|A little{392} further down the river we come to the Kershope Burn, here
the boundary between Scotland and England. It was here, at "the Dayholme
of Kershoup"--which I take to be the flat land on the Scottish side of
Liddel, opposite to the mouth of the burn--that the Wardens' Meeting
was held in 1596, which became afterwards so famous owing to the illegal
capture by the English of Kinmont Willie. All the world knows the tale,
and all the world knows how gallantly Buccleuch rescued the prisoner
from Carlisle Castle. But until one goes to Carlisle, and takes note for
oneself of the difficulties with which Buccleuch had to contend, and
the apparently hopeless nature of his undertaking, it is not possible
to appreciate the full measure of the rescuer's gallantry. Kinmont, I
suppose, on the day of his capture was riding quietly homeward down the
Scottish side of the river, suspecting no evil, for the day was a day
of truce. "Upon paine of death, presentlie to be executed, all persones
whatsoever that come to these meitings sould be saife fra any proceiding
or present occasioun, from the tyme of Meiting of the Wardens, or their
Deputies, till the next Day at the sun rysing." The English did not play
the game; from their own side of Liddel they had probably kept Kinmont
in sight, meaning to seize him if opportunity offered. And they made the
opportunity. For the most part, the banks of {393}Liddel here are steep
and broken, and the river is devoid of any ford; but a mile or two down
from Kershopefoot the land on the Scottish side slopes gently from the
water, and it is easily fordable.
[Illustration: 0413]
Here probably began the chase which ended in Willie's capture. A very
fine sword was found near this.
The night of Kinmont's release, the 13th of April, 1596, was very dark,
with rain falling, and a slight mist rising over the river flats at
Carlisle. And the Eden was swollen. It is not possible to form any very
definite idea of the initial difficulty Buccleuch must have met with at
this point, because the bed of the river is now entirely different from
what it was then. In former days, I believe, a long, low island lay in
mid-stream, the water flowing swiftly through two channels. Even now
there is shallow water part way across, but the stream runs strong and
{394}it would be ill to ford, especially on a dark night. Buccleuch, I
take it, must have swum his horses across the Eden nearly opposite, but
a trifle above, the mouth of the litde river Caldew, the water being at
the tyme, through raines that had fallen, weill thick; he comes to the
Sacray, a plaine place under the toune and castell, and halts upon the
syde of a little water or burn that they call "Caday."
[Illustration: 0414]
The "Sacray" is of course what now goes by the name of the Sauceries.
Buccleuch's scaling ladders proved too short to enable him to get within
the castle walls by their means; but there is a small postern gate in
the wall (nearly abreast of the present public Abattoirs), and this
was forced, or at least one or two men squeezed in here, possibly
by removing a stone below the gate, and opened the postern to their
comrades. This postern has recently been reopened. After Buccleuch's
exploit it had been securely built upon both sides, outside and in; and
later, {395}a Cook's galley and other domestic offices were erected on
the inner side, against the wall, effectually hiding the old gate.
[Illustration: 0415]
These buildings and the stonework blocking the postern have now been
pulled down, and the identical little oaken gate through which Buccleuch
and his men entered, once more has seen the light of day, and, I
understand, is now being put in a state of thorough repair.
Having made his entry, Buccleuch placed one part of his force between
the castle and the town, so that he might not be assailed in rear, and,
leaving a few men to guard the postern and secure their retreat, the
rest pushed towards Kinmont Willie's place of confinement in the Keep,
all making as great a noise as possible, "to terrifie both castell
and toune by ane imaginatioun of a greater force." Hitherto they had
encountered only the castle sentinels, who were easily scattered and
brushed aside; "the rest that was within doors heiring the noyse of
the trumpet within, and that the castell was entered, and the noyse
of others without, both the Lord {396}Scroope himself and his deputy
Salkeld being thair with the garrisone and hys awin retinew, did keep
thamselffis close."
