DESOLATION
Waverly riding post, as was the usual fashion of the period, without any
adventure save one or two queries, which the talisman of his passport
sufficiently answered, reached the borders of Scotland. Here he heard
the tidings of the decisive battle of Culloden. It was no more than he
had long expected, though the success at Falkirk had thrown a faint and
setting gleam over the arms of the Chevalier. Yet it came upon him like
a shock, by which he was for a time altogether unmanned. The generous,
the courteous, the noble-minded Adventurer, was then a fugitive, with
a price upon his head; his adherents, so brave, so enthusiastic, so
faithful, were dead, imprisoned, or exiled. Where, now, was the exalted
and high-souled Fergus, if, indeed, he had survived the night at
Clifton?--where the pure-hearted and primitive Baron of Bradwardine,
whose foibles seemed foils to set off the disinterestedness of his
disposition, the genuine goodness of his heart, and his unshaken
courage? Those who clung for support to these fallen columns, Rose and
Flora,--where were they to be sought, and in what distress must not the
loss of their natural protectors have involved them? Of Flora he thought
with the regard of a brother for a sister--of Rose, with a sensation yet
more deep and tender. It might be still his fate to supply the want
of those guardians they had lost. Agitated by these thoughts, he
precipitated his journey.
When he arrived in Edinburgh, where his inquiries must necessarily
commence, he felt the full difficulty of his situation. Many inhabitants
of that city had seen and known him as Edward Waverley; how, then,
could he avail himself of a passport as Francis Stanley? He resolved,
there-fore, to avoid all company, and to move northward as soon as
possible. He was, however, obliged to wait a day or two in expectation
of a letter from Colonel Talbot, and he was also to leave his own
address, under his feigned character, at a place agreed upon. With
this latter purpose he sallied out in the dusk through the well-known
streets, carefully shunning observation,--but in vain: one of the first
persons whom he met at once recognized him, It was Mrs. Flockhart,
Fergus Mac-Ivor's good-humoured landlady.
'Gude guide us, Mr. Waverley, is this you?--na, ye needna be feared for
me--I wad betray nae gentleman in your circumstances. Eh, lack-a-day!
lack-a-day! here's a change o' markets! how merry Colonel Mac-Ivor and
you used to be in our house!' And the good-natured widow shed a few
natural tears. As there was no resisting her claim of acquaintance,
Waverley acknowledged it with a good grace, as well as the danger of his
own situation. 'As it's near the darkening, sir, wad ye just step in by
to our house, and tak a dish o' tea? and I am sure, if ye like to sleep
in the little room, I wad tak care ye are no disturbed, and naebody wad
ken ye; for Kate and Matty, the limmers, gaed aff wi' twa o' Hawley's
dragoons, and I hae twa new queans instead o' them.'
Waverley accepted her invitation, and engaged her lodging for a night or
two, satisfied he should be safer in the house of this simple creature
than anywhere else. When he entered the parlour, his heart swelled to
see Fergus's bonnet, with the white cockade, hanging beside the little
mirror.
'Aye,' said Mrs. Flockhart, sighing, as she observed the direction of
his eyes, 'the puir Colonel bought a new ane just the day before they
marched, and I winna let them tak that ane doun, but just to brush it
ilka day mysell; and whiles I look at it till I just think I hear him
cry to Callum to bring him his bonnet, as he used to do when he was
ganging out.--It's unco silly--the neighbours ca' me a Jacobite--but
they may say their say--I am sure it's no for that--but he was as
kind-hearted a gentleman as ever lived, and as weel-fa'rd too. Oh, d'ye
ken, sir, when he is to suffer?'
'Suffer! Good heaven!--Why, where is he?'
