Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
HUNTED AND HARRIED, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE.
CHAPTER ONE.
ON THE HUNT.
On a brilliant summer morning in the last quarter of the seventeenth
century a small troop of horsemen crossed the ford of the river Cairn,
in Dumfriesshire, not far from the spot where stands the little church
of Irongray, and, gaining the road on the western bank of the stream,
wended their way towards the moors and uplands which lie in the
neighbourhood of Skeoch Hill.
The dragoons, for such they were, trotted rapidly along the road that
led into the solitudes of the hills, with all the careless dash of men
whose interests are centred chiefly on the excitements of the passing
hour, yet with the unflagging perseverance of those who have a fixed
purpose in view--their somewhat worn aspect and the mud with which they
were bespattered, from jack-boot to iron headpiece, telling of a long
ride over rugged ground.
The officer in command of the party rode a little in advance. Close
behind him followed two troopers, one of whom was a burly middle-aged
man with a stern, swarthy countenance; the other a youth whose tall
frame was scarcely, if at all, less powerful than that of his
comrade-in-arms, though much more elegant in form, while his youthful
and ruddy, yet masculine, countenance suggested that he must at that
time have been but a novice in the art of war.
This youth alone, of all the party, had a somewhat careworn and sad
expression on his brow. It could hardly have been the result of
fatigue, for there was more of ease and vigour in his carriage than in
that of any of his companions.
"We should be near the river by this time, Glendinning," said the leader
of the party, reining in and addressing the swarthy trooper.
"Ay, sir, the Cluden rins jist ayont the turn o' the road there,"
replied the man. "Ye'll hear the roar o' the fa' in a meenit or twa."
Even as he spoke the dull growl of a cataract was heard, and, a few
minutes later, the party came upon the ford of the river.
It was situated not many yards below the picturesque waterfall, which is
now spanned by the Routen Bridge, but which, at that time, was
unbridged--at all events, if a bridge had previously existed, it had
fallen in or been carried away--and the wild gorge was impassable.
The sound of the fall alone told of its vicinity, for a dense mass of
foliage hid it completely from the troopers' view until they had
surmounted the steep bank on the other side of the stream.
"Are you well acquainted with this man Black?" asked the leader of the
party as they emerged from the thick belt of trees and shrubs by which
the Cluden was shaded, and continued their journey on the more open
ground beyond.
"I ken him weel, sir," answered the trooper. "Andrew Black was an auld
freend o' mine, an' a big, stoot, angry man he is--kindly disposed, nae
doot, when ye let him alane, but a perfe't deevil incarnate when he's
roosed. He did me an ill turn ance that I've no paid him off for
_yet_."
"I suppose, then," said the officer, "that your guiding us so willingly
to his cottage is in part payment of this unsettled debt?"
"Maybe it is," replied the trooper grimly.
"They say," continued the other, "that there is some mystery about the
man; that somehow nobody can catch him. Like an eel he has slipped
through our fellows' fingers and disappeared more than once, when they
thought they had him quite safe. It is said that on one occasion he
managed even to give the slip to Claverhouse himself, which, you know,
is not easy."
"That may be, sir, but he'll no slip through my fingers gin I ance git a
grup o' his thrapple," said the swarthy man, with a revengeful look.
"We must get a grip of him somehow," returned the officer, "for it is
said that he is a sly helper of the rebels--though it is as difficult to
convict as to catch him; and as this gathering, of which our spies have
brought information, is to be in the neighbourhood of his house, he is
sure to be mixed up with it."
"Nae doot o' that, sir, an' so we may manage to kill twa birds wi' ae
stane. But I'm in a diffeeculty noo, sir, for ye ken I'm no acquaint
wi' this country nae farer than the Cluden ford, an' here we hae come to
a fork i' the road."
The party halted as he spoke, while the perplexed guide stroked his
rather long nose and looked seriously at the two roads, or bridle-paths,
into which their road had resolved itself, and each of which led into
very divergent parts of the heathclad hills.
This guide, Glendinning, had become acquainted with Black at a time when
the latter resided in Lanarkshire, and, as he had just said, was
unacquainted with the region through which they now travelled beyond the
river Cluden. After a short conference the officer in command decided
to divide the party and explore both paths.
"You will take one man, Glendinning, and proceed along the path to the
right," he said; "I will try the left. If you discover anything like a
house or cot within a mile or two you will at once send your comrade
back to let me know, while you take up your quarters in the cottage and
await my coming. Choose whom you will for your companion."
"I choose Will Wallace, then," said Glendinning, with a nod to the young
trooper whom we have already introduced.
The youth did not seem at all flattered by the selection, but of course
obeyed orders with military promptitude, and followed his comrade for
some time in silence, though with a clouded brow.
"It seems to me," said the swarthy trooper, as they drew rein and
proceeded up a steep ascent at a walk, "that ye're no' sae pleased as ye
might be wi' the wark we hae on hand."
"Pleased!" exclaimed the youth, whose tone and speech seemed to indicate
him an Englishman, "how can I be pleased when all I have been called on
to do since I enlisted has been to aid and abet in robbery, cruelty, and
murder? I honour loyalty and detest rebellion as much as any man in the
troop, but if I had known what I now know I would never have joined
you."
