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Table of Contents
CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

OTHER TITLES

ABOUT ME
He awoke to the sound of the sea, and the mournful call of carrion
birds.

Water, frigid and cruel, washed up beneath him, shocking him awake.
He gasped, or tried to, but some liquid had settled in his lungs. The
gasp turned quickly to a violent fit of coughing and he rolled over, his
body spasming as it attempted to eject the foreign matter. He was
vaguely aware of a sharp, irritated caw! as he vomited the seawater
out in hard contractions. As he finished, left dry-heaving several
times, he opened his eyes.

A bleak desolation awaited him.

He lay upon a cold, rocky beach, the seawater coming in on gray
waves, like liquid stone. A few feet from him, a giant black bird
rested. It peered at him with shiny dark eyes, head tilted. It cawed at
him and hopped from one skinny foot to the next. It had a scar on its
large black beak. Seawater beaded on shiny feathers. As he tried to
wave it off, he realized just how weak he was. His body felt ancient
and withered.

A muffled sound escaped his throat and he swatted at the bird once
more, coughing. It let out another irritated caw and hopped back two
paces, but otherwise remained. The man slowly sat up. Even this act
was torturous in how much it seemed to require from him. Breathing
slowly and heavily, he sat on a rocky beach beneath a dull slate sky
next to a huge bird that was probably waiting for him to die, and he
wondered.

“Where am I?” he asked softly.

His voice sounded strange to him. He surveyed the area around him.

Long, lonely stretches of rocky shoreline to his left and his right. More
birds, and other, more uncertain shapes farther away, lurked. Ahead
of him, the vast yawning eternity of the sea. Which sea? He could not
recall.

Behind him…

He twisted around, and several things popped in his back, along his
spine, relieving tension. Behind him was dirt and trees, a dense forest
swaying in the winds coming in off the sea. A cold wind gusted
across him, and he shivered.

That brought on a great deal of pain.

The pain was faint, numbed by the cold and by…

He returned his attention to the front and looked down at himself. He
was naked. Not a scrap of clothing on him at all. All he wore was a
melange of bruises and scratches and cuts. They ached and hurt and
stung, and he could tell his suffering ran deeper than that, his
muscles and bones hurting, but it was all faraway for now.

Another wave crashed upon the shore, this one more violent than the
last, and hit him, snapping him out of his dazed state.

He needed warmth, shelter, a fire.

Or he would die.

The man rose slowly, his legs unsteady, his whole body as uncertain
as his mind, but he only lost his balance once before standing. He
looked over at the crow, which lingered, staring at him with obvious
curiosity.

Another thought occurred to him, one that erupted inside of him and
brought on an intense panic. It was so powerful he spoke it, too,
aloud.

“Who am I?”

Another wave crashed at his feet more intensely than the last, and in
the far distance, thunder cracked the sky, threatening rain. But he
could not move, not until he had answered that question. Hugging
himself, rubbing his arms, he thought furiously. Images came to him,
emotions attached to most of them, but it was all so confused and
jumbled. A bewildering proliferation of memories assaulted him as he
sorted frantically through, trying to find something familiar,
something that meant anything to him.

And then he had it, a single, short word.

A name.

Jak.
That was his name, he was sure of it. Jak let out a sigh of relief, but
the feeling was short lived. Lightning split across the stone gray
clouds, and almost immediately more thunder cracked and boomed.
His heart lurched to match it and he looked as the crow took to flight
with another call. He watched the huge thing gain altitude and
disappear off to his right, heading deeper inland. It seemed like as
good a direction to go as any, so Jak began to follow the bird, though
he quickly lost sight of it. He walked away from the rocky beach, the
stones painful on his bare feet, and came to a strip of land that was
mostly dirt that ran parallel to the shoreline.

Jak walked.

He thought.

He tried to remember, rubbing his arms and looking around as

stronger winds gusted off the sea and battered the nearby forest.

Already, the memories were slipping away. Becoming more clouded,

more convoluted. Something was wrong, he knew that much.

A bad thing had happened.

Even apart from the obvious situation he now found himself in, that
notion persisted. He clung to that, tried to use it as a beacon in the
mists of amnesia. There were things he could recall. Impressions, if
not specifics.

Jak recalled fighting. Lots of fighting.

Even as he thought of combat, saw images of broken bodies and

sprays of blood, his hand ached for some kind of weapon. He felt
naked without one, but another thought promised him that he could
defend himself, even unarmed, if that particular desperation fell onto
him. Still though, he began tracking the dirt and grass around him for
some sort of armament. All the stones and sticks he saw were
insufficient.
Another thought came to him, one that was as clear to him as his
name had been: he was an outcast of his people.

That brought an unexpected jolt of several different emotions, all

screaming to him at once. Terror. Rage. Guilt…

But a certainty that he was right. A conviction that he was right.

That one stopped him and Jak stared down at his muddy feet,
shivering in the wind, for a moment ignoring all other things.

He hunted fervently for the context. Why was he so certain that he

was right to do what he had done...whatever that was? He was an
exile of his people, this specific piece of knowledge was available to
him, but lacking context, it felt almost meaningless. Why? Whatever
he had done to gain their ire, to be punished, to be made into a
pariah, he felt strangely certain that it was the right thing to do. Not
only that, but it was the only thing to do.

Somewhere too close for comfort, something growled.

That was a sound that forced itself through everything else, and Jak
jerked his head to the right. Another person he could probably fight
with his bare hands, if it came down to it, but a wolf or one of the big
cats or the giant lizards?

No, he would be beyond saving then.

Shelter. He needed shelter.

Rain was coming, and he was already cold from laying on the shore.
Jak looked up and tried to take a measure of the light from the sky,
but it was difficult. The clouds covered the skies from horizon to
horizon. The ones above him were stone gray, but he saw some
farther off, some that seemed to be drawing closer quickly, that were
the dark gray of flint. Those were the ones swollen with a heavy rain,
and they were eager to unleash themselves on the land.
He knew he should be inside, or beneath something before then,
given his nude state.

Ahead, the land seemed to dip, while the shoreline rose. Jak began
moving forward with greater intent. There was a depression in the
land, a trench with a wall of trees to the right and a wall of earth and
rock to the left. There might be a cave, or even an overhang in that
wall of earth. Some part of his mind whispered to him that there
would be risk of flooding this close to the shore, but it was a risk he
would have to take.

As he strode towards the trench, finding the pain in his battered body
becoming more acute as his blood flowed more freely, something else
came to him. A sharp memory, this one felt recent, though hazy. He
remembered…

A figure, standing over him, against that same stone-gray sky.

The figure was tall and...blue? Jak pondered over that as he walked
on. What species did he know that was blue-skinned? Or that painted
themselves blue? He thought of the elves and their light tan skin. He
thought of...of...what were they called? Large, green, scaly. They
were big and dangerous, with sharp teeth, but not monsters, no,
they could talk and build, his memories whispered to him. Jak looked
down again at his own flesh.

Marred and bruised though it was, he could see a tawny sheen to his
skin. It covered him head to toe, uniformed and smooth. Not the
result of time spent in the sun, then, though that thought brought on
a cascade of sweaty days toiling beneath an unforgiving ball of flame
in the sky. Practicing. Practicing what?

Fighting.

He had a brief but vivid vision of himself swinging a bone-club into a

man’s skull and crushing it, blood and pulpy stuff flying out in a
vicious spray…
Jak turned back to the original memory. Who was the blue-skinned,
tall thing he remembered seeing over him while he lay, nearly dying,
on the rocky coast?

After a moment, he let out a soft grunt of frustration and dismissal.

Perhaps he was confused, or seeing untruths, his mind clouded by an
injury. Perhaps it was an earlier memory, some other shore, some
other gray sky.

He didn’t think that was true, but he could not be certain.

Jak made it down into the trench and the natural wall to his left rose
until it towered over him to the height of three men. The light was
fading, and the winds were coming more quickly now, accompanied
by other cracks of thunder that seemed to shake the very earth
around him. That shelter needed to happen soon, and then he could
see about making a fire. But as he hunted the wall in the fading light,
Jak felt a bolt of searing pain tear through his skull. He groaned,
coming a halt, grabbing his head.

A fresh bolt of pain came again as his hand touched a particularly

sensitive spot. He winced, hissing at the sheer agony of it, and pulled
his hand back down in front of his eyes, expecting his fingers to be
wet with blood. They weren’t, but the pain persisted. It was getting
harder to think, to focus.

Something shifted up ahead of him, farther along the trench,

something that garnered his attention reflexively and instantly.

Jak looked up, fear flooding his gut, as a dark gray shape detached
itself from the dense treeline a little ways ahead of him.

A wolf.

And not a small wolf either.

A quick survey of his immediate area told him that there weren’t even
any stones of any decent size he could grasp and use as a quick
weapon. The wolf was coming towards him now, head lowered, teeth
bared, growling deep in its throat.

His mind, abused though it was, shifted into survival mode and ran
quick calculations.

He didn’t like his odds. Another quick survey of the area yet again
turned up nothing, but he did see a cave in the wall to his left.

Shelter! A place to get in out of the encroaching storm.

But this wolf, creeping closer, teeth bared, a primal promise of brutal
slaughter…

Jak bunched his hands into fists, considering the best way to take it
down. If he could move in just the right way, he’d be able to tear its
throat out, or perhaps take an eye. That would dissuade it from
attacking him. Either that or enrage it past the point of madness and
make it all the more dangerous.

The time to decide was nearly upon him.

Thunder roared almost directly overhead, making him jump and

giving the wolf pause. That was when the rain opened up, a curtain
of droplets plummeting across the land with a nearly imperceptible
speed, racing towards him from the seaside.

He and the wolf were drenched in seconds.

Jak prepared to fight. Even though he was wounded and his head felt
like it had met with a cloud, he wanted to kill the wolf.

That was meat.

That was food.

Beneath the layers of encroaching numbness and pain, he knew he
was hungry. Food was fuel and he would need it.

As he tensed, shifted his weight so that he had a more stable stance,

his mind filling with thoughts, visions of blood and death, his own
hands covered in– dripping with –blood, all that bravado abruptly
collapsed like an old log deep in the forest as three more wolves
slunk out of the treeline to his right.

One wolf, he might be able to fight.

But four? Unarmed and injured? No.

Certain death now approached him on large paws, all teeth and
shaggy gray fur and black, black eyes.

Jak ran.

He sprinted into the forest with all that he was.

The forest was much darker now as the rain began to fall. Jak
grunted as he bumped into a tree, his head spinning from whatever
injury had stolen his memory, stomach roiling like the sea he fled
from. He rebounded off another tree, stumbled.

His foot caught on an exposed root and he nearly went sprawling,

instead managing to wrench his shoulder as he caught himself
painfully on an outstretched branch.

Behind him, a wolf howled.

Something shifted within him, something fundamental and crucial at

the core of his being. Something important. The world seemed to
slide around him for a brief sliver of time, everything growing
brighter, sharper, and then everything slammed back into place and
he could see. More than that, he seemed to know .
When he began running again, Jak didn’t bump into anything, even
as he picked up speed. He cold sprinted through the woods, dodged
a tree, ducked beneath a heavy branch, shifted so that his foot
wouldn’t hit that rock sticking up out of the ground.

