conscientious adherence to duty. Five thousand merks were offered for
him, dead or alive. Being captured, he was taken to Edinburgh on the
15th of July, and examined by the Council. On the 26th he was tried and
condemned, and on the 27th he was hanged, after having witnessed a good
confession, which he wound up with the words: "I forgive all men the
wrongs they have done against me. I pray that the sufferers may be kept
from sin and helped to know their duty."
About this time a _test_ oath was ordered to be administered to all men
in position or authority. The gist of it was that King Charles the
Second was the only supreme governor in the realm over all causes, as
well ecclesiastical as civil, and that it was unlawful for any subject
upon pretence of reformation, or any pretence whatever, to enter into
covenants or leagues, or to assemble in any councils, conventicles,
assemblies, etcetera, ecclesiastical or civil, without his special
permission.
Pretty well this for a king who had himself signed the covenant--without
which signing the Scottish nation would never have consented to assist
in putting him on the throne! The greater number of the men in office
in Scotland took the oath, though there were several exceptions--the
Duke of Argyll, the Duke of Hamilton, John Hope of Hopetoun, the Duchess
of Rothes, and others--among whom were eighty of the conforming clergy
whose loyalty could not carry them so far, and who surrendered their
livings rather than their consciences.
It would require a volume to record even a bare outline of the deeds of
darkness that were perpetrated at this time. We must dismiss it all and
return to the actors in our tale.
Will Wallace, after being recaptured, as already stated, was sent off to
the plantations in a vessel with about two hundred and fifty other
unfortunates, many of whom were seriously ill, if not dying, in
consequence of their long exposure in the Greyfriars' Churchyard.
Packed in the hold of the ship so closely that they had not room to lie
down, and almost suffocated with foul air and stench, the sufferings
which they endured were far more terrible than those they experienced
when lying among the tombs; but God sent most of them speedy
deliverance. They were wrecked on the coast of Orkney. At night they
were dashed on the rocks. The prisoners entreated to be let out of
their prison, but the brutal captain ordered the hatches to be chained
down. A tremendous wave cleft the deck, and a few of the more energetic
managed to escape and reach the shore. The remainder--at least two
hundred--were drowned in the hold. Will Wallace was among the saved,
but was taken to Leith and transferred to another vessel. After several
months of tossings on the deep he reached his destination and was sold
into slavery.
Many months--even years--passed away, but no news reached Candlemaker
Row regarding the fate of the banished people. As to Andrew Black, the
only change that took place in his condition during his long captivity
was his transference--unknown to his kindred--from the gloomy prison of
the Bass Rock to the still gloomier cells of Dunnottar Castle.
During all this time, and for some years after, the persecutions were
continued with ever-increasing severity: it seemed as if nothing short
of the extirpation of the Covenanters altogether was contemplated. In
short, the two parties presented at this period an aspect of human
affairs which may well be styled monstrous. On the one hand a people
suffering and fighting to the death to uphold law, and on the other a
tyrant king and arrogant ecclesiastics and nobles, with their paid
slaves and sycophants, deliberately violating the same!
Quentin Dick and Ramblin' Peter had been drawn closer together by
powerful sympathy after the imprisonment of Black and the banishment of
Will Wallace. They were like-minded in their aspirations, though very
dissimilar in physical and mental endowment. Feeling that Edinburgh was
not a safe place in which to hide after his recent escape, Quentin
resolved to return to Dumfries to inquire after, and if possible to aid,
his friends there.
Peter determined to cast in his lot with him. In size he was still a
boy though he had reached manhood.
"We maun dae our best to help the wanderers," said the shepherd, as they
started on their journey.
"Ay," assented Peter.
Arrived in Galloway they were passing over a wide moorland region one
afternoon when a man suddenly appeared before them, as if he had dropped
from the clouds, and held out his hand.
"What! McCubine, can that be you?" exclaimed Quentin, grasping the
proffered hand. "Man, I _am_ glad to see ye. What brings ye here?"
McCubine explained that he and his friend Gordon, with four comrades,
were hiding in the Moss to avoid a party of dragoons who were pursuing
them. "Grierson of Lagg is with them, and Captain Bruce is in command,"
he said, "so we may expect no mercy if they catch us. Only the other
day Bruce and his men dragged puir old Tam McHaffie out o' his bed, tho'
he was ill wi' fever, an' shot him."
