“Confess, however, the truth,” said Balfour, “and own that there are

those within yon dark Tower, over whom thou wouldst rather be watching

like a mother over her little ones, than thou wouldst bear the banner of

the Church of Scotland over the necks of her enemies.”

“If you mean, that I would willingly terminate this war without any

bloody victory, and that I am more anxious to do this than to acquire any

personal fame or power, you may be,” replied Morton, “perfectly right.”

“And not wholly wrong,” answered Burley, “in deeming that thou wouldst

not exclude from so general a pacification thy friends in the garrison of

Tillietudlem.”

“Certainly,” replied Morton; “I am too much obliged to Major Bellenden

not to wish to be of service to him, as far as the interest of the cause

I have espoused will permit. I never made a secret of my regard for him.”

“I am aware of that,” said Burley; “but, if thou hadst concealed it, I

should, nevertheless, have found out thy riddle. Now, hearken to my

words. This Miles Bellenden hath means to subsist his garrison for a

month.”

“This is not the case,” answered Morton; “we know his stores are hardly

equal to a week’s consumption.”

“Ay, but,” continued Burley, “I have since had proof, of the strongest

nature, that such a report was spread in the garrison by that wily and

grey-headed malignant, partly to prevail on the soldiers to submit to a

diminution of their daily food, partly to detain us before the walls of

his fortress until the sword should be whetted to smite and destroy us.”

“And why was not the evidence of this laid before the council of war?”

said Morton.

“To what purpose?” said Balfour. “Why need we undeceive Kettledrummle,

Macbriar, Poundtext, and Langcale, upon such a point? Thyself must own,

that whatever is told to them escapes to the host out of the mouth of the

preachers at their next holding-forth. They are already discouraged by

the thoughts of lying before the fort a week. What would be the

consequence were they ordered to prepare for the leaguer of a month?”

“But why conceal it, then, from me? or why tell it me now? and, above

all, what proofs have you got of the fact?” continued Morton.

“There are many proofs,” replied Burley; and he put into his hands a

number of requisitions sent forth by Major Bellenden, with receipts on

the back to various proprietors, for cattle, corn, meal, to such an

amount, that the sum total seemed to exclude the possibility of the

garrison being soon distressed for provisions. But Burley did not inform

Morton of a fact which he himself knew full well, namely, that most of

these provisions never reached the garrison, owing to the rapacity of the

dragoons sent to collect them, who readily sold to one man what they took

from another, and abused the Major’s press for stores, pretty much as Sir

John Falstaff did that of the King for men.

“And now,” continued Balfour, observing that he had made the desired

impression, “I have only to say, that I concealed this from thee no

longer than it was concealed from myself, for I have only received these

papers this morning; and I tell it unto thee now, that thou mayest go on

thy way rejoicing, and work the great work willingly at Glasgow, being

assured that no evil can befall thy friends in the malignant party, since

their fort is abundantly victualled, and I possess not numbers sufficient

to do more against them than to prevent their sallying forth.”

“And why,” continued Morton, who felt an inexpressible reluctance to

acquiesce in Balfour’s reasoning--“why not permit me to remain in the

command of this smaller party, and march forward yourself to Glasgow? It

is the more honourable charge.”

“And therefore, young man,” answered Burley, “have I laboured that it

should be committed to the son of Silas Morton. I am waxing old, and this

grey head has had enough of honour where it could be gathered by danger.

I speak not of the frothy bubble which men call earthly fame, but the

honour belonging to him that doth not the work negligently. But thy

career is yet to run. Thou hast to vindicate the high trust which has

been bestowed on thee through my assurance that it was dearly

well-merited. At Loudon-hill thou wert a captive, and at the last assault

it was thy part to fight under cover, whilst I led the more open and

dangerous attack; and, shouldst thou now remain before these walls when

there is active service elsewhere, trust me, that men will say, that the

son of Silas Morton hath fallen away from the paths of his father.”

Stung by this last observation, to which, as a gentleman and soldier, he

could offer no suitable reply, Morton hastily acquiesced in the proposed

arrangement. Yet he was unable to divest himself of certain feelings of

distrust which he involuntarily attached to the quarter from which he

received this information.

“Mr Balfour,” he said, “let us distinctly understand each other. You have

thought it worth your while to bestow particular attention upon my

private affairs and personal attachments; be so good as to understand,

that I am as constant to them as to my political principles. It is

possible, that, during my absence, you may possess the power of soothing

or of wounding those feelings. Be assured, that whatever may be the

consequences to the issue of our present adventure, my eternal gratitude,

or my persevering resentment, will attend the line of conduct you may

adopt on such an occasion; and, however young and inexperienced I am, I

have no doubt of finding friends to assist me in expressing my sentiments

in either case.”

“If there be a threat implied in that denunciation,” replied Burley,

coldly and haughtily, “it had better have been spared. I know how to

value the regard of my friends, and despise, from my soul, the threats of

my enemies. But I will not take occasion of offence. Whatever happens

here in your absence shall be managed with as much deference to your

wishes, as the duty I owe to a higher power can possibly permit.”

With this qualified promise Morton was obliged to rest satisfied.

“Our defeat will relieve the garrison,” said he, internally, “ere they

can be reduced to surrender at discretion; and, in case of victory, I

already see, from the numbers of the moderate party, that I shall have a

voice as powerful as Burley’s in determining the use which shall be made

of it.”

He therefore followed Balfour to the council, where they found

Kettledrummle adding to his lastly a few words of practical application.

When these were expended, Morton testified his willingness to accompany

the main body of the army, which was destined to drive the regular troops

from Glasgow. His companions in command were named, and the whole

received a strengthening exhortation from the preachers who were present.

Next morning, at break of day, the insurgent army broke up from their

encampment, and marched towards Glasgow.

It is not our intention to detail at length incidents which may be found

in the history of the period. It is sufficient to say, that Claverhouse

and Lord Ross, learning the superior force which was directed against

them, intrenched, or rather barricadoed themselves, in the centre of the

city, where the town-house and old jail were situated, with the

determination to stand the assault of the insurgents rather than to

abandon the capital of the west of Scotland. The presbyterians made their

attack in two bodies, one of which penetrated into the city in the line

of the College and Cathedral Church, while the other marched up the

Gallowgate, or principal access from the south-east. Both divisions were

led by men of resolution, and behaved with great spirit. But the

advantages of military skill and situation were too great for their

undisciplined valour.

Ross and Claverhouse had carefully disposed parties of their soldiers in

houses, at the heads of the streets, and in the entrances of closes, as

they are called, or lanes, besides those who were intrenched behind

breast-works which reached across the streets. The assailants found their

ranks thinned by a fire from invisible opponents, which they had no means

of returning with effect. It was in vain that Morton and other leaders

exposed their persons with the utmost gallantry, and endeavoured to bring

their antagonists to a close action; their followers shrunk from them in

every direction. And yet, though Henry Morton was one of the very last to

retire, and exerted himself in bringing up the rear, maintaining order in

the retreat, and checking every attempt which the enemy made to improve

the advantage they had gained by the repulse, he had still the

mortification to hear many of those in his ranks muttering to each other,

that “this came of trusting to latitudinarian boys; and that, had honest,

faithful Burley led the attack, as he did that of the barricades of

Tillietudlem, the issue would have been as different as might be.”

It was with burning resentment that Morton heard these reflections thrown

out by the very men who had soonest exhibited signs of discouragement.

The unjust reproach, however, had the effect of firing his emulation, and

making him sensible that, engaged as he was in a perilous cause, it was

absolutely necessary that he should conquer or die.

“I have no retreat,” he said to himself. “All shall allow--even Major

Bellenden--even Edith--that in courage, at least, the rebel Morton was

not inferior to his father.”

The condition of the army after the repulse was so undisciplined, and in

such disorganization, that the leaders thought it prudent to draw off

some miles from the city to gain time for reducing them once more into

such order as they were capable of adopting. Recruits, in the meanwhile,

came fast in, more moved by the extreme hardships of their own condition,

and encouraged by the advantage obtained at Loudon-hill, than deterred by

the last unfortunate enterprise. Many of these attached themselves

particularly to Morton’s division. He had, however, the mortification to

see that his unpopularity among the more intolerant part of the

Covenanters increased rapidly. The prudence beyond his years, which he

exhibited in improving the discipline and arrangement of his followers,

they termed a trusting in the arm of flesh, and his avowed tolerance for

those of religious sentiments and observances different from his own,

obtained him, most unjustly, the nickname of Gallio, who cared for none

of those things. What was worse than these misconceptions, the mob of the

insurgents, always loudest in applause of those who push political or

religious opinions to extremity, and disgusted with such as endeavour to

reduce them to the yoke of discipline, preferred avowedly the more

zealous leaders, in whose ranks enthusiasm in the cause supplied the want

of good order and military subjection, to the restraints which Morton

endeavoured to bring them under. In short, while bearing the principal

burden of command, (for his colleagues willingly relinquished in his

favour every thing that was troublesome and obnoxious in the office of

general,) Morton found himself without that authority, which alone could

render his regulations effectual. [Note: These feuds, which tore to

pieces the little army of insurgents, turned merely on the point whether

the king’s interest or royal authority was to be owned or not, and

whether the party in arms were to be contented with a free exercise of

their own religion, or insist upon the re-establishment of Presbytery in

its supreme authority, and with full power to predominate over all other

forms of worship. The few country gentlemen who joined the insurrection,

with the most sensible part of the clergy, thought it best to limit their

demands to what it might be possible to attain. But the party who urged

these moderate views were termed by the more zealous bigots, the Erastian

party, men, namely, who were willing to place the church under the

influence of the civil government, and therefore they accounted them, “a

snare upon Mizpah, and a net spread upon Tabor.” See the Life of Sir

Robert Hamilton in the Scottish Worthies, and his account of the Battle

of Both-well-bridge, passim.]

Yet, notwithstanding these obstacles, he had, during the course of a few

days, laboured so hard to introduce some degree of discipline into the

army, that he thought he might hazard a second attack upon Glasgow with

every prospect of success.

It cannot be doubted that Morton’s anxiety to measure himself with

Colonel Grahame of Claverhouse, at whose hands he had sustained such

injury, had its share in giving motive to his uncommon exertions. But

Claverhouse disappointed his hopes; for, satisfied with having the

advantage in repulsing the first attack upon Glasgow, he determined that

he would not, with the handful of troops under his command, await a

second assault from the insurgents, with more numerous and better

disciplined forces than had supported their first enterprise. He

therefore evacuated the place, and marched at the head of his troops

towards Edinburgh. The insurgents of course entered Glasgow without

resistance, and without Morton having the opportunity, which he so deeply

coveted, of again encountering Claverhouse personally. But, although he

had not an opportunity of wiping away the disgrace which had befallen his

division of the army of the Covenant, the retreat of Claverhouse, and the

possession of Glasgow, tended greatly to animate the insurgent army, and

to increase its numbers. The necessity of appointing new officers, of

organizing new regiments and squadrons, of making them acquainted with at

least the most necessary points of military discipline, were labours,

which, by universal consent, seemed to be devolved upon Henry Morton, and

which he the more readily undertook, because his father had made him

acquainted with the theory of the military art, and because he plainly

saw, that, unless he took this ungracious but absolutely necessary

labour, it was vain to expect any other to engage in it.