The air carried a hundred different scents.

Flowers, creatures, the sea and the rain, the earth…

Living things that surrounded him in all directions. Trees and plants
and four-legged beasts, birds flying overhead, seeking shelter. Small
furry things and insects burrowing in the loose earth beneath his
feet.

His mind sorted through it like a flash of lightning.

Wolves behind him, closing in.

Something large and dangerous off to his right.

A potential threat somewhere above and to the left, among the

branches.

Nothing ahead that he could sense. Jak ran faster, his motion through
the darkening forest becoming fluid, smoother. He vaulted over a
fallen log, slipped between a pair of trees, raced up a hill, slid down
the other side, kept on pushing…

Jak could sense it was burning some reserve in his body, some crucial
source of energy, something that was already drastically low.

He couldn’t keep this up for much longer.

But he didn’t have to. The wolves were behind him, the other things
he had sensed gone too, and nothing new had appeared on his
periphery of awareness. Slowing to a stop, he came into a tiny
clearing and looked around.
Abruptly, the heightened awareness dropped away, and he
staggered. Almost falling to his knees, Jak looked around, knowing
that he needed to get in out of the cold and right now. There. At the
edge of the little clearing, he saw a huge, hollowed-out fallen tree. It
would have to do. He walked over, breathing heavily, his body hurting
everywhere, his movements sluggish. Sleep was coming, whether he
wanted it to or not.

In the wan light from the dim skies above, Jak looked into the hollow
log. He’d have to duck to get inside and it leaked in a few places, but
overall, it was shelter. Not ideal shelter, but shelter nonetheless.

There was the problem of security, though.

He ducked in and walked the length of the log. It was maybe twice
his height lengthwise, and it was open at both ends. Coming out the
other end, Jak looked around. His gaze fell on a good-sized rock not
too far away.

Overburdened mind working, he judged the size of the rock against

the size of the opening on this end of the log. They were roughly
similar. It would have to do. Jak walked over, got a grip on the rock,
and grunted with effort. His muscles strained as he liberated the rock
from its home in the mud and rolled it towards the opening.

It took some doing, but he managed to fit it into the rear exit. Once
he got it lodged into place as much as he could, Jak walked back
around and in through the front. He gave it a few experimental
pushes, then studied the edges.

It wasn’t perfect, but it would do. Nothing big could get in without
him noticing, at least.

There was more to do. He should build a fire, make even the most
rudimentary bed, look for something to eat, but his body was
shutting down.
Even as he thought this, the last vestiges of his strength slipped
away, and he sat down in the driest spot, towards the back. Away
from the front entrance, but far enough from the rock that it would
not crush him if it fell over.

Jak stared at the ring of space the entrance showed, the dark
clearing and the trees around it. The plants that hung down. The rain
as it fell from the skies. It was very dark now, growing darker with
each passing minute, it seemed.

He watched the entrance for as long as he could.

And then he tumbled headlong into unconsciousness.

When Jak opened his eyes again, there was light.

He remained perfectly still, despite the intensely uncomfortable
position he found himself in, and listened, and waited.

All around him, he could hear sounds. The sounds of nature.

Birds called. Insects chirped. Animals shifted, growled, barked. In the

distance, something let out a roar. The wind blew, and the plants
swayed with it.

Somewhere, barely at the edge of perception, he could hear the swell

and the crash of the sea.

Where was he?

What had happened?

His head felt full of pain, empty of all else. In fact, that’s how he felt
in his entirety. A body full of misery and suffering, bereft of all other
things.

His stomach growled.

The hunger he felt, its immensity, pushed away the anxious questions
beginning to crowd his mind. For the moment at least. Slowly, he got
to his feet, a barrage of aches and pains assaulting him. Everything
was sore, it seemed. Every part of his body, every muscle, every
joint, all of it hurt in some manner. There were things to be done
about that, he recalled vaguely. Images of some plants came to him,
things to soothe the aches, but…

First, food.

And a weapon.

Covering of some kind.

Jak stretched for a bit, trying to loosen up his stiff body. How long
had he slept? The sunlight streaming down from above was golden
and clear. It was sometime after dawn, he thought, though closer to
it than to the apex of the day. He walked to the end of the log,
listening, watching the clearing beyond. When nothing wandered by,
he edged forward and carefully peered out. Nothing was laying in
wait for him on either side of the log that was, for now, his home. As
he stepped out into the clearing, a variety of sounds came to him.

Most were mundane, nonthreatening.

But some…

He shivered, and not from the gentle breeze that whispered across
him, but from the undeniable knowledge that he had no weapons
beyond his own body.

It was effective, but only against certain enemies.

And he’d already run into some that he’d need something more than
his hands and his feet to deal with. Who knew what else stalked
these woods? He didn’t have a memory of himself, but he had a
catalog of beasts and monsters.

There were many.

His stomach rumbled again, and he became acutely aware of how dry
his throat was.

Priorities.

Jak waited and listened, his senses speaking to him. Filtering through
the ambient noises of the forest around him, he honed in on one in
particular: running water. Once he had it, he began walking towards
it.

Thoughts came to him, drifting like bark on water, bouncing off each
other lazily, not ever quite settling.

Questions. So very many questions.

But his thirst and hunger and pain repelled them, even when he tried
to grasp them, focus on them, answer them.

He moved through the trees, surveying the area around him for
potential threats and resources.

Life surrounded him in a mass of tress, shrubs, flowers, branches,

bushes, and about half a dozen different types of wildlife scurrying
around. He looked up, catching sight of birds flitting among the
branches in the canopy overhead, the sunlight spilling in through it,
catching the mist of the rain from the night before like a strange
smoke. Rabbits and mice scampered about, a pair of foxes raced past
in a red blur, and in the distance, he caught sight of a deer moving
swiftly among the trees. He felt the overwhelming urge to go after it,
to pick up a spear and hurl it with lethal accuracy through the trees
and bring the animal down.

Jak was positive he could do it.

But why did he know what a deer was, what a fox was, what a spear
was and looked like and felt like in his grasp, but not who he was?

The sound of the water was closer now, and it called to him more
than all else.

A moment later, Jak broke into a glade that was cut in half by a creek
of clear, clean water. He remained among the vegetation for several
long seconds, carefully investigating his surroundings, wary of ever-
present danger.

He was not supposed to be alone. This was a strong conviction.

And yet, stronger still, the conviction that his exile (this was a
memory he was oddly certain of), was stronger.

He had to be alone.

Or at least apart from his people.

Whoever they were.

He saw nothing but some rabbits hopping around on the other side of
the creek. They had yet to detect his presence. Jak could wait no
longer. He broke from the cover of the treeline and walked up to the
water’s edge. The rabbits fled as he drew closer, and again he felt the
urge to hurl something at them. This time something smaller, smooth
mostly but coming to a sharpened point. In his mind, he saw a slim
gray stone, worked fine, fitted into the palm of his hand. He could
feel the sensation his arm would make as he hurled the stone.

Jak had the idea that he had done this many, many times.

So he had hunted before, that made sense.

Besides picking plants from the stalks and bushes and branches they
grew from, he could think of no other way to feed himself.

It was more than that, though.

He dropped into a crouch and rubbed his hands together in the

water, getting the mud and grime off his skin, then bringing his hands
up and smelling them. The water smelled fine, like nothing. He
cupped his hands, gathered some, and drank a small amount. It
tasted clear, crisp, refreshing. He drank until his thirst was quenched
and his throat was no longer painfully dry. A large bush of dark blue
berries had already caught his attention.

They were safe to eat, his mind whispered to him.

Jak supposed he had no real choice but to trust the knowledge. He

walked over and began picking and eating the berries, keeping a
careful eye out. This forest had already proven a treacherous home
to wolves, and he suspected there were larger, more dangerous
things lurking about. Just waiting for the right opportunity.
The berries were good, sweet, soothing as he chewed and
swallowed. He was careful not to eat too much too fast. As he
finished, he was struck by the urge to fill a pouch with them and
bring them along, but he had no pouch.

He had nothing but his flesh.

With a soft huff of irritation, Jak moved back over to the creek and
peered down at the water.

He caught a reflection of himself in the relatively smoothly flowing

waters. He did not recognize the face looking back. It was rough,
mostly covered in a wild tangle of dark hair. It bothered him, for
some reason. He reached up and ran his hand over his chin, the hair
there, then across the top of his head. He felt another urge, one to
take a sharpened stone or bone and run it carefully along his skin. It
would remove the hair, he knew.

Why? What difference did it make?

In the moment, all he knew was that it irritated him, and now that he
was aware of it, he could feel it, and it bothered him. Jak pushed it
away with relative ease. He had bigger concerns for right now. Like
defending himself.

Now that his thirst and hunger were put in their places, he could
think a bit more clearly. The pain was still loose, rampaging through
his battered body. As he hunted along the creek’s edge for a proper
rock, the questions began returning with a bit more urgency and
clarity.

Who was he?

Where was this?

Why had he been floating in the ocean?

Who was that blue-skinned figure he’d seen standing over him? Jak
paused at that one. It felt too unreal, too unlikely. Of the races of
beings that he did know, none had blue skin, he was sure of that.
Had it been a dream, a vision of some kind?

No, he decided after actually considering it and examining his

memories. Scattered though they were, his recollections told him that
part was real.

It was too strange for the moment, so he put it aside.

Why was he exiled?

Who were his people?

He knew he came from a people, a tribe. Memories of many who

looked similar to him, with skin the color of his own, swam into his
mind’s eye.

Jak ceased his hunt for a proper weapon, just for a moment, and
really thought about that. There was something, something hidden in
the memory, and he chased after it. There was fighting. Much
fighting. Blood and bloodshed.

Bodies. Fields of dead bodies.

He had a vision of dead things floating in a low tide foamy and red
with spilled guts.

Another vision: a burning forest, men and women screaming, fleeing.

A rain of arrows.

And then it was gone as sure as a loose leaf taken by a strong gust.

Jak sighed as the memories began to lose substance, and then

stopped coming altogether. He could see things, people and places,
events, but they had no connection, no names. The only thread that
bound them together was his knowledge that he was viewing his own
memories. Things he had done, occurrences he had bore witness to.

All at once, he recalled watching the life drain from a man’s eyes as
they stared up, past him, his own hands wrapped around the man’s
neck…

Jak went back to looking for a proper stone.

He had no particular desire to fight, but his desire to protect himself

was strong. Less of a desire, more of an urgent, insistent need.

There!

A stone, roughly rounded, it looked perfect. He wrapped his fingers

around it, grasped it, stood and took a swing with it. It felt good,
satisfying, in his hand. It was about the perfect size for his fingers
and palm, and if he swung it into a skull, he could crack it open if
need be. Looking around himself in a slow circle, Jak considered his
next step.

He needed something to cover himself with, if only so that he might

have a belt to hang tools and a pouch from, and to offer a little more
protection from the elements and the dangerous things he came in
contact with. It was warm now, but not so much at night.

