“There are, Mr Morton, in this paper, proposals, as to the abstract

propriety of which I must now waive delivering any opinion. Some of them

appear to me reasonable and just; and, although I have no express

instructions from the King upon the subject, yet I assure you, Mr Morton,

and I pledge my honour, that I will interpose in your behalf, and use my

utmost influence to procure you satisfaction from his Majesty. But you

must distinctly understand, that I can only treat with supplicants, not

with rebels; and, as a preliminary to every act of favour on my side, I

must insist upon your followers laying down their arms and dispersing

themselves.”

“To do so, my Lord Duke,” replied Morton, undauntedly, “were to

acknowledge ourselves the rebels that our enemies term us. Our swords are

drawn for recovery of a birthright wrested from us; your Grace’s

moderation and good sense has admitted the general justice of our

demand,--a demand which would never have been listened to had it not been

accompanied with the sound of the trumpet. We cannot, therefore, and dare

not, lay down our arms, even on your Grace’s assurance of indemnity,

unless it were accompanied with some reasonable prospect of the redress

of the wrongs which we complain of.”

“Mr Morton,” replied the Duke, “you are young, but you must have seen

enough of the world to perceive, that requests, by no means dangerous or

unreasonable in themselves, may become so by the way in which they are

pressed and supported.”

“We may reply, my lord,” answered Morton, “that this disagreeable mode

has not been resorted to until all others have failed.”

“Mr Morton,” said the Duke, “I must break this conference short. We are

in readiness to commence the attack; yet I will suspend it for an hour,

until you can communicate my answer to the insurgents. If they please to

disperse their followers, lay down their arms, and send a peaceful

deputation to me, I will consider myself bound in honour to do all I can

to procure redress of their grievances; if not, let them stand on their

guard and expect the consequences.--I think, gentlemen,” he added,

turning to his two colleagues, “this is the utmost length to which I can

stretch my instructions in favour of these misguided persons?”

“By my faith,” answered Dalzell, suddenly, “and it is a length to which

my poor judgment durst not have stretched them, considering I had both

the King and my conscience to answer to! But, doubtless, your Grace knows

more of the King’s private mind than we, who have only the letter of our

instructions to look to.”

Monmouth blushed deeply. “You hear,” he said, addressing Morton, “General

Dalzell blames me for the length which I am disposed to go in your

favour.”

“General Dalzell’s sentiments, my lord,” replied Morton, “are such as we

expected from him; your Grace’s such as we were prepared to hope you

might please to entertain. Indeed I cannot help adding, that, in the case

of the absolute submission upon which you are pleased to insist, it might

still remain something less than doubtful how far, with such counsellors

around the King, even your Grace’s intercession might procure us

effectual relief. But I will communicate to our leaders your Grace’s

answer to our supplication; and, since we cannot obtain peace, we must

bid war welcome as well as we may.”

“Good morning, sir,” said the Duke; “I suspend the movements of attack

for one hour, and for one hour only. If you have an answer to return

within that space of time, I will receive it here, and earnestly entreat

it may be such as to save the effusion of blood.”

At this moment another smile of deep meaning passed between Dalzell and

Claverhouse. The Duke observed it, and repeated his words with great

dignity.

“Yes, gentlemen, I said I trusted the answer might be such as would save

the effusion of blood. I hope the sentiment neither needs your scorn, nor

incurs your displeasure.”

Dalzell returned the Duke’s frown with a stern glance, but made no

answer. Claverhouse, his lip just curled with an ironical smile, bowed,

and said, “It was not for him to judge the propriety of his Grace’s

sentiments.”

The Duke made a signal to Morton to withdraw. He obeyed; and, accompanied

by his former escort, rode slowly through the army to return to the camp

of the non-conformists. As he passed the fine corps of Life-Guards, he

found Claverhouse was already at their head. That officer no sooner saw

Morton, than he advanced and addressed him with perfect politeness of

manner.

“I think this is not the first time I have seen Mr Morton of Milnwood?”

“It is not Colonel Grahame’s fault,” said Morton, smiling sternly, “that

he or any one else should be now incommoded by my presence.”

“Allow me at least to say,” replied Claverhouse, “that Mr Morton’s

present situation authorizes the opinion I have entertained of him, and

that my proceedings at our last meeting only squared to my duty.”

“To reconcile your actions to your duty, and your duty to your

conscience, is your business, Colonel Grahame, not mine,” said Morton,

justly offended at being thus, in a manner, required to approve of the

sentence under which he had so nearly suffered.

“Nay, but stay an instant,” said Claverhouse; “Evandale insists that I

have some wrongs to acquit myself of in your instance. I trust I shall

always make some difference between a high-minded gentleman, who, though

misguided, acts upon generous principles, and the crazy fanatical clowns

yonder, with the bloodthirsty assassins who head them. Therefore, if they

do not disperse upon your return, let me pray you instantly come over to

our army and surrender yourself, for, be assured, they cannot stand our

assault for half an hour. If you will be ruled and do this, be sure to

enquire for me. Monmouth, strange as it may seem, cannot protect

you--Dalzell will not--I both can and will; and I have promised to

Evandale to do so if you will give me an opportunity.”

“I should owe Lord Evandale my thanks,” answered Morton, coldly, “did not

his scheme imply an opinion that I might be prevailed on to desert those

with whom I am engaged. For you, Colonel Grahame, if you will honour me

with a different species of satisfaction, it is probable, that, in an

hour’s time, you will find me at the west end of Bothwell Bridge with my

sword in my hand.”

“I shall be happy to meet you there,” said Claverhouse, “but still more

so should you think better on my first proposal.”

They then saluted and parted.

“That is a pretty lad, Lumley,” said Claverhouse, addressing himself to

the other officer; “but he is a lost man--his blood be upon his head.”

So saying, he addressed himself to the task of preparation for instant

battle.

CHAPTER X.

But, hark! the tent has changed its voice,

There’s peace and rest nae langer.

Burns.

The Lowdien Mallisha they

Came with their coats of blew;

Five hundred men from London came,

Claid in a reddish hue.

Bothwell Lines.

When Morton had left the well-ordered outposts of the regular army, and

arrived at those which were maintained by his own party, he could not but

be peculiarly sensible of the difference of discipline, and entertain a

proportional degree of fear for the consequences. The same discords which

agitated the counsels of the insurgents, raged even among their meanest

followers; and their picquets and patrols were more interested and

occupied in disputing the true occasion and causes of wrath, and defining

the limits of Erastian heresy, than in looking out for and observing the

motions of their enemies, though within hearing of the royal drums and

trumpets.

There was a guard, however, of the insurgent army, posted at the long and

narrow bridge of Bothwell, over which the enemy must necessarily advance

to the attack; but, like the others, they were divided and disheartened;

and, entertaining the idea that they were posted on a desperate service,

they even meditated withdrawing themselves to the main body. This would

have been utter ruin; for, on the defence or loss of this pass the

fortune of the day was most likely to depend. All beyond the bridge was a

plain open field, excepting a few thickets of no great depth, and,

consequently, was ground on which the undisciplined forces of the

insurgents, deficient as they were in cavalry, and totally unprovided

with artillery, were altogether unlikely to withstand the shock of

regular troops.

Morton, therefore, viewed the pass carefully, and formed the hope, that

by occupying two or three houses on the left bank of the river, with the

copse and thickets of alders and hazels that lined its side, and by

blockading the passage itself, and shutting the gates of a portal, which,

according to the old fashion, was built on the central arch of the bridge

of Bothwell, it might be easily defended against a very superior force.

He issued directions accordingly, and commanded the parapets of the

bridge, on the farther side of the portal, to be thrown down, that they

might afford no protection to the enemy when they should attempt the

passage. Morton then conjured the party at this important post to be

watchful and upon their guard, and promised them a speedy and strong

reinforcement. He caused them to advance videttes beyond the river to

watch the progress of the enemy, which outposts he directed should be

withdrawn to the left bank as soon as they approached; finally, he

charged them to send regular information to the main body of all that

they should observe. Men under arms, and in a situation of danger, are

usually sufficiently alert in appreciating the merit of their officers.

Morton’s intelligence and activity gained the confidence of these men,

and with better hope and heart than before, they began to fortify their

position in the manner he recommended, and saw him depart with three loud

cheers.

Morton now galloped hastily towards the main body of the insurgents, but

was surprised and shocked at the scene of confusion and clamour which it

exhibited, at the moment when good order and concord were of such

essential consequence. Instead of being drawn up in line of battle, and

listening to the commands of their officers, they were crowding together

in a confused mass, that rolled and agitated itself like the waves of the

sea, while a thousand tongues spoke, or rather vociferated, and not a

single ear was found to listen. Scandalized at a scene so extraordinary,

Morton endeavoured to make his way through the press to learn, and, if

possible, to remove, the cause of this so untimely disorder. While he is

thus engaged, we shall make the reader acquainted with that which he was

some time in discovering.

The insurgents had proceeded to hold their day of humiliation, which,

agreeably to the practice of the puritans during the earlier civil war,

they considered as the most effectual mode of solving all difficulties,

and waiving all discussions. It was usual to name an ordinary week-day

for this purpose, but on this occasion the Sabbath itself was adopted,

owing to the pressure of the time and the vicinity of the enemy. A

temporary pulpit, or tent, was erected in the middle of the encampment;

which, according to the fixed arrangement, was first to be occupied by

the Reverend Peter Poundtext, to whom the post of honour was assigned, as

the eldest clergyman present. But as the worthy divine, with slow and

stately steps, was advancing towards the rostrum which had been prepared

for him, he was prevented by the unexpected apparition of Habakkuk

Mucklewrath, the insane preacher, whose appearance had so much startled

Morton at the first council of the insurgents after their victory at

Loudon-hill. It is not known whether he was acting under the influence

and instigation of the Cameronians, or whether he was merely compelled by

his own agitated imagination, and the temptation of a vacant pulpit

before him, to seize the opportunity of exhorting so respectable a

congregation. It is only certain that he took occasion by the forelock,

sprung into the pulpit, cast his eyes wildly round him, and, undismayed

by the murmurs of many of the audience, opened the Bible, read forth as

his text from the thirteenth chapter of Deuteronomy, “Certain men, the

children of Belial, are gone out from among you, and have withdrawn the

inhabitants of their city, saying, let us go and serve other gods, which

you have not known;” and then rushed at once into the midst of his

subject.

The harangue of Mucklewrath was as wild and extravagant as his intrusion

was unauthorized and untimely; but it was provokingly coherent, in so far

as it turned entirely upon the very subjects of discord, of which it had

been agreed to adjourn the consideration until some more suitable

opportunity. Not a single topic did he omit which had offence in it; and,

after charging the moderate party with heresy, with crouching to tyranny,

with seeking to be at peace with God’s enemies, he applied to Morton, by

name, the charge that he had been one of those men of Belial, who, in the

words of his text, had gone out from amongst them, to withdraw the

inhabitants of his city, and to go astray after false gods. To him, and

all who followed him, or approved of his conduct, Mucklewrath denounced

fury and vengeance, and exhorted those who would hold themselves pure and

undefiled to come up from the midst of them.

