about to be driven. The town, at the particular period to which our tale
refers, was besieged by the lords of the congregation, aided by an army
of three thousand English, under Lord Gray of Wilton, who had been
despatched for this purpose by Elizabeth, to whom the Reformers had
appealed in their necessities.
The reader, then, will understand that he is in a beleaguered town: that
he is in Leith during the famous siege of that ancient seaport; when it
was invested on all sides by the enemies of prelacy, and against whom it
was defended, chiefly by a body of French troops, under a general of the
name of D'Oysel, who had been sent from France to aid the Queen Regent
in maintaining her authority in the kingdom.
Having despatched these preliminaries, we proceed with our story.
It was on a certain evening in the latter end of April, or beginning of
May, 1559, that mine host of "The Ship" was suddenly summoned from his
cellar, at a moment when he was employed in tapping a new hogshead of
claret, by a gentle rap at a quiet back door which stood just beside the
hatchway that led to the cellar in question.
This door, which had been contrived, or struck out, for the
accommodation of private and confidential customers, who did not care to
be seen entering "The Ship" by the front door, was accessible only
through a complicated labyrinth of mean buildings, on a spot still known
by the name of the Peat Neuk, and so called, from its having been the
public depository of that description of fuel, before coals came into
the general use in which they now are, and have long been.
"Wha's this?" muttered David Wemyss to himself, on hearing the gentle
rap at the back door above spoken of, and, at the same time, laying down
a bright tankard of claret, which he had just drawn from the newly
broached hogshead. "Lang Willie Wilson, the herrin curer, I dare say, or
the skipper o' the Cut-luggit Sow o' Kirkcaldy."
Thus conjecturing who his visiter might be, David Wemyss approached the
door, undid its fastenings, and admitted, not Willie Wilson, the herring
curer, nor the Kirkcaldy skipper, but a certain worthy brother of the
preceptory of St. Anthony, by name Peter Drinkhooly. Peter, who wore the
dress of his order, namely, a loose, black cloth gown, had long been one
of mine host of "The Ship's" private and confidential customers. He
dearly loved a stoup of fresh claret; but both his character and calling
compelled him to go cautiously about such carnal indulgences, and to
trust no front doors with his secret.
Peter, however, although addicted to vinous propensities, was not what
could be called a "jolly friar." He was rather a quiet, maudlin sort of
a toper; neither boisterous in manner, nor reckless in disposition. He
could, however, drink with the face of clay.
"Oh, father, is that you?" said David, on perceiving the black gown and
slouched hat of his visiter. "I thocht it had been Willie Wilson, or the
skipper. Stap awa in by there," pointing to the well-known sanctum of
the backdoor customers; "and I'll gie ye a tasting o' a fresh tap I was
just at whan ye cam in."
Without saying a word in reply, Friar Drinkhooly glided into the little
dark closet indicated by mine host, and there awaited the reappearance
of the latter from the cellar with the promised sample of the new butt.
Both quickly came.
"Awfu' times--father, awfu' times thae," said David, placing a tankard
of claret on the table, and seating himself directly opposite his guest.
"If this siege continues muckle langer, guid kens what'll become o' us.
They tell me that some o' the Frenchmen hae ta'en to eatin their dead
horses already, for want o' better provender. But they can cook up
onything, thae Frenchers, and can mak, I'm tell't, a savoury mess oot o'
a pair o' auld boots. But come, tak a mouthfu' o' that," continued mine
host, shoving the tankard towards his guest, "an' tell me what ye think
o' our new browst."
Father Drinkhooly, who had not yet spoken a word, or in any other way
noticed what had been addressed to him, than by nods and shakes of the
head, readily obeying the gratifying invitation, seized the tankard,
and, at one pull, emptied it of half its contents. Having performed this
feat, he replaced the vessel on the table, wiped his mouth with a quiet,
composed air, and, in a soft under-tone, said--
"Fair liquor, David--fair liquor. What size is the cask?"
"It's a gey thumper," replied mine host; "big aneuch, I hope, to see oot
the siege o' Leith."
"Ay, the heretic is pressing us hard, David. The strength of the wicked
is prevailing," said Father Drinkhooly; "but there will be a day of
count and reckoning. It is coming, David, coming on the wings of the
thunder, to blast and destroy the sacrilegious spoilers; to scaith and
render barren this accursed land."
