fever raged in his brain. The smallest noise, even the opening of a
door, made him shriek and struggle to escape from those who watched
him. His efforts were accompanied by cries for mercy from Major
Weir; his bed was the coach, and his wife and mother the headless
phantoms. Clinkscales had told the manner and where he had found
him, on the morning he was taken ill. The sensation this excited
through the city became extreme. Deacon Dickson told the hour in
which he left his house, and the language of the sufferer filled up
the space until he was met by the carrier. The nocturnal apparition
of the Major's carriage had, for many years, been a nursery tale of
Edinburgh. Many firmly believed in its reality. There were not
awanting several who affirmed they had seen it; and scarce an
inhabitant of the Cowgate or St Mary's Wynd, but thought they had
heard it often before the present occurrence.
That the Treasurer had by some means been transported to the Figgate
Whins in the Major's coach, a great many firmly believed; for two of
the incorporation, on the same night, had been alarmed by a coach
driving furiously down the Cowgate; but they could not describe its
appearance, as they had hid themselves until it passed, fearful of
seeing the spectre carriage and its unearthly attendants. It was at
least certain that, of late, many had been aroused out of their sleep
by the noise of a carriage; and, the report gaining ground, the
terror of the citizens became so great that few chose to be upon any
of the streets after twelve at night, unless urged by extreme
necessity. This state of foolish alarm, as the magistrates called
it, could not be allowed to continue within their jurisdiction; and
they resolved to investigate the whole affair. Several were examined
privately; but the Treasurer was too ill to be spoken to, even by his
friend the Deacon. There was a strange harmony in the statements of
several who had really distinctly heard the sounds of horses' feet,
and the rumbling of a carriage, and the ravings of the unfortunate
Treasurer. The authorities were completely at a stand how to
proceed. Several shook their heads, and looked grave; others
proposed to request the ministers of the city to watch the Major's
carriage, and pray it out of the city. But the Provost's committee
sent for the captain of the train bands, and consulted with him: he
agreed to have twelve of the band and six of the town-guard in
readiness by twelve at night, to waylay the cause of annoyance,
should it make its appearance, and unravel the mystery. That there
was some unlawful purpose connected with it, several of the Council
had little doubt. These meetings were private, and the proceedings
are not on record to guide us. It was with considerable difficulty
the captain could get the number of his band required for the duty;
they chose rather to pay the fine, believing it to be a real affair
of diabeleria; for their earliest recollections were associated with
the truth of the Major's night airings. For several nights the watch
was strictly kept by many of the citizens; but in vain. No
appearance disturbed the usual stillness of the night in the city;
not even the sound of a carriage was heard. The whole affair
gradually lost its intense interest, and ceased to be the engrossing
theme of conversation. The sceptics triumphed over their believing
acquaintance, and the mysterious occurrence was allowed to rest.
The election week for Deacon of the Crafts at length arrived. All
was bustle among the freemen; the rival candidates canvassing and
treating, and their partisans bustling about everywhere. City
politics ran high; but the Treasurer, although recovered, was still
too weak to take an active part in the proceedings. Deacon Dickson,
on this account, redoubled his exertions--for the indisposition of
his Treasurer had deranged his plans; and it was of great importance,
in his eyes, to have one of his party elected in his place. Had Kerr
been able to move about, to visit and flatter his supporters, his
election was next to certain, so well had the whole affair been
managed. Kerr was accordingly dropped by him, and a successor
pitched upon, who could at this eventful period aid him in his
efforts against the candidate of the Drummondites, as the supporters
of the Provost were called.
On the Thursday, when the long lists were voted, the Deacon carried
his list, and every one of the six were tried men, and hostile to the
innovations of the Provost and his party. The Deacon was in great
spirits, and told the Treasurer, whom he visited as soon as his
triumph was secure, that, if not cut off the list, in shortening the
leet, his election was sure. On the list coming down from the
Council, neither Kerr nor the person Dickson wished were on the leet;
both had been struck off; and the choice behoved to fall upon one of
three, none of whom had hoped, at this time, to succeed to office.