“Fear not,” he said, “because of the neighing of horses, or the

glittering of breastplates. Seek not aid of the Egyptians, because of the

enemy, though they may be numerous as locusts, and fierce as dragons.

Their trust is not as our trust, nor their rock as our rock; how else

shall a thousand fly before one, and two put ten thousand to the flight!

I dreamed it in the visions of the night, and the voice said, ‘Habakkuk,

take thy fan and purge the wheat from the chaff, that they be not both

consumed with the fire of indignation and the lightning of fury.’

Wherefore, I say, take this Henry Morton--this wretched Achan, who hath

brought the accursed thing among ye, and made himself brethren in the

camp of the enemy--take him and stone him with stones, and thereafter

burn him with fire, that the wrath may depart from the children of the

Covenant. He hath not taken a Babylonish garment, but he hath sold the

garment of righteousness to the woman of Babylon--he hath not taken two

hundred shekels of fine silver, but he hath bartered the truth, which is

more precious than shekels of silver or wedges of gold.”

At this furious charge, brought so unexpectedly against one of their most

active commanders, the audience broke out into open tumult, some

demanding that there should instantly be a new election of officers, into

which office none should hereafter be admitted who had, in their phrase,

touched of that which was accursed, or temporized more or less with the

heresies and corruptions of the times. While such was the demand of the

Cameronians, they vociferated loudly, that those who were not with them

were against them,--that it was no time to relinquish the substantial

part of the covenanted testimony of the Church, if they expected a

blessing on their arms and their cause; and that, in their eyes, a

lukewarm Presbyterian was little better than a Prelatist, an

Anti-Covenanter, and a Nullifidian.

The parties accused repelled the charge of criminal compliance and

defection from the truth with scorn and indignation, and charged their

accusers with breach of faith, as well as with wrong-headed and

extravagant zeal in introducing such divisions into an army, the joint

strength of which could not, by the most sanguine, be judged more than

sufficient to face their enemies. Poundtext, and one or two others, made

some faint efforts to stem the increasing fury of the factious,

exclaiming to those of the other party, in the words of the

Patriarch,--“Let there be no strife, I pray thee, between me and thee,

and between thy herdsmen and my herdsmen, for we be brethren.” No

pacific overture could possibly obtain audience. It was in vain that

even Burley himself, when he saw the dissension proceed to such ruinous

lengths, exerted his stern and deep voice, commanding silence and

obedience to discipline. The spirit of insubordination had gone forth,

and it seemed as if the exhortation of Habakkuk Mucklewrath had

communicated a part of his frenzy to all who heard him. The wiser, or

more timid part of the assembly, were already withdrawing themselves

from the field, and giving up their cause as lost. Others were

moderating a harmonious call, as they somewhat improperly termed it, to

new officers, and dismissing those formerly chosen, and that with a

tumult and clamour worthy of the deficiency of good sense and good order

implied in the whole transaction. It was at this moment when Morton

arrived in the field and joined the army, in total confusion, and on the

point of dissolving itself. His arrival occasioned loud exclamations of

applause on the one side, and of imprecation on the other.

“What means this ruinous disorder at such a moment?” he exclaimed to

Burley, who, exhausted with his vain exertions to restore order, was now

leaning on his sword, and regarding the confusion with an eye of resolute

despair.

“It means,” he replied, “that God has delivered us into the hands of our

enemies.”

“Not so,” answered Morton, with a voice and gesture which compelled many

to listen; “it is not God who deserts us, it is we who desert him, and

dishonour ourselves by disgracing and betraying the cause of freedom and

religion.--Hear me,” he exclaimed, springing to the pulpit which

Mucklewrath had been compelled to evacuate by actual exhaustion--“I bring

from the enemy an offer to treat, if you incline to lay down your arms. I

can assure you the means of making an honourable defence, if you are of

more manly tempers. The time flies fast on. Let us resolve either for

peace or war; and let it not be said of us in future days, that six

thousand Scottish men in arms had neither courage to stand their ground

and fight it out, nor prudence to treat for peace, nor even the coward’s

wisdom to retreat in good time and with safety. What signifies

quarrelling on minute points of church-discipline, when the whole edifice

is threatened with total destruction? O, remember, my brethren, that the

last and worst evil which God brought upon the people whom he had once

chosen--the last and worst punishment of their blindness and hardness of

heart, was the bloody dissensions which rent asunder their city, even

when the enemy were thundering at its gates!”

Some of the audience testified their feeling of this exhortation, by loud

exclamations of applause; others by hooting, and exclaiming--“To your

tents, O Israel!”

Morton, who beheld the columns of the enemy already beginning to appear

on the right bank, and directing their march upon the bridge, raised his

voice to its utmost pitch, and, pointing at the same time with his hand,

exclaimed,--“Silence your senseless clamours, yonder is the enemy! On

maintaining the bridge against him depend our lives, as well as our hope

to reclaim our laws and liberties.--There shall at least one Scottishman

die in their defence.--Let any one who loves his country follow me!”

The multitude had turned their heads in the direction to which he

pointed. The sight of the glittering files of the English Foot-Guards,

supported by several squadrons of horse, of the cannon which the

artillerymen were busily engaged in planting against the bridge, of the

plaided clans who seemed to search for a ford, and of the long succession

of troops which were destined to support the attack, silenced at once

their clamorous uproar, and struck them with as much consternation as if

it were an unexpected apparition, and not the very thing which they ought

to have been looking out for. They gazed on each other, and on their

leaders, with looks resembling those that indicate the weakness of a

patient when exhausted by a fit of frenzy. Yet when Morton, springing

from the rostrum, directed his steps towards the bridge, he was followed

by about an hundred of the young men who were particularly attached to

his command.

Burley turned to Macbriar--“Ephraim,” he said, “it is Providence points

us the way, through the worldly wisdom of this latitudinarian youth.--He

that loves the light, let him follow Burley!”

“Tarry,” replied Macbriar; “it is not by Henry Morton, or such as he,

that our goings-out and our comings-in are to be meted; therefore tarry

with us. I fear treachery to the host from this nullifidian Achan--Thou

shalt not go with him. Thou art our chariots and our horsemen.”

“Hinder me not,” replied Burley; “he hath well said that all is lost, if

the enemy win the bridge--therefore let me not. Shall the children of

this generation be called wiser or braver than the children of the

sanctuary?--Array yourselves under your leaders--let us not lack supplies

of men and ammunition; and accursed be he who turneth back from the work

on this great day!”

Having thus spoken, he hastily marched towards the bridge, and was

followed by about two hundred of the most gallant and zealous of his

party. There was a deep and disheartened pause when Morton and Burley

departed. The commanders availed themselves of it to display their lines

in some sort of order, and exhorted those who were most exposed to throw

themselves upon their faces to avoid the cannonade which they might

presently expect. The insurgents ceased to resist or to remonstrate; but

the awe which had silenced their discords had dismayed their courage.

They suffered themselves to be formed into ranks with the docility of a

flock of sheep, but without possessing, for the time, more resolution or

energy; for they experienced a sinking of the heart, imposed by the

sudden and imminent approach of the danger which they had neglected to

provide against while it was yet distant. They were, however, drawn out

with some regularity; and as they still possessed the appearance of an

army, their leaders had only to hope that some favourable circumstance

would restore their spirits and courage.

Kettledrummle, Poundtext, Macbriar, and other preachers, busied

themselves in their ranks, and prevailed on them to raise a psalm. But

the superstitious among them observed, as an ill omen, that their song of

praise and triumph sunk into “a quaver of consternation,” and resembled

rather a penitentiary stave sung on the scaffold of a condemned criminal,

than the bold strain which had resounded along the wild heath of

Loudon-hill, in anticipation of that day’s victory. The melancholy melody

soon received a rough accompaniment; the royal soldiers shouted, the

Highlanders yelled, the cannon began to fire on one side, and the

musketry on both, and the bridge of Bothwell, with the banks adjacent,

were involved in wreaths of smoke.

CHAPTER XI.

As e’er ye saw the rain doun fa’,

Or yet the arrow from the bow,

Sae our Scots lads fell even down,

And they lay slain on every knowe.

Old Ballad.

Ere Morton or Burley had reached the post to be defended, the enemy had

commenced an attack upon it with great spirit. The two regiments of

Foot-Guards, formed into a close column, rushed forward to the river; one

corps, deploying along the right bank, commenced a galling fire on the

defenders of the pass, while the other pressed on to occupy the bridge.

The insurgents sustained the attack with great constancy and courage; and

while part of their number returned the fire across the river, the rest

maintained a discharge of musketry upon the further end of the bridge

itself, and every avenue by which the soldiers endeavoured to approach

it. The latter suffered severely, but still gained ground, and the head

of their column was already upon the bridge, when the arrival of Morton

changed the scene; and his marksmen, commencing upon the pass a fire as

well aimed as it was sustained and regular, compelled the assailants to

retire with much loss. They were a second time brought up to the charge,

and a second time repulsed with still greater loss, as Burley had now

brought his party into action. The fire was continued with the utmost

vehemence on both sides, and the issue of the action seemed very dubious.

Monmouth, mounted on a superb white charger, might be discovered on the

top of the right bank of the river, urging, entreating, and animating the

exertions of his soldiers. By his orders, the cannon, which had hitherto

been employed in annoying the distant main body of the presbyterians,

were now turned upon the defenders of the bridge. But these tremendous

engines, being wrought much more slowly than in modern times, did not

produce the effect of annoying or terrifying the enemy to the extent

proposed. The insurgents, sheltered by copsewood along the bank of the

river, or stationed in the houses already mentioned, fought under cover,

while the royalists, owing to the precautions of Morton, were entirely

exposed. The defence was so protracted and obstinate, that the royal

generals began to fear it might be ultimately successful. While Monmouth

threw himself from his horse, and, rallying the Foot-Guards, brought them

on to another close and desperate attack, he was warmly seconded

by Dalzell, who, putting himself at the head of a body of

Lennox-Highlanders, rushed forward with their tremendous war-cry of

Loch-sloy.

[Note: This was the slogan or war-cry of the MacFarlanes, taken from

a lake near the head of Loch Lomond, in the centre of their ancient

possessions on the western banks of that beautiful inland sea.]

The ammunition of the defenders of the bridge began to fail at this

important crisis; messages, commanding and imploring succours and

supplies, were in vain dispatched, one after the other, to the main body

of the presbyterian army, which remained inactively drawn up on the open

fields in the rear. Fear, consternation, and misrule, had gone abroad

among them, and while the post on which their safety depended required

to be instantly and powerfully reinforced, there remained none either to

command or to obey.

