settled with Bruce. I'm engaged to work at his forge, and have already
begun business."
"So I see, an' ye look business-like," answered the old woman, with a
very slight smile, and a significant glance at our hero's costume.
A considerable change had indeed taken place in the personal appearance
of Will Wallace since his arrival in Edinburgh, for in place of the
shepherd's garb, with which he had started from the "bonnie hills of
Galloway," he wore the leathern apron and other habiliments of a
blacksmith. Moreover his hair had been allowed to grow in luxuriant
natural curls about his head, and as the sun had bronzed him during his
residence with Black, and a young beard and moustache had begun to
assert themselves in premature vigour, his whole aspect was that of a
grand heroic edition of his former self.
"Yes, the moment I told your friend," said Wallace, "that you had sent
me to him, and that I was one of those who had good reason to conceal
myself from observation, he gave me a hearty shake of the hand and
accepted my offer of service; all the more that, having already some
knowledge of his craft, I did not require teaching. So he gave me an
apron and set me to work at once. I came straight from the forge just
as I left off work to see what you would think of my disguise."
"Ye'll do, ye'll do," returned Mrs. Black, with a nod of approval. "Yer
face an' hands need mair washin' than my pussie gies her nose! But
wheesht! I hear a fit on the stair. It'll be Quentin Dick. I sent him
oot for a red herrin' or twa for supper."
As she spoke, Quentin entered with a brown paper parcel, the contents of
which were made patent by means of scent without the aid of sight.
The shepherd seemed a little disconcerted at sight of a stranger, for,
as Wallace stood up, the light did not fall on his face; but a second
glance sufficed to enlighten him.
"No' that bad," he said, surveying the metamorphosed shepherd, "but I
doot yer auld friends the dragoons wad sune see through 't--considerin'
yer size an' the soond o' yer voice."
So saying he proceeded to place the red herrings on a gridiron, as if he
were the recognised cook of the establishment.
Presently Bruce himself--Mrs. Black's friend the blacksmith--made his
appearance, and the four were soon seated round a supper of oat-cakes,
mashed potatoes, milk, and herring. For some time they discussed the
probability of Wallace being recognised by spies as one who had attended
the conventicle at Irongray, or by dragoons as a deserter; then, as
appetite was appeased, they diverged to the lamentable state of the
country, and the high-handed doings of the Privy Council.
"The Airchbishop cam' to the toon this mornin'," remarked Mrs. Black,
"so there'll be plenty o' torterin' gaun on."
"I fear you're right," said Bruce, who, having sojourned a considerable
time in England, had lost much of his northern language and accent.
"That horrible instrument, the _boot_, was brought this very morning to
my smiddy for repair. They had been so hard on some poor wretch, I
suppose, that they broke part of it, but I put a flaw into its heart
that will force them to be either less cruel or to come to me again for
repairs!"
"H'm! if ye try thae pranks ower often they'll find it oot," said
Quentin. "Sherp is weel named, and if he suspects what ye've done,
ye'll get a taste of the buit yersel'."
The hatred with which by far the greater part of the people of Scotland
regarded Archbishop Sharp of Saint Andrews is scarcely a matter of
wonder when the man's character and career is considered. Originally a
Presbyterian, and Minister of Crail, he was sent to Court by his
brethren and countrymen as their advocate and agent, and maintained
there at their expense for the express purpose of watching over the
interests of their church. Sharp not only betrayed his trust but went
over to what might well at that time be described as "the enemy," and
secretly undermined the cause which he was bound in honour to support.
Finally he threw off all disguise, and was rewarded by being made
Archbishop of Saint Andrews and Primate of Scotland! This was bad
enough, but the new Prelate, not satisfied with the gratification of his
ambition, became, after the manner of apostates, a bitter persecutor of
the friends he had betrayed. Charles the Second, who was indolent,
incapable and entirely given over to self-indulgence, handed over the
affairs of Scotland to an unprincipled cabal of laymen and churchmen,
who may be fittingly described as drunken libertines. By these men--of
whom Middleton, Lauderdale, and Sharp were the chief--all the laws
passed in favour of Presbytery were rescinded; new tyrannical laws such
as we have elsewhere referred to were enacted and ruthlessly enforced;
Prelacy was established; the Presbyterian Church was laid in ruins, and
all who dared to question the righteousness of these transactions were
pronounced rebels and treated as such. There was no impartial tribunal
to which the people could appeal. The King, who held Presbyterianism to
be unfit for a gentleman, cared for none of these things, and even if he
had it would have mattered little, for those about him took good care
that he should not be approached or enlightened as to the true state of
affairs in Scotland.