"Weel, I wadna wonder," replied David, looking very serious; for,
although he cared little for either the new religion or the old, he had,
if anything, rather a leaning towards the latter; at least, so was
suspected; but this was a point not easily decided on, owing to the very
accommodating nature of David's doctrines, which, at a moment's notice,
could adapt themselves to any circumstances.
"I wadna wonder," said David; "for I'm sure the spoilin and ravagin
that's gaun on is aneuch to bring down the judgments o' Heaven on us.
Heard ye if there hae been mony killed the day?"
"Alas! a very great number," replied Father Drinkhooly. "There has been
a terrible slaughter to-day, at the western block-house. The brethren
and I have shrived some twenty or thirty departing souls, who fell by
the cannon-shot of the enemy--two of them officers and men of rank in
the French army--worthy, pious men--who have left something considerable
to the brotherhood. But God knows if we will be permitted te enjoy it."
"Ay," said David, pricking up his ears, as he always did when money, or
property in any shape, became the subject of conversation--"That was a
lucky wind-fa'; for I daresay the brethren are no oot o' need o' a wee
assistance o' that kind enow. Times are no wi' them as they used to be.
What feck, noo, if it's a fair question, did the twa Frenchmen leave
ye?"
"It's not usual for us to speak of these things, David," replied Father
Drinkhooly--"not usual for us to make these things the subject of
irreverent discussion; but, as thou art an old friend, I will gratify
thy curiosity--doing the same in confidence. Here," continued the worthy
father, slipping his hand under his cloak, and drawing out a leathern
bag well stored with coin, "here are a hundred and fifty crowns of the
sun placed in my hands by one of these dying Christians, and here are
three gold rings, worth fifty merks each, that were given unto me by the
other, under pledge of saying fifteen masses for the well-being of the
soul of the departed donor."
"My feth! no a bad day's work," said David. "It's an ill wind that blaws
naebody guid. The siege is no like to be such a bad job for ye, after
a'. Though ye should be driven oot o' the preceptory the morn, ye'll no
gang empty-handed; and that same's a blessin. But here's to ye, father,
and Gude send us mair peacefu' times;" saying this, mine host of "The
Ship" cleared off the remainder of the tankard. On his replacing the
latter on the table, brother Drinkhooly peered into the empty vessel
with a half involuntary spirit of inquiry.
His host smiled. Then--"We maun replenish, I fancy," he said.
Father Drinkhooly simply nodded acquiescence, saying not a word.
In half a minute after, another tankard of claret reamed on the board,
between mine host and his guest. By the time this second supply of the
generous fluid was exhausted, brother Drinkhooly began to exhibit
certain odd changes of manner. From being solemn and taciturn, he became
energetic and talkative, thumping the table violently when he wished to
be particularly impressive, and displaying, altogether, a boldness and
vivacity which strangely contrasted with the quiet meekness of his
demeanour but half an hour before. The claret then was doing its duty;
for to its exciting influence were these changes in the moral man of
brother Drinkhooly, of course, attributable.
It would not, we fear, much interest the reader to follow out in all its
details the debauch now in progress of celebration by the landlord of
"The Ship" and his worthy guest. Be it enough to say, that it finally
ended in the latter's getting so overcome that he did not think it would
be consistent either with his own character or the credit of the
preceptory, to return to the latter until he had had previously, an hour
or two's sleep.
"'Deed, I dare say ye'll no be the waur o't," said mine host, on brother
Drinkhooly's suggesting the propriety of this proceeding, "for that
claret's gey an' steeve. I fin thae twa jugs touchin my ain garret a wee
thing, and it used to tak sax to do that. But I'm no so able to staun't
noo, as I was wont."
This was certainly true; but, even yet, David was more than a match over
the claret stoup for any two men in the county. His capacity in this way
was extraordinary; and no contemptible proof of the fact was afforded on
the present occasion; for, while the priest was all but completely
prostrated, his host had not, to use his own phrase, "turned a hair;"
although he had drank quantity for quantity with the vanquished
churchman.
Always kind and attentive to the wants of his guests, and, from a fellow
feeling, especially tender of those who were in the helpless condition
of brother Drinkhooly, David, desiring the latter to take his arm,
conducted, or rather, smuggled him into a small back bedroom, helped him
off with his gown and shovel hat, and tumbled him into bed, where he
left him, with a promise to awake him at the expiry of two hours.