In the meanwhile, fortune appeared to favour the enterprise of the

insurgents more than the most sanguine durst have expected. The Privy

Council of Scotland, astonished at the extent of resistance which their

arbitrary measures had provoked, seemed stupified with terror, and

incapable of taking active steps to subdue the resentment which these

measures had excited. There were but very few troops in Scotland, and

these they drew towards Edinburgh, as if to form an army for protection

of the metropolis. The feudal array of the crown vassals in the various

counties, was ordered to take the field, and render to the King the

military service due for their fiefs. But the summons was very slackly

obeyed. The quarrel was not generally popular among the gentry; and even

those who were not unwilling themselves to have taken arms, were deterred

by the repugnance of their wives, mothers, and sisters, to their engaging

in such a cause.

Meanwhile, the inadequacy of the Scottish government to provide for their

own defence, or to put down a rebellion of which the commencement seemed

so trifling, excited at the English court doubts at once of their

capacity, and of the prudence of the severities they had exerted against

the oppressed presbyterians. It was, therefore, resolved to nominate to

the command of the army of Scotland, the unfortunate Duke of Monmouth,

who had by marriage a great interest, large estate, and a numerous

following, as it was called, in the southern parts of that kingdom. The

military skill which he had displayed on different occasions abroad, was

supposed more than adequate to subdue the insurgents in the field; while

it was expected that his mild temper, and the favourable disposition

which he showed to presbyterians in general, might soften men’s minds,

and tend to reconcile them to the government. The Duke was, therefore,

invested with a commission, containing high powers for settling the

distracted affairs of Scotland, and dispatched from London with strong

succours to take the principal military command in that country.

CHAPTER VI.

I am bound to Bothwell-hill,

Where I maun either do or die.

Old Ballad.

[Illustration: The Battle of Bothwell Bridge--128

There was now a pause in the military movements on both sides. The

government seemed contented to prevent the rebels advancing towards the

capital, while the insurgents were intent upon augmenting and

strengthening their forces. For this purpose, they established a sort of

encampment in the park belonging to the ducal residence at Hamilton, a

centrical situation for receiving their recruits, and where they were

secured from any sudden attack, by having the Clyde, a deep and rapid

river, in front of their position, which is only passable by a long and

narrow bridge, near the castle and village of Bothwell.

Morton remained here for about a fortnight after the attack on Glasgow,

actively engaged in his military duties. He had received more than one

communication from Burley, but they only stated, in general, that the

Castle of Tillietudlem continued to hold out. Impatient of suspense upon

this most interesting subject, he at length intimated to his colleagues

in command his desire, or rather his intention,--for he saw no reason why

he should not assume a license which was taken by every one else in this

disorderly army,--to go to Milnwood for a day or two to arrange some

private affairs of consequence. The proposal was by no means approved of;

for the military council of the insurgents were sufficiently sensible of

the value of his services to fear to lose them, and felt somewhat

conscious of their own inability to supply his place. They could not,

however, pretend to dictate to him laws more rigid than they submitted to

themselves, and he was suffered to depart on his journey without any

direct objection being stated. The Reverend Mr Poundtext took the same

opportunity to pay a visit to his own residence in the neighbourhood of

Milnwood, and favoured Morton with his company on the journey. As the

country was chiefly friendly to their cause, and in possession of their

detached parties, excepting here and there the stronghold of some old

cavaliering Baron, they travelled without any other attendant than the

faithful Cuddie.

It was near sunset when they reached Milnwood, where Poundtext bid adieu

to his companions, and travelled forward alone to his own manse, which

was situated half a mile’s march beyond Tillietudlem. When Morton was

left alone to his own reflections, with what a complication of feelings

did he review the woods, banks, and fields, that had been familiar to

him! His character, as well as his habits, thoughts, and occupations, had

been entirely changed within the space of little more than a fortnight,

and twenty days seemed to have done upon him the work of as many years. A

mild, romantic, gentle-tempered youth, bred up in dependence, and

stooping patiently to the control of a sordid and tyrannical relation,

had suddenly, by the rod of oppression and the spur of injured feeling,

been compelled to stand forth a leader of armed men, was earnestly

engaged in affairs of a public nature, had friends to animate and enemies

to contend with, and felt his individual fate bound up in that of a

national insurrection and revolution. It seemed as if he had at once

experienced a transition from the romantic dreams of youth to the labours

and cares of active manhood. All that had formerly interested him was

obliterated from his memory, excepting only his attachment to Edith; and

even his love seemed to have assumed a character more manly and

disinterested, as it had become mingled and contrasted with other duties

and feelings. As he revolved the particulars of this sudden change, the

circumstances in which it originated, and the possible consequences of

his present career, the thrill of natural anxiety which passed along his

mind was immediately banished by a glow of generous and high-spirited

confidence.

“I shall fall young,” he said, “if fall I must, my motives misconstrued,

and my actions condemned, by those whose approbation is dearest to me.

But the sword of liberty and patriotism is in my hand, and I will neither

fall meanly nor unavenged. They may expose my body, and gibbet my limbs;

but other days will come, when the sentence of infamy will recoil against

those who may pronounce it. And that Heaven, whose name is so often

profaned during this unnatural war, will bear witness to the purity of

the motives by which I have been guided.”

Upon approaching Milnwood, Henry’s knock upon the gate no longer

intimated the conscious timidity of a stripling who has been out of

bounds, but the confidence of a man in full possession of his own rights,

and master of his own actions,--bold, free, and decided. The door was

cautiously opened by his old acquaintance, Mrs Alison Wilson, who started

back when she saw the steel cap and nodding plume of the martial visitor.

“Where is my uncle, Alison?” said Morton, smiling at her alarm.

“Lordsake, Mr Harry! is this you?” returned the old lady. “In troth, ye

garr’d my heart loup to my very mouth--But it canna be your ainsell, for

ye look taller and mair manly-like than ye used to do.”

“It is, however, my own self,” said Henry, sighing and smiling at the

same time; “I believe this dress may make me look taller, and these

times, Ailie, make men out of boys.”

“Sad times indeed!” echoed the old woman; “and O that you suld be

endangered wi’them! but wha can help it?--ye were ill eneugh guided, and,

as I tell your uncle, if ye tread on a worm it will turn.”

“You were always my advocate, Ailie,” said he, and the housekeeper no

longer resented the familiar epithet, “and would let no one blame me but

yourself, I am aware of that,--Where is my uncle?”

“In Edinburgh,” replied Alison; “the honest man thought it was best to

gang and sit by the chimley when the reek rase--a vex’d man he’s been and

a feared--but ye ken the Laird as weel as I do.”

“I hope he has suffered nothing in health?” said Henry.

“Naething to speak of,” answered the housekeeper, “nor in gudes

neither--we fended as weel as we could; and, though the troopers of

Tillietudlem took the red cow and auld Hackie, (ye’ll mind them weel;)

yet they sauld us a gude bargain o’ four they were driving to the

Castle.”

“Sold you a bargain?” said Morton; “how do you mean?”

“Ou, they cam out to gather marts for the garrison,” answered the

housekeeper; “but they just fell to their auld trade, and rade through

the country couping and selling a’ that they gat, like sae mony

west-country drovers. My certie, Major Bellenden was laird o’ the least

share o’ what they lifted, though it was taen in his name.”

“Then,” said Morton, hastily, “the garrison must be straitened for

provisions?”

“Stressed eneugh,” replied Ailie--“there’s little doubt o’ that.”

A light instantly glanced on Morton’s mind.

“Burley must have deceived me--craft as well as cruelty is permitted by

his creed.” Such was his inward thought; he said aloud, “I cannot stay,

Mrs Wilson, I must go forward directly.”

“But, oh! bide to eat a mouthfu’,” entreated the affectionate

housekeeper, “and I’ll mak it ready for you as I used to do afore thae

sad days,” “It is impossible,” answered Morton.--“Cuddie, get our horses

ready.”

“They’re just eating their corn,” answered the attendant.

“Cuddie!” exclaimed Ailie; “what garr’d ye bring that ill-faur’d, unlucky

loon alang wi’ ye?--It was him and his randie mother began a’ the

mischief in this house.”

“Tut, tut,” replied Cuddie, “ye should forget and forgie, mistress.

Mither’s in Glasgow wi’ her tittie, and sall plague ye nae mair; and I’m

the Captain’s wallie now, and I keep him tighter in thack and rape than

ever ye did;--saw ye him ever sae weel put on as he is now?”

“In troth and that’s true,” said the old housekeeper, looking with great

complacency at her young master, whose mien she thought much improved by

his dress. “I’m sure ye ne’er had a laced cravat like that when ye were

at Milnwood; that’s nane o’ my sewing.”

“Na, na, mistress,” replied Cuddie, “that’s a cast o’ my hand--that’s ane

o’ Lord Evandale’s braws.”

“Lord Evandale?” answered the old lady, “that’s him that the whigs are

gaun to hang the morn, as I hear say.”

“The whigs about to hang Lord Evandale?” said Morton, in the greatest

surprise.

“Ay, troth are they,” said the housekeeper. “Yesterday night he made a

sally, as they ca’t, (my mother’s name was Sally--I wonder they gie

Christian folk’s names to sic unchristian doings,)--but he made an

outbreak to get provisions, and his men were driven back and he was taen,

’an’ the whig Captain Balfour garr’d set up a gallows, and swore, (or

said upon his conscience, for they winna swear,) that if the garrison was

not gien ower the morn by daybreak, he would hing up the young lord, poor

thing, as high as Haman.--These are sair times!--but folk canna help

them--sae do ye sit down and tak bread and cheese until better meat’s

made ready. Ye suldna hae kend a word about it, an I had thought it was

to spoil your dinner, hinny.”

“Fed, or unfed,” exclaimed Morton, “saddle the horses instantly, Cuddie.

We must not rest until we get before the Castle.”

And, resisting all Ailie’s entreaties, they instantly resumed their

journey.