Sharp himself devised and drafted a new edict empowering any officer or
sergeant to kill on the spot any armed man whom he found returning from
or going to a conventicle, and he was on the point of going to London to
have this edict confirmed when his murderous career was suddenly
terminated.
In the days of James the Sixth and Charles the First, the bishops,
although forced on the Scottish Church and invested with certain
privileges, were subject to the jurisdiction of the General Assembly,
but soon after Charles the Second mounted the throne ecclesiastical
government was vested entirely in their hands, and all the ministers who
refused to recognise their usurped authority were expelled.
It was in 1662 that the celebrated Act was passed by Middleton and his
colleagues in Glasgow College. It provided that all ministers must
either submit to the bishops or remove themselves and families out of
their manses, churches, and parishes within a month. It was known as
the "Drunken Act of Glasgow," owing to the condition of the legislators.
Four hundred brave and true men left their earthly all at that time,
rather than violate conscience and forsake God. Their example
ultimately saved the nation from despotism.
The Archbishop of Saint Andrews was chief in arrogance and cruelty among
his brethren. He afterwards obtained permission to establish a High
Commission Court in Scotland--in other words, an Inquisition--for
summarily executing all laws, acts, and orders in favour of Episcopacy
and against recusants, clergy and laity. It was under this authority
that all the evil deeds hitherto described were done, and of this
Commission Sharp was constant president.
It may be well to remark here that the Prelacy which was so detested by
the people of Scotland was not English Episcopacy, but Scotch Prelacy.
It was, in truth, little better at that time than Popery disguised--a
sort of confused religio-political Popery, of which system the King was
self-constituted Pope, while his unprincipled minions of the council
were cardinals.
No wonder, then, that at the mere mention of Sharp's name Mrs. Black
shook her head sorrowfully, Bruce the blacksmith frowned darkly, and
Quentin Dick not only frowned but snorted vehemently, and smote the
table with such violence that the startled pussie fled from the scene in
dismay.
"Save us a'! Quentin," said Mrs. Black, "ye'll surely be hanged or shot
if ye dinna learn to subdue yer wrath."
"Subdue my wrath, wumman!" exclaimed the shepherd, grinding his teeth;
"if ye had seen the half o' what I've seen ye wad--but ye ken 'maist
naething aboot it! Gie me some mair tatties an' mulk, it'll quiet me
maybe."
In order that the reader may know something of one of the things about
which Mrs. Black, as well as Quentin Dick himself, was happily ignorant
at that time, we must change the scene once more to the neighbourhood of
Andrew Black's cottage.
It was early in the day, and the farmer was walking along the road that
led to Cluden Ford, bent on paying a visit to Dumfries, when he was
overtaken by a troop of about twenty horsemen. They had ridden out of
the bush and come on the road so suddenly that Black had no time to
secrete himself. Knowing that he was very much "wanted," especially
after the part he had played at the recent conventicle on Skeoch Hill,
he at once decided that discretion was the better part of valour, and
took to his heels.
No man in all the country-side could beat the stout farmer at a race
either short or long, but he soon found that four legs are more than a
match for two. The troopers soon gained on him, though he ran like a
mountain hare. Having the advantage, however, of a start of about three
hundred yards, he reached the bend in the road where it begins to
descend towards the ford before his pursuers overtook him. But Andrew
felt that the narrow strip of wood beside which he was racing could not
afford him shelter and that the ford would avail him nothing. In his
extremity he made up his mind to a desperate venture.
On his right an open glade revealed to him the dark gorge through which
the Cluden thundered. The stream was in flood at the time, and
presented a fearful aspect of seething foam mingled with black rocks, as
it rushed over the lynn and through its narrow throat below. A path led
to the brink of the gorge which is now spanned by the Routen Bridge.
