THE IRON ROOM--THE DEATH SHOT.
Ay, I had planned full many a sanguine scheme
Of earthly happiness--romantic schemes,
And fraught with loveliness:--and it is hard
To feel the hand of death arrest one's steps,
Throw a chill blight o'er all one's budding prospects,
And hurl one's soul untimely to the shades,
Lost in the gaping gulph of blank oblivion.
HENRY KIRKE WHITE.
The Iron Room of the ancient Tolbooth of Edinburgh was a dreary vault
of massive stone-work, and was named so in consequence of its
strength and security. A low heavy arch roofed it, and the walls
from which it sprung were composed of great blocks of roughly hewn
stone elaborately built. Here and there a chain hung from them. The
floor was paved, and the door was a complicated mass of iron bars,
locks, bolts, and hinges. A single aperture, high up in the wall,
admitted the cold midnight wind through its deep recess.
An iron cruise burned on a clumsy wooden table, near which sat Walter
Fenton the condemned, with his face covered by his hands and his mind
buried in sad and melancholy thoughts.
One bright and solitary star shone down upon him through the grated
window, flashing, dilating, and shrinking; often he gazed upon it
wistfully--for it was his only companion--the partner or the witness
of his solitude and his sorrow. Once he turned to look upon it--but
it had passed away.
He reflected that never again would he behold a star shining in the
firmament.
Sad, bitter, and solitary reflection--for a few hours was all that
was left him now: and, though the sands of life were ebbing fast, one
absorbing thought occupied his mind--that Lilian was false and his
rival triumphant; that all his long cherished schemes and dreams of
love and happiness, glory and ambition, were frustrated and blasted
irredeemably and for ever.
He was to die!
The infliction of punishment immediately after trial was anciently
practised in all criminal cases, and the victim was usually led from
the presence of the judge to the scaffold.
Walter had been doomed to death as a traitor, a raiser of sedition,
and a deserter from the Scottish forces: the last accusation, in
support of which his signed _oath of fealty_ to the Estates of
Scotland, had been produced in council by General Sir Thomas
Livingstone, commander-in-chief of the army, saved him the dishonour
of dying on the gibbet.
The door of the Iron Room was opened stealthily, and the heavy bolts
and swinging chains were again rattling into their places, when
Walter slowly raised his head. His eye had become haggard, and his
face was overspread with a deathly pallor. The tall spare form of
the Reverend Mr. Ichabod Bummel stood before him, clad in his ample
black coat with its enormous cuffs and pocket-flaps, his deep
waistcoat, and voluminous grey breeches. He removed his broad hat,
and smoothed down the long lank hair which was parted in a seam over
the top of his cranium, and fell straight upon each shoulder. He did
not advance, but continued to press his hat upon his breast with both
hands, to turn up his eyes and groan mournfully.
"Poor youth!" he began, after two or three hems; "poor youth! now
truly thou lookest like an owl in the desert, yea, verily, even as
one overtaken in the Slough of Despond. Now thou seest how atrocious
is the crime of rebellion, and how bitter its meed. Now thou seest
how wicked is the attempt to overturn our pure and blessed Kirk as by
law established, and to substitute anarchy and confusion for peace
and brotherly love, and to involve the innocent with the guilty in
one common destruction. Ewhow! O guilty madness--O miserable
infatuation, that for the phanton of kingly and hereditary right,
would ruthlessly hurl back the land into the dark abyss of Popery,
restore the abomination of the mass, and substitute the vile and
tyrannical James for that beloved prince of our own persuasion, now
seated on Britain's triple throne, if not by that imaginary
hereditary right, at least by the laws of the land, and the voice of
those that are above it--yea, mark me, youth, above it--the ministers
of the Gospel. The pious and glorious William hath been our Saviour
from the devilish practices of Popery, and the machinations of all
those spurious children of Luther and of Calvin, the Seekers, the
Libertines and Independents, Brownists, Separatists and Familists,
Antitrinitarians, Arians, Socinians, Anti-Scripturists, Anabaptists,
Antinomians, Arminians, and a myriad other teachers of heresy and
preachers of schism--whilk, my brethren--my brother, I mean--may
Beelzebub confound! Oh, youth, how wicked and ungracious it is in
thee to reject the stately Fig-tree with its sweetness and good
fruit, and raise up the ancient thorn and prickly bramble to reign
over us!"
"My good sir," replied Walter, "it is but a poor specimen of
Presbyterian charity this, to come hither to a dismal vault, to heap
contumely on the head of the fallen, to humble one who is already
humbled--to bruise the bruised. Good sir, is it kind or charitable
to rail at and exult over me in this my great distress?"
At this unexpected accusation, tears started into the eyes of Ichabod
Bummel, who was really a good man at heart, though his virtues were
sadly obscured by the fanaticism of the times.
