



Produced by Al Haines.




[Illustration: Cover]




[Illustration: "HERE HE IS!  TAK' HIM AND FINISH HIM"  Page 44]




                              The Starling

                            A Scottish Story


                                   BY
                             NORMAN MACLEOD



                               Author of
       "Reminiscences of a Highland Parish" "Character Sketches"
                "The Old Lieutenant and his Son" &c. &c.



                         BLACKIE & SON LIMITED
                           LONDON AND GLASGOW




BLACKIE & SON LIMITED
 50 Old Bailey, London
 17 Stanhope Street, Glasgow

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 Warwick House, Fort Street, Bombay

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 1118 Bay Street, Toronto



        Printed in Great Britain by Blackie & Son, Ltd., Glasgow




                           BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE

Norman Macleod was born, in 1812, at Campbeltown, in Argyllshire, where
his father was parish minister. Educated in Campbeltown and Campsie for
a time, he entered the University of Glasgow in 1827, and in 1837 became
a licensed minister of the Church of Scotland.  From 1838 to 1843 ne was
minister of Loudoun parish in Ayrshire, from 1843 to 1851 of Dalkeith
parish, and from 1851 till his death in 1872 of the Barony Parish,
Glasgow.  He was appointed chaplain to Queen Victoria in 1857, and next
year received the degree of D.D. from Glasgow University. He edited
_Good Words_ from its foundation in 1860 till his death, and he also
gained great literary success with the following books: _The Gold
Thread_ (1861), _The Old Lieutenant and his Son_ (1862), _Parish Papers_
(1862), _Wee Davie_ (1864), _Eastward_ (1866), _Reminiscences of a
Highland Parish_ (1867), _The Starling_ (1867), _Peeps at the Far East_
(1871), _The Temptation of Our Lord_ (1872), and _Character Sketches_
(1872).




                                Contents


CHAP.

      I. Antecedents
     II. The Elder and his Starling
    III. The Starling a Disturber of the Peace
     IV. The Rev. Daniel Porteous
      V. The Sergeant and his Starling in Trouble
     VI. The Starling on his Trial
    VII. The Sergeant on his Trial
   VIII. The Conference in the Manse
     IX. Charlie's Cot once More Occupied
      X. The Sergeant Alone with the Starling
     XI. The Old Soldier and his Young Pupil on Sunday Evening
    XII. Adam Mercer, Sergeant, but not Elder
   XIII. Jock Hall, the Ne'er-do-Weel
    XIV. Jock Hall's Conspiracy
     XV. Jock Hall's Journey
    XVI. Fishers and Fishing
   XVII. The Keeper's Home
  XVIII. The Keeper's Letter
    XIX. Extremes Meet
     XX. Jock Hall's Return
    XXI. The Quack
   XXII. Corporal Dick
  XXIII. Corporal Dick at the Manse
   XXIV. Dr. Scott and his Servant
    XXV. Mr. Smellie's Diplomacy
   XXVI. The Starling Again in Danger
  XXVII. The Sergeant's Sickness and his Sick-Nurse
 XXVIII. Mr. Porteous Visits the Sergeant
   XXIX. The Minister Pure and Peaceable
    XXX. "A Man's a Man for a' That"




                         List of Illustrations


"Here he is!  Tak' him and finish him"  _Frontispiece_

"Are you aware, Mr. Mercer, of what has just happened?"

"I'll keep Mary"

"I was but axin' a ceevil question, Mr. Spence"




                              THE STARLING



                               CHAPTER I

                              ANTECEDENTS


"The man was aince a poacher!"  So said, or rather breathed with his
hard wheezing breath, Peter Smellie, shopkeeper and elder, into the ears
of Robert Menzies, a brother elder, who was possessed of a more humane
disposition.  They were conversing in great confidence about the
important "case" of Sergeant Adam Mercer.  What that case was, the
reader will learn by and by.  The only reply of Robert Menzies was,
"Is't possible!" accompanied by a start and a steady gaze at his
well-informed brother.  "It's a fac' I tell ye," continued Smellie, "but
ye'll keep it to yersel'--keep it to yersel', for it doesna do to injure
a brither wi'oot cause; yet it's richt ye should ken what a bad
beginning our freen' has had.  Pit your thumb on't, however, in the
_meantime_--keep it, as the minister says, _in retentis_, which I
suppose means, till needed."

Smellie went on his way to attend to some parochial duty, nodding and
smiling, and again admonishing his brother to "keep it to himsel'."  He
seemed unwilling to part with the copyright of such a spicy bit of
gossip.  Menzies inwardly repeated, "A poacher!  wha would have thocht
it?  At the same time, I see----"  But I will not record the harmonies,
real or imaginary, which Mr. Menzies so clearly perceived between the
early and latter habits of the Sergeant.