Having conducted Quentin and Peter to the secret place where his friends
were hidden, McCubine was asked anxiously, by the former, if he knew
anything about the Wilsons.
"Ay, we ken this," answered Gordon, "that although the auld folk have
agreed to attend the curates for the sake o' peace, the twa lassies have
refused, and been driven out o' hoose an' hame. They maun hae been
wanderin' amang the hills noo for months--if they're no catched by this
time."
Hearing this, Quentin sprang up.
"We maun rescue them, Peter," he said.
"Ay," returned the boy. "Jean Black will expect that for Aggie's sake;
she's her bosom freend, ye ken."
Refusing to delay for even half an hour, the two friends hurried away.
They had scarcely left, and the six hunted men were still standing on
the road where they had bidden them God-speed, when Bruce with his
dragoons suddenly appeared--surprised and captured them all. With the
brutal promptitude peculiar to that well-named "killing-time," four of
them were drawn up on the road and instantly shot, and buried where they
fell, by Lochenkit Moor, where a monument now marks their resting place.
The two spared men, Gordon and McCubine, were then, without reason
assigned, bound and carried away. Next day the party came to the Cluden
Water, crossing which they followed the road which leads to Dumfries,
until they reached the neighbourhood of Irongray. There is a field
there with a mound in it, on which grows a clump of old oak-trees. Here
the two friends were doomed without trial to die. It is said that the
minister of Irongray at that time was suspected of favourable leanings
toward the Covenanters, and that the proprietor of the neighbouring farm
of Hallhill betrayed similar symptoms; hence the selection of the
particular spot between the two places, in order to intimidate both the
minister and the farmer. This may well have been the case, for history
shows that a very strong and indomitable covenanting spirit prevailed
among the parishioners of Irongray as well as among the people of the
South and West of Scotland generally. Indeed Wodrow, the historian,
says that the people of Irongray were the first to offer strenuous
opposition to the settlement of the curates.
When Gordon and McCubine were standing under the fatal tree with the
ropes round their necks, a sorrowing acquaintance asked the latter if he
had any word to send to his wife.
"Yes," answered the martyr; "tell her that I leave her and the two babes
upon the Lord, and to his promise: `A father to the fatherless and a
husband to the widow is the Lord in His holy habitation.'"
Hearing this, the man employed to act the part of executioner seemed
touched, and asked forgiveness.
"Poor man!" was the reply, "I forgive thee and all men."
They died, at peace with God and man. An old tombstone, surrounded by
an iron rail, marks to this day the spot among the old oak-trees where
the bodies of McCubine and Gordon were laid to rest.
Commenting on this to his friend Selby, the Reverend George Lawless gave
it as his opinion that "two more fanatics were well out of the world."
To which the Reverend Frank replied very quietly:
"Yes, George, well out of it indeed; and, as I would rather die with the
fanatics than live with the godless, I intend to join the Covenanters
to-night--so my pulpit shall be vacant to-morrow."
CHAPTER ELEVEN.
COMING EVENTS CAST SHADOWS.
In February 1685 Charles the Second died--not without some suspicion of
foul play. His brother, the Duke of York, an avowed Papist, ascended
the throne as James the Second. This was a flagrant breach of the
Constitution, and Argyll--attempting to avert the catastrophe by an
invasion of Scotland at the same time that Monmouth should invade
England--not only failed, but was captured and afterwards executed by
the same instrument--the "Maiden"--with which his father's head had been
cut off nigh a quarter of a century before. As might have been
expected, the persecutions were not relaxed by the new king.
When good old Cargill was martyred, a handsome fair young man was
looking on in profound sorrow and pity. He was a youth of great moral
power, and with a large heart. His name was James Renwick. From that
hour this youth cast in his lot with the persecuted wanderers, and,
after the martyrdom of Cameron and Cargill, and the death of Welsh, he
was left almost alone to manage their affairs. The "Strict Covenanters"
had by this time formed themselves into societies for prayer and
conference, and held quarterly district meetings in sequestered places,
with a regular system of correspondence--thus secretly forming an
organised body, which has continued down to modern times.