Having thus disposed of his clerical friend, David betook himself to the
duties of the house: to the filling of measures of wine, brandy, and
ale, to the running hither and thither, supplying the wants of one party
of customers, soothing the impatience of another, and joining in the
drunken laughter of a third.
David was thus employed, when he was attracted to the door by an
alarming outcry on the street. On reaching the latter, he saw a boy
approaching at his utmost speed, and bawling out--
"A priest, a priest! For the love o' God, a priest to shrive a dying
sinner. A priest, a priest!"
"What are ye screaming at, ye young rascal?" exclaimed David,
intercepting the boy, and catching him by the breast. "Wha wants a
priest?"
"It's a French offisher, sir, that has just been struck enow wi' a
cannon-shot on the ramparts," replied the boy; "and, as I was passing at
the time, he bade me rin for a priest."
"Was there naebody beside him?" inquired David.
"No ane, sir; and there's naebody yet--for he's lyin doon at the east
end o' the rampart, whar never a shot was kent to come before, as
neither town's folk nor Englishers is ever in that quarter."
"Is he sair hurt?" said David.
"I'm thinking he is," replied the boy. "But I maun awa up to St.
Anthony's, and get ane o' the brethren." "Ye needna fash, my man," said
mine host of "The Ship." "Hae, there's a groat to ye. There's ane o' the
brethren in my house, and I'll send him up immediately to the puir man."
The boy, well enough satisfied with this conclusion to his mission, went
his ways, seeking to have nothing farther to do with the matter.
Now, good reader, would you suspect it, that our friend David Wemyss
was at this moment acting under the influence of one of the most wicked
temptations that ever led an unhappy wight from the paths of
righteousness? You would not; yet it is true--too true. Tempted by the
exhibition of the bequests confided to brother Drinkhooly by the two
wounded French officers, David Wemyss, beguiled by the devil, conceived
the atrocious idea of arraying himself in the hat and gown of the
unconscious churchman, and of officiating as father confessor to the
dying gentleman on the ramparts, in the hope that he too would leave
something to the preceptory, and make him the interim recipient of the
bequest. Circumstances, David thought, were favourable to the adventure.
The night was dark, and the wounded man was lying at a remote part of
the rampart, where there was no great chance of his being annoyed with
many witnesses. The whole affair, besides, he calculated, would not
occupy many minutes.
Encouraged to the sacrilegious undertaking by this combination of happy
circumstances, David Wemyss hastened, on tiptoe, to the chamber of the
sleeping brother, and, in a twinkling, had himself bedight in the gown
and hat of the latter.
Thus arrayed, he stole out by the back door, and, taking all the by-ways
he could, hastened, as fast as his legs could carry him, towards the
south-eastern extremity of the ramparts, where, as described to him, the
wounded man was lying. David was thus pushing along, when he suddenly
felt himself slapped on the shoulder by some one behind. He turned
round, and beheld a man closely muffled up in a cloak, who thus
addressed him:--
"Your pardon, holy father, for this somewhat uncourteous interruption;
but the urgency of my case must plead my apology. An expiring sinner,
holy father, claims your instant attendance. I will conduct you to her.
Will you have the goodness to accompany me?"
"Impossible--impossible," replied the counterfeit monk, in great
perturbation at this most unexpected interruption, and threatened
expose. "I'm juist gaun on an errand o' the same kind enow, and canna
leave ae sinner for anither."
"You will oblige me by accompanying me, good father," said the stranger,
in a mild tone, but with a firmness of manner that was rather alarming.
"You will oblige me by accompanying me, good father," he said, _looking_
a little surprised at the style of the holy father's language, but
making no remark on the subject.
"Canna, sir--canna, canna, canna, on ony account," repeated the unhappy
brother of St. Anthony, with great volubility, and endeavouring to push
past the stranger, who stood directly in his way, and who kept dodging
in his front to prevent his succeeding in any attempt of this kind.
"Nay, now, good father, if you please--now, if you please, and without
more bandying of words; for the case is urgent, and there is not a
moment to lose."
"Man, it's oonpossible--utterly oonpossible," replied David, with
desperate energy. "I tell ye it's oonpossible."