Their joy was so much the greater, and the election dinner not less
substantial.
It was the evening of the election, closely bordering upon the
morning--for all respected the Sabbath Day, and, even on this joyous
occasion, would not infringe upon it--that a party of some ten or
twelve were seen to issue from one of the narrow closes in the High
Street, two and two, arm in arm, dressed in the first style of
fashion, with bushy wigs, cocked hats, and gold-headed canes. At
their head was, now Old Deacon Dickson, and his successor in office.
They were on their way, accompanying their new Deacon home to his
residence, near the foot of Saint Mary's Wynd in the Cowgate, and to
congratulate the Deaconess on her husband's elevation to the Council.
None of them were exactly tipsy; but in that middle state when men do
not stand upon niceties, neither are scared by trifles. The fears of
the Major's coach were not upon them; or, if any thought of it came
over them, their numbers gave them confidence. Leaving the High
Street, they proceeded down Merlin's Wynd to the Cowgate. Scarce had
the head of the procession emerged from the dark thoroughfare, when
the sound of a carriage, in rapid advance, fell on their astonished
ears. The front stood still, and would have retreated back into the
Wynd, but could not; for those behind, unconscious of the cause of
the stoppage, urged on and forced them out into the street. There
was not a moment for reflection, scarce to utter a cry, before the
fearful equipage was full upon them. Retreat was still impossible;
and those in front, by the pressure from behind, becoming desperate
by their situation, the two Deacons seized the reins of the horses,
to prevent their being ridden over. In a second, the head of the
coachman (held in his hand!) was launched at Deacon Dickson, with so
true an aim that it felled him to the ground, with the loss of his
hat and wig. Though stunned by the blow, his presence of mind did
not forsake him. Still holding on by the reins, and dragged by the
horses, he called lustily for his companions to cut the traces. The
head of the coachman, in the meantime, had returned to his hand, and
been launched forth with various effect, on the aggressors. Other
heads flew from the windows on each side, and from the coach-box, in
rapid, darting motions. The cries of the assailants resounded
through the stillness of the night; fear had fled their bosoms; there
was scarce one but had received contusions from the flying heads, and
rage urged them to revenge. Candles began to appear at the windows,
exhibiting faces pale with fear. Some of the bolder of the male
inhabitants, recognising the voice of some relative or acquaintance
in the cries of the assailants, ran to the street and joined the
fray. Dickson, who had never relinquished his first hold, recovered
himself, severely hurt as he was by the feet of the horses, which
were urged on, short as the struggle was, up to the College Wynd, in
spite of the resistance. At the moment the carriage reached the foot
of the wynd, the door on the left burst open, and two figures leaped
out, disappearing instantly, although closely pursued. In the
confusion of the pursuit, the coachman also disappeared. No one
could tell how, or in what manner he had fled: he appeared to fall
from the box among the crowd; and, when several stooped to lift and
secure him, all that remained in their hands was a greatcoat with
basket work within the shoulders, so contrived as to conceal the head
and neck of the wearer, to which was fastened a stout cord, the other
end of which was attached to an artificial head, entangled in the
strife between the horses and the pole of the coach. Two similar
dresses were also found inside. The coach was heavily laden; but
with what, the authorities never could discover, although envious
persons said that several of the tradesmen's wives in the Cowgate
afterwards wore silk gowns that had never before had one in their
family, had better and stronger tea at their parties, and absolutely
abounded in tobacco for many weeks. But whether these were the
spoils of the combat with the infernal coach, or the natural results
of successful industry, was long a matter of debate.
As for the coach and horses, they became the prize of Deacon Dickson
and his friends, never having been claimed by the Major. The
sensation created on the following day by the exaggerated reports of
the fearful recountre and unheard of bravery of the tradesmen, was in
proportion to the occasion. Several of the assailants were reported
to have been killed, and, among the rest, the Deacon. For several
days, the inn-yard of the White Hart was crowded to excess to view
the carriage and horses. As for the Deacon, no doubt, he was
considerably bruised about the legs; but the glory he had acquired
was a medicine far more efficacious to his hurts than any the Faculty
could have prescribed. At the first toll of the bells for church, he
was seen descending from the Castle Hill towards the Tron Church,
limping much more, many thought, than there was any occasion for,
supported by his golden-headed cane on one side, and holding by the
arm of the Deaconess on the other. With an affected modesty, which
no general after the most brilliant victory could better have
assumed, he accepted the congratulations he had come out to receive.
