the confusion that prevailed before became redoubled as the necessity
for instant action arose. In the midst of it, however, a few among the
more sedate and cool-headed leaders did their best to reduce the little
army to something like order, and put it in battle array. There was no
lack of personal courage. Men who had, for the sake of righteousness,
suffered the loss of all things, and had carried their lives in their
hands for so many years, were not likely to present a timid front in the
hour of battle. And leaders such as John Nisbet of Hardhill, one of the
most interesting sufferers in the twenty-eight years' persecution;
Clelland, who had fought with distinguished courage at Drumclog; Henry
Hall of Haughhead; David Hackston of Rathillet; John Balfour of Burley;
Turnbull of Bewlie; with Major Learmont and Captain John Paton of
Meadowhead--two veterans who had led the Westland Covenanters in their
first battle at the Pentland Hills--such men were well able to have led
a band of even half-disciplined men to victory if united under a capable
general. But such was not to be. The laws of God, whether relating to
physics or morals, are inexorable. A divided army cannot conquer. They
had assembled to fight; instead of fighting they disputed, and that so
fiercely that two opposing parties were formed in the camp, and their
councils of war became arenas of strife. The drilling of men had been
neglected, officers were not appointed, stores of ammunition and other
supplies were not provided, and no plan of battle was concerted. All
this, with incapacity at the helm, resulted in overwhelming disaster and
the sacrifice of a body of brave, devoted men. It afterwards
intensified persecution, and postponed constitutional liberty for many
years.
In this state of disorganisation the Covenanters were found by the royal
troops. The latter were allowed quietly to plant their guns and make
arrangements for the attack.
But they were not suffered to cross Bothwell Bridge with impunity. Some
of the bolder spirits, leaving the disputants to fight with tongue and
eye, drew their swords and advanced to confront the foe.
"It's every man for himsel' here," remarked Andrew Black indignantly,
wiping his mouth with his cuff, as he rose from the meal which he was
well aware might be his last. "The Lord hae mercy on the puir
Covenanters, for they're in sair straits this day. Come awa', Wull
Wallace--lead us on to battle."
Our hero, who was busily forming up his men, needed no such exhortation.
Seeing that there was no one in authority to direct his movements, he
resolved to act "for his own hand." He gave the word to march, and set
off at a quick step for the river, where the fight had already begun.
Soon he and his small band were among those who held the bridge. Here
they found Hackston, Hall, Turnbull, and the lion-like John Nisbet, each
with a small band of devoted followers sternly and steadily defending
what they knew to be the key to their position. Distributing his men in
such a way among the coppices on the river's bank that they could assail
the foe to the greatest advantage without unnecessarily exposing
themselves, Wallace commenced a steady fusillade on the King's
foot-guards, who were attempting to storm the bridge. The Covenanters
had only one cannon and about 300 men with which to meet the assault;
but the gun was effectively handled, and the men were staunch.
On the central arch of the old bridge--which was long and narrow--there
stood a gate. This had been closed and barricaded with beams and trees,
and the parapets on the farther side had been thrown down to prevent the
enemy finding shelter behind them. These arrangements aided the
defenders greatly, so that for three hours the gallant 300 held the
position in spite of all that superior discipline and numerous guns
could do. At last, however, the ammunition of the defenders began to
fail.
"Where did ye tether my horse?" asked Will Wallace, addressing Peter,
who acted the part of aide-de-camp and servant to his commander.
"Ayont the hoose there," replied Peter, who was crouching behind a
tree-stump.
"Jump on its back, lad, and ride to the rear at full speed. Tell them
we're running short of powder and ball. We want more men, too, at once.
Haste ye!"
"Ay, an' tell them frae me, that if we lose the brig we lose the day,"
growled Andrew Black, who, begrimed with powder, was busily loading and
firing his musket from behind a thick bush, which, though an admirable
screen from vision, was a poor protection from bullets, as the passage
of several leaden messengers had already proved. But our farmer was too
much engrossed with present duty to notice trifles!
Without a word, except his usual "Ay," Ramblin' Peter jumped up and ran
to where his commander's steed was picketed. In doing so he had to pass
an open space, and a ball striking his cap sent it spinning into the
air; but Peter, like Black, was not easily affected by trifles. Next
moment he was on the back of Will's horse--a great long-legged
chestnut--and flying towards the main body of Covenanters in rear.
