Kidnapped - Robert Louis Stevenson

Chapter One

The Mysterious House of Shaws

In June of 1751, I locked the door of my
father’s house for the last time.
As I walked down the road, I came upon
Mr. Campbell. This kind man was the
minister in our little town, Essendean. “Are you
sorry to leave home, boy?” he asked kindly.
“I’ve been happy here,” I said. “But since
my father and mother are both dead, there’s
no reason to stay. To speak the truth, I do not
know where I am going.”
“Very well, Davie,” Mr. Campbell replied.
“I have a letter to give you. Your father wrote
it when he knew he was dying. It is your
inheritance. He said you are to take this letter
to the house of Shaws.”
“The house of Shaws!” I cried out. “What
did a poor man like my father have to do with
the house of Shaws?”
“Who can say for sure?” Mr. Campbell said. “But that is your name, Davie—Balfour
of Shaws.”
Then he handed me the envelope. The
words on it said: For Ebenezer Balfour of
Shaws, to be delivered by my son, David
Balfour. My heart beat hard. This was a great
prospect for a poor boy of 17.
The house of Shaws was a two-day walk.
It was in the neighborhood of Cramond, near
the great city of Edinburgh. Mr. Campbell
gave me some advice as we walked along. He
said I should be quick to understand things,
but slow to speak. He added that I must obey
the master of the house of Shaws. I promised
to do my best.
Mr. Campbell spoke comforting words.
He promised that if my rich relatives turned
me away, I could always stay with him.
Before he turned back, he gave me four
things. The first was a little money from the
sale of my father’s belongings. Then there
were three gifts from him and his wife: a coin,
a bible, and instructions for making Lily of
the Valley water. He explained that this water
is good for the body in health and in sickness.
On the second day of my journey, I came
up a hill. Just below me was the city of
Edinburgh, smoking like an oven. I saw a flag
on the Edinburgh castle and ships in the
water nearby. The sight of the busy, crowded
city brought my heart to my mouth.
Soon I reached the neighborhood of
Cramond. I began to ask directions to the
house of Shaws. The question seemed to
surprise people. One man frowned and said,
“If you’ll take a word from me, you’ll keep
clear of the house of Shaws.”
I came across a barber. Knowing that
barbers are great gossips, I asked him, “What
sort of man is Ebenezer Balfour?”
“Why, he’s no sort of man,” the barber
grumbled. “No sort of man at all!”
If I wasn’t so far from home, I would have
turned back. But I was a bit tired after coming
all this way. I wanted to see the house of
Shaws for myself.
Near sundown I met a dark, sour-looking
woman. Again, I asked the way to the house
of Shaws. She pointed to a great, dark bulk of
a building. The place looked like a ruin.

