exalted ideas about the rights of Royalty, accepted the Indulgence as
being better than nothing, or better than civil war. No doubt, also,
there were a few--neither good men nor true--who accepted it because it
afforded them a loophole of escape from persecution. Similarly, on the
other side, there were good men and true, who, with bolder hearts,
perhaps, and clearer brains, it may be, refused the Indulgence as a
presumptuous enactment, which cut at the roots of both civil and
religious liberty, as implying a right to withhold while it professed to
give, and which, if acquiesced in, would indicate a degree of abject
slavery to man and unfaithfulness to God that might sink Scotland into a
condition little better than that of some eastern nations at the present
day. Thus was the camp of the Covenanters divided. There were also
more subtle divisions, which it is not necessary to mention here, and in
both camps, of course there was an infusion, especially amongst the
young men, of that powerful element--love of excitement and danger for
their own sake, with little if any regard to principle, which goes far
in all ages to neutralise the efforts and hamper the energies of the
wise.
Besides the acts of Indulgence, another and most tyrannical measure,
already mentioned, had been introduced to crush if possible the
Presbyterians. _Letters of intercommuning_ were issued against a great
number of the most distinguished Presbyterians, including several ladies
of note, by which they were proscribed as rebels and cut off from all
society. A price, amounting in some instances to 500 pounbds sterling,
was fixed on their heads, and every person, not excepting their nearest
of kin, was prohibited from conversing with or writing to them, or of
aiding with food, clothes, or any other necessary of life, on pain of
being found guilty of the same crimes as the intercommuned persons.
The natural result of such inhuman laws was that men and women in
hundreds had to flee from their homes and seek refuge among the dens and
caves of the mountains, where many were caught, carried off to prison,
tried, tortured, and executed; while of those who escaped their foes,
numbers perished from cold and hunger, and disease brought on by lying
in damp caves and clefts of the rocks without food or fire in all
weathers. The fines which were exacted for so-called offences tempted
the avarice of the persecutors and tended to keep the torch of
persecution aflame. For example, Sir George Maxwell of Newark was fined
a sum amounting to nearly 8000 pounds sterling for absence from his
Parish Church, attendance at conventicles, and disorderly baptisms--iúeú
for preferring his own minister to the curate in the baptizing of his
children! Hundreds of somewhat similar instances might be given. Up to
the time of which we write (1678) no fewer than 17,000 persons had
suffered for attending field meetings, either by fine, imprisonment, or
death.
Such was the state of matters when the party of dragoons under command
of Sergeant Glendinning rode towards the Mitchells' cottage, which was
not far from Black's farm. The body of soldiers being too small to
venture to interrupt the communion on Skeoch Hill, Glendinning had been
told to wait in the neighbourhood and gather information while his
officer, Captain Houston, went off in search of reinforcements.
"There's the auld sinner himsel'," cried the Sergeant as the party came
in sight of an old, whitehaired man seated on a knoll by the side of the
road. "Hallo! Jock Mitchell, is that you? Come doon here directly, I
want to speak t'ye."
The old man, being stone deaf, and having his back to the road, was not
aware of the presence of the dragoons, and of course took no notice of
the summons.
"D'ye hear!" shouted the Sergeant savagely, for he was ignorant of the
old man's condition.
Still Mitchell did not move. Glendinning, whose disposition seemed to
have been rendered more brutal since his encounter with Wallace, drew a
pistol from his holster and presented it at Mitchell.
"Answer me," he shouted again, "or ye're a deed man."
Mitchell did not move... There was a loud report, and next moment the
poor old man fell dead upon the ground.
It chanced that Ramblin' Peter heard the report, though he did not
witness the terrible result, for he was returning home from the
Mitchells' cottage at the time, after escorting Jean Black and Aggie
Wilson thither. The two girls, having been forbidden to attend the
gathering on Skeoch Hill, had resolved to visit the Mitchells and spend
the Sabbath with them. Peter had accompanied them and spent the greater
part of the day with them, but, feeling the responsibility of his
position as the representative of Andrew Black during his absence, had
at last started for home.
A glance over a rising ground sufficed to make the boy turn sharp round
and take to his heels. He was remarkably swift of foot. A few minutes
brought him to the cottage door, which he burst open.
"The sodgers is comin', grannie!" (He so styled the old woman, though
she was no relation.)
"Did ye see my auld man?"
"No."
"Away wi' ye, bairns," said Mrs. Mitchell quickly but quietly. "Oot by
the back door an' doon the burnside; they'll niver see ye for the
busses."