The bullets were whistling thickly past him. One of these, grazing some
tender part of his steed's body, acted as a powerful spur, so that the
alarmed creature flew over the ground at racing speed, much to its
rider's satisfaction. When they reached the lines, however, and he
attempted to pull up, Peter found that the great tough-mouthed animal
had taken the bit in its teeth and bolted. No effort that his puny arm
could make availed to check it. Through the ranks of the Covenanters he
sped wildly, and in a short time was many miles from the battlefield.
How long he might have continued his involuntary retreat is uncertain,
but the branch of a tree brought it to a close by sweeping him off the
saddle. A quarter of an hour later an old woman found him lying on the
ground insensible, and with much difficulty succeeded in dragging him to
her cottage.
Meanwhile the tide of war had gone against the Covenanters. Whatever
may be said of Hamilton, unquestionably he did not manage the fight
well. No ammunition or reinforcements were sent to the front. The
stout defenders of the bridge were forced to give way in such an unequal
conflict. Yet they retired fighting for every inch of the ground.
Indeed, instead of being reinforced they were ordered to retire; and at
last, when all hope was gone, they reluctantly obeyed.
"Noo this bates a'!" exclaimed Black in a tone of ineffable disgust, as
he ran to the end of the bridge, clubbed his musket, and laid about him
with the energy of despair. Will Wallace was at his side in a moment;
so was Quentin Dick. They found Balfour and Hackston already there; and
for a few moments these men even turned the tide of battle, for they
made an irresistible dash across the bridge, and absolutely drove the
assailants from their guns, but, being unsupported, were compelled to
retire. If each had been a Hercules, the gallant five would have had to
succumb before such overwhelming odds. A few minutes more and the
Covenanters were driven back. The King's troops poured over the bridge
and began to form on the other side.
Then it was that Graham of Claverhouse, seeing his opportunity, led his
dragoons across the bridge and charged the main body of the Covenanters.
Undisciplined troops could not withstand the shock of such a charge.
They quickly broke and fled; and now the battle was changed to a regular
rout.
"Kill! kill!" cried Claverhouse; "no quarter!"
His men needed no such encouragement. From that time forward they
galloped about the moor, slaying remorselessly all whom they came
across.
The gentle-spirited Monmouth, seeing that the victory was gained, gave
orders to cease the carnage; but Claverhouse paid no attention to this.
He was like the man-eating tigers,--having once tasted blood he could
not be controlled, though Monmouth galloped about the field doing his
best to check the savage soldiery.
It is said that afterwards his royal father--for he was an illegitimate
son of the King--found fault with him for his leniency after Bothwell.
We can well believe it; for in a letter which he had previously sent to
the council Charles wrote that it was "his royal will and pleasure that
they should prosecute the rebels with fire and sword, and all other
extremities of war." Speaking at another time to Monmouth about his
conduct, Charles said, "If I had been present there should have been no
trouble about prisoners." To which Monmouth replied, "If that was your
wish, you should not have sent me but a _butcher_!"
In the general flight Black, owing to his lame leg, stumbled over a
bank, pitched on his head, and lay stunned. Quentin Dick, stooping to
succour him, was knocked down from behind, and both were captured.
Fortunately Monmouth chanced to be near them at the time and prevented
their being slaughtered on the spot, like so many of their countrymen,
of whom it is estimated that upwards of four hundred were slain in the
pursuit that succeeded the fight--many of them being men of the
neighbourhood, who had not been present on the actual field of battle at
all. Among others Wallace's uncle, David Spence, was killed. Twelve
hundred, it is said, laid down their arms and surrendered at discretion.
Wallace himself, seeing that the day was lost and further resistance
useless, and having been separated from his friends in the general
_melee_, sought refuge in a clump of alders on the banks of the river.
Another fugitive made for the same spot about the same time. He was an
old man, yet vigorous, and ran well; but the soldiers who pursued soon
came up and knocked him down. Having already received several dangerous
wounds in the head, the old man seemed to feel that he had reached the
end of his career on earth, and calmly prepared for death. But the end
had not yet come. Even among the blood-stained troops of the King there
were men whose hearts were not made of flint, and who, doubtless,
disapproved of the cruel work in which it was their duty to take part.
Instead of giving the old man the _coup de grace_, one of the soldiers
asked his name.
"Donald Cargill," answered the wounded man.
"That name sounds familiar," said the soldier. "Are not you a
minister?"
"Yea, I have the honour to be one of the Lord's servants."
Upon hearing this the soldiers let him go, and bade him get off the
field as fast as possible.
