of the foul miry dungeon where a crowd of male and female prisoners were
endeavouring to inhale a little fresh air through a crevice in the wall.
"I'm fit to choke for want o' a breath o' caller air."
As he spoke a groan from a dark corner attracted his attention. At once
forgetting his own distress, he went to the place and discovered one of
the prisoners, a young man, with his head pillowed on a stone, and mire
some inches deep for his bed.
"Eh, Sandy, are ye sae far gane?" asked Black, kneeling beside him in
tender sympathy.
"Oh, Andry, man--for a breath o' fresh air before I dee!"
"Here! ane o' ye," cried Black, "help me to carry Sandy to the crack.
Wae's me, man," he added in a lower voice, "I could hae carried you ye
wi' my pirlie ance, but I'm little stronger than a bairn noo."
Sandy was borne to the other side of the dungeon, and his head put close
to the crevice, through which he could see the white ripples on the
summer sea far below.
A deep inspiration seemed for a moment to give new life--then a
prolonged sigh, and the freed happy soul swept from the dungeons of
earth to the realms of celestial, light and liberty.
"He's breathin' the air o' Paradise noo," said Black, as he assisted to
remove the dead man from the opening which the living were so eager to
reach.
"Ye was up in the ither dungeon last night," he said, turning to the man
who had aided him; "what was a' the groans an' cries aboot?"
"Torturin' the puir lads that tried to escape," answered the man with a
dark frown.
"Hm! I thoucht as muckle. They were gey hard on them, I dar'say?"
"They were that! Ye see, the disease that's broke oot amang them--
whatever it is--made some o' them sae desprit that they got through the
wundy that looks to the sea an' creepit alang the precipice. It was a
daft-like thing to try in the daylight; but certain death would hae been
their lot, I suspec', if they had ventured on a precipice like that i'
the dark. Some women washin' doon below saw them and gied the alarm.
The gairds cam', the hue and cry was raised, the yetts were shut and
fifteen were catched an' brought back--but twenty-five got away. My
heart is wae for the fifteen. They were laid on their backs on benches;
their hands were bound doon to the foot o' the forms, an' burnin'
matches were putt atween every finger, an' the sodgers blew on them to
keep them alight. The governor, ye see, had ordered this to gang on
withoot stoppin' for three oors! Some o' the puir fallows were deid
afore the end o' that time, an' I'm thinkin' the survivors'll be
crippled for life."
While listening to the horrible tale Andrew Black resolved on an attempt
to escape that very night.
"Wull ye gang wi' me?" he asked of the only comrade whom he thought
capable of making the venture; but the comrade shook his head. "Na," he
said, "I'll no' try. They've starved me to that extent that I've nae
strength left. I grow dizzy at the vera thoucht. But d'ye think the
wundy's big enough to let ye through?"
"Oo ay," returned Black with a faint smile. "I was ower stoot for't
ance, but it's an ill wund that blaws nae guid. Stervation has made me
thin enough noo."
That night, when all--even the harassed prisoners--in Dunnottar Castle
were asleep, except the sentinels, the desperate man forced himself with
difficulty through the very small window of the dungeon. It was
unbarred, because, opening out on the face of an almost sheer precipice,
it was thought that nothing without wings could escape from it. Black,
however, had been accustomed to precipices from boyhood. He had
observed a narrow ledge just under the window, and hoped that it might
lead to something. Just below it he could see another and narrower
ledge. What was beyond that he knew not--and did not much care!
Once outside, with his breast pressed against the wall of rock, he
passed along pretty quickly, considering that he could not see more than
a few yards before him. But presently he came to the end of the ledge,
and by no stretching out of foot or hand could he find another
projection of any kind. He had now to face the great danger of sliding
down to the lower ledge, and his heart beat audibly against his ribs as
he gazed into the profound darkness below. Indecision was no part of
Andrew Black's character. Breathing a silent prayer for help and
deliverance, he sat down on the ledge with his feet overhanging the
abyss. For one moment he reconsidered his position. Behind him were
torture, starvation, prolonged misery, and almost certain death. Below
was perhaps instantaneous death, or possible escape.
He pushed off, again commending his soul to God, and slid down. For an
instant destruction seemed inevitable, but next moment his heels struck
the lower ledge and he remained fast. With an earnest "Thank God!" he
began to creep along. The ledge conducted him to safer ground, and in
another quarter of an hour he was free!