Morton failed not to halt at the dwelling of Poundtext, and summon him to

attend him to the camp. That honest divine had just resumed for an

instant his pacific habits, and was perusing an ancient theological

treatise, with a pipe in his mouth, and a small jug of ale beside him, to

assist his digestion of the argument. It was with bitter ill-will that he

relinquished these comforts (which he called his studies) in order to

recommence a hard ride upon a high-trotting horse. However, when he knew

the matter in hand, he gave up, with a deep groan, the prospect of

spending a quiet evening in his own little parlour; for he entirely

agreed with Morton, that whatever interest Burley might have in rendering

the breach between the presbyterians and the government irreconcilable,

by putting the young nobleman to death, it was by no means that of the

moderate party to permit such an act of atrocity. And it is but doing

justice to Mr Poundtext to add, that, like most of his own persuasion, he

was decidedly adverse to any such acts of unnecessary violence; besides,

that his own present feelings induced him to listen with much complacence

to the probability held out by Morton, of Lord Evandale’s becoming a

mediator for the establishment of peace upon fair and moderate terms.

With this similarity of views, they hastened their journey, and arrived

about eleven o’clock at night at a small hamlet adjacent to the Castle at

Tillietudlem, where Burley had established his head-quarters.

They were challenged by the sentinel, who made his melancholy walk at the

entrance of the hamlet, and admitted upon declaring their names and

authority in the army. Another soldier kept watch before a house, which

they conjectured to be the place of Lord Evandale’s confinement, for a

gibbet of such great height as to be visible from the battlements of the

Castle, was erected before it, in melancholy confirmation of the truth of

Mrs Wilson’s report. [Note: The Cameronians had suffered persecution, but

it was without learning mercy. We are informed by Captain Crichton, that

they had set up in their camp a huge gibbet, or gallows, having many

hooks upon it, with a coil of new ropes lying beside it, for the

execution of such royalists as they might make prisoners. Guild, in his

Bellum Bothuellianum, describes this machine particularly.] Morton

instantly demanded to speak with Burley, and was directed to his

quarters. They found him reading the Scriptures, with his arms lying

beside him, as if ready for any sudden alarm. He started upon the

entrance of his colleagues in office.

“What has brought ye hither?” said Burley, hastily. “Is there bad news

from the army?”

“No,” replied Morton; “but we understand that there are measures adopted

here in which the safety of the army is deeply concerned--Lord Evandale

is your prisoner?”

“The Lord,” replied Burley, “hath delivered him into our hands.”

“And you will avail yourself of that advantage, granted you by Heaven, to

dishonour our cause in the eyes of all the world, by putting a prisoner

to an ignominious death?”

“If the house of Tillietudlem be not surrendered by daybreak,” replied

Burley, “God do so to me and more also, if he shall not die that death to

which his leader and patron, John Grahame of Claverhouse, hath put so

many of God’s saints.”

“We are in arms,” replied Morton, “to put down such cruelties, and not to

imitate them, far less to avenge upon the innocent the acts of the

guilty. By what law can you justify the atrocity you would commit?”

“If thou art ignorant of it,” replied Burley, “thy companion is well

aware of the law which gave the men of Jericho to the sword of Joshua,

the son of Nun.”

“But we,” answered the divine, “live under a better dispensation, which

instructeth us to return good for evil, and to pray for those who

despitefully use us and persecute us.”

“That is to say,” said Burley, “that thou wilt join thy grey hairs to his

green youth to controvert me in this matter?”

“We are,” rejoined Poundtext, “two of those to whom, jointly with

thyself, authority is delegated over this host, and we will not permit

thee to hurt a hair of the prisoner’s head. It may please God to make him

a means of healing these unhappy breaches in our Israel.”

“I judged it would come to this,” answered Burley, “when such as thou

wert called into the council of the elders.”

“Such as I?” answered Poundtext,--“And who am I, that you should name me

with such scorn?--Have I not kept the flock of this sheep-fold from the

wolves for thirty years? Ay, even while thou, John Balfour, wert fighting

in the ranks of uncircumcision, a Philistine of hardened brow and bloody

hand--Who am I, say’st thou?”

“I will tell thee what thou art, since thou wouldst so fain know,” said

Burley. “Thou art one of those, who would reap where thou hast not sowed,

and divide the spoil while others fight the battle--thou art one of those

that follow the gospel for the loaves and for the fishes--that love their

own manse better than the Church of God, and that would rather draw their

stipends under prelatists or heathens, than be a partaker with those

noble spirits who have cast all behind them for the sake of the

Covenant.”

“And I will tell thee, John Balfour,” returned Poundtext, deservedly

incensed, “I will tell thee what thou art. Thou art one of those, for

whose bloody and merciless disposition a reproach is flung upon the whole

church of this suffering kingdom, and for whose violence and

blood-guiltiness, it is to be feared, this fair attempt to recover our

civil and religious rights will never be honoured by Providence with the

desired success.”

“Gentlemen,” said Morton, “cease this irritating and unavailing

recrimination; and do you, Mr Balfour, inform us, whether it is your

purpose to oppose the liberation of Lord Evandale, which appears to us a

profitable measure in the present position of our affairs?”

“You are here,” answered Burley, “as two voices against one; but you will

not refuse to tarry until the united council shall decide upon this

matter?”

“This,” said Morton, “we would not decline, if we could trust the hands

in whom we are to leave the prisoner.--But you know well,” he added,

looking sternly at Burley, “that you have already deceived me in this

matter.”

“Go to,” said Burley, disdainfully,--“thou art an idle inconsiderate boy,

who, for the black eyebrows of a silly girl, would barter thy own faith

and honour, and the cause of God and of thy country.”

“Mr Balfour,” said Morton, laying his hand on his sword, “this language

requires satisfaction.”

“And thou shalt have it, stripling, when and where thou darest,” said

Burley; “I plight thee my good word on it.”

Poundtext, in his turn, interfered to remind them of the madness of

quarrelling, and effected with difficulty a sort of sullen

reconciliation.

“Concerning the prisoner,” said Burley, “deal with him as ye think fit. I

wash my hands free from all consequences. He is my prisoner, made by my

sword and spear, while you, Mr Morton, were playing the adjutant at

drills and parades, and you, Mr Poundtext, were warping the Scriptures

into Erastianism. Take him unto you, nevertheless, and dispose of him as

ye think meet.--Dingwall,” he continued, calling a sort of aid-de-camp,

who slept in the next apartment, “let the guard posted on the malignant

Evandale give up their post to those whom Captain Morton shall appoint to

relieve them.--The prisoner,” he said, again addressing Poundtext and

Morton, “is now at your disposal, gentlemen. But remember, that for all

these things there will one day come a term of heavy accounting.”

So saying, he turned abruptly into an inner apartment, without bidding

them good evening. His two visitors, after a moment’s consideration,

agreed it would be prudent to ensure the prisoner’s personal safety, by

placing over him an additional guard, chosen from their own parishioners.

A band of them happened to be stationed in the hamlet, having been

attached, for the time, to Burley’s command, in order that the men might

be gratified by remaining as long as possible near to their own homes.

They were, in general, smart, active young fellows, and were usually

called by their companions, the Marksmen of Milnwood. By Morton’s desire,

four of these lads readily undertook the task of sentinels, and he left

with them Headrigg, on whose fidelity he could depend, with instructions

to call him, if any thing remarkable happened.

This arrangement being made, Morton and his colleague took possession,

for the night, of such quarters as the over-crowded and miserable hamlet

could afford them. They did not, however, separate for repose till they

had drawn up a memorial of the grievances of the moderate presbyterians,

which was summed up with a request of free toleration for their religion

in future, and that they should be permitted to attend gospel ordinances

as dispensed by their own clergymen, without oppression or molestation.

Their petition proceeded to require that a free parliament should be

called for settling the affairs of church and state, and for redressing

the injuries sustained by the subject; and that all those who either now

were, or had been, in arms, for obtaining these ends, should be

indemnified. Morton could not but strongly hope that these terms, which

comprehended all that was wanted, or wished for, by the moderate party

among the insurgents, might, when thus cleared of the violence of

fanaticism, find advocates even among the royalists, as claiming only the

ordinary rights of Scottish freemen.

He had the more confidence of a favourable reception, that the Duke of

Monmouth, to whom Charles had intrusted the charge of subduing this

rebellion, was a man of gentle, moderate, and accessible disposition,

well known to be favourable to the presbyterians, and invested by the

king with full powers to take measures for quieting the disturbances in

Scotland. It seemed to Morton, that all that was necessary for

influencing him in their favour was to find a fit and sufficiently

respectable channel of communication, and such seemed to be opened

through the medium of Lord Evandale. He resolved, therefore, to visit the

prisoner early in the morning, in order to sound his dispositions to

undertake the task of mediator; but an accident happened which led him to

anticipate his purpose.

CHAPTER VII.

Gie ower your house, lady, he said,--

Gie ower your house to me.

Edom of Gordon.

Morton had finished the revisal and the making out of a fair copy of the

paper on which he and Poundtext had agreed to rest as a full statement of

the grievances of their party, and the conditions on which the greater

part of the insurgents would be contented to lay down their arms; and he

was about to betake himself to repose, when there was a knocking at the

door of his apartment.

“Enter,” said Morton; and the round bullethead of Cuddie Headrigg was

thrust into the room. “Come in,” said Morton, “and tell me what you want.

Is there any alarm?”

“Na, stir; but I hae brought ane to speak wi’ you.”

“Who is that, Cuddie?” enquired Morton.

“Ane o’ your auld acquaintance,” said Cuddie; and, opening the door more

fully, he half led, half dragged in a woman, whose face was muffled in

her plaid.--“Come, come, ye needna be sae bashfu’ before auld

acquaintance, Jenny,” said Cuddie, pulling down the veil, and discovering

to his master the well-remembered countenance of Jenny Dennison. “Tell

his honour, now--there’s a braw lass--tell him what ye were wanting to

say to Lord Evandale, mistress.”

“What was I wanting to say,” answered Jenny, “to his honour himsell the

other morning, when I visited him in captivity, ye muckle hash?--D’ye

think that folk dinna want to see their friends in adversity, ye dour

crowdy-eater?”

This reply was made with Jenny’s usual volubility; but her voice

quivered, her cheek was thin and pale, the tears stood in her eyes, her

hand trembled, her manner was fluttered, and her whole presence bore

marks of recent suffering and privation, as well as nervous and

hysterical agitation.

“What is the matter, Jenny?” said Morton, kindly. “You know how much I

owe you in many respects, and can hardly make a request that I will not

grant, if in my power.”

“Many thanks, Milnwood,” said the weeping damsel; “but ye were aye a kind

gentleman, though folk say ye hae become sair changed now.”

“What do they say of me?” answered Morton.

“A’ body says,” replied Jenny, “that you and the whigs hae made a vow to

ding King Charles aff the throne, and that neither he, nor his posteriors

from generation to generation, shall sit upon it ony mair; and John

Gudyill threeps ye’re to gie a’ the church organs to the pipers, and burn

the Book o’ Common-prayer by the hands of the common hangman, in revenge

of the Covenant that was burnt when the king cam hame.”