"Do not misunderstand me, good youth," he replied hurriedly; "and do
me not this great injustice. I come in the most humble and Christian
spirit, to cheer thy last hour in this gloomy hypogeum, and for that
godly purpose have brought with me a copy of my _Bombshell_, a most
sweet and savoury comforter to the afflicted mind."
He drew that celebrated quarto from his voluminous pocket, laid it on
the table, and opening it at certain places, turned down the corners
of the leaves. He then produced a thick little black-letter
psalm-book, the board of which bore the very decided impression of a
Bothwell-brig bullet; he adjusted a great pair of round horn
spectacles on his long-hooked nose, and in a shrill voice began his
favourite chant:
"I like ane owle in desert am," &c.
So much did he resemble the feathered type of wisdom, that Walter
could scarcely repress a smile.
"Young man, wherefore dost thou not join with me?" asked the divine,
raising his black eyebrows and looking at Walter alternately under,
over, and through his barnacles.
"Reverend sir, I never sung a Psalm in my life, and really cannot do
so now."
"I warrant thou canst sing _Claver'se and his Cavaliers_, _King
James's March_, _Rub-a-Dub_, and other profane ditties and camp-songs
of thy wicked faction and ungodly profession," said Ichabod
reproachfully.
At that moment the deep-mouthed bell of St. Giles, which seemed to
swing immediately above their heads, gave one long and sonorous toll.
"It is the first hour of the last morning I shall ever spend on
earth!" exclaimed Walter, starting up and striking his fetters
together in the bitterness of his soul. "Oh, Lilian, Lilian, how
little could we have foreseen of all this!"
He wept.
"'Tis well--no tears can be more precious than these," said Mr.
Bummel, who thought his exhortations had begun to prove effectual.
"Soon, good youth, shalt thou reach the end of this vale of tears!
Lo! thy bride already waiteth thee, and these tears----"
"You deem those of contrition and remorse. They are _not_. I have
done nothing to repent of, or for which I ought to feel contrite. I
never wronged man nor woman, though many have wronged me in more than
a lifetime can repay. These tears spring only from bitterness and
unavailing regret. Have I no hope of pardon? I care not for life,
but my king and the son of my king require my services, and could my
blood restore them I would die happy. Where is old Sir Thomas
Dalyell?"
"Gone to a warmer climate than Scotland," said Ichabod spitefully.
"Sir George of Rosehaugh?"
"He is gone where he cannot assist thee."
"Where is old Colin of Balcarris?"
"Fled no one knows whither."
"Where, then, is old Sir Robert of Glenae?"
"Gone to his last account with other persecutors."
"All then are dead or in exile, and none is left to be a friend to
the poor cavalier."
"Save one," said Ichabod, pointing upward.
"True, true," replied Walter, and covering his face with his hands he
stooped over the table and prayed intently.
Two o'clock struck, three and four followed, but still he remained,
as Ichabod thought, absorbed in earnest prayer, and kneeling by his
side, the worthy minister joined with true and pious fervour, till
his patience became quite exhausted. He stirred him, and Walter, who
had fallen asleep, started up.
"Is it time?" he asked.
"Thou hast slept well," said the divine, pettishly; "out of seven
hours that were allotted three have already fled."
"My dear and worthy sir, you see how calm my conscience is. Perhaps
it is hard to die so young; but for me life has now lost every charm.
Death never has terrors to the brave. He opens the gates to a fame
and a life that are eternal, and when the coffin lid is closed,
sorrow and jealousy, envy and woe are excluded for ever. _In four
hours more mine will have closed over me_. ------ Kingdoms and
cities, the trees of the forest, the lakes, the rocks, and the hills
themselves, have all their allotted periods of existence, and man has
his; for every thing must perish--all must die and all must pass
away. Oh, why then this foolish and unavailing regret about a few
years more or less? ------ Front to front and foot to foot I have
often met death on the field of battle, and if without flinching I
have faced the volley of a whole brigade, that hurled a thousand
brave spirits into eternity at once, shall I shrink from the levelled
musquets of twelve base hirelings of the Stadtholder? ------ Will
Lilian ever look on the grave where this heart moulders that loved
her so long and so well? Oh no, for now she is the wife of
another--oh, my God, another! In all wide Scotland there is not one
to regret me, to shed one tear for me. I disappear from the earth
like a bubble on a tide of events, leaving not one being behind me to
recal my memory in fondness or regret."
* * * * *
The great clock of St. Giles struck the hour of seven.
Musquets rattled on the pavement of the echoing street; the door of
the Iron Room opened, and the gudeman of the Tolbooth presented his
stern and sinister visage.
"It is time," he announced briefly.