Glendinning gazed at his companion in amazement. Having been absent on
detached service when Will Wallace had joined--about three weeks
previously--he was ignorant both as to his character and his recent
experiences. He had chosen him on the present occasion simply on
account of his youth and magnificent physique.
"I doot I've made a mistake in choosin' _you_," said Glendinning with
some asperity, after a few moments, "but it's ower late noo to
rectifee't. What ails ye, lad? What hae ye seen?"
"I have seen what I did not believe possible," answered the other with
suppressed feeling. "I have seen a little boy tortured with the
thumbscrews, pricked with bayonets, and otherwise inhumanly treated
because he would not, or could not, tell where his father was. I have
seen a man hung up to a beam by his thumbs because he would not give up
money which perhaps he did not possess. I have seen a woman tortured by
having lighted matches put between her fingers because she would not, or
could not, tell where a conventicle was being held. I did not, indeed,
see the last deed actually done, else would I have cut down the coward
who did it. The poor thing had fainted and the torture was over when I
came upon them. Only two days ago I was ordered out with a party who
pillaged the house of a farmer because he refused to take an oath of
allegiance, which seems to have been purposely so worded as to make
those who take it virtually bondslaves to the King, and which makes him
master of the lives, properties, and consciences of his subjects--and
all this done in the King's name and by the King's troops!"
"An' what pairt did _you_ tak' in these doin's?" asked Glendinning with
some curiosity.
"I did my best to restrain my comrades, and when they were burning the
hayricks, throwing the meal on the dunghill, and wrecking the property
of the farmer, I cut the cords with which they had bound the poor fellow
to his chair and let him go free."
"Did onybody see you do that?"
"I believe not; though I should not have cared if they had. I'm
thoroughly disgusted with the service. I know little or nothing of the
principles of these rebels--these fanatics, as you call them--but
tyranny or injustice I cannot stand, whether practised by a king or a
beggar, and I am resolved to have nothing more to do with such fiendish
work."
"Young man," said the swarthy comrade in a voice of considerable
solemnity, "ye hae obviously mista'en your callin'. If you werena new
to thae pairts, ye would ken that the things ye objec' to are quite
common. Punishin' an' harryin' the rebels and fanatics--_Covenanters_,
they ca' theirsels--has been gaun on for years ower a' the land. In my
opeenion it's weel deserved, an' naething that ye can do or say wull
prevent it, though what ye do an' say is no' unlikely to cut short yer
ain career by means o' a rope roond yer thrapple. But losh! man, I
wonder ye haena heard about thae matters afore now."
"My having spent the last few years of my life in an out-of-the-way part
of Ireland may account for that," said Wallace. "My father's recent
death obliged my mother to give up her farm and return to her native
town of Lanark, where she now lives with a brother. Poverty and the
urgency of a cousin have induced me, unfortunately, to take service with
the dragoons."
"After what ye've said, hoo am I to coont on yer helpin' me e'noo?"
asked Glendinning.
"As long as I wear the King's uniform you may count on my obeying orders
unless I am commanded to break the plainest laws of God," answered the
young man. "As our present business is only to discover the cottage of
Andrew Black, there seems likely to be no difficulty between us just
now."
"H'm! I'm no' sure o' that; but if ye'll tak' my advice, lad, ye'll
haud yer tongue aboot thae matters. If Clavers heard the half o' what
ye've said to me, he'd send ye into the next warl' withoot gieing ye
time to say yer prayers. Freedom of speech is no permitted at the
present time in Scotland--unless it be the right kind of speech, and--"
He stopped, for at that moment two young girls suddenly appeared at a
bend of the road in front of them. They gazed for a moment at the
soldiers in evident surprise, and then turned as if to fly, but
Glendinning put spurs to his horse and was beside them in a moment.
Leaping to the ground, he seized the girls roughly by their arms as they
clung together in alarm. One of the two was a dark-eyed little child.
The other was fair, unusually pretty, and apparently about fifteen or
sixteen years of age.
The trooper proceeded to question them sharply.
"Be gentle," said Will Wallace sternly, as he rode up, and, also
dismounting, stood beside them. "No fear of their running away now."
The swarthy trooper pretended not to hear, but nevertheless relaxed his
grip and merely rested his hand upon the fair girl's shoulder as he said
to the other--
"Now, my wee doo, ye canna be far frae hame, I's be sworn. What's yer
name?"
"Aggie Wilson," answered the child at once.
"And yours?"
"Jean Black," replied the blonde timidly.
"Oho! an' yer faither's name is Andrew, an' his hoose is close by, I'll
be bound, so ye'll be guid eneuch to show us the way till't. But first,
my bonny lass, ye'll gie me a--"
Slipping his arm round the waist of the terrified blonde, the trooper
rudely attempted to terminate his sentence in a practical manner; but
before his lips could touch her face he received a blow from his comrade
that sent him staggering against a neighbouring tree.
Blazing with astonishment and wrath, Glendinning drew his sword and
sprang at his companion, who, already full of indignation at the memory
of what he had been so recently compelled to witness, could ill brook
the indignity thus offered to the defenceless girl. His weapon flashed
from its sheath on the instant, and for a few moments the two men cut
and thrust at each other with savage ferocity. Wallace, however, was
too young and unused to mortal strife to contemplate with indifference
the possibility of shedding the blood of a comrade. Quickly recovering
himself, he stood entirely on the defensive, which his vigorous activity
enabled him easily to do. Burning under the insult he had received,
Glendinning felt no such compunctions. He pushed his adversary
fiercely, and made a lunge at last which not only passed the sword
through the left sleeve of the youth's coat, but slightly wounded his
arm. Roused to uncontrollable anger by this, Will Wallace fetched his
opponent a blow so powerful that it beat down his guard, rang like a
hammer on his iron headpiece, and fairly hurled the man into the ditch
at the roadside.