As the fire of the defenders of the bridge began to slacken, that of the

assailants increased, and in its turn became more fatal. Animated by the

example and exhortations of their generals, they obtained a footing upon

the bridge itself, and began to remove the obstacles by which it was

blockaded. The portal-gate was broke open, the beams, trunks of trees,

and other materials of the barricade, pulled down and thrown into the

river. This was not accomplished without opposition. Morton and Burley

fought in the very front of their followers, and encouraged them with

their pikes, halberds, and partisans, to encounter the bayonets of the

Guards, and the broadswords of the Highlanders. But those behind the

leaders began to shrink from the unequal combat, and fly singly, or in

parties of two or three, towards the main body, until the remainder were,

by the mere weight of the hostile column as much as by their weapons,

fairly forced from the bridge. The passage being now open, the enemy

began to pour over. But the bridge was long and narrow, which rendered

the manoeuvre slow as well as dangerous; and those who first passed had

still to force the houses, from the windows of which the Covenanters

continued to fire. Burley and Morton were near each other at this

critical moment.

“There is yet time,” said the former, “to bring down horse to attack

them, ere they can get into order; and, with the aid of God, we may thus

regain the bridge--hasten thou to bring them down, while I make the

defence good with this old and wearied body.”

Morton saw the importance of the advice, and, throwing himself on the

horse which cuddie held in readiness for him behind the thicket, galloped

towards a body of cavalry which chanced to be composed entirely of

Cameronians. Ere he could speak his errand, or utter his orders, he was

saluted by the execrations of the whole body.

“He flies!” they exclaimed--“the cowardly traitor flies like a hart from

the hunters, and hath left valiant Burley in the midst of the slaughter!”

“I do not fly,” said Morton. “I come to lead you to the attack. Advance

boldly, and we shall yet do well.”

“Follow him not!--Follow him not!”--such were the tumultuous exclamations

which resounded from the ranks;--“he hath sold you to the sword of the

enemy!”

And while Morton argued, entreated, and commanded in vain, the moment was

lost in which the advance might have been useful; and the outlet from the

bridge, with all its defences, being in complete possession of the enemy,

Burley and his remaining followers were driven back upon the main body,

to whom the spectacle of their hurried and harassed retreat was far from

restoring the confidence which they so much wanted.

In the meanwhile, the forces of the King crossed the bridge at their

leisure, and, securing the pass, formed in line of battle; while

Claverhouse, who, like a hawk perched on a rock, and eyeing the time to

pounce on its prey, had watched the event of the action from the opposite

bank, now passed the bridge at the head of his cavalry, at full trot,

and, leading them in squadrons through the intervals and round the flanks

of the royal infantry, formed them in line on the moor, and led them to

the charge, advancing in front with one large body, while other two

divisions threatened the flanks of the Covenanters. Their devoted army

was now in that situation when the slightest demonstration towards an

attack was certain to inspire panic. Their broken spirits and

disheartened courage were unable to endure the charge of the cavalry,

attended with all its terrible accompaniments of sight and sound;--the

rush of the horses at full speed, the shaking of the earth under their

feet, the glancing of the swords, the waving of the plumes, and the

fierce shouts of the cavaliers. The front ranks hardly attempted one

ill-directed and disorderly fire, and their rear were broken and flying

in confusion ere the charge had been completed; and in less than five

minutes the horsemen were mixed with them, cutting and hewing without

mercy. The voice of Claverhouse was heard, even above the din of

conflict, exclaiming to his soldiers--“Kill, kill--no quarter--think on

Richard Grahame!” The dragoons, many of whom had shared the disgrace of

Loudon-hill, required no exhortations to vengeance as easy as it was

complete. Their swords drank deep of slaughter among the unresisting

fugitives. Screams for quarter were only answered by the shouts with

which the pursuers accompanied their blows, and the whole field presented

one general scene of confused slaughter, flight, and pursuit.

About twelve hundred of the insurgents who remained in a body a little

apart from the rest, and out of the line of the charge of cavalry, threw

down their arms and surrendered at discretion, upon the approach of the

Duke of Monmouth at the head of the infantry. That mild-tempered nobleman

instantly allowed them the quarter which they prayed for; and, galloping

about through the field, exerted himself as much to stop the slaughter as

he had done to obtain the victory. While busied in this humane task he

met with General Dalzell, who was encouraging the fierce Highlanders and

royal volunteers to show their zeal for King and country, by quenching

the flame of the rebellion with the blood of the rebels.

“Sheathe your sword, I command you, General!” exclaimed the Duke, “and

sound the retreat. Enough of blood has been shed; give quarter to the

King’s misguided subjects.”

“I obey your Grace,” said the old man, wiping his bloody sword and

returning it to the scabbard; “but I warn you, at the same time, that

enough has not been done to intimidate these desperate rebels. Has not

your Grace heard that Basil Olifant has collected several gentlemen and

men of substance in the west, and is in the act of marching to join

them?”

“Basil Olifant?” said the Duke; “who, or what is he?”

“The next male heir to the last Earl of Torwood. He is disaffected to

government from his claim to the estate being set aside in favour of Lady

Margaret Bellenden; and I suppose the hope of getting the inheritance has

set him in motion.”

“Be his motives what they will,” replied Monmouth, “he must soon disperse

his followers, for this army is too much broken to rally again.

Therefore, once more, I command that the pursuit be stopped.”

“It is your Grace’s province to command, and to be responsible for your

commands,” answered Dalzell, as he gave reluctant orders for checking the

pursuit.

But the fiery and vindictive Grahame was already far out of hearing of

the signal of retreat, and continued with his cavalry an unwearied and

bloody pursuit, breaking, dispersing, and cutting to pieces all the

insurgents whom they could come up with.

Burley and Morton were both hurried off the field by the confused tide of

fugitives. They made some attempt to defend the streets of the town of

Hamilton; but, while labouring to induce the fliers to face about and

stand to their weapons. Burley received a bullet which broke his

sword-arm.

“May the hand be withered that shot the shot!” he exclaimed, as the sword

which he was waving over his head fell powerless to his side. “I can

fight no longer.” [Note: This incident, and Burley’s exclamation, are

taken from the records.]

Then turning his horse’s head, he retreated out of the confusion. Morton

also now saw that the continuing his unavailing efforts to rally the

fliers could only end in his own death or captivity, and, followed by the

faithful Cuddie, he extricated himself from the press, and, being well

mounted, leaped his horse over one or two enclosures, and got into the

open country.

From the first hill which they gained in their flight, they looked back,

and beheld the whole country covered with their fugitive companions, and

with the pursuing dragoons, whose wild shouts and halloo, as they did

execution on the groups whom they overtook, mingled with the groans and

screams of their victims, rose shrilly up the hill.

“It is impossible they can ever make head again,” said Morton.

“The head’s taen aff them, as clean as I wad bite it aff a sybo!”

rejoined Cuddie. “Eh, Lord! see how the broadswords are flashing! war’s

a fearsome thing. They’ll be cunning that catches me at this wark

again.--But, for God’s sake, sir, let us mak for some strength!”

Morton saw the necessity of following the advice of his trusty squire.

They resumed a rapid pace, and continued it without intermission,

directing their course towards the wild and mountainous country, where

they thought it likely some part of the fugitives might draw together,

for the sake either of making defence, or of obtaining terms.

CHAPTER XII.

They require

Of Heaven the hearts of lions, breath of tigers,

Yea and the fierceness too.

Fletcher.

Evening had fallen; and, for the last two hours, they had seen none of

their ill-fated companions, when Morton and his faithful attendant gained

the moorland, and approached a large and solitary farmhouse, situated in

the entrance of a wild glen, far remote from any other habitation.

“Our horses,” said Morton, “will carry us no farther without rest or

food, and we must try to obtain them here, if possible.”

So speaking, he led the way to the house. The place had every appearance

of being inhabited. There was smoke issuing from the chimney in a

considerable volume, and the marks of recent hoofs were visible around

the door. They could even hear the murmuring of human voices within the

house. But all the lower windows were closely secured; and when they

knocked at the door, no answer was returned. After vainly calling and

entreating admittance, they withdrew to the stable, or shed, in order to

accommodate their horses, ere they used farther means of gaining

admission. In this place they found ten or twelve horses, whose state of

fatigue, as well as the military yet disordered appearance of their

saddles and accoutrements, plainly indicated that their owners were

fugitive insurgents in their own circumstances.

“This meeting bodes luck,” said Cuddie; “and they hae walth o’ beef,

that’s ae thing certain, for here’s a raw hide that has been about the

hurdies o’ a stot not half an hour syne--it’s warm yet.”

Encouraged by these appearances, they returned again to the house, and,

announcing themselves as men in the same predicament with the inmates,

clamoured loudly for admittance.

“Whoever ye be,” answered a stern voice from the window, after a long and

obdurate silence, “disturb not those who mourn for the desolation and

captivity of the land, and search out the causes of wrath and of

defection, that the stumbling-blocks may be removed over which we have

stumbled.”

“They are wild western whigs,” said Cuddie, in a whisper to his master,

“I ken by their language. Fiend hae me, if I like to venture on them!”

Morton, however, again called to the party within, and insisted on

admittance; but, finding his entreaties still disregarded, he opened one

of the lower windows, and pushing asunder the shutters, which were but

slightly secured, stepped into the large kitchen from which the voice had

issued. Cuddie followed him, muttering betwixt his teeth, as he put his

head within the window, “That he hoped there was nae scalding brose on

the fire;” and master and servant both found themselves in the company of

ten or twelve armed men, seated around the fire, on which refreshments

were preparing, and busied apparently in their devotions.

In the gloomy countenances, illuminated by the fire-light, Morton had no

difficulty in recognising several of those zealots who had most

distinguished themselves by their intemperate opposition to all moderate

measures, together with their noted pastor, the fanatical Ephraim

Macbriar, and the maniac, Habakkuk Mucklewrath. The Cameronians neither

stirred tongue nor hand to welcome their brethren in misfortune, but

continued to listen to the low murmured exercise of Macbriar, as he

prayed that the Almighty would lift up his hand from his people, and not

make an end in the day of his anger. That they were conscious of the

presence of the intruders only appeared from the sullen and indignant

glances which they shot at them, from time to time, as their eyes

encountered.

Morton, finding into what unfriendly society he had unwittingly intruded,

began to think of retreating; but, on turning his head, observed with

some alarm, that two strong men had silently placed themselves beside the

window, through which they had entered. One of these ominous sentinels

whispered to Cuddie, “Son of that precious woman, Mause Headrigg, do not

cast thy lot farther with this child of treachery and perdition--Pass on

thy way, and tarry not, for the avenger of blood is behind thee.”

With this he pointed to the window, out of which Cuddie jumped without

hesitation; for the intimation he had received plainly implied the

personal danger he would otherwise incur.

“Winnocks are no lucky wi’ me,” was his first reflection when he was in

the open air; his next was upon the probable fate of his master. “They’ll

kill him, the murdering loons, and think they’re doing a gude turn! but

I’se tak the back road for Hamilton, and see if I canna get some o’ our

ain folk to bring help in time of needcessity.”

