THE LAST BLOW
It is said that those stories are best liked which present a hero
and sing his achievements from beginning to end. And the more
faultless and brilliant the hero, the better goes the tale, and the
louder the applause. Certainly John Graham is the central figure in
this history, and so rich is the color of the man and so intense
his vitality, that other personages among whom he moves become pale
and uninteresting. They had, if one takes the long result, a larger
share in affairs, and their hand stretches across the centuries,
but there was not in them that charm of humanity which captivates the
heart. One must study the work of William of Orange if he is to
understand the history of his nation, but one would not go round the
corner to meet him. Claverhouse, if one faces the facts and sweeps
away the glamour, was only a dashing cavalry officer, who happened
to win an insignificant battle by obvious local tactics, and yet
there are few men whom one would prefer to meet. One would make a long
journey to catch a sight of Claverhouse riding down the street, as one
to-day is caught by the fascination of his portrait. But the reader
has already discovered that Graham can hardly be called a hero by
any of the ordinary tests except beauty of personal appearance. He
was not an ignorant man, as certain persons have concluded from the
varied and picturesque habits of his spelling, but his friends
cannot claim that he was endowed with rich intellectual gifts. He
had sense enough to condemn the wilder excesses of his colleagues
in the government of the day, but he had not force enough to replace
their foolishness by a wiser policy. Had his powers been more
commanding, or indeed if he had had any talent for constructive
action, with his unwavering integrity and masterful determination,
he might have ousted Lauderdale and saved Scotland for King James.
But accomplished intriguers and trained politicians were always too
much for Claverhouse, and held him as a lithe wild animal is caught in
the meshes of a net.
Wild partisans, to whom every man is either white as snow or black as
pitch, have gone mad over Graham, making him out, according to their
craze, either an angel or a devil, and forgetting that most men are
half and between. But it must be also said that those who hold John
Graham to have been a Jacobite saint are the more delirious in their
minds, and hysterical in their writing, for they will not hear that he
ever did anything less than the best, or that the men he persecuted
had any right upon their side. He is from first to last a perfect
paladin of romance whom everyone is bound to praise. Then artists rush
in and not only make fine trade of his good looks, but lend his beauty
to the clansmen who fought at Killiecrankie, till the curtain falls
upon "Bonnie Dundee" being carried to his grave by picturesque and
broken-hearted Highlanders dressed in the costly panoply of the
Inverness Gathering, and with faces of the style of George MacDonald
or Lord Leighton. Whatever Claverhouse was, and this story at least
suggests that he was brave and honorable, he was in no sense a saint,
and would have been the last to claim this high degree. It is open to
question whether he deserved to be called a good man, for he was
ambitious of power and, perhaps for public ends, of wealth; he had no
small measure of pride and jealousy in him; he was headstrong and
unmanageable, and for his own side he was unrelenting and cruel.
There are things he would not have done to advance his cause, as, for
instance, tell lies, or stain his honor, but he never would have
dreamed of showing mercy to his opponent. Nor did he ever try to enter
into his mind or understand what the other man was feeling.
It is sometimes judged enough for a hero that he succeed without being
clever or good, but neither did Graham pass this doubtful and
dangerous test. For when you clear away the romance which heroic
poetry and excited prose have flung around him, you were an optimist
if you did not see his life was one long failure as well as a
disappointment and a sorrow. He did bravely with the Prince of Orange,
and yet somehow he missed promotion; he was the best officer the
government had in Scotland, and yet it was only in the last resort he
became commander-in-chief. He was the only honest man among a gang of
rascals in the Scots council, and yet he was once dismissed from it;
he was entitled to substantial rewards, and yet he had to make
degrading appeals to obtain his due. He was loyal to foolishness, yet
he was represented to the Court as a man who could not be trusted. He
had only two love affairs; the first brought him the reputation of
mercenary aims, and the second almost ruined his life. He embarked on
a contest which was hopeless from the beginning, and died at the close
of a futile victory. Except winning the heart of Jean Cochrane, he
failed in everything which he attempted. With the exception of his
wife he was betrayed on every hand, while a multitude hated him with
all their strength and thirsted for his blood. If Jean were not true
to him there would not be one star in the dark sky of Claverhouse's
life.
But this irredeemable and final disaster is surely incredible. Dundee,
fooled as he had been both by his master and by his friends till he
was alone and forsaken, was bound to put his whole trust in his wife.