Speaking of night…

He needed materials to make a fire, and a better place to put it in.

For now, he supposed the log would do, but he wanted a cave.

Hadn’t there been a cave, back towards the ocean?

Yes, he surmised after thinking about it for a moment, there had

been. There were better places to make a home, even a temporary
one, but it was a step up from where he was living right now at least.
And maybe he could find some people, or materials that had been
left behind by people. Were there people here?
The thought that he might be alone here, save for the beasts and the
insects and the animals, made him extremely nervous.

He thought of the blue-skinned person…

Were they a person? A person that thought and spoke and was not a
mindless beast? For some reason, he thought so.

Provided his mind was not playing a cruel trick on him.

Clutching the rock tightly, Jak set off in the direction of the sea.

It was easy to remember, he discovered as he began walking,

heading away from the creek. Even battered and bruised, his mind
shrouded in the mist of memory loss and agony, he had a strong
sense of direction.

As he moved among the trees and foliage, feeling the sunbeams

warming his bare skin as it streamed down through the canopy
overhead, Jak found another memory coming to him. This one made
more recently. The previous night, when he’d heard the wolf howling,
something had happened. Something had changed within him.

He could recall the sensation perfectly. It was like...his body had

undergone some monumental and intense shift over the course of
seconds. He’d not just felt swifter, stronger, far more keenly aware of
his surroundings and how to interact with them, but he’d been all
that. It was no dream, no false memory, he knew it to be true.

Was it...magic?

Even as he thought the word he had a quick flash of seeing a man

with light tan skin and pointed ears, palm flat, facing out, his face
twisted into a furious grimace, and a small sphere of writhing flame
seemingly coming from his hand itself.

They had been in combat, Jak realized as he examined the memory.

The man had been an elf, and they had been fighting.

Why? Where? When?

He had no idea.

He had other flashes of memory.

Two elves furiously gesturing deep in a forest, vines raising off of

trees and from branches all around them, coming for him and those
like him.

A man with skin the color of snow, hair as black as a deep sunless
cave, moving his hands through a complex series of gesture, a pale
blue light gathering around him, pulled from the air itself, pulsing.

Magic. This was magic, in its many forms.

But when he sifted through his memories for the other end of that
interaction, of him using magic, he found nothing.

It could be that he’d lost those memories, even flashes, or it could be

that he had no ability of his own.

So many questions, and nothing but a big hole with the occasional
flash of memory floating out of it where the answers should be.

It was becoming more of a problem.

But at the moment, this pain was a problem. And he felt weakened,
even with food and water in him now, and sleep, his body felt broken
and abused.

Jak supposed he should be happy that he was still alive and moving.

So long as that remained true, he could get much done, and he did
indeed have a burning desire to do much. But what, exactly, should
he do?
Supply himself and get shelter, gather a reserve of food, a reliable
source of clean water.

Then what?

Find other people, gain knowledge.

That was as far as his mind could reach at the moment.

He would be happy if he could find reliable shelter and a belt and

waistwrap for now.

There, up ahead, was the edge of the forest he had bolted into last
night when the wolves had come for him. He readjusted his grip on
the rock, squeezed it a few times, rolled his shoulders and popped his
neck, trying to loosen up in case he needed to fight for his life. The
wolves could still be around.

Jak approached the treeline and peered out, getting his bearings. He
was indeed aside the trench. A few landmarks he’d noticed before the
storm hit became obvious to him. A rock sticking up out of the earth,
a little shrub with vivid red leaves, and there, across the way and a
bit off to his right, was the cave he’d noticed earlier.

A pair of deer grazed much farther down the trench, and high up
overhead, he caught sight of a familiar figure. On a thick branch
peeking over the edge of trench’s left side, the seaside, was the dark
profile of the enormous crow.

It was looking at him.

It regarded him with curious black eyes, head tilted slightly.

What did that mean? It had been with him when he’d awoken on the
rocky shoreline. Was it the same crow?

For some reason, Jak was convinced that it was.

Crows were tricky, they could be very dangerous, he knew, but they
were smarter than most other beasts. Usually, you had to provoke
them, which he had no intention of doing. It seemed interested in
him, but from afar.

That worked for Jak, so long as it stayed afar.

He stepped out into the trench, preparing to head for the cave and
see what kind of shelter it might make, if there were signs of other
inhabitants.

Then froze as he heard movement off to his right, deeper in the

forest he’d just come out of.

Ducking down, clutching the rock, he heard someone shout, a

woman.

“Leave me alone!”

He heard another voice give out a sharp bark of laughter, then a

growl of frustration. “Stop running, elf!”

A second later, a ways up the trench, a woman cried out as she fell
out of the trees, onto the earth. She flipped over onto her back and
began backing away rapidly as a much larger man stepped out and
began coming at her.

Jak rose to his feet, hefting the rock.

“Stop!” he yelled as he began advancing.

Already Jak’s mind was telling him quick ways of bringing down this
man he saw before him. Weak points in the body and the appropriate
moves to take advantage of them. But his heart pulsed with caution:
his own body wasn’t exactly strong at the moment. Whatever trials
had left him drifting through the sea and awash on the shore of this
strange land had taken their toll. On an instinctive level, he knew his
own body, his own limits, his own abilities.

Both the man and the woman were now looking at him.

The man was taller than he by a little, and bulky with muscle. He
wore a simple waistwrap and carried no weapons, though as he
turned fully to face Jak, he drew a small blade from his belt. Jak
considered how best to handle this.

Part of him was already thirsting for blood, some ugly yet true part of
himself.

“Leave her alone,” he said as he continued walking forward. Maybe

he could convince the other man to leave, although from the look in
his eyes-

The taller man let out a screaming bellow and began charging for
Jak.

Well, that answered that question.

Jak waited, watching, growing completely still as the man rampaged

towards him, knife held high over his head. He lumbered towards him
with reckless abandon, screaming at the top of his lungs.

At the last second, Jak swiftly sidestepped as he plunged the knife

down and lumbered past. The assailant tried to skid to a halt but Jak
was already moving. He whirled around, bringing his own weapon up
and then down in a tight, short arc.

He smashed the rock into the base of the man’s skull.

The attacker let out another scream, this one more high-pitched, and
collapsed.

Without really thinking about it, Jak stepped closer, dropped into a
crouch, raised the bloodied stone high over his head and brought
down once more. Hard. A wet crack sounded as a spray of blood
stained the earth.

The man twitched twice, then went slack.

Blood leaked from his ruined skull.

Jak looked at the rock in his hand, then at the knife that his would-be
murderer had dropped. It was rudimentary, made of stone, a rock
chipped away into a very simple edge and point, but it would do
more than the rock he was currently carrying.

Tossing away the rock, he grabbed the stone knife and then looked
back over his shoulder.

The elf woman was still there.

In fact, she hadn’t moved at all. She was on the ground, leaned back,
holding herself up with the heels of her palms, staring at Jak with
wide eyes.

He felt an intense pulse of lust as their gazes connected.

She seemed frozen in place.

Well, she didn’t seem very threatening, and she was far enough away
that he’d hear her coming if she did intend to threaten him, so Jak
turned back to the dead man and undid his waistwrap. That took care
of the clothes problem, at least. The man didn’t have a whole lot on
him, unfortunately. A small leather pouch and a waterskin that was
nearly empty.

With a soft sigh, Jak affixed the wrap to his own waist, adjusted it,
made sure the pouch, the waterskin, and the knife sat right, then
turned to look at the woman again. She was in exactly the same spot
as before, still staring at him.

He studied her a bit more closely. She also wore a simple waistwrap
and a chestwrap that seemed to be having trouble containing her
breasts. She looked a bit unhealthy and disheveled, covered in dirt,
bags under her eyes, her wild red hair a mess.

She looked probably like he did, which stood to reason that she was
doing something similar to what he was: trying to survive in this
forest, likely alone.

Despite all that, she was still overwhelmingly alluring.

She’d spoken his language, they both had, he recalled.

Well, she didn’t seem to want to attack him, and she almost certainly
had knowledge of this strange land he found himself in.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

She jumped slightly at the sound of his voice. “...not really,” she
replied so quietly he almost didn’t hear over the nearby ocean.

Jak began walking towards her and she scrambled to her feet.

He stopped. “I won’t hurt you.”

“Who are you?” she asked.

“I am Jak.”

“But what tribe do you come from? I have never seen anyone who
looks like you,” she replied, still staring at him.

Jak considered how to answer that. His lack of memories felt like a
weakness, a thing he was not willing to expose.

“I am exiled from my people,” he said finally, “I prefer not to speak of

it.”

“Oh…” She looked down, an expression of guilt coming onto her face
like a dark cloud drifting across the sun, “...I understand. I am exiled
as well.”

Interesting.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Niri.”

“Why was he chasing you? What did he want with you?” Jak asked,
looking back at the dead man behind him briefly.

Niri bared her teeth, glaring at the corpse as well. “He wanted to kill
me. I am sure he wanted to do other things to me first.”

“Why?”

“He is Tolvar. They hate magic and those who use it.” She laughed
bitterly. “I am not much of a magic user, but it doesn’t matter to
them...thank you. For helping me.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied.

She looked momentarily indecisive, shifting from one foot to the next,
then took a step closer to him. “Would you...take me with you?”

“Where?” he asked.

“To wherever you are going. I have nowhere to go, I am not very
adept at surviving out here, especially with the Tolvar hunting me.”

He considered it, or pretended to. He’d already decided his answer.

His desire to be with someone else, almost anyone else, to have
some form of ally, someone to watch his back, was very strong. More
than that, she had information.

More than that however, she was awakening in him a completely new
desire that seemed just as strong as his search for food, water,
weapons, and shelter.

Lust.

She was intensely beautiful. Noticeably shorter than he was, slim,

though quite gifted in the chest area. Her blood red hair was
beautiful and her sky blue eyes were vulnerable but alluring. She had
a lean face, accented with a curious bone structure, and he felt
intense stirrings when she looked directly at him.

“Yes, you may come with me,” he replied.

“Many thanks!” she cried, looking tremendously relieved. She hurried

over to him and for a tense moment he thought she might be doing
something else, but instead she embraced him, leaned her head
against his hard-muscled chest as she wrapped her arms around him.
“That is twice now you have saved my life. I am sure I would have
died out here soon.”

“Come with me,” he said after embracing her back, feeling the press
her large breasts against him, her soft skin against his own, and then
they parted. “I need to check out that cave up there. Have you seen
any other...Tolvar around?” he asked.

“No. Well not around this area,” she replied, looking nervously around
the depression they stood in. “But there are Tolvar in these woods.
Many.”

“All right. Come with me, and stay quiet for the moment,” Jak said,
walking towards the cave.

Niri nodded and followed after him.

It was a little elevated off the ground, maybe a bit taller than he was,
with a path leading up to it. It would be a very defensible position,
provided you had enough people. It would also make for a very
difficult conflict.

As they reached the base of the path, Jak stopped and listened.

For voices. For movement.

For any indication that the cave above was occupied.

All he heard was his body screaming at him that this was a bad idea.
He was in poor condition, still weak from the events prior to his
awakening.

