SUNDAY; THE LAST DAY WITH OUR FRIENDS.
It was Sunday in the early summer, and Sunday in Scotland means more
than it does in some countries. Children go to church with their parents
through summer's heat and winter's cold; and in many families the
greater portion of the time after service is spent with Bibles or
Psalm-books in hand.
Davie Murdoch had been to church with his family. As they returned home
he and his wife walked together; Maggie and Nannie were some distance in
advance of their parents, and still farther on were Wullie and Archie.
"I canna help feeling a bit proud o' the lassies," said Davie, "they
look sae fresh and weel the day. Are they not as bonny and as sonsie as
ony parent could wish?"
"Oh, ay, Davie, they are that. But it is strange ye arena thinking o'
what the minister said, as is your wont."
"I mind weel what he said, wifie; but I hae been thinking a good deal o'
late o' the time not far awa when the lassies will nae longer be ours
as they hae been; when we shall walk withoot them to the kirk, and they
will gang anither road, and nae mair ca' the auld cot hame. So I maun
enjoy their stay wi' us while I may."
"They winna gang for some months yet; dinna fash yoursel aboot that the
day. Ye couldna expect them to bide always wi' us. Wullie will soon
bring a wife hame; and it is weel that the lassies hae sic gude
prospects o' hames o' their ain."
"Ay, it is weel; but they hae always been a bit nearer my heart than the
laddies. Jamie comes next; but he is awa. Jamie is doing weel, by what
we hear."
"Noo, Davie, I am nae like that. Of course ane feels mair tender o'
lassies than o' laddies. Then wi' Jamie bein' awa, I hae times when I
feel a bit tenderer for him too; but I couldna wish better sons than
Wullie and Archie. And gin onything happened to them, I think ye would
find oot they are as dear to your heart as ony o' your bairns."
"Nae doot, nae doot. It is but a notion, after a'. Archie says he willna
marry--leastways, while his parents live. He says he wants to be aye
free to help us, s'ould there be ony need o' 't. Saw ye ever mair
thoughtfulness than that, Jeannie?"
"May the Lord bless him for his dutiful regard for his auld faither and
mither!" said Jeannie.
They had now reached the cottage. The daughters had spread the table,
and as soon as all were rested a little they sat down to their frugal
meal. Let us look in at the open cottage-door. As Davie doffs his bonnet
we can see that time has not passed him by, although it has dealt him no
heavy blows. The crown of his head is bald, and his locks are flecked
with the frosts of age. His brow is furrowed, but not deeply.
Beside him sits Jeannie, her silver hair peeping from beneath her
cap-border. Her cheerful face wears now a seriousness befitting the
Sabbath day. She sits as erect as in her prime, save when grace is said;
then all heads are bowed. The sons sit on one side of the table and the
daughters on the other. Wullie is not remarkable for good looks, unless
we take the adjective in its moral sense; then it certainly would apply
to him, for his countenance indicates a good and upright character.
Archie's form and features are more pleasing than his brother's. He is
naturally cheerful and talkative; but every semblance of mirth is now
under proper restraint through respect for the day, and he appears as
sedate as though he never cracked a joke or teased his sisters in all
his life.
Maggie, tall and well formed, is fair, with bluish gray eyes and wavy
brown hair. She is less ruddy than her sister, whose red lips and rosy
cheeks would give her the advantage in regard to beauty but for the
plainly perceptible national mark--high cheek-bones. Otherwise there is
a close resemblance between the two. "It is well there is some
difference," Archie had remarked, "or your sweethearts would make funny
mistakes sometimes."
Sunday was strictly observed by the Lindsays also; but only one of their
children was at home on that day, or indeed on any day; that one was
Annie. But the others had not forgotten their early training; and,
scattered as they were, and charged with the cares and responsibilities
of active life, they had all been in God's house. Alice, happy in her
family, and satisfied with the allotments of Providence, is training up
her children in the fear and admonition of the Lord. Alexander has
finished his course of study, and is following his uncle's profession in
the capital.
And where is Jennie MacDuff? She too has been at the old church with her
husband to hear his aged father expound the Word of God. So Donald
McPherson's pew was filled, although his father and mother had ceased to
worship here below, and had joined the general assembly and church of
the firstborn in heaven. Donald the third was the staff and stay of his
parents, being all that they wished him to be.
Professor James Murdoch, with his wife, his nephew, and his two
sons--one a barrister, the other a physician--worshipped in a costly
edifice, very unlike the homely stone structure of his early
recollections. But not less devout were his feelings, for he remembered
all the way the Lord had led him and his kinsfolk, and he bowed in
grateful acknowledgment of His goodness.
Across the sea were hearts that longed for a sight of the dear old kirk
and of the familiar faces which on that day had turned towards the aged
man of God, Rev. John MacDuff. Robin McPherson, Robert Lindsay, and
James Murdoch had each joined God's worshippers in the land of their
adoption on that Sabbath morning. In the afternoon Robin and James
walked out "to meditate in the field at the eventide" and contemplate
the goodness of Him who sends seedtime and harvest; and, meeting as if
by mutual consent at the fence which separated their little domains,
they talked of the day and its observance in Scotland, of their far-away
friends, and of a future meeting with them, perhaps in this world; but
if not, they hoped to spend with them a never-ending Sabbath.
And here I close my story. In tracing the life of this Scottish peasant
I have endeavored to show that a righteous man, even in a humble sphere,
exerts an influence for good which remains to bless those who come after
him; and that not only is he blessed in his day and generation, but the
blessing extends to children's children.
Effie Patterson's Story.
BY LYDIA L. ROUSE.
INTRODUCTION.
This book has been written with a view of helping to perpetuate the
memory of those zealous and courageous sons of Scotland who in the
seventeenth century, through the long period of fifty years, struggled
for their inalienable rights and privileges--their civil and religious
liberty. Although every reader of history is more or less familiar with
the events which transpired during this struggle, it may be well, for
the sake of our younger readers, to give something of an outline of
their course, as well as of the causes which led to them.
The persecuted people of Scotland were Presbyterians, having embraced
the doctrines of the great reformer John Knox. But they are widely known
by the name of Covenanters, because on several distinct occasions they
signed a solemn agreement, or covenant, to adhere to their religious
principles and to defend them against all opposition. Successive kings
endeavored to force them to admit the royal claim to supreme authority
in matters of religion and to adopt the Episcopal form of church
government and worship; but the Scotch were faithful to their
conscience and their Covenant, and the attempted interference with
their religion engendered bitter animosity which ripened into open
hostility.
The kings under whose reigns the Covenanters suffered were Charles I.,
Charles II., and James II.; but as early as the reign of James I. the
royal power was unfriendly to Presbyterianism as offering too formidable
a check to kingly despotism.
The history of this time, as regards the treatment of the dissenting
Scots, is the history of a succession of tyrannies and cruelties that
culminated in the reigns of Charles II. and James II. Edicts having
failed to accomplish the wish of the king and his advisers, armed men
were sent into Scotland to enforce conformity with the sword. Some
battles were fought, in which the persecutors were generally victorious.
The dissenting pastors were driven from the parish churches, and
Episcopalian ministers, or curates, many of whom were ignorant and
vicious, were placed in their pulpits. But the Scots had no mind to hear
them, and rather than adopt doctrines and modes of worship which in any
degree savored of popery, they followed their spiritual guides into the
fields, and there heard the Word of God expounded as they had been wont.
These field-meetings, called "conventicles," were contrary to the
wishes of the king, and ministration or attendance at them was
prohibited by law, and declared punishable by fine, imprisonment, or
exile, and even in some cases death. But the liberty-loving,
conscience-obeying Covenanters continued to hold them whenever
opportunity offered, sometimes in remote districts, sometimes in almost
inaccessible places.
The Covenanters suffered great loss of property through fines and
taxations. Robberies and barbarities almost unparalleled were
perpetrated by the Highland hordes that were quartered on the
southwestern part of Scotland for three months in the beginning of 1678.