When he entered the church, a general whisper ran through it, and all
eyes were upon him, while the minister had not yet entered. This was
the proudest moment of his life. He had achieved, with the
assistance of a few friends, what the train-bands and city guard had
failed to accomplish; that it was more by accident and against his
will he had performed the feat, he never once allowed to enter his
mind, and stoutly denied when he heard it hinted at by those who
envied him the glory he had acquired.
As soon as the afternoon service was over, he proceeded to the
Treasurer's house, to congratulate him on his re-election to the
treasurership, and give a full account of his adventure. To his
exaggerated account, Kerr listened with the most intense interest; a
feeling of horror crept over his frame as the Deacon dwelt upon the
blow he had received from the coachman's head, and the efficacious
manner in which the two inside phantoms had used theirs, concluding
with--
"It was a fearful and unequal strife--devils against mortal men."
"Do you really think they were devils, Deacon? Was it really their
own heads they threw about?" said the Treasurer.
"I am not clear to say they were devils," replied the other; "but
they fought like devils. Severe blows they gave, as I feel at this
moment. They could not be anything canny; for they got out from
among our hands like a flash of light."
The Deacon's vanity would have tempted him to say he believed them to
be not of this earth; but the same feeling restrained him. Where
there had been so many actors in the affair, he had as yet had no
opportunity of learning their sentiments; and, above all things, he
hated to be in a minority, or made an object of ridicule. Turning
aside the direct question of the Treasurer, he continued--
"Whatever they were, the horses are two as bonny blacks as any
gentleman could wish to put into his carriage. By my troth, I have
made a good adventure of it. I mean to propose, and I have no doubt
I shall carry my motion, that they and the Major's coach be sold, and
the proceeds spent in a treat to the incorporation. Make haste, man,
and get better. You are as welcome to a share as if you had been one
of those present; although, indeed, I cannot give you a share of the
glory of putting Major Weir and his devils to the rout--and no small
glory it is, on the word of a deacon, Treasurer."
The load that had for many days pressed down the Treasurer's spirits
gradually passed off as the Deacon proceeded, and a new light shone
on his mind; his countenance brightened up.
"Deacon," he said, "the truth begins to dawn upon me, and I feel a
new man. Confess at once that the whole has been a contrivance of
the smugglers to run their goods, availing themselves of the real
Major's coach. It was a bold game, Deacon, and, like all unlawful
games, a losing one in the end. Still, it is strange what inducement
they could have had for their cruel conduct to me on that miserable
night, or how I was enabled to survive, or retained my reason. I
have been often lost in fearful misery upon this subject since the
fever left me; but you, my friend, have restored peace to my mind."
And they parted for the evening. The Treasurer's recovery was now
most rapid. In a few days, all traces of his illness were nearly
obliterated, and he went about his affairs as formerly. An altered
man--all his wife's influence for evil was gone for ever; calmly and
dispassionately he remonstrated with her; for a few days she
struggled hard to retain her abused power; tears and threatened
desertion of his house were used--but he heard her unmoved, still
keeping his stern resolve with a quietness of manner which her
cunning soon perceived it was not in her power to shake. She ceased
to endeavour to shake it. His mother was restored to her proper
station, and all was henceforth peace and harmony.
Several years had rolled on. The deaconship was, next election,
bestowed upon Treasurer Kerr. He had served with credit, and his
business prospered. The adventure with the Major's coach was only
talked of as an event of times long past, when, one forenoon, an
elderly person, in a seaman's dress, much soiled, entered his
workshop, and, addressing him by name, requested employment. Being
very much in want of men at the time, he at once said he had no
objections to employ him, if he was a good hand.