"But, grannie, we canna leave you here alone," remonstrated Jean with an
anxious look.
"An' I can fecht!" remarked Peter in a low voice, that betrayed neither
fear nor excitement.
"The sodgers can do nae harm to _me_," returned the old woman firmly.
"Do my bidding, bairns. Be aff, I say!"
There was no resisting Mrs. Mitchell's word of command. Hastening out
by the back door just as the troopers came in sight, Peter and his
companions, diving into the shrubbery of the neighbouring streamlet,
made their way to Black's farm by a circuitous route. There the girls
took shelter in the house, locking the door and barring the windows,
while Peter, diverging to the left, made for the hills like a hunted
hare.
Andrew was standing alone at his post when the lithe runner came in
sight. Will Wallace had left him by that time, and was listening
entranced to the fervid exhortations of Dickson of Rutherglen.
"The sodgers!" gasped Peter, as he flung himself down to rest.
"Comin' this way, lad?"
"Na. They're at the Mitchells."
"A' safe at the ferm?" asked Andrew quickly.
"Ay, I saw the lasses into the hoose."
"Rin to the meetin' an' gie the alarm. Tell them to send Wallace an'
Quentin here wi' sax stoot men--weel airmed--an' anither sentry, for I'm
gaun awa'."
Almost before the sentence was finished Ramblin' Peter was up and away,
and soon the alarming cry arose from the assembly, "The dragoons are
upon us!"
Instantly the Clydesdale men mounted and formed to meet the expected
onset. The men of Nithsdale were not slow to follow their example, and
Gordon of Earlstoun, a tried and skilful soldier, put himself at the
head of a large troop of Galloway horse. Four or five companies of
foot, also well armed, got ready for action, and videttes and single
horsemen were sent out to reconnoitre. Thus, in a moment, was this
assembly of worshippers transformed into a band of Christian warriors,
ready to fight and die for their families and liberties.
But the alarm, as it turned out, was a false one. Glendinning, informed
by spies of the nature of the gathering, was much too sagacious a
warrior to oppose his small force to such overwhelming odds. He
contented himself for the present with smaller game.
After continuing in the posture of defence for a considerable time, the
assembly dispersed, those who were defenceless being escorted by armed
parties to the barns and cottages around. As they retired from the
scene the windows of heaven were opened, and the rain, which had been
restrained all day, came down in torrents, and sent the Cairn and Cluden
red and roaring to the sea.
But long before this dispersion took place, Andrew Black, with Quentin
Dick, Will Wallace, Ramblin' Peter, and six sturdy young men, armed with
sword, gun, and pistol, had hurried down the hill to succour the
Mitchells, if need be, and see to the welfare of those who had been left
behind in the farm.
CHAPTER FOUR.
THE HUNTING AND HARRYING DISPLAYED.
Being ignorant, as we have said, of the cruel murder of old Mitchell,
Ramblin' Peter's report had not seriously alarmed Black. He concluded
that the worst the troopers would do would be to rob the poor old couple
of what money they found in their possession, oblige them to take the
Oath of Supremacy, drink the health of King and bishops, and otherwise
insult and plunder them. Knowing the Mitchells intimately, he had no
fear that their opposition would invite severity. Being very fond of
them, however, he resolved, at the risk of his life, to prevent as far
as possible the threatened indignity and plunder.
"They're a douce auld pair," he remarked to Will Wallace as they strode
down the hillside together, "quiet an' peaceable, wi' naething to speak
o' in the way of opeenions--somethin' like mysel'--an' willin' to let-be
for let-be. But since the country has been ower-run by thae Hielanders
an' sodgers, they've had little peace, and the auld man has gie'n them a
heap o' trouble, for he's as deaf as a post. Peter says the pairty o'
dragoons is a sma' ane, so I expect the sight o' us'll scare them away
an' prevent fechtin'."
"It may be so," said Wallace, "and of course I shall not fail you in
this attempt to protect your old friends; but, to tell you the truth, I
don't quite like this readiness on the part of you Covenanters to defy
the laws, however bad they may be, and to attack the King's troops. The
Bible, which you so often quote, inculcates longsuffering and patience."