“My friends at Tillietudlem judge too hastily and too ill of me,”

answered Morton. “I wish to have free exercise of my own religion,

without insulting any other; and as to your family, I only desire an

opportunity to show them I have the same friendship and kindness as

ever.”

“Bless your kind heart for saying sae,” said Jenny, bursting into a flood

of tears; “and they never needed kindness or friendship mair, for they

are famished for lack o’ food.”

“Good God!” replied Morton, “I have heard of scarcity, but not of famine!

It is possible?--Have the ladies and the Major”--

“They hae suffered like the lave o’ us,” replied Jenny; “for they shared

every bit and sup wi’ the whole folk in the Castle--I’m sure my poor een

see fifty colours wi’ faintness, and my head’s sae dizzy wi’ the

mirligoes that I canna stand my lane.”

The thinness of the poor girl’s cheek, and the sharpness of her features,

bore witness to the truth of what she said. Morton was greatly shocked.

“Sit down,” he said, “for God’s sake!” forcing her into the only chair

the apartment afforded, while he himself strode up and down the room in

horror and impatience. “I knew not of this,” he exclaimed in broken

ejaculations,--“I could not know of it.--Cold-blooded, iron-hearted

fanatic--deceitful villain!--Cuddie, fetch refreshments--food--wine, if

possible--whatever you can find.”

“Whisky is gude eneugh for her,” muttered Cuddie; “ane wadna hae thought

that gude meal was sae scant amang them, when the quean threw sae muckle

gude kail-brose scalding het about my lugs.”

Faint and miserable as Jenny seemed to be, she could not hear the

allusion to her exploit during the storm of the Castle, without bursting

into a laugh which weakness soon converted into a hysterical giggle.

Confounded at her state, and reflecting with horror on the distress which

must have been in the Castle, Morton repeated his commands to Headrigg in

a peremptory manner; and when he had departed, endeavoured to soothe his

visitor.

“You come, I suppose, by the orders of your mistress, to visit Lord

Evandale?--Tell me what she desires; her orders shall be my law.”

Jenny appeared to reflect a moment, and then said, “Your honour is sae

auld a friend, I must needs trust to you, and tell the truth.”

“Be assured, Jenny,” said Morton, observing that she hesitated, “that you

will best serve your mistress by dealing sincerely with me.”

“Weel, then, ye maun ken we’re starving, as I said before, and have been

mair days than ane; and the Major has sworn that he expects relief daily,

and that he will not gie ower the house to the enemy till we have eaten

up his auld boots,--and they are unco thick in the soles, as ye may weel

mind, forby being teugh in the upper-leather. The dragoons, again, they

think they will be forced to gie up at last, and they canna bide hunger

weel, after the life they led at free quarters for this while bypast; and

since Lord Evandale’s taen, there’s nae guiding them; and Inglis says

he’ll gie up the garrison to the whigs, and the Major and the leddies

into the bargain, if they will but let the troopers gang free themsells.”

“Scoundrels!” said Morton; “why do they not make terms for all in the

Castle?”

“They are fear’d for denial o’ quarter to themsells, having dune sae

muckle mischief through the country; and Burley has hanged ane or twa o’

them already--sae they want to draw their ain necks out o’ the collar at

hazard o’ honest folk’s.”

“And you were sent,” continued Morton, “to carry to Lord Evandale the

unpleasant news of the men’s mutiny?”

“Just e’en sae,” said Jenny; “Tam Halliday took the rue, and tauld me a’

about it, and gat me out o’ the Castle to tell Lord Evandale, if possibly

I could win at him.”

“But how can he help you?” said Morton; “he is a prisoner.”

“Well-a-day, ay,” answered the afflicted damsel; “but maybe he could mak

fair terms for us--or, maybe, he could gie us some good advice--or,

maybe, he might send his orders to the dragoons to be civil--or”--

“Or, maybe,” said Morton, “you were to try if it were possible to set him

at liberty?”

“If it were sae,” answered Jenny with spirit, “it wadna be the first time

I hae done my best to serve a friend in captivity.”

“True, Jenny,” replied Morton, “I were most ungrateful to forget it. But

here comes Cuddie with refreshments--I will go and do your errand to Lord

Evandale, while you take some food and wine.”

“It willna be amiss ye should ken,” said Cuddie to his master, “that this

Jenny--this Mrs Dennison, was trying to cuittle favour wi’ Tam Rand, the

miller’s man, to win into Lord Evandale’s room without ony body kennin’.

She wasna thinking, the gipsy, that I was at her elbow.”

“And an unco fright ye gae me when ye cam ahint and took a grip o’ me,”

said Jenny, giving him a sly twitch with her finger and her thumb--“if ye

hadna been an auld acquaintance, ye daft gomeril”--

Cuddie, somewhat relenting, grinned a smile on his artful mistress, while

Morton wrapped himself up in his cloak, took his sword under his arm, and

went straight to the place of the young nobleman’s confinement. He asked

the sentinels if any thing extraordinary had occurred.

“Nothing worth notice,” they said, “excepting the lass that Cuddie took

up, and two couriers that Captain Balfour had dispatched, one to the

Reverend Ephraim Macbriar, another to Kettledrummle,” both of whom were

beating the drum ecclesiastic in different towns between the position of

Burley and the head-quarters of the main army near Hamilton.

“The purpose, I presume,” said Morton, with an affectation of

indifference, “was to call them hither.”

“So I understand,” answered the sentinel, who had spoke with the

messengers.

He is summoning a triumphant majority of the council, thought Morton to

himself, for the purpose of sanctioning whatever action of atrocity he

may determine upon, and thwarting opposition by authority. I must be

speedy, or I shall lose my opportunity.

When he entered the place of Lord Evandale’s confinement, he found him

ironed, and reclining on a flock bed in the wretched garret of a

miserable cottage. He was either in a slumber, or in deep meditation,

when Morton entered, and turned on him, when aroused, a countenance so

much reduced by loss of blood, want of sleep, and scarcity of food, that

no one could have recognised in it the gallant soldier who had behaved

with so much spirit at the skirmish of Loudon-hill. He displayed some

surprise at the sudden entrance of Morton.

“I am sorry to see you thus, my lord,” said that youthful leader.

“I have heard you are an admirer of poetry,” answered the prisoner; “in

that case, Mr Morton, you may remember these lines,--

‘Stone walls do not a prison make,

Or iron bars a cage;

A free and quiet mind can take

These for a hermitage.’

But, were my imprisonment less endurable, I am given to expect to-morrow

a total enfranchisement.”

“By death?” said Morton.

“Surely,” answered Lord Evandale; “I have no other prospect. Your

comrade, Burley, has already dipped his hand in the blood of men whose

meanness of rank and obscurity of extraction might have saved them. I

cannot boast such a shield from his vengeance, and I expect to meet its

extremity.”

“But Major Bellenden,” said Morton, “may surrender, in order to preserve

your life.”

“Never, while there is one man to defend the battlement, and that man has

one crust to eat. I know his gallant resolution, and grieved should I be

if he changed it for my sake.”

Morton hastened to acquaint him with the mutiny among the dragoons, and

their resolution to surrender the Castle, and put the ladies of the

family, as well as the Major, into the hands of the enemy. Lord Evandale

seemed at first surprised, and something incredulous, but immediately

afterwards deeply affected.

“What is to be done?” he said--“How is this misfortune to be averted?”

“Hear me, my lord,” said Morton. “I believe you may not be unwilling to

bear the olive branch between our master the King, and that part of his

subjects which is now in arms, not from choice, but necessity.”

“You construe me but justly,” said Lord Evandale; “but to what does this

tend?”

“Permit me, my lord”--continued Morton. “I will set you at liberty upon

parole; nay, you may return to the Castle, and shall have a safe conduct

for the ladies, the Major, and all who leave it, on condition of its

instant surrender. In contributing to bring this about you will only

submit to circumstances; for, with a mutiny in the garrison, and without

provisions, it will be found impossible to defend the place twenty-four

hours longer. Those, therefore, who refuse to accompany your lordship,

must take their fate. You and your followers shall have a free pass to

Edinburgh, or where-ever the Duke of Monmouth may be. In return for your

liberty, we hope that you will recommend to the notice of his Grace, as

Lieutenant-General of Scotland, this humble petition and remonstrance,

containing the grievances which have occasioned this insurrection, a

redress of which being granted, I will answer with my head, that the

great body of the insurgents will lay down their arms.”

Lord Evandale read over the paper with attention.

“Mr Morton,” he said, “in my simple judgment, I see little objection that

can be made to the measure here recommended; nay, farther, I believe, in

many respects, they may meet the private sentiments of the Duke of

Monmouth: and yet, to deal frankly with you, I have no hopes of their

being granted, unless, in the first place, you were to lay down your

arms.”

“The doing so,” answered Morton, “would be virtually conceding that we

had no right to take them up; and that, for one, I will never agree to.”

“Perhaps it is hardly to be expected you should,” said Lord Evandale;

“and yet on that point I am certain the negotiations will be wrecked. I

am willing, however, having frankly told you my opinion, to do all in my

power to bring about a reconciliation.”

“It is all we can wish or expect,” replied Morton; “the issue is in God’s

hands, who disposes the hearts of princes.--You accept, then, the safe

conduct?”

“Certainly,” answered Lord Evandale; “and if I do not enlarge upon the

obligation incurred by your having saved my life a second time, believe

that I do not feel it the less.”

“And the garrison of Tillietudlem?” said Morton.

“Shall be withdrawn as you propose,” answered the young nobleman. “I am

sensible the Major will be unable to bring the mutineers to reason; and I

tremble to think of the consequences, should the ladies and the brave old

man be delivered up to this bloodthirsty ruffian, Burley.”

“You are in that case free,” said Morton. “Prepare to mount on horseback;

a few men whom I can trust shall attend you till you are in safety from

our parties.”

Leaving Lord Evandale in great surprise and joy at this unexpected

deliverance, Morton hastened to get a few chosen men under arms and on

horseback, each rider holding the rein of a spare horse. Jenny, who,

while she partook of her refreshment, had contrived to make up her breach

with Cuddie, rode on the left hand of that valiant cavalier. The tramp of

their horses was soon heard under the window of Lord Evandale’s prison.

Two men, whom he did not know, entered the apartment, disencumbered him

of his fetters, and, conducting him down stairs, mounted him in the

centre of the detachment. They set out at a round trot towards

Tillietudlem.