'Eh, Lord's sake! d'ye no ken? The poor Hieland body, Dugald Mahoney,
cam here a while syne, wi' ane o' his arms cuttit off, and a sair
clour in the head--ye'll mind Dugald? he carried aye an axe on his
shouther--and he cam here just begging, as I may say, for something to
eat. Aweel, he tauld us the Chief, as they ca'd him (but I aye ca'
him the Colonel), and Ensign Maccombich, that ye mind weel, were ta'en
somewhere beside the English border, when it was sae dark that his folk
never missed him till it was ower late, and they were like to gang clean
daft. And he said that little Callum Beg (he was a bauld mischievous
callant that), and your honour, were killed that same night in the
tuilzie, and mony mae braw men. But he grat when he spak o' the Colonel,
ye never saw tie like. And now the word gangs, the Colonel is to be
tried, and to suffer wi' them that were ta'en at Carlisle.'
'And his sister?'
'Aye, that they ca'd the Lady Flora--weel, she's away up to Carlisle to
him, and lives wi' some grand Papist lady thereabouts, to be near him.'
'And,' said Edward, 'the other young lady?'
'Whilk other? I ken only of ae sister the Colonel had.'
'I mean Miss Bradwardine,' said Edward.
'Ou aye, the laird's daughter,' said his landlady. 'She was a very bonny
lassie, poor thing, but far shyer than Lady Flora.'
'Where is she, for God's sake?'
'Ou, wha kens where ony o' them is now? Puir things, they're sair ta'en
doun for their white cockades and their white roses; but she gaed north
to her father's in Perthshire, when the Government troops cam back to
Edinbro'. There was some pretty men amang them, and ane Major Whacker
was quartered on me, a very ceevil gentleman,--but oh, Mr. Waverley, he
was naething sae weel-fa'rd as the puir Colonel.'
'Do you know what is become of Miss Bradwardine's father?'
'The auld laird?--na, naebody kens that; but they say he fought
very hard in that bluidy battle at Inverness; and Deacon Clark, the
white-iron smith, says, that the Government folk are sair agane him
for having been OUT twice; and troth he might hae ta'en warning,--but
there's nae fule like an auld fule--the puir Colonel was only out ance.'
Such conversation contained almost all the good-natured widow knew of
the fate of her late lodgers and acquaintances; but it was enough to
determine Edward at all hazards to proceed instantly to Tully-Veolan,
where he concluded he should see, or at least hear, something of Rose.
He therefore left a letter for Colonel Talbot at the place agreed upon,
signed by his assumed name, and giving for his address the post-town
next to the Baron's residence.
From Edinburgh to Perth he took post-horses, resolving to make the rest
of his journey on foot--a mode of travelling to which he was partial,
and which had the advantage of permitting a deviation from the road when
he saw parties of military at a distance. His campaign had considerably
strengthened his constitution, and improved his habits of enduring
fatigue. His baggage he sent before him as opportunity occurred.
As he advanced northward, the traces of war became visible. Broken
carriages, dead horses, unroofed cottages, trees felled for palisades,
and bridges destroyed, or only partially repaired,--all indicated the
movements of hostile armies. In those places where the gentry were
attached to the Stuart cause, their houses seemed dismantled or
deserted, the usual course of what may be called ornamental labour was
totally interrupted, and the inhabitants were seen gliding about, with
fear, sorrow, and dejection on their faces.
It was evening when he approached the village of Tully-Veolan, with
feelings and sentiments--how different from those which attended
his first entrance! Then, life was so new to him, that a dull or
disagreeable day was one of the greatest misfortunes which his
imagination anticipated, and it seemed to him that his time ought only
to be consecrated to elegant or amusing study, and relieved by social
or youthful frolic. Now, how changed! how saddened, yet how elevated
was his character, within the course of a very few months! Danger and
misfortune are rapid, though severe teachers. 'A sadder and a wiser
man,' he felt, in internal confidence and mental dignity, a compensation
for the gay dreams which, in his case, experience had so rapidly
dissolved.
As he approached the village, he saw, with surprise and anxiety, that a
party of soldiers were quartered near it, and, what was worse, that they
seemed stationary there. This he conjectured from a few tents which he
beheld glimmering upon what was called the Common Moor. To avoid the
risk of being stopped and questioned in a place where he was so likely
to be recognized, he made a large circuit, altogether avoiding the
hamlet, and approaching the upper gate of the avenue by a by-path well
known to him. A single glance announced that great changes had taken
place. One half of the gate, entirely destroyed and split up for
firewood, lay in piles, ready to be taken away; the other swung
uselessly about upon its loosened hinges. The battlements above the gate
were broken and thrown down, and the carved Bears, which were said to
have done sentinel's duty upon the top for centuries, now, hurled from
their posts, lay among the rubbish. The avenue was cruelly wasted.
