ey to the cupboard. I found 8oseason and his
officers tal)in! uietly in a corner, and heard them plannin! to )ill the stran!er and steal his money. &hey seemed to
thin) that I would help them, and as)ed me to brin! them secretly some !uns from the round2house. I went slowly bac)
to the stran!er, not sure what I should do. %ut when I entered the round2house, and saw him eatin! his supper, I
decided at once.
Author: Andriy Kuzmenok, Ukraine, mob tel 80662810323 Kidnapped 4
'&hey're !oin! to attac) you, and murder you.' I told him.
'0hat.' he cried, *umpin! up. '0ill ye stand with me, a!ainst them5'
'I will. I'm no thief or murderer.' I replied bravely.
'Are ye for Kin! 6eor!e5'
'/ore or less,' I answered.
'0ell, /r /ore2or2less, what's your name5'
'David %alfour,' I said, and then, thin)in! that a man with so fine a coat must li)e fine people, I added, 'of $haws.'
'/y name is $tewart,' he said proudly. 'Alan %rec), they call me. And $tewart is a )in!'s name, so it's !ood enou!h
for me, althou!h I have no name of a farmhouse to add to it.' 8e loo)ed around him. '1ow, David, I'll ta)e any man who
comes in throu!h this door. 3ou must watch the window, and the door behind me, and shoot anyone who tries to enter.'
8e !ave me a pistol. I was very fri!htened, but tried hard not to show it. &he ship seemed very uiet. $uddenly
there was the sound of runnin! feet, and a shout, and then I heard fi!htin! in the doorway. I loo)ed over my shoulder,
and saw /r $huan, *ust as Alan drove his sword into the officer's body. &hen several men ran at my door. I did not want
to hurt them, but it was now or never. I lifted my pistol and shot at them. 7ne man fell, and the others ran away. After a
few moments, the sailors attac)ed a!ain. Alan fou!ht as bravely as before, his sword now red with blood. 8e was
clearly en*oyin! himself. I had no time to thin), but when two more men appeared at the window, I shot them too. 1ow
there were several bodies on the floor, and blood everywhere.
$uddenly I realised that we had won, and that the dan!er was over. Alan was drivin! the men out of the round2
house li)e sheep. 0hen he returned, he too) me in his arms.
'David.' he cried. 'I love ye li)e a brother. And oh, man, am I not a !rand fi!hter5' I had to a!ree. 8e too) a )nife from
the table and cut a silver button off his blue coat. '&a)e this, David. &he buttons come from my father, Duncan $tewart.
0here ye show that button, the friends of Alan %rec) will come to ye.' 8e spo)e as proudly as a )in!, and I tried not to
smile.
0e slept in the round2house, one of us )eepin! watch all ni!ht, and the ne(t mornin! the captain came to spea) to
us. '3e've won the fi!ht, sir,' he said to Alan, '0e're sailin! throu!h the #ittle /inch now, and I'll )eep my promise to ta)e
ye to #och #innhe. %ut ye've )illed my chief officer, $huan, and without him I can't find my way safely round these roc)y
coasts. 0e'll !o round the island of /ull, but I warn ye, it'll be dan!erous.'
8oseason was ri!ht to be worried. All that day Alan and I sat in the round2house and told each other the stories of
our lives, but by ni!ht the wind was !rowin! stron!er and the sailors found it hard to )eep the ship away from the
dan!erous roc)s. As we came round "arraid, a small island close to the lar!er island of /ull, there was a sudden,
terrible crash, and we realised that the ship had hit a roc). &here was only one thin! to do 2 leave the ship and try to
reach land in the ship's boat. %ut as we were climbin! down into the boat, a !reat wave hit the ship, and )noc)ed some
of us into the sea.
I went down and came up a!ain several times. &hen, luc)ily, I mana!ed to find a piece of wood, which helped me to
stay up in the water. I loo)ed round, but could not see Alan, or any of the sailors, or the boat. /y only hope was to try to
swim to "arraid, which I could see, not far away, in the moonli!ht. It was hard, tirin! wor), but I reached it, and was
very !rateful to step on to dry land at last.
@
David is alone
It was a cold ni!ht, so I could not sit down to rest. Instead, I wal)ed up and down on the beach, tryin! to )eep warm.
&here was no sound e(cept the crash of the waves. I felt very lonely and afraid.
In the mornin! I climbed a hill, and loo)ed out over the sea, but there was nothin! at all on the water. And around
me on the island, I could not see any houses or people. I did not li)e to thin) what had happened to my friend Alan and
the others, and I did not want to loo) at this emptiness any lon!er. $o I climbed down a!ain, and wal)ed eastwards. I
was hopin! to find a house, where I could dry my clothes, and !et somethin! to eat.
I soon discovered that nobody lived on "arraid. It was too far to swim to /ull, which I could see across the water. I
thou!ht perhaps I could wade across, but when I tried it, the water was too deep, and I had to turn bac). %y now it had
started to rain, and I felt very miserable.
