themselves freed from the rude grasp of the dragoon, and quickening
their steps, they turned into a less noisy and crowded street. But soon
a new alarm struck fresh terror to their trembling souls, for the deep
roll of a drum was now, distinctly heard. Onwards it came; and Jeanie
Irving, trembling in every limb, fearing, she knew not what, grasped her
aunt by the arm, as she stood breathless and agitated, waiting the
result. Soon a large party of soldiers appeared in sight, one of them
bearing a huge drum, which he beat at regular intervals; while another
read aloud a proclamation, warning the citizens of Edinburgh, under pain
of death, to abstain from visiting the prisoners at present stationed in
the Greyfriars Church-yard, save when bringing them provisions, such as
should be approved of by the sentinels. Jeanie's heart beat wildly with
renewed hope on hearing that the prisoners were merely confined in an
open churchyard, and that their friends would be permitted to take them
food at stated intervals. It was true that sentinels were stationed
there, who would no doubt keep a strict watch over all comers; but what
can youth and ingenuity not achieve? Thus full of sanguine
anticipations respecting the ultimate success of her scheme, Jeanie
Irving accompanied her aunt to the house of a mutual friend, with whom
Mrs. Johnstone meant to stay during their sojourn in Edinburgh, which
she now devoutly hoped might prove a short one. Mrs. Hamilton received
her visitors very graciously; expressed her satisfaction when Mrs.
Johnstone informed her that their visit was likely to prove a longer one
than she, under present circumstances, could have wished; and
steadfastly refused all offers of remuneration, which Mrs. Johnstone was
anxious she should receive, to compensate in some measure for the
trouble they were likely to occasion her.
"No, no, my dear friend," said Mrs. Hamilton, while she proceeded to
make preparations for her evening meal, "don't--if you please, say any
more on that subject; it's little I have, but, please God, that little
shall always be at the service of the few friends I have now remaining;
losh pity me, are you not my cousin, thrice removed on my mother's side,
and just to think o' one relation taking money off another? I never
heard tell o' such a like thing; no, no, stay wi' me as long as you
like, and welcome;" so saying, Mrs. Hamilton proceeded leisurely to put
one of her best damask cloths on the table, which she soon covered with
plates of bread and butter, some newly-made jelly, etc; in short, the
best of everything the house could afford, was brought forth to do
honour to her welcome guests. "Now, sit your ways down," said Mrs.
Hamilton, after she had completed the arrangements to her own
satisfaction, and, taking Mrs. Johnstone by the arm, she seated her at
the head of the table, motioning Jeanie to sit beside her, "sit your
ways down, and partake of what is before you." Mrs. Johnstone
proceeded, greatly to the delight of Mrs. Hamilton, to make an active
onslaught on the good things with which the table was abundantly
supplied. "That's right, my dear," exclaimed the hospitable widow, her
eyes beaming with pleasure, "but, Jeanie Irving, what has come over you,
lassie?" she enquired, astonished beyond measure on perceiving that the
maiden in question evinced not the slightest disposition to assist her
aunt in the arduous undertaking of demolishing the huge pile of bread
and butter placed so temptingly within her reach. Jeanie, by way of
answer to this anxious inquiry, hastened to assure Mrs. Hamilton that
she was indeed making an excellent meal; and wishing to turn the
conversation into another channel, she expressed a desire to know whose
was the sword hanging on the opposite wall. Mrs. Hamilton's good-natured
face lengthened considerably as she replied with a faltering accent,
that it had belonged to her husband, who perished at the battle o'
Pentland Hills. "Indeed," said Jeanie Irving, greatly interested in
hearing that her kind hostess had also been a sufferer from those sad
religious differences; "and pray"--here she suddenly stopped short, on
observing Mrs. Hamilton raise her apron to her eyes, and apparently wipe
away an unbidden tear. After a pause of a few moments, during which
time Jeanie Irving remained mute, with her eyes fixed on the sword, Mrs.
Hamilton inquired of her friend what it was that had brought her to
Edinburgh in these stormy times. In reply to this rather confusing
question, Mrs. Johnstone pressed Mrs. Hamilton's foot under the table,
at the same time darting a glance in the direction of her niece, who
entirely engrossed by her own sad thoughts, did not overhear the
question, as if to warn Mrs. Hamilton against alluding to that subject
in her presence.
Shortly afterwards the eyelids of Jeanie Irving displayed symptoms of
closing, observing which, her thoughtful hostess offered to conduct her
to her sleeping apartment; a proposal which poor Jeanie, overcome as she
was with a load of anxiety and grief, but too gladly accepted; so,
bidding her aunt an affectionate good night, she followed Mrs. Hamilton,
who led the way into a small but neat bed-room, &c. After expressing
her wishes for the comfort of her guest, left her to repose. On Mrs.