Still, however, the brave hearts of the heaven-trusting Covenanters were
unbroken and their spirit unsubdued. They were hunted like criminals;
but they either evaded their pursuers or met death with composure and
willingness, esteeming it preferable to apostasy. They have left us many
striking proofs of God's sustaining grace.
Living in dens and caves of the earth, suffering from cold and hunger,
cut off from intercourse with their families, and even with their
fellow-beings, many of them became zealots, and advocated measures which
the more prudent could not approve; and thus dissensions arose in their
midst and increased the difficulties of their situation. We can
scarcely be surprised at this state of things when we remember their
privations, their solitude, and their sufferings; their ideas took color
and shape from their surroundings. No wonder that some of them were
extremists. The husband and father was no longer soothed by the music of
the wife's soft lullaby to the infant resting on her knee, and the
constant youth heard only in imagination the sweet sound of the voice he
most loved. But their ears were assailed by the ungentle sound of the
wintry wind as it roared in the tossing tree-tops or moaned over the
dreary moors. With sad hearts they pictured their firesides as they had
been in other days, and wondered if they should outlive the storm and
again find rest in the peace of home.
We cannot read of these worthy people, who suffered so much for
conscience' sake, without feeling thankful for the religious liberty
which their struggles helped to secure for us, and rejoicing that the
day of religious persecution is past. And when we consider the vast
number that perished rather than barter the favor of God for that of an
earthly sovereign, we are filled with admiration as well as sympathy.
EFFIE PATTERSON'S STORY.
CHAPTER I.
THE HOME CIRCLE.
Long have I been called by my neighbors "Auld Effie," and yet I am but
threescore and seven years old. But I have lived in troublous times, and
am older than my years. And although the Kirk of Scotland has had rest
these many years, Auld Effie's heart is still sore. My kinsfolk need not
now lay down their lives for conscience' sake; but, alas! few of them
were left to me when those years of bloodshed were overpast. It is for
those dear friends who were cut down in the bloom of youth, in manhood's
prime, and even in old age, that I often make moan. And I hold it to be
a sacred duty to keep in remembrance our martyred kindred and
countrymen. It is with the wish and hope that the tales I have to tell
may help to keep before the minds of Scotland's sons and daughters the
value of their religious privileges that I have in this the evening of
my days taken upon myself the task to write as best I can, with my poor
wit, my own experience and the sufferings of my family and friends
during those terrible years.
I was born in 1646 in the county of Ayr; here have I lived, and here,
may it please God, I will die. My father, John Patterson, was the
schoolmaster in our village. My mother was one Christie Henderson, from
Dumfries. Her parents came to our town when she was a grown lass; two
years later she wedded my father. I was the youngest bairn born to them.
Three sons and a daughter besides myself completed our family. My
sister's name was Mary, and my brothers were named James, Richard and
Stephen; but to us they were Jamie, Richie, and Steenie.
My father was a man of strictest integrity, firm and stern. Perhaps the
habit of ruling his little school made him more stern than he naturally
was; at any rate, he seldom smiled, and he never indulged in frivolous
conversation. Our noisy play was instantly checked when our father
entered the house; not so much from fear as from respect, for my father
was a man to command respect. After the lapse of so many years I still
think of him as the embodiment of all that is good, true, and noble. But
we look at our friends with partial eyes, and I doubt not many have
thought as well of their own father.
My mother was truly a fit companion for him, although she thought him
far superior to herself. She had a profound respect for him at all
times; almost every important question concerning the management of
domestic affairs she brought to him for his opinion or decision. "Use
your own judgment, Christie," he would often say; "it will never lead
you far astray."
It is surprising what cheerfulness and comfort my mother diffused
throughout our household. She was constantly employed; and I may say
without exaggeration that, owing to her tact and taste, no family of our
means made so decent an appearance in the kirk as did ours. Nothing
could be more serene than her own face as with her whole family she sat
in the kirk listening to the Word of God as it was read and expounded by
our spiritual leader. I could not but steal looks at her sometimes when
she thought my eyes were where hers were--on the face of the speaker.
She was not what one would call bonnie, but it was a right motherly face
she had.
The children were early sent to school, for my father sought to impress
our minds with the idea that we were in the world to be useful workers,
and not idlers; and to fit us for usefulness he held education to be
the chief means. When not in school we were always busy in the house or
in the garden, for all the work of the family was done by its own
members. Our home was well out of the village; we owned a house and
garden, and rented some land forbye, for we aye kept cows and sheep. My
mother had been reared in the country. She made butter and cheese; she
spun and wove the wool of our flocks into cloth, and made the garments
for our family with her own hands until her daughters were old enough to
help her. My father worked in the garden; and he early taught his sons
to handle the spade and the hoe. All worked from dawn to dark; and when
the evening lamp was lighted my father or one of the lads read, while my
mother sewed and Mary and I were busy with the family knitting.
We were kept in school longer than most children were, for my father
thought it a shame for any one to be ignorant, and would not be
satisfied till all his children could write their mother-tongue as it
should be written.
Ours was a well-ordered home, and a happy one, till the troubles of the
times brought sorrow into almost all the homes of Scotland.
CHAPTER II.
THE BEGINNING OF SORROWS.
While I was yet young I often heard people talk about the troubles that
had beset, and were likely still to befall, the Kirk of Scotland. As I
grew older I comprehended what was meant by the troubles of the kirk,
for it was my lot to live through one period of her persecution, and to
see her deliverance in the Lord's own good time. Troubles assailed the
kirk during the greater part of the long reign of James VI. of Scotland
and I. of England. He had no love for Presbyterianism, and endeavored to
establish Episcopacy among us; and many a faithful minister bore
imprisonment or banishment for the truth and conscience' sake. Charles
I. was even more self-willed than his father. He could not endure that
we should have a church different from his own, or that the king's will
should not rule in all things. In 1637 he ordered a new and popish
Service-Book to be used in the Scottish churches instead of the liturgy
of John Knox, which had been in use for many years. Our people could not
accept it. They humbly petitioned the king that they might be allowed
to worship God in their own way; but he paid no heed to their petition,
except to strive the more to force Episcopacy upon us.
Seeing that our religious liberty was threatened, the Scottish people
signed a solemn agreement, called "the National Covenant," pledging
themselves before God to adhere to the pure doctrine of his Word as
confessed by the Scottish Kirk, and to defend it and each other against
all attacks. This Covenant was first signed in Grayfriars Kirk and
kirkyard in Edinburgh on February 28 of the year 1638.
My father was in the prime of life at the time of the signing of the
Covenant. He did not go to Edinburgh with the vast throng that came from
far and near to sign it--and folk say that many of them wrote their
names with their own blood--but that did not prevent him from putting
his name to it, for copies of it were carried through the whole country.
Gentle and simple signed it, and he was not slow to set his name with
those of so many of his fellow-countrymen. From this time a cloud of war
began to form and gather blackness.
When it appeared that the king was resolved to enforce obedience to
himself by the sword, our people, convinced of their duty to obey God
rather than man, made preparations to insure their liberty of
conscience.
My father's occupation prevented him from enrolling his name as a
soldier. But he was no disinterested spectator of his country's
troubles. Many were the consultations held under our own roof at the
time of the first uprising of the Covenanters; many a "God-speed" did he
bid those who went, and many a prayer did he put up for those who should
stand in battle.
The first army was soon disbanded, as you will remember; for King
Charles, seeing our forces so strong, made concessions to meet the
demands of our people, though that these were made in good faith it
would be difficult to believe. Peace, indeed, lasted but a short time.
The king, displeased with the decision of the General Assembly
condemning Episcopacy in Scotland, gathered another army; and again the
Covenanters took the field. This time they advanced into England, and
their success prepared the way for a treaty with the king, which was
concluded in 1641.
Meanwhile the great conflict ending in civil war broke out between
Charles and the English Parliament, and gave him something to do nearer
home; and the spread of Presbyterianism in England, together with the
"Solemn League and Covenant" for its defence and for the protection of
the liberties of the kingdoms which the English Parliament and its
adherents made with our Scotch nobles and people in 1643, freed our kirk
from molestation during a period of several years.