And yet the gossiping Smellie, whose nose had tracked out the history of
many people in the parish of Drumsylie, was in this, as in most cases,
accurately informed.  The Sergeant of whom he spoke had been a poacher
some thirty years before, in a district several miles off.  The wonder
was how Smellie had discovered the fact, or how, if true, it could
affect the present character or position of one of the best men in the
parish.  Yet true it was, and it is as well to confess it, not with the
view of excusing it, but only to account for Mercer's having become a
soldier, and to show how one who became "meek as a sheathed sword" in
his later years, had once been possessed of a very keen and ardent
temperament, whose ruling passion was the love of excitement, in the
shape of battle with game and keepers.  I accidentally heard the whole
story, which, on account of other circumstances in the Sergeant's later
history, interested me more than I fear it may my readers.

Mercer did not care for money, nor seek to make a trade of the unlawful
pleasure of shooting without a licence.  Nor in the district in which he
lived was the offence then looked upon in a light so very disreputable
as it is now; neither was it pursued by the same disreputable class.
The sport itself was what Mercer loved for its own sake, and it had
become to him quite a passion.  For two or three years he had frequently
transgressed, but he was at last caught on the early dawn of a summer's
morning by John Spence, the gamekeeper of Lord Bennock.  John had often
received reports from the underkeeper and watchers, of some unknown and
mysterious poacher who had hitherto eluded every attempt to seize him.
Though rather too old for very active service, Spence resolved to
concentrate all his experience--for, like many a thoroughbred keeper, he
had himself been a poacher in his youth--to discover and secure the
transgressor; but how he did so it would take pages to tell.  Adam never
suspected John of troubling himself about such details as that of
watching poachers, and John never suspected that Adam was the poacher.
The keeper, we may add, was cousin-german to Mercer's mother.  The
capture itself was not difficult; for John, having lain in wait,
suddenly confronted Adam, who, scorning the idea of flying, much more of
struggling with his old cousin, quietly accosted him with, "Weel, John,
ye hae catched me at last."

"Adam Mercer!" exclaimed the keeper, with a look of horror.  "It canna
be you!  It's no' possible!"

"It's just me, John, and no mistak'," said Adam, quietly throwing
himself down on the heather, and twisting a bit about his finger.  "For
better or waur, I'm in yer power; but had I been a ne'er-do-weel, like
Willy Steel, or Tam M'Grath, I'd hae blackened my face, and whammel'd ye
ower and pit yer head in a wallee afore ye could cheep as loud as a
stane-chucker; but when I saw wha ye war, I gied in."

"I wad raither than a five-pun-note I had never seen yer face!  Keep us!
what's to be dune!  What wull yer mither say? and his Lordship?  Na,
what wull onybody say wi' a spark o' decency when they hear----"

"Dinna fash yer thoomb, John; tak' me and send me to the jail."

"The jail!  What gude will that do to you or me, laddie?  I'm clean
donnered about the business.  Let me sit down aside ye; keep laigh, in
case the keepers see ye, and tell me by what misshanter ye ever took to
this wicked business, and under my nose, as if _I_ couldna fin' ye oot!"

"Sport, sport!" was Mercer's reply.  "Ye ken, John, I'm a shoemaker, and
it's a dull trade, and squeezing the clams against the wame is ill for
digestion; and when that fails, ane's speerits fail, and the warld gets
black and dowie; and whan things gang wrang wi' me, I canna flee to
drink: but I think o' the moors that I kent sae weel when my faither was
a keeper to Murray o' Cultrain.  Ye mind my faither? was he no' a han'
at a gun!"

"He was that--the verra best," said John.

"Aweel," continued Adam, "when doon in the mouth, I ponder ower the braw
days o' health and life I had when carrying his bag, and getting a shot
noos and thans as a reward; and it's a truth I tell ye, that the _whirr
kick-ic-ic_ o' a covey o' groose aye pits my bluid in a tingle.  It's a
sort o' madness that I canna accoont for; but I think I'm no responsible
for't.  Paitricks are maist as bad, though turnips and stubble are no'
to be compared wi' the heather, nor walkin' amang them like the far-aff
braes, the win'y taps o' the hills, or the lown glens.  Mony a time I
hae promised to drap the gun and stick to the last; but when I'm no'
weel, and wauken and see the sun glintin', and think o' the wide bleak
muirs, and the fresh caller air o' the hill, wi' the scent o' the braes
an' the bog myrtle, and thae whirrin' craturs--man, I canna help it!  I
spring up and grasp the gun, and I'm aff!"

The reformed poacher and keeper listened with a poorly-concealed smile,
and said, "Nae doot, nae doot, Adam, it's a' natural--I'm no denyin'
that; it's a glorious business; in fac', it's jist pairt o' every man
that has a steady han' and a guid e'e and a feeling heart.  Ay, ay.
But, Adam, were ye no' frichtened?"