"Hm! there speaks yer ignorance," returned the farmer with a dash of
cynicism in his tone. "Hoo mony years, think ye, are folk to submit to
tyranny an' wrang an' fierce oppression for nae sin whatever against the
laws o' God or the land? Are twunty, thretty, or forty years no' enough
to warrant oor claim to lang-sufferin'? Does submission to law-brekin'
on the pairt o' Government, an' lang-continued, high-handed oppression
frae King, courtier, an' prelate, accompanied wi' barefaced plunder and
murder--does _that_ no' justifiee oor claim to patience? To a' this the
Covenanters hae submitted for mony weary years withoot rebellion, except
maybe in the metter o' the Pentlands, when a wheen o' us were driven to
desperation. But I understand your feelin's, lad, for I'm a man o'
peace by natur', an' would gladly submit to injustice to keep things
quiet--_if possable_; but some things are _no'_ possable, an' the Bible
itsel' says we're to live peaceably wi' a' men only `as much as in us
lies.'"
The ex-trooper was silent. Although ignorant of the full extent of
maddening persecution to which not merely the Covenanters but the people
of Scotland generally had been subjected, his own limited experience
told him that there was much truth in what his companion said; still,
like all loyal-hearted men, he shrank from the position of antagonism to
Government.
"I agree with you," he said, after a few minutes' thought, "but I have
been born, I suppose, with a profound respect for law and legally
constituted authority."
"Div ye think, lad," returned Black, impressively, "that naebody's been
born wi' a high respec' for law but yersel'? I suppose ye admit that
the King is bound to respec' the law as weel as the people?"
"Of course I do. I am no advocate of despotism."
"Weel then," continued the farmer with energy, "in the year saxteen
forty-ane, an' at ither times, kings an' parliaments hae stamped the
Covenants o' Scotland as bein' pairt o' the law o' this land--whereby
freedom o' conscience an' Presbyterian worship are secured to us a'.
An' here comes Chairles the Second an' breks the law by sendin' that
scoondrel the Duke o' Lauderdale here wi' full poors to dae what he
likes--an' Middleton, a man wi' nae heart an' less conscience, that was
raised up frae naething to be a noble, nae less! My word, nobles are
easy made, but they're no' sae easy unmade! An' this Lauderdale maks a
cooncil wi' Airchbishop Sherp--a traiter and a turncoat--an' a wheen
mair like himsel', and they send sodgers oot ower the land to eat us up
an' cram Prelacy doon oor throats, an' curates into oor poo'pits whether
we wull or no'. An' that though Chairles himsel' signed the Covenant at
the time he was crooned! Ca' ye _that_ law or legally constituted
authority?"
Although deeply excited by this brief recital of his country's wrongs,
Black maintained the quiet expression of feature and tone of voice that
were habitual to him. Further converse on the subject was interrupted
by their arrival at the farm, where they found all right save that Jean
and Aggie were in a state of tearful anxiety about their poor
neighbours.
While the farmer was seeing to the security of his house and its
arrangements, preparatory to continuing the march to the Mitchells'
cottage, the rest of the party stood about the front door conversing.
Will Wallace was contemplating Jean Black with no little admiration, as
she moved about the house. There was something peculiarly attractive
about Jean. A winsome air and native grace, with refinement of manner
unusual in one of her station, would have stamped her with a powerful
species of beauty even if she had not possessed in addition a modest
look and fair young face.
The ex-trooper was questioning, in a dreamy way, whether he had ever
before seen such a pretty and agreeable specimen of girlhood, when he
experienced a shock of surprise on observing that Jean had gone to a
neighbouring spring for water and was making something very like a
signal to him to follow her.
The surprise was mingled with an uncomfortable feeling of regret, for
the action seemed inconsistent with the maiden's natural modesty.
"Forgie me, sir," she said, "for being so bold, but oh! sir, if ye knew
how anxious I am about Uncle Black, ye would understand--he is wanted so
much, an' there's them in the hidy-hole that would fare ill if he was
taken to prison just now. If--ye--would--"
"Well, Jean," said Will, sympathising with the struggle it evidently
cost the girl to speak to him--"don't hesitate to confide in me. What
would you have me do?"
"Only to keep him back frae the sodgers if ye can. He's such an awfu'
man to fecht when he's roosed, that he's sure to kill some o' them if
he's no' killed himsel'. An' it'll be ruin to us a' an' to the
Mitchells too, if--"
She was interrupted at this point by Black himself calling her name.
"Trust me," said Wallace earnestly, "I understand what you wish, and
will do my best to prevent evil."
A grateful look was all the maiden's reply as she hurried away.
Our hero's perplexity as to how this promise was to be fulfilled was,
however, needless, for on reaching the Mitchells' hut it was found that
the troopers had already left the place; but the state of things they
had left behind them was enough to stir deeply the pity and the
indignation of the party.