Somewhat alarmed at this sudden result, the youth hastily pulled him
out, and, kneeling beside him, anxiously examined his head. Much to his
relief he found that there was no wound at all, and that the man was
only stunned. After the examination, Wallace observed that the girls
had taken advantage of the fray to make their escape.
Indignation and anger having by that time evaporated, and his judgment
having become cool, Wallace began gradually to appreciate his true
position, and to feel exceedingly uncomfortable. He had recklessly
expressed opinions and confessed to actions which would of themselves
ensure his being disgraced and cast into prison, if not worse; he had
almost killed one of his own comrades, and had helped two girls to
escape who could probably have assisted in the accomplishment of the
duty on which they had been despatched. His case, he suddenly
perceived, was hopeless, and he felt that he was a lost man.
Will Wallace was quick of thought and prompt in action. Carefully
disposing the limbs of his fallen comrade, and resting his head
comfortably on a grassy bank, he cast a hurried glance around him.
On his left hand and behind him lay the rich belt of woodland that
marked the courses of the rivers Cluden and Cairn. In front stretched
the moors and hills of the ancient district of Galloway, at that time
given over to the tender mercies of Graham of Claverhouse. Beside him
stood the two patient troop-horses, gazing quietly at the prostrate man,
as if in mild surprise at his unusual stillness.
Beyond this he could not see with the physical eye; but with the mental
orb he saw a dark vista of ruined character, blighted hopes, and dismal
prospects. The vision sufficed to fix his decision. Quietly, like a
warrior's wraith, he sheathed his sword and betook himself to the covert
of the peat-morass and the heather hill.
He was not the first good man and true who had sought the same shelter.
At the time of which we write Scotland had for many years been in a
woeful plight--with tyranny draining her life-blood, cupidity grasping
her wealth, hypocrisy and bigotry misconstruing her motives and
falsifying her character. Charles the Second filled the throne.
Unprincipled men, alike in Church and State, made use of their position
and power to gain their own ends and enslave the people. The King,
determined to root out Presbytery from Scotland, as less subservient to
his despotic aims, and forcibly to impose Prelacy on her as a
stepping-stone to Popery, had no difficulty in finding ecclesiastical
and courtly bravos to carry out his designs; and for a long series of
dismal years persecution stalked red-handed through the land.
Happily for the well-being of future generations, our covenanting
forefathers stood their ground with Christian heroism, for both civil
and religious liberty were involved in the struggle. Their so-called
fanaticism consisted in a refusal to give up the worship of God after
the manner dictated by conscience and practised by their forefathers; in
declining to attend the ministry of the ignorant, and too often vicious,
curates forced upon them; and in refusing to take the oath of allegiance
just referred to by Will Wallace.
Conventicles, as they were called--or the gathering together of
Christians in houses and barns, or on the hillsides, to worship God--
were illegally pronounced illegal by the King and Council; and
disobedience to the tyrannous law was punished with imprisonment,
torture, confiscation of property, and death. To enforce these
penalties the greater part of Scotland--especially the south and west--
was overrun by troops, and treated as if it were a conquered country.
The people--holding that in some matters it is incumbent to "obey God
rather than man," and that they were bound "not to forsake the
assembling of themselves together"--resolved to set the intolerable law
at defiance, and went armed to the hill-meetings.
They took up arms at first, however, chiefly, if not solely, to protect
themselves from a licentious soldiery, who went about devastating the
land, not scrupling to rob and insult helpless women and children, and
to shed innocent blood. Our Scottish forefathers, believing--in common
with the lower animals and lowest savages--that it was a duty to defend
their females and little ones, naturally availed themselves of the best
means of doing so.
About this time a meeting, or conventicle, of considerable importance
was appointed to be held among the secluded hills in the neighbourhood
of Irongray; and Andrew Black, the farmer, was chosen to select the
particular spot, and make the preliminary arrangements.
Now this man Black is not easily described, for his was a curiously
compound character. To a heart saturated with the milk of human
kindness was united a will more inflexible, if possible, than that of a
Mexican mule; a frame of Herculean mould, and a spirit in which profound
gravity and reverence waged incessant warfare with a keen appreciation
of the ludicrous. Peacefully inclined in disposition, with a tendency
to believe well of all men, and somewhat free and easy in the formation
of his opinions, he was very unwilling to resist authority; but the love
of truth and justice was stronger within him than the love of peace.
In company with his shepherd, Quentin Dick--a man of nearly his own size
and build--Andrew Black proceeded to a secluded hollow in Skeoch Hill to
gather and place in order the masses of rock which were to form the
seats of the communicants at the contemplated religious gathering--which
seats remain to this day in the position they occupied at that time, and
are familiarly known in the district as "the Communion stones of
Irongray."
CHAPTER TWO.
THE "FANATIC" AND THE "SPY."