I handled that first guy pretty well, he thought.

But another part of him told him the truth of that sentiment: that was
luck. The man had clearly been overconfident and clumsy as a result.

Nonetheless, he at least needed to look.

Right now, he heard nothing.

“Stay here,” he said quietly, “I need to investigate.”

“Okay,” Niri replied softly, worry obvious in her expression.

Jak freed the knife from his belt and studied it for a moment. It
wasn’t that good of a knife. It’d do the job, but he wouldn’t be
surprised if it broke before too long. It already looked like it was well
into losing its edge.

He crept up the path that was really little more than a ledge.

Still nothing. Surely, if there were others around, they would have
heard that battle. Maybe they had, and they were laying in wait for
him to come to them. Jak kept going, putting one foot in front of the
other, until he reached the top. He stopped, just shy of the cave
entrance. There, he waited, and listened once more.

Still nothing.

Jak peered carefully around the edge of the cave’s entrance,

preparing to fight for his life. He relaxed, slightly, when he saw that
the cave was presently unoccupied. No people, but there was
evidence of habitation.

An old fire.
Some bones, picked clean.

A broken stone knife.

A shredded pouch.

He couldn’t tell if that meant that they had moved on or if they would
be back. Either way, it felt too risky right now.

Jak jumped when he heard a sharp caw! from directly overhead. He

looked up and saw that same crow as before, sitting on a branch
above him. Was this the same branch he’d seen it on earlier? He
thought not.

It had come closer to investigate.

It looked down at him, and he swore he saw intelligence in those

dark black eyes, more than just an animal intelligence. Then it cawed
at him again, and it sounded like a warning. Maybe this was its home
or perhaps it had a master who had tamed it, and it was their home.

Either way, his senses were telling him to leave, and he agreed.

Jak went back down the path and rejoined Niri.

“Did you see anything?” she asked as they began crossing the trench,
heading towards the forest once more.

“No one in there right now, just some things,” he replied. “But I have
a place we can go to. It’s no cave, but it is shelter.”

“Shelter of any kind would be nice. I’m so tired.”

“We’ll get some food and water first,” Jak said.

“I could use that, too,” she murmured.

They entered the forest and began making their way back towards
the creek.

“Where are we?” Jak asked when they reached the creek.

“What do you mean?” Niri replied.

“I woke up last night on a shore not far from the cave we were at
earlier. I’m not sure how I arrived or where I am,” he said.

“That is amazing...we are on an island. My people call it Ara. I know

the Tolvar call it Ebantak. I do not know what the others call it,” she
replied.

“Others?”

“There are others on the island...the karn, I do not know what they
call themselves, their Tribe Name. And I have heard there are more,
but I’m afraid I do not know very much. It is a large island, and I
have seen so very little of it,” she replied, blushing and looking away.

“Is it the only island?” he asked.

“I have heard that on the clearest of days, another can be seen on

this side of the island, but I do not know if this is true.”

That just raised more questions. How had he survived the swim
here?

“You said you have seen no one else like myself? The only other
humans here are the Tolvar?” he asked. “Or are there more?”

“I hear the only humans are indeed the Tolvar Tribe. But they are
many. Very many. I always wondered, but now I believe. I have seen
many after my exile. And they all want to kill me.”
“Why do they hunt magic users?” Jak asked as he checked over the
waterskin. He emptied the contents, then filled it with some more
water, shook it around to cleanse it, dumped it out, then began filling
it again.

“I don’t know,” she said. “They hate magic users. It was not always
this way...from what my father told me, we once were allies, friends
even. But something changed several winters ago...thank you.” She
accepted the waterskin once he’d filled it and drank deeply from it,
then passed it back. He drank from it and then refilled what had been
taken.

“How is it you know my language?” he asked.

“All elves are taught the language of the Tolvar,” she replied. “How is
it you know? Are you of the Tolvar?”

“No,” he replied. It was a curiosity. Jak had memories of fighting with

men who resembled the one he’d seen in the trench: tall, well-
muscled, light brown skin. The name, Tolvar, was unfamiliar to him,
but the people weren’t. The man had spoken with an accent, though.
And so did Niri. He had to admit, it gave her voice a seductive lilt.
“Why are you taught that?”

“So that we can understand what they are saying. It was not always
this way. Once we lived in peace, but even after that, we sometimes
still needed to communicate with them. Now, however, I’m told that
we are taught that language so that we can better understand their
plans of attack.” She sighed. “But I led a very sheltered life, kept
away from much, so I’m afraid I cannot help you. But,” she added
hastily, “I will do whatever I can. I promise I will help how I can.”

“I’m sure we will figure something out,” Jak said. She was scared he
would leave her. Part of his mind was telling him to do just that, to
cut the dead weight of this scared elf girl who was so clearly in over
her head.
But he didn’t want to do that. He wanted to help her. He liked her.

“Here, eat,” he said, guiding her over to the bushes of berries he’d
noticed earlier.

He was already getting hungry again, so he joined her in eating.

They picked and ate the berries for several minutes. Once they’d had
their fill, Jak filled the small pouch that was now his with berries,
then cinched it shut with the drawstring and tied it to his belt.

“Come, I will show you our home, for now anyway,” he said, walking
back towards the hollowed-out log.

“Will you make me leave later?” Niri asked as she followed.

“No, Niri. Just don’t attack or betray me, and listen if I say something
is important, and we will live in harmony,” Jak replied.

“I can do that,” she said, smiling. “You are too strong to attack, and
too nice to betray, and I am good at listening.”

“All nice things to hear,” Jak murmured. Was she trying to entice him?
There was something in the way she was speaking, something in her
tone of voice, the way she kept close to him, the way her hand
brushed his as they walked through the trees, that seemed to
suggest this. If that was her intent, it would not take much to
successfully entice him.

She was extraordinarily beautiful.

Her red hair, her pointed hers, her shapely chest...all especially
alluring.

But there were priorities he needed to see to first.

Then, if she was willing, pleasure could be pursued.

“This is our home?” Niri asked.

“This is our home,” Jak confirmed as they peered into the log.

“I am grateful,” she said after a moment. “Thank you again for

bringing me here.”

“You’re welcome. Again.” He paused, rubbing his jaw in

consideration, then sighing at the mat of hair he found there. He
wanted it gone, or at least shorter. “There’s things we must do. I
intend to sleep here tonight. Tomorrow I’ll investigate the cave again
and if no one is there, we will claim it. We’ll need bedding, and fire,
and preferably more weapons.”
“I can begin gathering material for the bedding,” Niri replied eagerly.
“The forest I come from is very similar to this one, so I know which
plants to use. Which ones are soft and will not give you a rash. I will
make a very good bed, although for a proper bed, we will need lush
leaves.”

“What do those look like?” he asked.

“Big and green. I believe I saw some on the way back...I am sorry for
not mentioning it.”

“It’s not a problem, you didn’t know,” he replied. “I’ll go find them.
Why don’t you get started on gathering the materials you can find
from around our home, and any good wood for burning, and stones
for a fire-circle, too.”

“Okay!” She set to her task, evidently much happier now that she had
one.

Jak studied her briefly as she walked around the clearing, studying
the plants that were growing. She seemed happy to do as he asked.
If that persisted, it would make their future interactions easier,
although he wondered about if she might say yes to things because
she was worried about him forcing her to leave if she became less
agreeable.

He finally turned and began walking back the way they had come. He
did not intent to take advantage of her, and he supposed he would
cross that fallen tree when, or even if, he came to it. Although
certainly they would disagree on something in the future…

The future.

He felt better now that he had even the most rudimentary plans. He
had a place to go, a way to get there, resources to gather, and an
ally to help with all of this. He knew where to get food and clean
water. The fact that he, for now, made his home in a forest fraught
with danger did not diminish his mood.

If anything, it enlivened him.

Now that the odds were a little more in his favor, and he had faced
down an adversary successfully, he relished the idea of another
challenge.

Jak hesitated as a wave of pain rolled through his body, seeming to

hit everywhere. He leaned against a tree, waiting for it to pass.

Perhaps another challenge...tomorrow.

He needed actual rest, and sleep, time to allow his body to heal
more. Looking down at himself again, he noticed several large
bruises across his limbs and his chest. The sea had been cruel with
him. Or perhaps that was the price it extracted to allow his survival.
The pain returned to something more tolerable and he resumed his
search.

The questions were coming back.

How had he made it this far? Perhaps he swam it from that island in
the distance, and perhaps more land could be seen from it? He an
impression that he came from a massive land that you could walk
across for many, many suns and still not find the end. He knew what
an island was, but he did not remember visiting any.

Of course, there was clearly much he did not remember.

As he walked, his eyes roved continuously over the landscape,

looking for anything that might help him. He needed something more
formidable than a heading-towards-dull stone blade and he also
needed something to start fire with. He knew that with the right two
stones struck together, sparks could be produced.
Jak paused as he spotted one such stone near the base of a tree. He
headed over and crouched, scooping it up off the ground and
studying it. It had a rough surface, dull gray in color. Now he needed
to find another. There were some stones that were better than
others, but honestly any two stones banged together enough times
would give you the spark needed to start a fire. You just had to be
ready with the materials to take advantage and patience.

Perhaps Niri knew a simple spell for such a thing?

She had said she wasn’t very good at magic, but he thought that a
basic fire conjuring spell wouldn’t be beyond her.

Then again, even if she could do it, he wouldn’t always have her
around when he needed a fire going. Being able to do it himself was
a priority. Fire was a crucial tool. It provided light, cooked food, kept
predators at bay, hurt enemies.

There were those leaves she’d seen.

Jak walked over to them and began harvesting them. They were big
leaves, about as long as his elbow to his fingertips, a bit thick, deep
green, and, from the feel of them, they did have some softness to
them and a bit of give. They grew off a stalk that was taller than he
was, and the process of harvest was quite simple. He broke each
carefully off the stalk, repeating the process a dozen times between
two such plants, and then gathered them in a bundle beneath one
arm. What he would not give for a proper satchel or pack right now.

Well, it wasn’t like he had all that much to give anyway.

Jak was tempted to stay out longer and keep searching for more
materials, but his pain was beginning to return, and he was reluctant
to leave Niri alone for too long in these woods. As he walked back, he
thought of Niri, and how she might look if her wraps were removed.
He felt something intense stirring within him as he thought of how
her big breasts might look, freed of the wrap, how she would sound if
he took her, hard and fast…

He searched his memories for similar encounters.

There was still largely nothing in his head from before waking up on
that shore, but after a moment, an image did come to him. A woman
that seemed to be from his own tribe. Kissing her. Touching her.
Pulling her wraps off as she did the same with him. Naked and
together in a dark, enclosed space.

Frantic, furious sex.

But, strangely, a sense of...shame? No, more guilt. They both were
feeling it. They were doing something they were not supposed to, but
could not help themselves.

Why?

It was immensely enjoyable, he recalled that, recalled the way she

kissed him with a deep and desperate passion.

But what was the context?

Even as he tried to hunt for it, the memory slipped away and he was
left only with a vague unease. Would they ever come back, these
memories? Would he remember who he was, who he had been? He
was an exile…

Did he really want to?