&hen I remembered the piece of wood, which had already saved my life once. It would help me to !et across the
sea to /ull. $o I wal)ed all the way bac) to the beach where I had arrived. &he piece of wood was in the sea, so I
waded into the water to !et it. %ut as I came closer, it moved away from me. And when the water was too deep for me
to stand, the piece of wood was still several metres away. I had to leave it, and went bac) to the beach. It was a terrible
moment for me. I was feelin! very tired, hun!ry and thirsty, with no hope of !ettin! away from this lonely island. 4or the
first time since leavin! "ssendean, I lay down and cried.
I do not want to remember the time that I spent on "arraid. I had nothin! with me e(cept my uncle's !old and Alan's
silver button, and as I had never lived near the sea, I did not )now what to eat or how to fish. In fact, I found some
shellfish amon! the roc)s on the coast, and ate them, but I was very sic) afterwards. &hat was the only food that I
could find, so I was always hun!ry on "arraid. All day and all ni!ht it rained heavily, but there was no roof or tree on the
island, and my clothes were cold and wet on my body.
I chose to spend most of my time in the north of "arraid, on a little hill. 4rom here I could see the old church on the
island of Iona, not far away to the west, and smo)e from people's houses on /ull, to the east. I used to watch this
smo)e, and thin) of the people there, and their comfortable lives. &his !ave me a little hope, in my lonely life amon! the
roc)s and the rain and the cold sea.
&wo days passed, and on the third day two thin!s happened. 4irst, I discovered that I had lost almost all my money
throu!h a hole in my poc)et. I only had three of my uncle's thirty2ei!ht pounds left. %ut worse was to come. 0hile I was
Kidnapped 5
sittin! on a roc), loo)in! out over Iona, I suddenly noticed a small boat movin! fast throu!h the water. I *umped to my
feet and shouted as loudly as I could. &he two men in the boat were near enou!h to hear. &hey shouted bac) in 6aelic,
and lau!hed. %ut the boat did not turn, and sailed on, ri!ht in front of my eyes, to Iona.
I could not understand why they did not come to help me. I continued shoutin! wildly, althou!h I could no lon!er see
them. And then, I lay down and cried for the second time. &his time I wasn't sad, but an!ry, because I thou!ht that they
had left me to die alone in that terrible place.
&he ne(t mornin!, I was surprised to see that the same men were sailin! towards "arraid from Iona. At once I ran
down to the roc)y coast to meet them. &he boat came near me, but stayed a few metres away in the water. &here was
a third man in the boat, who was tal)in! and lau!hin! with the others. &hen he stood up and spo)e fast to me in 6aelic,
which I could not understand. %ut sometimes he used an "n!lish word, and once I heard the word 'tide'. &his !ave me
a flash of hope.
'Do you mean 2 that when the tide is low ...5' I cried, and could not finish.
'3es, yes,' he called bac). '&ide,' and lau!hed a!ain.
I turned my bac) on the boat and ran bac) e(citedly to the east of the island, where "arraid was closest to /ull. And
sure enou!h, there was now only a little water between the islands. I was able to wade throu!h it easily, and reached
/ull with a happy shout. 8ow stupid of me not to realise that it was possible to !et to /ull, twice a day, at low tide. 1ow
I felt very !rateful to the boatmen for !uessin! my problem, and comin! bac) to help me.
I wal)ed towards the smo)e that I had seen so often from "arraid, and reached a lon!, low house built of stone.
7utside sat an old man, smo)in! his pipe in the sun. 8e spo)e a little "n!lish, and told me that the officers and sailors
from the ship had all arrived there safely a few days before.
'0as one of them dressed in fine clothes5' I as)ed.
'Aye, there was one li)e that,' he smiled. '3e must be the lad with the silver button.'
'0hy, yes.' I said, surprised.
'0ell then, your friend says that ye must follow him to the house of his clansman, James $tewart, in Appin.'
8e and his wife !ave me food and drin), and let me sleep that ni!ht in their house. In the mornin! I than)ed them
for their )indness, and started my *ourney to Appin.
I wal)ed across /ull to &orosay, where I too) a boat across the water to #ochaline. &hen I wal)ed to Kin!airloc),
where I too) another boat across #och #innhe to Appin. &his too) si( days, and on my way I met and spo)e to a
number of travellers. I heard all about Alan's clan, the $tewarts, and their enemies, the +ampbells. Althou!h they were
both 8i!hland clans, the +ampbells and $tewarts had hated each other for years, and now the +ampbells were helpin!
the "n!lish army drive many 8i!hlanders out of their homes. Indeed, in a day or two, I heard, red2haired +olin
+ampbell himself was comin! to Appin, with Kin! 6eor!e's soldiers, to drive the $tewarts out and so destroy his
enemies. %ut I heard also of James $tewart, head of the $tewart clan in Appin, and that he and his clansmen would
dearly love to see +olin +ampbell dead.
,eople also tal)ed of a man called Alan %rec). $ome called him a murderer< others said that he was a brave fi!hter.
8e was in dan!er every time he returned to the 8i!hlands, because the "n!lish would pay a !ood price for him 2 dead
or alive. I listened with interest to everythin! that they told me. %ut I li)ed it best when I heard Alan described as a fine
man and an honest 8i!hlander.