The night was dark and threatening when Andrew Black and his shepherd
left their cottage, and quickly but quietly made for the neighbouring
hill. The weather was well suited for deeds of secrecy, for gusts of
wind, with an occasional spattering of rain, swept along the hill-face,
and driving clouds obscured the moon, which was then in its first
quarter.
At first the two men were obliged to walk with care, for the light was
barely sufficient to enable them to distinguish the sheep-track which
they followed, and the few words they found it necessary to speak were
uttered in subdued tones. Jean Black and her cousin Aggie Wilson had
reported their _rencontre_ with the two dragoons, and Quentin Dick had
himself seen the main body of the troops from behind a heather bush on
his way back to the farm, therefore caution was advisable. But as they
climbed Skeoch Hill, and the moon shed a few feeble rays on their path,
they began to converse more freely. For a few minutes their intercourse
related chiefly to sheep and the work of the farm, for both Andrew and
his man were of that sedate, imperturbable nature which is not easily
thrown off its balance by excitement or danger. Then their thoughts
turned to the business in hand.
"Nae fear o' the sodgers comin' here on a nicht like this," remarked
Andrew, as a squall nearly swept the blue bonnet off his head.
"Maybe no," growled Quentin Dick sternly, "but I've heard frae Tam
Chanter that servants o' that Papist Earl o' Nithsdale, an' o' the
scoondrel Sir Robert Dalziel, hae been seen pokin' their noses aboot at
Irongray. If they git wund o' the place, we're no likely to hae a quiet
time o't. Did ye say that the sodgers ill-used the bairns?"
"Na!--ane o' them was inclined to be impident, but the ither, a
guid-lookin' young felly, accordin' to Jean, took their pairt an'
quarrelled wi' his comrade, sae that they cam to loggerheeds at last,
but what was the upshot naebody kens, for the bairns took to their heels
an' left them fechtin'."
"An' what if they sud fin' yer hoose an' the bairns unproteckit?" asked
the shepherd.
"They're no likely to fin' the hoose in a nicht like this, man; an' if
they do, they'll fin' naebody but Ramblin' Peter there, for I gied the
lassies an' the women strick orders to tak' to the hidy-hole at the
first soond o' horses' feet."
By this time the men had reached a secluded hollow in the hill, so
completely enclosed as to be screened from observation on all sides.
They halted here a few moments, for two dark forms were seen in the
uncertain light to be moving about just in front of them.
"It's them," whispered Andrew.
"Whae?" asked the shepherd.
"Alexander McCubine an' Edward Gordon."
"Guid an' safe men baith," responded Quentin; "ye better gie them a
cry."
Andrew did so by imitating the cry of a plover. It was replied to at
once.
"The stanes are big, ye see," explained Andrew, while the two men were
approaching. "It'll tak' the strength o' the fowr o' us to lift some o'
them."
"We've got the cairn aboot finished," said McCubine as he came up. He
spoke in a low voice, for although there was no probability of any one
being near, they were so accustomed to expect danger because of the
innumerable enemies who swarmed about the country, that caution had
almost become a second nature.
Without further converse the four men set to work in silence. They
completed a circular heap, or cairn, of stones three or four feet high,
and levelled the top thereof to serve as a table or a pulpit at the
approaching assembly. In front of this, and stretching towards a
sloping brae, they arranged four rows of very large stones to serve as
seats for the communicants, with a few larger stones between them, as if
for the support of rude tables of plank. It took several hours to
complete the work. When it was done Andrew Black surveyed it with
complacency, and gave it as his opinion that it was a "braw kirk,
capable o' accommodatin' a congregation o' some thoosands, mair or
less." Then the two men, Gordon and McCubine, bidding him and the
shepherd good-night, went away into the darkness from which they had
emerged.
"Whar'll they be sleepin' the nicht?" asked the shepherd, as he and
Andrew turned homeward.
"I' the peat-bog, I doot, for I daurna tak' them hame whan the dragoons
is likely to gie us a ca'; besides, the hidy-hole wull be ower fu' soon.
Noo, lad," he added, as they surmounted a hillock, from which they had
a dim view of the surrounding country, "gang ye doon an' see if ye can
fin' oot onything mair aboot thae sodgers. I'll awa' hame an see that
a's right there."
They parted, the shepherd turning sharp off to the right, while the
farmer descended towards his cottage. He had not advanced above half
the distance when an object a little to the left of his path induced him
to stop. It resembled a round stone, and was too small to have
attracted the attention of any eye save one which was familiar with
every bush and stone on the ground. Grasping a stout thorn stick which
he carried, Andrew advanced towards the object in question with catlike
caution until quite close to it, when he discovered that it was the head
of a man who was sleeping soundly under a whin-bush. A closer
inspection showed that the man wore an iron headpiece, a soldier's coat,
and huge jack-boots.
"A dragoon and a spy!" thought Andrew, while he raised his cudgel, the
only weapon he carried, and frowned. But Andrew was a merciful man; he
could not bring himself to strike a sleeping man, even though waking him
might entail a doubtful conflict, for he could see that the trooper's
hand grasped the hilt of his naked sword. For a few moments he surveyed
the sleeper, as if calculating his chances, then he quietly dropped his
plaid, took off his coat, and untying his neckcloth, laid it carefully
on one side over a bush. Having made these preparations, he knelt
beside Will Wallace--for it was he--and grasped him firmly by the throat
with both hands.