The moonlight was giving way to the dawn when they approached that

ancient fortress, and its dark massive tower had just received the first

pale colouring of the morning. The party halted at the Tower barrier, not

venturing to approach nearer for fear of the fire of the place. Lord

Evandale alone rode up to the gate, followed at a distance by Jenny

Dennison. As they approached the gate, there was heard to arise in the

court-yard a tumult, which accorded ill with the quiet serenity of a

summer dawn. Cries and oaths were heard, a pistol-shot or two were

discharged, and every thing announced that the mutiny had broken out. At

this crisis Lord Evandale arrived at the gate where Halliday was

sentinel. On hearing Lord Evandale’s voice, he instantly and gladly

admitted him, and that nobleman arrived among the mutinous troopers like

a man dropped from the clouds. They were in the act of putting their

design into execution, of seizing the place into their own hands, and

were about to disarm and overpower Major Bellenden and Harrison, and

others of the Castle, who were offering the best resistance in their

power.

The appearance of Lord Evandale changed the scene. He seized Inglis by

the collar, and, upbraiding him with his villainy, ordered two of his

comrades to seize and bind him, assuring the others, that their only

chance of impunity consisted in instant submission. He then ordered the

men into their ranks. They obeyed. He commanded them to ground their

arms. They hesitated; but the instinct of discipline, joined to their

persuasion that the authority of their officer, so boldly exerted, must

be supported by some forces without the gate, induced them to submit.

“Take away those arms,” said Lord Evandale to the people of the Castle;

“they shall not be restored until these men know better the use for which

they are intrusted with them.--And now,” he continued, addressing the

mutineers, “begone!--Make the best use of your time, and of a truce of

three hours, which the enemy are contented to allow you. Take the road to

Edinburgh, and meet me at the House-of-Muir. I need not bid you beware of

committing violence by the way; you will not, in your present condition,

provoke resentment for your own sakes. Let your punctuality show that you

mean to atone for this morning’s business.”

The disarmed soldiers shrunk in silence from the presence of their

officer, and, leaving the Castle, took the road to the place of

rendezvous, making such haste as was inspired by the fear of meeting with

some detached party of the insurgents, whom their present defenceless

condition, and their former violence, might inspire with thoughts of

revenge. Inglis, whom Evandale destined for punishment, remained in

custody. Halliday was praised for his conduct, and assured of succeeding

to the rank of the culprit. These arrangements being hastily made, Lord

Evandale accosted the Major, before whose eyes the scene had seemed to

pass like the change of a dream.

“My dear Major, we must give up the place.”

“Is it even so?” said Major Bellenden. “I was in hopes you had brought

reinforcements and supplies.”

“Not a man--not a pound of meal,” answered Lord Evandale.

“Yet I am blithe to see you,” returned the honest Major; “we were

informed yesterday that these psalm-singing rascals had a plot on your

life, and I had mustered the scoundrelly dragoons ten minutes ago in

order to beat up Burley’s quarters and get you out of limbo, when the dog

Inglis, instead of obeying me, broke out into open mutiny.--But what is

to be done now?”

“I have, myself, no choice,” said Lord Evandale; “I am a prisoner,

released on parole, and bound for Edinburgh. You and the ladies must take

the same route. I have, by the favour of a friend, a safe conduct and

horses for you and your retinue--for God’s sake make haste--you cannot

propose to hold out with seven or eight men, and without provisions--

Enough has been done for honour, and enough to render the defence of the

highest consequence to government. More were needless, as well as

desperate. The English troops are arrived at Edinburgh, and will speedily

move upon Hamilton. The possession of Tillietudlem by the rebels will be

but temporary.”

“If you think so, my lord,” said the veteran, with a reluctant sigh,--“I

know you only advise what is honourable--if, then, you really think the

case inevitable, I must submit; for the mutiny of these scoundrels would

render it impossible to man the walls.--Gudyill, let the women call up

their mistresses, and all be ready to march--But if I could believe that

my remaining in these old walls, till I was starved to a mummy, could do

the King’s cause the least service, old Miles Bellenden would not leave

them while there was a spark of life in his body!”

The ladies, already alarmed by the mutiny, now heard the determination of

the Major, in which they readily acquiesced, though not without some

groans and sighs on the part of Lady Margaret, which referred, as usual,

to the _dejeune_; of his Most Sacred Majesty in the halls which were now

to be abandoned to rebels. Hasty preparations were made for evacuating

the Castle; and long ere the dawn was distinct enough for discovering

objects with precision, the ladies, with Major Bellenden, Harrison,

Gudyill, and the other domestics, were mounted on the led horses, and

others which had been provided in the neighbourhood, and proceeded

towards the north, still escorted by four of the insurgent horsemen. The

rest of the party who had accompanied Lord Evandale from the hamlet, took

possession of the deserted Castle, carefully forbearing all outrage or

acts of plunder. And when the sun arose, the scarlet and blue colours of

the Scottish Covenant floated from the Keep of Tillietudlem.

CHAPTER VIII.

And, to my breast, a bodkin in her hand

Were worth a thousand daggers.

Marlow.

The cavalcade which left the Castle of Tillietudlem, halted for a few

minutes at the small town of Bothwell, after passing the outposts of the

insurgents, to take some slight refreshments which their attendants had

provided, and which were really necessary to persons who had suffered

considerably by want of proper nourishment. They then pressed forward

upon the road towards Edinburgh, amid the lights of dawn which were now

rising on the horizon. It might have been expected, during the course of

the journey, that Lord Evandale would have been frequently by the side of

Miss Edith Bellenden. Yet, after his first salutations had been

exchanged, and every precaution solicitously adopted which could serve

for her accommodation, he rode in the van of the party with Major

Bellenden, and seemed to abandon the charge of immediate attendance upon

his lovely niece to one of the insurgent cavaliers, whose dark military

cloak, with the large flapped hat and feather, which drooped over his

face, concealed at once his figure and his features. They rode side by

side in silence for more than two miles, when the stranger addressed Miss

Bellenden in a tremulous and suppressed voice.

“Miss Bellenden,” he said, “must have friends wherever she is known; even

among those whose conduct she now disapproves. Is there any thing that

such can do to show their respect for her, and their regret for her

sufferings?”

“Let them learn for their own sakes,” replied Edith, “to venerate the

laws, and to spare innocent blood. Let them return to their allegiance,

and I can forgive them all that I have suffered, were it ten times more.”

“You think it impossible, then,” rejoined the cavalier, “for any one to

serve in our ranks, having the weal of his country sincerely at heart,

and conceiving himself in the discharge of a patriotic duty?”

“It might be imprudent, while so absolutely in your power,” replied Miss

Bellenden, “to answer that question.”

“Not in the present instance, I plight you the word of a soldier,”

replied the horseman.

“I have been taught candour from my birth,” said Edith; “and, if I am to

speak at all, I must utter my real sentiments. God only can judge the

heart--men must estimate intentions by actions. Treason, murder by the

sword and by gibbet, the oppression of a private family such as ours, who

were only in arms for the defence of the established government, and of

our own property, are actions which must needs sully all that have

accession to them, by whatever specious terms they may be gilded over.”

“The guilt of civil war,” rejoined the horseman--“the miseries which it

brings in its train, lie at the door of those who provoked it by illegal

oppression, rather than of such as are driven to arms in order to assert

their natural rights as freemen.”

“That is assuming the question,” replied Edith, “which ought to be

proved. Each party contends that they are right in point of principle,

and therefore the guilt must lie with them who first drew the sword; as,

in an affray, law holds those to be the criminals who are the first to

have recourse to violence.”

“Alas!” said the horseman, “were our vindication to rest there, how easy

would it be to show that we have suffered with a patience which almost

seemed beyond the power of humanity, ere we were driven by oppression

into open resistance!--But I perceive,” he continued, sighing deeply,

“that it is vain to plead before Miss Bellenden a cause which she has

already prejudged, perhaps as much from her dislike of the persons as of

the principles of those engaged in it.”

“Pardon me,” answered Edith; “I have stated with freedom my opinion

of the principles of the insurgents; of their persons I know

nothing--excepting in one solitary instance.”

“And that instance,” said the horseman, “has influenced your opinion of

the whole body?”

“Far from it,” said Edith; “he is--at least I once thought him--one in

whose scale few were fit to be weighed--he is--or he seemed--one of early

talent, high faith, pure morality, and warm affections. Can I approve of

a rebellion which has made such a man, formed to ornament, to enlighten,

and to defend his country, the companion of gloomy and ignorant fanatics,

or canting hypocrites,--the leader of brutal clowns,--the brother-in-arms

to banditti and highway murderers?--Should you meet such an one in your

camp, tell him that Edith Bellenden has wept more over his fallen

character, blighted prospects, and dishonoured name, than over the

distresses of her own house,--and that she has better endured that famine

which has wasted her cheek and dimmed her eye, than the pang of heart

which attended the reflection by and through whom these calamities were

inflicted.”

As she thus spoke, she turned upon her companion a countenance, whose

faded cheek attested the reality of her sufferings, even while it glowed

with the temporary animation which accompanied her language. The horseman

was not insensible to the appeal; he raised his hand to his brow with the

sudden motion of one who feels a pang shoot along his brain, passed it

hastily over his face, and then pulled the shadowing hat still deeper on

his forehead. The movement, and the feelings which it excited, did not

escape Edith, nor did she remark them without emotion.

“And yet,” she said, “should the person of whom I speak seem to you too

deeply affected by the hard opinion of--of--an early friend, say to him,

that sincere repentance is next to innocence;--that, though fallen from a

height not easily recovered, and the author of much mischief, because

gilded by his example, he may still atone in some measure for the evil he

has done.”

“And in what manner?” asked the cavalier, in the same suppressed, and

almost choked voice.

“By lending his efforts to restore the blessings of peace to his

distracted countrymen, and to induce the deluded rebels to lay down their

arms. By saving their blood, he may atone for that which has been already

spilt;--and he that shall be most active in accomplishing this great end,

will best deserve the thanks of this age, and an honoured remembrance in

the next.”

“And in such a peace,” said her companion, with a firm voice, “Miss

Bellenden would not wish, I think, that the interests of the people were

sacrificed unreservedly to those of the crown?”

“I am but a girl,” was the young lady’s reply; “and I scarce can speak on

the subject without presumption. But, since I have gone so far, I will

fairly add, I would wish to see a peace which should give rest to all

parties, and secure the subjects from military rapine, which I detest as

much as I do the means now adopted to resist it.”

“Miss Bellenden,” answered Henry Morton, raising his face, and speaking

in his natural tone, “the person who has lost such a highly-valued place

in your esteem, has yet too much spirit to plead his cause as a criminal;

and, conscious that he can no longer claim a friend’s interest in your

bosom, he would be silent under your hard censure, were it not that he

can refer to the honoured testimony of Lord Evandale, that his earnest

wishes and most active exertions are, even now, directed to the

accomplishment of such a peace as the most loyal cannot censure.”