"I cannot say I am now what I once was in this same shop," he
replied. "It is long since I forsook the craft; but, if you are
willing to employ me, I will do my best."
The stranger was at once engaged, and gave satisfaction to his
employer--betraying a knowledge of events that had happened to the
family, and that were only traditionary to his master. His curiosity
became awakened; to gratify which, he took the man home, one evening,
after his day's work was over. For some time after they entered the
house, the stranger became pensive and reserved--his eyes, every
opportunity, wandering to the mother of his master with a look of
anxious suspense. At length, he arose from his seat, and said, in a
voice tremulous with emotion--
"Mistress! my ever-revered mistress! have you entirely forgot Watty
Brown, the runaway apprentice of your husband?"
"Watty Brown, the yellow-haired laddie," ejaculated she, "I can never
forget. He was always a favourite of mine. You cannot be him; your
hair is grey."
"My good mistress, old and grey-headed as you see me," said he, "I am
Watty Brown; but much has passed over my once yellow head to bleach
it white as you see. My master here was but an infant in your arms
when I left Edinburgh. Often have I rocked him in his cradle. After
all that has passed, I am here again, safe. I am sure there is no
one present would bring me into trouble for what is now so long past."
"How time flies!" said she. "The Porteous mob is in my mind as if it
had happened last week. O Watty! you were always a reckless lad.
Sore, sore you have rued, I do not doubt, that night. Do tell us
what has come of you since."
"Well, mistress, you recollect there was little love between the
apprentices of Edinburgh and Captain Porteous. All this might have
passed off in smart skirmishes on a king's birthday, or so; but his
brutal behaviour at poor Robinson's execution, and slaughter of the
townsmen, could not be forgiven by lord or tradesman. Well, as all
the land knows, he was condemned, and all were satisfied; for the
guilty was to suffer. But his pardon came; the bloodshedder of the
innocent was to leave the jail as if he had done nothing wrong! Was
this to be endured? Murmurs and threats were in every tradesman's
mouth; the feuds of the apprentices were quelled for a time; all
colours joined in hatred of the murderer. Yet no plan of operations
was adopted. In this combustible frame of mind, the drums of the
city beat to arms. I rushed from this very house to know the cause,
and saw the trades' lads crowding towards the jail. I inquired what
was their intention.
"'To execute righteous judgment!'" a strange voice said, in the crowd.
"I returned to the shop; and, taking the forehammer as the best
weapon I could find in my haste, with good will joined, and was at
the door amongst the foremost of those who attempted to break it
open. Numbers had torches. Lustily did I apply my hammer to its
studded front. Vainly did I exert myself, until fire was put to it,
when it at length gave way. As I ceased from my efforts, one of the
crowd, carrying a torch, put a guinea into my hand, and said--
"'Well done, my good lad. Take this; you have wrought for it. If
you are like to come to trouble for this night's work, fly to
Anstruther, and you will find a friend.'"
"While he spoke, those who had entered the jail were dragging
Porteous down the stairs. My heart melted within me at the piteous
sight. My anger left me, as his wailing voice implored mercy. I
left the throng, who were hurrying him up towards the Lawnmarket, and
hastened back to the workshop, where I deposited the hammer, and
threw myself upon my bed; but I could not remain. The image of the
wretched man, as he was dragged forth, appeared to be by my side.
Partly to know the result, partly to ease my mind, I went again into
the street. The crowds were stealing quietly to their homes. From
some neighbour apprentices I learned the fatal catastrophe. I now
became greatly alarmed for my safety, as numbers who knew me well had
seen my efforts against the door of the jail. Bitterly did I now
regret the active part I had taken. My immediate impulse was to fly
from the city; but in what direction I knew not. Thus irresolute, I
stood at the Netherbow Port, where the same person that gave me the
guinea at the jail-door approached to where I stood. Embracing the
opportunity, I told him the fear I was in of being informed upon,
when the magistrates began to investigate and endeavour to discover
those who had been active in the affair.
"'Well, my good fellow, follow me. It will not serve your purpose
standing there.'