As might have been expected, the young trooper attempted to spring up,
and tried to use his weapon; but, finding this to be impossible at such
close quarters, he dropped it, and grappled the farmer with all his
might; but Andrew, holding on to him like a vice, placed his knee upon
his chest and held him firmly down.
"It's o' nae manner o' use to strive, ye see," said Andrew, relaxing his
grip a little; "I've gotten ye, an' if ye like to do my biddin' I'll no
be hard on ye."
"If you will let me rise and stand before me in fair fight, I'll do your
business if not your bidding," returned Wallace in a tone of what may be
termed stern sulkiness.
"Div ye think it's likely I'll staund before you in fair fecht, as you
ca'd--you wi' a swurd, and me wi' a bit stick, my lad? Na, na, ye'll
hae to submit, little though ye like it."
"Give me the stick, then, and take you the sword, I shall be content,"
said the indignant trooper, making another violent but unsuccessful
effort to free himself.
"It's a fair offer," said Andrew, when he had subdued the poor youth a
second time, "an' reflec's favourably on yer courage, but I'm a man o'
peace, an' have no thirst for bloodshed--whilk is more than ye can say,
young man; but if ye'll let me tie yer hands thegither, an' gang
peaceably hame wi' me, I's promise that nae mischief'll befa' ye."
"No man shall ever tie my hands together as long as there is life in my
body," replied the youth.
"Stop, stop, callant!" exclaimed Andrew, as Will was about to renew the
struggle. "The pride o' youth is awful. Hear what I've gotten to say
to ye, man, or I'll hae to throttle ye ootright. It'll come to the same
thing if ye'll alloo me to tie ane o' _my_ hands to ane o' yours. Ye
canna objec' to that, surely, for I'll be your prisoner as muckle as
you'll be mine--and that'll be fair play, for we'll leave the swurd
lyin' on the brae to keep the bit stick company."
"Well, I agree to that," said Wallace, in a tone that indicated surprise
with a dash of amusement.
"An' ye promise no' to try to get away when you're tied to--when _I'm_
tied to _you_?"
"I promise."
Hereupon the farmer, reaching out his hand, picked up the black silk
neckcloth which he had laid aside, and with it firmly bound his own left
wrist to the right wrist of his captive, talking in a grave, subdued
tone as he did so.
"Nae doot the promise o' a spy is hardly to be lippened to, but if I
find that ye're a dishonourable man, ye'll find that I'm an
uncomfortable prisoner to be tied to. Noo, git up, lad, an' we'll gang
hame thegither."
On rising, the first thing the trooper did was to turn and take a steady
look at the man who had captured him in this singular manner.
"Weel, what d'ye think o' me?" asked Andrew, with what may be termed a
grave smile.
"If you want to know my true opinion," returned Wallace, "I should say
that I would not have thought, from the look of you, that you could have
taken mean advantage of a sleeping foe."
"Ay--an' I would not have thought, from the look o' _you_," retorted
Andrew, "that ye could hae sell't yersel' to gang skulkin' aboot the
hills as a spy upon the puir craters that are only seekin' to worship
their Maker in peace."
Without further remark Andrew Black, leaving his coat and plaid to keep
company with the sword and stick, led his prisoner down the hill.
Andrew's cottage occupied a slight hollow on the hillside, which
concealed it from every point of the compass save the high ground above
it. Leading the trooper up to the door, he tapped gently, and was
promptly admitted by some one whom Wallace could not discern, as the
interior was dark.
"Oh, Uncle Andrew! I'm glad ye've come, for Peter hasna come back yet,
an' I'm feared somethin' has come ower him."
"Strike a light, lassie. I've gotten haud o' a spy here, an' canna weel
do't mysel'."
When a light was procured and held up, it revealed the pretty face of
Jean Black, which underwent a wondrous change when she beheld the face
of the prisoner.
"Uncle Andrew!" she exclaimed, "this is nae spy. He's the man that cam'
to the help o' Aggie an' me against the dragoon."
"Is that sae?" said Black, turning a look of surprise on his prisoner.
"It is true, indeed, that I had the good fortune to protect Jean and her
friend from an insolent comrade," answered Wallace; "and it is also true
that that act has been partly the cause of my deserting to the hills,
being starved for a day and a night, and taken prisoner now as a spy."
"Sir," said Andrew, hastily untying the kerchief that bound them
together, "I humbly ask your pardon. Moreover, it's my opeenion that if
ye hadna been starvin' ye wadna have been here 'e noo, for ye're
uncommon teuch. Rin, lassie, an' fetch some breed an' cheese. Whar's
Marion an' Is'b'l?"
"They went out to seek for Peter," said Jean, as she hastened to obey
her uncle's mandate.
At that moment a loud knocking was heard at the door, and the voice of
Marion, one of the maid-servants, was heard outside. On the door being
opened, she and her companion Isabel burst in with excited looks and the
information, pantingly given, that the "sodgers were comin'."
"Haud yer noise, lassie, an' licht the fire--pit on the parritch pat.
Come, Peter, let's hear a' aboot it."
Ramblin' Peter, who had been thus named because of his inveterate
tendency to range over the neighbouring hills, was a quiet, undersized,
said-to-be weak-minded boy of sixteen years, though he looked little
more than fourteen. No excitement whatever ruffled his placid
countenance as he gave his report--to the effect that a party of
dragoons had been seen by him not half an hour before, searching
evidently for his master's cottage.