[Illustration: 0416]
It was one thing, however, for the rescuers to have forced their way
inside the castle walls, but it should have been quite another, to
accomplish the feat of getting the prisoner out of the dungeon. Through
a female spy they knew in what part of the castle he lay; but his place
of confinement,--inside the Keep,--was quite a hundred yards from the
postern gate, and {397}surely a few resolute men might have held so
strong a post for a time without much difficulty. Lord Scrope, however,
did not emerge from his retreat; and to the others as well, discretion
seemed the better part of valour.
[Illustration: 0417]
Meantime, Buccleuch's trumpets were blaring out the arrogant old Elliot
slogan; "_O wha daur meddle wi' me?_"; and his men, falling to with
energy, forced the gate of the Keep, burst in the massive door of the
outer dungeon, tore away that of the dark and noisome inner prison, a
rough, vaulted stone chamber to which no ray of light ever penetrated
even on the brightest clay, and there they found Kinmont, chained to
the wall. No time now to strike off his fetters; they could but free him
from the long iron bar that ran along one side of the wall, and
"Then Red Rowan has hente him up,
The starkest man in Teviotdale--
'Abide, abide now, Red Rowan,
Till of my Lord Scroope I take farewell.'
"'Farewell, farew ell, my gude Lord Scroope!
My gude Lord Scroope, farewell!' he cried--
'I'll pay ye for my lodging maill,
When first we meet on the Border side.'
"Then shoulder high, with shout and cry,
We bore him down the ladder lang;
At every stride Red Rowan made,
I wot the Kinmont's aims played clang!
"We scarce had won the Staneshaw-bank,
When a' the Carlisle bells were rung,
And a thousand men on horse and foot,
Cam' wi' the keen Lord Scroope along."
But still they held aloof, hesitating to attack the retreating little
Scottish band, and Buccleuch and his men, with Willie in their midst,
plunged in and safely recrossed the swollen river.
"He turned him on the other side,
And at Lord Scroope his glove flung he--
'If ye likena my visit in merry England,
In fair Scotland come visit me!'"
But Lord Scrope on this night scarcely merited the term, "keen"; he went
no farther towards Scotland than the water's edge.
"'He is either himself a devil frae hell,
Or else his mother a witch maun be;
I wadna have ridden that wan water
For a' the gowd in Christentie,'"
cried he, according to the ballad. Was he, one cannot help wondering,
ashamed of the English breach of Border law entailed in the matter
of Kinmont's capture, and was he in a measure wilfully playing into
Buccleuch's hands? If that were the case, he took on himself a heavy
risk. Elizabeth was not exactly the kind of Sovereign who would be
likely to be tender hearted and to make allowances for slackness in such
an affair, nor one with whom her servants might safely take liberties.
{399}As safely might the gambolling lamb play pranks with the drowsing
wolf.
[Illustration: 0419]
Not far from Longtown, at a place called Dick's Tree, on the farther
side of Esk, there still stands the "smiddy" (or smith's shop) where
Kinmont's irons were struck off. In one of Sir Walter Scott's M.S.
letters of 1826 it is told that: "Tradition preserves the account of the
smith's daughter, then a child, how there was a _sair clatter_ at the
door about daybreak, and loud crying for the smith; but her father not
being on the alert, Buccleueh himself thrust his lance thro' the window,
which effectually bestirred him. On looking out, the woman continued,
she saw, in the grey of the morning, more gentlemen than she had ever
before seen in one place, all on horseback, in armour, and dripping
wet--and that Kinmont Willie, who sat woman fashion behind one of them,
was the biggest carle she ever saw--and there was much merriment
in {400}the company." Except for this event, Dick's Tree is quite
uninteresting, and quite unpicturesque; it is merely a cottage like a
thousand others to be seen in the Border, possessing no special feature,
or even any indication of antiquity.
[Illustration: 0420]
And no one works the "smiddy" now, except at odd times; modern
requirements have, I understand, taken the business away to Longtown.