So saying, Cuddie hastened to the stable, and taking the best horse he

could find instead of his own tired animal, he galloped off in the

direction he proposed.

The noise of his horse’s tread alarmed for an instant the devotion of the

fanatics. As it died in the distance, Macbriar brought his exercise to a

conclusion, and his audience raised themselves from the stooping posture,

and louring downward look, with which they had listened to it, and all

fixed their eyes sternly on Henry Morton.

“You bend strange countenances on me, gentlemen,” said he, addressing

them. “I am totally ignorant in what manner I can have deserved them.”

“Out upon thee! out upon thee!” exclaimed Mucklewrath, starting up: “the

word that thou hast spurned shall become a rock to crush and to bruise

thee; the spear which thou wouldst have broken shall pierce thy side; we

have prayed, and wrestled, and petitioned for an offering to atone the

sins of the congregation, and lo! the very head of the offence is

delivered into our hand. He hath burst in like a thief through the

window; he is a ram caught in the thicket, whose blood shall be a

drink-offering to redeem vengeance from the church, and the place shall

from henceforth be called Jehovah-Jireh, for the sacrifice is provided.

Up then, and bind the victim with cords to the horns of the altar!”

There was a movement among the party; and deeply did Morton regret at

that moment the incautious haste with which he had ventured into their

company. He was armed only with his sword, for he had left his pistols at

the bow of his saddle; and, as the whigs were all provided with

fire-arms, there was little or no chance of escaping from them by

resistance. The interposition, however, of Macbriar protected him for the

moment.

“Tarry yet a while, brethren--let us not use the sword rashly, lest the

load of innocent blood lie heavy on us.--Come,” he said, addressing

himself to Morton, “we will reckon with thee ere we avenge the cause thou

hast betrayed.--Hast thou not,” he continued, “made thy face as hard as

flint against the truth in all the assemblies of the host?”

“He has--he has,” murmured the deep voices of the assistants.

“He hath ever urged peace with the malignants,” said one.

“And pleaded for the dark and dismal guilt of the Indulgence,” said

another.

“And would have surrendered the host into the hands of Monmouth,” echoed

a third; “and was the first to desert the honest and manly Burley, while

he yet resisted at the pass. I saw him on the moor, with his horse bloody

with spurring, long ere the firing had ceased at the bridge.”

“Gentlemen,” said Morton, “if you mean to bear me down by clamour, and

take my life without hearing me, it is perhaps a thing in your power; but

you will sin before God and man by the commission of such a murder.”

“I say, hear the youth,” said Macbriar; “for Heaven knows our bowels have

yearned for him, that he might be brought to see the truth, and exert his

gifts in its defence. But he is blinded by his carnal knowledge, and has

spurned the light when it blazed before him.”

Silence being obtained, Morton proceeded to assert the good faith which

he had displayed in the treaty with Monmouth, and the active part he had

borne in the subsequent action.

“I may not, gentlemen,” he said, “be fully able to go the lengths you

desire, in assigning to those of my own religion the means of tyrannizing

over others; but none shall go farther in asserting our own lawful

freedom. And I must needs aver, that had others been of my mind in

counsel, or disposed to stand by my side in battle, we should this

evening, instead of being a defeated and discordant remnant, have

sheathed our weapons in an useful and honourable peace, or brandished

them triumphantly after a decisive victory.”

“He hath spoken the word,” said one of the assembly--“he hath avowed his

carnal self-seeking and Erastianism; let him die the death!”

“Peace yet again,” said Macbriar, “for I will try him further.--Was it

not by thy means that the malignant Evandale twice escaped from death and

captivity? Was it not through thee that Miles Bellenden and his garrison

of cut-throats were saved from the edge of the sword?”

“I am proud to say, that you have spoken the truth in both instances,”

replied Morton.

“Lo! you see,” said Macbriar, “again hath his mouth spoken it.--And didst

thou not do this for the sake of a Midianitish woman, one of the spawn of

prelacy, a toy with which the arch-enemy’s trap is baited? Didst thou not

do all this for the sake of Edith Bellenden?”

“You are incapable,” answered Morton, boldly, “of appreciating my

feelings towards that young lady; but all that I have done I would have

done had she never existed.”

“Thou art a hardy rebel to the truth,” said another dark-brow’d man; “and

didst thou not so act, that, by conveying away the aged woman, Margaret

Bellenden, and her grand-daughter, thou mightest thwart the wise and

godly project of John Balfour of Burley for bringing forth to battle

Basil Olifant, who had agreed to take the field if he were insured

possession of these women’s worldly endowments?”

“I never heard of such a scheme,” said Morton, “and therefore I could not

thwart it.--But does your religion permit you to take such uncreditable

and immoral modes of recruiting?”

“Peace,” said Macbriar, somewhat disconcerted; “it is not for thee to

instruct tender professors, or to construe Covenant obligations. For the

rest, you have acknowledged enough of sin and sorrowful defection, to

draw down defeat on a host, were it as numerous as the sands on the

sea-shore. And it is our judgment, that we are not free to let you pass

from us safe and in life, since Providence hath given you into our hands

at the moment that we prayed with godly Joshua, saying, ‘What shall we

say when Israel turneth their backs before their enemies?’--Then camest

thou, delivered to us as it were by lot, that thou mightest sustain the

punishment of one that hath wrought folly in Israel. Therefore, mark my

words. This is the Sabbath, and our hand shall not be on thee to spill

thy blood upon this day; but, when the twelfth hour shall strike, it is a

token that thy time on earth hath run! Wherefore improve thy span, for it

flitteth fast away.--Seize on the prisoner, brethren, and take his

weapon.”

The command was so unexpectedly given, and so suddenly executed by those

of the party who had gradually closed behind and around Morton, that he

was overpowered, disarmed, and a horse-girth passed round his arms,

before he could offer any effectual resistance. When this was

accomplished, a dead and stern silence took place. The fanatics ranged

themselves around a large oaken table, placing Morton amongst them bound

and helpless, in such a manner as to be opposite to the clock which was

to strike his knell. Food was placed before them, of which they offered

their intended victim a share; but, it will readily be believed, he had

little appetite. When this was removed, the party resumed their

devotions. Macbriar, whose fierce zeal did not perhaps exclude some

feelings of doubt and compunction, began to expostulate in prayer, as if

to wring from the Deity a signal that the bloody sacrifice they proposed

was an acceptable service. The eyes and ears of his hearers were

anxiously strained, as if to gain some sight or sound which might be

converted or wrested into a type of approbation, and ever and anon dark

looks were turned on the dial-plate of the time-piece, to watch its

progress towards the moment of execution.

Morton’s eye frequently took the same course, with the sad reflection,

that there appeared no posibility of his life being expanded beyond the

narrow segment which the index had yet to travel on the circle until it

arrived at the fatal hour. Faith in his religion, with a constant

unyielding principle of honour, and the sense of conscious innocence,

enabled him to pass through this dreadful interval with less agitation

than he himself could have expected, had the situation been prophesied to

him. Yet there was a want of that eager and animating sense of right

which supported him in similar circumstances, when in the power of

Claverhouse. Then he was conscious, that, amid the spectators, were many

who were lamenting his condition, and some who applauded his conduct. But

now, among these pale-eyed and ferocious zealots, whose hardened brows

were soon to be bent, not merely with indifference, but with triumph,

upon his execution,--without a friend to speak a kindly word, or give a

look either of sympathy or encouragement,--awaiting till the sword

destined to slay him crept out of the scabbard gradually, and as it were

by strawbreadths, and condemned to drink the bitterness of death drop by

drop,--it is no wonder that his feelings were less composed than they had

been on any former occasion of danger. His destined executioners, as he

gazed around them, seemed to alter their forms and features, like

spectres in a feverish dream; their figures became larger, and their

faces more disturbed; and, as an excited imagination predominated over

the realities which his eyes received, he could have thought himself

surrounded rather by a band of demons than of human beings; the walls

seemed to drop with blood, and the light tick of the clock thrilled on

his ear with such loud, painful distinctness, as if each sound were the

prick of a bodkin inflicted on the naked nerve of the organ.

[Illustration: Morton Awaiting Death--frontispiece2]

It was with pain that he felt his mind wavering, while on the brink

between this and the future world. He made a strong effort to compose

himself to devotional exercises, and unequal, during that fearful strife

of nature, to arrange his own thoughts into suitable expressions, he had,

instinctively, recourse to the petition for deliverance and for composure

of spirit which is to be found in the Book of Common Prayer of the Church

of England. Macbriar, whose family were of that persuasion, instantly

recognised the words, which the unfortunate prisoner pronounced half

aloud.

“There lacked but this,” he said, his pale cheek kindling with

resentment, “to root out my carnal reluctance to see his blood spilt. He

is a prelatist, who has sought the camp under the disguise of an

Erastian, and all, and more than all, that has been said of him must

needs be verity. His blood be on his head, the deceiver!--let him go down

to Tophet, with the ill-mumbled mass which he calls a prayer-book, in his

right hand!”

“I take up my song against him!” exclaimed the maniac. “As the sun went

back on the dial ten degrees for intimating the recovery of holy

Hezekiah, so shall it now go forward, that the wicked may be taken away

from among the people, and the Covenant established in its purity.”

He sprang to a chair with an attitude of frenzy, in order to anticipate

the fatal moment by putting the index forward; and several of the party

began to make ready their slaughter-weapons for immediate execution, when

Mucklewrath’s hand was arrested by one of his companions.

“Hist!” he said--“I hear a distant noise.”

“It is the rushing of the brook over the pebbles,” said one.

“It is the sough of the wind among the bracken,” said another.

“It is the galloping of horse,” said Morton to himself, his sense of

hearing rendered acute by the dreadful situation in which he stood; “God

grant they may come as my deliverers!”

The noise approached rapidly, and became more and more distinct.

“It is horse,” cried Macbriar. “Look out and descry who they are.”

“The enemy are upon us!” cried one who had opened the window, in

obedience to his order.

A thick trampling and loud voices were heard immediately round the house.

Some rose to resist, and some to escape; the doors and windows were

forced at once, and the red coats of the troopers appeared in the

apartment.

“Have at the bloody rebels!--Remember Cornet Grahame!” was shouted on

every side.

The lights were struck down, but the dubious glare of the fire enabled

them to continue the fray. Several pistol-shots were fired; the whig who

stood next to Morton received a shot as he was rising, stumbled against

the prisoner, whom he bore down with his weight, and lay stretched above

him a dying man. This accident probably saved Morton from the damage he

might otherwise have received in so close a struggle, where fire-arms

were discharged and sword-blows given for upwards of five minutes.

“Is the prisoner safe?” exclaimed the well-known voice of Claverhouse;

“look about for him, and dispatch the whig dog who is groaning there.”

Both orders were executed. The groans of the wounded man were silenced by

a thrust with a rapier, and Morton, disencumbered of his weight, was

speedily raised and in the arms of the faithful Cuddie, who blubbered for

joy when he found that the blood with which his master was covered had

not flowed from his own veins. A whisper in Morton’s ear, while his

trusty follower relieved him from his bonds, explained the secret of the

very timely appearance of the soldiers.