"They'll soon find it," said the farmer, turning quickly to his
domestics--"Away wi' ye, lassies, and hide."
The two servant-girls, with Jean and her cousin Aggie Wilson, ran at
once into an inner room and shut the door. Ramblin' Peter sat stolidly
down beside the fire and calmly stirred the porridge-pot, which was
nearly full of the substantial Scottish fare.
"Noo, sir," said Black, turning to Will Wallace, who had stood quietly
watching the various actors in the scene just described, "yer
comrades'll be here in a wee while. May I ask what ye expect?"
"I expect to be imprisoned at the least, more probably shot."
"Hm! pleasant expectations for a young man, nae doot. I'm sorry that
it's oot o' my power to stop an' see the fun, for the sodgers have
strange suspicions aboot me, so I'm forced to mak' mysel' scarce an'
leave Ramblin' Peter to do the hospitalities o' the hoose. But before I
gang awa' I wad fain repay ye for the guid turn ye did to my bairns. If
ye are willin' to shut yer eyes an' do what I tell ye, I'll put you in a
place o' safety."
"Thank you, Mr. Black," returned Wallace; "of course I shall only be too
glad to escape from the consequences of my unfortunate position; but do
not misunderstand me: although neither a spy nor a Covenantor I am a
loyal subject, and would not now be a deserter if that character had not
been forced upon me, first by the brutality of the soldiers with whom I
was banded, and then by the insolence of my comrade-in-arms to your
daughter--"
"Niece; niece," interrupted Black; "I wish she _was_ my dauchter, bless
her bonny face! Niver fear, sir, I've nae doot o' yer loyalty, though
you an' yer freends misdoot mine. I claim to be as loyal as the best o'
ye, but there's nae dictionary in _this_ warld that defines loyalty to
be slavish submission o' body an' sowl to a tyrant that fears naether
God nor man. The quastion noo is, Div ye want to escape and wull ye
trust me?"
The sound of horses galloping in the distance tended to quicken the
young trooper's decision. He submitted to be blindfolded by his captor.
"Noo, Peter," said Andrew, as he was about to lead Wallace away, "ye ken
what to dae. Gie them plenty to eat; show them the rum bottle, let them
hae the rin o' the hoose, an' say that I bade ye treat them weel."
"Ay," was Ramblin' Peter's laconic reply.
Leading his captive out at the door, round the house, and re-entering by
a back door, apparently with no other end in view than to bewilder him,
Andrew went into a dark room, opened some sort of door--to enter which
the trooper had to stoop low--and conducted him down a steep, narrow
staircase.
The horsemen meanwhile had found the cottage and were heard at that
moment tramping about in front, and thundering on the door for
admittance.
Wallace fancied that the door which closed behind him must be of amazing
thickness, for it shut out almost completely the sounds referred to.
On reaching the foot of the staircase, and having the napkin removed
from his eyes, he found himself in a long, low, vaulted chamber. There
was no one in it save his guide and a venerable man who sat beside a
deal table, reading a document by the light of a tallow candle stuck in
the mouth of a black bottle.
The soldiers, meanwhile, having been admitted by Ramblin' Peter,
proceeded to question that worthy as to Andrew Black and his household.
Not being satisfied of the truth of his replies they proceeded to apply
torture in order to extract confession. It was the first time that this
mode of obtaining information had been used in Black's cottage, and it
failed entirely, for Ramblin' Peter was staunch, and, although inhumanly
thrashed and probed with sword-points, the poor lad remained dumb,
insomuch that the soldiers at length set him down as an idiot, for he
did not even cry out in his agonies--excepting in a curious,
half-stifled manner--because he knew well that if his master were made
aware by his cries of what was going on he would be sure to hasten to
the rescue at the risk of his life.
Having devoured the porridge, drunk the rum, and destroyed a
considerable amount of the farmer's produce, the lawless troopers, who
seemed to be hurried in their proceedings at that time, finally left the
place.
About the time that these events were taking place in and around Black's
cottage, bands of armed men with women and even children were hastening
towards the same locality to attend the great "conventicle," for which
the preparations already described were being made.
The immediate occasion of the meeting was the desire of the parishioners
of the Reverend John Welsh, a great-grandson of John Knox, to make
public avowal, at the Communion Table, of their fidelity to Christ and
their attachment to the minister who had been expelled from the church
of Irongray; but strong sympathy induced many others to attend, not only
from all parts of Galloway and Nithsdale, but from the distant Clyde,
the shores of the Forth, and elsewhere; so that the roads were crowded
with people making for the rendezvous--some on foot, others on
horseback. Many of the latter were gentlemen of means and position,
who, as well as their retainers, were more or less well armed and
mounted. The Reverend John Blackadder, the "auld" minister of
Troqueer--a noted hero of the Covenant, who afterwards died a prisoner
on the Bass Rock--travelled with his party all the way from Edinburgh,
and a company of eighty horse proceeded to the meeting from Clydesdale.
Preliminary services, conducted by Mr. Blackadder and Mr. Welsh, were
held near Dumfries on the Saturday, but at these the place of meeting on
the Sabbath was only vaguely announced as "a hillside in Irongray," so
anxious were they to escape being disturbed by their enemies, and the
secret was kept so well that when the Sabbath arrived a congregation of
above three thousand had assembled round the Communion stones in the
hollow of Skeoch Hill.