0hen I !ot out of the boat in Appin, I sat down amon! some trees to decide what to do ne(t. $hould I !o on, and
*oin Alan, whose friends were Kin! 6eor!e's enemies, and whose life was full of dan!er, or should I !o bac) south
a!ain, uietly and safely, to the #owlands5
As I was thin)in!, four men on horses came past me on the road. As soon as I saw these men, I decided to
continue my adventure, althou!h I cannot e(plain why. I stopped the first man, who was tall and red2haired.
'+ould you tell me the way to James $tewart's house, sir5' I as)ed.
All the men loo)ed at each other. &he red2haired man did not reply, but spo)e to one of the others, who loo)ed li)e a
lawyer. 'Is $tewart callin! his people to!ether, do ye thin)5'
&he lawyer replied, '0e'd better wait here for the soldiers to *oin us, before we !o any further.'
&he red2haired man, I suddenly reali-ed, must be +olin +ampbell himself. 'If you're worried about me,' I said, 'I'm
not a $tewart, but a #owlander, and I'm for Kin! 6eor!e.'
'&hat's well said,' replied +ampbell, 'but, if I may as), why is an honest #owlander li)e you so far from his home5
&oday is not a !ood day for travellin!. &his is the day when the Appin $tewarts have to leave their farms, and there may
be trouble.'
8e was turnin! to spea) to the lawyer a!ain, when there came a sudden ban! from the hill, and +ampbell fell off his
horse. '&hey've shot me.' he cried, holdin! his heart.
8e died almost immediately. &he men's faces were white as they loo)ed down at his body. I saw somethin! move
on the hill, and noticed, amon! the trees, a man with a !un, turnin! away from the road.
'#oo). &he murderer.' I cried, and be!an to run up the hill towards him. 8e saw me chasin! him, and went faster.
$oon he disappeared behind a roc), and I could no lon!er see him. I stopped ne(t to some trees, then I heard a voice
below, on the road. &he lawyer was shoutin! to a lar!e number of red2coated soldiers, who had *ust *oined the men
around +ampbell's dead body. '&en pounds if ye catch that lad.' he cried. '8e's one of the murderers. 8e stopped us in
the road, to !ive the )iller a better chance to shoot +ampbell.'
1ow I felt a new )ind of fear. /y life was in serious dan!er, althou!h I had not done anythin! wron!. /y mouth felt
dry, and for a moment I could not move. I stood there in the open, on the hill, while the soldiers lifted their !uns, ready
to shoot.
'Jump in here amon! the trees,' said a voice near me.
Author: Andriy Kuzmenok, Ukraine, mob tel 80662810323 Kidnapped 6
I did not )now what I was doin!, but I obeyed. As I did so, I heard the ban!in! of the !uns, and realised that the
soldiers were shootin! at me. In the shadow of the trees, I found Alan %rec) standin! there. It was he who had spo)en
to me.
?
"scape throu!h the heather
0e had no time for conversation. '+ome.' Alan said, and started runnin! alon! the side of the hill, )eepin! low to the
!round. I followed him li)e a sheep. 0e ran and ran, faster than I had ever run before, and my heart was beatin! wildly.
$ometimes, to my surprise, Alan strai!htened his bac) and showed himself to the soldiers who were chasin! us.
After fifteen minutes, Alan stopped, lay flat in the heather, and turned to me. '1ow,' he said, 'this is serious. Do what
I do, if ye don't want to die.' And *ust as fast, but much more carefully and secretly, we went bac) almost the same way
that we had come. At last we arrived bac) in the wood where I had found Alan.
0e fell down in the heather, and lay without movin! for a lon! time. /y le!s hurt, my head was achin!, and I
thou!ht I was dead.
Alan was the first to spea). '0ell,' he said, 'that was hot wor), David.'
I said nothin!. I had seen murder done. I )new that +olin +ampbell had been Alan's !reatest enemy, and I had
found Alan hidin! in the wood. Althou!h I didn't thin) that he had actually shot +ampbell, I felt sure that he had planned
the )illin!. I could not loo) at him.
'Are ye still tired5' he as)ed.
'1o,' I replied, my face turned away from him, 'no, I'm not tired now. Alan, I can't stay with you, I must leave you. I
li)ed you very much, but we're two different people, that's all.'
'3e must e(plain what ye mean by that, David,' said Alan, loo)in! very serious.
'Alan, why do you as)5 3ou )now very well that +olin +ampbell is lyin! dead in the road in his own blood.'
Alan was silent for a moment. '0ell, /r %alfour of $haws,' he said at last, 'I promise ye that I did not plan the
murder, or )now anythin! about it.'
'&han) 6od for that.' I cried, and offered him my hand.
8e did not appear to see it. 'I don't )now why ye're so worried about a dead +ampbell,' he said.
'I )now that you hate their clan, Alan, but ta)in! a life in cold blood is a terrible thin! to do. Do you )now who did it5'
'I wouldn't reco!nise him a!ain,' said Alan, sha)in! his head sadly, 'but I'm !ood at for!ettin!, David.'
I had to lau!h at that. &hen I remembered somethin!. '%ut when we were runnin! away, you showed yourself to the
soldiers, to !ive the murderer a chance to escape.'
'Any 8i!hlander would do that. &he best place for the lad who shot +olin +ampbell is the heather, and we must all
do what we can to help him )eep away from the soldiers.'