What was the end of Kinmont Willie no one knows, but he {401}certainly
lived to pay, to some small extent, for his "lodging maill;" he was
engaged in a raid on Lord Scrope's tenants in the year 1600, and
doubtless he did not forget the debt incurred at Carlisle. Later than
this I think there is no record of him, but it would not be surprising
to learn that at the last Lord Scrope was able to give a receipt in
full. Many an Armstrong in old days danced at the end of a rope at
"Hairribie." Not improbably, Kinmont was one of them. There is a grave
in an old churchyard not far from the Tower of Sark, which is pointed
out as his. But the date on the tombstone makes it impossible that
the veritable Willie of Kinmont lies underneath. The name of "William
Armstrong called Kynmount" is in Lord Maxwell's Muster Roll of 1585,
together with those of his seven sons. Willie, therefore--if at that
date he had seven sons fit to fight--could have been no youth. Now the
William Armstrong to whose memory the Sark tombstone is erected died in
1658, which, if he had been the famous Kinmont, would give him an age of
considerably over a hundred years. But in any case, it is an interesting
old stone. Many years ago steps were taken to preserve it from further
decay, and the lettering and other points were retouched. Round the
edges of the stone is cut:
"_HEIR LYES. ANE. WORTHIE. PERSON. CALLIT. WILLIAM. ARMSTRONG. OF. SARK.
WHO. DIED. TE IO. DAY. OF. JUNE. 16. 58. AETATIS. SVAE. 56_."
On the body of the stone:
"Man as grass to grave he flies.
Grass decays and man he dies.
Grass revives and man doth rise.
Yet few they be who get the prise."
Below are the Armstrong bent arm holding a sword, a skull and crossed
bones, an hour glass and other emblems, and below all, "memento mora."
This William Armstrong, therefore, who died in 1658, aged 56, was not
born when Kinmont Willie was rescued by Buccleuch from Carlisle Castle.
Here, on the lower part of Sark, we are in a country world {402}famed
for its old fashioned run-away marriages, more famed even than was
Coldstream.
[Illustration: 0422]
Down the river is Sark Bridge, with its toll-bar, and adjacent to it,
Gretna Green. At the tollhouse alone in the early part of last century,
within six years thirteen hundred couples were married--a profitable
business for the "priest," (usually the village blacksmith,) for his
fee ranged from half a guinea to a hundred pounds, according to the
circumstances of each fond couple. But what was charged in a case such
as that of Lord Erskine, Lord High Chancellor of England, who, when he
was nearly seventy years of age, eloped with a blushing spinster and was
married at Gretna--in the Inn, I think--history does not tell. There is
a something, part comic, part pathetic, in the thought of the tired
old gentle{403}man gallantly propping himself in a corner of his post
chaise, flying through the darkness of night on Love's wings, a fond
bride by his side.
[Illustration: 0423]
And when grey dawn at length stole through the breath-dimmed glass of
the closed windows, revealing the "elderly morning dew" on his withered
cheeks and stubbly chin, with callous disregard emphasizing the
wrinkles, the bags below the puffy eyes--bloodshot from want of
sleep--and the wig awry, did the young lady begin to repent her bargain,
one may wonder.
Stretched between Sark and Longtown is the Debateable Land and Solway
Moss; the latter "just a muckle black moss," they will tell you here,
yet surely not without its own beauty under certain combinations of sun
and cloud. "Solway Moss" is a name of evil repute to us of Scotland,
for here on 24th {404}November 1542 took place the most miserable of all
Border battles--if indeed "battle" is a term in any degree applicable to
the affair.
[Illustration: 0424]
The encounter, such as it was, took place not so much in Solway Moss,
however, as over towards Arthuret. The Scots--a strong raiding army,
but disorganised, and in a state of incipient mutiny against their
newly-appointed leader, Oliver Sinclair, (Ridpath says: "a general
murmur and breach of all order immediately ensued" when his appointment
was made known,)--at dawn of the 24th were already burning northward
through the Debateable Land. Wharton with his compact little English
force watched them from Arthuret Howes and skilfully drew them into a
hopeless trap between the Esk and an impassable swamp, where there
was no room to deploy. Here the English--at most not a sixth part so
numerous as the Scots--charging down on the Scottish right flank
threw them into hopeless confusion, and from that minute all was over.