Hamilton's return to the parlour, both she and Mrs. Johnstone drew in
their seats considerably nearer the hearth, with the evident intention
of enjoying a nice, comfortable gossip over the glowing embers; and Mrs.
Johnstone, as the reader will be prepared to hear, regaled her friend
with a long and circumstantial account of her niece's love-affair,
together with the sad circumstances attending it, which had occasioned
their sudden visit to the Scottish capital. "Wae's me," exclaimed Mrs.
Hamilton, at the close of her friend's sad recital; "to think o' a
bonnie young creature having gone through sae much sorrow already, and
likely to suffer a hantle more ere she's by wi' it! Oh! are'na the ways
o' Providence dark and unscrutable to the like o' us, poor blind mortals
as we are? Dearie me, Mrs. Johnstone, but I sadly fear your niece winna
get much to comfort her here. I fear it's a doomed boat she's embarked
in. Willie Telford will never be able to escape from his cruel captors.
Oh, but my heart's wae for the poor sweet lassie; and ye say her life's
bound up in his?" Mrs. Johnstone replied in the affirmative, adding,
"that it would be much better not to damp the bright hopes entertained
by Jeanie Irving regarding her lover's escape." "Don't be afraid o' me
saying anything that would harm the winsome bit lassie," interrupted
Mrs. Hamilton, raising the corner of her apron to her eyes, "no, no; I
know too well what it is to suffer, ever to add to the distress o' a'
fellow-creature. Well do I mind the day when my husband gaed awa to the
Pentlands. 'Jeanie,' says he, 'I feel uncommon sad at leaving you this
day, my woman,' says he; and says I, 'Why John?' for ye see I didna
quite take up his meaning, 'why should ye be so grieved, when ye're
going to fight a good fight for the Covenant?' says I. 'Oh,' quo' he,
'I feel as if I never should see you again,' says he; and wi' that I
took to the shivering all over. 'If that be your thought,' says I,
'John, do bide wi' me, for I've many a time heard people wiser than me
say, it's ill going away frae hame wi' sic gloomy thoughts in one's
mind.' 'Ah, na, Jeanie, my woman,' says he, 'may be it's a foolish
fancy on my part, an' it wadna do to yield to it;' an wi' that he gaed
awa, an' I never set my eyes on him since syne. Was'na that a sad, sad
thing! an' many's the time I've blamed mysel' since then for not making
him bide at hame, but ye see, it was a' in the cards, an' what will be
maun be." Thus having testified her submission to the stern decrees of
fate, Mrs. Hamilton turning to Mrs. Johnstone, abruptly demanded of her
if she was a believer in dreams?
"Well," said Mrs. Johnstone in reply, "I really do not know what to say
on that point, for I have had one or two very strange dreams in my
lifetime, which have been fulfilled to the very letter; but whether it
was that my mind had been running so much on these matters during the
day-time, and that this caused them to form the subjects of my dreams by
night; or, that they were sent to me as warnings of what was to happen,
I cannot tell; but what makes you ask that question, Mrs. Hamilton?"
"Oh, nothing, but just that I had a most extraordinary dream the night
before I heard tell o' my husband's death, which, if you will not laugh
at me for relating such a thing, I should like to tell you."
On Mrs. Johnstone assuring her that the opinion she herself entertained
on the subject of her own dreams was much too serious for her ever to
ridicule those narrated by other people, Mrs. Hamilton commenced as
follows:--
"Well, as I told you before, it was the night preceding the day on which
I heard tell o' the death of my husband, and I could not well account
for it; but the whole o' that day I had been rale douie and dispirited,
just as one often feels before hearing bad news o' some sort or other;
so much so, that I gaed away early to my bed, in hopes that a good sleep
would do me good. For a long time, not one wink o' sleep could I get, do
what I could, until at length, in a fit of desperation, I sprang out of
bed, and took a turn or two up and down the room, to see if that would
cool the fever of my blood. It did so, and shortly after I fell into a
deep slumber. Well, Mrs. Johnstone, during that sleep I had the
following dream, which even yet impresses me more than I should like to
tell. Methought the door of my room suddenly opened, and in stepped a
figure all clad in white, and o' a fair and beauteous countenance,
which, approaching the side o' my bed, said in a sweet mournful voice,
which sounded just like the sighing wind, 'Jeanie Hamilton, you must
this instant rise and follow me!' Upon which I replied, 'And wherefore
am I to follow you?' 'Ask no questions,' said the beautiful vision,
'but come away.' Well, wi' that I raise out o' my bed, almost as it
were in spite o' myself, and away I gaed after the figure, which seemed
to me to flee swiftly as a soul, when freed from its mortal coil, would
cleave the air in its passage to another world. Onwards we went, until
we came to a dark dismal plain; and never did I see anything so dreary
as the aspect o' that place! Then my guide stopt, and taking me by the
hand, said, 'now I must lead you; our way lies through this moor;' and I
thought in my sleep that I trembled all over, as hand in hand with the
radiant figure I traversed the desolate-looking plain, which to my
horror I perceived to be thickly strewn with dead bodies. Oh, how my
heart sickened at that fearful sight! there they lay, the old and the
young, all huddled together, sleeping the last long sleep of death.