From the sharp-edged cliff on one side to the equally sharp cliff on the
other was a width of considerably over twenty feet. Towards this point
Andrew Black sped. Close at his heels the dragoons followed,
Glendinning, on a superb horse, in advance of the party. It was an
untried leap to the farmer, who nevertheless went at it like a
thunderbolt and cleared it like a stag. The troopers behind, seeing the
nature of the ground, pulled up in time, and wheeling to the left, made
for the ford. Glendinning, however, was too late. The reckless
sergeant, enraged at being so often baulked by the farmer, had let his
horse go too far. He tried to pull up but failed. The effort to do so
rendered a leap impossible. So near was he to the fugitive that the
latter was yet in the midst of his bound when the former went over the
precipice; head foremost, horse and all. The poor steed fell on the
rocks below and broke his neck, but the rider was shot into the deep
dark pool round which the Cluden whirled in foam-flecked eddies. In the
midst of its heaving waters he quickly arose flinging his long arms
wildly about, and shouting for help with bubbling cry.
The iron helm, jack-boots, and other accoutrements of a seventeenth
century trooper were not calculated to assist flotation. Glendinning
would have terminated his career then and there if the flood had not
come to his aid by sweeping him into the shallow water at the lower end
of the pool, whence some of his men soon after rescued him. Meanwhile,
Andrew Black, plunging into the woods on the opposite side of the river,
was soon far beyond the reach of his foes.
But escape was not now the chief anxiety of our farmer, and selfishness
formed no part of his character. When he had left home, a short time
before, his niece Jean was at work in the dairy, Ramblin' Peter was
attending to the cattle, Marion Clark and her comrade, Isabel Scott were
busy with domestic affairs, and old Mrs. Mitchell--who never quite
recovered her reason--was seated in the chimney corner calmly knitting a
sock.
To warn these of their danger was now the urgent duty of the farmer, for
well he knew that the disappointed soldiers would immediately visit his
home. Indeed, he saw them ride away in that direction soon afterwards,
and started off to forestall them if possible by taking a short cut.
Glendinning had borrowed the horse of a trooper and left the dismounted
man to walk after them.
But there was no particularly short cut to the cottage, and in spite of
Andrew's utmost exertions the dragoons arrived before him. Not,
however, before the wary Peter had observed them, given the alarm, got
all the inmates of the farm--including Mrs. Mitchell--down into the
hidy-hole and established himself in the chimney corner with a look of
imbecile innocence that was almost too perfect.
Poor Peter! his heart sank when the door was flung violently open and
there entered a band of soldiers, among whom he recognised some of the
party which he had so recently led into the heart of a morass and so
suddenly left to find their way out as they best could. But no
expression on Peter's stolid countenance betrayed his feelings.
"So, my young bantam cock," exclaimed a trooper, striding towards him,
and bending down to make sure, "we've got hold of you at last?"
"Eh?" exclaimed Peter interrogatively.
"You're a precious scoundrel, aren't you?" continued the trooper.
"Ay," responded Peter.
"I told you the lad was an idiot," said a comrade. The remark was not
lost upon the boy, whose expression immediately became still more
idiotic if possible.
"Tell me," said Glendinning, grasping Peter savagely by one ear, "where
is your master?"
"I dinna ken, sir."
"Is there nobody in the house but you?"
"Naebody but me," said Peter, "an' _you_," he added, looking vacantly
round on the soldiers.
"Now, look 'ee here, lad, I'm not to be trifled with," said the
sergeant. "Where are the rest of your household hidden? Answer;
quick."
Peter looked into the sergeant's face with a vacant stare, but was
silent. Glendinning, whose recent misfortune had rendered him unusually
cruel, at once knocked the boy down and kicked him; then lifting him by
the collar and thrusting him violently into the chair, repeated the
question, but received no answer.
Changing his tactics he tried to cajole him and offered him money, but
with similar want of success.
"Hand me your sword-belt," cried the sergeant to a comrade.
With the belt he thrashed Peter until he himself grew tired, but neither
word nor cry did he extract, and, again flinging him on the floor, he
kicked him severely.
"Here's a rope, sergeant," said one of the men at this point, "and
there's a convenient rafter. A lad that won't speak is not fit to
live."
"Nay, hanging is too good for the brute," said Glendinning, drawing a
pistol from his belt. "Tie a cloth over his eyes."