"I am ready," replied Walter cheerfully, and, with a soldier on each
side of him and followed by the clergyman, he descended the narrow
circular staircase of the prison, and, issuing from an arched doorway
at the foot, found himself at the end of the edifice. Here he paused
and gazed calmly around him.
An early hour was chosen for his execution, that few might witness
it, for there existed in Scotland a strong feeling against William's
policy; the massacre of Glencoe, the successive defeats and heavy
expenses of the Dutch wars rankled bitterly in the minds of the
people.
The lofty streets were silent and shadowy; scarcely a footfall was
heard in them, and the dun sunlight of the September morning had not
sufficient heat to exhale the haze of the autumnal night.
A company of Argyle's regiment--the perpetrators of the Glencoe
atrocity--clad in coarse brick-coloured uniform of the Dutch fashion,
were drawn up in double ranks facing inwards on each side of the
doorway. They stood with their arms reversed, and each stooped his
head on his hands, which rested on the butt of his musket. At the
head of this lane were four drummers with their drums muffled and
craped, and a plain deal coffin carried upon the shoulders of four
soldiers. Walter, as he gazed steadily along these hostile ranks,
saw only the sourest fanaticism visible in every face, and in none
more so than that of their commander, a hard-featured and
square-shouldered personage, with a black corslet under his ample red
coat, and wearing a red feather in his broad hat. He introduced
himself as--
"Major Duncannon, of the godly regiment of my noble lord Argyle."
Walter bowed.
"Duncannon!" he replied; "your name is familiar to me as being the
man who issued the orders for the massacre of Glencoe."
Duncannon gave Walter a steady frown in reply to his glance of
undisguised hostility and contempt, and said--
"I obeyed the royal orders of King William III., to whom I say be
long life--and, like thee, may all his enemies perish from Dan to
Beersheba!"
"I do not acknowledge him; he hath never been crowned among us, nor
sworn the oath a Scottish king should swear. Shame on you, sir, to
rank this false-hearted Dutchman with our brave King William the
Lion. Shame be on you, sir, and all your faction," cried Walter,
holding up his fettered hands, while his cheek flushed and his eyes
kindled with energy. "Let our people recollect that the last man
whose limbs were crushed to a jelly by the accursed steel boots and
grinding thumbscrews, was subjected to their agonizing torture by the
"merciful" William of Orange--by the same wise prince by whose
express orders the bravest of the northern tribes was massacred in
their sleep and in cold blood! Let our brave soldiers, when the lash
that drips with their blood is flaying them alive, remember that,
like scourging round the fleet and keelhauling the hapless mariner,
it is an introduction of the same pious and magnanimous monarch who
planned, signed, and countersigned the mandate for the ruthless
atrocity of Glencoe! Oh, Scotland, Scotland! disloyal and untrue to
the line of your ancient kings, how long will you waste your treasure
and pour forth your gallant sons to the Dutch and German wars of a
brutal tyrant, who at once fears and hates and dreads, though he dare
not despise you! But the hour is coming," and he shook his clenched
hand and clanked his fetters like a fierce prophet--"when war,
oppression, exaction, and devastation, will be the meed of the
actions of to-day!"
"Silence, traitor!" exclaimed Duncannon, striking him with the hilt
of his sword so severely that blood flowed from his mouth.
"Major Duncannon, thou art a coward!" said Walter, turning his eyes
of fire upon him. "The brave are ever compassionate and gentle--but
thou! away, man--for on thy brow is written the dark curse which the
unavenged blood of Glencoe called down from the blessed God!"
Duncannon turned pale.
"Away with him!" he cried. "Drummers, flam off--musqueteers, march!"
and the procession began.
The dull rolling of the muffled drums, the regulated tap of the
burial march, and the wailing of the fifes, now shrill and high, and
anon sweet and low, found a deep echo in Walter's melancholy breast.
Sorrowful and solemn was the measure of the Psalm, and he felt his
beating heart soothed and saddened; but he could only mentally
accompany the clergyman who walked bare-headed by his side, and
chaunted aloud while the soldiers marched.
Walter's cheek reddened, for his fearless heart beat high, and he
stepped firmly behind his coffin, the most stately in all that sad
procession, though marching to that dread strain which a soldier
seldom hears, _his_ own death-march. The vast recesses of the great
cathedral and the distant echoes of the central street of the city
with all its diverging wynds, replied mournfully to the roll of the
funeral drums.
He whose knell they rung seemed the proudest there among two hundred
soldiers. Life now had nearly lost every charm, while religion,
courage, and resignation had fully robbed death of all its terrors.
Roused by the unusual sound, many a nightcapped citizen peered
fearfully forth from his lofty dwelling; but their looks of wonder or
of pity were unheeded or unseen by Walter Fenton. He saw only his
own coffin borne before him and the weapons and the hands by which he
was to die; but his bold spirit never quailed, and he resolved, with
true Jacobite enthusiasm, to fall with honour to the cause for which
he suffered.