To get as far and as quickly as possible from Dunnottar was now his
chief aim. He travelled at his utmost speed till daybreak, when he
crept into a dry ditch, and, overcome by fatigue, forgot his sorrow in
profound unbroken slumber. Rising late in the afternoon, he made his
way to a cottage and begged for bread. They must have suspected what he
was and where he came from, but they were friendly, for they gave him a
loaf and a few pence without asking questions.
Thus he travelled by night and slept by day till he made his way to
Edinburgh, which he entered one evening in the midst of a crowd of
people, and went straight to Candlemaker Row.
Mrs. Black, Mrs. Wallace, Jean Black, and poor Agnes Wilson were in the
old room when a tap was heard at the door, which immediately opened, and
a gaunt, dishevelled, way-worn man appeared. Mrs. Black was startled at
first, for the man, regardless of the other females, advanced towards
her. Then sudden light seemed to flash in her eyes as she extended both
hands.
"Mither!" was all that Andrew could say as he grasped them, fell on his
knees, and, with a profound sigh, laid his head upon her lap.
CHAPTER TWELVE.
THE DARKEST HOUR BEFORE THE DAWN.
Many months passed away, during which Andrew Black, clean-shaved,
brushed-up, and converted into a very respectable, ordinary-looking
artisan, carried on the trade of a turner, in an underground cellar in
one of the most populous parts of the Cowgate. Lost in the crowd was
his idea of security. And he was not far wrong. His cellar had a way
of escape through a back door. Its grated window, under the level of
the street, admitted light to his whirling lathe, but, aided by dirt on
the glass, it baffled the gaze of the curious.
His evenings were spent in Candlemaker Row, where, seated by the window
with his mother, Mrs. Wallace, and the two girls, he smoked his pipe and
commented on Scotland's woes while gazing across the tombs at the glow
in the western sky. Ramblin' Peter--no longer a beardless boy, but a
fairly well-grown and good-looking youth--was a constant visitor at the
Row. Aggie Wilson had taught him the use of his tongue, but Peter was
not the man to use it in idle flirtation--nor Aggie the girl to listen
if he had done so. They had both seen too much of the stern side of
life to condescend on trifling.
Once, by a superhuman effort, and with an alarming flush of the
countenance, Peter succeeded in stammering a declaration of his
sentiments. Aggie, with flaming cheeks and downcast eyes, accepted the
declaration, and the matter was settled; that was all, for the subject
had rushed upon both of them, as it were, unexpectedly, and as they were
in the public street at the time and the hour was noon, further
demonstration might have been awkward.
Thereafter they were understood to be "keeping company." But they were
a grave couple. If an eavesdropper had ventured to listen, sober talk
alone would have repaid the sneaking act, and, not unfrequently,
reference would have been heard in tones of deepest pathos to dreadful
scenes that had occurred on the shores of the Solway, or sorrowful
comments on the awful fate of beloved friends who had been banished to
"the plantations."
One day Jean--fair-haired, blue-eyed, pensive Jean--was seated in the
cellar with her uncle. She had brought him his daily dinner in a tin
can, and he having just finished it, was about to resume his work while
the niece rose to depart. Time had transformed Jean from a pretty girl
into a beautiful woman, but there was an expression of profound
melancholy on her once bright face which never left it now, save when a
passing jest called up for an instant a feeble reminiscence of the sweet
old smile.
"Noo, Jean, awa' wi' ye. I'll never get thae parritch-sticks feenished
if ye sit haverin' there."
Something very like the old smile lighted up Jean's face as she rose,
and with a "weel, good-day, uncle," left the cellar to its busy
occupant.
Black was still at work, and the shadows of evening were beginning to
throw the inner end of the cellar into gloom, when the door slowly
opened and a man entered stealthily. The unusual action, as well as the
appearance of the man, caused Black to seize hold of a heavy piece of
wood that leaned against his lathe. The thought of being discovered and
sent back to Dunnottar, or hanged, had implanted in our friend a
salutary amount of caution, though it had not in the slightest degree
affected his nerve or his cool promptitude in danger. He had
deliberately made up his mind to remain quiet as long as he should be
let alone, but if discovered, to escape or die in the attempt.
The intruder was a man of great size and strength, but as he seemed to
be alone, Black quietly leaned the piece of wood against the lathe again
in a handy position.