I shoo) my head at this. &hese 8i!hlanders were stran!e, wild people, to be sure. %ut Alan was ready to die for
what he thou!ht was ri!ht, and I li)ed him for that. I offered him my hand a!ain, and this time he too) it.
'1ow, David,' he said, 'we must escape too. &he +ampbells will accuse us both of the murder.'
'%ut we didn't do it.' I cried. '0e can prove that in court.'
'/an, I'm surprised at ye,' said Alan. 'Do ye not )now that if a +ampbell is )illed, the accused has to !o to court in
Inveraray, in the heart of +ampbell country5 0hen the +ampbell lawyers have finished with ye, ye'll be dead.'
&his fri!htened me a little. 'All ri!ht, Alan,' I said. 'I'll !o with you.'
'%ut remember,' said Alan, 'it'll be a hard life. 3e'll have to sleep in the open air, and ye'll often have an empty
stomach. 3e can choose 2 either live in the heather with me, or die at the hands of the +ampbells.'
'&hat's easy to decide,' I said, and we shoo) hands on it.
0hen we loo)ed between the trees, we could *ust see the red coats of the soldiers, still movin! away from us
across the hills. Alan smiled, and told me that we would !o first to the house of his clansman, James $tewart, and then
to the #owlands. &he +ampbells and the "n!lish soldiers would not thin) of loo)in! for us there, and Alan could find a
place on a ship sailin! to 4rance.
0e wal)ed for several hours, and arrived that ni!ht at a lar!e house in a valley. &here were li!hts in all the windows,
and people were runnin! in and out of the open doors. Alan whistled three times, and we were met at the door by a tall,
!ood2loo)in! man of about fifty, who welcomed us in 6aelic.
'James $tewart,' said Alan, 'I'll as) ye to spea) in "n!lish, because my friend here comes from the #owlands, and
cannot spea) 6aelic.'
James spo)e politely to me for a few moments, but soon he turned bac) to Alan, with a very worried loo) on his
face. '&his is a terrible accident,' he said. 'It will brin! trouble to all of us.'
'0ell, man,' said Alan, 'ye should be !rateful that +olin +ampbell is dead.'
'Aye,' replied James, 'but he was )illed in Appin, remember that, Alan, so it's the Appin $tewarts who'll be accused.
And I'm a man with a family.'
I loo)ed around me. /en with white, fri!htened faces were hurryin! here and there, without any clear idea of what
they ou!ht to do first. $ome were hidin! !uns and swords, while others were burnin! papers. 0hen James saw me
loo)in! surprised, he e(plained, '&he soldiers'll search my house first, ye see, and I don't want them to find anythin!.'
0e went inside, and met James's wife and children, who were cryin! in a corner. I felt very sorry for them, but we
did not have much time to tal). Alan e(plained what we needed for our escape, and soon James's men brou!ht us two
swords, two pistols, some food, a coo)in! pot and a bottle of whis)y. 0e needed money too, because Alan had !iven
his !old to another man to ta)e it to 4rance. %ut James had only a little to !ive us.
Kidnapped
'3e must find a safe place somewhere near,' he said, 'and send me a messa!e. I'll find some more money for ye,
and send it to ye. %ut, Alan,' and here he stopped for a moment, bitin! his fin!er worriedly, 'I'll have to accuse ye of
)illin! that +ampbell. I'll have to. If I don't, they'll accuse me. I have to thin) of myself and my family. Do ye see that5'
'Aye,' said Alan slowly. 'I see that.'
'And I'll have to accuse your friend from the #owlands too. 3e see that, Alan 2 say that ye see that.'
Alan's face went red. 'It's hard on me, James. I brou!ht him here, and now my friends accuse him of murder.'
'%ut *ust thin), Alan, man.' cried James. '&he +ampbells will be sure to accuse him. And I have children.'
'0ell, sir,' said Alan, turnin! to me, 'what do ye say5 If ye do not a!ree, I won't let James do it.'
'I cannot understand why we don't accuse the man who did )ill +ampbell,' I replied sharply, 'but accuse me, /r
$tewart, if you li)e, accuse Alan, accuse Kin! 6eor!e. I am Alan's friend, and if I can help his friends in any way, I don't
mind the dan!er.'
$o that ni!ht we started our lon! *ourney to the #owlands. $ometimes we wal)ed, and sometimes we ran. %ut
althou!h we travelled as fast as we could, dayli!ht be!an to appear before we had found a !ood hidin!2place. 0e were
in the roc)y valley of 6lencoe, with hi!h mountains on both sides, and a river runnin! fast throu!h the middle. Alan was
clearly worried. '&he soldiers will find us easily here,' he said. 8e loo)ed around, and saw a !reat roc), about seven
metres hi!h. 0ith difficulty we both climbed to the top of it. &hen I saw why he had chosen it. &he top of the roc) was
shaped li)e a plate, and there was room for two or three men to lie there, hidden from people in the valley.
At last Alan smiled. 'Aye,' he said. 'Now we have a chance. 3e can sleep for a while. I'll watch for soldiers.'
%ut when I wo)e up, several hours later, the valley was full of red coats, and Alan was loo)in! worried a!ain. 'If they
!o up the sides of the mountains, they'll see us,' he said. '0e'll *ust have to stay here and hope they don't. 0hen it's
dar), we'll try to !et past them.'