On the civil struggles of that period, and on the dissensions within the
kirk itself, between the stricter and the laxer Covenanters, which
followed the lamented execution of King Charles, the coronation of his
son in Scotland, his defeat and flight, and the establishment of
Cromwell in power over Scotland as over England, I will not dwell. With
the welcome period of civil peace between 1652 and 1660 begin my
recollections.
Between these peaceful years my brothers Jamie and Richie married. Jamie
was a stonemason. He bought a lot in the village and built a comfortable
house for himself, so that he took his bonnie bride to a home of her
own. Richie followed his father's profession. He and his wife lived
seven miles away from us. Mary was betrothed to our own parish minister,
Alexander Ramsay by name; and in June, 1659, a year before Charles II.
was restored to his father's throne, they two were married.
Steenie and I were then left to each other, and well were we satisfied
with each other's companionship. At the time of my sister's marriage I
was a strong, well-grown lass of thirteen, and Steenie was nearly two
years older. Oh, when I think of those early years, and remember all
that Steenie and others were to me, I feel that my heart has long lain
low with them in the darkness of the grave. No days now are like those
days; no sunshine so bright, no air so soft and balmy. Even the flowers
seem changed. I think of those dear friends as I sit alone in the
gloaming, and my tears often fall fast, although I feel sure that theirs
are dried for ever. But human nature is weak, you know, and God knows it
too; this is my comfort, for he will not think that my tears are
rebellious.
I cannot pass over that pleasant period of our lives without again
speaking in detail of our family as it then was. My father was slightly
bent, though more with a scholar's stoop than under the weight of years.
His locks were silvered, but his eye was bright and his judgment sound.
He still taught the lads and lassies of the village, and he ruled them
well.
My mother showed age less than my father. I remember well how all our
family looked when Jamie's firstborn was first taken to the kirk. My
mother appeared saintly in her peacefulness. Margaret, the bairn's
mother, was much affected with the solemnity of the occasion--bringing
her young bairn for the first time up to the house of God. Her heart
was full of prayer that grace might be given her to bring him at last to
the home of the blest above. Margaret and my mother were much alike, and
were drawn together sympathetically.
Richie and Ellen, his bride, were also there. She wore a white dress and
a knot of wild roses at her throat. She looked very sweet and innocent.
Sister Mary had dressed with unusual care. She wore blue; it suited her
well. She could see that in the wee mirror that hung in our own tidy
room. Besides, had not Alexander Ramsay told her so? and was not that
enough for Mary? Dear Mary! Hers was a winsome smile, and her step was
like the fall of the snowflake, as my mother well said. I can see her
now with my mental vision, as by the side of Alexander she walked that
day from the kirk to Margaret's door. Poor gentle one! she was a sweet
blossom tenderly nourished, only to be rudely crushed in the freshness
of her bloom.
In summer we sometimes spent the time between the morning and afternoon
service in the kirkyard. Many a time have Steenie and I strayed side by
side to its farthest limits deciphering the quaint epitaphs on the
rough, weather-beaten stones, only recalled from our ramble by a sight
of the blue bonnet of the tall bell-ringer as he passed to his duty.
Ay, ay, those Sabbaths, how they throng in my memory! Peacefully they
began, peacefully they ended, the busy weeks intervening--busy, but not
wearisome, for willing hands make labor light.
Often when our work was done Steenie and I rambled far away at the
sunset hour, for we loved to watch the setting from the brae on the
farther side of the great hill that rises to the west of us. Sometimes,
in returning, we went to David McDougal's. His was a good and happy
family, and none better knew their Bibles. But after our sister was
married we oftener turned our steps towards the manse, the abode of
peace, love, and contentment. I often think Eden is most nearly restored
to us in the homes of well-ordered families, where industry and unity of
purpose prevail, where God is feared, and mankind regarded as a
brotherhood.
I would fain linger amid these pleasant scenes, but I cannot. The
peaceful years sped on far too fast for what was to follow.
CHAPTER III.
THE SWORD UNSHEATHED.
Soon after Charles II. was seated on the throne troubles began to
thicken around us. Our kirk was early made to feel that it must either
come under the yoke of a king as faithless and despotic and as
determined to enforce the royal supremacy and Episcopacy as his father
and grandfather, or struggle for its independence, or rather, its
liberty to regard and obey our Lord Jesus Christ as the true and only
Head of the church.
The Marquis of Argyle, one of the noblest supporters of our cause, was
arrested, condemned, and beheaded on the 27th of May, 1661. The
excellent minister, James Guthrie, was executed a few days later. This
was the commencement of deeds so foul that even the stoutest of heart
must ever sicken at their rehearsal.
Most of our ministers were ejected from their churches and driven from
their parishes, Alexander Ramsay with the rest. He and Mary and his
father and mother took refuge at our house. Curates were placed in the
vacant churches, and a tax was soon imposed on all who did not go to
hear them. Absences were not uncommon, for we all felt as did Bessie
McDougal, who said she "couldna thole sic preaching as thae curates gie
us." Accordingly we went to hear our own ministers in the field. The
royal bloodhounds, as they have been well called, were for some time
kept at bay by the payment of fines; but there came a time when nothing
would satisfy them but the slaughter of the Lord's chosen ones.
We knew that gangs of men were scouring the country, imprisoning, and
sometimes even slaying, those who would not renounce the Covenant, now
declared treasonable; and we knew not how soon we might fall into their
hands.
My father was one day returning from school, leading Jamie's wee lad by
the hand, when five of his countrymen, who had been bribed to do evil
deeds, rode past him. Suddenly they wheeled about, faced him, and eyed
him sharply.
"By my faith," said one of their number, "we hae lighted on rare game
the day. Now we hae the auld deil himsel," mistaking father for Donald
Ramsay, who had been a bearer of the blessed tidings of the gospel for
more than forty years in our kirk.
It was vain for father to tell them that he was the village
schoolmaster. They would not believe him. He had a learned look, and
piety was stamped on every lineament of his face. The persecutors were
not slow to discern between the true and the false. Those who counted
the cause of Christ dearer than life showed in their countenances
something of the holy zeal that lifted them above fear.
"Ye say ye are nae auld Ramsay; then where is he? for it is hereabouts
he bides," said the same ruffian.
Father was silent.
"If ye canna tell where he is, we will hae to think ye are auld Ramsay
yoursel. Ye may as weel gang to prayer, for if ye dinna gie up your
obstinacy ye may soon measure your length here on the heath."
Wee Jamie did not fully comprehend; but thinking that evil was about to
befall his grandfather because he was taken for another, he called out,
"Auld minister Ramsay bides wi' us, down at grandfather's."
"Do ye tell us fause, ye young whelp?" said one, and he shook the bairn
roughly.
"Alas! Jamie, you should have held your peace," said my father.
"Ye needna chide the bairn, for we will hunt out a' the ranting
Covenanters in Ayrshire, that I can pledge ye," said another.
"That is, if you will be allowed," said father.
"Haud your auld tongue!" he retorted.
Father had a mind to turn in another direction, and so lead the soldiers
away from his own house. He stood a moment irresolute. But Jamie,
anxious to escape, ran forward, calling out, "Are ye nae coming home,
grandfather?"
"Follow the lad," said the leader, "and we will hae to sharpen the auld
man's wits wi' the prick o' a lance, since he doesna ken the raud hame."
Suiting the action to the word, he wounded father's right arm. All this
was told us afterwards.
Mother saw them in the distance, and comprehended that the king's
soldiers were abroad doing deeds of violence; but she did not know that
her husband was a prisoner, and that they were coming directly to our
house.
"What shall we do if they come here!" she exclaimed.
But we could do nothing but commend ourselves to the care of the
heavenly Keeper.
Alexander was studying against the field-meeting on the Sabbath; his
father was straining his feeble sight to read the Psalms of David, and
his mother sat knitting long, warm stockings against the winter's cold.