Cargill was not slow to obey, and soon reached the alders, where he fell
almost fainting to the ground. Here he was discovered by Wallace, and
recognised as the old man whom he had met in Andrew Black's hidy-hole.
The poor man could scarcely walk; but with the assistance of his stout
young friend, who carefully dressed his wounds, he managed to escape.
Wallace himself was not so fortunate. After leaving Cargill in a place
of comparative safety, he had not the heart to think only of his own
escape while uncertain of the fate of his friends. He was aware,
indeed, of his uncle's death, but knew nothing about Andrew Black,
Quentin Dick, or Ramblin' Peter. When, therefore, night had put an end
to the fiendish work, he returned cautiously to search the field of
battle; but, while endeavouring to clamber over a wall, was suddenly
pounced upon by half a dozen soldiers and made prisoner.
At an earlier part of the evening he would certainly have been murdered
on the spot, but by that time the royalists were probably tired of
indiscriminate slaughter, for they merely bound his arms and led him to
a spot where those Covenanters who had been taken prisoners were
guarded.
The guarding was of the strangest and cruellest. The prisoners were
made to lie flat down on the ground--many of them having been previously
stripped nearly naked; and if any of them ventured to change their
positions, or raise their heads to implore a draught of water, they were
instantly shot.
Next day the survivors were tied together in couples and driven off the
ground like a herd of cattle. Will Wallace stood awaiting his turn, and
watching the first band of prisoners march off. Suddenly he observed
Andrew Black coupled to Quentin Dick. They passed closed to him. As
they did so their eyes met.
"Losh, man, is that you?" exclaimed Black, a gleam of joy lighting up
his sombre visage. "Eh, but I _am_ gled to see that yer still leevin'!"
"Not more glad than I to see that you're not dead," responded Will
quickly. "Where's Peter and Bruce?"
A stern command to keep silence and move on drowned the answer, and in
another minute Wallace, with an unknown comrade-in-arms, had joined the
procession.
Thus they were led--or rather driven--with every species of cruel
indignity, to Edinburgh; but the jails there were already full; there
was no place in which to stow such noxious animals! Had Charles the
Second been there, according to his own statement, he would have had no
difficulty in dealing with them; but bad as the Council was, it was not
quite so brutal, it would seem, as the King.
"Put them in the Greyfriars Churchyard," was the order--and to that
celebrated spot they were marched.
Seated at her back window in Candlemaker Row, Mrs. Black observed, with
some surprise and curiosity, the sad procession wending its way among
the tombs and round the church. The news of the fight at Bothwell
Bridge had only just reached the city, and she knew nothing of the
details. Mrs. Wallace and Jean Black were seated beside her knitting.
"Wha'll they be, noo?" soliloquised Mrs. Black.
"Maybe prisoners taken at Bothwell Brig," suggested Mrs. Wallace.
Jean started, dropped her knitting, and said in a low, anxious voice, as
she gazed earnestly at the procession, "If--if it's them, uncle Andrew
an'--an'--the others may be amang them!"
The procession was not more than a hundred yards distant--near enough
for sharp, loving eyes to distinguish friends.
"I see them!" cried Jean eagerly.
Next moment she had leaped over the window, which was not much over six
feet from the ground. She doubled round a tombstone, and, running
towards the prisoners, got near enough to see the head of the procession
pass through a large iron gate at the south-west corner of the
churchyard, and to see clearly that her uncle and Quentin Dick were
there--tied together. Here a soldier stopped her. As she turned to
entreat permission to pass on she encountered the anxious gaze of Will
Wallace as he passed. There was time for the glance of recognition,
that was all. A few minutes more and the long procession had passed
into what afterwards proved to be one of the most terrible prisons of
which we have any record in history.
Jean Black was thrust out of the churchyard along with a crowd of others
who had entered by the front gate. Filled with dismay and anxious
forebodings, she returned to her temporary home in the Row.
CHAPTER NINE.
AMONG THE TOMBS.
The enclosure at the south-western corner of Greyfriars Churchyard,
which had been chosen as the prison of the men who were spared after the
battle of Bothwell Bridge, was a small narrow space enclosed by very
high walls, and guarded by a strong iron gate--the same gate, probably,
which still hangs there at the present day.