“I fell into Claverhouse’s party when I was seeking for some o’ our ain

folk to help ye out o’ the hands of the whigs, sae being atween the deil

and the deep sea, I e’en thought it best to bring him on wi’ me, for

he’ll be wearied wi’ felling folk the night, and the morn’s a new day,

and Lord Evandale awes ye a day in ha’arst; and Monmouth gies quarter,

the dragoons tell me, for the asking. Sae haud up your heart, an’ I’se

warrant we’ll do a’ weel eneugh yet.”

[Note: NOTE TO

CHAPTER XII. The principal incident of the foregoing

Chapter was suggested by an occurrence of a similar kind, told me by

a gentleman, now deceased, who held an important situation in the

Excise, to which he had been raised by active and resolute exertions

in an inferior department. When employed as a supervisor on the

coast of Galloway, at a time when the immunities of the Isle of Man

rendered smuggling almost universal in that district, this gentleman

had the fortune to offend highly several of the leaders in the

contraband trade, by his zeal in serving the revenue.

This rendered his situation a dangerous one, and, on more than one

occasion, placed his life in jeopardy. At one time in particular, as

he was riding after sunset on a summer evening, he came suddenly

upon a gang of the most desperate smugglers in that part of the

country. They surrounded him, without violence, but in such a manner

as to show that it would be resorted to if he offered resistance,

and gave him to understand he must spend the evening with them,

since they had met so happily. The officer did not attempt

opposition, but only asked leave to send a country lad to tell his

wife and family that he should be detained later than he expected.

As he had to charge the boy with this message in the presence of the

smugglers, he could found no hope of deliverance from it, save what

might arise from the sharpness of the lad’s observation, and the

natural anxiety and affection of his wife. But if his errand should

be delivered and received literally, as he was conscious the

smugglers expected, it was likely that it might, by suspending alarm

about his absence from home, postpone all search after him till it

might be useless. Making a merit of necessity, therefore, he

instructed and dispatched his messenger, and went with the

contraband traders, with seeming willingness, to one of their

ordinary haunts. He sat down at table with them, and they began to

drink and indulge themselves in gross jokes, while, like Mirabel in

the “Inconstant,” their prisoner had the heavy task of receiving

their insolence as wit, answering their insults with good-humour,

and withholding from them the opportunity which they sought of

engaging him in a quarrel, that they might have a pretence for

misusing him. He succeeded for some time, but soon became satisfied

it was their purpose to murder him out-right, or else to beat him in

such a manner as scarce to leave him with life. A regard for the

sanctity of the Sabbath evening, which still oddly subsisted among

these ferocious men, amidst their habitual violation of divine and

social law, prevented their commencing their intended cruelty until

the Sabbath should be terminated. They were sitting around their

anxious prisoner, muttering to each other words of terrible import,

and watching the index of a clock, which was shortly to strike the

hour at which, in their apprehension, murder would become lawful,

when their intended victim heard a distant rustling like the wind

among withered leaves. It came nearer, and resembled the sound of a

brook in flood chafing within its banks; it came nearer yet, and was

plainly distinguished as the galloping of a party of horse. The

absence of her husband, and the account given by the boy of the

suspicious appearance of those with whom he had remained, had

induced Mrs--to apply to the neighbouring town for a party of

dragoons, who thus providentially arrived in time to save him from

extreme violence, if not from actual destruction.]

CHAPTER XIII.

Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife!

To all the sensual world proclaim,

One crowded hour of glorious life

Is worth an age without a name.

Anonymous.

When the desperate affray had ceased, Claverhouse commanded his soldiers

to remove the dead bodies, to refresh themselves and their horses, and

prepare for passing the night at the farm-house, and for marching early

in the ensuing morning. He then turned his attention to Morton, and there

was politeness, and even kindness, in the manner in which he addressed

him.

“You would have saved yourself risk from both sides, Mr Morton, if you

had honoured my counsel yesterday morning with some attention; but I

respect your motives. You are a prisoner-of-war at the disposal of the

king and council, but you shall be treated with no incivility; and I will

be satisfied with your parole that you will not attempt an escape.”

When Morton had passed his word to that effect, Claverhouse bowed

civilly, and, turning away from him, called for his sergeant-major.

“How many prisoners, Halliday, and how many killed?”

“Three killed in the house, sir, two cut down in the court, and one in

the garden--six in all; four prisoners.”

“Armed or unarmed?” said Claverhouse.

“Three of them armed to the teeth,” answered Halliday; “one without

arms--he seems to be a preacher.”

“Ay--the trumpeter to the long-ear’d rout, I suppose,” replied

Claverhouse, glancing slightly round upon his victims, “I will talk with

him tomorrow. Take the other three down to the yard, draw out two files,

and fire upon them; and, d’ye hear, make a memorandum in the orderly book

of three rebels taken in arms and shot, with the date and name of the

place--Drumshinnel, I think, they call it.--Look after the preacher till

to-morrow; as he was not armed, he must undergo a short examination. Or

better, perhaps, take him before the Privy Council; I think they should

relieve me of a share of this disgusting drudgery.--Let Mr Morton be

civilly used, and see that the men look well after their horses; and let

my groom wash Wild-blood’s shoulder with some vinegar, the saddle has

touched him a little.”

All these various orders,--for life and death, the securing of his

prisoners, and the washing his charger’s shoulder,--were given in the

same unmoved and equable voice, of which no accent or tone intimated that

the speaker considered one direction as of more importance than another.

The Cameronians, so lately about to be the willing agents of a bloody

execution, were now themselves to undergo it. They seemed prepared alike

for either extremity, nor did any of them show the least sign of fear,

when ordered to leave the room for the purpose of meeting instant death.

Their severe enthusiasm sustained them in that dreadful moment, and they

departed with a firm look and in silence, excepting that one of them, as

he left the apartment, looked Claverhouse full in the face, and

pronounced, with a stern and steady voice,--“Mischief shall haunt the

violent man!” to which Grahame only answered by a smile of contempt.

They had no sooner left the room than Claverhouse applied himself to some

food, which one or two of his party had hastily provided, and invited

Morton to follow his example, observing, it had been a busy day for them

both. Morton declined eating; for the sudden change of circumstances--the

transition from the verge of the grave to a prospect of life, had

occasioned a dizzy revulsion in his whole system. But the same confused

sensation was accompanied by a burning thirst, and he expressed his wish

to drink.

“I will pledge you, with all my heart,” said Claverhouse; “for here is a

black jack full of ale, and good it must be, if there be good in the

country, for the whigs never miss to find it out.--My service to you, Mr

Morton,” he said, filling one horn of ale for himself, and handing

another to his prisoner.

Morton raised it to his head, and was just about to drink, when the

discharge of carabines beneath the window, followed by a deep and hollow

groan, repeated twice or thrice, and more faint at each interval,

announced the fate of the three men who had just left them. Morton

shuddered, and set down the untasted cup.

“You are but young in these matters, Mr Morton,” said Claverhouse, after

he had very composedly finished his draught; “and I do not think the

worse of you as a young soldier for appearing to feel them acutely. But

habit, duty, and necessity, reconcile men to every thing.”

“I trust,” said Morton, “they will never reconcile me to such scenes as

these.”

“You would hardly believe,” said Claverhouse in reply, “that, in the

beginning of my military career, I had as much aversion to seeing blood

spilt as ever man felt; it seemed to me to be wrung from my own heart;

and yet, if you trust one of those whig fellows, he will tell you I drink

a warm cup of it every morning before I breakfast. [Note: The author is

uncertain whether this was ever said of Claverhouse. But it was currently

reported of Sir Robert Grierson of Lagg, another of the persecutors, that

a cup of wine placed in his hand turned to clotted blood.] But in truth,

Mr Morton, why should we care so much for death, light upon us or around

us whenever it may? Men die daily--not a bell tolls the hour but it is

the death-note of some one or other; and why hesitate to shorten the span

of others, or take over-anxious care to prolong our own? It is all a

lottery--when the hour of midnight came, you were to die--it has struck,

you are alive and safe, and the lot has fallen on those fellows who were

to murder you. It is not the expiring pang that is worth thinking of in

an event that must happen one day, and may befall us on any given

moment--it is the memory which the soldier leaves behind him, like the

long train of light that follows the sunken sun--that is all which is

worth caring for, which distinguishes the death of the brave or the

ignoble. When I think of death, Mr Morton, as a thing worth thinking of,

it is in the hope of pressing one day some well-fought and hard-won

field of battle, and dying with the shout of victory in my ear--that

would be worth dying for, and more, it would be worth having lived for!”

At the moment when Grahame delivered these sentiments, his eye glancing

with the martial enthusiasm which formed such a prominent feature in his

character, a gory figure, which seemed to rise out of the floor of the

apartment, stood upright before him, and presented the wild person and

hideous features of the maniac so often mentioned. His face, where it was

not covered with blood-streaks, was ghastly pale, for the hand of death

was on him. He bent upon Claverhouse eyes, in which the grey light of

insanity still twinkled, though just about to flit for ever, and

exclaimed, with his usual wildness of ejaculation, “Wilt thou trust in

thy bow and in thy spear, in thy steed and in thy banner? And shall not

God visit thee for innocent blood?--Wilt thou glory in thy wisdom, and in

thy courage, and in thy might? And shall not the Lord judge thee?--Behold

the princes, for whom thou hast sold thy soul to the destroyer, shall be

removed from their place, and banished to other lands, and their names

shall be a desolation, and an astonishment, and a hissing, and a curse.

And thou, who hast partaken of the wine-cup of fury, and hast been

drunken and mad because thereof, the wish of thy heart shall be granted

to thy loss, and the hope of thine own pride shall destroy thee. I summon

thee, John Grahame, to appear before the tribunal of God, to answer for

this innocent blood, and the seas besides which thou hast shed.”

He drew his right hand across his bleeding face, and held it up to heaven

as he uttered these words, which he spoke very loud, and then added more

faintly, “How long, O Lord, holy and true, dost thou not judge and avenge

the blood of thy saints!”

As he uttered the last word, he fell backwards without an attempt to save

himself, and was a dead man ere his head touched the floor.

Morton was much shocked at this extraordinary scene, and the prophecy of

the dying man, which tallied so strangely with the wish which Claverhouse

had just expressed; and he often thought of it afterwards when that wish

seemed to be accomplished. Two of the dragoons who were in the apartment,

hardened as they were, and accustomed to such scenes, showed great

consternation at the sudden apparition, the event, and the words which

preceded it. Claverhouse alone was unmoved. At the first instant of

Mucklewrath’s appearance, he had put his hand to his pistol, but on

seeing the situation of the wounded wretch, he immediately withdrew it,

and listened with great composure to his dying exclamation.