Mary's deft fingers were fast plying the needle, and I was seated at
the wheel, the buzzing of which mingled with the sounds that came from
the reapers in a neighboring field. This scene of industrious, peaceful
home-life was at once changed to one of anxiety and alarm.
My own mind was distracted with gloomy apprehensions. What was about to
take place I knew not; but I had every reason to fear the worst. There
too was my good, gentle sister, in regard to whose health we were
already anxious. And there was Steenie, impetuous and bold, and most
likely to anger the soldiers against himself. For myself I did not think
to fear.
I begged Mary that she would hide herself, so that, if they invaded our
home, she might escape the scene of disturbance and excitement; and we
all joined in entreating the aged man of God to seek safety also. But he
refused. I have never forgotten his look at that time. He rose and made
a gesture that we should cease pleading with him.
"Wherefore should I flee?" said he. "Have I not bided safely under the
shadow of the Almighty more than threescore and ten years? No, I will
not leave this roof. With the help of God, Donald Ramsay will not fear
to face these workers of iniquity. Besides, it may be that I shall have
a word given to me to speak in season to even these, the enemies of our
church and Covenant. In the meantime let none be fearful. Oh, who of us,
think you, is worthy to suffer for Christ's sake? Who would not, if need
be, lay down his life to win a 'well done' from the Master?"
We all gazed at him. It seemed to me that he looked like one of the old
prophets. His hoary head was raised; his eyes were bright with
enthusiasm; no, it was not that: it was holy zeal, it was holy fire. His
usually pale cheek glowed; his tongue was loosed; his burning words went
to our souls as he continued:
"Oh, shall any of us this day be glorified? Shall any of us for this
day's work wear a martyr's crown throughout eternity? Is any one among
us faint-hearted? God is with us and for us; therefore lift up the hands
that hang down and strengthen the feeble knees. God never sends his
children to do his work without giving them strength sufficient for
their needs; and offences must come. Ah, when shall the kingdoms of this
world become the kingdoms of our God!"
Assuming the attitude of prayer, he raised his hand towards heaven, and
with solemn voice he said, "Let us call upon the Lord in our time of
trouble.
"'Our Father who art in heaven,' in these, the words of thy holy Son,
we come to thee, for it was he who taught us to call thee Father. And
since thou art our Father, and art more willing to give good gifts unto
us than earthly parents are to give them to their children, help us, at
this time, to feel assured that thou hast our best interests lying on
thy fatherly heart. O thou who canst control the hearts of all men, thou
who canst even be a wall of fire about thy children, look in compassion
upon us this day. We are come into deep waters. The enemies of thine own
church are even now at the thresholds of our homes. But we know well
that thou art still nearer, even in the heart of every believing child
of thine. And should there be any one here that fears them that can kill
the body only, let such a one prove steadfast to Him whose power extends
to both body and soul. Oh, fill us all with power from on high, so that
we may, if called upon, even desire to suffer for Christ's sake, that we
may be glorified with him. And oh, thou Holy One, who didst of thine own
free will lay down thy life for the sins of the world, help us that we,
thy followers, may none of us shame thee this day. So fill us with thy
strength that we may be lifted far above all mortal fear. And should we
have to seal our testimony with our blood, let us do it joyfully. O thou
Blessed One, open thine arms to receive us as we come to the vale of
shadows, and let all the mist and darkness flee away, that thou mayest
stand revealed to us in all thy beauty; for thou wilt be there,
according to thy word. Then, leaning on thee, we shall go to our
heavenly inheritance; so shall we be for ever with the Lord. Amen."
When the prayer was ended we hastened to the window. They were very
near, and what was our surprise and alarm to see father and wee Jamie
driven before them. My courage seemed for a moment to fail me. "O
Steenie, what will they do with father?" I asked.
"God only knows, Effie," replied he.
Pale and dumb we waited for the end.
"It is useless to contend with them," said Alexander. "Any act of
self-defence would be deemed open rebellion. One must either take flight
like a guilty wretch, or stand at his post a target for bullets, for
aught he knows. But we have the promise of eternal life beyond, and that
more than compensates for any ill that can befall us here."
Mary, who had been standing motionless with amazement, now uttered a cry
of anguish as she saw her bleeding father led up the walk. Alexander put
his arm protectingly about her.
They opened the door and entered. I sprang towards my father. "Are you
much hurt?" I asked.
"Awa wi' ye!" said a soldier. "He will hae mony a waur scratch before we
are dune wi' him."
Notwithstanding, as no further opposition was offered, I remained near
my father. He stooped and kissed my forehead. Then I gave way to tears.
"Do not weep, my bairn," said he; "some good will come from all this
seeming evil, since God allows it to be so."
"Little good, I am thinking. But I, for ane, hae nae mind for this kind
o' work; and if ye will recant, ye can be set free," said one, less
fierce than his fellows.
"It would not be wise to barter the favor of God for that of an earthly
king," replied my father.
My mother, overcoming her fears, came forward and stood beside us.
Father pressed a kiss on her pale cheek, and she leaned her head on his
breast. "Alas! alas! the evil hour has come!" she exclaimed. "God help
us!"
"Let the gudeman go," she said, addressing the ruffians. "What harm has
he ever done to living mortal?"
"We will think twice before we grant your request, gudewife. But, if I
dinna mistake, I see anither that we want still mair than him," and the
speaker sharply eyed Donald Ramsay.
The aged man advanced to meet them. "Whom are you seeking?" he asked
with fearless dignity.
"We seek auld Ramsay," they replied.
"I am he," he answered. "If your business is with me, let these go their
way."
"You are the king's prisoner," said one of the gang, as he laid hands on
him.
Then, to our great surprise, the aged wife rose and stood beside her
husband.
"Forty-and-five years have we bided happily together," said she. "Let
not death divide us. Where he goes I will go."
"Take the auld wife awa; we dinna want her," said the leader.
But she refused to leave her husband's side.
"Harl her awa!" said the same voice.
Her son advanced and entreated her.
"Be it so," said she. "It will be only for a wee while. Fare ye weel,
Donald, till we meet in the kingdom of our God."
"Hae ye onything to settle wi' your Maker, Ramsay?" asked the leading
voice. "If ye hae, ye maun be aboot it, for we'll mak quick wark wi'
ye."
"Trusting in the merits of Christ, I am ready. I have lived these many
years in daily communion with him. But how is it with you? Think of
that. Take heed to your ways lest ye die in your sins. You go about
seeking to slay the Lord's chosen. What will you say when their blood is
required at your hands? Let me entreat you to turn from your evil ways
and seek forgiveness; for no sins are so great that the blood of Christ
cannot atone for them."
"Haud your ranting tongue!" shouted the leader.
But lest the words of the man of God should unnerve his men, he turned
to them and gave his orders.
"Ye hae listened to this fulishness long enough. Gang to your wark."
But not one of the men moved.
"Ye ken weel what ye came here for," he continued. "Wha will lay low the
enemy of his country and his king?"
On hearing this the aged man made his defence.
"Why should I be accounted an enemy of the king? He who is not true to
the King of kings cannot be true to an earthly king. I hold that you are
not true to him yourselves, since you encourage him to foul his hands
with the blood of the saints."
"Shoot him!" cried the leader.
The order was not obeyed, and he who gave it shot him down with his own
hand.
"Father, lay not this sin to their charge," said the dying man.
Alexander was at his side in a moment.
"Let me go to my old friend," entreated my father.
"Ye needna be in haste; ye will go to him soon enough," said the leader.
"Rejoice, O my friend, that you have been accounted worthy to suffer for
Christ's sake," said my father.
The wounded man turned his eyes towards his wife, who had fallen into
her chair. A faint smile mingled with his look of mortal agony as he
whispered, "She is going too."
And so it proved. The shock had been too much for her feeble
constitution; and though she still breathed, she never recovered
consciousness, but passed away at set of sun.
So it indeed happened that Donald and Grisell Ramsay were not divided
even in death.
CHAPTER IV.
THE PRISON AND THE TOMB.
