As for me, I was wild to stay. Most lads would have wanted to cross the world, but not I, for there was great talk of the Stuart in the air. My father, who held all Stuarts for Papists, was bitter strong for Orange and the Dutch, but the romance of Prince Charles was eager in me. There were constant rumors that the French fleet was coming, that men were arming in the Highlands, and that the clans and the men of the Isles were up, but nothing came of it all and our preparations went steadily forward.
It was no light task in those days to go into the New World and found a settlement there. We were to take a dozen sheep, and my father refused to part with Grim, of course. All the rest was to be handed over to my father's kinsman, Ian MacDonald, together with the stead itself. Our personal possessions were all packed stoutly in three great chests of oak bound with iron, and into one of these went Ruth's little red cloak, that my mother had kept always.
Those were sad days for us, were the days of parting. There was ever something of the woman in my boy nature, I think, for it grieved me sore to part with the things I had known all my life, but especially to turn over to strangers the things about the house that my mother had loved and used. There was a big crock, I remember, which she had used for making the porridge every morning, and Ruth after her; this my father would not let us pack, saying that broken pots would make poor porridge in the colonies.
"Then it shall make porridge no more," I replied hotly, and caught up the heavy crock. Ruth gave a little cry as it shattered on the hearthstone, and I looked to feel my father's staff. But instead, he only gazed across the room and nodded to himself.
"Let be, Davie lad. We cannot always dash our crocks upon the stones and start anew. Now fetch in some peat ere the fire dies."
Very humbly, and a good bit ashamed, I obeyed. I had not thought there was so much restraint in my father, of late.
To tell the honest truth, Fergus MacDonald, as the neighbors said, was "fey" ever since the death of my mother. He would take his staff and Grim and so stride across the moors, return home in the evening, and speak no word for hours. These moods had been growing on him, but the bustle and stir of our preparations seemed to wake him out of himself in some degree, for which I was duly thankful.
The day of sailing had been set for the end of May, in the year 1710. Alec Gordon rode over with the word that the "Lass" had returned and her cargo—which as all knew, was contraband—had been safely "run" farther down the coast. The Griers were already in Rathesby, with two or three other families, and old Alec was gathering his flock together for the voyage.
So early the next morning we shut up the stead for Ian to take charge when he would, and departed for ever, as it seemed. We rode but slowly, Grim driving the sheep steadily before him and us, until we came to a roll of the moor we paused for a last look at the old place. As we turned away I caught a sparkle on my father's gray beard and the sight put a sudden sob in my throat; as for Ruth, she made no secret of her tears. And thus we left the little gray house behind us and rode with out faces toward the west and the sound of the sea beating on our ears.
We came down to Rathesby at last and found the little port in wild confusion. In all, there were eight families leaving—the Griers, two Grahams, three of the Gordons, Auld Lag Hamilton and his sons, and our own little party from Ayrby. All that afternoon we were busy getting the sheep stowed away on board—which Wat Herries considered sheer foolishness, as I did myself—and for that night we put up at the Purple Heather, the women sleeping in the guest-rooms while we men rolled up in our plaids and lay in the great room down below.