YEAR 1782
ALTHOUGH I have not been particular in noticing it, from time to time,
there had been an occasional going off, at fairs and on market-days, of
the lads of the parish as soldiers, and when Captain Malcolm got the
command of his ship, no less than four young men sailed with him from the
clachan; so that we were deeper and deeper interested in the proceedings
of the doleful war that was raging in the plantations. By one post we
heard of no less than three brave fellows belonging to us being slain in
one battle, for which there was a loud and general lamentation.
Shortly after this, I got a letter from Charles Malcolm, a very pretty
letter it indeed was: he had heard of my Lord Eaglesham’s murder, and
grieved for the loss, both because his lordship was a good man, and
because he had been such a friend to him and his family. “But,” said
Charles, “the best way I can show my gratitude for his patronage, is to
prove myself a good officer to my king and country.” Which I thought a
brave sentiment, and was pleased thereat; for somehow Charles, from the
time he brought me the limes to make a bowl of punch, in his pocket from
Jamaica, had built a nest of affection in my heart. But, oh! the wicked
wastry of life in war. In less than a month after, the news came of a
victory over the French fleet, and by the same post I got a letter from
Mr. Howard, that was the midshipman who came to see us with Charles,
telling me that poor Charles had been mortally wounded in the action, and
had afterwards died of his wounds. “He was a hero in the engagement,”
said Mr. Howard, “and he died as a good and a brave man should.”—These
tidings gave me one of the sorest hearts I ever suffered, and it was long
before I could gather fortitude to disclose the tidings to poor Charles’s
mother. But the callants of the school had heard of the victory, and
were going shouting about, and had set the steeple bell a-ringing, by
which Mrs. Malcolm heard the news; and knowing that Charles’s ship was
with the fleet, she came over to the manse in great anxiety to hear the
particulars, somebody telling her that there had been a foreign letter to
me by the postman.
When I saw her I could not speak, but looked at her in pity, and, the
tear fleeing up into my eyes, she guessed what had happened. After
giving a deep and sore sigh, she enquired, “How did he behave? I hope
well, for he was aye a gallant laddie!”—and then she wept very bitterly.
However, growing calmer, I read to her the letter; and, when I had done,
she begged me to give it to her to keep, saying, “It’s all that I have
now left of my pretty boy; but it’s mair precious to me than the wealth
of the Indies;” and she begged me to return thanks to the Lord for all
the comforts and manifold mercies with which her lot had been blessed,
since the hour she put her trust in him alone; and that was when she was
left a penniless widow, with her five fatherless bairns.
It was just an edification of the spirit to see the Christian resignation
of this worthy woman. Mrs. Balwhidder was confounded, and said, there
was more sorrow in seeing the deep grief of her fortitude than tongue
could tell.
[Picture: The Old Herd]
Having taken a glass of wine with her, I walked out to conduct her to her
own house; but in the way we met with a severe trial. All the weans were
out parading with napkins and kail-blades on sticks, rejoicing and
triumphing in the glad tidings of victory. But when they saw me and Mrs.
Malcolm coming slowly along, they guessed what had happened, and threw
away their banners of joy; and standing all up in a row, with silence and
sadness, along the kirkyard wall as we passed, showed an instinct of
compassion that penetrated to my very soul. The poor mother burst into
fresh affliction, and some of the bairns into an audible weeping; and,
taking one another by the hand, they followed us to her door, like
mourners at a funeral. Never was such a sight seen in any town before.
The neighbours came to look at it as we walked along, and the men turned
aside to hide their faces; while the mothers pressed their babies
fondlier to their bosoms, and watered their innocent faces with their
tears.
I prepared a suitable sermon, taking as the words of my text, “Howl, ye
ships of Tarshish, for your strength is laid waste.” But when I saw
around me so many of my people clad in complimentary mourning for the
gallant Charles Malcolm, and that even poor daft Jenny Gaffaw, and her
daughter, had on an old black riband; and when I thought of him, the
spirited laddie, coming home from Jamaica with his parrot on his
shoulder, and his limes for me, my heart filled full, and I was obliged
to sit down in the pulpit, and drop a tear.
After a pause, and the Lord having vouchsafed to compose me, I rose up,
and gave out that anthem of triumph, the 124th psalm, the singing of
which brought the congregation round to themselves; but still I felt that
I could not preach as I had meant to do; therefore I only said a few
words of prayer, and singing another psalm, dismissed the congregation.