moon's brightness put out the stars, and not aboon a dozen were visible,
though there wasna half that number of clouds in the whole heavens, and
they were just like white sheets, that spirits might be sleeping on in
the air! We proceeded by way of Twisel to Norham, where we crossed the
Tweed to Ladykirk; and as at midnight we passed by the auld kirkyard, I
believe I actually put my hands to my ears, lest I should hear the
howlets flapping their wings and screaming in the belfry, and turned my
face away from it in a sort of apprehension of seeing a spirit, or
something waur, upon every grave; for your mother's prophecies were
uppermost in my mind, in spite of all that I could say or strive to
think. And I believe that your uncle's mind was troubled wi' the same
sort of fears or fancies; for we were both silent the greater part of
the road, and spoke very little to each other.
"However, just about one o'clock, and when the moon was beginning to
edge down upon the Lammermuirs, we arrived at an enclosure, in which
Cunningham had sixty head of cattle penned. The six of us had but little
difficulty in breaking down the gate that opened to the enclosure; and
just as we were beginning to drive out the cattle, a man started up on a
sort of tower place that was built upon the wall that surrounded them,
and hurled a kind of instrument round his head, that made a noise like a
thousand corn-craiks crying together in concert, and trying which would
craik loudest and fastest. At the unearthly sound, the cattle also
commenced a louting that might easily have been heard at two or three
miles off.
"It at once struck me, as the best and wisest step for us to take, that
we should put spurs into our horses, and gallop back to Tweedside; for I
kenned it would be impossible for us to secure a single cow, surrounded,
as we were sure to be in a few minutes, by sixty or a hundred men; and
though I was no coward, I was aware that there could be but little
bravery in six men attempting to give battle to sixty. But, before I had
time to come to a determination, or even to speak, I saw your uncle's
pistol flash; and even, I may say, before I heard the report, I
perceived the man tumble down headlong from the turret on the wall,
among the horns of the cattle.
"'Ye have done wrong in shooting the lad,' said I; 'ye have raised the
whole country side; and presently Cunningham and all his host will be at
our heels.'
"'No fear,' said he; 'there is small danger of that--a dead tongue tells
no tales. And Cunningham and his host, as you term them, may be at our
face, but never shall they be at our heels, unless it be marching or
fighting against a common enemy.'
"We began, therefore, to drive out the cattle; but scarce had we driven
them from the enclosure, and turned their heads towards the Tweed, when
we heard the baying of Cunningham's blood-hounds, and the shouts of his
people.
"The sounds of their horses' feet became audible, and every moment they
gained ground upon us. It was apparent that, if we persisted in keeping
possession of the cattle, and attempting to drive them before us, within
two minutes, and we would be within swords' length of each other.
"'Brother,' said I to your uncle, as I turned and perceived that the
number of our pursuers could not be under thirty, and was conscious that
that number would soon be doubled--'Brother,' said I, 'let us spur on
our horses, and leave the cattle to cover our retreat. It is no disgrace
for six men to flee before sixty.'
"'Be it so,' he said; but it was too late. The cattle, scared by the
shouting of our pursuers, the howling of their blood-hounds, and the
flashing of their torches (for they had lighted fir branches to pursue
us, as the moon was setting), tossed their horns in the air, and ran
wildly to and fro; so that the horses, in their turn, were scared to
pass through them, and we were so hemmed in between thick woods, that
there was no riding round them.
"The followers of Cunningham surrounded us with a wild shout, and a cry
for revenge. But we drew close together--we formed ourselves into a
little circle--and waiting the attack of our antagonists, we contended
with them hand to hand. Ten of them lay writhing on the earth, or had
retired, wounded, from the contest; while our little band remained
unwounded, unbroken. For more than a quarter of an hour, we maintained
the unequal fight. But victory, on our side, was impossible, and escape
all but hopeless. Your uncle was the first of our number that fell. The
sword of an enemy had pierced his bosom, and I heard him shout to me, in
a voice rendered dismal with agony, never to yield!--to fight to the
last! as he lay bleeding on the ground.