“That?” I said.
The woman’s face grew angry and bitter.
“Blood built that place!” she cried. “And blood
shall bring it down! When you see the master,
tell him Jennet Clouston has put a curse on
his house! Black be their fall!”
Then she left me. Her words had sapped
the energy from my legs. I sat down and
stared at the house until the sun went down.
Then I saw smoke rising from the chimney.
That meant fire, and warmth, and people
inside. It comforted my heart wonderfully.
As I walked up to the door, I saw that part
of the building had never been finished. Some
rooms and a stairway were open to the sky!
Bats flew in and out of several windows that
had no glass.
Was this the house of Shaws? I had
imagined a palace. I had hoped to find friends
and perhaps a fortune within these walls.
Inside, I heard dishes rattling, and a dry
cough. But when I knocked on the door, the
house became dead silent. All I could hear was
a clock ticking inside. Whoever was in the
house must have been listening, too.
I felt like running away. Then a flash of
anger got the upper hand. I pounded on the
door and shouted for Mr. Balfour.
I heard the cough overhead. When I
looked up, I saw a man’s head and the widemuzzle
end of a blunderbuss—aimed at me!
“It’s loaded,” his stern voice snarled.
“I’ve come with a letter,” I explained.
“Is Mr. Ebenezer Balfour of Shaws here?”
“You can put the letter on the doorstep
and be off,” the man said.
“I will do no such thing,” I said. “I have a letter of introduction for Mr. Balfour.”
There was a long pause. Then the man
said, “Who are you?”
“I’m not ashamed of my name,” I said. “I
am David Balfour.”
The man seemed to be startled, because I
heard the blunderbuss rattling on the
windowsill. After a very long pause, he said,
“Your father must be dead. That’s what brings
you knocking at my door. All right, then. I’ll
let you in,” he went on defiantly. With that,
he disappeared from the window.
There was a great rattling of chains and
bolts. Then the door was opened—and
quickly shut again as I stepped inside.
“Go into the kitchen and touch nothing,”
the grizzled old man said with a grunt.
I groped my way forward in the dark. The
bright fire in the kitchen lit up the barest
room I’d ever seen. Half a dozen dishes stood
on the shelves. The table was set for supper. I
saw a bowl of porridge, a spoon, and a cup of
beer. Padlocks hung from chests along the
wall and a corner cupboard.
The man was stooped, narrow-shouldered, and unshaven. Above his ragged shirt, his face
was the color of clay. His age could have been
either 50 or 70. What bothered me most were
his eyes. He never stopped watching me—but
he refused to look me square in the face. I
couldn’t tell what sort of man he was. To me,
he looked like an old servant, left behind,
perhaps, to watch the place.
“Let’s see the letter,” he demanded.
I told him the letter was for Mr. Balfour,
not for him.
“And who do you think I am?” he asked.
“Give me Alexander’s letter!”
“You know my father’s name?” I gasped.
“It would be strange if I didn’t,” he said.
“He was my own brother! And though you
don’t seem to like me much, I’m your uncle.
So sit down, Davie. Have some porridge, and
let me see that letter.”
What a rude man! If I’d been younger,
I would have burst into tears from the
disappointment. Finding no words to say, I
sat down. But I had no appetite at all.
My uncle stooped over the fire, turning the
letter over in his hands. “Don’t you know what’s in the letter, young man?” he asked.
“You can see for yourself, sir,” I replied.
“The seal has not been broken.”
“I see,” he said, “but tell me, what brought
you here?”
“Why, to give you the letter,” I said.
“But you had some hopes, no doubt?” His
face took on a cunning look.
“I confess, sir,” I stammered, “that it lifted
my spirits to hear that I had well-to-do family.
I hoped they might help me in life. But I’m
no beggar, sir. I want no favors unless they’re
freely given. As poor as I seem, I have friends
of my own who will help me.”
“Hoot-toot!” Uncle Ebenezer said. “Don’t
get upset with me. We’ll get along fine.”
I watched him as he ate his porridge. He
kept darting glances at my old shoes and my
homespun stockings. Once, though, our eyes
met accidentally. He looked like a thief who’d
been caught with his hand in a man’s pocket!
After a while, he asked sharply, “Has your
father been dead long?”
“Three weeks, sir,” I said.
“Has he never mentioned me?” he asked.
“I never knew that he had a brother until
you told me,” I replied. For some reason my
answer seemed to improve his mood. Then he
announced that it was time for bed.
He lit no lamp or candle, but groped his
way out of the dark kitchen. I followed him to
an upstairs room and asked for a light.
“Hoot-toot!” he said. “I don’t agree with
lights in the house—I’m afraid of fires, you
see. Good night to you, Davie, my man.” He
closed the door and locked me inside.
The fine, embroidered furniture in the
room was rotting from years of disuse. The
bed was cold and damp. I pulled a blanket out
of my backpack and slept on the floor.
The next morning, I banged on the door
until he let me out. My breakfast was porridge
and beer again.
“Davie,” the old man said, “you’ve done
well to come to your Uncle Ebenezer. I mean
to do right by you. Meanwhile, just give me a
day or two to make a plan. And don’t say
anything to anybody.”
With that, he took an old coat and hat
from the cupboard. Locking it behind him, he said he was going out. “I can’t leave you by
yourself in the house,” he added. “I’m afraid
I’ll have to lock you out.”
Blood rushed to my face as I took in the
insult. “If you lock me out,” I said, “that’s the
last you’ll see of me as a friend.”
He turned away, trembling, twitching, and
mumbling to himself. But when he looked
back at me, he had a smile on his face.
“Uncle Ebenezer,” I said, “I can make no
sense of this. You treat me like a thief. You
don’t trust me in your house. It’s not possible
that you can really accept me. Let me go back
to my own good friends at home!”
“No, no!” he said very earnestly. “I do
accept you, Davie. We’ll get along yet. For the
honor of the house, I can’t let you leave the
way you came. Stay a while—there’s a good
boy—and you’ll find we’ll come to an
understanding.”
I was silent for a time. Then I said, “All
right, sir, I’ll stay—but only for a while. If we
don’t get along, it will be no fault of mine.”

VOLVER>