&hat was a terrible day. 0e lay on the roc), ba)in! in the sun, with no water, only whis)y, to drin). 0e could hear
the "n!lish voices of the soldiers all around us, but luc)ily they did not loo) up at our roc). In the afternoon, when the
soldiers seemed sleepy after their lunch, we decided to try to escape, and we climbed very uietly down from the roc).
&he soldiers did not notice us as we moved carefully from roc) to roc), and soon we were safely in the ne(t valley. &hat
evenin! we washed ourselves in the river, and ate cold porrid!e, which is a !ood meal for a hun!ry man. 0e continued
wal)in! eastwards all ni!ht, over the !reat dar) mountains. Alan was very pleased that we had left the soldiers behind,
and whistled happily as he wal)ed.
%efore dayli!ht we reached a cave that Alan had used before, and here we stayed hidden for five days. Alan went
down one ni!ht to the nearest villa!e, to the house of one of his clansmen. 8e sent this man to James $tewart, to tell
him where we were hidin!, and after three days the clansman returned, with a purse of money for us and a messa!e
from /rs $tewart. 0e discovered that James was already in prison, accused of murder, althou!h people were sayin!
that Alan %rec) had actually fired the shot. And there was a price of one hundred pounds on my head, as well as on
Alan's.
I be!an to thin) that I would be safer alone. Alan was very reco!nisable in his fine 4rench clothes. It was !oin! to be
dan!erous to stay with Alan, and e(pensive, too. /rs $tewart had only mana!ed to send five pounds, and Alan had to
travel as far as 4rance. %ut I still had two pounds, and only needed to reach :ueensferry, so I would have to !ive some
of my money to Alan. $tayin! with Alan meant both dan!er and e(pense.
%ut my honest friend did not thin) in this way at all. 8e felt sure that he was helpin! me. $o what could I do, e(cept
)eep uiet, and hope that everythin! would be all ri!ht5
0e started travellin! a!ain, across the mountains, and by dayli!ht came to wild, open moors, covered with purple
heather. %ecause anyone on the hills around us could easily see us when we stood up, we had to wal) or run on our
hands and feet, li)e animals. It was another hot summer day, and my bac) ached badly after a few hours. I wanted a
rest and a drin) of water, but when we stopped, we saw the red coats of soldiers on one of the hills, and we had to !o
on.
0e wal)ed or ran all day and all ni!ht. ,eople who tal) of tiredness do not )now what the word really means. I did
not )now who I was or where I was !oin!, and I did not care. I thou!ht that every step would be my last, and I hoped
that death would come soon. Alan drove me onwards, and I felt that I hated him, but I was too afraid of him to stop and
rest.
0hen dayli!ht returned, we were stupid with tiredness, and had become careless. $uddenly, three or four wild2
loo)in! men *umped out of the heather, and too) us prisoner. I was not afraid, only happy to stop runnin! for a moment.
%ut Alan spo)e to them in 6aelic.
'&hese are +luny /acpherson's men,' he said uietly to me. '3e remember him, the head of the /acpherson clan5
&hey fou!ht well a!ainst the "n!lish in the 4orty24ive. After that, he didn't !o to 4rance, li)e the other clan chiefs. 1o,
he's been hidin! here ever since, and the soldiers have never mana!ed to find him. 8is clansmen brin! him what he
needs.'
0e were ta)en to a cave, well hidden by trees and roc)s, and +luny /acpherson himself came forward to welcome
us, li)e a )in! in his palace. 8e seemed to live well in his cave, and he offered us an e(cellent meal, prepared by his
coo). %ut I was too tired to eat, so I lay down at once and slept. In fact, althou!h I did not )now it, I was seriously ill,
and could not !et up for two days. I wo)e up once, in a )ind of fo!, to find +luny and Alan playin! cards, and a second
time, to hear Alan as)in! to borrow my money. I was too sic) and sleepy to refuse, and !ave him my purse.
%ut when I wo)e up a!ain, on the third day, I felt much better, althou!h not very stron!. I noticed that Alan was
loo)in! very ashamed, and I realised at once what had happened.
'David,' he said miserably, 'I've lost all our money at cards, yours as well as mine.'
'1o, no, ye haven't lost it.' cried +luny. '7f course I'll !ive your money bac). It was *ust a !ame. I wouldn't )eep your
money. 8ere.' And he pulled !old coins out of his poc)et.
Author: Andriy Kuzmenok, Ukraine, mob tel 80662810323 Kidnapped 8
I did not )now if it was ri!ht to accept the money or not, but we needed it, so I than)ed +luny and put the coins in
my purse. %ut I was very an!ry with Alan, and as we left +luny's cave and continued our *ourney, I refused to spea) to
him.
At first Alan tried hard to tal) to me. 8e said that he was sorry, and that he loved me li)e a brother. 8e was worried
about my health, and offered me a hand when we crossed a river or climbed a hill. %ut after two or three days, when he
realised that I was still an!ry with him, he too became an!ry, and lau!hed at me when I fell, or seemed tired.