Several large trees were felled and left lying across the path; and the
cattle of the villagers, and the more rude hoofs of dragoon horses,
had poached into black mud the verdant turf which Waverley had so much
admired.
Upon entering the courtyard, Edward saw the fears realized which these
circumstances had excited. The place had been sacked by the King's
troops, who, in wanton mischief, had even attempted to burn it; and
though the thickness of the walls had resisted the fire, unless to a
partial extent, the stables and out-houses were totally consumed. The
towers and pinnacles of the main building were scorched and blackened;
the pavement of the court broken and shattered; the doors torn down
entirely, or hanging by a single hinge; the windows dashed in and
demolished; and the court strewed with articles of furniture broken into
fragments. The accessories of ancient distinction, to which the
Baron, in the pride of his heart, had attached so much importance and
veneration, were treated with peculiar contumely. The fountain was
demolished, and the spring which had supplied it now flooded the
courtyard. The stone basin seemed to be destined for a drinking-trough
for cattle, from the manner in which it was arranged upon the ground.
The whole tribe of Bears, large and small, had experienced as little
favour as those at the head of the avenue; and one or two of the family
pictures, which seemed to have served as targets for the soldiers, lay
on the ground in tatters. With an aching heart, as may well be imagined,
Edward viewed this wreck of a mansion so respected. But his anxiety to
learn the fate of the proprietors, and his fears as to what that fate
might be, increased with every step. When he entered upon the terrace,
new scenes of desolation were visible. The balustrade was broken
down, the walls destroyed, the borders overgrown with weeds, and
the fruit-trees cut down or grubbed up. In one compartment of this
old-fashioned garden were two immense horse-chestnut trees, of whose
size the Baron was particularly vain: too lazy, perhaps, to cut them
down, the spoilers, with malevolent ingenuity, had mined them, and
placed a quantity of gunpowder in the cavity. One had been shivered
to pieces by the explosion, and the fragments lay scattered around,
encumbering the ground it had so long shadowed. The other mine had been
more partial in its effect. About one-fourth of the trunk of the tree
was torn from the mass, which, mutilated and defaced on the one side,
still spread on the other its ample and undiminished boughs. [A pair of
chestnut trees, destroyed, the one entirely, and the other in part, by
such a mischievous and wanton act of revenge, grew at Invergarry Castle,
the fastness of Macdonald of Glengarry.]
Amid these general marks of ravage, there were some which more
particularly addressed the feelings of Waverley. Viewing the front of
the building, thus wasted and defaced, his eyes naturally sought the
little balcony which more properly belonged to Rose's apartment--her
TROISIEME, or rather CINQUIEME ETAGE. It was easily discovered, for
beneath it lay the stage-flowers and shrubs with which it was her pride
to decorate it, and which had been hurled from the bartizan: several of
her books were mingled with broken flower-pots and other remnants. Among
these, Waverley distinguished one of his own, a small copy of Ariosto,
and gathered it as a treasure, though wasted by the wind and rain.
While, plunged in the sad reflections which the scene excited, he
was looking around for some one who might explain the fate of the
inhabitants, he heard a voice from the interior of the building singing,
in well-remembered accents, an old Scottish song:
They came upon us in the night,
And brake my bower and slew my knight:
My servants a' for life did flee,
And left us in extremitie,
They slew my knight, to me sae dear;
They slew my knight, and drave his gear;
The moon may set, the sun may rise,
But a deadly sleep has closed his eyes.
[The first three couplets are from an old ballad, called the
Border Widow's Lament.]
'Alas!' thought Edward, 'is it thou? Poor helpless being, art thou alone
left, to gibber and moan, and fill with thy wild and unconnected scraps
of minstrelsy the halls that protected thee?'--He then called, first
low, and then louder, 'Davie--Davie Gellatley!'