It was while this young servant of God--having picked up the mantle
which Cargill dropped--was toiling and wandering among the mountains,
morasses, and caves of the west, that a troop of dragoons was seen, one
May morning, galloping over the same region "on duty." They swept over
hill and dale with the dash and rattle of men in all the pride of youth
and strength and the panoply of war. They were hasting, however, not to
the battlefield but to the field of agriculture, there to imbrue their
hands in the blood of the unarmed and the helpless.
At the head of the band rode the valiant Graham of Claverhouse. Most
people at that time knew him as the "bloody Clavers," but as we look at
the gay cavalier with his waving plume, martial bearing, beautiful
countenance, and magnificent steed, we are tempted to ask, "Has there
not been some mistake here?" Some have thought so. One or two literary
men, who might have known better, have even said so, and attempted to
defend their position!
"Methinks this is our quarry, Glendinning," said Claverhouse, drawing
rein as they approached a small cottage, near to which a man was seen at
work with a spade.
"Yes--that's John Brown of Priesthill," said the sergeant.
"You know the pestilent fanatic well, I suppose?"
"Ay. He gets the name o' being a man of eminent godliness," answered
the sergeant in a mocking tone; "and is even credited with having
started a Sabbath-school!"
John Brown, known as the "Christian carrier," truly was what Glendinning
had sneeringly described him. On seeing the cavalcade approach he
guessed, no doubt, that his last hour had come, for many a time had he
committed the sin of succouring the outlawed Covenanters, and he had
stoutly refused to attend the ministry of the worthless curate George
Lawless. Indeed it was the information conveyed to Government by that
reverend gentleman that had brought Claverhouse down upon the
unfortunate man.
The dragoons ordered him to proceed to the front of his house, where his
wife was standing with one child in her arms and another by her side.
The usual ensnaring questions as to the supremacy of the King, etcetera,
were put to him, and the answers being unsatisfactory, Claverhouse
ordered him to say his prayers and prepare for immediate death. Brown
knew that there was no appeal. All Scotland was well aware by that time
that soldiers were empowered to act the part of judge, jury, witness,
and executioner, and had become accustomed to it. The poor man obeyed.
He knelt down and prayed in such a strain that even the troopers, it is
said, were impressed--at all events, their subsequent conduct would seem
to countenance this belief. Their commander, however, was not much
affected, for he thrice interrupted his victim, telling him that he had
"given him time to pray, but not to preach."
"Sir," returned Brown, "ye know neither the nature of preaching nor
praying if ye call this preaching."
"Now," said Claverhouse, "take farewell of your wife and children."
After the poor man had kissed them, Claverhouse ordered six of his men
to fire; but they hesitated and finally refused. Enraged at this their
commander drew a pistol, and with his own hand blew out John Brown's
brains.
"What thinkest thou of thy husband now, woman?" he said, turning to the
widow.
"I ever thought much good of him," she answered, "and as much now as
ever."
"It were but justice to lay thee beside him," exclaimed the murderer.
"If you were permitted," she replied, "I doubt not but your cruelty
would go that length."
Thus far the excitement of the dreadful scene enabled the poor creature
to reply, but nature soon asserted her sway. Sinking on her knees by
the side of the mangled corpse, the widow, neither observing nor caring
for the departure of the dragoons, proceeded to bind up her husband's
shattered skull with a kerchief, while the pent-up tears burst forth.
The house stood in a retired, solitary spot, and for some time the
bereaved woman was left alone with God and her children; but before
darkness closed in a human comforter was sent to her in the person of
Quentin Dick.
On his arrival in Wigtown, Quentin, finding that his friends the Wilson
girls had been imprisoned with an old covenanter named Mrs. McLachlan,
and that he could not obtain permission to see them, resolved to pay a
visit to John Brown, the carrier, who was an old friend, and who might
perhaps afford him counsel regarding the Wilsons. Leaving Ramblin'
Peter behind to watch every event and fetch him word if anything
important should transpire, he set out and reached the desolated cottage
in the evening of the day on which his friend was shot.
Quentin was naturally a reserved man, and had never been able to take a
prominent part with his covenanting friends in conversation or in public
prayer, but the sight of his old friend's widow in her agony, and her
terrified little ones, broke down the barrier of reserve completely.