"Ye seem to hae been takin' lessons frae the cats lately, to judge from
yer step," said Black. "Shut the door, man, behint ye. There's a draft
i' this place that'll be like to gie ye the rheumatiz."
The man obeyed, and, advancing silently, stood before the lathe. There
was light enough to reveal the fact that his countenance was handsome,
though bronzed almost to the colour of mahogany, while the lower part of
it was hidden by a thick beard and a heavy moustache.
Black, who began to see that the strange visitor had nothing of the
appearance of one sent to arrest him, said, in a half-humorous,
remonstrative tone--
"Maybe ye're a furriner, an' dinna understan' mainners, but it's as weel
to tell ye that I expec' men to tak' aff their bannets when they come
into _my_ hoose."
Without speaking the visitor removed his cap. Black recognised him in
an instant.
"Wull Wallace!" he gasped in a hoarse whisper, as he sprang forward and
laid violent hands on his old friend. "Losh, man! are my een leein'?
is't possable? Can this be _you_?"
"Yes, thank God, it is indeed--"
He stopped short, for Andrew, albeit unaccustomed, like most of his
countrymen, to give way to ebullitions of strong feeling, threw his long
arms around his friend and fairly hugged him. He did not, indeed,
condescend on a Frenchman's kiss, but he gave him a stage embrace and a
squeeze that was worthy of a bear.
"Your force is not much abated, I see--or rather, feel," said Will
Wallace, when he was released.
"Abated!" echoed Black, "it's little need, in thae awfu' times. But,
man, _your_ force has increased, if I'm no mista'en."
"Doubtless--it is natural, after having toiled with the slaves in
Barbadoes for so many years. The work was kill or cure out there. But
tell me--my mother--and yours?"
"Oh, they're baith weel and hearty, thank the Lord," answered Black.
"But what for d'ye no speer after Jean?" he added in a somewhat
disappointed tone.
"Because I don't need to. I've seen her already, and know that she is
well."
"Seen her!" exclaimed Andrew in surprise.
"Ay, you and Jean were seated alone at the little window in the
Candlemaker Raw last night about ten o'clock, and I was standing by a
tombstone in the Greyfriars Churchyard admiring you. I did not like to
present myself just then, for fear of alarming the dear girl too much,
and then I did not dare to come here to-day till the gloamin'. I only
arrived yesterday."
"Weel, weel! The like o' this bates a'. Losh man! I hope it's no a
dream. Nip me, man, to mak sure. Sit doon, sit doon, an' let's hear a'
aboot it."
The story was a long one. Before it was quite finished the door was
gently opened, and Jean Black herself entered. She had come, as was her
wont every night, to walk home with her uncle.
Black sprang up.
"Jean, my wummin," he said, hastily putting on his blue bonnet, "there's
no light eneuch for ye to be intryduced to my freend here, but ye can
hear him if ye canna see him. I'm gaun oot to see what sort o' a night
it is. He'll tak' care o' ye till I come back."
Without awaiting a reply he went out and shut the door, and the girl
turned in some surprise towards the stranger.
"Jean!" he said in a low voice, holding out both hands.
Jean did not scream or faint. Her position in life, as well as her
rough experiences, forbade such weakness, but it did not forbid--well,
it is not our province to betray confidences! All we can say is, that
when Andrew Black returned to the cellar, after a prolonged and no doubt
scientific inspection of the weather, he found that the results of the
interview had been quite satisfactory--eminently so!
Need we say that there were rejoicing and thankful hearts in Candlemaker
Row that night? We think not. If any of the wraiths of the Covenanters
were hanging about the old churchyard, and had peeped in at the
well-known back window about the small hours of the morning, they would
have seen our hero, clasping his mother with his right arm and Jean with
his left. He was encircled by an eager group--composed of Mrs. Black
and Andrew, Jock Bruce, Ramblin' Peter, and Aggie Wilson--who listened
to the stirring tale of his adventures, or detailed to him the not less
stirring and terrible history of the long period that had elapsed since
he was torn from them, as they had believed, for ever.
Next morning Jean accompanied her lover to the workshop of her uncle,
who had preceded them, as he usually went to work about daybreak.
"Are ye no feared," asked Jean, with an anxious look in her companion's
face, "that some of your auld enemies may recognise you? You're so big
and--and--" (she thought of the word handsome, but substituted)
"odd-looking."