There, among the tombs, without any covering to shelter them from the
wind and rain, without bedding or sufficient food, with the dank grass
for their couches and graves for pillows, did most of these
unfortunates--from twelve to fifteen hundred--live during the succeeding
five months. They were rigorously guarded night and day by sentinels
who were held answerable with their lives for the safe keeping of the
prisoners. During the daytime they stood or moved about uneasily. At
nights if any of them ventured to rise the sentinels had orders to fire
upon them. If they had been dogs they could not have been treated
worse. Being men, their sufferings were terrible--inconceivable. Ere
long many a poor fellow found a death-bed among the graves of that
gloomy enclosure. To add to their misery, friends were seldom permitted
to visit them, and those who did obtain leave were chiefly females, who
were exposed to the insults of the guards.
A week or so after their being shut up here, Andrew Black stood one
afternoon leaning against the headstone of a grave on which Quentin Dick
and Will Wallace were seated. It had been raining, and the grass and
their garments were very wet. A leaden sky overhead seemed to have
deepened their despair, for they remained silent for an unusually long
time.
"This _is_ awfu'!" said Black at last with a deep sigh. "If there was
ony chance o' makin' a dash an' fechtin' to the end, I wad tak' comfort;
but to be left here to sterve an' rot, nicht an' day, wi' naethin' to do
an' maist naethin' to think on--it's--it's awfu'!"
As the honest man could not get no further than this idea--and the idea
itself was a mere truism--no response was drawn from his companions, who
sat with clenched fists, staring vacantly before them. Probably the
first stage of incipient madness had set in with all of them.
"Did Jean give you any hope yesterday?" asked Wallace languidly; for he
had asked the same question every day since the poor girl had been
permitted to hold a brief conversation with her uncle at the iron gate,
towards which only one prisoner at a time was allowed to approach. The
answer had always been the same.
"Na, na. She bids me hope, indeed, in the Lord--an' she's right there;
but as for man, what can we hope frae _him_?"
"Ye may weel ask that!" exclaimed Quentin Dick, with sudden and bitter
emphasis. "Man indeed! It's my opeenion that man, when left to
hissel', is nae better than the deevil. I' faith, I think he's waur,
for he's mair contemptible."
"Ye may be right, Quentin, for a' I ken; but some men are no' left to
theirsel's. There's that puir young chiel Anderson, that was shot i'
the lungs an' has scarce been able the last day or twa to crawl to the
yett to see his auld mither--he's deeing this afternoon. I went ower to
the tombstane that keeps the east wund aff him, an' he said to me,
`Andry, man,' said he, `I'll no' be able to crawl to see my mither the
day. I'll vera likely be deid before she comes. Wull ye tell her no'
to greet for me, for I'm restin' on the Lord Jesus, an' I'll be a free
man afore night, singing the praises o' redeeming love, and waitin' for
_her_ to come?'"
Quentin had covered his face with his hands while Black spoke, and a low
groan escaped him; for the youth Anderson had made a deep impression on
the three friends during the week they had suffered together. Wallace,
without replying, went straight over to the tomb where Anderson lay. He
was followed by the other two. On reaching the spot they observed that
he lay on his back, with closed eyes and a smile resting on his young
face.
"He sleeps," said Wallace softly.
"Ay, he sleeps weel," said Black, shaking his head slowly. "I ken the
look o' _that_ sleep. An' yonder's his puir mither at the yett. Bide
by him, Quentin, while I gang an' brek it to her."
It chanced that Mrs. Anderson and Jean came to the gate at the same
moment. On hearing that her son was dead the poor woman uttered a low
wail, and would have fallen if Jean had not caught her and let her
gently down on one of the graves. Jean was, as we have said, singularly
sympathetic. She had overheard what her uncle had said, and forthwith
sat down beside the bereaved woman, drew her head down on her breast and
tried to comfort her, as she had formerly tried to comfort old Mrs.
Mitchell. Even the guards were softened for a few minutes; but soon
they grew impatient, and ordered them both to leave.
"Bide a wee," said Jean, "I maun hae a word wi' my uncle."
She rose as she spoke, and turned to the gate.
"Weel, what luck?" asked Black, grasping both her hands through the
bars.
"No luck, uncle," answered Jean, whimpering a little in spite of her
efforts to keep up. "As we ken naebody o' note here that could help us,
I just went straight to the Parliament Hoose an' saw Lauderdale himsel',
but he wouldna listen to me. An' what could I say? I couldna tell him
a lee, ye ken, an' say ye hadna been to conventicles or sheltered the
rebels, as they ca' us. But I said I was _sure_ ye were sorry for what
ye had done, an' that ye would never do it again, if they would only let
you off--"
"Oh, Jean, Jean, ye're a gowk, for that was twa lees ye telt him!"
interrupted Black, with a short sarcastic laugh; "for I'm no' a bit
sorry for what I've done; an' I'll do't ower again if ever I git the
chance. Ne'er heed, lass, you've done your best. An' hoo's mither an'
Mrs. Wallace?"