"For what?"

"For the keepers!"

"The keepers!  Eh, John, that's half the sport! The thocht o' dodgin'
keepers, jinkin' them roon' hills, and doon glens, and lyin' amang the
muir-hags, and nickin' a brace or twa, and then fleein' like mad doon ae
brae and up anither; and keekin' here, and creepin' there, and cowerin'
alang a fail <DW18>, and scuddin' thro' the wood--that's mair than half
the life o't, John!  I'm no sure if I could shoot the birds if they were
a' in my ain kailyard, and my ain property, and if I paid for them!"

"But war ye no' feared for me that kent ye?" asked John.

"Na!" replied Adam, "I was mair feared for yer auld cousin, my mither,
gif she kent what I was aboot, for she's unco' prood o' you.  But I
didna think ye ever luiked efter poachers yersel'? Noo I hae telt ye a'
aboot it."

"I' faith," said John, taking a snuff and handing the box to Adam, "it's
human natur'!  But ye ken, human natur's wicked, desperately wicked! and
afore I was a keeper my natur' was fully as wicked as yours,--fully,
Adam, if no waur.  But I hae repented--ever sin' I was made keeper; and
I wadna like to hinder your repentance.  Na, na.  We mauna be ower
prood!  Sae I'll----  Wait a bit, man, be canny till I see if ony o' the
lads are in sicht;" and John peeped over a knoll, and cautiously looked
around in every direction until satisfied that he was alone.  "--I'll
no' mention this job," he continued, "if ye'll promise me, Adam, never
to try this wark again; for it's no' respectable; and, warst o' a', it's
no' safe, and ye wad get me into a habble as weel as yersel'.  Sae
promise me, like a guid cousin, as I may ca' ye,--and bluid is thicker
than water, ye ken,--and then just creep doon the burn, and alang the
plantin', and ower the wa', till ye get intil the peat road, and be aff
like stoor afore the win'; but I canna wi' conscience let ye tak' the
birds wi' ye."

Adam thought a little, and said, "Ye're a gude sowl, John, and I'll no'
betray ye."  After a while he added, gravely, "But I maun kill
something. It's no in my heart as wickedness; but my fingers maun draw a
trigger."  After a pause, he continued, "Gie's yer hand, John; ye hae
been a frien' to me, and I'll be a man o' honour to you.  I'll never
poach mair, but I'll 'list and be a sodger!  Till I send hame
money,--and it'ill no' be lang,--be kind tae my mither, and I'll never
forget it."

"A sodger!" exclaimed John.

But Adam, after seizing John by the hand and saying, "Fareweel for a
year and a day," suddenly started off down the glen, leaving two brace
of grouse, with his gun, at John's feet; as much as to say, Tell my Lord
how you caught the wicked poacher, and how he fled the country.

Spence told indeed how he had caught a poacher, who had escaped, but
never gave his name, nor ever hinted that Adam was the man.

It was thus Adam Mercer poached and enlisted.


One evening I was at the house of a magistrate with whom I was
acquainted, when a man named Andrew Dick called to get my friend's
signature to his pension paper, in the absence of the parish minister.
Dick had been through the whole Peninsular campaign, and had retired as
a corporal.  I am fond of old soldiers, and never fail when an
opportunity offers to have a talk with them about "the wars".  On the
evening in question, my friend Findlay, the magistrate, happened to say
in a bluff kindly way, "Don't spend your pension in drink."

Dick replied, saluting him, "It's very hard, sir, that after fighting
the battles of our country, we should be looked upon as worthless by
gentlemen like you."

"No, no, Dick, I never said you were worthless," was the reply.

"Please your honour," said Dick, "ye did not say it, but I consider any
man who spends his money in drink is worthless; and, what is mair, a
fool; and, worse than all, is no Christian.  He has no recovery in him,
no supports to fall back on, but is in full retreat, as we would say,
from common decency."

"But you know," said my friend, looking kindly on Dick, "the bravest
soldiers, and none were braver than those who served in the Peninsula,
often exceeded fearfully--shamefully; and were a disgrace to humanity."

"Well," replied Dick, "it's no easy to make evil good, and I won't try
to do so; but yet ye forget our difficulties and temptations.  Consider
only, sir, that there we were, not in bed for months and months;
marching at all hours; ill-fed, ill-clothed, and uncertain of
life--which I assure your honour makes men indifferent to it; and we had
often to get our mess as we best could,--sometimes a tough steak out of
a dead horse or mule, for when the beast was skinned it was difficult to
make oot its kind; and after toiling and moiling, up and down, here and
there and everywhere, summer and winter, when at last we took a town
with blood and wounds, and when a cask of wine or spirits fell in the
way of the troops, I don't believe that you, sir, or the justices of the
peace, or, with reverence be it spoken, the ministers themselves, would
have said 'No', to a drop.  You'll excuse me, sir; I'm perhaps too free
with you."