"I was then contending, hand to hand, with Cunningham. In our rage, we
had closed by the side of each other, and each grasped the other by the
throat. He shortened his sword, and, with a triumphant laugh, was
lunging it at my side, when, with a sudden and violent effort, I hurled
him from the saddle. As he rose, he thrust his sword into the breast of
the horse on which I rode, which reared, sprang forward, and fell, and I
was thrown upon the ground, in the midst of enemies.
"Two of the four who accompanied us were also wounded, and disabled
from continuing the fight; and the other two, upon seeing your uncle and
myself upon the ground, surrendered. In my fall, my hand quitted not my
sword. I sprang to my feet, and smote around me to the right and to the
left, with the fury of a wild beast. My object was to cut my way through
my adversaries to the woods. I at length succeeded; but not until I had
been thrice wounded. I rushed forward among the trees, until the sound
of my pursuers died away; but the moon had gone down, and I knew not in
what direction I ran, but pressed onward and onward, until exhausted,
through loss of blood, I fell upon the ground. A sleep that was nae
sleep came owre me, and a dream that was nae dream stealed owre my
senses; while the blood continued oozing from my wounds, and my soul was
creeping away. Something was growing owre my faculties, just like the
opening of a starry night, as the gloaming dies away, and star after
star peeps out. I at first felt happy; just steeped, as it were, in a
sensation of pleasantness; and there were sounds like sweet music in my
ears. But the feeling of happiness was changed, I kenned not how, for
one of pain--the feeling of pleasantness for one of horror--and the
sweet sounds into dismal howls. I started up--I grasped my sword firmer
in my hand; but the howls departed not wi' the disturbed sleep from
which I had been startled; but they broke upon my ear, louder and
nearer--the howls of the savage sleuth-hound, that had been sent to
track me. I heard the horrid beast snuff the air, and break into short,
hurried, and savage howls of delight, within a few yards of me. I had
not strength to fly; and if I had had strength, flight would have been
impossible. My pursuers seemed to have lost trace of the animal; for I
could neither hear their footsteps nor the sound of their voices. I made
no attempt at flight, but stood waiting its approach, with my sword
uplifted to smite it. Loss of blood had brought a dimness over my eyes,
which, added to the darkness of the wood, made me that I had rather to
grope and listen for the animal, than perceive it, as it might attempt
to spring upon me. I would rather have met ten enemies than, in
darkness, and in my then fainting state, have waited the attack of that
savage beast. It sprang upon me--I struck towards it with my sword, and
wounded it; but the weapon came in contact with the tangled branches of
the underwood, and the force of the blow was broken. In another moment
and I felt the paws of the monster upon my breast. I grasped it by the
throat, and we fell upon the ground together--my enemy uppermost. Its
teeth were in my shoulder. After several vain attempts, I drove my sword
through its body. The howls of the fierce beast were terrible. It
withdrew its teeth from my shoulder, and struggled to escape; but I
still held it by the throat--with the grip of death I held it--and
still, still strove to pierce it again and again. I held it till it was
stiff, cold, and dead!
"Wounded, faint, and weary as I was, I ventured from the woods before
morning broke, and crossed the Tweed at Kersfield. The sun rose at the
very moment that I turned the corner of the hill which conceals our
house from the public road, and revealed to me your mother, sitting on
the blue stone at the door, as cold and frozen-like to appearance as if
she had sat there the livelong night (as I afterwards understood she
had.) Her hands were clasped together, her eyes were raised upward, and
her lips were moving, as if she were repeating a prayer, or muttering a
charm. When she saw me approaching the door, she rose from the stone,
and, striking her hand upon her brow, cried--'Jonathan Moor! ye cruel
man! ye disregarder of the warnings of her whose life is as the shadow
of your life! said I not that the hound was howling, and the raven was
flapping its wings for a feast?--yet ye would not listen to my voice!
And my brother!--where is my brother?--the son of my mother--more
headstrong and foolish than yoursel'! Ye daurna answer, and ye needna
answer. He is dead! The horse of Cunningham have trampled on his body,
and he lies unburied.'
"I didna ken how to find words to speak to her, and, indeed, I was
hardly able to speak; for the pain and stiffness of my wounds were
terrible to endure, and there was a sickness about my heart that made me
that I could have been willing to have lain down and died; and even
welcomed death, as a weary man would welcome sleep.