"There is little fear, Jean. I've been so long away that most of the
people--the enemies at least--who knew me must have left; besides, my
bronzed face and bushy beard form a sufficient disguise, I should
think."
"I'm no sure o' that," returned the girl, shaking her head doubtfully;
"an' it seems to me that the best thing ye can do will be to gang to the
workshop every mornin' before it's daylight. Have ye fairly settled to
tak' to Uncle Andrew's trade?"
"Yes. Last night he and I arranged it while you were asleep. I must
work, you know, to earn my living, and there is no situation so likely
to afford such effectual concealment. Bruce offered to take me on
again, but the smiddy is too public, and too much frequented by
soldiers. Ah, Jean! I fear that our wedding-day is a long way off yet,
for, although I could easily make enough to support you in comfort if
there were no difficulties to hamper me, there is not much chance of my
making a fortune, as Andrew Black says, by turning parritch-sticks and
peeries!"
Wallace tried to speak lightly, but could not disguise a tone of
despondency.
"Your new King," he continued, "seems as bad as the old one, if not
worse. From all I hear he seems to have set his heart on bringing the
country back again to Popery, and black will be the look-out if he
succeeds in doing that. He has quarrelled, they say, with his bishops,
and in his anger is carrying matters against them with a high hand. I
fear that there is woe in store for poor Scotland yet."
"It may be so," returned Jean sadly. "The Lord knows what is best; but
He can make the wrath of man to praise Him. Perhaps," she added,
looking up with a solemn expression on her sweet face, "perhaps, like
Quentin Dick an' Margaret Wilson, you an' I may never wed."
They had reached the east end of the Grassmarket as she spoke, and had
turned into it before she observed that they were going wrong, but
Wallace explained that he had been directed by Black to call on Ramblin'
Peter, who lived there, and procure from him some turning-tools. On the
way they were so engrossed with each other that they did not at first
observe the people hurrying towards the lower end of the market. Then
they became aware that an execution was about to take place.
"The old story," muttered Wallace, while an almost savage scowl settled
on his face.
"Let us hurry by," said Jean in a low tone. At the moment the unhappy
man who was about to be executed raised his voice to speak, as was the
custom in those times.
Jean started, paused, and turned deadly pale.
"I ken the voice," she exclaimed.
As the tones rose in strength she turned towards the gallows and almost
dragged her companion after her in her eagerness to get near.
"It's Mr. Renwick," she said, "the dear servant o' the Lord!"
Wallace, on seeing her anxiety, elbowed his way through the crowd
somewhat forcibly, and thus made way for Jean till they stood close
under the gallows. It was a woeful sight in one sense, for it was the
murder of a fair and goodly as well as godly man in the prime of life;
yet it was a grand sight, inasmuch as it was a noble witnessing unto
death for God and truth and justice in the face of prejudice, passion,
and high-handed tyranny.
The martyr had been trying to address the crowd for some time, but had
been barbarously interrupted by the beating of drums. Just then a
curate approached him and said, "Mr. Renwick, own our King, and we will
pray for you."
"It's that scoundrel, the Reverend George Lawless," murmured Wallace in
a deep and bitter tone.
"I am come here," replied the martyr, "to bear my testimony against you,
and all such as you are."
"Own our King, and pray for him, whatever ye say of us," returned the
curate.
"I will discourse no more with you," rejoined Renwick. "I am in a
little to appear before Him who is King of kings and Lord of lords, who
shall pour shame, contempt, and confusion on all the kings of the earth
who have not ruled for Him."
After this Renwick--as was usual with the martyrs when about to finish
their course--sang, read a portion of Scripture, and prayed, in the
midst of considerable interruption from the drums. He also managed to
address the spectators. Among the sentences that reached the ears of
Jean and Wallace were the following:--
"I am come here this day to lay down my life for adhering to the truths
of Christ... I die as a Presbyterian Protestant... I own the Word of
God as the rule of faith and manners... I leave my testimony against
... all encroachments made on Christ's rights, who is the Prince of the
kings of the earth."
The noise of the drums rendered his voice inaudible at this point, and
the executioner, advancing, tied a napkin over his eyes. He was then
ordered to go up the ladder. To a friend who stood by him he gave his
last messages. Among them were the words--
"Keep your ground, and the Lord will provide you teachers and ministers;
and when He comes He will make these despised truths glorious in the
earth."