Although a stern and a strong man, not prone to give way to feeling, he
learned that night the full meaning of what it is to "weep with those
that weep." Moreover, his tongue was unloosed, and he poured forth his
soul in prayer, and quoted God's Word in a way that cheered, in no small
degree, his stricken friend. During several days he remained at
Priesthill, doing all in his power to assist the family, and receiving
some degree of comfort in return; for strong sympathy and fellowship in
sorrow had induced him to reveal the fact that he loved Margaret Wilson,
who at that time lay in prison with her young sister Agnes, awaiting
their trial in Wigtown.
Seated one night by the carrier's desolated hearth, where several
friends had assembled to mourn with the widow, Quentin was about to
commence family worship, when he was interrupted by the sudden entrance
of Ramblin' Peter. The expression of his face told eloquently that he
brought bad news. "The Wilsons," he said, "are condemned to be drowned
with old Mrs. McLachlan."
"No' baith o' the lasses," he added, correcting himself, "for the
faither managed to git ane o' them off by a bribe o' a hundred pounds--
an' that's every bodle that he owns."
"Which is to be drooned?" asked Quentin in a low voice.
"Marget--the auldest."
A deep groan burst from the shepherd as the Bible fell from his hands.
"Come!" he said to Peter, and passed quickly out of the house, without a
word to those whom he left behind.
Arrived in Wigtown, the wretched man went about, wildly seeking to move
the feelings of men whose hearts were like the nether millstone.
"Oh, if I only had siller!" he exclaimed to the Wilsons' father,
clasping his hands in agony. "Hae ye nae mair?"
"No' anither plack," said the old man in deepest dejection. "They took
all I had for Aggie."
"Ye are strang, Quentin," suggested Peter, who now understood the reason
of his friend's wild despair. "Could ye no' waylay somebody an' rob
them? Surely it wouldna be coonted wrang in the circumstances."
"Sin is sin, Peter. Better death than sin," returned Quentin with a
grave look.
"Aweel, we maun just dee, then," said Peter in a tone of resignation.
Nothing could avert the doom of these unfortunate women. Their judges,
of whom Grierson, Laird of Lagg, was one, indicted this young girl and
the old woman with the ridiculous charge of rebellion, of having been at
the battles of Bothwell Bridge and Airsmoss and present at twenty
conventicles, as well as with refusing to swear the abjuration oath!
The innocent victims were carried to the mouth of the river Bladenoch,
being guarded by troops under Major Winram, and followed by an immense
crowd both of friends and spectators. Quentin Dick and his little
friend Peter were among them. The former had possessed himself of a
stick resembling a quarter-staff. His wild appearance and bloodshot
eyes, with his great size and strength, induced people to keep out of
his way. He had only just reached the spot in time. No word did he
speak till he came up to Major Winram. Then he sprang forward, and said
in a loud voice, "I forbid this execution in the name of God!" at the
same time raising his staff.
Instantly a trooper spurred forward and cut him down from behind.
"Take him away," said Winram, and Quentin, while endeavouring to stagger
to his feet, was ridden down, secured, and dragged away. Poor Peter
shared his fate. So quickly and quietly was it all done that few except
those quite close to them were fully aware of what had occurred. The
blow on his head seemed to have stunned the shepherd, for he made no
resistance while they led him a considerable distance back into the
country to a retired spot, and placed him with his back against a cliff.
Then the leader of the party told off six men to shoot him.
Not until they were about to present their muskets did the shepherd seem
to realise his position. Then an eager look came over his face, and he
said with a smile, "Ay, be quick! Maybe I'll git there first to welcome
her!"
A volley followed, and the soul of Quentin Dick was released from its
tenement of clay.
Peter, on seeing the catastrophe, fell backwards in a swoon, and the
leader of the troop, feeling, perhaps, a touch of pity, cast him loose
and left him there. Returning to the sands, the soldiers found that the
martyrdom was well-nigh completed.
The mouth of the Bladenoch has been considerably modified. At this time
the river's course was close along the base of the hill on which Wigtown
stands. The tide had turned, and the flowing sea had already reversed
the current of the river. The banks of sand were steep, and several
feet high at the spot to which the martyrs were led, so that people
standing on the edge were close above the inrushing stream. Two stakes
had been driven into the top of the banks--one being some distance lower
down the river than the other. Ropes of a few yards in length were
fastened to them, and the outer ends tied round the martyrs' waists--old
Mrs. McLachlan being attached to the lower post. They were then bidden
prepare for death, which they did by kneeling down and engaging in
fervent prayer. It is said that the younger woman repeated some
passages of Scripture, and even sang part of the 25th Psalm.