When he dropped, Claverhouse asked, in an unconcerned tone of voice--“How

came the fellow here?--Speak, you staring fool!” he added, addressing the

nearest dragoon, “unless you would have me think you such a poltroon as

to fear a dying man.”

The dragoon crossed himself, and replied with a faltering voice,--“That

the dead fellow had escaped their notice when they removed the other

bodies, as he chanced to have fallen where a cloak or two had been flung

aside, and covered him.”

“Take him away now, then, you gaping idiot, and see that he does not bite

you, to put an old proverb to shame.--This is a new incident, Mr. Morton,

that dead men should rise and push us from our stools. I must see that my

blackguards grind their swords sharper; they used not to do their work so

slovenly.--But we have had a busy day; they are tired, and their blades

blunted with their bloody work; and I suppose you, Mr Morton, as well as

I, are well disposed for a few hours’ repose.”

So saying, he yawned, and taking a candle which a soldier had placed

ready, saluted Morton courteously, and walked to the apartment which had

been prepared for him.

Morton was also accommodated, for the evening, with a separate room.

Being left alone, his first occupation was the returning thanks to Heaven

for redeeming him from danger, even through the instrumentality of those

who seemed his most dangerous enemies; he also prayed sincerely for the

Divine assistance in guiding his course through times which held out so

many dangers and so many errors. And having thus poured out his spirit in

prayer before the Great Being who gave it, he betook himself to the

repose which he so much required.

CHAPTER XIV.

The charge is prepared, the lawyers are met,

The judges all ranged--a terrible show!

Beggar’s Opera.

So deep was the slumber which succeeded the agitation and embarrassment

of the preceding day, that Morton hardly knew where he was when it was

broken by the tramp of horses, the hoarse voice of men, and the wild

sound of the trumpets blowing the _reveille_. The sergeant-major

immediately afterwards came to summon him, which he did in a very

respectful manner, saying the General (for Claverhouse now held that

rank) hoped for the pleasure of his company upon the road. In some

situations an intimation is a command, and Morton considered that the

present occasion was one of these. He waited upon Claverhouse as speedily

as he could, found his own horse saddled for his use, and Cuddie in

attendance. Both were deprived of their fire-arms, though they seemed,

otherwise, rather to make part of the troop than of the prisoners; and

Morton was permitted to retain his sword, the wearing which was, in those

days, the distinguishing mark of a gentleman. Claverhouse seemed also to

take pleasure in riding beside him, in conversing with him, and in

confounding his ideas when he attempted to appreciate his real character.

The gentleness and urbanity of that officer’s general manners, the high

and chivalrous sentiments of military devotion which he occasionally

expressed, his deep and accurate insight into the human bosom, demanded

at once the approbation and the wonder of those who conversed with him;

while, on the other hand, his cold indifference to military violence and

cruelty seemed altogether inconsistent with the social, and even

admirable qualities which he displayed. Morton could not help, in his

heart, contrasting him with Balfour of Burley; and so deeply did the idea

impress him, that he dropped a hint of it as they rode together at some

distance from the troop.

“You are right,” said Claverhouse, with a smile; “you are very right--we

are both fanatics; but there is some distinction between the fanaticism

of honour and that of dark and sullen superstition.”

“Yet you both shed blood without mercy or remorse,” said Morton, who

could not suppress his feelings.

“Surely,” said Claverhouse, with the same composure; “but of what

kind?--There is a difference, I trust, between the blood of learned and

reverend prelates and scholars, of gallant soldiers and noble gentlemen,

and the red puddle that stagnates in the veins of psalm-singing

mechanics, crackbrained demagogues, and sullen boors;--some distinction,

in short, between spilling a flask of generous wine, and dashing down a

can full of base muddy ale?”

“Your distinction is too nice for my comprehension,” replied Morton. “God

gives every spark of life--that of the peasant as well as of the prince;

and those who destroy his work recklessly or causelessly, must answer in

either case. What right, for example, have I to General Grahame’s

protection now, more than when I first met him?”

“And narrowly escaped the consequences, you would say?” answered

Claverhouse--“why, I will answer you frankly. Then I thought I had to do

with the son of an old roundheaded rebel, and the nephew of a sordid

presbyterian laird; now I know your points better, and there is that

about you which I respect in an enemy as much as I like in a friend. I

have learned a good deal concerning you since our first meeting, and I

trust that you have found that my construction of the information has not

been unfavourable to you.”

“But yet,” said Morton--

“But yet,” interrupted Grahame, taking up the word, “you would say you

were the same when I first met you that you are now? True; but then, how

could I know that? though, by the by, even my reluctance to suspend your

execution may show you how high your abilities stood in my estimation.”

“Do you expect, General,” said Morton, “that I ought to be particularly

grateful for such a mark of your esteem?”

“Poh! poh! you are critical,” returned Claverhouse. “I tell you I thought

you a different sort of person. Did you ever read Froissart?”

“No,” was Morton’s answer.

“I have half a mind,” said Claverhouse, “to contrive you should have six

months’ imprisonment in order to procure you that pleasure. His chapters

inspire me with more enthusiasm than even poetry itself. And the noble

canon, with what true chivalrous feeling he confines his beautiful

expressions of sorrow to the death of the gallant and high-bred knight,

of whom it was a pity to see the fall, such was his loyalty to his king,

pure faith to his religion, hardihood towards his enemy, and fidelity to

his lady-love!--Ah, benedicite! how he will mourn over the fall of such a

pearl of knighthood, be it on the side he happens to favour, or on the

other. But, truly, for sweeping from the face of the earth some few

hundreds of villain churls, who are born but to plough it, the high-born

and inquisitive historian has marvellous little sympathy,--as little, or

less, perhaps, than John Grahame of Claverhouse.”

“There is one ploughman in your possession, General, for whom,” said

Morton, “in despite of the contempt in which you hold a profession which

some philosophers have considered as useful as that of a soldier, I would

humbly request your favour.”

“You mean,” said Claverhouse, looking at a memorandum book, “one

Hatherick--Hedderick--or--or--Headrigg. Ay, Cuthbert, or Cuddie

Headrigg--here I have him. O, never fear him, if he will be but

tractable. The ladies of Tillietudlem made interest with me on his

account some time ago. He is to marry their waiting-maid, I think. He

will be allowed to slip off easy, unless his obstinacy spoils his good

fortune.”

“He has no ambition to be a martyr, I believe,” said Morton.

“’Tis the better for him,” said Claverhouse. “But, besides, although the

fellow had more to answer for, I should stand his friend, for the sake of

the blundering gallantry which threw him into the midst of our ranks last

night, when seeking assistance for you. I never desert any man who trusts

me with such implicit confidence. But, to deal sincerely with you, he has

been long in our eye.--Here, Halliday; bring me up the black book.”

The sergeant, having committed to his commander this ominous record of

the disaffected, which was arranged in alphabetical order, Claverhouse,

turning over the leaves as he rode on, began to read names as they

occurred.

“Gumblegumption, a minister, aged 50, indulged, close, sly, and so

forth--Pooh! pooh!--He--He--I have him here--Heathercat; outlawed--a

preacher--a zealous Cameronian--keeps a conventicle among the Campsie

hills--Tush!--O, here is Headrigg--Cuthbert; his mother a bitter

puritan--himself a simple fellow--like to be forward in action, but of

no genius for plots--more for the hand than the head, and might be drawn

to the right side, but for his attachment to”--(Here Claverhouse looked

at Morton, and then shut the book and changed his tone.) “Faithful and

true are words never thrown away upon me, Mr Morton. You may depend on

the young man’s safety.”

“Does it not revolt a mind like yours,” said Morton, “to follow a system

which is to be supported by such minute enquiries after obscure

individuals?”

“You do not suppose we take the trouble?” said the General, haughtily.

“The curates, for their own sakes, willingly collect all these materials

for their own regulation in each parish; they know best the black sheep

of the flock. I have had your picture for three years.”

“Indeed?” replied Morton. “Will you favour me by imparting it?”

“Willingly,” said Claverhouse; “it can signify little, for you cannot

avenge yourself on the curate, as you will probably leave Scotland for

some time.”

This was spoken in an indifferent tone. Morton felt an involuntary

shudder at hearing words which implied a banishment from his native land;

but ere he answered, Claverhouse proceeded to read, “Henry Morton, son of

Silas Morton, Colonel of horse for the Scottish Parliament, nephew and

apparent heir of Morton of Milnwood--imperfectly educated, but with

spirit beyond his years--excellent at all exercises--indifferent to forms

of religion, but seems to incline to the presbyterian--has high-flown and

dangerous notions about liberty of thought and speech, and hovers between

a latitudinarian and an enthusiast. Much admired and followed by the

youth of his own age--modest, quiet, and unassuming in manner, but in his

heart peculiarly bold and intractable. He is--Here follow three red

crosses, Mr Morton, which signify triply dangerous. You see how important

a person you are.--But what does this fellow want?”

A horseman rode up as he spoke, and gave a letter. Claverhouse glanced it

over, laughed scornfully, bade him tell his master to send his prisoners

to Edinburgh, for there was no answer; and, as the man turned back, said

contemptuously to Morton--“Here is an ally of yours deserted from you, or

rather, I should say, an ally of your good friend Burley--Hear how he

sets forth--‘Dear Sir,’ (I wonder when we were such intimates,) ‘may it

please your Excellency to accept my humble congratulations on the

victory’--hum--hum--‘blessed his Majesty’s army. I pray you to understand

I have my people under arms to take and intercept all fugitives, and have

already several prisoners,’ and so forth. Subscribed Basil Olifant--You

know the fellow by name, I suppose?”

“A relative of Lady Margaret Bellenden,” replied Morton, “is he not?”

“Ay,” replied Grahame, “and heir-male of her father’s family, though a

distant one, and moreover a suitor to the fair Edith, though discarded as

an unworthy one; but, above all, a devoted admirer of the estate of

Tillietudlem, and all thereunto belonging.”

“He takes an ill mode of recommending himself,” said Morton, suppressing

his feelings, “to the family at Tillietudlem, by corresponding with our

unhappy party.”

“O, this precious Basil will turn cat in pan with any man!” replied

Claverhouse. “He was displeased with the government, because they would

not overturn in his favour a settlement of the late Earl of Torwood, by

which his lordship gave his own estate to his own daughter; he was

displeased with Lady Margaret, because she avowed no desire for his

alliance, and with the pretty Edith, because she did not like his tall

ungainly person. So he held a close correspondence with Burley, and

raised his followers with the purpose of helping him, providing always he

needed no help, that is, if you had beat us yesterday. And now the rascal

pretends he was all the while proposing the King’s service, and, for

aught I know, the council will receive his pretext for current coin, for

he knows how to make friends among them--and a dozen scores of poor

vagabond fanatics will be shot, or hanged, while this cunning scoundrel

lies hid under the double cloak of loyalty, well-lined with the fox-fur

of hypocrisy.”