It would not be my painful task to record these and still other mournful
scenes if it had been God's time to awake for us; but he who in his very
chastenings "doeth great things, which we cannot comprehend," for his
glory and the good of those who love him, had decreed for us a long and
weary time of weeping. So it was that the ruffians, seeing that they had
made sure work, took my father from our embrace, and we never saw him
more. In vain we entreated that we might at least be permitted to bind
his wound.
"Let him bleed," said the leader. "It will do him good to lose some of
his rebellious Covenanting blood. He will be mair gentle after the loss
of it."
Why they did not molest Alexander I cannot say, unless, being strangers,
they did not know he was a minister. They looked sharply at him and
Steenie.
"Gang straight noo, my lads, for ye hae seen what ye may come to," said
one, as a parting admonition.
We were all too sad for speech. Two of the inmates of our house lay
dead in our presence; the head of the family had been taken from us, to
what fate we knew not. Human effort was powerless. We could only commit
our griefs and anxieties to Him without whose notice not even a sparrow
falls. How much more would he watch over our father, his faithful
servant.
Without doubt it is God's will that some should glorify him in the
furnace of affliction; and we may not question his providences,
mysterious though they be. We are to "be still and know that he is God."
Sometimes we are allowed to see why and how he leads us; when we cannot
see we must trust.
But we had to rouse ourselves to action. We had mournful duties to
perform for the dead in our midst, and we did the best we could in our
sad, excited state. Steenie went for David and Bessie McDougal and a few
other neighbors, and they performed the labor of caring for the dead.
Words were useless, and few were spoken.
Partly from habit, and partly to break the stillness, I spread the board
for the evening meal. No one tasted food but wee Jamie.
When all had been done that could be done, we sat down, sad and silent,
in the family room. David McDougal and his wife remained with us. Then,
as we never finished the day without prayer, my mother took the dear
familiar Book and handed it to Alexander. He read the seventy-ninth
Psalm. His voice quivered with emotion, and when he read the verse, "Let
the sighing of the prisoner come before thee," his utterance was choked.
Tears flowed for a while. I was glad he could shed them. Then by a great
effort he continued:
"'According to the greatness of thy power preserve thou those that are
appointed to die; and render unto our neighbors sevenfold into their
bosoms their reproach, wherewith they have reproached thee, O Lord. So
we thy people and sheep of thy pasture will give thee thanks for ever:
we will show forth thy praise to all generations.'"
His prayer was a wail for the deliverance of the kirk and for him who
was dearer to us than life.
We all wept, for we sadly missed the voice that had so long borne our
petitions to the throne of heavenly grace.
At a late hour we retired to rest, if possible, after the excitements
and calamities of the day. We had but laid ourselves down when mother
was called to Mary's bedside. Then I remembered that when I pressed her
to my heart as we parted for the night, and said, "God be with you and
comfort you, my own dear sister," she replied, "He is with me, and I
feel as if I should soon see him face to face." I looked at her; she was
so pale, and looked so pure and heavenly, that I feared it might be even
as she said. I gave her another kiss, and without trusting my voice to
speak again I turned away. Now her manner, look, and words came back to
me, filling me with dreadful apprehensions. Oh, the bitterness of that
long night! It seemed as if it would never end. When it did end, the
morning found Alexander Ramsay a father; but his bairn was motherless.
Thus went out the life of one who was winsome beyond compare.
How can we comprehend the bitterness and greatness of Alexander's
bereavement! Father, mother, and wife taken from him in a few short
hours!
He took the little one in his arms, kissed it fondly, and moaned, "Oh,
my bairn, thou art not long for this world; then all will be gone!"
At any other time it would have been accounted a strange thing that
three dead bodies should lie in one house; but then, when the
persecution was on us in all its horrors, there was little wonder. Such
outrages, though not common as yet, were not unknown.
We laid them all side by side in the kirkyard, and it seemed to me that
when the grave closed over our Mary the joy had all gone out of my life.
The friends that were left to me might pass as quickly. I felt that I
had but a slender hold upon them, and I turned away with a sad feeling
of desolation which I had never before experienced.
Alexander regarded the infant as a very slender thread binding him to
home, for it was evident it would soon leave the world it had entered at
so inauspicious a time. When in a few days it ceased to breathe, the
broken-hearted father said, "It is well with the child. Now no ties bind
me. I am free to devote myself to the Lord's cause. Henceforth let me be
found foremost in the ranks of those who shall do and dare for the
afflicted of my church and of my country."
From this time Alexander Ramsay had no fixed abiding-place; but it was
his willing service to carry consolation to the oppressed and despairing
all over the country. He became the bold and fearless leader of
conventicles, and the bearer of food and comforts to those who were
proclaimed outlaws, and who were suffering the keenest privations and
hardships for conscience' sake; for the king's agents had forbidden any,
under severe penalties, to give food or shelter or succor of any kind
to the hunted Covenanters. These very acts of mercy rendered him an
outlaw also, and a price was soon set on his head.
Father was confined in a miserable place only a few miles away, yet none
of us were permitted to see him. Mother grieved in silence; but her
grief seemed wearing her life away. I prayed that she might even weep;
but that she could not do. Yet when brought to speak, which scarcely
anything but my tears could accomplish, she would express her confidence
that the right would prevail. "The kirk will yet have rest," she said.
"The Word of the Lord will have free course, will run, and be glorified.
But alas for my earthly peace! I shall never with my natural eyes behold
the prosperity of Zion."
My brother Steenie chafed like a chained lion. He sought to devise a way
to liberate our father, and made several unsuccessful attempts, the only
result of which was a closer confinement for the prisoner. This Steenie
so resented that he became the sworn foe of the oppressor. He became a
marked character, and our enemies cast designing looks upon him. It was
no longer safe for him to stay with us when any of the troopers were
near.
My other brothers were seeking to evade the persecutors by appearing to
be neutral. They were seldom present at conventicles, and sometimes
attended the curate's service in the parish church. Jamie and Richie
were unlike Steenie. In the first place, they had stronger ties. Their
wives, their children, and their homes were very dear to them. They
thought, by a seeming indifference, to escape the troubles that were
constantly befalling their more demonstrative neighbors. But their
caution did not please us. Even mother, troubled as she was, did not
approve their course. Once when they were both sitting at our fireside,
she stepped between them, and laying a hand on the shoulder of each she
thus addressed them:
"O my sons, do not imperil your eternal happiness to secure safety in
this life. Remember the words of the Master: 'Whosoever will save his
life shall lose it; and whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall
find it.'" Having said this, she quickly left the room.
I arose and followed her. I found her seated on a low chair, her hands
pressed closely to her heart. "O God! I have done it," she said as I
entered. "I have counselled them. I have triumphed over the weakness of
the flesh. Thanks be to thy grace, O Lord, now the weight of this
unfulfilled duty is lifted from my heart and conscience!"
CHAPTER V.
UNWELCOME VISITORS.
But we were not to escape further molestation. Troops were now sent
through Ayrshire and the adjoining counties to make diligent search for
such as they should please to consider rebels; and no house could hope
to be exempt from their visitations.
On an evening bordering on winter we sat around our wide, warm hearth;
we had already supped, and that in silence, for all knew, except my
nephew, that search would soon be made in our neighborhood. We did not
expect to be molested that night, but still the news had made me
fearful, and I had barred the door. Watch, the wee house-dog, was
sleeping on the hearth. The wind was making sad music without, while now
and then a gust drove the smoke from the chimney into the room. It was
an evening to accord with my feelings; for I was brooding over the
desolation of our spiritual state and the dangers which threatened us,
particularly Steenie; and a tear once fell on wee Jamie's head, which
rested on my lap as he sat on a stool at my feet.
"Will you never have done wi' greetin', Aunt Effie?" asked he. "You are
far stouter of heart when trouble is on us than when we are clear of
it."
Just then David McDougal knocked and was admitted.
"I am come," said he, addressing Steenie, "to tell you that ye hae nae
time to lose. Take to your heels, man!"
"I have no inclination to run," replied Steenie resolutely. "I would
rather fight than run any day."