Peter turned visibly paler while his eyes were being bandaged, and the
troopers thought that they had at last overcome his obstinacy, but they
little knew the heroic character they had to deal with.
"Now," said the sergeant, resting the cold muzzle of his weapon against
the boy's forehead, "at the word three your brains are on the floor if
you don't tell me where your people are hid--one--two--"
"Stop, sergeant, let him have a taste of the thumbscrews before you
finish him off," suggested one of the men.
"So be it--fetch them."
The horrible instrument of torture was brought. It was constantly used
to extract confession from the poor Covenanters during the long years of
persecution of that black period of Scottish history. Peter's thumbs
were placed in it and the screw was turned. The monsters increased the
pressure by slow degrees, repeating the question at each turn of the
screw. At first Peter bore the pain unmoved, but at last it became so
excruciating that his cheeks and lips seemed to turn grey, and an
appalling shriek burst from him at last.
Talk of devils! The history of the human race has proved that when men
have deliberately given themselves over to high-handed contempt of their
Maker there is not a devil among all the legions in hell who could be
worse: he might be cleverer, he could not be more cruel. The only
effect of the shriek upon Glendinning was to cause him to order another
turn of the screw.
Happily, at the moment the shriek was uttered Andrew Black arrived, and,
finding the troop-horses picketed outside, with no one apparently to
guard them, he looked in at the window and saw what was going on.
With a fierce roar of mingled horror, surprise, and rage, he sprang into
the room, and his huge fist fell on the brow of Glendinning like the
hammer of Thor. His left shot full into the face of the man who had
worked the screws, and both troopers fell prone upon the floor with a
crash that shook the building. The act was so quick, and so
overpoweringly violent that the other troopers were for a moment
spellbound. That moment sufficed to enable Black to relieve the screws
and set Peter free.
"C'way oot, lad, after me!" cried Andrew, darting through the doorway,
for he felt that without more space to fight he would be easily
overpowered. The dragoons, recovering, darted after him. The farmer
caught up a huge flail with which he was wont to thresh out his oats.
It fell on the headpiece of the first trooper, causing it to ring like
an anvil, and stretching its owner on the ground. The second trooper
fared no better, but the head of the flail broke into splinters on his
iron cap, and left Andrew with the stump only to continue the combat.
This, however, was no insignificant weapon, and the stout farmer laid
about him with such fierce rapidity as to check for a few moments the
overwhelming odds against him. Pistols would certainly have been used
had not Glendinning, recovering his senses, staggered out and shouted,
"Take him _alive_, men!" This was quickly done, for two troopers leaped
on Andrew behind and pinioned his arms while he was engaged with four in
front. The four sprang on him at the same instant. Even then Andrew
Black's broad back--which was unusually "up"--proved too strong for
them, for he made a sort of plunging somersault and carried the whole
six along with him to the ground. Before he could rise, however, more
troopers were on the top of him. Samson himself would have had to
succumb to the dead weight. In a few seconds he was bound with ropes
and led into the house. Ramblin' Peter had made a bold assault on a
dragoon at the beginning of the fray, but could do nothing with his poor
maimed hands, and was easily secured.
"Let him taste the thumbscrews," growled Glendinning savagely, and
pointing to Black.
"Dae yer warst, ye born deevil," said Black recklessly--for oppression
driveth even a wise man mad.
"Very good--fetch the boot," said the sergeant.
The instrument of torture was brought and affixed to the farmer's right
leg; the wedge was inserted, and a blow of the mallet given.
Black's whole visage seemed to darken, his frowning brows met, and his
lips were compressed with a force that meant endurance unto the death.
At that moment another party of dragoons under Captain Houston galloped
up, the captain entered, and, stopping the proceedings of his
subordinate, ordered Black and Peter to be set on horseback and bound
together.
"Fire the place," he added. "If there are people in it anywhere, that
will bring them out."
"Oh dear!" gasped Peter, "the hidy--"
"Wheesht, bairn," said Black in a low voice. "They're safe enough. The
fire'll no' touch them, an' besides, they're in the Lord's hands."
A few minutes more and the whole farm-steading was in flames. The
dragoons watched the work of destruction until the roof of the cottage
fell in; then, mounting their horses, they descended to the road with
the two prisoners and turned their faces in the direction of Edinburgh.