With conversation on this and other matters they beguiled the way,

Claverhouse all the while speaking with great frankness to Morton, and

treating him rather as a friend and companion than as a prisoner; so

that, however uncertain of his fate, the hours he passed in the company

of this remarkable man were so much lightened by the varied play of his

imagination, and the depth of his knowledge of human nature, that since

the period of his becoming a prisoner of war, which relieved him at once

from the cares of his doubtful and dangerous station among the

insurgents, and from the consequences of their suspicious resentment, his

hours flowed on less anxiously than at any time since his having

commenced actor in public life. He was now, with respect to his fortune,

like a rider who has flung his reins on the horse’s neck, and, while he

abandoned himself to circumstances, was at least relieved from the task

of attempting to direct them. In this mood he journeyed on, the number of

his companions being continually augmented by detached parties of horse

who came in from every quarter of the country, bringing with them, for

the most part, the unfortunate persons who had fallen into their power.

At length they approached Edinburgh.

“Our council,” said Claverhouse, “being resolved, I suppose, to testify

by their present exultation the extent of their former terror, have

decreed a kind of triumphal entry to us victors and our captives; but as

I do not quite approve the taste of it, I am willing to avoid my own part

in the show, and, at the same time, to save you from yours.”

So saying, he gave up the command of the forces to Allan, (now a

Lieutenant-colonel,) and, turning his horse into a by-lane, rode into the

city privately, accompanied by Morton and two or three servants. When

Claverhouse arrived at the quarters which he usually occupied in the

Canongate, he assigned to his prisoner a small apartment, with an

intimation, that his parole confined him to it for the present.

After about a quarter of an hour spent in solitary musing on the strange

vicissitudes of his late life, the attention of Morton was summoned to

the window by a great noise in the street beneath. Trumpets, drums, and

kettle-drums, contended in noise with the shouts of a numerous rabble,

and apprised him that the royal cavalry were passing in the triumphal

attitude which Claverhouse had mentioned. The magistrates of the city,

attended by their guard of halberds, had met the victors with their

welcome at the gate of the city, and now preceded them as a part of the

procession. The next object was two heads borne upon pikes; and before

each bloody head were carried the hands of the dismembered sufferers,

which were, by the brutal mockery of those who bore them, often

approached towards each other as if in the attitude of exhortation or

prayer. These bloody trophies belonged to two preachers who had fallen at

Bothwell Bridge. After them came a cart led by the executioner’s

assistant, in which were placed Macbriar, and other two prisoners, who

seemed of the same profession. They were bareheaded, and strongly bound,

yet looked around them with an air rather of triumph than dismay, and

appeared in no respect moved either by the fate of their companions, of

which the bloody evidences were carried before them, or by dread of their

own approaching execution, which these preliminaries so plainly

indicated.

Behind these prisoners, thus held up to public infamy and derision, came

a body of horse, brandishing their broadswords, and filling the wide

street with acclamations, which were answered by the tumultuous outcries

and shouts of the rabble, who, in every considerable town, are too happy

in being permitted to huzza for any thing whatever which calls them

together. In the rear of these troopers came the main body of the

prisoners, at the head of whom were some of their leaders, who were

treated with every circumstance of inventive mockery and insult. Several

were placed on horseback with their faces to the animal’s tail; others

were chained to long bars of iron, which they were obliged to support in

their hands, like the galleyslaves in Spain when travelling to the port

where they are to be put on shipboard. The heads of others who had fallen

were borne in triumph before the survivors, some on pikes and halberds,

some in sacks, bearing the names of the slaughtered persons labelled on

the outside. Such were the objects who headed the ghastly procession, who

seemed as effectually doomed to death as if they wore the sanbenitos of

the condemned heretics in an auto-da-fe. [Note: David Hackston of

Rathillet, who was wounded and made prisoner in the skirmish of

Air’s-Moss, in which the celebrated Cameron fell, was, on entering

Edinburgh, “by order of the Council, received by the Magistrates at the

Watergate, and set on a horse’s bare back with his face to the tail, and

the other three laid on a goad of iron, and carried up the street, Mr

Cameron’s head being on a halberd before them.”]

Behind them came on the nameless crowd to the number of several hundreds,

some retaining under their misfortunes a sense of confidence in the cause

for which they suffered captivity, and were about to give a still more

bloody testimony; others seemed pale, dispirited, dejected, questioning

in their own minds their prudence in espousing a cause which Providence

seemed to have disowned, and looking about for some avenue through which

they might escape from the consequences of their rashness. Others there

were who seemed incapable of forming an opinion on the subject, or of

entertaining either hope, confidence, or fear, but who, foaming with

thirst and fatigue, stumbled along like over-driven oxen, lost to every

thing but their present sense of wretchedness, and without having any

distinct idea whether they were led to the shambles or to the pasture.

These unfortunate men were guarded on each hand by troopers, and behind

them came the main body of the cavalry, whose military music resounded

back from the high houses on each side of the street, and mingled with

their own songs of jubilee and triumph, and the wild shouts of the

rabble.

Morton felt himself heart-sick while he gazed on the dismal spectacle,

and recognised in the bloody heads, and still more miserable and agonized

features of the living sufferers, faces which had been familiar to him

during the brief insurrection. He sunk down in a chair in a bewildered

and stupified state, from which he was awakened by the voice of Cuddie.

“Lord forgie us, sir!” said the poor fellow, his teeth chattering like a

pair of nut-crackers, his hair erect like boar’s bristles, and his face

as pale as that of a corpse--“Lord forgie us, sir! we maun instantly gang

before the Council!--O Lord, what made them send for a puir bodie like

me, sae mony braw lords and gentles!--and there’s my mither come on the

lang tramp frae Glasgow to see to gar me testify, as she ca’s it, that is

to say, confess and be hanged; but deil tak me if they mak sic a guse o’

Cuddie, if I can do better. But here’s Claverhouse himsell--the Lord

preserve and forgie us, I say anes mair!”

“You must immediately attend the Council Mr Morton,” said Claverhouse,

who entered while Cuddie spoke, “and your servant must go with you. You

need be under no apprehension for the consequences to yourself

personally. But I warn you that you will see something that will give you

much pain, and from which I would willingly have saved you, if I had

possessed the power. My carriage waits us--shall we go?”

It will be readily supposed that Morton did not venture to dispute this

invitation, however unpleasant. He rose and accompanied Claverhouse.

“I must apprise you,” said the latter, as he led the way down stairs,

“that you will get off cheap; and so will your servant, provided he can

keep his tongue quiet.”

Cuddie caught these last words to his exceeding joy.

“Deil a fear o’ me,” said he, “an my mither disna pit her finger in the

pie.”

At that moment his shoulder was seized by old Mause, who had contrived to

thrust herself forward into the lobby of the apartment.

“O, hinny, hinny!” said she to Cuddie, hanging upon his neck, “glad and

proud, and sorry and humbled am I, a’in ane and the same instant, to see

my bairn ganging to testify for the truth gloriously with his mouth in

council, as he did with his weapon in the field!”

“Whisht, whisht, mither!” cried Cuddie impatiently. “Odd, ye daft wife,

is this a time to speak o’ thae things? I tell ye I’ll testify naething

either ae gate or another. I hae spoken to Mr Poundtext, and I’ll tak the

declaration, or whate’er they ca’it, and we’re a’ to win free off if we

do that--he’s gotten life for himsell and a’ his folk, and that’s a

minister for my siller; I like nane o’ your sermons that end in a psalm

at the Grassmarket.” [Note: Then the place of public execution.]

“O, Cuddie, man, laith wad I be they suld hurt ye,” said old Mause,

divided grievously between the safety of her son’s soul and that of his

body; “but mind, my bonny bairn, ye hae battled for the faith, and dinna

let the dread o’ losing creature-comforts withdraw ye frae the gude

fight.”

“Hout tout, mither,” replied Cuddie, “I hae fought e’en ower muckle

already, and, to speak plain, I’m wearied o’the trade. I hae swaggered

wi’ a’ thae arms, and muskets, and pistols, buffcoats, and bandoliers,

lang eneugh, and I like the pleughpaidle a hantle better. I ken naething

suld gar a man fight, (that’s to say, when he’s no angry,) by and

out-taken the dread o’being hanged or killed if he turns back.”

“But, my dear Cuddie,” continued the persevering Mause, “your bridal

garment--Oh, hinny, dinna sully the marriage garment!”

“Awa, awa, mither,” replied. Cuddie; “dinna ye see the folks waiting for

me?--Never fear me--I ken how to turn this far better than ye do--for

ye’re bleezing awa about marriage, and the job is how we are to win by

hanging.”

So saying, he extricated himself out of his mother’s embraces, and

requested the soldiers who took him in charge to conduct him to the place

of examination without delay. He had been already preceded by Claverhouse

and Morton.

CHAPTER XV.

My native land, good night!

Lord Byron.

The Privy Council of Scotland, in whom the practice since the union of

the crowns vested great judicial powers, as well as the general

superintendence of the executive department, was met in the ancient dark

Gothic room, adjoining to the House of Parliament in Edinburgh, when

General Grahame entered and took his place amongst the members at the

council table.

“You have brought us a leash of game to-day, General,” said a nobleman of

high place amongst them. “Here is a craven to confess--a cock of the game

to stand at bay--and what shall I call the third, General?”

“Without further metaphor, I will entreat your Grace to call him a person

in whom I am specially interested,” replied Claverhouse.

“And a whig into the bargain?” said the nobleman, lolling out a tongue

which was at all times too big for his mouth, and accommodating his

coarse features to a sneer, to which they seemed to be familiar.

“Yes, please your Grace, a whig; as your Grace was in 1641,” replied

Claverhouse, with his usual appearance of imperturbable civility.

“He has you there, I think, my Lord Duke,” said one of the Privy

Councillors.

“Ay, ay,” returned the Duke, laughing, “there’s no speaking to him since

Drumclog--but come, bring in the prisoners--and do you, Mr Clerk, read

the record.”

The clerk read forth a bond, in which General Grahame of Claverhouse and

Lord Evandale entered themselves securities, that Henry Morton, younger

of Milnwood, should go abroad and remain in foreign parts, until his

Majesty’s pleasure was further known, in respect of the said Henry

Morton’s accession to the late rebellion, and that under penalty of life

and limb to the said Henry Morton, and of ten thousand marks to each of

his securities.

“Do you accept of the King’s mercy upon these terms, Mr Morton?” said the

Duke of Lauderdale, who presided in the Council.

“I have no other choice, my lord,” replied Morton.

“Then subscribe your name in the record.”

Morton did so without reply, conscious that, in the circumstances of his

case, it was impossible for him to have escaped more easily. Macbriar,

who was at the same instant brought to the foot of the council-table,

bound upon a chair, for his weakness prevented him from standing, beheld

Morton in the act of what he accounted apostasy.

“He hath summed his defection by owning the carnal power of the tyrant!”

he exclaimed, with a deep groan--“A fallen star!--a fallen star!”