"I was almost recovered from my wounds before we were exactly certain
as to your uncle's fate; and that was when three out of the four that
had accompanied us were permitted by Cunningham to return home, the
other having died of his wounds a few days after the unlucky foray. From
their account, it appeared that the person shot by your uncle, while
watching the cattle against the inroads of an enemy, was none other than
the only brother of Cunningham. He was not aware of his brother's death
until after the affray, when he was found lying in the enclosure, into
which the cattle were again driven. He was offering a free pardon to all
his prisoners, save him by whose hand his brother fell, upon condition
that they would betray him, when your uncle, starting up from the
uncouth litter of branches, rudely torn from the trees, and upon which
he was carried, cried out--'I did it!--my hand brought him down from his
watch-box, like a crow from its roost!'
"'To the turret wi' him!' exclaimed Cunningham wildly; 'and fling him
from its pinnacle to the yard below.'
"The fierce command was fiercely and willingly obeyed. Your uncle was
borne to the top of the tower over the wall, and hurled headlong to the
ground; and he lay there, with the cattle trampling upon him, and the
dogs licking his sores, until he was dead.
"Your mother heard the tidings in silence; but, from that day until
this, she has never been as she used to be. Her anger is awful in a
woman; and she vows and says the day will come when she will have
revenge upon the name of Cunningham. She has spoken little of her gift
of second-sight since ye were born; but she is often subject to long and
gloomy fits of silent melancholy, as ye have all been witnesses; and I
attribute it all to our foray to Simprin. But" (the old man would add in
conclusion), "would that the good old times were come back again, when I
could meet Cunningham in the field; and he should find the hand that
unhorsed him five and twenty years syne has lost but little of its
strength."
Now, the eldest sons of Jonathan and Barbara Moor were twins, and the
youngest were also twins, and they had no daughters living. The two
eldest were seven and twenty, and the two youngest seventeen, when the
civil war between the King and the Parliament took place. Walter
Cunningham and three sons, with several of his dependants, joined the
royal army, and he had but another son, who was then but an infant of a
few months old, and whose mother had died ere his infant lips drew from
her breast the nourishment of life. That infant he regarded as the
Benjamin of his age, and loved him with a double love for his mother's
sake. But, deeming that his duty to his King called him to arms, he,
with his three eldest sons and followers, took the field, leaving the
infant in the charge of a tried nurse.
Now, when Jonathan Moor heard that his old enemy had joined the King's
standard, although he was too much of an ancient Borderer to care aught
for either one party or another, or for any cause save his own hand;
yet, to know that Cunningham had joined the King's party, was enough to
induce him to join the army of the Parliament. He knew nothing about the
quarrel--and he cared nothing; neither did he understand anything of the
religious disputes of the period; for, generally speaking, religion upon
the Borders in those days was at a very low ebb. In Berwick, and other
places, John Knox, the dauntless apostle of the north, with others of
his followers, had laboured some years before; but their success was not
great; the Borderers could not be made to understand why they should not
"take who had the power," even though kings and wardens issued laws, and
clergymen denounced judgments against the practice. It was of no use to
tell them "Thou shalt not steal;" the difficulty was to convince them
what was theft. It was, therefore, merely because his former adversary
and his sons were in the King's army, that Jonathan Moor, with his sons,
joined the army of the Parliament.
Barbara protested bitterly against the departure of her husband and her
sons to take part in the wars. "Wherefore, Jonathan," she cried,
"wherefore will ye sacrifice yourself, and why will ye gie up my winsome
sons to the jaws of death? Is there not enough provided for the eagles'
and the ravens' banquet, without their bonny blue een to peck at? Bide
at hame, and, with my bairns, plough up the green fields, that the earth
may provide us with food, as a fond mother, from its bosom. But go ye to
the wars, and your destiny is written--your doom is sealed. The
blackness of lonely midnight hangs owre me as my widow's hood, and, like
Rachel, I shall be left to weep for my children, for they will not be!
Turn again, my husband, and my sons lay down your weapons of war.
Hearken unto my voice, and remember that ye never knew one of my words
fall to the ground. If ye go now, ye rush upon the swords that are
sharpened for your destruction, and ye hasten to fatten the raven and
the worm; for the winds shall sing your dirge, as your bonny yellow hair
waves to the blast, and the gloaming and the night fling a shroud owre
your uncoffined limbs. Ye go, but ye winna return. Ye will see the sun
rise, but not set--and these are hard words for a mother to say."