{405}Panic seized the Scots: men cast aside whatever might hamper their
flight, and, plunging into the water, scrambled for what safety
they might find among the Grahams and the English borderers of
Liddesdale--which, as it turned out, meant little better than scrambling
from the frying pan into the fire.
[Illustration: 0425]
Many were driven into the swamp and perished there miserably, many
were drowned in the river, and twelve hundred men--including a large
percentage of nobles--were captured. Out of a force variously estimated
at from two to three thousand strong--Sir William Musgrave, who was with
the cavalry, puts it at the higher figure--the English lost but seven
men killed. It was a {406}sorry business, a dreadful day for Scotland;
and it ended the life of James V as effectually as if he had been slain
on the field of battle.
[Illustration: 0426]
I do not know if Arthuret church was injured on this occasion; it is
recorded in 1597 that it had then been ruinous for about sixty years.
Perhaps the Armstrongs may have been responsible; they made a big raid
hereaway in 1528. The present building dates, I believe, from 1609.
There was another calamity connected with Solway Moss, later than the
battle and local in effect, yet sufficiently terrible to cast over
the district a black shadow of tragedy, the memory of which time has
lightened but even yet has not entirely wiped out. November 1771 was a
month of evil note for its storms and ceaseless wet. Day followed day
sodden with driving rain, and the country lay smothered under a ragged
grey blanket of mist. Firm ground became a quagmire that quaked under
foot, pools widened into lakes, and the rivers {407}rose in dreadful
spate that yet failed to carry off the superfluous water.
[Illustration: 0427]
Liddel roared through the rocky gorge of Fenton Linn with a fury such as
had never been known; Esk left her bed and wandered at will. Many people
living in the low lying flats surrounding the Moss, alarmed for the
safety of their cattle, were abroad in the dark of the morning of 16th
November, intent on getting the beasts to higher ground, {408}when a
long-drawn muffled rumble, as of distant thunder, startled them.
[Illustration: 0428]
The Moss had burst, spewing out from its maw a putrid mass that spread
relentlessly, engulfing house after house, in many cases catching the
inhabitants in their beds. For weeks the horrible eruption spread, and
ere its advance was stayed thirty families were homeless, their houses,
furniture, and live-stock buried twenty feet deep under a black slime
that stank like the pit of Tophet.
Harking back to Carlisle, (which we left in company of Kinmont Willie,)
one would fain linger in that pleasant town, to dream awhile over its
alluring past. But Carlisle is a subject too big to introduce at the
close of a volume; there is a more than sufficient material in the story
of the castle (with its wealth of warlike and other memories), and of
the Cathedral, alone to make a fair-sized book. There is too much to
tell; for, besides the story of the captivity here of Queen Mary of
{409}Scotland, and that of the capture of Carlisle by Prince Charlie,
there are a hundred and one other things, if once a beginning were made
and space to tell them were available. (What used to be called Queen
Mary's Tower, to save cost of repairs was pulled down by Government
between 1824 and 1835, together with the Hall in which Edward I held
Parliaments, and much else of surpassing interest. Vandalism in those
days was a vice which affected not alone the private individual.)
Moreover, there would be the question of where to stop, for if the
history of Carlisle be touched upon, at once we are mixed up with that
of half a score of places in the immediate neighbourhood, all of which
are full of profoundest interest. There would be, for example, Naworth,
not far from the quaint little town of Brampton, Naworth with its
massive walls, and memories of the Dacres, and of Belted Will Howard--a
name better known to Border fame, at least to the Borderer of to day,
than even that of his predecessors. Then there would necessarily be
the fascinating subject of the Roman wall, of Bird-Oswald camp, of
Lanercost, and of Gilsland, with its memories of Sir Walter. One
must needs make an end somewhere, and it is hopeless to treat of
such subjects in small space. But Bewcastle, perhaps, because of its
connection with a subject mentioned earlier in this volume, must not be
omitted.