Sentinels were posted on all the surrounding heights. One of these
sentinels was the farmer Andrew Black, with a cavalry sword belted to
his waist, and a rusty musket on his shoulder. Beside him stood a tall
stalwart youth in shepherd's costume.
"Yer ain mother wadna ken ye," remarked Andrew with a twinkle in his
eyes.
"I doubt that," replied the youth; "a mother's eyes are keen. I should
not like to encounter even Glendinning in my present guise."
As he spoke the rich melody of the opening psalm burst from the great
congregation and rolled in softened cadence towards the sentinels.
CHAPTER THREE.
THE TRUE AND THE FALSE AT WORK.
The face of nature did not seem propitious to the great gathering on
Skeoch Hill. Inky clouds rolled athwart the leaden sky, threatening a
deluge of rain, and fitful gusts of wind seemed to indicate the approach
of a tempest. Nevertheless the elements were held in check by the God
of nature, so that the solemn services of the day were conducted to a
close without discomfort, though not altogether without interruption.
Several of the most eminent ministers, who had been expelled from their
charges, were present on this occasion. Besides John Welsh of Irongray,
there were Arnot of Tongland, Blackadder of Troqueer, and Dickson of
Rutherglen--godly men who had for many years suffered persecution and
imprisonment, and were ready to lay down their lives in defence of
religious liberty. The price set upon the head of that "notour traitor,
Mr. John Welsh," dead or alive, was 9000 merks. Mr. Arnot was valued at
3000!
These preached and assisted at different parts of the services, while
the vast multitude sat on the sloping hillside, and the mounted men drew
up on the outskirts of the congregation, so as to be within sound of the
preachers' voices, and, at the same time, be ready for action on the
defensive if enemies should appear.
Andrew Black and his companion stood for some time listening, with bowed
heads, to the slow sweet music that floated towards them. They were too
far distant to hear the words of prayer that followed, yet they
continued to stand in reverent silence for some time, listening to the
sound--Black with his eyes closed, his young companion gazing wistfully
at the distant landscape, which, from the elevated position on which
they stood, lay like a magnificent panorama spread out before them. On
the left the level lands bordering the rivers Cairn and Nith stretched
away to the Solway, with the Cumberland mountains in the extreme
distance; in front and on the right lay the wild, romantic hill-country
of which, in after years, it was so beautifully written:--
"O bonnie hills of Galloway oft have I stood to see,
At sunset hour, your shadows fall, all darkening on the lea;
While visions of the buried years came o'er me in their might--
As phantoms of the sepulchre--instinct with inward light!
The years, the years when Scotland groaned beneath her tyrant's hand!
And 'twas not for the heather she was called `the purple land.'
And 'twas not for her _loveliness_ her children blessed their God--
_But for secret places of the hills, and the mountain heights_
_untrod_."
"Who was the old man I found in what you call your hidy-hole?" asked
Wallace, turning suddenly to his companion.
"I'm no' sure that I have a right to answer that," said Black, regarding
Will with a half-serious, half-amused look. "Hooever, noo that ye've
ta'en service wi' me, and ken about my hidy-hole, I suppose I may trust
ye wi' a' my secrets."
"I would not press you to reveal any secrets, Mr. Black, yet I think you
are safe to trust me, seeing that you know enough about my own secrets
to bring me to the gallows if so disposed."
"Ay, I hae ye there, lad! But I'll trust ye on better grunds than that.
I believe ye to be an honest man, and that's enough for me. Weel, ye
maun ken, it's saxteen year since I howkit the hidy-hole below my hoose,
an' wad ye believe it?--they've no fund it oot yet! Not even had a
suspeecion o't, though the sodgers hae been sair puzzled, mony a time,
aboot hoo I managed to gie them the slip. An' mony's the puir body,
baith gentle and simple, that I've gien food an' shelter to whae was
very likely to hae perished o' cauld an' hunger, but for the hidy-hole.
Among ithers I've often had the persecuited ministers doon there,
readin' their Bibles or sleepin' as comfortable as ye like when the
dragoons was drinkin', roarin', an' singin' like deevils ower their
heids. My certies! if Clavers, or Sherp, or Lauderdale had an inklin'
o' the hunderd pairt o' the law-brekin' that I've done, it's a gallows
in the Gressmarkit as high as Haman's wad be ereckit for me, an' my heed
an' hauns, may be, would be bleachin' on the Nether Bow. Humph! but
they've no' gotten me yet!"
"And I sincerely hope they never will," remarked Wallace; "but you have
not yet told me the name of the old man."
"I was comin' to him," continued Black; "but wheniver I wander to the
doin's o' that black-hearted Cooncil, I'm like to lose the threed o' my
discoorse. Yon is a great man i' the Kirk o' Scotland. They ca' him
Donald Cargill. The adventures that puir man has had in the coorse o'
mair nor quarter o' a century wad mak' a grand story-buik. He has no
fear o' man, an' he's an awfu' stickler for justice. I'se warrant he
gied ye some strang condemnations o' the poors that be."
"Indeed he did not," said Wallace. "Surely you misjudge his character.