Had she not made the last sacrifices for him and through dark days
stood bravely by his side? Their private life had not always run
smoothly, for if in one way they were well mated, because both were of
the eagle breed, in another way, they were ill-suited, because they
were so like. John Graham and Jean Cochrane both came of proud houses
which loved to rule, and were not accustomed to yield, they both had
iron and determined wills, they shared the dubious gift of a lofty
temper and fiery affections. They were set upon their own ways, and
so they had clashed many a time in plan and deed; hot words had passed
between them, and they had been days without speech. But below the
tumult of contending wills, and behind the flash of fiery hearts, they
were bound together by the passion of their first love, which had
grown and deepened, and by that respect which strong and honorable
people have for one another. They could rage, but each knew that the
other could not lie; they could be most unreasonable, but each knew
that the other could never descend to dishonor, so their quarrels had
always one ending, and seemed, after they were over, to draw them
closer together and to feed their love. One could not think of them as
timid and gentle creatures, billing and cooing their affection; one
rather imagined the lion and his lioness, whose very love was fierce
and perilous. No power from without could separate these two nor make
them quail. Alone and united Dundee and his wife could stand
undismayed and self-sufficient, with all Scotland against them.
Nothing could ever break their bond except dishonor. But if one should
charge the other with that foulest crime, then the end had come,
beside which death would be welcome. Where life is a comedy one
writes with gayety not untouched by contempt; where life is a tragedy
one writes with tears not unredeemed by pride. But one shrinks when
the tragedy deepens into black night, and is terrified when strong
passions, falling on an evil day, work their hot wills, with no
restraining or favorable fate. There are people whose life is a
primrose path along which they dance and prattle, whose emotions are a
pose, whose thoughts are an echo, whose trials are a graceful luxury;
there are others whose way lies through dark ravines and beside raging
torrents, over whose head the black clouds are ever lowering, and whom
any moment the lightning may strike. This was their destiny. Upon
their marriage day one saw the way that these two would have to go,
and it was inevitable that they should drink their cup to the dregs.
The blame of what happened must be laid at Graham's door, and in his
last hours he took it altogether to himself; but since it has to be
written about, and he showed so badly, let us make from the first the
best excuse we can for him, and try to appreciate his state of mind.
It was a brave event and a taking scene when he set up the standard of
King James above Dundee, and he left to raise the North Country with
a flush of hope. It soon passed away and settled down into dreary
determination, as he made his toilsome journey with a handful of
followers by Aboyne and Huntly, till he landed in Inverness. The
Gordons had sent him a reënforcement, and certain of the chiefs had
promised their support, but the only aid the Highlanders had given was
of dubious value and very disappointing issue. The MacDonalds had
hastened to Inverness by way of meeting Dundee, and then had seized
the opportunity to plunder their old enemies, the Mackintoshes, and to
extract a comfortable ransom out of Inverness. This was not his idea
of war, and Dundee scolded Keppoch, who commanded the MacDonalds, most
vigorously. Keppoch immediately returned homeward to his fastnesses
with the accumulated spoil, partly because his fine, sensitive
Highland nature was hurt by Dundee's plain speech, and partly because
whatever happened it was wise to secure what they had got. It is no
reflection on Dundee's manhood that he was cast down during those days
at Inverness, for a ten times more buoyant man would have lost heart.
His life was a romantic drama, and it seemed as if the Fates had
constructed it for the stage, for now, after the lapse of years,
MacKay, his old rival in Holland, reappears, and they resume the duel,
which this time is to be unto death. While Dundee was struggling in
Edinburgh to save the throne for James, MacKay was on his way with
regiments of the Scots Brigade to make sure of Scotland for William. A
few days after Dundee left Edinburgh MacKay arrived, and now, as
Dundee rode northward in hot haste, MacKay was on his track. Both were
eager for a meeting, but the bitterness of it for Dundee was that he
dared not run the risk. With all his appeals and all his riding, he
had only a handful of mounted men, and the clans had not risen. It
seemed as if his enterprise were futile, and that Scotland would not
lift a hand for King James. He might be a commander-in-chief, but he
was a commander of nobody; he might raise a standard, but it was only
a vain show. It did not matter where he went or what he did; he was
not a general, but a fugitive, a man to be neglected, and his
following a handful of bandits. The rising was a thing to laugh at,
and the report was current in the capital that he had absconded with
one or two servants. This pretty description of his campaign had not
reached his ears, but the humiliation of his situation burned into
his proud heart. Much as he would have liked to meet MacKay, there
remained for him no alternative but flight. Flight was the only word
which could describe his journey, and as he planned his course on the
morrow, how he would ride to Invergarry, and then return on his
course, and then make his way to Cluny, he started to his feet and
paced the room in a fury of anger. What better was he than a hare with
the hounds after him, running for his life, and doubling in his track,
fleeing here and dodging there, a cowering, timid, panting animal of
the chase? "Damnation!" and Dundee flung himself out of the room, and
paced up and down the side of the river.