"Do not compel me to use force, good father," said the stranger, calmly
but determinedly.
"Force--force!" reiterated the horror-stricken monk. "Wad ye use force
to a holy brither o' the preceptory? That wad be an awfu like thing."
"I must; you drive me to it," said the stranger--"Heaven knows how
unwillingly. My orders were peremptory. They were to accost the first of
your brethren I met; to entreat him to accompany me; and, if he refused,
to compel him. The first I have done; the latter I must proceed to do;
but, rest assured, no personal injury shall be done you; and you shall,
moreover, be well rewarded for your trouble."
Having said this, the stranger gave a low whistle, when he was
immediately joined by two men, who had been concealed in a dark passage
close by, and who the unhappy monk saw were well armed.
"Now, good father," resumed the person by whom the latter had been first
accosted, "I trust you will see the folly of any attempt at resistance,
should you--which God forfend!--be indiscreet enough to entertain any
such idea. Excuse me hinting farther, holy father, that any attempt at
outcry, or at giving the slightest alarm of any kind, will be attended
with unpleasant consequences."
"But--but--but"--exclaimed the distracted innkeeper, with rapid
utterance.
"No buts, if you please, good father, but follow me," interrupted the
stranger; and, saying this, he moved off, while his two companions
placed themselves one on either side of their charge, and requested him
to proceed.
Scarcely knowing what he did, but seeing very clearly that there would
be imminent personal danger in farther remonstrance or resistance, the
unlucky monk obeyed. This, however, he did only until he should have had
time to reflect on his best course of proceeding--that is, until he
should have taken it into due consideration whether he had not better
brave exposure, and at once avow himself as no brother of St. Anthony,
but David Wemyss, landlord of "The Ship," on the Coal Hill of
Leith--reserving to himself, however, the right of keeping the secret of
his purpose in assuming the garb of the brotherhood. Having weighed the
matter well, and taken all probable and possible consequences into
account, David finally determined on making the confession above alluded
to--hoping by this means to put an end to the awkward proceedings now in
progress and to accomplish, of course, at the same time, his own
liberation. Having come to this resolution--
"Hey! hey!" he exclaimed, in a slightly raised voice, to draw the
attention of the principal of his three guards or captors, who was still
walking a little way in advance.
The person thus hailed stopped until David came up. The latter took him
aside a little way, and whispered in his ear--
"I say, man, this is a' a mistak thegither. I'm no a monk. I'm no ane o'
the brotherhood at a', man."
The man stared at him with surprise for a few seconds, without saying a
word. At length, a satirical, or perhaps rather incredulous smile
playing on his countenance--
"Come, come, now, father; that will never do," he said. "But I excuse
your attempt, though a clumsy one, to impose on me; for the duties of
your office have now become dangerous, and I do not wonder that you
should seek to avoid them as much as possible. I was prepared for
this--I was prepared for reluctance; and hence the precautions I took to
compel, in case of failing to persuade."
"But I assure ye, sir, most seriously, that it's true I hae tell't ye,"
exclaimed David, with desperate eagerness, "I'm nae mair a monk than ye
are."
"And, pray, who the devil are you then?" exclaimed the stranger.
"'Deed, to tell you a Gude's truth, I'm juist plain Davy Wemyss o' 'The
Ship,' on the Coal Hill."
"Umph! oh! Don't know such a person; never heard of him."
"Od! that's queer," here interposed David, hastily. "I thocht everybody
kent me."
"Not I for one," replied the stranger drily; "but, to cut this matter
short, in the first place, I am not bound, good father, or hosteller, or
whatever you are, to believe you; in the next, my orders were
peremptory: I was instructed to accost the first person I met in
clerical garb, and entreat him to accompany me; and, if he did not do so
willingly, to compel him, as I told you before. So, there's an end of
it. If you really be not what you appear to be, I can't help it. That's
a point you must settle with others, not with me; I have nothing to do
with it. My duty's done when I have brought you along with me; and that
duty I am determined to do."
Saying this, the speaker, without waiting for farther remark or
remonstrance, walked on, having previously made a sign to his two
assistants to look to their charge.
What mine host of "The Ship's" feelings or reflections were, on finding
himself thus cut off from all chance of escape from his awkward
predicament, it would be rather tedious to describe. The reader will
believe that they could not be very pleasant; and that is enough.