'Stop, stop,' I said to my guide; 'oh, do let me turn back--I cannot go
onwards; what means this? why have you brought me here?' The vision
smiled sadly, and without a reply, still motioned me onwards. I could
not resist. A mysterious indescribable power, as it were, impelled me
to follow, until at length it paused, and pointing to the prostrate form
of a man, whom to my horror I discovered to be my husband, lying cold
and stiff, with a deep wound on his forehead, said, 'It was to take a
last look of him you loved so well that I brought you here,' and with
that it disappeared. The cry of anguish which I uttered on hearing this
awoke me from my slumber: and oh, Mrs. Johnstone, you cannot think what
I suffered from the remembrance of that dream, for, from that moment, I
felt convinced that my husband had perished on the battle field. Well,
in the course of the following day, when a near neighbour, who had been
at the Pentlands, came to apprise me of John Hamilton's death, I told
him, so convinced was I of the truth of my dream of the previous night,
before ever he had spoken a word, that I knew he had come to tell me o'
my husband's death. The man stood staring at me in breathless
astonishment, apparently at a loss to comprehend my meaning, until I
told him o' the strange dream I had had; and what do you think, Mrs.
Johnstone," added Mrs. Hamilton, sinking her voice to a whisper, "my
husband had been killed on the previous day, and by a sabre wound on his
forehead."
"Bless me," exclaimed Mrs. Johnstone, at the close of her friend's
narration, "that is the most singular thing I ever heard; undoubtedly it
was a warning sent to prepare you for the sad news you were about to
hear."
"That is just my own opinion on the matter," said Mrs. Hamilton, as she
proceeded to put a huge piece o' coal on the top of the smouldering
embers; after which signal of preparation for departure, the friends
retired to rest.
Immediately after partaking of breakfast on the following morning,
Jeanie Irving expressed her intention of at once proceeding to the
Greyfriars' Church-yard, to see if she could by any means obtain
admittance to William Telford. Accordingly, accompanied by her aunt,
who would on no account permit her to go forth alone--and carrying in
her hand a small basket of provisions, which the kindness of Mrs.
Hamilton supplied--she set forth on her mission. The nearer they
advanced towards their destination, the more did poor Jeanie Irving's
heart sink within her; for the first time since leaving home she dwelt
cooly and calmly on the arduous undertaking before her, and realized the
real difficulty of the task she had determined to achieve. Mrs.
Johnstone perceiving how much her niece was engrossed by her own
thoughts, abstained from addressing her until they arrived at the
Greyfriars' Church-yard, the gate of which was surrounded by a numerous
crowd of men and women clamorous to obtain admission to the prisoners.
The sentinels apparently took advantage of their situation to annoy and
insult the trembling petitioners, many of whom they bade go about their
business, after having deprived them of the provisions they carried;
others, again, they permitted to enter, but not until they had taken
from them the greater portion of the food and clothing they had brought
to comfort and assist their friends. With a trembling heart and
faltering steps, Jeanie Irving was advancing towards the sentinels, when
a sweet feminine voice whispered in her ear, "For God's sake! leave that
worthy woman behind, and take me with you; three going in at once would
excite suspicion, and there is one in that church-yard I must see
to-day, yet I lack courage to venture in alone." Jeanie Irving turned
and looked on the speaker, whom, although clad in the meanest attire,
and having her face concealed beneath a coarse woollen shawl, she
perceived by her graceful bearing to be some person of consequence, and
being of a kind sympathising nature, she at once acceded to the wishes
of the stranger, and turning to her aunt, explained the necessity there
was of her remaining without until she returned. Mrs. Johnstone, who
had also arrived at her own conclusions regarding the individual who was
addressing her niece, expressed her willingness to comply with her
request; accordingly, Jeanie Irving, whose arm was instantly grasped by
the trembling hand of her new acquaintance, continued her way towards
the gate. Fortunately, the sentinel who stood nearest the shrinking
maidens proved to be less strict than the others, and allowed them to
enter the church-yard without interruption. With eager eyes did Jeanie
Irving and her companion scan each group of men as they passed, in order
to discover the faces of those so fondly loved. Apparently the stranger
soon discovered him she sought, for suddenly disengaging her arm from
that of Jeanie's, she bade God bless her! for her kindness, and darted
towards an elegant young man, evidently of high birth, who stood a
little way apart from the others. Jeanie Irving paused for a few
seconds to witness the rapturous greeting exchanged between the pair,
and again continued her wistful search.