"Hoot, man, what would you do, wi' a score o' thae sons o' Belial
lightin' doon in your midst! Awa wi' ye, and haud back a' the fight that
is in ye till ye hae a fair chance in the field."
Just then the wee dog pricked up his ears. We looked at one another.
David nodded, as if to say, "I told you so." A moment later we
distinctly heard the tramp of horses. Mother waved her hand, silently
bidding Steenie leave us. He wrapped his plaid about him and hurriedly
embraced us.
"Be cautious, my dear brother, and hide yourself well," said I.
"God be with you!" said our mother.
"The great Shepherd of Israel keep thee," said our neighbor.
"Gang to the opening in the Black Rock," said wee Jamie, who had grown
wise by our terrible experiences; "but tak tent to your feet; it maun be
icy there. Rin, and hae nae fears for me. I winna betray you, though
they should pull ilka hair frae my head."
We smiled sadly at the lad, in spite of ourselves, Steenie and I, he was
such an old-fashioned bairn. Poor wee man! he had need of all his wits
before an hour was past.
Steenie went out into the cold and darkness, and David went with him;
Steenie to go where Jamie had said, and David to return home.
I again barred the door. Some little time had elapsed when there was a
loud knock. I did not move. No act of ours was to admit them, although
we knew they would soon break in upon us. A moment later force was used
to burst open the door. But although it creaked, it withstood repeated
assaults. Then the window was broken in, and one after another the
legalized ruffians leaped into our midst.
"How comes it, my auld dame, and you, my bright-eyed lassie, that ye are
sae dull o' hearin'? Ye s'ould hae made speed to entertain the king's
messengers, sin' we hae sic a modest request to mak o' your leddyships.
We want naething but the deliverin' up o' your son and brother;" and
with a smile of impertinence and exultation the speaker gazed at us to
observe the effect of his request.
"There are none in the house but ourselves, as ye may see," said my
mother.
"Where then is Stephen Patterson?"
"Please God, he is out o' your reach."
"Aweel, there are ways and means to unseal tight lips, ye ken," said he,
nodding significantly. "We will begin wi' the bairn. Ken ye aught o'
your uncle?" asked the man, who, strange as it may seem, had once called
himself our friend, and, I doubt not, had more than once held Jamie on
his knee. Now he was our worst enemy. He had volunteered to lead the way
up and down braes, through hills and dales, by wimpling burns and
wraith-haunted lochs, in order to tear from peaceful homes the honored
and the good. Such was the man who questioned Jamie. I blessed the brave
lad in my heart, while I trembled for the effect of his answer.
"If I do, or if I dinna, it is a' the ane thing to you."
"We shall see whether it is or no. When did he gang awa?"
No answer was given.
"When did he awa? I hae asked you. Was it the nicht?"
[Illustration: Page 225.]
Still no answer.
"We will soon gar ye tell all ye know," said the man, as he took from
his pocket a match. Lighting it at the fire, he placed it between the
poor lad's fingers, and held it there. "That will soon fetch an answer,"
said he.
The tears coursed down poor Jamie's cheeks, but he made no moan. I did
not dare open my lips for fear I should anger them still more; but my
mother could not see the bairn tortured and hold her peace.
"Leave the bairn go," she said authoritatively. "Ye hae hearts harder
than a millstone."
"Are ye in ony hurry for your ain share?" asked the ruffian.
"I would liefer bear it than see the bairn bear it," was her reply.
"Weel, if it suits ye, we will leave the bairn and try yoursel."
So saying, he seized her hand and applied the burning match. She raised
her eyes, looking steadfastly upward as she repeated the following
portion of God's Word--the sixty-fourth Psalm:
"'Hear my voice, O God, in my prayer: preserve my life from fear of the
enemy.
"'Hide me from the secret counsel of the wicked, from the insurrection
of the workers of iniquity,
"'Who whet their tongue like a sword, and bend their bows to shoot
their arrows, even bitter words,
"'That they may shoot in secret at the perfect: suddenly do they shoot
at him, and fear not.
"'They encourage themselves in an evil matter: they commune of laying
snares privily; they say, Who shall see them?
"'They search out iniquities; they accomplish a diligent search: both
the inward thought of every one of them, and the heart, is deep.
"'But God shall shoot at them with an arrow; suddenly shall they be
wounded.
"'So they shall make their own tongue to fall upon themselves: all that
see them shall flee away.
"'And all men shall fear, and shall declare the work of God; for they
shall wisely consider of his doing.
"'The righteous shall be glad in the Lord, and shall trust in him; and
all the upright in heart shall glory.'"
The match had burned out, but she had disclosed nothing.
"Perhaps the lassie has a glib tongue," said one, and he sought another
match to torture me. Following my mother's example, I too had recourse
to the Sword of the Spirit. I repeated, though not as calmly as she had,
these words, feeling more truly than ever their comfort:
"'In thee, O Lord, do I put my trust: let me never be put to confusion.
"'Deliver me in thy righteousness and cause me to escape: incline thine
ear unto me and save me.
"'Be thou my strong habitation, whereunto I may continually resort: thou
hast given commandment to save me, for thou art my rock and my fortress.
"'Deliver me, O my God, out of the hand of the wicked, out of the hand
of the unrighteous and cruel man.'"
"These cursed people all have the Scriptures at their tongues' end," one
of them was saying, when a sudden blast of wind shook our little cottage
till all could feel it rock. The smoke was driven down the chimney, and
came into the room in great puffs, and the candle went out. All was
confusion. The men were seized with fear, and when the fire again sent
out a ruddy glow, they hastened to find the door and escape.
"The very elements fight for them," said one as they hurried away.
Steenie heard them gallop down the lane and out on the high road.
Convinced that they were gone, he returned to the house.
"The Lord has delivered us all," said mother.
"Yes," said Steenie, "we are all safe; but it is only for the present.
Sooner or later I am sure to fall into their hands. But, as David
McDougal was saying, I would like it if we could encounter our enemies
on the battlefield."
Jamie showed his uncle his burned hand. Steenie carried it to his lips.
"Poor wee man!" said he, "did you indeed have to suffer for Uncle
Steenie's sake?"
"Grandmother did too," said the lad.
"It is a fearful state of things," said Steenie, "when women and bairns
are not safe at their own firesides."
From that time Steenie sought to evade his pursuers, and his life was
generally that of a wanderer. Often he narrowly escaped being taken.
Frequently we laid ourselves down without knowing where he was or how he
fared; but whether the earth was wet with summer dew or wrapped in
winter's snow, he was always the subject of our ardent prayers. How
often I would have shared his night-watches if it could have been so. I
carried food to him when I knew where he was; aside from this we could
do nothing but pray.
CHAPTER VI.
DEFEAT AT RULLION GREEN.
In November, 1666, some of our people at the South became entangled,
under great provocation, in a skirmish with some of Turner's soldiers;
knowing that this would bring further trouble, they resolved to remain
in arms. Coming northward, they gathered a little strength as they
advanced. On reaching Ayrshire some of our acquaintances joined them,
Steenie, Alexander, and good, honest David McDougal with the rest.
Moving in a northeasterly direction, they came to Lanark. Here they
renewed their Covenant, and called to mind their grievances, at the same
time publishing a declaration vindicating themselves from rebellion.
Though frost and snow and hunger and fatigue made dreadful inroads on
their little army, they pushed on boldly till they came within a few
miles of Edinburgh, which, unexpectedly, they found in arms against
them. Knowing that they were pursued by a force larger than their own,
and that to remain where they were was to sacrifice their lives to no
purpose, they began a retreat, and halted at a place called Rullion
Green, on a ridge of the Pentland Hills. Here they were attacked by the
pursuing army, which had turned out of its course to intercept them. The
Covenanters, stout of heart and confident of the righteousness of their
cause, fought valiantly, and several times put their assailants to
flight; but they were finally overpowered by superiority of numbers.
Many of our brave men were left dead or dying on the field, and more
were taken prisoners. Some of these met a cruel death afterwards, and
several were put to the torture before they were hanged.