0e travelled by ni!ht, throu!h endless rain and stron! winds, and slept in the wet heather by day. I was feelin!
more and more miserable. /y illness had returned, and I was be!innin! to thin) that this terrible *ourney would only
end in my death. 'Alan will be sorry when I die.' I thou!ht. 8ow childish I was.
Alan continued to lau!h at me and call me names, and by the si(th ni!ht I had had enou!h. I stopped and spo)e
an!rily to him. '/r $tewart,' I said, 'why do you lau!h at me5 I should lau!h at you! 3ou may have a )in!'s name, but
you're a loser. 3ou spend your life runnin! away. 3ou're not brave enou!h to fi!ht the +ampbells and the "n!lish, and
win.'
Alan loo)ed sharply at me. 'David.' he said. '&here are thin!s that ye should never say 2 thin!s that can never be
for!otten.'
'If you don't li)e what I say, I'm ready to fi!ht,' I answered stupidly. I )new that I was not stron! enou!h to hold a
sword.
'David.' he cried. 'Are ye cra-y5 I cannot fi!ht ye. It would be murder.' 8e pulled out his sword, and loo)ed at me.
'1o, I can't, I can't,' he said. And he dropped his sword on the !round.
0hen I saw how much he loved me, I was no lon!er an!ry, only sic), and sorry. I remembered all his )indness to
me, and how he had always helped me throu!h difficult times. 1ow I had lost that friend for ever. /y illness seemed to
!et worse and worse, and I could only *ust stand. I wanted to say that I was sorry, but I )new it was too late for that.
$uddenly I realised that a cry for help was the only way of brin!in! Alan bac) to me.
'Alan.' I said, my voice sha)in!. 'If you cannot help me, I must *ust die here.' I did not need to pretend.
8e loo)ed up uic)ly, surprised. '+an ye wal)5'
'1ot without help. Alan, if I die, will you for!et what I said5 In my heart, I've always been your friend, you )now that.'
':uiet.' cried Alan. 'Don't tal) of dyin!. David, man, ye )nowA' 8e could not !o on, but put his arm around me.
'Davie, I'm a bad friend to ye. I didn't remember that ye're *ust a bairn, I couldn't see that ye were dyin! on your
feet...' 8e was almost cryin!. '8old on to me, Davie, and ye'll be !rand.'
8e helped me down into the valley to the nearest house, which luc)ily belon!ed to a clan who were friendly to the
$tewarts. &here I lay for several days, unable to move. Alan refused to leave me, and too) the !reatest care of me.
#ittle by little I !ot better, with his help, and before a month had passed, we went on our way a!ain.
&his time we did not ar!ue. 0e did not see any more soldiers, and our *ourney was easier now. 0e wal)ed throu!h
the warm summer ni!hts, ate our porrid!e, dran) our whis)y, and slept in the dry heather in the daytime. 1ow that we
were in the #owlands, we were almost safe, and we both felt happy and hopeful. 0hen we crossed the ;iver 4orth by
boat from #ime)ilns, we were only five )ilometres from :ueensferry, where /r ;an)eillor lived.
5
David comes home
0e decided that Alan would stay hidden in the fields, while I wal)ed to :ueensferry to find /r ;an)eillor. Alan
promised not to come out until he heard me return. In order to be sure that it was me, he tau!ht me to whistle a little
6aelic son!. I have never for!otten it. I thin) that it will run in my head when I lie dyin!. "very time it comes to me, I
thin) of that last day of my travels, with Alan whistlin! opposite me in the !rass, while the first li!ht of the sun touched
his face.
$oon I arrived in :ueensferry. 0hen I saw people loo)in! stran!ely at me, and realised how dirty my clothes were, I
be!an to feel afraid. 0ould /r ;an)eillor want to tal) to me5 8ow could I prove who I was5 I had no papers with me. I
was too ashamed to as) any of the townspeople for help, so I wal)ed up and down, not )nowin! what to do.
%y midday I was tired and hun!ry. I stopped in front of a lar!e house, with clean windows, flowers in the !arden,
and a do! sittin! on the doorstep. $uddenly the door opened, and a lar!e, well2dressed, )ind2loo)in! man came out.
'0hat are you doin! here, my lad5' he as)ed.
'I'm loo)in! for /r ;an)eillor's house, sir,' I answered.
'0ell, I'm ;an)eillor, and this is my house. 0ho are you5'
'/y name is David %alfour,' I replied.
'David %alfour5' he repeated, and loo)ed closely at me. '+ome inside, /r %alfour, and we'll tal).'
In /r ;an)eillor's comfortable sittin!2room, I told him the story of my early life, and e(plained that my uncle had paid
+aptain 8oseason to )idnap me and ta)e me to sea.
&he lawyer listened carefully. 'I heard that 8oseason's ship went down near the island of /ull two months a!o,' he
said. '0hat have you been doin! since then5'
'I can easily tell you, sir,' I replied, 'but if I tell you, a friend's life may be in dan!er. ,romise me that you will not !et
him into trouble, or tell the soldiers about him.'
Althou!h he loo)ed a little worried at first, he promised, and I told him the rest of my adventures. 0hile I tal)ed, his
eyes were closed and he seemed to be asleep, but I discovered soon afterwards that he had understood and
remembered everythin!.