But her husband and her sons were men of war. They loved its tumult and
its strife, as a hound loveth the sound that calls it to the chase, or a
war-horse the echoes of the bugle; and, though they at times trembled at
her wild words, they regarded them not. Taking their route by way of
Coldstream, Greenlaw, and Soutra Hill, in order to avoid the army of
General Leslie, which then occupied the eastern part of Lammermuir, they
descended towards Dunbar, where they enrolled themselves as volunteers
in the army of Cromwell. A few days after their arrival, they joined a
skirmishing party, and, in a wild glen, near to Spot, they encountered a
similar company that had been sent out by General Leslie. In the latter
party, were Walter Cunningham and his three sons, and he, indeed, was
their commander.
It was with a look of ruthless delight that Jonathan Moor descried his
old enemy at the head of the opposite party; and he said unto his
sons--"Yonder is the murderer of your uncle--Cunningham of Simprin, with
his three young birkies brawly mounted, and riding sprucely at his back.
But, before night, the braw plumes in their beavers shall be trampled on
the earth, and the horse will be lame that carries one of them back.
Stick ye by my side, and ride ye where I ride; for it will be music to
your mother's soul to ken that her brother's death is avenged, and by
the hands of her own flesh and blood."
The two parties rode forward and met each other. The Cunninghams and the
Moors were face to face. The two fathers sat as if fixed upon their
saddles for a few seconds, eyeing each other with looks of deadly hatred
and ferocity, and recalling the days and the strife of other years.
Though neither party mustered fifty, the onset was fierce and
furious--the struggle long and desperate; and, on each side, more than
half their original number lay dead or wounded on the ground. Amongst
the former were the seven sons of Jonathan Moor, and the three sons of
Walter Cunningham. The old men maintained a desperate combat with each
other, apart from the rest, until breathless and exhausted, both for a
few minutes paused, each holding the point of his sword towards the
other's breast; and they now looked once more in each other's face, and
again upon the ground, where they beheld the dead bodies of their sons.
Grief seemed to seek expression in redoubled rage--again their swords
clashed against each other, and gleamed in the sunbeams, rapid as the
fitful lightning. After a long and sore contention, in which both had
given and received wounds, they fell upon the ground together; but Moor
received his death-wound on the ground, and he fell to rise no more.
"I die!" he gasped, still grasping his antagonist by the breast--"I die,
Cunningham--with my children, whom I have led to death, I die! But,
remember, there is one left to avenge our deaths, and she will avenge
them seven-fold!"
Thus saying, his head fell back upon the ground, and he spoke not again.
Cunningham, disengaging himself from the dead man's grasp, went towards
the bodies of his children, and throwing himself upon the earth by their
side, he kissed their lifeless eyeballs, and mourned over them. His
grief was too intense, and his wounds too severe, to permit him
continuing with the army, and he returned to his estate near Simprin, to
watch over and protect his infant and only surviving son.
When the tidings were brought to Barbara Moor, that she, in one day, had
been bereaved of her husband and seven sons, and that the former had
fallen by the hand of Cunningham, the destroyer of her brother, she sat
and listened to the bearer of the evil tidings as one deprived of the
power of speech and motion. Her cheeks, her eyes, manifested no change;
but she sat calm, fixed, and entranced in the apathy of death. Her hands
remained folded upon her bosom, and her head moved not. The messenger
stood wondering and horror-struck, and twice he repeated his melancholy
tale; but the listener took no outward note either of his words or his
presence, and he departed, marvelling at the silent sorrow of the widow.
"I knew it, man," she exclaimed, starting from her death-like trance
after the messenger had departed--"I knew they would not return to me. I
told them, but they believed me not--they would not hearken to my words.
Miserable, deserted being that I am! wherefore should I live to mourn
with the winter winds, or make a companion of the fearsome echoes that
howl in the dark glens? Has not my husband, and have not my seven
winsome sons, than whom there were not in Northumberland seven comelier
lads--not to say brothers--oh, have not they, in one day, been snatched
away, and swallowed up from me, as a jewel that is flung into the deep
sea! But I will live to be avenged of their deaths, and my brother's
death; and their destroyer shall not dandle a bairn upon his knee, or
kiss its cheek, while mine are _all, all_ dead, and in a strange grave,
and even wi' no one near to pull up the noxious nettle that may be
waving ower their once bonny and snow-white bosoms!"