There was a dim light upon the running water, and his thoughts turned
to the West Country, to the streams he had often crossed and along
whose bed he had sometimes ridden, as he hunted for his Covenanting
prey. The Fates were just, for now the Whigs were the hunters and he
was the hunted. He began to understand what it was to be ever on the
alert for the approach of the enemy, to escape at the first sign of
danger, to cross hills in full flight, and to be listening for the
sound of the pursuer. As yet he had not to hide, but before many days
were over he also may be skulking in moss-hags, and concealing
himself in caves, and disguising himself in peasant's garments, he,
John Graham of Claverhouse, and my Viscount of Dundee. The tables had
turned with a vengeance, and the day of the godly had come. The
hillmen would laugh when they heard of it, and the Conventicles would
rejoice together. MacKay would be sitting in his quarters at Elgin
that night making his plans also, but not for flight, and hardly for
fighting. When officers arrest an outlaw, it is not called a battle
any more than when hounds run a fox to his lair. MacKay would be
arranging how to trap him, anticipating his ways of escape, and
stopping all the earths, so that say, to-morrow, he might be quietly
taken. It would not be a surrender; it would be a capture, and he
would be sent to Edinburgh in charge of half a dozen English dragoons,
and tried at Edinburgh, and condemned for treason against King
William--King William. They would execute him without mercy, and be
only doing to him what he had done to the Whigs, and just as he had
kept guard at Pollock's execution, that new Cameronian Regiment, of
which there was much talk, would keep guard at his. There would be
little cause for precaution; no one need fear a rescue, for the
hillmen would be there in thousands with the other Whigs, to feast
their eyes upon his shame, and cheer his death. He could not complain,
for it would happen to him as it had to many of them, and what he had
sown that would he reap. Would MacKay be laughing that night at Elgin,
with his officers, and crying in his Puritanic cant, "Aha, aha, how is
the enemy fallen and the mighty cast down! Where now is the boasting
of his pride, where now is the persecutor of the saints?" No, far
worse, MacKay would give orders in his cold, immovable manner, and
treat the matter as of no account, as one who had never expected
anything else from the beginning, and was only amazed at his
opponent's madness. That was the inner bitterness of it all; they had
taken their sides fifteen years ago; MacKay had chosen wisely, and he
had chosen foolishly, as the world would say. The conflict had been
inevitable, and it was quite as inevitable that his would be the
losing side. William saw what was coming afar off, so did MacKay; and
it had all come to pass, year by year, act by act, and now MacKay was
to give the last stroke. They had won, and they had been sure all the
time they were going to win, and they would win with hardly an effort.
He did not repent of his loyalty, and he would not have done
otherwise if he had had the choice over again. But their foresight,
and their patience, and their capacity, and their thoroughness, and
the madness of his own people, and their feebleness, and their
cowardice, and their helplessness, infuriated him. "Curse MacKay and
his master, and the whole crew of cold-blooded Whigs! But it is I and
mine which are cursed."
"Amen to the malediction on the Usurper and all his servants; it's
weel deserved, and may it sune be fulfilled, full measure and rinnin'
over, but for ony sake dinna curse yersel', my lord, for it's
blessings ye've earned as a faithful servant o' your king." And Dundee
turned round to find his faithful servant had arrived from home and
had sought him out on the riverside.