"Halt!" cried Duncannon, and the coffin rang hollowly as it was
placed beside the square stone pedestal of King Charles's statue, and
Walter immediately kneeled down within it, confronting the stern
Presbyterians of Argyle's regiment with an aspect of coolness and
bravery that did not fail to excite their admiration and pity.
A sergeant approached to bind up his eyes.
"Nay, nay, my good fellow," said Walter, waving him away; "I have
faced death too often to flinch now. Major Duncannon, draw up your
musqueteers, and I will show you how fearlessly a cavalier of honour
can die."
While twelve soldiers were drawn up before him and loaded their
muskets, Walter turned his eyes for the last time to the glorious
autumnal sun, whose red morning rays were shot aslant between two
lofty piles of building into the shadowy and gloomy quadrangle formed
by the ancient Parliament House, the Goldsmiths' Hall, the grotesque
piazzas, and the grand cathedral. He gave one rapid glance of adieu
around him, and then turned towards his destroyers.
"Farewell, good youth," said Mr. Bummel, as the tears of true and
heartfelt sorrow trickled over his long hooked nose. "Farewell.
When He from whose hand light went forth over the land, even as the
rays of yonder sun--when He, I say, returns in His glory we will meet
again. Till _then_, farewell." Covering his face with his
handkerchief, he withdrew a few paces and prayed with kind and
sincere devotion.
At that moment the hoofs of a galloping horse spurred madly down the
adjacent street rang through the vaults and aisles of the great
church. Walter's colour changed.
A reprieve!
Alas! it was only Lord Clermistonlee who, pale, panting, and
breathless, dashed into the square to stay the execution; but the cry
he would have uttered died away on his parched lips.
"He comes to exult over me," said Walter bitterly. "Behold, ignoble
Lord," he exclaimed, "how a true cavalier can die! Musqueteers," he
added, in his old voice of authority, "ready, blow your matches,
present, God save King James the Seventh! give fire!"
The death volley rang like thunder in the still quadrangle. Four
bullets flattened against the statue, eight were mortal, and with the
last convulsive energy of death Walter Fenton threw his hat into the
air and fell forward prostrate into his coffin a bleeding corpse.
------------
Here ends our tale.
From that hour Clermistonlee was a changed man. Though given up to
dark, corroding care and moody thoughts, he lived to a great old age,
and was one of those who sold his country at the union. Soon after
that event he died, unregretted and unrespected, and a defaced
monument in the east wall of the Greyfriars Churchyard still marks
the place where he lies.
His gossip, Mersington, would no doubt have obtained a comfortable
share of "the compensations" in 1707 had he not (as appears from a
passage in Carstairs' State Papers) unluckily been found dead one
night in the severe winter of 1700, with a half-drained mug of burnt
sack clutched in his tenacious grasp.
A few words more of Lilian, and then we part.
From the moment in which, with her child in her arms, she ascended
the great staircase of Bruntisfield, she was never again seen.
Every place within the mansion and without, the woods, the lake, the
fields, the muir were searched, but the lady and her child were seen
no more.
An impenetrable mystery cast a veil of horror over their fate; but
Mr. Ichabod Bummel, and the most learned divines of a kirk that was
then in the zenith of its wisdom and power, gave it as their decided
opinion that they had been spirited away by the fairies; an idea that
was unanimously adopted by the people; nevertheless, a pale spectre,
wailing and pressing a ghastly babe to its attenuated breast, was
often visible on moonlight nights, among the old oak trees, the rocky
heron shaws of the Burghmuir, or the reedy rhinns of its beautiful
loch, and this terrible fact was solemnly averred and duly sworn to
by various decent and sponsible men, such as elders and deacons of
the kirk, who chanced to journey that way after nightfall.
In latter years it was to the long gloomy avenue or immediate
precincts of the ancient house, that this terrible tenant confined
her midnight promenades.
Many sceptical persons, notwithstanding the assertions of the
aforesaid elders and deacons, declared the story of the apparition to
be downright nonsense. Many more may be disposed to do so at the
present day; but we would beg them to withold their decision until
they have consulted as carefully as we have done, the MSS. Session
Records of Mr. Bummel's kirk, entered in his own hand, and attested
by the said elders and deacons at full length.
In the year 1800, when the stately and venerable mansion of
Bruntisfield was demolished, to make way for the Hospital of
Gillespie, within a deep alcove, or labyrinth of stone, in the heart
of its massive walls, the skeletons of a female and child were
discovered; some fragments of velvet, brocade, and a gold ring were
found with them.
On touching them, they crumbled into undistinguishable dust.
THE END.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY HARRISON AND SON,
ST. MARTIN'S LANE.