Everything in confusion--broken furniture, meal and grain scattered on
the floor, open chests and cupboards--told that the legalised brigands
had done their worst. Poor Mrs. Mitchell had objected to nothing that
they said or did or proposed to her. She feebly drank the health of
King and prelates when bidden to do so, and swore whatever test-oaths
they chose to apply to her till they required her to admit that the King
was lord over the kirk and the conscience. Then her spirit fired, and
with a firm voice she declared that no king but Christ should rule over
her kirk or conscience--to which she boldly added that she _had_
attended conventicles, and would do so again!
Having obtained all they wanted, the dragoons went away, leaving the old
woman among the ruins of her home, for they probably did not consider it
worth while carrying off a prisoner who would in all likelihood have
died on the road to prison.
In the midst of all the noise and confusion it had struck the old woman
as strange that they never once asked about her husband. After they had
gone, however, the arrival of two neighbours bearing his dead body
revealed the terrible reason. She uttered no cry when they laid his
corpse on the floor, but sat gazing in horror as if turned to stone.
Thus Black and his friends found her.
She could not be roused to speak, and looked, after a few minutes, like
one who had not realised the truth.
In this state she was conveyed to Black's cottage and handed over to
Jean, whom every one seemed intuitively to regard as her natural
comforter. The poor child led her into her own room, sat down beside
her on the bed, laid the aged head on her sympathetic bosom and sobbed
as if her heart was breaking. But no response came from the old woman,
save that once or twice she looked up feebly and said, "Jean, dear, what
ails ye?"
In the Council Chamber at Edinburgh, Lauderdale, learning on one
occasion that many persons both high and low had refused to take the
bond already referred to, which might well have been styled the bond of
slavery, bared his arm in fury, and, smiting the table with his fist,
swore with a terrific oath that he would "force them to take the bond."
What we have described is a specimen of the manner in which the force
was sometimes applied. The heartless despot and his clerical coadjutors
had still to learn that tyranny has not yet forged the weapon that can
separate man from his God.
"What think ye noo?" asked Andrew Black, turning to Wallace with a quiet
but stern look, after old Mrs. Mitchell had been carried in, "what think
ye _noo_, lad, o' us Covenanters an' oor lack o' lang-sufferin' an' oor
defyin' the laws? Aren't these laws we _ought_ to defy, but havena
properly defied yet, laws illegally made by a perjured King and an
upstart Cooncil?"
"Mr. Black," said the ex-trooper, seizing his companion's hand with an
iron grip, "from this day forward I am with you--heart and soul."
Little did Wallace think, when he came to this decision, that he had
still stronger reason for his course of action than he was aware of at
the moment.
It was night when Mrs. Mitchell was brought into the farm-house, and
preparations were being made for a hasty meal, when Ramblin' Peter came
in with the news that a number of people in the Lanarkshire district had
been intercommuned and driven from their homes--amongst others David
Spence, Will Wallace's uncle, with whom his mother had taken up her
abode.
The distracted looks of poor Wallace on hearing this showed the powerful
effect the news had upon him.
"Keep yersel' quiet, noo," said Black in an encouraging tone, as he took
the youth's arm and led him out of the house. "These are no' times to
let our hearts rin awa wi' oor heids. Yer mither must be looked after;
but i' the meantime let me tell ye that yer uncle Daavid is a douce,
cliver felly, an' fears naething i' this warld. If he did, he wadna be
amang the intercommuned. Be sure he's no' the man to leave his sister
Maggie in trouble. Of course ye'll be wantin' to be aff to look after
her."
"Of course--instantly," said Wallace.
"Na. Ye'll hae yer supper first--an' a guid ain--for ye'll need it.
Have patience, noo, an' listen to me, for I'll do the very best I can
for ye in this strait--an' it's no muckle ye can do for yersel' withoot
help."
There was something so decided yet kindly and reassuring in the farmer's
tone and manner that Wallace felt relieved in spite of his anxieties,
and submitted to his guidance in all things. Black then explained that
he had a friend in Lanark who owed him money on lambs sold to him the
previous year; that he meant to send his man Quentin Dick first to
collect that money, and then proceed to Edinburgh, for the purpose of
making further arrangements there about cattle.
"Noo," continued Black, "I've gotten a mither as weel as you, an' she
lives in the Can'lemaker Raw, close to the Greyfriars' Kirkyaird--where
they signed the Covenants, ye ken. Weel, I wad advise you to gang to
Lanark wi' Quentin, an' when ye find yer mither tak' her to Edinbro' an'
let her live wi' my mither i' the meantime, till we see what the Lord
has in store for this puir persecuted remnant. I'm sorry to pairt wi'
ye, lad, sae unexpectedly, but in thae times, when folk are called on to
pairt wi' their heids unexpectedly, we mauna compleen."