"You took me by surprise, Jock, and startled me, for I knew not that
any man was near. I thought that you of all men were at Dudhope, where
I left you, to protect Lady Dundee and the young lord. Is aught
wrong," cried Dundee anxiously, "my wife and child, are they both
well? Speak quickly." For even then Dundee saw that Grimond was
hesitating, and looked like a man who had to speak carefully. "Do not
tell me that MacKay has ordered the castle to be seized, and that the
dragoons have insulted my family; this were an outrage on the laws of
war. If they have done this thing I will avenge it before many days
pass. Is that the news ye bring?" And Dundee gripped his servant's
shoulder and shook him with such violence that Grimond, a strongly
built fellow, was almost thrown from his feet.
"Be quiet, Maister John, for I canna help callin' ye that, and dinna
work yoursel' into a frenzy, for this is no like your ain sel'. Na,
na, Dudhope is safe, and no a single dragoon, leastways a soldier, has
been near it since ye left; whatever other mischief he may do, Colonel
Livingstone, him that commands the cavalry ye ken, at Dundee, will no
see ony harm come to my Lady Dundee. Have no fear on that concern, my
lord."
"You havena come for nought, Grimond, and I'm not expecting that ye
have much good to tell. Good tidings do not come my way in these days.
Is the lad well?" said Dundee anxiously, "for in him is all my hope."
"It's a gude hope then, my lord, for the bairn is juist bye-ordinary.
I could see him growing every day, and never a complaint from his
mouth except when he wants his food. God be thankit there's nothing
wrong wi' him, and it does my heart good to see that he is a rael
Graham, a branch o' the old tree; long may it stand in Scotland, and
wide may its branches spread. If it be the will of Providence I would
like to live till my auld een saw Lord Graham of Claverhouse, for that
I'm supposing is his title, riding on the right hand of the Viscount
of Dundee. And I would be a' the better pleased if it was over the
necks of the Whigs. My lord, ye will never be ashamed of your son."
"Ye have said nothing of Lady Dundee's health, surely she isna ill or
anything befallen her. It was hard, Jock, for a man to leave his wife
but a few weeks after his son was born. Yet she recovered quickly as
becometh a strong and healthy woman, and when I left her she was in
good heart and was content that I should go. There is nothing wrong
with Lady Dundee, Jock?"
"Ye may set yir mind at rest aboot her ladyship, Maister John. She's
stronger than I've ever seen her, and I can say no more than that, nor
have I ever marked her more active, baith by nicht and day, and in
spite o' her lord being so far awa and in sic peril, ye would never
think she had an anxious thought. It's amazin' an' ... very
encouragin' to see her ladyship sae content an' ... occupied. Ye need
have nae concern aboot her bodily condeetion, an' of course that's a
great matter."
Dundee was so relieved to hear that his wife and child were well, and
that Dudhope was safe, that he did not for the moment catch with the
dubious tone of Grimond's references to Lady Dundee, and indeed it
struck no unaccustomed note. Grimond had all the virtues of a family
retainer--utter forgetfulness of self, and absolute devotion to his
master's house, as well as a passionate, doglike affection for Dundee.
But he had the defects of his qualities. It seems the inevitable
disability of this faithfulness, that this kind of servant is jealous
of any newcomer into the family, suspicious of the stranger's ways,
over-sensitive to the family interests, and ready at any moment to
fight for the family's cause. Grimond had done his best to prevent his
master's marriage with Jean Cochrane, and had never concealed his
conviction that it was an act of madness; he had never been more than
decently civil to his mistress, and there never had been any love lost
between them. If she had been a smaller woman, Jean would have had him
dismissed from her husband's side, but being what she was herself,
proud and thoroughgoing, she respected him for his very prejudices,
and his dislike of her she counted unto him for righteousness. Jean
had made no effort to conciliate Grimond, for he was not the kind of
watchdog to be won from his allegiance by a tempting morsel. She
laughed with her husband over his watchfulness, and often said, "Ye
may trust me anywhere, John, if ye leave Grimond in charge. If I
wanted to do wrong I should not be able." "Ye would be wise, Jean,"
Graham would reply, "to keep your eye on Grimond if ye are minded to
play a prank, for his bite is as quick as his bark." They laughed
together over this jest, for they trusted each other utterly, as they
had good reason to do, but the day was at hand when that laughter was
to be bitter in the mouth.
"Ye are like a cross-grained tyke which snarls at its master's best
friend through faithfulness to him. Ye never liked your mistress from
the beginning, because ye thought she would not be loyal, but, man, ye
know better now," said Dundee kindly, "and it's time ye were giving
her a share o' the love ye've always given me."