0hen I spo)e the name of Alan %rec), he opened his eyes and sat up. 'Don't use unnecessary names, /r %alfour,'
he said. 'A lawyer has to be very careful, when discussin! 8i!hlanders. I don't thin) I heard your friend's name very
well. #et's call him 2 /r &homson.'
Kidnapped !
'7f course,' I thou!ht, 'all over $cotland people are tal)in! about Alan, now that he's accused of the murder of +olin
+ampbell.' I was sure that ;an)eillor had reco!nised his name. %ut I *ust smiled, and continued my story, usin! the
name of /r &homson instead of Alan %rec).
'0ell, well,' said the lawyer, when I had finished, 'what an e(citin! adventure. 3ou will have to write it down one day.
I had heard of you, /r David, from your friends in "ssendean, who wrote to me when they had no word from you. 3our
uncle then told me that he had !iven you money to study in "urope, but I did not thin) that was true. I'm afraid we all
)now that "bene-er %alfour is not a very !ood or honest man. &hen +aptain 8oseason appeared, sayin! that you were
lost when his ship went down. %ut now I understand what really happened, and I )now that you are David %alfour.' 8e
put a hand on my shoulder in a fatherly way and continued. '3ou'll want to )now about the house of $haws. It's a
stran!e story. 0hen they were youn!, your father Ale(ander and his youn!er brother "bene-er loved the same !irl.
3our father was always a )ind, lovin! brother, so when the !irl decided to marry him, Ale(ander left +ramond and let
"bene-er have the house and farmland. 0ell, I thin) it was a bad mista)e. 0hat happened was that your parents were
always very poor, and "bene-er became more and more interested in money. 8e never married, of course.'
'0ell, sir,' I said, 'and now, what will happen5'
'1ow that your father is dead,' replied the lawyer, 'you own the house of $haws and the farms around it. %ut
"bene-er won't accept that, and it will be e(pensive if he wants us to prove it in court. In fact, we must stay out of court,
if possible. &he )idnappin! will be difficult to prove, and we don't want people as)in! uestions about your friend /r
&homson. 1o, I thin) that we should leave "bene-er at $haws, where he's been for twenty2five years, and as) him to
pay you some money every year, instead of !ivin! you the house. 0hat do you thin)5'
'&hat sounds e(cellent to me, sir,' I replied. '%ut I thin) that we could accuse my uncle of )idnappin! me. It's easier
to prove than you thin). #isten,' and I described my plan to him.
8e was very pleased with it. '3es, /r David, very !ood. If we can catch "bene-er li)e that, he can't refuse to !ive
you some of the money that belon!s to you.' 8e called to his secretary, &orrance. '3ou must come with us toni!ht,
&orrance. 3ou'll have to listen to the conversation you hear, and write it all down. And brin! the %alfour papers with you.'
&hen he turned to me. '%ut if I accept your plan, /r David, I'll have to meet your friend /r &homson, who may be, I only
say may be, a criminal.' 8e was silent for a while, thin)in! deeply, then went on, '0ell, let's tal) of somethin! different.
Do you )now, the other day, I saw &orrance in the street. %ut because I wasn't wearin! my !lasses, I didn't reco!nise
him. /y own secretary. 8a2ha2ha.' and he lau!hed happily at himself.
I smiled politely. ',erhaps he's !ettin! old,' I thou!ht.
%ut later that evenin!, when /r ;an)eillor, &orrance and I were wal)in! out of :ueensferry, the lawyer suddenly
cried out, lau!hin!, '0ell, how stupid of me. I've for!otten my !lasses.' And I understood why he had told me the story
about &orrance. 1ow he could meet Alan, a man wanted for murder, and if the soldiers as)ed him later for information
he could say that he never saw Alan clearly and could not possibly reco!nise him.
0hen we arrived near Alan's hidin!2place, I whistled the little 8i!hland son!. 0hen he appeared, we e(plained to
him what we wanted him to do, and he readily a!reed. $o the four of us continued wal)in! until we reached the house
of $haws.
It was a dar) ni!ht, and there were no li!hts in the windows. /y uncle was probably in bed. /r ;an)eillor, &orrance
and I hid below the steps, near enou!h to hear any conversation, while Alan went strai!ht up to the door and )noc)ed
loudly. After some time my uncle opened his bedroom window, and called down, in a fri!htened voice, '0hat do ye
want at this time of ni!ht5 0ho are ye5'
'I do not want to !ive ye my own name,' replied Alan, 'but I've come to tal) to ye about someone called 2 David.'
'0hat.' cried my uncle. And after a moment, he said unhappily, '0ill ye come inside, to discuss 2 the matter5'
'I will not,' said Alan sharply. 'It's here on this doorstep that we must tal). +ome down and spea) to me.'
After "bene-er had thou!ht about it, he decided to do what Alan wanted. It too) him a lon! time to come
downstairs, and a lon!er time to unloc) the heavy door, but at last we saw him in the doorway, holdin! his !un in his
sha)in! hands.
'1ow,' said Alan, 'ye're intelli!ent enou!h to see that I'm a 8i!hlander. I have friends who live near the island of /ull.
0ell, it seems that a ship went down near there, and soon afterwards my friends found a lad, half2dead, on the beach.