Perhaps it was a gift.

He went back to thinking of what Niri might look like without her
coverings and consequently, by the time he got back to camp, had a
bad erection that was fairly noticeable. Niri was in the log, arranging
what she had gathered so far. She looked up as he approached, and
he saw her eyes dip to the bulge beneath his waistwrap.
A small smile came onto her face.

“You were successful,” she said, eyeing the bundle of leaves.

“I was,” he agreed, coming in and passing them to her. He set down

the rock he’d found. “I need to find another suitable rock for fire-
starting.”

“Very well,” she said, still with that small smile, “I will be in here.
Preparing our bedding.”

Jak hesitated briefly at that. It hadn’t occurred to him that they

would be sleeping in rather close quarters.

Well, it sounded like she didn’t have a problem with it.

He sure didn’t.

He went back on the hunt, walking in a slow pattern around the

clearing, and then beyond it, doing his best to ignore the aches that
wracked his body as he hunted for the perfect second rock.
Occasionally he’d find a particularly good stick or stone that would
aid in the act of building a fire, and he’d grab it and drop it off near
the entrance to the log, and then go back to work. The sun rose in
the sky until it reached its apex, and then began the slow descent
towards the other horizon. Jak hunted without a break until he found
what he was looking for.

By the time he returned with the second stone, Niri had mostly
finished with the bedding. It looked serviceable. She’d piled up a
collection of plant life near the center of the log, and then covered it
all with the leaves, laid down so that they overlapped each other.

“It’s no deerskin,” Niri said as she saw him looking at the bed, “but it
should work well.”

“It looks good, thanks for making it,” he replied.

Jak sat down by the entrance after piling up the sticks and stones,
cleared a space, and began assembling a fire circle in the best spot.
It needed to be close enough that it would effectively keep away
predators and insects, but wouldn’t risk setting the log aflame and
would also grant them safe access to come and go without getting
burned. He assembled the rocks in a circle, laid a bed tinder, then
arranged the sticks.

As he finished, he considered whether or not he should actually light

it. This particular region of the forest didn’t seem all that populated,
and while it would scare off predators, it would actually draw in
human predators.

“You seem quite skilled in several things,” Niri said.

Jak looked up from the stones in his hands. He saw her sitting on the
bed she’d made. She had her knees up and a little spread, and he
could see directly up her waistwrap.

He felt a powerful wave of lust slam into him as he saw her slim tan
thighs leading to her crotch, which sat beneath a mat of vividly red
hair. He stared at her narrow pink slit for several seconds before
looking up to her face.

From the smile, he could tell it was intentional, the way she was
sitting.

She seemed coy, alluring, and yet...nervous?

“I have many skills,” he replied finally.

“Will I see them all?” she asked, shifting slightly so that he had a
better view up her wrap.

His erection had returned and his stomach roiled with dark
excitement. He wanted her in that moment more than anything. His
need for her, to be inside of her, to drive furiously into her, seemed to
override all other thoughts, feelings, needs.

It consumed him like a live flame consuming dry tinder.

She was inviting him. He wanted to.

Why not?

“Yes,” Jak said, setting the rocks aside and climbing into the hollow
log, “you will.”

A look of excitement, and of apprehension, ran through her eyes. He

climbed onto the bed with her and in a quick motion untied her
waistwrap. Pulling it off of her, he tossed it aside, then reached up to
do the same with her chestwrap.

She still looked nervous.

“You want this?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied eagerly, “I want this.”

That was all he needed to hear. He undid the second wrap and freed
her bountiful breasts. The sight of them seemed to double, triple his
hunger for her. Breathing heavily, he quickly freed himself of what
little covering he wore and climbed atop her. As their skin made
contact, it empowered the lust even further.

Jak laid a hand across one of her large breasts as he leaned down
and pressed his lips against hers. She seemed anxious, but also
eager, kissing him back, her body responding in kind to his own. Her
skin was soft and hot.

She opened her legs further for him as he reached down between
them.
Grasping himself, lust pulsing through his body and her own, he
began working his way into her. She gasped and a shudder ran
through her.

It was a very tight fit, Jak found as he continued, moving slowly.

The pleasure of her against him, bare and raw, was overwhelming.

Niri let out a loud moan as he made his way deeper into her. She
grabbed at his back and wrapped her legs around him.

“Oh...it’s wonderful,” she moaned.

Well, that was the reaction he was hoping for.

“It is,” he murmured, kissing her again, embracing her more deeply.

He became lost in her as they settled into a steady rhythm of sex. He

drove deep into her tight wet perfection again and again, sliding
smoothly in and out of her sweet elf pussy, feeling her running her
hands across his back, her legs wrapping around his waist, the way
she pushed up with her hips to meet him each time he pushed down.

The sound of their skin meeting and their rhythmic, frantic panting
and grunting soon filled the confined space, the pleasure mounting,
building towards a climax.

They became more frenzied, kissing with something like desperation,

and then something inside of her gave. Niri let out a loud cry of bliss
and he had to hold his hand over her mouth to keep her from being
too loud. She didn’t seem to notice, moaning and writhing in pure
pleasure as a hot spray escaped from around his cock as her inner
muscles clenched and spasmed, increasing his own pleasure even
more as he kept pounding her.

It wasn’t long before his own climax came, and then he was loosing
his seed deep within her, and the pleasure blinded his senses.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
nevertheless, there also a parliamentary sanction was obtained for
the preliminary steps.
In May 1706, the Commissioners, thirty from each nation, met at
Westminster, to deliberate on the terms of the proposed treaty. It
was soon agreed upon that the leading features of the act should be—
a union of the two countries under one sovereign, who, failing heirs
of the queen, should be the Electress of Hanover or her heir; but each
country to retain her own church establishment and her own laws—
Scotland to send sixteen representative peers and forty-five
commoners to the British parliament—Scottish merchants to trade
freely with England and her colonies—the taxes to be equalised,
except that from land, which was to be arranged in such a way that
when England contributed two millions, Scotland should give only a
fortieth part of the sum, or forty-eight thousand pounds; and as the
English taxes were rendered burdensome by a debt of sixteen
millions, Scotland was to be compensated for its share of that burden
by receiving, as ‘an Equivalent,’ about four hundred thousand
pounds of ready money from England, which was to be applied to the
renovation of the coin, the discharge of the public debts, and a
restitution of the money lost by the African Company.
When these articles were laid before the Scottish Estates in
October, they produced a burst of indignant feeling that seemed to
overspread the whole country. The Jacobite party, who saw in the
union only the establishment of an alien dynasty, were furious. The
clergy felt some alarm at the prelatic element in the British
parliament. The mass of the people grieved over the prospect of a
termination to the native parliament, and other tokens of an ancient
independence. Nevertheless, partly that there were many men in the
Estates who had juster views of the true interests of their country,
and partly that others were open to various influences brought to
bear upon their votes, the act of union was passed in February 1707,
as to take effect from the ensuing 1st of May. The opposition was
conducted principally by the Duke of Hamilton, a Jacobite, and, but
for his infirmity of purpose, it might have been more formidable. The
Duke of Queensberry, who acted on this occasion as the queen’s
commissioner to parliament, was rewarded for his services with an
English dukedom. The Privy Council, the record of whose
proceedings has been of so much importance to this work, now came
to an end; but a Secretary of State for Scotland continued for the next
two reigns to be part of the apparatus of the central government in
the English metropolis.
Of the discontent engendered on this occasion, the friends of the
exiled Stuarts endeavoured to take advantage in the spring of 1708,
by bringing a French expedition to the Scottish coasts, having on
board five thousand men, and the son of James II., now a youth of
twenty years of age. It reached the mouth of the Firth of Forth, and
many of the Jacobite gentry were prepared to join the young prince
on landing. But the Chevalier de St George, as he was called, took ill
of small-pox; the British fleet under Admiral Byng came in sight; and
it was deemed best to return to France, and wait for another
opportunity.
The Tory ministry of the last four years of Queen Anne affected
Scotland by the passing of an act of Toleration for the relief of the
persecuted remnant of Episcopalians, and another act by which the
rights of patrons in the nomination of clergy to charges in the
Established Church were revived. The Whigs of the Revolution felt
both of these measures to be discouraging. During this period, in
Scotland, as in England, the Cavalier spirit was in the ascendency,
and the earnest Whigs trembled lest, by complicity of the queen or
her ministers, the Pretender should be introduced, to the exclusion
of the Protestant heir. But the sudden death of Anne on the 1st of
August 1714, neutralised all such schemes, and the son of the then
deceased Electress Sophia succeeded to the British throne, under the
name of George I., with as much apparent quietness as if he had been
a resident Prince of Wales.

On the principle that minute matters, 1702. July.