He bowed with dignity to Miss Bellenden, who, though her language

intimated that she well knew to whom she had been speaking, probably had

not expected that he would justify himself with so much animation. She

returned his salute, confused and in silence. Morton then rode forward to

the head of the party.

“Henry Morton!” exclaimed Major Bellenden, surprised at the sudden

apparition.

“The same,” answered Morton; “who is sorry that he labours under the

harsh construction of Major Bellenden and his family. He commits to my

Lord Evandale,” he continued, turning towards the young nobleman, and

bowing to him, “the charge of undeceiving his friends, both regarding the

particulars of his conduct and the purity of his motives. Farewell, Major

Bellenden--All happiness attend you and yours--May we meet again in

happier and better times!”

“Believe me,” said Lord Evandale, “your confidence, Mr Morton, is not

misplaced; I will endeavour to repay the great services I have received

from you by doing my best to place your character on its proper footing

with Major Bellenden, and all whose esteem you value.”

“I expected no less from your generosity, my lord,” said Morton.

He then called his followers, and rode off along the heath in the

direction of Hamilton, their feathers waving and their steel caps

glancing in the beams of the rising sun. Cuddie Headrigg alone remained

an instant behind his companions to take an affectionate farewell of

Jenny Dennison, who had contrived, during this short morning’s ride, to

re-establish her influence over his susceptible bosom. A straggling tree

or two obscured, rather than concealed, their _tete-a-tete_, as they

halted their horses to bid adieu.

“Fare ye weel, Jenny,” said Cuddie, with a loud exertion of his lungs,

intended perhaps to be a sigh, but rather resembling the intonation of a

groan,--“Ye’ll think o’ puir Cuddie sometimes--an honest lad that lo’es

ye, Jenny; ye’ll think o’ him now and then?”

“Whiles--at brose-time,” answered the malicious damsel, unable either to

suppress the repartee, or the arch smile which attended it.

[Illustration: Whiles--at Brose-Time--pa098]

Cuddie took his revenge as rustic lovers are wont, and as Jenny probably

expected,--caught his mistress round the neck, kissed her cheeks and lips

heartily, and then turned his horse and trotted after his master.

“Deil’s in the fallow,” said Jenny, wiping her lips and adjusting her

head-dress, “he has twice the spunk o’ Tam Halliday, after a’.--Coming,

my leddy, coming--Lord have a care o’ us, I trust the auld leddy didna

see us!”

“Jenny,” said Lady Margaret, as the damsel came up, “was not that young

man who commanded the party the same that was captain of the popinjay,

and who was afterwards prisoner at Tillietudlem on the morning

Claverhouse came there?”

Jenny, happy that the query had no reference to her own little matters,

looked at her young mistress, to discover, if possible, whether it was

her cue to speak truth or not. Not being able to catch any hint to guide

her, she followed her instinct as a lady’s maid, and lied.

“I dinna believe it was him, my leddy,” said Jenny, as confidently as if

she had been saying her catechism; “he was a little black man, that.”

“You must have been blind, Jenny,” said the Major: “Henry Morton is tall

and fair, and that youth is the very man.”

“I had ither thing ado than be looking at him,” said Jenny, tossing her

head; “he may be as fair as a farthing candle, for me.”

“Is it not,” said Lady Margaret, “a blessed escape which we have made,

out of the hands of so desperate and bloodthirsty a fanatic?”

“You are deceived, madam,” said Lord Evandale; “Mr Morton merits such a

title from no one, but least from us. That I am now alive, and that you

are now on your safe retreat to your friends, instead of being prisoners

to a real fanatical homicide, is solely and entirely owing to the prompt,

active, and energetic humanity of this young gentleman.”

He then went into a particular narrative of the events with which the

reader is acquainted, dwelling upon the merits of Morton, and expatiating

on the risk at which he had rendered them these important services, as if

he had been a brother instead of a rival.

“I were worse than ungrateful,” he said, “were I silent on the merits of

the man who has twice saved my life.”

“I would willingly think well of Henry Morton, my lord,” replied Major

Bellenden; “and I own he has behaved handsomely to your lordship and to

us; but I cannot have the same allowances which it pleases your lordship

to entertain for his present courses.”

“You are to consider,” replied Lord Evandale, “that he has been partly

forced upon them by necessity; and I must add, that his principles,

though differing in some degree from my own, are such as ought to command

respect. Claverhouse, whose knowledge of men is not to be disputed, spoke

justly of him as to his extraordinary qualities, but with prejudice, and

harshly, concerning his principles and motives.”

“You have not been long in learning all his extraordinary qualities, my

lord,” answered Major Bellenden. “I, who have known him from boyhood,

could, before this affair, have said much of his good principles and

good-nature; but as to his high talents”--

“They were probably hidden, Major,” replied the generous Lord Evandale,

“even from himself, until circumstances called them forth; and, if I have

detected them, it was only because our intercourse and conversation

turned on momentous and important subjects. He is now labouring to bring

this rebellion to an end, and the terms he has proposed are so moderate,

that they shall not want my hearty recommendation.”

“And have you hopes,” said Lady Margaret, “to accomplish a scheme so

comprehensive?”

“I should have, madam, were every whig as moderate as Morton, and every

loyalist as disinterested as Major Bellenden. But such is the fanaticism

and violent irritation of both parties, that I fear nothing will end this

civil war save the edge of the sword.”

It may be readily supposed, that Edith listened with the deepest interest

to this conversation. While she regretted that she had expressed herself

harshly and hastily to her lover, she felt a conscious and proud

satisfaction that his character was, even in the judgment of his

noble-minded rival, such as her own affection had once spoke it.

“Civil feuds and domestic prejudices,” she said, “may render it necessary

for me to tear his remembrance from my heart; but it is not small relief

to know assuredly, that it is worthy of the place it has so long retained

there.”

While Edith was thus retracting her unjust resentment, her lover arrived

at the camp of the insurgents, near Hamilton, which he found in

considerable confusion. Certain advices had arrived that the royal army,

having been recruited from England by a large detachment of the King’s

Guards, were about to take the field. Fame magnified their numbers and

their high state of equipment and discipline, and spread abroad other

circumstances, which dismayed the courage of the insurgents. What favour

they might have expected from Monmouth, was likely to be intercepted by

the influence of those associated with him in command. His

lieutenant-general was the celebrated General Thomas Dalzell, who, having

practised the art of war in the then barbarous country of Russia, was as

much feared for his cruelty and indifference to human life and human

sufferings, as respected for his steady loyalty and undaunted valour.

This man was second in command to Monmouth, and the horse were commanded

by Claverhouse, burning with desire to revenge the death of his nephew,

and his defeat at Drumclog. To these accounts was added the most

formidable and terrific description of the train of artillery and the

cavalry force with which the royal army took the field.

[Note: Royal Army at Bothwell Bridge. A Cameronian muse was

awakened from slumber on this doleful occasion, and gave the

following account of the muster of the royal forces, in poetry

nearly as melancholy as the subject:--

They marched east through Lithgow-town

For to enlarge their forces;

And sent for all the north-country

To come, both foot and horses.

Montrose did come and Athole both,

And with them many more;

And all the Highland Amorites

That had been there before.

The Lowdien Mallisha--Lothian Militia they

Came with their coats of blew;

Five hundred men from London came,

Claid in a reddish hue.

When they were assembled one and all,

A full brigade were they;

Like to a pack of hellish hounds,

Roreing after their prey.

When they were all provided well,

In armour and amonition,

Then thither wester did they come,

Most cruel of intention.

The royalists celebrated their victory in stanzas of equal merit.

Specimens of both may be found in the curious collection of Fugitive

Scottish Poetry, principally of the Seventeenth Century, printed for

the Messrs Laing, Edinburgh.]

Large bodies, composed of the Highland clans, having in language,

religion, and manners, no connexion with the insurgents, had been

summoned to join the royal army under their various chieftains; and these

Amorites, or Philistines, as the insurgents termed them, came like eagles

to the slaughter. In fact, every person who could ride or run at the

King’s command, was summoned to arms, apparently with the purpose of

forfeiting and fining such men of property whom their principles might

deter from joining the royal standard, though prudence prevented them

from joining that of the insurgent Presbyterians. In short, everyrumour

tended to increase the apprehension among the insurgents, that the King’s

vengeance had only been delayed in order that it might fall more certain

and more heavy.

Morton endeavoured to fortify the minds of the common people by pointing

out the probable exaggeration of these reports, and by reminding them of

the strength of their own situation, with an unfordable river in front,

only passable by a long and narrow bridge. He called to their remembrance

their victory over Claverhouse when their numbers were few, and then much

worse disciplined and appointed for battle than now; showed them that the

ground on which they lay afforded, by its undulation, and the thickets

which intersected it, considerable protection against artillery, and even

against cavalry, if stoutly defended; and that their safety, in fact,

depended on their own spirit and resolution.

But while Morton thus endeavoured to keep up the courage of the army at

large, he availed himself of those discouraging rumours to endeavour to

impress on the minds of the leaders the necessity of proposing to the

government moderate terms of accommodation, while they were still

formidable as commanding an unbroken and numerous army. He pointed out to

them, that, in the present humour of their followers, it could hardly be

expected that they would engage, with advantage, the well-appointed and

regular force of the Duke of Monmouth; and that if they chanced, as was

most likely, to be defeated and dispersed, the insurrection in which they

had engaged, so far from being useful to the country, would be rendered

the apology for oppressing it more severely.

Pressed by these arguments, and feeling it equally dangerous to remain

together, or to dismiss their forces, most of the leaders readily agreed,

that if such terms could be obtained as had been transmitted to the Duke

of Monmouth by the hands of Lord Evandale, the purpose for which they had

taken up arms would be, in a great measure, accomplished. They then

entered into similar resolutions, and agreed to guarantee the petition

and remonstrance which had been drawn up by Morton. On the contrary,

there were still several leaders, and those men whose influence with the

people exceeded that of persons of more apparent consequence, who

regarded every proposal of treaty which did not proceed on the basis of

the Solemn League and Covenant of 1640, as utterly null and void,

impious, and unchristian. These men diffused their feelings among the

multitude, who had little foresight, and nothing to lose, and persuaded

many that the timid counsellors who recommended peace upon terms short of

the dethronement of the royal family, and the declared independence of

the church with respect to the state, were cowardly labourers, who were

about to withdraw their hands from the plough, and despicable trimmers,

who sought only a specious pretext for deserting their brethren in arms.

These contradictory opinions were fiercely argued in each tent of the

insurgent army, or rather in the huts or cabins which served in the place

of tents. Violence in language often led to open quarrels and blows, and

the divisions into which the army of sufferers was rent served as too

plain a presage of their future fate.

CHAPTER IX.

The curse of growing factions and divisions

Still vex your councils!

Venice Preserved.