3our nephew, /r %alfour. $ince then they've been ta)in! care of him. And now they'd li)e to )now, /r %alfour, if ye
want him bac). 3e'll have to pay, if ye do. /y friends are very poor.'
'I don't want him bac),' said my uncle. '8e wasn't a !ood lad. I won't pay a shillin! for him.'
'%lood's thic)er than water, sir,' said Alan. '8e's your brother's son. %ut if ye don't want him bac), will ye pay us to
)eep him5 And ye'll have to hurry. I'm not waitin! here all ni!ht.'
'6ive me a minute to thin), will ye.' cried my uncle.
'In two words, sir, do ye want us to )ill or )eep the lad5'
'7h, sir.' cried "bene-er. 'Don't tal) of )illin!.'
'0ell, )illin!'s easier, and uic)er, and cheaper.'
'I'm an honest man,' said my uncle, 'and no murderer.'
'0ell, well,' replied Alan, 'and now how much will ye pay for us to )eep him5 4irst I need to )now how much ye paid
8oseason to )idnap the lad. 8ow much was it5'
'8oseason5 Kidnap5 0hat are ye tal)in! about, man5' screamed my uncle, *umpin! up and down on the doorstep.
'8oseason himself has told me about it,' said Alan calmly, 'so ye needn't pretend. Just answer the uestion, or ye'll
find my sword in your stomach.'
'Don't !et an!ry.' cried my uncle. 'I !ave him twenty pounds, that's all. %ut to be honest with ye 2 he was !oin! to sell
the lad as a slave, and )eep that money, ye see.'
'&han) you, /r &homson, that's e(cellent,' said the lawyer, steppin! forward. '6ood evenin!, /r %alfour,' he said
politely to the old man.
Author: Andriy Kuzmenok, Ukraine, mob tel 80662810323 Kidnapped 10
And, '6ood evenin!, uncle "bene-er,' said I.
And, 'It's a !rand evenin!, /r %alfour,' added &orrance.
/y uncle said nothin!, but stood there on the doorstep with his mouth open. 0e too) him into the )itchen, and sat
down to discuss matters. After an hour, it was all decided. /y uncle accepted that $haws belon!ed to me, but he would
stay there durin! his lifetime. 8e a!reed to pay me money every year, and /r ;an)eillor would chec) that he did.
0e all stayed that ni!ht at the house of $haws. %ut while Alan and &orrance and /r ;an)eillor slept on the hard
beds upstairs, I lay down on the )itchen chests, which now belon!ed to me. I, who had slept out on the hills for so
many days and ni!hts, was now the owner of a lar!e house and several farms. /y head was full of e(citin! plans and
ideas, and I found it difficult to sleep.
&he ne(t day, while /r ;an)eillor and I were havin! brea)fast to!ether, I tal)ed to him about Alan.
'/r &homson is still in dan!er,' said the lawyer. '8e must leave the country as soon as possible, and stay with his
friends in 4rance for a while. I'll !ive you money to buy him a place on a ship. 8e'll have to stay hidden until then.'
'And his clansman, James $tewart, who's in prison5' I as)ed. 'I )now he didn't )ill +olin +ampbell. I saw the
murderer. I must spea) for James $tewart in court.'
'/y dear boy,' said ;an)eillor, 'it's dan!erous for anyone to spea) for a $tewart in a +ampbell court. %ut you must
do what you thin) is ri!ht. I'll write you a letter to a !ood lawyer who will be able to help /r &homson's clansman.' 8e
stood up. '0ell, I thin) that we've finished our business here. I must leave now, and !o bac) to my wor). +ome and see
me often, /r David. 6oodbye.'
Alan and I started wal)in! towards "dinbur!h, while /r ;an)eillor and &orrance turned bac) to :ueensferry. 0e
tal)ed about what would happen ne(t. Alan was !oin! to hide in the countryside near "dinbur!h, until it was safe for
him to ta)e a ship to 4rance. 0hen I had found him a place, I would send him a messa!e. &hen I planned to !o bac) to
the 8i!hlands to help James $tewart return to his family.
Alan and I wal)ed slowly. 0e were both thin)in! that soon we would have to leave each other. And we had been
throu!h so much to!ether. 0e stopped when we came to the top of +orstorphine hill, and loo)ed down at "dinbur!h.
0e )new that this was the moment to say !oodbye, but we stood there silently for a while.
'0ell, !oodbye,' said Alan, and held out his hand.
'6oodbye,' I said, and too) his hand. &hen I went off downhill. I did not loo) bac) at him, but I felt very miserable,
and wanted to sit down and cry li)e a baby.
"dinbur!h was full of noise and traffic and people, but I did not notice any of that. All the time I was thin)in! of Alan
on the hill, and there was an ice2cold feelin! inside me.
In the months that followed, I )ept Alan's silver button safe and often loo)ed at it, rememberin! our escape throu!h
the heather in the wild 8i!hlands. I felt proud to call Alan %rec) $tewart my friend, and wondered if I would ever see
him a!ain. 0hen I returned to the 8i!hlands to help his clansman, James, I found that my adventures with the $tewarts
were far from finished ... but that is another story.
Kidnapped 11