which denote a progress in improvement, or
even a tendency to it, are worthy of notice, it may be allowable to
remark at this time an advertisement of Mr George Robertson,
apothecary at Perth, that he had lately set up there ‘a double
Hummum, or Bath Stove, the one for men, and the other for women,
approven of by physicians to be of great use for the cure of several
diseases.’ A hummum is in reality a Turkish or hot-air bath. We find
that, within twenty years after this time, the chirurgeons in
Edinburgh had a bagnio, or hot bath, and the physicians a cold bath,
for medical purposes.
The Edinburgh Gazette which advertises the Perth hummum, also
announces the presence, in a lodging at the foot of the West Bow of
Edinburgh, of Duncan Campbell of Ashfield, chirurgeon to the city of
Glasgow, who had ‘cutted nine score persons [for stone] without the
death of any except five.’[313] There was also a mysterious person,
styled ‘a gentleman in town,’ and ‘to be got notice of at the
Caledonian Coffee-house,’ who had ‘had a secret imparted to him by
his father, an eminent physician in this kingdom, which, by the
blessing of God, certainly and safely cures the phrenzie’—also
‘convulsion-fits, vapours, and megrims—in a few weeks, at
reasonable rates, and takes no reward till the cure is perfected.’
In the same sheet, ‘G. Young, against the Court of Guard,
Edinburgh,’ bespoke favour for ‘a most precious eye-water, which
infallibly cures all distempers in the eyes, whether pearl, web,
catracht, blood-shot dimness, &c., and in less than six times dressing
has cured some who have been blind seven years.’
The custom of vending quack medicines from a public stage on the
street—of which we have seen several notable examples in the course
of the seventeenth century—continued at 1702.
this time, and for many years after, to be
kept up. Edinburgh was occasionally favoured with a visit from a
famous practitioner of this kind, named Anthony Parsons, who, in
announcing his arrival in 1710, stated the quality of his medicines,
and that he had been in the habit of vending them on stages for thirty
years. In October 1711, he advertised in the Scots Postman—‘It being
reported that Anthony Parsons is gone from Edinburgh to mount
public stages in the country, this is to give notice that he hath left off
keeping stages, and still lives in the Hammermen’s Land, at the
Magdalen Chapel, near the head of the Cowgate, where may be had
the Orvietan, a famous antidote against infectious distempers, and
helps barrenness, &c.’ Four years later, Parsons announced his
design of bidding adieu to Edinburgh, and, in that prospect, offered
his medicines at reduced rates; likewise, by auction, ‘a fine cabinet
organ.’[314]
In April 1724, one Campbell, commonly called (probably from his
ragged appearance) Doctor Duds, was in great notoriety in
Edinburgh as a quack mediciner. He does not seem to have been in
great favour with the populace, for, being seen by them on the street,
he was so vexatiously assaulted, as to be obliged to make his escape
in a coach. At this time, a mountebank doctor erected a stage at the
foot of the Canongate, in order to compete with Doctor Duds for a
share of business; but a boy being killed by a fall from the fabric the
day of its erection, threw a damp on his efforts at wit, and the affair
appears to have proved a failure.[315]
The author just quoted had a recollection of one of the last of this
fraternity—an Englishman, named Green—who boasted he was the
third generation of a family which had been devoted to the
profession. ‘A stage was erected in the most public part of a town,
and occupied by the master, with one or two tumblers or rope-
dancers, who attracted the multitude. Valuable medicines were
promised and distributed by a kind of lottery. Each spectator, willing
to obtain a prize, threw a handkerchief, enclosing one or two
shillings, on the stage. The handkerchief was returned with a certain
quantity of medicines. But along with them, a silver cup was put into
one to gratify some successful adventurer.’
‘Doctor Green, younger of Doncaster’—probably the second of the
three generations—had occasion, in December 1725, to advertise the
Scottish community regarding his ‘menial 1702.
servant and tumbler,’ Henry Lewis, who, he
said, had deserted his service with a week’s prepaid wages in his
pocket, and, as the doctor understood, ‘has resorted to Fife, or some
of the north-country burghs, with design to get himself furnished
with a play-fool, and to set himself up for a doctor experienced in the
practice of physic and chirurgery.’ Doctor Green deemed himself
obliged to warn Fife and the said burghs, whither he himself
designed to resort in spring, against ‘the said impostor, and to
dismiss him as such.’[316]
We have this personage brought before us in an amusing light, in
May 1731, in connection with the King’s College, Aberdeen. He had
applied to this learned sodality for a diploma as doctor of medicine,
‘upon assurances given under his hand, that he would practise
medicine in a regular way, and give over his stage.’ They had granted
him the diploma accordingly. Finding, afterwards, that he still
continued to use his stage, ‘the college, to vindicate their conduct in
the affair, and at the same time, in justice to the public, to expose Mr
Green his disingenuity, recorded in the Register of Probative Writs
his letter containing these assurances.’ They also certified ‘that, if Mr
Green give not over his stage, they will proceed to further resentment
against him.’[317]
Down to this time there was still an entire faith among the
common sort of people in the medical properties of natural crystals,
perforated stones, ancient jet ornaments, flint arrow-heads, glass
beads, and other articles. The custom was to dip the article into
water, and administer the water to the patient. The Stewarts of
Ardvorlich still possess a crystal which was once in great esteem
throughout Lower Perthshire for the virtues which it could impart to
simple water. A flat piece of ivory in the possession of Campbell of
Barbreck—commonly called Barbreck’s Bone—was sovereign for the
cure of madness. This article is now deposited in the Museum of the
Scottish Antiquaries in Edinburgh. The Lee Penny—a small precious
stone, set in an old English coin, still possessed by the Lockharts of
Lee—is another and highly noted example of such charms for
healing.
It was also still customary to resort to certain wells and other
waters, on account of their supposed healing virtues, as we have seen
to be the case a century earlier. Either the patient was brought to the
water, and dipped into it, or a fragment of his clothing was brought
and cast into, or left on the side of it, a 1702.
shackle or tether of a cow serving equally
when such an animal was concerned. If such virtues had continued
to be attributed only to wells formerly dedicated to saints, it would
not have been surprising; but the idea of medicinal virtue was
sometimes connected with a lake or other piece of water, which had
no such history. There was, for example, on the high ground to the
west of Drumlanrig Castle, in Nithsdale, a small tarn called the Dow
[i. e. black] Loch, which enjoyed the highest medical repute all over
the south of Scotland. People came from immense distances to throw
a rag from a sick friend, or a tether from an afflicted cow, into the
Dow Loch, when, ‘these being cast in, if they did float, it was taken
for a good omen of recovery, and a part of the water carried to the
patient, though to remote places, without saluting or speaking to any
one they met by the way; but, if they did sink, the recovery of the
party was hopeless.’[318] The clergy exerted themselves strenuously to
put down the superstition. The trouble which the presbytery of
Penpont had, first and last, with this same Dow Loch, was past
expression. But their efforts were wholly in vain.[319]
‘It pleased the great and holy God to visit 1702. July 3.
this town [Leith], for their heinous sins
against him, with a very terrible and sudden stroke, which was
occasioned by the firing of thirty-three barrels of powder; which
dreadful blast, as it was heard even at many miles distance with great
terror and amazement, so it hath caused great ruin and desolation in
this place. It smote seven or eight persons at least with sudden death,
and turned the houses next adjacent to ruinous heaps, tirred off the
roof, beat out the windows, and broke out the timber partitions of a
great many houses and biggings even to a great distance. Few houses
in the town did escape some damage, and all this in a moment of
time; so that the merciful conduct of Divine Providence hath been
very admirable in the preservation of hundreds of people, whose
lives were exposed to manifold sudden dangers, seeing they had not
so much previous warning as to shift a foot for their own
preservation, much less to remove their plenishing.’ So proceeded a
petition from ‘the distressed inhabitants of Leith’ to the Privy
Council, on the occasion of this sore calamity. ‘Seeing,’ they went on
to say, ‘that part of the town is destroyed and damnified to the value
of thirty-six thousand nine hundred and thirty-six pounds, Scots
money, by and attour several other damages done in several back-
closes, and by and attour the household plenishing and merchant
goods destroyed in the said houses, and victual destroyed and
damnified in lofts, and the losses occasioned by the houses lying
waste; and seeing the owners of the said houses are for the most part
unable to repair them, so that a great part of the principal seaport of
the nation will be desolate and ruinous, if considerable relief be not
provided,’ they implored permission to make a charitable collection
throughout the kingdom at kirk-doors, and by going from house to
house; which prayer was readily granted.[320]

The Earl of Kintore, who had been made July 8.

Knight Marischal of Scotland at the
Restoration, and afterwards raised to the peerage for his service in
saving the regalia from the English in 1651, was still living.[321] He
petitioned the Privy Council at this date on account of a pamphlet
published by Sir William Ogilvie of Barras, in which his concern in
the preservation of the regalia was unduly depreciated. His lordship
gives a long recital on the subject, from which it after all appears that
his share of the business was confined to his discommending
obedience to be paid to a state order for 1702.
sending out the regalia from Dunnottar
Castle—in which case it was likely they might have been taken—and
afterwards doing what he could to put the English on a false scent, by
representing the regalia as carried to the king at Paris. He denounces
the pamphlet as an endeavour ‘to rob him of his just merit and
honour, and likewise to belie his majesty’s patents in his favour,’ and
he craved due punishment. Sir William, being laid up with sickness
at Montrose, was unable to appear in his own defence, and the
Council, accordingly, without hesitation, ordered the offensive
brochure to be publicly burnt at the Cross of Edinburgh by the
common hangman.
David Ogilvie, younger of Barras, was soon after fined in a
hundred pounds for his concern in this so-called libel.[322]
There is something unaccountable in the determination evinced at
various periods to assign the glory of the preservation of the regalia
to the Earl of Kintore, the grand fact of the case being that these
sacred relics were saved by the dexterity and courage of the
unpretending woman—Mrs Grainger—the minister’s wife of Kineff,
who, by means of her servant, got them carried out of Dunnottar
Castle through the beleaguering lines of the English, and kept them
in secrecy under ground for eight years. See under March 1652.

The arrangements of the Post-office, as Aug.

established by the act of 1695, were found to
be not duly observed, in as far as common carriers presumed to carry
letters in tracts where post-offices were erected, ‘besides such as
relate to goods sent or to be returned to them.’ A very strict
proclamation was now issued against this practice, and forbidding all
who were not noblemen or gentlemen’s servants to ‘carry, receive, or
deliver any letters where post-offices are erected.’
 Inviolability of letters at the Post-office was not yet held in respect
as a principle. In July 1701, two letters from Brussels, ‘having the
cross upon the back of them,’ had come with proper addresses under
cover to the Edinburgh postmaster. He ‘was surprised with them,’
and brought them to the Lord Advocate, who, however, on opening
them, found they were ‘of no value, being only on private business;’
wherefore he ordered them to be delivered by the postmaster to the
persons to whom they were directed.
Long after this period—in 1738—the Earl 1702.
of Ilay, writing to Sir Robert Walpole from
Edinburgh, said: ‘I am forced to send this letter by a servant twenty
miles out of town, where the Duke of Argyle’s attorney cannot
handle it.’ It sounds strangely that Lord Hay should thus have had to
complain of his own brother; that one who was supreme in Scotland,
should have been under such a difficulty from an opposition noble;
and that there should have been, at so recent a period, a disregard to
so needful a principle. But this is not all. Lord Ilay, in time
succeeding his brother as Duke of Argyle, appears to have also taken
up his part at the Edinburgh Post-office. In March 1748, General
Bland, commander of the forces in Scotland, wrote to the Secretary
of State, ‘that his letters were opened at the Edinburgh Post-office;
and I think this is done by order of a noble duke, in order to know
my secret sentiments of the people and of his Grace. If this practice is
not stopped, the ministers cannot hope for any real information.’
Considering the present sound administration of the entire national
institution by the now living inheritor of that peerage, one cannot
without a smile hear George Chalmers telling[323] how the Edinburgh
Post-office, in the reign of the second George, was ‘infested by two
Dukes of Argyle!’
It will be heard, however, with some surprise, that the Lord
Advocate may still be considered as having the power, in cases where
the public interests are concerned, to order the examination of letters
in the Post-office. So lately as 1789, when the unhappy duellist,
Captain Macrae, fled from justice, his letters were seized at the Post-
office by order of the Justice-clerk Braxfield.

The sport of cock-fighting had lately been introduced into

Scotland, and a cock-pit was now in operation in Leith Links, where
the charges for admission were 10d. for the front row, 7d. for the
second, and 4d. for the third. Soon after, ‘the passion for cock-
fighting was so general among all ranks of the people, that the
magistrates [of Edinburgh] discharged its being practised on the
streets, on account of the disturbances it occasioned.’[324]
William Machrie, who taught in 1702.
Edinburgh what he called ‘the severe and
serious, but necessary exercise of the sword,’ had also given a share
of his attention to cock-fighting—a sport which he deemed ‘as much
an art, as the managing of horses for races or for the field of battle.’ It
was an art in vogue over all Europe—though ‘kept up only by people
of rank, and never sunk down to the hands of the commonalty’—and
he, for his part, had studied it carefully: he had read everything on
the subject, conversed and corresponded on it with ‘the best cockers
in Britain,’ carefully observing their practice, and passing through a
long experience of his own.
Thus prepared, Mr Machrie published in Edinburgh, in 1705, a
brochure, styled An Essay on the Innocent and Royal Recreation
and Art of Cocking, consisting of sixty-three small pages; from which
we learn that he had been the means of introducing the sport into
Edinburgh. The writer of a prefixed set of verses evidently
considered him as one of the great reformers of the age:
‘Long have you taught the art of self-defence,
Improved our safety then, but now our sense,
Teaching us pleasure with a small expense.’