Thus raved the wretched and childless mother; and from that day she was
as one who had no fixed abode or resting-place; but, throughout the
greater part of the year, wandered to and fro, no one could tell
whither; and when she was found near the scenes of happier years, it was
as a lonely dweller in the clay-built hovel of which mention has been
made. She was a woman of a strong, perhaps it might be said a strange
mind; but her imagination was stronger--it was fevered, and early
tinctured with gloomy superstitions, until they became like a portion of
her creed and her existence; and her afflictions tended to increase its
morbidness.
The life of Walter Cunningham now became wrapt up in that of his only
son--the child was ever before his eyes, and he watched over his growth
as over a tender plant. His sole "care was to increase his store," and
lay up treasure for the child of his age, the youngest and the only
survivor of his flock. The number of his flocks and of his herds
increased greatly, and he was in the habit of attending the fairs upon
the Borders, to dispose of them. It was Whitsome fair; and he sent there
many of his cattle and his sheep for sale. He also attended it, and he
took with him his son, who was then a boy of from three to four years of
age.
It was drawing towards evening, and Mr. Cunningham, in concluding a
bargain with a person who had bought a number of his cattle, was
separated from his child. He had not been absent from the spot where he
had left him for ten minutes; but the child had disappeared; and search
was made for him throughout the fair, but he was nowhere to be found,
neither could any one give tidings of him. The anxious father sought his
lost child from booth to booth; and, with his friends, he also searched
the adjoining woods. He called his son by name, till, from far amidst
the trees, it was echoed back; but that cheerless echo, or the scream of
a startled bird, was the only reply. The disappearance of the child was
a mystery which no one could unriddle. His father, during the few
minutes that he was to be absent, had left him in charge of a servant,
who confessed having entered a drinking booth, and as the liquor went
round, he perceived not that the child had left his side. For many days
his father sought him sorrowing; but all search proved vain.
Mr. Cunningham returned to his house, a heart-broken and miserable man.
The last, the only being that he loved on earth, had disappeared from
his fond gaze, even as a beautiful vapour of strange shapes and gorgeous
colours, which we gaze upon in the heavens, and turning from it but for
a moment, we look for it again--but it is not. He refused to listen to
words of consolation, or even of hope; and for several years he left not
his house, but sat in loneliness, making a companion of his sorrow.
Now, it was on a dark and dismal winter night, seven years after the
disappearance of his son, when the hail rattled fiercely against the
narrow casements of his habitation, and the wind howled wildly over the
earth, tearing the branches from the naked trees, and causing the cattle
to crowd together for shelter--that a wild voice was heard singing a
wilder dirge, as if to the measure and music of the storm. The sound
came from an open shed adjoining the house, where the cattle had been
placed for shelter.
The servants informed their master that a strange woman, whose wits
seemed disordered, had crept into the shed, where, before morning, from
the fury of the storm, she would doubtless perish. They took a light,
and he accompanied them to the shed.
Before them a wretched being sat upon the straw, and the hail dashed
bitterly against her unshrinking, but time-worn and storm-beaten
features. Her grey hairs waved loose and wildly in the wind. Her hands
were clasped together upon her breast; and, as she sat, she sang the
wild and melancholy dirge that has been mentioned. The burden of the
strain was "Childless!--childless!--childless!" And again it waxed
louder, and a prayer for vengeance was wildly sung. She sat and
continued her dirge, regardless of their presence, and appeared as
though she saw them not. The tears gathered in the eyes of Mr.
Cunningham, as he listened to her dark words, and his limbs shook with a
trembling motion.
"Take her into the house," said he, "and give her food and shelter for
the night. If my poor boy yet live, he may be now perishing, with none
to shelter him."
At his mention of his lost son, her wild strain suddenly ceased. She
started to her feet; and, as she fixed upon him her haggard features,
while her grey hairs and the many-coloured rags that covered her waved
in the stormy wind, she seemed as though she were not an inhabitant of
the earth, but rather the demon of the storm.