"I didn't mean to lecture you, or to blame you, Dick, for I know the
army is not the place for Christians."

"Begging your honour's pardon, sir," said Dick, "the best Christians I
ever knowed were in the army--men who would do their dooty to their
king, their country, and their God."

"You have known such?" I asked, breaking into the conversation, to turn
it aside from what threatened to be a dispute.

"I have, sir!  There's ane Adam Mercer, in this very parish, an elder of
the Church--I'm a Dissenter mysel', on principle, for I consider----"

"Go on, Dick, about Mercer; never mind your Church principles."

"Well, sir, as I was saying--though, mind you, I'm not ashamed of being
a Dissenter, and, I houp, a Christian too--Adam was our sergeant; and a
worthier man never shouldered a bayonet.  He was nae great speaker, and
was quiet as his gun when piled; but when he shot, he shot! that did he,
short and pithy, a crack, and right into the argument.  He was weel
respeckit, for he was just and mercifu'--never bothered the men, and
never picked oot fauts, but covered them; never preached, but could gie
an advice in two or three words that gripped firm aboot the heart, and
took the breath frae ye.  He was extraordinar' brave!  If there was any
work to do by ordinar', up to leading a forlorn hope, Adam was sure to
be on't; and them that kent him even better than I did then, said that
he never got courage frae brandy, but, as they assured me, though ye'll
maybe no' believe it, his preparation was a prayer!  I canna tell hoo
they fan' this oot, for Adam was unco quiet; but they say a drummer
catched him on his knees afore he mounted the ladder wi' Cansh at the
siege o' Badajoz, and that Adam telt him no' to say a word aboot it, but
yet to tak' his advice and aye to seek God's help mair than man's."

This narrative interested me much, so that I remembered its facts, and
connected them with what I afterwards heard about Adam Mercer many years
ago, when on a visit to Drumsylie.




                               CHAPTER II

                       THE ELDER AND HIS STARLING


When Adam Mercer returned from the wars, more than half a century ago,
he settled in the village of Drumsylie, situated in a county bordering
on the Highlands, and about twenty miles from the scene of his poaching
habits, of which he had long ago repented.  His hot young blood had been
cooled down by hard service, and his vehement temperament subdued by
military discipline; but there remained an admirable mixture in him of
deepest feeling, regulated by habitual self-restraint, and expressed in
a manner outwardly calm but not cold, undemonstrative but not unkind.
His whole bearing was that of a man accustomed at once to command and to
obey.  Corporal Dick had not formed a wrong estimate of his
Christianity.  The lessons taught by his mother, whom he fondly loved,
and whom he had in her widowhood supported to the utmost of his means
from pay and prize-money, and her example of a simple, cheerful, and
true life, had sunk deeper than he knew into his heart, and, taking
root, had sprung up amidst the stormy scenes of war, bringing forth the
fruits of stern self-denial and moral courage tempered by strong social
affections.

Adam had resumed his old trade of shoemaker. He occupied a small
cottage, which, with the aid of a poor old woman in the neighbourhood,
who for an hour morning and evening did the work of a servant, he kept
with singular neatness.  His little parlour was ornamented with several
memorials of the war--a sword or two picked up on memorable
battle-fields; a French cuirass from Waterloo, with a gaudy print of
Wellington, and one also of the meeting with Bluecher at La Belle
Alliance.

The Sergeant attended the parish church as regularly as he used to do
parade.  Anyone could have set his watch by the regularity of his
movements on Sunday mornings.  At the same minute on each succeeding day
of holy rest and worship, the tall, erect figure, with well-braced
shoulders, might be seen stepping out of the cottage door--where he
stood erect for a moment to survey the weather--dressed in the same suit
of black trousers, brown surtout, buff waistcoat, black stock, white
cotton gloves, with a yellow cane under his arm--everything so neat and
clean, from the polished boots to the polished hat, from the
well-brushed grey whiskers to the well-arranged locks that met in a peak
over his high forehead and soldier-like face.  And once within the
church there was no more sedate or attentive listener.

There were few week-days and no Sunday evenings on which the Sergeant
did not pay a visit to some neighbour confined to bed from sickness, or
suffering from distress of some kind.  He manifested rare tact--made up
of common sense and genuine benevolence--on such occasions.  His strong
sympathies put him instantly _en rapport_ with those whom he visited,
enabling him at once to meet them on some common ground.  Yet in
whatever way the Sergeant began his intercourse, whether by listening
patiently--and what a comfort such listening silence is!--to the history