"They're baith weel; but awfu' cast doon aboot you, an'--an'--Wull and
Quentin. An'--I had maist forgot--Peter has turned up safe an' soond.
He says that--"
"Come, cut short your haverin'," said the sentinel who had been induced
to favour Jean, partly because of her sweet innocent face, and partly
because of the money which Mrs. Black had given her to bribe him.
"Weel, tell Peter," said Black hurriedly, "to gang doon to the ferm an'
see if he can find oot onything aboot Marion Clerk an' Isabel Scott.
I'm wae for thae lassies. They're ower guid to let live in peace at a
time like this. Tell him to tell them frae me to flee to the hills.
Noo that the hidy-hole is gaen, there's no' a safe hoose in a' the land,
only the caves an' the peat-bogs, and even they are but puir
protection."
"Uncle dear, is not the Lord our hiding-place until these calamities be
overpast?" said Jean, while the tears that she could not suppress ran
down her cheeks.
"Ye're right, bairn. God forgi'e my want o' faith. Rin awa' noo. I
see the sentry's getting wearied. The Lord bless ye."
The night chanced to be very dark. Rain fell in torrents, and wind in
fitful gusts swept among the tombs, chilling the prisoners to the very
bone. It is probable that the guards would, for their own comfort, have
kept a slack look-out, had not their own lives depended a good deal on
their fidelity. As it was, the vigil was not so strict as it might have
been; and they found it impossible to see the whole of that long narrow
space of ground in so dark a night. About midnight the sentry fancied
he saw three figures flitting across the yard. Putting his musket
through the bars of the gate he fired at once, but could not see whether
he had done execution; and so great was the noise of the wind and rain
that the report of his piece was not audible more than a few paces from
where he stood, except to leeward. Alarms were too frequent in those
days to disturb people much. A few people, no doubt, heard the shot;
listened, perchance, for a moment or two, and then, turning in their
warm beds, continued their repose. The guard turned out, but as all
seemed quiet in the churchyard-prison when they peered through the iron
bars, they turned in again, and the sentinel recharged his musket.
Close beside one of the sodden graves lay the yet warm body of a dead
man. The random bullet had found a billet in his heart, and "Nature's
sweet restorer" had been merged into the sleep of death. Fortunate man!
He had been spared, probably, months of slow-timed misery, with almost
certain death at the end in any case.
Three men rose from behind the headstone of that grave, and looked
sorrowfully on the drenched figure.
"He has passed the golden gates," said one in a low voice. "A wonderful
change."
"Ay, Wull," responsed another of the trio; "but it's noo or niver wi'
us. Set yer heid agin' the wa', Quentin."
The shepherd obeyed, and the three proceeded to carry out a plan which
they had previously devised--a plan which only very strong and agile men
could have hoped to carry through without noise. Selecting a suitable
part of the wall, in deepest shadow, where a headstone slightly aided
them, Quentin planted his feet firmly, and, resting his arms on the
wall, leaned his forehead against them. Black mounted on his shoulders,
and, standing erect, assumed the same position. Then Wallace, grasping
the garments of his friends, climbed up the living ladder and stood on
Black's shoulders, so that he could just grip the top of the wall and
hang on. At this point in the process the conditions were, so to speak,
reversed. Black grasped Wallace with both hands by one of his ankles,
and held on like a vice. The living ladder was now hanging from the top
of the wall instead of standing at the foot of it, and Quentin--the
lowest rung, so to speak--became the climber. From Wallace's shoulders,
he easily gained the top of the wall, and was able to reach down a
helping hand to Black as he made his way slowly up Wallace's back. Then
both men hauled Wallace up with some trouble, for the strain had been
almost too much for him, and he could hardly help himself.
At this juncture the sentinel chanced to look up, and, dark though it
was, he saw the three figures on the wall a little blacker than the sky
behind. Instantly the bright flash of his musket was seen, and the
report, mingled with his cry of alarm, again brought out the guard. A
volley revealed the three prisoners for a moment.
"Dinna jump!" cried Black, as the bullets whizzed past their heads.
"Ye'll brek yer legs. Tak' it easy. They're slow at loadin'; an' `the
mair hurry the less speed!'"