Steenie made his escape, and, after long and painful wanderings,
travelling by night and hiding by day, he at last came to us weary and
worn. Yet, weary and footsore as he was, the poor lad could not venture
to bide within or rest one night under his mother's roof. He remained,
however, long enough to tell us that several of our friends and
neighbors had sealed their covenant with their blood.
"David McDougal fell beside me early in the fray," said Steenie. "With
his last breath he exhorted his brethren to continue the struggle.
'Fight the good fight of faith, my comrades,' said he, 'and the great
Leader of your cause strengthen your hearts and your hands!' With a sore
heart I bent over him and asked if I could do anything for him. 'I want
naething mair in this warld,' he replied. 'But gang ye back to the fray,
and slacken nae whit while ye hae strength to stand. Tell the folk at
hame that auld Davie McDougal regretted that he had but ane life to lay
down for his Master. Tell the gudewife that though we gang hame by
different roads, we shall meet at the end of the journey.'"
Alexander was taken prisoner, and suffered with those who were condemned
to be hanged at the Cross of Edinburgh. His right hand was cut off and
nailed up at Lanark, because there he had lifted it in making oath to
the Covenant. Thus perished the last member of a peaceful, God-serving
family. In considering their fate, one cannot but recall the words of
the apostle Paul: "If in this life only we have hope in Christ, we are
of all men most miserable." But, thank God, this is not the only life of
Christians; and by whatever way they may be led to that other life, they
shall find that "the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to
be compared with the glory" that they shall share.
CHAPTER VII.
THE WANDERER.
A body of soldiers now ranged through our part of the country, seeking
out Covenanters who had taken any part in the late rising, and
perpetrating all such deeds of cruelty as their evil thoughts could
devise. Some were tortured for aiding their friends to escape. Life and
property were at the mercy of these ruthless invaders.
Steenie was obliged to remain in hiding. Sometimes, when I knew where he
was, I stole out to him in the gloaming. Seated on the same rock, with
my hand in his, I passed an hour or more with him; but never did I do so
without fearing it might be the last time. In the long summer evenings I
sometimes stayed and chatted till a late hour, and, after a bit of
forgetfulness, it did seem almost like old times. One of those evenings
I have special cause to remember. The air was delightfully fresh, and
fragrant with the scent of summer blossoms. The wield sang its song in
the woods anent us; the owl hooted on the cliff; and the wee, timid
hare, startled by our footsteps on the dry twigs, ran across our path.
For the time we dropped all thoughts of fear. We were at the back of our
own cottage, in the thicket where in our childhood we had often played.
The moonlight glinted through it as of yore, and a bit to the north sang
the same busy, babbling brook. Oh, that was an evening long to be
remembered!
"One can almost forget that he is a hunted fugitive in a place and a
time like this," said Steenie.
"Yes, Steenie," I answered, "would to God we were clear of the great
trouble which we this evening have been able to put from our minds."
While I was yet speaking the sound of horses' feet was borne to our ears
on the still night air.
"Go home quickly, Effie," said Steenie, "and I'll not stop till I am
hidden behind the black crags."
As I entered the house I found mother sitting with wee Jamie, for he was
aye at our house since father was led away. Mother saw something was
amiss, but she questioned only by look.
"The troopers," I said.
"Where is Steenie?"
"Well on to a place of safety by this time."
"God protect him!" she murmured.
The soldiers soon surrounded our house. Three of them entered and
searched it. We had hurried the bairn to bed and bidden him turn his
face to the wall, and on no account show that he was awake, rightly
thinking they would not be likely to wake him. Mother and I suffered
much from their insolence, and they bore away with them whatever they
chose to take, otherwise we came to no harm.
After this Steenie was almost lost to us for a long time. It was very
seldom he could be found in the places where he was wont to be
concealed, so diligent was the search for those who had fought at
Rullion Green.
Sometimes we saw him at conventicles. These meetings were then held in
unfrequented places, and often under the cover of darkness. Precious was
the divine message to our long-waiting souls, and our thoughts were
uplifted by the power of the truth. But with me the feeling of
exaltation would subside, leaving in my heart a weary waste, a dread
uncertainty, a fearful looking forward to some unknown yet certain evil.
In God was my trust; but humanity is frail, and the sickness of heart
that attends blighted hopes was often mine to bear.
On the few occasions when I saw my brother I observed that he grew wan
and pale--that he had at times a look almost amounting to fierceness.
Naturally ambitious, he chafed at his inactivity, and was tormented by
a throng of unfulfilled desires. Although we hoped he had been born into
the kingdom of grace, and was willing to follow where Providence led,
still the natural man struggled against the submission that was to keep
him in hiding.
The bonnie summer months had passed, the cool and pleasant autumn also,
and winter was again upon us. Not a few were pinched with hunger, for
oppression had wrung from many families nearly all their means of
subsistence. We often thought of Steenie and prayed for him; but we knew
not where he was, as the cold had driven him from all his old haunts.
One wild December night we sat by our comfortable fire: without, the
hoarse wind roared in strange tones and in loud blasts that were fearful
even to those who were comfortably housed. I was looking at the window
opposite me, and almost reproaching myself for receiving so many
comforts since they were denied to Steenie. Just then some one knocked
at the door. I felt at once that it was my wandering brother; and so it
was. But oh, how changed! He had been driven by actual hunger to venture
home. The man whom we had employed to carry food to him, and whom we had
liberally paid, even to the abatement of our own comforts, had proved
faithless.
Great was our surprise and joy to behold our Steenie once more, and
great was our sorrow to see him as he was, chilled and sick as well as
hungry. I fastened the door again and drew the window-curtain, and
mother and I both hastened to set food before the half-famished lad.
Being warmed and refreshed, he began to talk freely, for at first he was
too much exhausted to say much.
"This is not life," he said with bitterness, "and if I am never in some
active way to serve my family and friends in the true cause, I wish that
I might die. Why do not our party take the field? Our condition could
scarcely be worse. I might as well be captured if I am to have free
limbs only to lie behind rocks until they are benumbed from disuse. I
shall bide here to-night; I shall sleep once more under our own roof;
and if I am taken, I am taken."
The morning found him far from well and in no condition again to brave
the rigors of winter. I bethought me of a little nook over the cow-shed
that could be made very comfortable, and that would be little likely to
attract attention. We made him a bed there, and we did not spare the
best in the house. We carried some books up to him, and did all we could
for his comfort; then we closed the trap-door, so that there appeared to
be no opening. The ladder was drawn up into the little corner he
occupied, and he thus had the means to let himself down whenever he
chose. Having made these arrangements, we trusted that he was safe for
the present.
But it soon became apparent that he was in danger of being betrayed by
our own wee dog, for the affectionate creature sniffed and barked about
the byre the whole time to win to his master. We thought at first to tie
him up; but this might be inquired into and lead to a search. Some of
our own neighbors we could scantly trust; and if any one had let the dog
loose he would have gone straight to Steenie. I soon thought out a sure
way to end that difficulty, but I said nothing about my plan.
When I gathered up the scraps from the table and put them into Watch's
tray, I cast poison on the meat; and I mind well that a tear dropped in
with it all, for I was fond of the wee doggie. But he must not live to
endanger Steenie, although it was the poor beast's joy at his master's
return that caused him to make such a din.
At noon I noticed that Jamie put aside a portion of his meat. "I'll no
pick the banes clean the day," said he, seeing that his movements were
observed, "because the doggie is sick-like, for he wunna play with me.
I'll coax him a bit wi' the fresh meat."
I felt sorry for the bairn, but I said nothing.
After a while he came in, looking very sad. "Aunt Effie," said he
sorrowfully, "Watch wunna tak his meat. I fear he will dee."
I patted his head. "Poor wee laddie, it is a tender heart you have,"
said I. I did not know what else to say.
An hour or two later he came in again, greeting outright. "Wee Watch is
deid, Aunt Effie; wee Watch is deid!" and he sobbed as if his heart
would break.
It seems a small thing to write, but to the bairn it was a great sorrow;
he had lost his only companion. We had been so much occupied with our
own troubles that we scarcely gave him a thought beyond seeing that he
was well clothed and fed; but I can feel a pang even now for the grief
of the poor bairn on account of the death of his playmate.