"I'll take your advice gladly," said Wallace. "When will Quentin Dick
be ready to start?"
"In less than an hour. The moon'll be up soon after that. It's o' nae
use startin' on sae dark a nicht till she's up, for ye'll hae to cross
some nasty grund. Noo, lad, though I'm no a minister, my advice to ye
is, to gang doon into the hidy-hole an' pray aboot this matter. Niver
mind the folk ye find there. They're used to prayin'. It's my opeenion
that if there was less preachin' an' mair prayin', we'd be a' the better
for 't. It's a thrawn warld we live in, but we're bound to mak' the
best o't."
Although not much in the habit of engaging in prayer--save at the formal
periods of morning and evening--our ex-trooper was just then in the mood
to take his friend's advice. He retired to the place of refuge under
Black's house, where he found several people who had evidently been at
the communion on Skeoch Hill. These were engaged in earnest
conversation, and took little notice of him as he entered. The place
was very dimly lighted. One end of the low vaulted chamber was involved
in obscurity. Thither the youth went and knelt down. From infancy his
mother had taught him "to say his prayers," and had sought to induce him
to pray. It is probable that the first time he really did so was in
that secret chamber where, in much anxiety of soul, he prayed for
herself.
After a hasty but hearty supper, he and Quentin Dick set out on their
night journey. They carried nothing with them except two wallets,
filled, as Wallace could not help thinking, with a needlessly large
amount of provisions. Of course they were unarmed, for they travelled
in the capacity of peaceful drovers, with plaids on their shoulders, and
the usual staves in their hands.
"One would think we were going to travel for a month in some wilderness,
to judge from the weight of our haversacks," observed Wallace, after
trudging along for some time in silence.
"Maybe we'll be langer than a month," returned Quentin, "ann the
wulderness hereaway is warse than the wulderness that Moses led his folk
through. They had manna there. Mony o' us hae _naething_ here."
Quentin Dick spoke with cynicism in his tone, for he was a stern
straightforward man, on whom injustice told with tremendous power, and
who had not yet been taught by adversity to bow his head to man and
restrain his indignation.
Before Wallace had time to make any rejoinder, something like the
appearance of a group of horsemen in front arrested them. They were
still so far distant as to render their tramp inaudible. Indeed they
could not have been seen at all in so dark a night but for the fact that
in passing over the crest of a hill they were for a moment or two dimly
defined against the sky.
"Dragoons--fowr o' them," muttered Quentin. "We'll step aside here an'
let them gang by."
Clambering up the somewhat rugged side of the road, the two men
concealed themselves among the bushes, intending to wait till the
troopers should pass.
"What can they be doing in this direction, I wonder?" whispered Wallace.
"My freend," answered Quentin, "dinna whisper when ye're hidin'. Of a'
the sounds for attractin' attention an' revealin' secrets a whisper is
the warst. Speak low, if ye maun speak, but sometimes it's wiser no to
speak ava'. Dootless the sodgers'll be giein' Andrew Black a ca', but
he kens brawly hoo to tak' care o' himsel'."
When the horseman approached it was seen that they were driving before
them a boy, or lad, on foot. Evidently they were compelling him to act
as their guide.
"It's Ramblin' Peter they've gotten haud o', as sure as I'm a leevin'
man," said the shepherd with a low chuckle; "I'd ken him amang a
thoosand by the way he rins."
"Shall we not rescue him?" exclaimed Wallace, starting up.
"Wheesht! keep still, man. Nae fear o' Peter. He'll lead them in amang
the bogs o' some peat-moss or ither, gie them the slip there, an' leave
them to find their way oot."
Just as the troop trotted past an incident occurred which disconcerted
the hiders not a little. A dog which the soldiers had with them scented
them, stopped, and after snuffing about for a few seconds, began to bark
furiously. The troop halted at once and challenged.
"Tak' nae notice," remarked Quentin in a low voice, which went no
farther than his comrade's ear.
A bright flash and sharp report followed the challenge, and a ball
whistled through the thicket.
"Ay, fire away," soliloquised Quentin. "Ye seldom hit when ye can see.
It's no' likely ye'll dae muckle better i' the dark."
The dog, however, having discovered the track of the hidden men, rushed
up the bank towards them. The shepherd picked up a stone, and, waiting
till the animal was near enough, flung it with such a true aim that the
dog went howling back to the road. On this a volley from the carbines
of the troopers cut up the bushes all around them.