The poor simpleton showed himself from among the ruins of a sort of
greenhouse, that once terminated what was called the Terrace-walk,
but at first sight of a stranger retreated, as if in terror. Waverley,
remembering his habits, began to whistle a tune to which he was partial,
which Davie had expressed great pleasure in listening to, and had picked
up from him by the ear. Our hero's minstrelsy no more equalled that of
Blondel, than poor Davie resembled Coeur de Lion; but the melody had
the same effect of producing recognition. Davie again stole from his
lurking-place, but timidly, while Waverley, afraid of frightening him,
stood making the most encouraging signals he could devise.--'It's his
ghaist,' muttered Davie; yet, coming nearer, he seemed to acknowledge
his living acquaintance. The poor fool himself appeared the ghost of
what he had been. The peculiar dress in which he had been attired in
better days, showed only miserable rags of its whimsical finery, the
lack of which was oddly supplied by the remnants of tapestried hangings,
window-curtains, and shreds of pictures, with which he had bedizened his
tatters. His face, too, had lost its vacant and careless air, and the
poor creature looked hollow-eyed, meagre, half-starved, and nervous to
a pitiable degree.--After long hesitation, he at length approached
Waverley with some confidence, stared him sadly in the face, and said,
'A' dead and gane--a' dead and gane!'
'Who are dead?' said Waverley, forgetting the incapacity of Davie to
hold any connected discourse.
'Baron--and Bailie and Saunders Saunderson and Lady Rose, that sang sae
sweet--A' dead and gane--dead and gane!
But follow, follow me,
While glow-worms light the lea;
I'll show you where the dead should be--
Each in his shroud,
While winds pipe loud,
And the red moon peeps dim through the cloud.
Follow, follow me;
Brave should he be
That treads by night the dead man's lea.'
With these' words, chanted in a wild and earnest tone, he made a sign
to Waverley to follow him, and walked rapidly towards the bottom of the
garden, tracing the bank of the stream, which, it may be remembered, was
its eastern boundary. Edward, over whom an involuntary shuddering stole
at the import of his words, followed him in some hope of an explanation.
As the house was evidently deserted, he could not expect to find among
the ruins any more rational informer.
Davie, walking very fast, soon reached the extremity of the garden, and
scrambled over the ruins of the wall that once had divided it from the
wooded glen in which the old Tower of Tully-Veolan was situated. He
then jumped down into the bed of the stream, and, followed by Waverley,
proceeded at a great pace, climbing over some fragments of rock, and
turning with difficulty round others. They passed beneath the ruins
of the castle; Waverley followed, keeping up with his guide with
difficulty, for the twilight began to fall. Following the descent of the
stream a little lower, he totally lost him, but a twinkling light, which
he now discovered among the tangled copse-wood and bushes, seemed a
surer guide. He soon pursued a very uncouth path; and by its guidance at
length reached the door of a wretched hut. A fierce barking of dogs was
at first heard, but it stilled at his approach. A voice sounded from
within, and he held it most prudent to listen before he advanced.
'Wha hast thou brought here, thou unsonsy villain, thou?' said an old
woman, apparently in great indignation. He heard Davie Gellatley, in
answer, whistle a part of the tune by which he had recalled himself to
the simpleton's memory, and had now no hesitation to knock at the door.
There was a dead silence instantly within, except the deep growling of
the dogs; and he next heard the mistress of the hut approach the door,
not probably for the sake of undoing a latch, but of fastening a bolt.
To prevent this, Waverley lifted the latch himself.
In front was an old wretched-looking woman, exclaiming, 'Wha comes into
folk's houses in this gate, at this time o' the night?' On one side, two
grim and half-starved deer greyhounds laid aside their ferocity at
his appearance, and seemed to recognize him. On the other side, half
concealed by the open door, yet apparently seeking that concealment
reluctantly, with a cocked pistol in his right hand, and his left in the
act of drawing another from his belt, stood a tall bony gaunt figure in
the remnants of a faded uniform, and a beard of three weeks' growth.
It was the Baron of Bradwardine. It is unnecessary to add, that he threw
aside his weapon, and greeted Waverley with a hearty embrace.