We succeeded in keeping Steenie safely through the winter, though there
were times when our hearts quaked with fear. In spring-time, as the
weather grew milder, he went back to his old retreats.
CHAPTER VIII.
VICTORY OF DRUMCLOG AND DEFEAT AT BOTHWELL BRIDGE.
I pass over in silence ten or a dozen years of continued oppression,
which brought us little change save that our hearts grew ever sadder.
It had been declared a treasonable act to attend a conventicle, and
troops were sent through the country with orders to suppress them at the
point of the sword; therefore we no longer met in small bodies.
In May, 1679, a great conventicle was appointed to be held on a moor
near Lanark. Steenie went up in company with many others from among us.
No secret was made of the meeting, and most of the men went armed.
Claverhouse with his dragoons was then in Glasgow. He marched directly
to Loudoun Hill, or Drumclog, the place where our people had assembled
for worship. He seized some who were on the way to the meeting and drove
them before him. The service was scarcely commenced when the alarm was
given. Our people flew to arms to defend themselves, and in the battle
that ensued they were the victors. Elated with hope, the people flocked
to our standard, and a large force was soon in the field.
My two older brothers and my nephew Jamie, now a grown man, thought of
joining the army. They were weary of fines, robberies, and all the
oppressions which they suffered. They felt that they could no longer
submit to these things and lift up their heads as free-born Scots should
do.
While they were weighing the matter tidings of our father's death
reached us. He with others had been taken from the place of their
imprisonment and driven like beasts before the merciless soldiers. My
father, weak from age, long confinement, and insufficient nourishment,
became exhausted, and lagged in the march. A brutal soldier pierced him
with a spear, and he fell. His head and hands were cut off and exposed
to public gaze at Edinburgh. The mangled body was left without proper
burial. The enemy alleged, in justification of their conduct, that he
was the most obstinate of all the "ranting rebels."
Ah, well we understood that charge! It meant that torture, keenest
torture, had been his; and he had borne it uncomplainingly, sustained by
God's grace.
And now when I think of the Heavenly City, and of the just made perfect
who dwell there, I can almost see my father amid the throng of the
redeemed; I can almost hear him sing praises to God and the Lamb with
the tongue that never denied the faith while on earth.
My brothers and nephew no longer hesitated, as may well be supposed.
Margaret, James' wife and the mother of Jamie, no longer "wee," freely
gave her consent. "Alas!" she said, "war is a fearsome thing; but since
it is your duty to go, go, and may God protect you both and bring you
safe home."
Ellen could not feel the same resignation. She clung to Richie till the
last moment, almost upbraiding him for leaving her. He turned on her a
look in which pity was blent with reproach.
"Ellen," he said, "I cannot forget that I am a man, and not a dog. I can
no longer patiently suffer these outrages."
With aching hearts they took leave of their weeping families, their own
eyes filled with tears and their lips tremulous with unspoken anxieties.
But they bravely endeavored to suppress their emotion, and, sustained by
firmness of purpose and hopeful anticipation of righted wrongs, they
tore themselves away.
Bessie McDougal, who could never forget her loss at Rullion Green,
still, with patriotic piety, encouraged her only son Robert to devote
himself to the cause of our kirk and country. She came with him as far
as our house, for Robert was to go with Jamie and Richie. I very well
remember how she looked at that time. Naturally cheerful, hale, and
ruddy, she had borne up remarkably well under her afflictions. But her
cheek had grown paler and her step less firm and elastic, so that she
leaned a little heavily on the stout walking-stick she carried.
It was at our door that she took leave of Robert. Collecting all her
strength, she took her son's hand and bravely spoke her farewells.
"Robert, my son, you are my only earthly prop and stay; but I will nae
grudge ye to God and his ain cause. And if my auld e'en shall behold
your face nae mair in the flesh, we shall meet again where troubles are
nae mair. Should you fall in battle, you will but follow in the steps of
him who has gane before you. Gie your mither a kiss, my bairn. Fare ye
weel, fare ye weel!"
The bereaved mother turned to retrace her steps towards her now solitary
home. We called after her to come in and stop a while. "I can neither
gie nor tak comfort," said she, "and I would fain grieve in my ain
hame."
Our own hearts were sore too, as any one may judge, seeing that all our
loved ones who could bear the sword were away to face danger and death.
But sorer yet would they have been if we could have foreseen the
disastrous defeat of our army at Bothwell Bridge, a defeat chargeable in
no small degree to the dissensions that nearly rent our people asunder.
Oh, that dreadful day! Even now the memory of it comes unbidden far
oftener than the morning sun salutes the earth. My brother Jamie, my
poor, sad mother's firstborn, was left on that fatal field cold in
death--Jamie, the husband of the good, brave, patient Margaret, and
father of six bonnie bairns. Oh, what a stroke was that! Then when we
called to mind how many fathers, sons, and brothers, of the very flower
of Scotland, shared a like fate, we cried out in bitterness of soul,
"O Lord God, to whom vengeance belongeth; O God, to whom vengeance
belongeth, show thyself. Lift up thyself, thou Judge of the earth:
render a reward to the proud. Lord, how long shall the wicked, how long
shall the wicked triumph?"
But I have more to tell of that terrible battle. Richie was one of the
twelve hundred who, when all was lost, threw down their arms and cried
for quarter. They were taken prisoners to Edinburgh, and penned, half
naked, in the same Grayfriars kirkyard in which the Covenant was signed
in 1638. They were herded there for five months like so many brute
beasts, without shelter by day or covering by night. At the end of that
time, Richie and many others regained their freedom by signing a bond
never again to take up arms against the king.
Steenie was thrice taken prisoner, and as many times made his escape.
Just as he was leaving the field he stumbled over the dead body of
Jamie. In regaining his feet his eye caught sight of the dear, familiar
face, then rigid in death. Regardless of consequence he threw himself
down beside his lifeless brother. Two soldiers rode that way in search
of flying fugitives. Seeing a living man among the dead, they halted.
Struck with the grief and affection that could lead to such a disregard
of personal safety, some touch of humanity returned to their stony
hearts.
"What hinders us to run you through, man?"
"It is all one to me," replied Steenie. "My brother is dead, and our
cause is lost."
"Let us show pity to our fellow-mortal," said one to the other, "and
when death comes to us, I warrant we shall not grieve at the mercy."
"Rise and take to your heels," said the first speaker, "and hide
yourself as soon as you can. If your escape is seen it may cost us our
lives."
Steenie afterwards told Robert McDougal, who also escaped, that he was
so thoroughly weary of life under the tyranny of the oppressor that
nothing but thoughts of the grief his death would cause our mother made
him avail himself of the mercy shown by the two humane soldiers. "But,"
added he, "what, after all, signifies an escape that must eventually end
in torture or death?" He knew that for those who would not renounce the
Covenant life could be but a weary waiting and lurking in wild moors and
caves.
From this time Steenie and Robert were inseparable. I scarcely could see
one without the other. The truth came slowly to me that Robert was
especially interested in me, and that Steenie was glad it was so. I
never could see why he was glad, since in those troublous times no tie
could be so binding as to secure to us the companionship of our friends.
My nephew Jamie was spared to us. A serious and lingering illness had
suddenly prostrated him and prevented him from joining the Covenanters'
army, according to his intention; and when news of his father's death
and of our crushing defeat came, his mother was still watching by his
bedside. As his strength slowly returned, she blessed God for the
sickness that for the time had so increased her sorrow and her cares,
but in which she now saw the divine hand in mercy holding her son back
from death or capture on the field. And truly she needed Jamie, her
other bairns being much younger than he, and all lasses but the
youngest.
Richie's return was a source of thankfulness; yet Steenie would never
have accepted liberty on such conditions. Ellen was overjoyed; she had
no regrets that he was never again to fight for liberty of conscience.
But his health was never again robust; he had suffered too much from
exposure in his confinement at Edinburgh.
Margaret welcomed Richie with tears.