“Hold your peace, sir,” said the Duke, “and keep your ain breath to cool

your ain porridge--ye’ll find them scalding hot, I promise you.--Call in

the other fellow, who has some common sense. One sheep will leap the

ditch when another goes first.”

Cuddie was introduced unbound, but under the guard of two halberdiers,

and placed beside Macbriar at the foot of the table. The poor fellow cast

a piteous look around him, in which were mingled awe for the great men in

whose presence he stood, and compassion for his fellow-sufferers, with no

small fear of the personal consequences which impended over himself. He

made his clownish obeisances with a double portion of reverence, and then

awaited the opening of the awful scene.

“Were you at the battle of Bothwell Brigg?” was the first question which

was thundered in his ears.

Cuddie meditated a denial, but had sense enough, upon reflection, to

discover that the truth would be too strong for him; so he replied, with

true Caledonian indirectness of response, “I’ll no say but it may be

possible that I might hae been there.”

“Answer directly, you knave--yes, or no?--You know you were there.”

“It’s no for me to contradict your Lordship’s Grace’s honour,” said

Cuddie.

“Once more, sir, were you there?--yes, or no?” said the Duke,

impatiently.

“Dear stir,” again replied Cuddie, “how can ane mind preceesely where

they hae been a’ the days o’ their life?”

“Speak out, you scoundrel,” said General Dalzell, “or I’ll dash your

teeth out with my dudgeonhaft!--Do you think we can stand here all day to

be turning and dodging with you, like greyhounds after a hare?” [Note:

The General is said to have struck one of the captive whigs, when under

examination, with the hilt of his sabre, so that the blood gushed out.

The provocation for this unmanly violence was, that the prisoner had

called the fierce veteran “a Muscovy beast, who used to roast men.”

Dalzell had been long in the Russian service, which in those days was no

school of humanity.]

“Aweel, then,” said Cuddie, “since naething else will please ye, write

down that I cannot deny but I was there.”

“Well, sir,” said the Duke, “and do you think that the rising upon that

occasion was rebellion or not?”

“I’m no just free to gie my opinion, stir,” said the cautious captive,

“on what might cost my neck; but I doubt it will be very little better.”

“Better than what?”

“Just than rebellion, as your honour ca’s it,” replied Cuddie.

“Well, sir, that’s speaking to the purpose,” replied his Grace. “And are

you content to accept of the King’s pardon for your guilt as a rebel, and

to keep the church, and pray for the King?”

“Blithely, stir,” answered the unscrupulous Cuddie; “and drink his health

into the bargain, when the ale’s gude.”

“Egad,” said the Duke, “this is a hearty cock.--What brought you into

such a scrape, mine honest friend?”

“Just ill example, stir,” replied the prisoner, “and a daft auld jaud of

a mither, wi’ reverence to your Grace’s honour.”

“Why, God-a-mercy, my friend,” replied the Duke, “take care of bad advice

another time; I think you are not likely to commit treason on your own

score.--Make out his free pardon, and bring forward the rogue in the

chair.”

Macbriar was then moved forward to the post of examination.

“Were you at the battle of Bothwell Bridge?” was, in like manner,

demanded of him.

“I was,” answered the prisoner, in a bold and resolute tone.

“Were you armed?”

“I was not--I went in my calling as a preacher of God’s word, to

encourage them that drew the sword in His cause.”

“In other words, to aid and abet the rebels?” said the Duke.

“Thou hast spoken it,” replied the prisoner.

“Well, then,” continued the interrogator, “let us know if you saw John

Balfour of Burley among the party?--I presume you know him?”

“I bless God that I do know him,” replied Macbriar; “he is a zealous and

a sincere Christian.”

“And when and where did you last see this pious personage?” was the query

which immediately followed.

“I am here to answer for myself,” said Macbriar, in the same dauntless

manner, “and not to endanger others.”

“We shall know,” said Dalzell, “how to make you find your tongue.”

“If you can make him fancy himself in a conventicle,” answered

Lauderdale, “he will find it without you.--Come, laddie, speak while the

play is good--you’re too young to bear the burden will be laid on you

else.”

“I defy you,” retorted Macbriar. “This has not been the first of my

imprisonments or of my sufferings; and, young as I may be, I have lived

long enough to know how to die when I am called upon.”

“Ay, but there are some things which must go before an easy death, if you

continue obstinate,” said Lauderdale, and rung a small silver bell which

was placed before him on the table.

A dark crimson curtain, which covered a sort of niche, or Gothic recess

in the wall, rose at the signal, and displayed the public executioner, a

tall, grim, and hideous man, having an oaken table before him, on which

lay thumb-screws, and an iron case, called the Scottish boot, used in

those tyrannical days to torture accused persons. Morton, who was

unprepared for this ghastly apparition, started when the curtain arose,

but Macbriar’s nerves were more firm. He gazed upon the horrible

apparatus with much composure; and if a touch of nature called the blood

from his cheek for a second, resolution sent it back to his brow with

greater energy.

“Do you know who that man is?” said Lauderdale, in a low, stern voice,

almost sinking into a whisper.

“He is, I suppose,” replied Macbriar, “the infamous executioner of your

bloodthirsty commands upon the persons of God’s people. He and you are

equally beneath my regard; and, I bless God, I no more fear what he can

inflict than what you can command. Flesh and blood may shrink under the

sufferings you can doom me to, and poor frail nature may shed tears, or

send forth cries; but I trust my soul is anchored firmly on the rock of

ages.”

“Do your duty,” said the Duke to the executioner.

The fellow advanced, and asked, with a harsh and discordant voice, upon

which of the prisoner’s limbs he should first employ his engine.

“Let him choose for himself,” said the Duke; “I should like to oblige him

in any thing that is reasonable.”

“Since you leave it to me,” said the prisoner, stretching forth his right

leg, “take the best--I willingly bestow it in the cause for which I

suffer.” [Note: This was the reply actually made by James Mitchell when

subjected to the torture of the boot, for an attempt to assassinate

Archbishop Sharpe.]

The executioner, with the help of his assistants, enclosed the leg and

knee within the tight iron boot, or case, and then placing a wedge of the

same metal between the knee and the edge of the machine, took a mallet in

his hand, and stood waiting for farther orders. A well-dressed man, by

profession a surgeon, placed himself by the other side of the prisoner’s

chair, bared the prisoner’s arm, and applied his thumb to the pulse in

order to regulate the torture according to the strength of the patient.

When these preparations were made, the President of the Council repeated

with the same stern voice the question, “When and where did you last see

John Balfour of Burley?”

The prisoner, instead of replying to him, turned his eyes to heaven as if

imploring Divine strength, and muttered a few words, of which the last

were distinctly audible, “Thou hast said thy people shall be willing in

the day of thy power!”

The Duke of Lauderdale glanced his eye around the council as if to

collect their suffrages, and, judging from their mute signs, gave on his

own part a nod to the executioner, whose mallet instantly descended on

the wedge, and, forcing it between the knee and the iron boot, occasioned

the most exquisite pain, as was evident from the flush which instantly

took place on the brow and on the cheeks of the sufferer. The fellow then

again raised his weapon, and stood prepared to give a second blow.

“Will you yet say,” repeated the Duke of Lauderdale, “where and when you

last parted from Balfour of Burley?”

“You have my answer,” said the sufferer resolutely, and the second blow

fell. The third and fourth succeeded; but at the fifth, when a larger

wedge had been introduced, the prisoner set up a scream of agony.

Morton, whose blood boiled within him at witnessing such cruelty, could

bear no longer, and, although unarmed and himself in great danger, was

springing forward, when Claverhouse, who observed his emotion, withheld

him by force, laying one hand on his arm and the other on his mouth,

while he whispered, “For God’s sake, think where you are!”

This movement, fortunately for him, was observed by no other of the

councillors, whose attention was engaged with the dreadful scene before

them.

“He is gone,” said the surgeon--“he has fainted, my Lords, and human

nature can endure no more.”

“Release him,” said the Duke; and added, turning to Dalzell, “He will

make an old proverb good, for he’ll scarce ride to-day, though he has had

his boots on. I suppose we must finish with him?”

“Ay, dispatch his sentence, and have done with him; we have plenty of

drudgery behind.”

Strong waters and essences were busily employed to recall the senses of

the unfortunate captive; and, when his first faint gasps intimated a

return of sensation, the Duke pronounced sentence of death upon him, as a

traitor taken in the act of open rebellion, and adjudged him to be

carried from the bar to the common place of execution, and there hanged

by the neck; his head and hands to be stricken off after death, and

disposed of according to the pleasure of the Council, [Note: The pleasure

of the Council respecting the relics of their victims was often as savage

as the rest of their conduct. The heads of the preachers were frequently

exposed on pikes between their two hands, the palms displayed as in the

attitude of prayer. When the celebrated Richard Cameron’s head was

exposed in this manner, a spectator bore testimony to it as that of one

who lived praying and preaching, and died praying and fighting.] and all

and sundry his movable goods and gear escheat and inbrought to his

Majesty’s use.

“Doomster,” he continued, “repeat the sentence to the prisoner.”

The office of Doomster was in those days, and till a much later period,

held by the executioner in commendam, with his ordinary functions. [Note:

See a note on the subject of this office in the Heart of Mid-Lothian.]

The duty consisted in reciting to the unhappy criminal the sentence of

the law as pronounced by the judge, which acquired an additional and

horrid emphasis from the recollection, that the hateful personage by whom

it was uttered was to be the agent of the cruelties he denounced.

Macbriar had scarce understood the purport of the words as first

pronounced by the Lord President of the Council; but he was sufficiently

recovered to listen and to reply to the sentence when uttered by the

harsh and odious voice of the ruffian who was to execute it, and at the

last awful words, “And this I pronounce for doom,” he answered boldly--

“My Lords, I thank you for the only favour I looked for, or would accept

at your hands, namely, that you have sent the crushed and maimed carcass,

which has this day sustained your cruelty, to this hasty end. It were

indeed little to me whether I perish on the gallows or in the

prison-house; but if death, following close on what I have this day

suffered, had found me in my cell of darkness and bondage, many might

have lost the sight how a Christian man can suffer in the good cause. For

the rest, I forgive you, my Lords, for what you have appointed and I have

sustained--And why should I not?--Ye send me to a happy exchange--to the

company of angels and the spirits of the just, for that of frail dust

and ashes--Ye send me from darkness into day--from mortality to

immortality--and, in a word, from earth to heaven!--If the thanks,

therefore, and pardon of a dying man can do you good, take them at my

hand, and may your last moments be as happy as mine!”

As he spoke thus, with a countenance radiant with joy and triumph, he was

withdrawn by those who had brought him into the apartment, and executed

within half an hour, dying with the same enthusiastic firmness which his

whole life had evinced.

The Council broke up, and Morton found himself again in the carriage with

General Grahame.

“Marvellous firmness and gallantry!” said Morton, as he reflected upon

Macbriar’s conduct; “what a pity it is that with such self-devotion and

heroism should have been mingled the fiercer features of his sect!”