"Never!" cried Grimond hotly. "And I canna bear that ye should treat
this maitter as a jest. Many a faithful dog has been scolded--aye,
and maybe struck, by his maister when he had quicker ears than the
foolish man, and was giving warning of danger.
"Ye think me, my lord, a silly and cankered auld haveril, and that my
head is full of prejudices and fancies. Would to God that I were
wrong. If I were, I would go down on my knees to her ladyship and ask
her pardon and serve her like a dog all the days of my life; but, waes
me, I'm ower richt. When my lady is loyal to you I'll be loyal to her,
but no an hour sooner, say ye as ye like, laugh ye as ye will. But my
lady is false, and ye are deceived in your own home."
"Do you know what you are saying, Grimond, and to whom you are
speaking? We have carried this jest too far, and it is my blame, but
ye may not again speak this way of your mistress in my presence. I
know you mean nothing by it, and it is all your love of me and dislike
of Covenanters that makes you jealous; but never again, Grimond,
remember, or else, old servant though you be, you leave me that hour.
It's a madness with you; ye must learn to control it," said Dundee
sternly.
"It's nae madness, my lord," answered Grimond doggedly, "and has
naethin' to do with my lady being a Cochrane. Maybe I would rather
she had been a Graham or a Carnegie, but that was nae business o'
mine. Even if I didna like her, it's no for a serving-man to complain
o' his mistress. I ken when to speak and when to hold my tongue, but
there are things I canna see and forbear. My lord, it's time you were
at Dudhope, for the sake, o' your honor."
"Grimond," said Dundee, and his words were as morsels of ice, "if it
were any other man who spoke of my wife and dishonor in the same
breath I would kill him where he stood; but ye are the oldest and
faithfullest follower of our house. For the work ye have done and the
risks ye have run I pardon you so far as to hear any excuse ye have to
make for yourself; but make it plain and make it quick, for ye know I
am not a man to be trifled with."
"I will speak plainly, my lord, though they be the hardest words I
have ever had to say. I ken the risk. It is not the first time I have
taken my life in my hand for the Grahams and their good name. My
suspicions were aroused by that little besom Kirsty, when I saw her
ane day comin' oot from the quarters of Colonel Livingstone, wha
commands the dragoons at Dundee. I kent she could be doing nae good
there, for she's as full o' mischief as an egg is full o' meat. So I
wheeped up by the near road and met her coming up to the castle. When
she saw me she hid a letter in her breast, and, question her as I
like, I could get nothing from her but impudence. But it was plain to
me that communication was passing between someone in Dudhope and the
commander o' William's soldiers."
"Go on," said Dundee quietly.
"Putting two and two together, my lord, I watched in the orchard below
the castle that nicht and the next, and on the next, when it was dark,
a man muffled in a cloak came up the road from the town and waited
below the apple trees, near where I was lying in the hollow among the
grass. After a while a woman in a plaid so that ye couldna see her
face came down from the direction of the castle. They drew away among
the trees, so that I could only see that they were there, but couldna
hear what they were saying. After a while, colloguing together, they
parted, and I jaloused who the two were, but that nicht I could not be
certain."
"Go on," said Dundee, "till you have finished."
"Three nichts later they met again, and I crept a little nearer, and
the moon coming out for a minute I saw their faces. It was her
ladyship and Colonel Livingstone. She was pleading wi' him, and he was
half yielding, half consenting. Her voice was so low I couldna catch
her words, but I heard him say: 'God knows ye have my heart; but my
honor, my honor.' 'I will be content wi' your heart,' I heard her
answer. 'When will you be ready? For if Dundee hear of it, he will
ride south night and day, tho' the whole English army be in his
road!'
"'For eight days,' said Livingstone, 'I am engaged on duty and can do
nothing, on the ninth I am at your service for ever.' Then I saw him
kiss her hand, and they parted. Within an hour I was riding north. Ye
may shoot me if you please, but I have cleared my conscience."
Dundee's face was white as death, and his eyes glittered as when the
light shines on steel. Twice he laid his hand upon his pistol, and
twice withdrew it.
"If an angel from heaven told me that Lady Dundee was untrue I would
not believe him, and you, you I take to be rather a devil from hell.
Said Livingstone eight days? And two are passed. I was proposing to go
south for other ends, and now I shall not fail to be there before that
appointment. But it may be, Grimond, I shall have to kill you."