CHAPTER SEVEN.
MORE THAN ONE NARROW ESCAPE.
One day, about a week after the burning of Black's farm, a select
dinner-party of red-hot rebels--as Government would have styled them;
persecuted people as they called themselves--assembled in Mrs. Black's
little room in Candlemaker Row. Their looks showed that their meeting
was not for the purpose of enjoyment. The party consisted of Mrs.
Black, Mrs. Wallace, who had reached Edinburgh in company with her
brother David Spence, Jean Black, Will Wallace, Quentin Dick, and Jock
Bruce the blacksmith.
"But I canna understand, lassie," said Mrs. Black to Jean, "hoo ye
werena a' roasted alive i' the hidy-hole, or suffocated at the best; an'
hoo did ye ever get oot wi' the ruckle o' burning rafters abune ye?"
"It was easy enough," answered the girl, "for Uncle Andry made the roof
o' the place uncommon thick, an' there's a short tunnel leadin' to some
bushes by the burn that let us oot at a place that canna be seen frae
the hoose. But oh, granny, dinna ask me to speak aboot thae things, for
they may be torturin' Uncle Andry at this vera moment. Are you sure it
was him ye saw?" she added, turning to Bruce.
"Quite sure," replied the smith. "I chanced to be passing the Tolbooth
at the moment the door opened. A party of the City Guard suddenly came
out with Black in the midst, and led him up the High Street."
"I'm _sure_ they'll torture him," said the poor girl, while the tears
began to flow at the dreadful thought. "They stick at naethin' now."
"I think," said Will Wallace, in a tone that was meant to be comforting,
"that your uncle may escape the torture, for the Archbishop does not
preside at the Council to-day. I hear that he has gone off suddenly to
Saint Andrews."
"That won't serve your uncle much," remarked Bruce sternly, "for some of
the other bishops are nigh as bad as Sharp, and with that raving monster
Lauderdale among them they're likely not only to torture but to hang
him, for he is well known, and has been long and perseveringly hunted."
In his indignation the smith did not think of the effect his foreboding
might have on his friend's mother, but the sight of her pale cheeks and
quivering lips was not lost upon Wallace, whose sympathies had already
been stirred deeply not only by his regard for Black, but also by his
pity for tender-hearted Jean.
"By heaven!" he exclaimed, starting up in a sudden burst of enthusiasm,
"if you will join me, friends, I am quite ready to attempt a rescue at
once."
A sort of pleased yet half-cynical smile crossed the grave visage of
Quentin Dick as he glanced at the youth.
"Hoots, man! sit doon," he said quietly; "ye micht as weel try to rescue
a kid frae the jaws o' a lion as rescue Andry Black frae the fangs o'
Lauderdale an' his crew. But something may be dune when they're takin'
him back to the Tolbooth--if ye're a' wullin' to help. We mak' full
twunty-four feet amangst us, an' oor shoothers are braid!"
"I'm ready," said David Spence, in the quiet tone of a man who usually
acts from principle.
"An' so am I," cried Bruce, smiting the table with the fist of a man who
usually acts from impulse.
While Wallace calmed his impatient spirit, and sat down to hatch a plot
with his brother conspirators, a strange scene was enacting in the
Council Chamber, where the perjured prelates and peers were in the habit
of practising cruelty, oppression, and gross injustice under the name of
law.
They sat beside a table which was covered with books and parchments. In
front of them, seated on a chair with his arms pinioned, was Andrew
Black. His face was pale and had a careworn look, but he held his head
erect, and regarded his judges with a look of stern resolution that
seemed to exasperate them considerably. On the table lay a pair of
brass-mounted thumbscrews, and beside them the strange-looking
instrument of torture called the boot. In regard to these machines
there is a passage in the Privy Council Records which gives an idea of
the spirit of the age about which we write. It runs thus: "Whereas the
_boots_ were the ordinary way to explicate matters relating to the
Government, and there is now a new invention and engine called the
_Thumbkins_, which will be very effectual to the purpose aforesaid, the
Lords ordain that when any person shall by their order be put to the
torture, the said boots and thumbkins be applied to them, as it shall be
found fit and convenient."