His last words were--"Lord, into thy hands I commit my spirit; for thou
hast redeemed me, Lord God of truth."
Thus fell the last, as it turned out, of the martyrs of the Covenants,
on the 17th of February 1688. But it did not seem to Will Wallace that
the storm of twenty-eight long years had almost blown over, as he
glanced at the scowling brows and compressed lips of the upturned faces
around him.
"Come--come away, Jean," he said quickly, as he felt the poor girl hang
heavily on his arm, and observed the pallor of her face.
"Ay, let's gang hame," she said faintly.
As Will turned to go he encountered a face that was very familiar. The
owner of it gazed at him inquiringly. It was that of his old comrade in
arms, Glendinning. Stooping over his companion as if to address her,
Wallace tried to conceal his face and pushed quickly through the crowd.
Whether Glendinning had recognised him or not, he could not be sure, but
from that day forward he became much more careful in his movements, went
regularly to his work with Andrew Black before daylight, and did not
venture to return each night till after dark. It was a weary and
irksome state of things, but better--as Black sagaciously remarked--than
being imprisoned on the Bass Rock or shut up in Dunnottar Castle. But
the near presence of Jean Black had, no doubt, more to do with the
resignation of our hero to his position than the fear of imprisonment.
As time passed, things in the political horizon looked blacker than
ever. The King began to show himself more and more in his true
colours--as one who had thoroughly made up his mind to rule as an
absolute monarch and to reclaim the kingdom to Popery. Among other
things he brought troops over from Ireland to enforce his will, some of
his English troops having made it abundantly plain that they could not
be counted on to obey the mandates of one who wished to arrogate to
himself unlimited power, and showed an utter disregard of the rights of
the people. Indeed, on all hands the King's friends began to forsake
him, and even his own children fell away from him at last.
Rumours of these things, more or less vague, had been reaching Edinburgh
from time to time, causing uneasiness in the minds of some and hope in
the hearts of others.
One night the usual party of friends had assembled to sup in the
dwelling of Mrs. Black. It was the Sabbath. Wallace and Black had
remained close all day--with the exception of an hour before daylight in
the morning when they had gone out for exercise. It was one of those
dreary days not unknown to Auld Reekie, which are inaugurated with a
persistent drizzle, continued with a "Scotch mist," and dismissed with
an even down-pour. Yet it was by no means a dismal day to our friends
of Candlemaker Row. They were all more or less earnestly religious as
well as intellectual, so that intercourse in reference to the things of
the Kingdom of God, and reading the Word, with a free-and-easy
commentary by Mrs. Black and much acquiescence on the part of Mrs.
Wallace, and occasional disputations between Andrew and Bruce, kept them
lively and well employed until supper-time.
The meal had just been concluded when heavy footfalls were heard on the
stair outside, and in another moment there was a violent knocking at the
door. The men sprang up, and instinctively grasped the weapons that
came first to hand. Wallace seized the poker--a new and heavy one--
Andrew the shovel, and Jock Bruce the tongs, while Ramblin' Peter
possessed himself of a stout rolling-pin. Placing themselves hastily in
front of the women, who had drawn together and retreated to a corner,
they stood on the defensive while Mrs. Black demanded to know who
knocked so furiously "on a Sabbath nicht."
Instead of answering, the visitors burst the door open, and half-a-dozen
of the town-guard sprang in and levelled their pikes.
"Yield yourselves!" cried their leader. "I arrest you in the King's
name!"
But the four men showed no disposition to yield, and the resolute
expression of their faces induced their opponents to hesitate.
"I ken o' nae King in this realm," said Andrew Black in a deep stern
voice, "an' we refuse to set oor necks under the heel o' a usurpin'
tyrant."
"Do your duty, men," said a man who had kept in the background, but who
now stepped to the front.
"Ha! this is your doing, Glendinning," exclaimed Wallace, who recognised
his old comrade. The sergeant had obviously been promoted, for he wore
the costume of a commissioned officer.
"Ay, I have an auld score to settle wi' you, Wallace, an' I hope to see
you an' your comrades swing in the Grassmarket before lang."
"Ye'll niver see that, my man," said Black, as he firmly grasped the
shovel. "Ye ha'ena gotten us yet, an' it's my opeenion that you an'
your freends'll be in kingdom-come before we swing, if ye try to tak' us
alive. Oot o' this hoose, ye scoondrels!"