For his own part, considering the hazard and expense which
attended horse-racing and hawking, he was eager to proclaim the
superior attractions of cocking, as being a sport from which no such
inconveniences arose. The very qualities of the bird recommended it
—namely, ‘his Spanish gait, his Florentine policy, and his Scottish
valour in overcoming and generosity in using his vanquished
adversary.’ The ancients called him an astronomer, and he had been
‘an early preacher of repentance, even convincing Peter, the first
pope, of his holiness’s fallibility.’ ‘Further,’ says he, ‘if variety and
change of fortune be any way prevalent to engage the minds of men,
as commonly it is, to prefer one recreation to another, it will beyond
all controversy be found in cocking more than any other. Nay, the
eloquence of Tully or art of Apelles could never with that life and
exactness represent fortune metamorphosed in a battle, as doth
cocking; for here you’ll see brave attacks and as brave defiances,
bloody strugglings, and cunning and handsome retreats; here you’ll
see generous fortitude ignorant of interest,’ &c.
Mr Machrie, therefore, goes con amore into his subject, fully
trusting that his treatise on ‘this little but bold animal could not be
unacceptable to a nation whose martial 1702.
temper and glorious actions in the field
have rendered them famed beyond the limits of the Christian world;’
a sentence from which we should have argued that our author was a
native of a sister-island, even if the fact had not been indicated by his
name.
Mr Machrie gives many important remarks on the natural history
of the animal—tells us many secrets about its breeding; instructs us
in the points which imply strength and valour; gives advices about
feeding and training; and exhibits the whole policy of the pit. Finally,
he says, ‘I am not ashamed to declare to the world that I have a
special veneration and esteem for those gentlemen, within and about
this city, who have entered in society for propagating and
establishing the royal recreation of cocking (in order to which they
have already erected a cock-pit in the Links of Leith); and I earnestly
wish that their generous and laudable example may be imitated in
that degree that, in cock-war, village may be engaged against village,
city against city, kingdom against kingdom, nay, the father against
the son, until all the wars in Europe, wherein so much Christian
blood is spilt, be turned into the innocent pastime of cocking.’
Machrie advertised, in July 1711, that he was not the author of a
little pamphlet on Duelling, which had been lately published with his
name and style on the title-page—‘William Machrie, Professor of
both Swords.’ He denounced this publication as containing
ridiculous impossibilities in his art, such as ‘pretending to parry a
pistol-ball with his sword.’ Moreover, it contained ‘indiscreet
reflections on the learned Mr Bickerstaff [of the Tatler],’ ‘contrary to
his [Machrie’s] natural temper and inclination, as well as that civility
and good manners which his years, experience, and conversation in
the world have taught him.’[325]
 The amusement of cock-fighting long kept a hold of the Scottish
people. It will now be scarcely believed that, through the greater part
of the eighteenth century, and till within the recollection of persons
still living, the boys attending the parish and burghal schools were
encouraged to bring cocks to school at Fasten’s E’en (Shrove-tide),
and devote an entire day to this barbarising sport. The slain birds
and fugies (so the craven birds were called) became the property of
the schoolmaster. The minister of Applecross, in Ross-shire, in his
account of the parish, written about 1790, 1702.
coolly tells us that the schoolmaster’s
income is composed of two hundred merks, with payments from the
scholars of 1s. 6d. for English, and 2s. 6d. for Latin, and ‘the cock-
fight dues, which are equal to one quarter’s payment for each
scholar.’[326]

A Short Account of Scotland, written, it is understood, by an

English gentleman named Morer, and published this year, presents a
picture of our country as it appeared to an educated stranger before
the union. The surface was generally unenclosed; oats and barley the
chief grain products; wheat little cultivated; little hay made for
winter, the horses then feeding chiefly on straw and oats. The houses
of the gentry, heretofore built for strength, were now beginning to be
‘modish, both in fabric and furniture.’ But ‘still their avenues are very
indifferent, and they want their gardens, which are the beauty and
pride of our English seats.’ Orchards were rare, and ‘their apples,
pears, and plums not of the best kind;’ their cherries tolerably good;
‘for gooseberries, currants, strawberries, and the like, they have of
each, but growing in gentlemen’s gardens; and yet from thence we
sometimes meet them in the markets of their boroughs.’ The people
of the Lowlands partly depended on the Highlands for cattle to eat;
and the Highlanders, in turn, carried back corn, of which their own
country did not grow a sufficiency.
Mr Morer found that the Lowlanders were dressed much like his
own countrymen, excepting that the men generally wore bonnets
instead of hats, and plaids instead of cloaks; the women, too, wearing
plaids when abroad or at church. Women of the humbler class
generally went barefoot, ‘especially in summer.’ The children of
people of the better sort, ‘lay and clergy,’ were likewise generally
without shoes and stockings. Oaten-cakes, baked on a plate of iron
over the fire, were the principal bread used. Their flesh he admits to
have been ‘good enough,’ but he could not say the same for their
cheese or butter. They are ‘fond of tobacco, but more from the snish-
box than the pipe.’ Snuff, indeed, had become so necessary to them,
that ‘I have heard some of them say, should their bread come in
competition with it, they would rather fast than their snish should be
taken away. Yet mostly it consists of the coarsest tobacco, dried by
the fire, and powdered in a little engine after the form of a tap, which
they carry in their pockets, and is both a 1702.
mill to grind and a box to keep it in.’

Dresses of the People of Scotland.—From Speed’s Atlas, 1676.

Stage-coaches did not as yet exist, but there were a few hackneys at
Edinburgh, which might be hired into the country upon urgent
occasions. ‘The truth is, the roads will hardly allow them those
conveniences, which is the reason that the gentry, men and women,
choose rather to use their horses. However, their great men often
travel with coach-and-six, but with so little caution, that, besides
their other attendance, they have a lusty running-footman on each
side of the coach, to manage and keep it up in rough places.’
Another Englishman, who made an excursion into Scotland in
1704, gives additional particulars, but to the same general purport.
At Edinburgh, he got good French wine at 20d., and Burgundy at
10d. a quart. The town appeared to him scarcely so large as York or
Newcastle, but extremely populous, and containing abundance of
beggars. ‘The people here,’ he says, ‘are very proud, and call the
ordinary tradesmen merchants.’ ‘At the best houses they dress their
victuals after the French method, though perhaps not so cleanly, and
a soup is commonly the first dish; and their reckonings are dear
enough. The servant-maids attended without shoes or stockings.’
At Lesmahago, a village in Lanarkshire, he found the people living
on cakes made of pease and barley mixed. ‘They ate no meat, nor
drank anything but water, all the year round; and the common
people go without shoes or stockings all the year round. I pitied their
poverty, but observed the people were fresh and lusty, and did not
seem to be under any uneasiness with their 1702.
way of living.’
In the village inn, ‘I had,’ says he, ‘an enclosed room to myself,
with a chimney in it, and dined on a leg of veal, which is not to be
had at every place in this country.’ At another village—Crawford-
John—‘the houses are either of earth or loose stones, or are raddled,
and the roofs are of turf, and the floors the bare ground. They are but
one story high, and the chimney is a hole in the roof, and the
fireplace is in the middle of the floor. Their seats and beds are of turf
earthed over, and raddled up near the fireplace, and serve for both
uses. Their ale is pale, small, and thick, but at the most common
minsh-houses [taverns], they commonly have good French brandy,
and often French wine, so common are these French liquors in this
country.’
Our traveller, being at Crawford-John on a Sunday, went to the
parish church, which he likens to a barn. He found it ‘mightily
crowded, and two gentlemen’s seats in it with deal-tops over them.
They begin service here about nine in the morning, and continue it
till about noon, and then rise, and the minister goes to the minsh-
house, and so many of them as think fit, and refresh themselves. The
rest stay in the churchyard for about half an hour, and then service
begins again, and continues till about four or five. I suppose the
reason of this is, that most of the congregations live too far from the
church to go home and return to church in time.’[327]
 The general conditions described by both of these travellers exhibit
little, if any advance upon those presented in the journey of the
Yorkshire squire in 1688,[328] or even that of Ray the naturalist in
1661.[329]

George Young, a shopkeeper in the High 1703. Jan. 24.

Street of Edinburgh, was appointed by the
magistrates as a constable, along with several other citizens in the
like capacity, ‘to oversee the manners and order of the burgh and
inhabitants thereof.’ On the evening of the day noted, being Sunday,
he went ‘through some parts of the town, to see that the Lord’s Day
and laws made for the observance thereof were not violat.’ ‘Coming
to the house of Marjory Thom, relict of James Allan, vintner, a little
before ten o’clock, and finding in the house 1703.
several companies in different rooms, [he]
did soberly and Christianly expostulate with the mistress of the
house for keeping persons in her house at such unseasonable hours,
and did very justly threaten to delate her to the magistrates, to be
rebuked for the same. [He] did not in the least offer to disturb any of
her guests, but went away, and as [he was] going up the close to the
streets, he and the rest was followed by Mr Archibald Campbell,
eldest son to Lord Niel Campbell, who quarrelled him for offering to
delate the house to the magistrates, [telling him] he would make him
repent it.’ So runs George Young’s own account of the matter. It was
rather unlucky for him, in his turn at this duty, to have come into
collision with Mr Campbell, for the latter was first-cousin to the
Duke of Argyle, and a person of too much consequence to be involved
in a law which only works sweetly against the humbler classes, being,
indeed, mainly designed for their benefit.
To pursue Young’s narrative. ‘Mr Archibald came next day with
some others towards the said George his shop, opposite to the Guard
[house], and called at his shop, which was shut by the hatch or half-
door: “Sirrah, sirrah!” which George not observing, nor
apprehending his discourse was directed to him, Mr Archibald called
again to this purpose: “I spoke to you, Young the constable.”
Whereupon, George civilly desiring to know his pleasure, he
expressed himself thus: “Spark, are you in any better humour to-day
than you was last night?” George answered, he was the same to-day
he was last night. “I was about my duty last night, and am so to-day.
I hope I have not offended you; and pray, sir, do not disturb me.” Mr
Archibald, appearing angry, and challenging George for his taking
notice of Mrs Allan’s house, again asked him if he was in any better
temper, or words to that purpose; [to which] George again replied,
He was the same he was, and prayed him to be gone, because he
seemed displeased. Whereupon Mr Archibald taking hold of his
sword, as [if] he would have drawn it, George, being within the half-
door, fearing harm, threw open the door, and came out to Mr
Archibald, and endeavoured to catch hold of his sword. Mr Archibald
did beat him upon the eye twice or thrice, and again took hold of his
sword to draw and run at him; which he certainly had done, if not
interrupted by the bystanders, who took hold of his sword and held
him, till that the Town-guard seized Mr Archibald, and made him
prisoner.’
Mr Campbell, being speedily released upon bail, did not wait to be
brought before the magistrates, but raised a 1702.
process against Young before the Privy
Council, ‘intending thereby to discourage all laudable endeavours to
get extravagancy and disorder [repressed].’ In the charge which he
brought forward, Mr Campbell depicts himself as walking peaceably
on the High Street, when Young attacked him, seized his sword, and
declared him prisoner, without any previous offence on his part. The
Guard thereafter dragged him to their house, maltreating him by the
way, and kept him a prisoner till his friends assembled and obtained
his liberation. The process went through various stages during the
next few weeks, and at length, on the 9th of March, the Council
found Young guilty of a riot, and fined him in four hundred merks
(upwards of £22 sterling), to be paid to Mr Campbell for his
expenses; further ordaining the offender to be imprisoned till the
money was forthcoming.
To do the Duke of Argyle justice, his name does not appear in the
list of the councillors who sat that day.