The prudence of Morton found sufficient occupation in stemming the

furious current of these contending parties, when, two days after his

return to Hamilton, he was visited by his friend and colleague, the

Reverend Mr Poundtext, flying, as he presently found, from the face of

John Balfour of Burley, whom he left not a little incensed at the share

he had taken in the liberation of Lord Evandale. When the worthy divine

had somewhat recruited his spirits, after the hurry and fatigue of his

journey, he proceeded to give Morton an account of what had passed in the

vicinity of Tillietudlem after the memorable morning of his departure.

The night march of Morton had been accomplished with such dexterity,

and the men were so faithful to their trust, that Burley received no

intelligence of what had happened until the morning was far advanced.

His first enquiry was, whether Macbriar and Kettledrummle had arrived,

agreeably to the summons which he had dispatched at midnight. Macbriar

had come, and Kettledrummle, though a heavy traveller, might, he was

informed, be instantly expected. Burley then dispatched a messenger to

Morton’s quarters to summon him to an immediate council. The messenger

returned with news that he had left the place. Poundtext was next

summoned; but he thinking, as he said himself, that it was ill dealing

with fractious folk, had withdrawn to his own quiet manse, preferring a

dark ride, though he had been on horseback the whole preceding day, to a

renewal in the morning of a controversy with Burley, whose ferocity

overawed him when unsupported by the firmness of Morton. Burley’s next

enquiries were directed after Lord Evandale; and great was his rage when

he learned that he had been conveyed away over night by a party of the

marksmen of Milnwood, under the immediate command of Henry Morton

himself.

“The villain!” exclaimed Burley, addressing himself to Macbriar; “the

base, mean-spirited traitor, to curry favour for himself with the

government, hath set at liberty the prisoner taken by my own right hand,

through means of whom, I have little doubt, the possession of the place

of strength which hath wrought us such trouble, might now have been in

our hands!”

“But is it not in our hands?” said Macbriar, looking up towards the Keep

of the Castle; “and are not these the colours of the Covenant that float

over its walls?”

“A stratagem--a mere trick,” said Burley, “an insult over our

disappointment, intended to aggravate and embitter our spirits.”

He was interrupted by the arrival of one of Morton’s followers, sent to

report to him the evacuation of the place, and its occupation by the

insurgent forces. Burley was rather driven to fury than reconciled by the

news of this success.

“I have watched,” he said--“I have fought--I have plotted--I have striven

for the reduction of this place--I have forborne to seek to head

enterprises of higher command and of higher honour--I have narrowed their

outgoings, and cut off the springs, and broken the staff of bread within

their walls; and when the men were about to yield themselves to my hand,

that their sons might be bondsmen, and their daughters a laughing-stock

to our whole camp, cometh this youth, without a beard on his chin, and

takes it on him to thrust his sickle into the harvest, and to rend the

prey from the spoiler! Surely the labourer is worthy of his hire, and the

city, with its captives, should be given to him that wins it?”

“Nay,” said Macbriar, who was surprised at the degree of agitation which

Balfour displayed, “chafe not thyself because of the ungodly. Heaven will

use its own instruments; and who knows but this youth”--

“Hush! hush!” said Burley; “do not discredit thine own better judgment.

It was thou that first badest me beware of this painted sepulchre--this

lacquered piece of copper, that passed current with me for gold. It fares

ill, even with the elect, when they neglect the guidance of such pious

pastors as thou. But our carnal affections will mislead us--this

ungrateful boy’s father was mine ancient friend. They must be as earnest

in their struggles as thou, Ephraim Macbriar, that would shake themselves

clear of the clogs and chains of humanity.”

This compliment touched the preacher in the most sensible part; and

Burley deemed, therefore, he should find little difficulty in moulding

his opinions to the support of his own views, more especially as they

agreed exactly in their high-strained opinions of church government.

“Let us instantly,” he said, “go up to the Tower; there is that among the

records in yonder fortress, which, well used as I can use it, shall be

worth to us a valiant leader and an hundred horsemen.”

“But will such be the fitting aids of the children of the Covenant?” said

the preacher. “We have already among us too many who hunger after lands,

and silver and gold, rather than after the Word; it is not by such that

our deliverance shall be wrought out.”

“Thou errest,” said Burley; “we must work by means, and these worldly men

shall be our instruments. At all events, the Moabitish woman shall be

despoiled of her inheritance, and neither the malignant Evandale, nor the

erastian Morton, shall possess yonder castle and lands, though they may

seek in marriage the daughter thereof.”

So saying, he led the way to Tillietudlem, where he seized upon the plate

and other valuables for the use of the army, ransacked the charter-room,

and other receptacles for family papers, and treated with contempt the

remonstrances of those who reminded him, that the terms granted to the

garrison had guaranteed respect to private property.

Burley and Macbriar, having established themselves in their new

acquisition, were joined by Kettledrummle in the course of the day, and

also by the Laird of Langcale, whom that active divine had contrived to

seduce, as Poundtext termed it, from the pure light in which he had been

brought up. Thus united, they sent to the said Poundtext an invitation,

or rather a summons, to attend a council at Tillietudlem. He remembered,

however, that the door had an iron grate, and the Keep a dungeon, and

resolved not to trust himself with his incensed colleagues. He therefore

retreated, or rather fled, to Hamilton, with the tidings, that Burley,

Macbriar, and Kettledrummle, were coming to Hamilton as soon as they

could collect a body of Cameronians sufficient to overawe the rest of the

army.

“And ye see,” concluded Poundtext, with a deep sigh, “that they will then

possess a majority in the council; for Langcale, though he has always

passed for one of the honest and rational party, cannot be suitably or

preceesely termed either fish, or flesh, or gude red-herring--whoever has

the stronger party has Langcale.”

Thus concluded the heavy narrative of honest Poundtext, who sighed

deeply, as he considered the danger in which he was placed betwixt

unreasonable adversaries amongst themselves and the common enemy from

without. Morton exhorted him to patience, temper, and composure; informed

him of the good hope he had of negotiating for peace and indemnity

through means of Lord Evandale, and made out to him a very fair prospect

that he should again return to his own parchment-bound Calvin, his

evening pipe of tobacco, and his noggin of inspiring ale, providing

always he would afford his effectual support and concurrence to the

measures which he, Morton, had taken for a general pacification.

[Note: Moderate Presbyterians. The author does not, by any means,

desire that Poundtext should be regarded as a just representation of

the moderate presbyterians, among whom were many ministers whose

courage was equal to their good sense and sound views of religion.

Were he to write the tale anew, he would probably endeavour to give

the character a higher turn. It is certain, however, that the

Cameronians imputed to their opponents in opinion concerning the

Indulgence, or others of their strained and fanatical notions, a

disposition not only to seek their own safety, but to enjoy

themselves. Hamilton speaks of three clergymen of this description

as follows:--

“They pretended great zeal against the Indulgence; but alas! that

was all their practice, otherwise being but very gross, which I

shall but hint at in short. When great Cameron and those with him

were taking many a cold blast and storm in the fields and among the

cot-houses in Scotland, these three had for the most part their

residence in Glasgow, where they found good quarter and a full

table, which I doubt not but some bestowed upon them from real

affection to the Lord’s cause; and when these three were together,

their greatest work was who should make the finest and sharpest

roundel, and breathe the quickest jests upon one another, and to

tell what valiant acts they were to do, and who could laugh loudest

and most heartily among them; and when at any time they came out to

the country, whatever other things they had, they were careful each

of them to have a great flask of brandy with them, which was very

heavy to some, particularly to Mr Cameron, Mr Cargill, and Henry

Hall--I shall name no more.”--Faithful Contendings, p. 198.]

Thus backed and comforted, Poundtext resolved magnanimously to await the

coming of the Cameronians to the general rendezvous.

Burley and his confederates had drawn together a considerable body of

these sectaries, amounting to a hundred horse and about fifteen hundred

foot, clouded and severe in aspect, morose and jealous in communication,

haughty of heart, and confident, as men who believed that the pale of

salvation was open for them exclusively; while all other Christians,

however slight were the shades of difference of doctrine from their own,

were in fact little better than outcasts or reprobates. These men entered

the presbyterian camp, rather as dubious and suspicious allies, or

possibly antagonists, than as men who were heartily embarked in the same

cause, and exposed to the same dangers, with their more moderate brethren

in arms. Burley made no private visits to his colleagues, and held no

communication with them on the subject of the public affairs, otherwise

than by sending a dry invitation to them to attend a meeting of the

general council for that evening.

On the arrival of Morton and Poundtext at the place of assembly, they

found their brethren already seated. Slight greeting passed between them,

and it was easy to see that no amicable conference was intended by those

who convoked the council. The first question was put by Macbriar, the

sharp eagerness of whose zeal urged him to the van on all occasions. He

desired to know by whose authority the malignant, called Lord Evandale,

had been freed from the doom of death, justly denounced against him.

“By my authority and Mr Morton’s,” replied Poundtext; who, besides being

anxious to give his companion a good opinion of his courage, confided

heartily in his support, and, moreover, had much less fear of

encountering one of his own profession, and who confined himself to the

weapons of theological controversy, in which Poundtext feared no man,

than of entering into debate with the stern homicide Balfour.

“And who, brother,” said Kettledrummle, “who gave you authority to

interpose in such a high matter?”

“The tenor of our commission,” answered Poundtext, “gives us authority to

bind and to loose. If Lord Evandale was justly doomed to die by the voice

of one of our number, he was of a surety lawfully redeemed from death by

the warrant of two of us.”

“Go to, go to,” said Burley; “we know your motives; it was to send that

silkworm--that gilded trinket--that embroidered trifle of a lord, to bear

terms of peace to the tyrant.”

“It was so,” replied Morton, who saw his companion begin to flinch before

the fierce eye of Balfour--“it was so; and what then?--Are we to plunge

the nation in endless war, in order to pursue schemes which are equally

wild, wicked, and unattainable?”

“Hear him!” said Balfour; “he blasphemeth.”

“It is false,” said Morton; “they blaspheme who pretend to expect

miracles, and neglect the use of the human means with which Providence

has blessed them. I repeat it--Our avowed object is the re-establishment

of peace on fair and honourable terms of security to our religion and our

liberty. We disclaim any desire to tyrannize over those of others.”

