Kidnapped by R.L.Stevenson

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Following the inspiration and motivation gleaned from reading How The Scots Invented The Modern World, I turned to another book I've been meaning to read for years, Kidnapped. 

It was startlingly easy to read (perhaps after the 'ye olde' language of Marmion and eulogies on David Hume), and quite funny in parts.  I loved the essential Scottishness of it all, the descriptions, the words I still hear to this day, the places I'd visited, the descriptions of heather and hills and unceasing rain. 

I was overwhelmingly struck by how anything adventurous or impressive is often made up of a great deal of very, very hard times.  I connected with this very well as my life of glorious adventure (as it appears to some, an international photographer living in Scotland) is not always easy going. There are pages given to David Balfour (our hero) wandering lost, cold, wet, sick, weary, angry, fearing for his life, and more - and that's probably a large reason I quite enjoyed the book.  "Classics" show life as real life, lived the way we live it, described with remarkable accuracy.  There's not always a fairy tale ending, and people and places are unpredictable.  I know what it is to be weary, exhausted, done for, and wanting to give up on the whole thing; and so I could associate with David.  "By what I have read in books," he says, "I think that few that have held a pen were ever really wearied, or they would write of it more strongly. I had no care of my life, neither past nor future, and I scarce remembered there was such a lad as David Balfour."  Perhaps one of those reasons is that we have the blessing and curse that extremes always fade in time - the things that are so horrible, and so difficult and wearying, we later wonder if they were so bad; and the things that are so amazing and beautiful, we tinge with a bit of what we call 'real life' and forget to rejoice in as we once did.  (Bear in mind that this very connection that I found may cause those who are expecting a rip-roaring adventure novel to be disappointed. In one sense, the story is about David wandering from place to place, and who he meets along the way, and how he determines his own character. It's not a swashbuckling boy's novel with thrills at every turn.)

In spite of this comradeship of affliction, I never really connected with David as a person or friend.  He made a good narrator, but I was more taken by the other characters he describes so well.  Alan Breck, who becomes his companion for half the book, is a more 'alive' and real character than any other, including David himself.  (Of course, this is probably because David sets off on his journey as a young lad with no real life experience of any kind, and so he is absorbing, like a sponge, the character and interests around him whilst trying to discover who he actually is himself).  Alan, with his fancy French clothes worn to tatters, his constantly referring to himself as "having a king's name", his Highland generosity and knowledge of lands and persons, his pride and unfailing loyalty, as well as a neat turn of phrase, make him a fascinating personage indeed.  Even Hoseason , the captain of the ship on which David is taken at the beginning, fascinates.  "He was neither so good as I supposed him, nor quite so bad as Ransome did; for, in fact, he was two men, and left the better one behind as soon as he set foot on board his vessel." There's also Cluny, an almost royal personage who lives quietly in a hidden place, surrounded by loyal followers, and says, "My life is a bit dreigh; I see little company, and sit and twirl my thumbs, and mind upon a great day that is gone by, and weary for another great day that we all hope will be upon the road."  There's Ransome, the young lad on the ship with David, who "could not say how old he was, as he had lost his reckoning....He swore horribly whenever he remembered, but more like a silly schoolboy than a man; and boasted of many wild and bad things that he had done...but all with such a dearth of likelihood in the details, and such a weak and crazy swagger in the delivery, as disposed me rather to pity than to believe him."   And then there are all the "little people" on their journeys who are rich in generosity, hospitality, and the Scottish language, if not always in manners or wealth. And they are all the better for it. 

Again I found myself glad that I know many of the places described on David's journey.  The Hawes Inn in Queensferry still stands, and one day not very long ago I had a mug of hot spiced ale and a warm meal whilst looking out the tiny thick glass windows to the forth bridges and the water beyond.  (You can visit the town through my eyes here.)  The Isle of Mull is as remote as hauntingly beautiful as it ever was, and the houses and cottages as far between. The rain falls on me in Scotland as unceasingly as it did on David Balfour, and many of the words and turns of phrases are heard to this day.

The ending is...odd. I won't go into too much detail lest I prevent you from reading this excellent book, but it wound up with such a rush (and not a flourish but more like a flop) that I sat dumbfounded for a moment wondering if Stevenson had gotten interrupted and thought he would return soon, or alternatively was perhaps knocked over the head and kidnapped himself, with the kidnapper kindly dashing off a short paragraph in his absence. In spite of this, it's still one of the best historical novels I've read in a while, and encourage you to brew your most Scottish cup of tea and read it all the way through. And if you can manage it, drop by the Hawes Inn for a mug of ale.