Sir John Bell, a former magistrate of Mar. 6.

Glasgow, kept up a modest frame of
Episcopal worship in that Presbyterian city, having occasionally
preachers, who were not always qualified by law, to officiate in his
house. On the 30th of January, a boy-mob assailed the house while
worship was going on, and some windows were broken. However,
the magistrates were quickly on the spot, and the tumult was
suppressed.
A letter from the queen to the Privy Council, dated the 4th
February, glanced favourably at the Episcopalian dissenters of
Scotland, enjoining that the clergy of that persuasion should live
peaceably in relation to the Established Church, and that they
should, while doing so, be protected in the exercise of their religion.
It was a sour morsel to the more zealous Presbyterians, clergy and
laity, who, not from any spirit of revenge, but merely from bigoted
religious feelings, would willingly have seen all Episcopalians
banished at the least. At Glasgow, where a rumour got up that some
Episcopalian places of worship would be immediately opened under
sanction of her majesty’s letter, much excitement prevailed. Warned
by a letter from the Lord Chancellor, the magistrates of the city took
measures for preserving the peace, and they went to church on the
7th of March, under a full belief that there was no immediate
likelihood of its being broken. The Episcopalians, however, were in
some alarm about the symptoms of popular feeling, and it was
deemed necessary to plant a guard of 1703.
gentlemen, armed with swords, in front of
the door of Sir John Bell’s house, where they were to enjoy the
ministrations of a clergyman named Burgess. Some rude boys
gathered about, and soon came to rough words with this volunteer
guard, who, chasing them with their swords, and, it is said, violent
oaths, along the Saltmarket, roused a general tumult amongst all
who were not at church. The alarm soon passed into the churches.
The people poured out, and flocked to the house where they knew
that the Episcopalians were gathered. The windows were quickly
smashed. The worshippers barricaded and defended themselves; but
the crowd broke in with fore-hammers, though apparently hardly
knowing for what purpose. The magistrates came with some soldiers;
reasoned, entreated, threatened; apprehended a few rioters, who
were quickly rescued; and finally thought it best to limit themselves
to conducting the scared congregation to their respective homes—a
task they successfully accomplished. ‘Afterwards,’ say the
magistrates, ‘we went and did see Sir John Bell in his house, where
Mr Burgess, the minister, was; and, in the meantime, when we were
regretting the misfortune that had happened to Sir John and his
family, who had merited much from his civil carriage when a
magistrate in this place, it was answered to us by one of his sons
present, that they had got what they were seeking, and would rather
that that had fallen out than if it had been otherways.’
The Privy Council, well aware how distasteful any outrages against
the Episcopalians would be at court, took pains to represent this
affair in duly severe terms in their letters to the secretaries of state in
London. They also took strong measures to prevent any similar
tumult in future, and to obtain reparation of damages for Sir John
Bell.
Generally, the condition of Episcopal ministers continued to be
uncomfortable. In February 1705, Dr Richard Waddell, who had
been Archdean of St Andrews before the Revolution, and was
banished from that place in 1691, but had lately returned under
protection of her majesty’s general indemnity, became the subject of
repressive measures on the part of the Established Church. Letters of
horning were raised against him by ‘John Blair, agent for the kirk,’
and, notwithstanding strong protestations of loyalty to the queen, he
was ordained by the Privy Council once more ‘to remove furth of the
town and parochine of St Andrews, and not return thereto.’[330]
An elderly woman named Marion Lillie, 1703. Apr.
residing at Spott, in East Lothian, was in the
hands of the kirk-session, on account of the general repute she lay
under as a witch. Amidst the tedious investigations of her case in the
parish register, it is impossible to see more than that she occasionally
spoke ungently to and of her neighbours, and had frightened a
pregnant woman to a rather unpleasant extremity by handling her
rudely. The Rigwoodie Witch,[331] as a neighbour called her, was now
turned over to a magistrate, to be dealt with according to law; but of
her final fate we have no account.
Spott is a place of sad fame, its minister having basely murdered
his wife in 1570,[332] and the estate having belonged to a gentleman
named Douglas, whom we have seen concerned in the slaughter of
Sir James Home of Eccles, and who on that account became a
forfeited outlaw.[333] The wife of a subsequent proprietor, a gambler
named Murray, was daughter to the Lord Forrester, who was stabbed
with his own sword by his mistress at Corstorphine in 1679.[334]
There is extant a characteristic letter of this lady to Lord Alexander
Hay, son of the Earl of Tweeddale, on his bargaining, soon after this
time, for the estate, with her husband, without her consent—in which
she makes allusion to the witches of Spott:
‘THES TO LORD ALEXANDER HAY.

‘Spott, 19 May.

‘This way of proceeding, my lord, will seem verey abrupte and inconsiderat to
you; but I laye my count with the severest censer you or may malicious enemies
can or will saye of me. So, not to be tedious, all I have to speak is this: I think you
most absurd to [have] bought the lands of Spott from Mr Murray without my
consent, which you shall never have now; and I hope to be poseser of Spott hous
when you are att the divel; and believe me, my childrin’s curse and mine will be a
greater moth in your estate than all your ladey and your misirable wretchedness
can make up and pray [pay].
‘This is no letter of my lord Bell Heavins, and tho you saye, in spite of the divell,
you’le buy it befor this time twell month, you may come to repent it; but thats non
of my bisnes. I shall only saye this, you are basely impertinent to thrust me away in
a hurrey from my houss at Whitsunday, when I designed not to go till Martinmis:
and I wish the ghosts of all the witches that ever was 1703.
about Spott may haunt you, and make you the
unfortountest man that ever lived, that you may see you was in the wrong in
makeing aney such bargain without the consent of your mortal enemy,

Clara Murray.’[335]

The country was at this time in a state of July 1.

incandescent madness regarding its
nationality, and the public feeling found expression through the
medium of parliament. By its order, there was this day burned at the
Cross of Edinburgh, by the hangman, a book entitled Historia Anglo-
Scotica, by James Drake, ‘containing many false and injurious
reflections upon the sovereignty and independency of this nation.’ In
August 1705, when the passion was even at a greater height, the same
fate was awarded by the legislature to a book, entitled The
Superiority and Direct Dominion of the Imperial Crown of England
over the Crown and Kingdom of Scotland; also to a pamphlet, called
The Scots Patriot Unmasked, both being the production of William
Atwood. On the same day that the latter order was given, the
parliament decreed the extraordinary sum of £4800 (Scots?) to Mr
James Anderson, for a book he had published, A Historical Essay
shewing that the Crown and Kingdom of Scotland is Imperial and
Independent. Nor was this all, for at the same time it was ordered
that ‘Mr James Hodges, who hath in his writings served this nation,’
should have a similar reward.[336]
The Scottish parliament at this time Sep. 3.
patronised literature to a considerable
extent, though a good deal after the manner of the poor gentleman
who bequeathed large ideal sums to his friends, and comforted
himself with the reflection, that it at least shewed good-will.
Alexander Nisbet had prepared a laborious work on heraldry,[337]
tracing its rise, and describing all its various figures, besides
‘shewing by whom they are carried amongst us, and for what
reasons,’ thus instructing the gentlefolk of this country of their
‘genealogical pennons,’ and affording assistance to ‘curious
antiquaries’ in understanding ‘seals, medals, historie, and ancient
records.’ But Alexander was unable of his own means to publish so
large a work, for which it would be 1703.
necessary to get italic types, ‘whereof there
are very few in this kingdom,’ and which also required a multitude of
copper engravings to display ‘the armorial ensigns of this ancient
kingdom.’ Accordingly, on his petition, the parliament (September 3,
1703), recommended the Treasury to grant him £248, 6s. 8d. sterling
‘out of what fund they shall think fit.’[338]

In 1695, the Scottish parliament forbade Aug. 9.

the sale of rum, as interfering with the
consumpt of ‘strong waters made of malt,’ and because the article
itself was ‘rather a drug than a liquor, and highly prejudicial to the
health of all who drink it.’ Now, however, Mr William Cochrane of
Kilmaronock, John Walkenshaw of Barrowfield, John Forbes of
Knaperna, and Robert Douglas, merchant in Leith, designed to set
up a sugar-work and ‘stillarie for distilling of rum’ in Leith, believing
that such could never be ‘more necessary and beneficial to the
country, and for the general use and advantage of the lieges, than in
this time of war, when commodities of that nature, how necessary
soever, can hardly be got from abroad.’ On their petition, the
designed work was endowed by the Privy Council with the privileges
of a manufactory.

The steeple of the Tolbooth of Tain had Sep. 10.

lately fallen in the night, to the great hazard
of the lives of the prisoners, and some considerable damage to the
contiguous parish church. On the petition of the magistrates of this
poor little burgh, the Privy Council ordained a collection to be made
for the reconstruction of the building; and, meanwhile, creditors
were enjoined to transport their prisoners to other jails.
Nearly about the same time, voluntary collections were ordained
by the Privy Council, for erecting a bridge over the Dee at the Black
Ford; for the construction of a harbour at Cromarty, ‘where a great
quantity of the victual that comes to the south is loadened;’ and for
making a harbour at Pennan, on the estate of William Baird of
Auchmedden, in Aberdeenshire, where such a convenience was
eminently required for the shelter of vessels, and where ‘there is
likewise a millstone quarry belonging to the petitioner [Baird], from
which the greatest part of the mills in the kingdom are served by sea.’
Amidst the endless instances of 1703. Nov. 11.
misdirected zeal and talent which mark the
time, there is a feeling of relief and gratification even in so small and
commonplace a matter as an application to the Privy Council, which
now occurs, from Mr William Forbes, advocate, for a copyright in a
work he had prepared under the name of A Methodical Treatise of
Bills of Exchange. The case is somewhat remarkable in itself, as an
application by an author, such applications being generally from
stationers and printers.

Usually, in our day, the opposing Dec.

solicitors in a cause do not feel any wrath
towards each other. It was different with two agents employed at this
time in the Court of Session on different interests, one of them being
Patrick Comrie, who acted in the capacity of ‘doer’ for the Laird of
Lawers. To him, one day, as he lounged through the Outer House,
came up James Leslie, a ‘writer,’ who entered into some conversation
with him about Lawers’s business, and so provoked him, that he