The debate would now have run higher than ever, but they were interrupted

by intelligence that the Duke of Monmouth had commenced his march towards

the west, and was already advanced half way from Edinburgh. This news

silenced their divisions for the moment, and it was agreed that the next

day should be held as a fast of general humiliation for the sins of the

land; that the Reverend Mr Poundtext should preach to the army in the

morning, and Kettledrummle in the afternoon; that neither should touch

upon any topics of schism or of division, but animate the soldiers to

resist to the blood, like brethren in a good cause. This healing overture

having been agreed to, the moderate party ventured upon another proposal,

confiding that it would have the support of Langcale, who looked

extremely blank at the news which they had just received, and might be

supposed reconverted to moderate measures. It was to be presumed, they

said, that since the King had not intrusted the command of his forces

upon the present occasion to any of their active oppressors, but, on the

contrary, had employed a nobleman distinguished by gentleness of temper,

and a disposition favourable to their cause, there must be some better

intention entertained towards them than they had yet experienced. They

contended, that it was not only prudent but necessary to ascertain, from

a communication with the Duke of Monmouth, whether he was not charged

with some secret instructions in their favour. This could only be learned

by dispatching an envoy to his army.

“And who will undertake the task?” said Burley, evading a proposal too

reasonable to be openly resisted--“Who will go up to their camp, knowing

that John Grahame of Claverhouse hath sworn to hang up whomsoever we

shall dispatch towards them, in revenge of the death of the young man his

nephew?”

“Let that be no obstacle,” said Morton; “I will with pleasure encounter

any risk attached to the bearer of your errand.”

“Let him go,” said Balfour, apart to Macbriar; “our councils will be well

rid of his presence.”

The motion, therefore, received no contradiction even from those who were

expected to have been most active in opposing it; and it was agreed that

Henry Morton should go to the camp of the Duke of Monmouth, in order to

discover upon what terms the insurgents would be admitted to treat with

him. As soon as his errand was made known, several of the more moderate

party joined in requesting him to make terms upon the footing of the

petition intrusted to Lord Evandale’s hands; for the approach of the

King’s army spread a general trepidation, by no means allayed by the high

tone assumed by the Cameronians, which had so little to support it,

excepting their own headlong zeal. With these instructions, and with

Cuddie as his attendant, Morton set forth towards the royal camp, at all

the risks which attend those who assume the office of mediator during the

heat of civil discord.

Morton had not proceeded six or seven miles, before he perceived that he

was on the point of falling in with the van of the royal forces; and, as

he ascended a height, saw all the roads in the neighbourhood occupied by

armed men marching in great order towards Bothwell-muir, an open common,

on which they proposed to encamp for that evening, at the distance of

scarcely two miles from the Clyde, on the farther side of which river the

army of the insurgents was encamped. He gave himself up to the first

advanced-guard of cavalry which he met, as bearer of a flag of truce, and

communicated his desire to obtain access to the Duke of Monmouth. The

non-commissioned officer who commanded the party made his report to his

superior, and he again to another in still higher command, and both

immediately rode to the spot where Morton was detained.

“You are but losing your time, my friend, and risking your life,” said

one of them, addressing Morton; “the Duke of Monmouth will receive no

terms from traitors with arms in their hands, and your cruelties have

been such as to authorize retaliation of every kind. Better trot your nag

back and save his mettle to-day, that he may save your life to-morrow.”

“I cannot think,” said Morton, “that even if the Duke of Monmouth should

consider us as criminals, he would condemn so large a body of his

fellow-subjects without even hearing what they have to plead for

themselves. On my part I fear nothing. I am conscious of having consented

to, or authorized, no cruelty, and the fear of suffering innocently for

the crimes of others shall not deter me from executing my commission.”

The two officers looked at each other.

“I have an idea,” said the younger, “that this is the young man of whom

Lord Evandale spoke.”

“Is my Lord Evandale in the army?” said Morton.

“He is not,” replied the officer; “we left him at Edinburgh, too much

indisposed to take the field.--Your name, sir, I presume, is Henry

Morton?”

“It is, sir,” answered Morton.

“We will not oppose your seeing the Duke, sir,” said the officer, with

more civility of manner; “but you may assure yourself it will be to no

purpose; for, were his Grace disposed to favour your people, others are

joined in commission with him who will hardly consent to his doing so.”

“I shall be sorry to find it thus,” said Morton; “but my duty requires

that I should persevere in my desire to have an interview with him.”

“Lumley,” said the superior officer, “let the Duke know of Mr Morton’s

arrival, and remind his Grace that this is the person of whom Lord

Evandale spoke so highly.”

The officer returned with a message that the General could not see Mr

Morton that evening, but would receive him by times in the ensuing

morning. He was detained in a neighbouring cottage all night, but treated

with civility, and every thing provided for his accommodation. Early on

the next morning the officer he had first seen came to conduct him to his

audience.

The army was drawn out, and in the act of forming column for march, or

attack. The Duke was in the centre, nearly a mile from the place where

Morton had passed the night. In riding towards the General, he had an

opportunity of estimating the force which had been assembled for the

suppression of the hasty and ill-concerted insurrection. There were three

or four regiments of English, the flower of Charles’s army--there were

the Scottish Life-Guards, burning with desire to revenge their late

defeat--other Scottish regiments of regulars were also assembled, and a

large body of cavalry, consisting partly of gentlemen-volunteers, partly

of the tenants of the crown who did military duty for their fiefs. Morton

also observed several strong parties of Highlanders drawn from the points

nearest to the Lowland frontiers, a people, as already mentioned,

particularly obnoxious to the western whigs, and who hated and despised

them in the same proportion. These were assembled under their chiefs, and

made part of this formidable array. A complete train of field-artillery

accompanied these troops; and the whole had an air so imposing, that it

seemed nothing short of an actual miracle could prevent the ill-equipped,

ill-modelled, and tumultuary army of the insurgents from being utterly

destroyed. The officer who accompanied Morton endeavoured to gather from

his looks the feelings with which this splendid and awful parade of

military force had impressed him. But, true to the cause he had espoused,

he laboured successfully to prevent the anxiety which he felt from

appearing in his countenance, and looked around him on the warlike

display as on a sight which he expected, and to which he was indifferent.

“You see the entertainment prepared for you,” said the officers.

“If I had no appetite for it,” replied Morton, “I should not have been

accompanying you at this moment. But I shall be better pleased with a

more peaceful regale, for the sake of all parties.”

As they spoke thus, they approached the commander-in-chief, who,

surrounded by several officers, was seated upon a knoll commanding an

extensive prospect of the distant country, and from which could be easily

discovered the windings of the majestic Clyde, and the distant camp of

the insurgents on the opposite bank. The officers of the royal army

appeared to be surveying the ground, with the purpose of directing an

immediate attack. When Captain Lumley, the officer who accompanied

Morton, had whispered in Monmouth’s ear his name and errand, the Duke

made a signal for all around him to retire, excepting only two general

officers of distinction. While they spoke together in whispers for a few

minutes before Morton was permitted to advance, he had time to study the

appearance of the persons with whom he was to treat.

It was impossible for any one to look upon the Duke of Monmouth without

being captivated by his personal graces and accomplishments, of which the

great High-Priest of all the Nine afterwards recorded--

“Whate’er he did was done with so much ease, In him alone ’twas natural

to please; His motions all accompanied with grace, And Paradise was

open’d in his face.” Yet to a strict observer, the manly beauty of

Monmouth’s face was occasionally rendered less striking by an air of

vacillation and uncertainty, which seemed to imply hesitation and doubt

at moments when decisive resolution was most necessary.

Beside him stood Claverhouse, whom we have already fully described, and

another general officer whose appearance was singularly striking. His

dress was of the antique fashion of Charles the First’s time, and

composed of shamoy leather, curiously slashed, and covered with antique

lace and garniture. His boots and spurs might be referred to the same

distant period. He wore a breastplate, over which descended a grey beard

of venerable length, which he cherished as a mark of mourning for Charles

the First, having never shaved since that monarch was brought to the

scaffold. His head was uncovered, and almost perfectly bald. His high and

wrinkled forehead, piercing grey eyes, and marked features, evinced age

unbroken by infirmity, and stern resolution unsoftened by humanity. Such

is the outline, however feebly expressed, of the celebrated General

Thomas Dalzell,

[Note: Usually called Tom Dalzell. In Crichton’s Memoirs, edited by

Swift, where a particular account of this remarkable person’s dress

and habits is given, he is said never to have worn boots. The

following account of his rencounter with John Paton of Meadowhead,

showed, that in action at least he wore pretty stout ones, unless

the reader be inclined to believe in the truth of his having a

charm, which made him proof against lead.

“Dalzell,” says Paton’s biographer, “advanced the whole left wing of

his army on Colonel Wallace’s right. Here Captain Paton behaved with

great courage and gallantry. Dalzell, knowing him in the former

wars, advanced upon him himself, thinking to take him prisoner. Upon

his approach, each presented his pistol. On their first discharge,

Captain Paton, perceiving his pistol ball to hop upon Dalzell’s

boots, and knowing what was the cause, (he having proof,) put his

hand in his pocket for some small pieces of silver he had there for

the purpose, and put one of them into his other pistol. But Dalzell,

having his eye upon him in the meanwhile, retired behind his own

man, who by that means was slain.”]

a man more feared and hated by the whigs than even Claverhouse himself,

and who executed the same violences against them out of a detestation of

their persons, or perhaps an innate severity of temper, which Grahame

only resorted to on political accounts, as the best means of intimidating

the followers of presbytery, and of destroying that sect entirely.

The presence of these two generals, one of whom he knew by person, and

the other by description, seemed to Morton decisive of the fate of his

embassy. But, notwithstanding his youth and inexperience, and the

unfavourable reception which his proposals seemed likely to meet with, he

advanced boldly towards them upon receiving a signal to that purpose,

determined that the cause of his country, and of those with whom he had

taken up arms, should suffer nothing from being intrusted to him.

Monmouth received him with the graceful courtesy which attended even his

slightest actions; Dalzell regarded him with a stern, gloomy, and

impatient frown; and Claverhouse, with a sarcastic smile and inclination

of his head, seemed to claim him as an old acquaintance.

“You come, sir, from these unfortunate people, now assembled in arms,”

said the Duke of Monmouth, “and your name, I believe, is Morton; will you

favour us with the pupport of your errand?”

“It is contained, my lord,” answered Morton, “in a paper, termed a

Remonstrance and Supplication, which my Lord Evandale has placed, I

presume, in your Grace’s hands?”

“He has done so, sir,” answered the Duke; “and I understand, from Lord

Evandale, that Mr Morton has behaved in these unhappy matters with much

temperance and generosity, for which I have to request his acceptance of

my thanks.”

Here Morton observed Dalzell shake his head indignantly, and whisper

something into Claverhouse’s ear, who smiled in return, and elevated his

eyebrows, but in a degree so slight as scarce to be perceptible. The

Duke, taking the petition from his pocket, proceeded, obviously

struggling between the native gentleness of his own disposition, and

perhaps his conviction that the petitioners demanded no more than their

rights, and the desire, on the other hand, of enforcing the king’s

authority, and complying with the sterner opinions of the colleagues in

office, who had been assigned for the purpose of controlling as well as

advising him.