"There were about a dozen along with him. We proceeded to the beach
at Fisherrow--going round Arthur's Seat, by Duddingston--and were
joined by many others. Two boats lay for them, on the beach, at a
distance from the harbour. We went on board, and set sail for Fife,
where we arrived before morning dawned. I found my new friend and
acquaintance was captain and owner of a small vessel, and traded to
the coast of Holland. He scrupled not to run a cargo upon his own
account, without putting the revenue officers to any trouble, either
measuring or weighing it. He had been the intimate friend of
Robinson, and often sailed in the same vessel. I joined his crew;
and, on the following day, we sailed for Antwerp. But why should I
trouble you with the various turns my fortunes have taken for the
last thirty-seven years? At times, I was stationary, and wrought at
my trade; at others, I was at sea. My home has principally been in
Rotterdam; but my heart has ever been in Auld Reekie. Many a time I
joined the crew of a lugger, and clubbed my proportion of the
adventure; my object being--more than the gain--to get a sight of it;
for I feared to come to town, being ignorant as to how matters stood
regarding my share in the Porteous riot. We heard, in Holland, only
of the threats of the Government; but I was always rejoiced to hear
that no one had been convicted. Several years had passed before it
was safe for me to return; and, when it was, I could not endure the
thought of returning to be a bound apprentice, to serve out the few
months of my engagement that were to run when I left my master.
Years passed on. I had accumulated several hundred guilders, with
the view of coming to end my days in Edinburgh, when I got acquainted
with a townsman deeply engaged in the smuggling line. I
unfortunately embarked my all. He had some associates in the
Cowgate, who disposed of, to great advantage, any goods he succeeded
in bringing to them. His colleagues on shore had provided a coach
and horses, with suitable dresses, to personate Major Weir's
carriage, agreeably to the most approved description. The coach and
horses were furnished by an innkeeper, whom they supplied with
liquors at a low rate. My unfortunate adventure left the port, and I
anxiously waited its return for several months; but neither ship nor
friend made their appearance. At length he came to my lodgings in
the utmost poverty--all had been lost. Of what use was complaint?
He had lost ten times more than I had--everything had gone against
him. His narrative was short. He reached the coast in safety, and
landed his cargo in port, when he was forced to run for it, a revenue
cutter coming in sight. After a long chase, he was forced to run his
vessel on shore, near St Andrew's, and got ashore with only his
clothes, and the little cash he had on board. He returned to where
his goods were deposited--all that were saved. The coach was rigged
out, and reached the Cowgate in the usual manner, when it was
attacked and captured, in spite of stout resistance, by a party of
citizens. What of the goods remained in the neighbourhood of
Musselburgh were detained for the loss of the horses and coach. I
was now sick of Holland, and resolved to return, poor as I left it,
to the haunts of my happiest recollections. To be rich, and riches
still accumulating, in a foreign land, the idea of what we can at any
time enjoy--a return--makes it bearable. But poverty and
disappointment sadden the heart of the exile; and make the toil that
would be counted light at home, a burden that sinks him early in a
foreign grave.
"Did your partner make no mention of carrying off one of the townsmen
in the coach?" said the Treasurer.
"Excuse me, master, for not mentioning it," replied Walter. "He did
give me a full account of all that happened to you, and all you said;
and regretted, when he heard of your illness, what, at the time, he
was forced to do in self-preservation. When you fell out of the
stair he meant to enter, he knew not who you were--a friend he knew
you could not be, for only other two in the city had his secret.
That you were a revenue officer, on the look-out for him, was his
first idea. He was as much alarmed as you, until he found you were
insensible. Not a moment was to be lost. The goods were hurried
out, and you placed in the carriage, which was on its way from town,
before you showed any symptoms of returning consciousness. His first
intention was to carry you on board his lugger, and convey you to
Holland, then sell you to the Dutch East India Company, that you
might never return to tell what you had been a witness of that night.
The terror you were in, the sincerity of your confession, and belief
that you were in the power of the Major, saved you from the miserable
fate he had fixed for you. Pity struggled against the caution and
avarice which urged him to take you away. Pity triumphed--you had
been both play and school-fellows in former years. You were
released--you know the rest."