Whatever these feelings were, however, they did not hinder David Wemyss
from entering, or rather attempting to enter, into conversation with the
two men to whose charge he was confided.
"Od, men," he said, on their resuming their march, "this is an awkward
sort o' business. I'm sure ye ken me weel aneuch--dinna ye?"
The only reply was a shake of the head.
"Davy Wemyss o' the Coal Hill? Ye canna but ken me, I should think,"
added the latter.
"No voord Ainglish," at length replied one of the men.
"Oh, ye're Frenchmen; ye belang to the Queen's Guard?" said David, now
enlightened on the subject of their silence. "Weel, this is waur and
mair o't," he continued. "Sma chance noo o' makin oot my case."
In the meantime, the party, who had taken their way by the quietest and
most circuitous routes, were rapidly approaching the wooden bridge over
the Water of Leith, which, in these days, formed the only communication
between the opposite sides of the river.
Having gained the bridge, they proceeded alongst it; and, thereafter,
made for a certain outlet in the ramparts situated in this quarter. This
outlet, as might be expected, seeing that the town was at this moment
under siege, was strongly guarded, and no egress or ingress permitted
excepting to persons properly accredited.
Of such, however, seemed to be the person who had captured the unlucky
hero of our story; for, on David and his escort coming up to the gate,
they found the way prepared for them by the former, who, keeping still
in advance, had arrived there before them.
Without word or question, then, they were permitted to pass through.
At this point, David was strongly tempted to make his case known to the
guard at the gate; but, perceiving that they too were all Frenchmen, he
thought it would be of no use, as they would not understand him. So he
held his tongue.
The guard--who, we need hardly say, were staunch Catholics to a
man--were, in the meantime, sadly annoying David with reverences to his
clerical character. They formed themselves into two lines, that he might
pass out at the gate with all due honour, and kept touching their caps
to him, with the most respectful obeisance, as he walked on between
their ranks.
Having gained the outside of the wall, Wemyss' escort, still led on by
their principal, conducted him, by circuitous routes, towards the mills
of Leith, at the distance of about a quarter of a mile from the town.
Here, under a shed, they found four horses ready saddled and bridled, in
charge of a groom, who seemed to have been waiting their arrival. So
soon as the party came up, the latter, without waiting for orders,
disappeared for an instant; and, in the next, presented himself leading
forth the four horses, two by each hand. On one of these David,
notwithstanding his most earnest entreaties to the contrary, which he
backed by earnest assurances that "he was nae horseman," was immediately
mounted. His guards mounted one a-piece of the others; and the whole
cavalcade now proceeded, at a round trot, towards Edinburgh--poor Wemyss
bouncing terribly with the roughness of the motion, to which he had been
but little accustomed.
On approaching the city, the leader of the party, who, on horseback as
on foot, still kept in advance, suddenly drew bridle, and waited the
coming up of the holy brother and his escort.
On the former drawing near--
"Our route, father, lies through Edinburgh," he said. "Now, as these are
troublesome times for persons of your cloth, I would recommend your
conducting yourself, for your own sake, as warily as possible. We shall
take the quietest routes, in order to avoid observation; and I beg that
you will neither say nor do anything while we are passing through the
city calculated to defeat our caution or attract notice."
Having said this, and without waiting for any reply, the speaker rode
on, leaving his charge to follow with his escort.
The party had now passed the village of Broughton, when, turning in an
easterly direction, they passed round the eastern base of the Calton
Hill, descended to the south back of the Canongate, traversed its whole
length, and finally entered the city by Leith Wynd.
For some time, the horsemen passed along without attracting any
particular notice; and, very probably, would have continued to do so,
had it not been for an idle boy, who, catching a glimpse of the brother
of St. Anthony's flowing gown and slouched hat, just as the party had
turned into the High Street, set up a loud cry of--
"Prelacy's mounted! prelacy's mounted! Hurra! hurra! Prelacy's mounted!
and riding to----."
Continuing to follow the cavalcade, and continuing his clamour also, the
mischievous little rascal soon had a crowd at the heels of the horsemen.
The boy's exclamations spoke the spirit of the times; so that others of
a similar character soon arose from twenty different quarters, and from
as many different voices.