At this point a married daughter of Mrs. McLachlan, named Milliken, who
could not believe that the sentence would really be carried out, gave
way to violent lamentations, and fainted when she saw that her mother's
doom was fixed. They carried the poor creature away from the dreadful
scene.
The old woman was first pushed over the brink of the river, and a
soldier, thrusting her head down into the water with a halbert, held it
there. This was evidently done to terrify the younger woman into
submission, for, while the aged martyr was struggling in the agonies of
death, one of the tormentors asked Margaret Wilson what she thought of
that sight.
"What do I see?" was her reply. "I see Christ in one of His members
wrestling there. Think ye that we are sufferers? No! it is Christ in
us; for He sends none a warfare on his own charges."
These were her last words as she was pushed over the bank, and, like her
companion, forcibly held, down with a halbert. Before she was quite
suffocated, however, Winram ordered her to be dragged out, and, when
able to speak, she was asked if she would pray for the King.
"I wish the salvation of all men," she replied, "and the damnation of
none."
"Dear Margaret," urged a bystander in a voice of earnest entreaty, "say
`God save the King,' say `God save the King.'"
"God save him if He will," she replied. "It is his salvation I desire."
"She has said it! she has said it!" cried the pitying bystanders
eagerly.
"That won't do," cried the Laird of Lagg, coming forward at the moment,
uttering a coarse oath; "let her take the test-oaths."
As this meant the repudiation of the Covenants and the submission of her
conscience to the King--to her mind inexcusable sin--the martyr firmly
refused to obey. She was immediately thrust back into the water, and in
a few minutes more her heroic soul was with her God and Saviour.
The truth of this story--like that of John Brown of Priesthill, though
attested by a letter of Claverhouse himself [See Dr. Cunningham's
_History of the Church of Scotland_, volume two, page 239.]--has been
called in question, and the whole affair pronounced a myth! We have no
space for controversy, but it is right to add that if it be a myth, the
records of the Kirk-sessions of Kirkinner and Penninghame--which exist,
and in which it is recorded--must also be mythical. The truth is, that
both stories have been elaborately investigated by men of profound
learning and unquestionable capacity, and the truth of them proved "up
to the hilt."
As to Graham of Claverhouse--there are people, we believe, who would
whitewash the devil if he were only to present himself with a dashing
person and a handsome face! But such historians as Macaulay, McCrie,
McKenzie, and others, refuse to whitewash Claverhouse. Even Sir Walter
Scott--who was very decidedly in sympathy with the Cavaliers--says of
him in _Old Mortality_: "He was the unscrupulous agent of the Scottish
Privy Council in executing the merciless seventies of the Government in
Scotland during the reigns of Charles the Second and James the Second;"
and his latest apologist candidly admits that "it is impossible
altogether to acquit Claverhouse of the charges laid to his account."
We are inclined to ask, with some surprise, Why should he wish to acquit
him? But Claverhouse himself, as if in prophetic cynicism, writes his
own condemnation as to character thus: "In any service I have been in, I
never inquired further in the laws than the orders of my superior
officer." An appropriate motto for a "soldier of fortune," which might
be abbreviated and paraphrased into "Stick at nothing!"
Coupling all this with the united testimony of tradition, and nearly all
ancient historians, we can only wonder at the prejudice of those who
would still weave a chaplet for the brow of "Bonnie Dundee."
Turning now from the south-west of Scotland, we direct attention to the
eastern seaboard of Kincardine, where, perched like a sea-bird on the
weatherbeaten cliffs, stands the stronghold of Dunnottar Castle.
Down in the dungeons of that rugged pile lies our friend Andrew Black,
very different from the man whose fortunes we have hitherto followed.
Care, torment, disease, hard usage, long confinement, and desperate
anxiety have graven lines on his face that nothing but death can smooth
out. Wildly-tangled hair, with a long shaggy beard and moustache,
render him almost unrecognisable. Only the old unquenchable fire of his
eye remains; also the kindliness of his old smile, when such a rare
visitant chances once again to illuminate his worn features. Years of
suffering had he undergone, and there was now little more than skin and
bone of him left to undergo more.