His converse with me was entirely religious, and his chief anxiety
seemed to be to impress on me the love of God in sending Jesus Christ to
redeem a wicked world from sin. I tried to turn the conversation on the
state of the times, but he gently turned it round again to the
importance of being at peace with God, and giving heed to the condition
of my own soul. He became at last so personal that I did not quite like
it. Yet he was so earnest and kind that I could not take offence."
"Ay, ay," said Black in a musing tone, "I see. He clearly thinks that
yer he'rt needs mair instruction than yer heed. Hm! maybe he's right.
Hooever, he's a wonderfu' man; gangs aboot the country preachin'
everywhere altho' he kens that the sodgers are aye on the look-oot for
him, an' that if they catch him it's certain death. He wad have been at
this communion nae doot, if he hadna engaged to preach somewhere near
Sanquhar this vera day."
"Then he has left the hidy-hole by this time, I suppose?"
"Ye may be sure o' that, for when there is work to be done for the
Master, Donal' Cargill doesna let the gress grow under his feet."
"I'm sorry that I shall not see him again," returned the ex-trooper in a
tone of regret, "for I like him much."
Now, while this conversation was going on, a portion of the troop of
dragoons which had been out in search of Andrew Black was sent under
Glendinning (now a sergeant) in quest of an aged couple named Mitchell,
who were reported to have entertained intercommuned, iúeú outlawed,
persons; attended conventicles in the fields; ventured to have family
worship in their cottages while a few neighbours were present, and to
have otherwise broken the laws of the Secret Council.
This Council, which was ruled by two monsters in human form, namely,
Archbishop Sharp of Saint Andrews and the Duke of Lauderdale, having
obtained full powers from King Charles the Second to put down
conventicles and enforce the laws against the fanatics with the utmost
possible rigour, had proceeded to carry out their mission by inviting a
host of half, if not quite, savage Highlanders to assist them in
quelling the people. This host, numbering, with 2000 regulars and
militia, about 10,000 men, eagerly accepted the invitation, and was let
loose on the south and western districts of Scotland about the beginning
of the year, and for some time ravaged and pillaged the land as if it
had been an enemy's country. They were thanked by the King for so
readily agreeing to assist in reducing the Covenanters to obedience to
"Us and Our laws," and were told to take up free quarters among the
disaffected, to disarm such persons as they should suspect, to carry
with them instruments of torture wherewith to subdue the refractory, and
in short to act very much in accordance with the promptings of their own
desires. Evidently the mission suited these men admirably, for they
treated all parties as disaffected, with great impartiality, and
plundered, tortured, and insulted to such an extent that after about
three months of unresisted depredation, the shame of the thing became so
obvious that Government was compelled to send them home again. They had
accomplished nothing in the way of bringing the Covenanters to reason;
but they had desolated a fair region of Scotland, spilt much innocent
blood, ruined many families, and returned to their native hills heavily
laden with booty of every kind like a victorious army. It is said that
the losses caused by them in the county of Ayr alone amounted to over
11,000 pounds sterling.
The failure of this horde did not in the least check the proceedings of
Sharp or Lauderdale or their like-minded colleagues. They kept the
regular troops and militia moving about the land, enforcing their
idiotical and wicked laws at the point of the sword. We say idiotical
advisedly, for what could give stronger evidence of mental incapacity
than the attempt to enforce a bond upon all landed proprietors, obliging
themselves and their wives, children, and servants, as well as all their
tenants and cottars, with their wives, children, and servants, to
abstain from conventicles, and not to receive, assist, or even speak to,
any forfeited persons, intercommuned ministers, or vagrant preachers,
but to use their utmost endeavours to apprehend all such? Those who
took this bond were to receive an assurance that the troops should not
be quartered on their lands--a matter of considerable importance--for
this quartering involved great expense and much destruction of property
in most cases, and absolute ruin in some.
After the battle of the Pentland Hills (in 1666), in which the
Covenanters, driven to desperation, made an unsuccessful effort to throw
off the tyrannical yoke, severer laws were enacted against them. Their
wily persecutor, also being well aware of the evil influence of
disagreement among men, threw a bone of contention among them in the
shape of royal acts of _Indulgence_, as they were styled, by which a
certain number of the ejected ministers were permitted to preach on
certain conditions, but only within their own parishes. To preach at a
separate meeting in a private house subjected the minister to a fine of
5000 merks (about 278 pounds). To preach in the fields was to incur the
penalty of death and confiscation of property. And these arbitrary laws
were not merely enacted for intimidation. They were rigorously
enforced. The curates in many cases became mere spies and Government
informers. Many of the best men in the land laid down their lives
rather than cease to proclaim the Gospel of love and peace and goodwill
in Jesus Christ. Of course their enemies set them down as self-willed
and turbulent fanatics. It has ever been, and ever will be, thus with
men who are indifferent to principle. They will not, as well as cannot,
understand those who are ready to fight, and, if need be, die for truth!
Their unspoken argument seems to be: "You profess to preach peace,
love, submission to authority, etcetera; very good, stand to your
principles. Leave all sorts of carnal fighting to us. Obey us.
Conform humbly to our arrangements, whatever they are, and all will be
well; but dare to show the slightest symptom of restiveness under what
you style our injustice, tyranny, cruelty, etcetera, and we will teach
you the submission which you preach but fail to practise by means of
fire and sword and torture and death!"