In the meantime, William Telford was standing in a remote corner of the
church-yard engaged in earnest conversation with three others, when the
trembling shrinking form of a young girl advancing towards them caught
his eye. One glance was sufficient; and Jeanie Irving was that instant
clasped in the arms of her lover.
"Jeanie," gasped forth William Telford, as again and again he kissed the
cold lips of her who lay speechless on his shoulder. He could say no
more. Both were overcome with an excess of joy almost painful in its
intensity, but hearts and eyes were busy during the time that speech was
denied them.
Those individuals who were standing near them, respecting the feelings
of the lovers, withdrew a little aside, in order that they might enjoy
uninterrupted intercourse.
"Willie!" at length Jeanie Irving found voice to say. "is it only a
dream, or am I indeed gazing once more on your dear face, which has
never for one moment been absent from me? it has haunted my thoughts by
day, and my dreams by night; but oh, Willie," she continued, "I must and
will get you from hence; my heart will break in twain should you remain
much longer in this damp unwholesome place; but how can it be managed?"
"Think not of such a thing, my dearest girl," replied William Telford;
"any efforts on your part would only entail destruction on your own
head, and add fresh misery to that I am called upon to endure."
Perceiving an expression of intense anguish pass across the face of the
disappointed maiden, as he attempted to dissuade her from her purpose,
William Telford forbore saying any more on the subject, but turned the
conversation into another channel, by demanding of Jeanie Irving how she
had been since last he saw her, and whether his mother and brother were
well. To these inquires on the part of her lover, Jeanie replied, by
giving him a detailed account of all that had happened since his
departure; dwelling on the grief she experienced on beholding the sad
procession pass along the streets of Linlithgow, and how she longed to
spring from the window to embrace him again, and, if need be, share his
imprisonment. To all of which proofs of love on the part of her he
idolised, William Telford could only reply, by straining her still
closer to his bosom, and imprinting a dozen kisses on her forehead and
lips.
"My poor Willie, how thin and pale you are!" said Jeanie Irving, gazing
tenderly in her lover's face, while tears ran down her cheeks as she
spoke, "but sit your ways down and partake of what I have brought you,
for it is easy to see from your appearance that many suns have risen and
set since you have eaten a good meal;" so saying, she uncovered her
basket, and making William Telford seat himself on a neighbouring mound,
supplied him with eatables from her store. "And now," she said after
her lover had finished his repast, "you must in your turn inform me how
you and your companions have been treated since you came to this horrid
place."
"Like brute beasts," was the indignant reply, "and not like men
possessing immortal souls. Night after night have we been forced to lie
in the open air without a covering of any kind to protect us from the
rain or the unwholesome dews of evening. And should any of us chance to
raise our heads, in order to change our position, or to look about us,
we are fired at immediately. Only last night there was a poor fellow
shot beside me for merely raising his head, forgetful for a moment of
the savages who were near him watching with lynx eyes his slightest
movement."
"Oh, Jeanie," continued her lover, "many and many a time have I lain
down cold and supperless, with nought in the world to comfort me but
thoughts of you; when the calm cold stars shone above my head like so
many bright spirits watching over and pitying us in our loneliness and
misery. Oft have I for hours gazed and gazed, while my companions
around me were locked in slumber, wishing myself an inhabitant of the
brighter world beyond. But now, dearest Jeanie, the sight of your sweet
face has in a great measure restored me to myself, and I would fain live
for your sake."
"And you shall live," passionately exclaimed the enthusiastic girl; "I
will throw myself at the feet of the Duke of Monmouth, nor rise from
that posture until he has granted my request."
"You would never be allowed to see him," sadly replied her lover; "there
are those around the Duke's person who would jealously exclude any of
our party from the presence of his Grace. He is a noble fellow,"
continued William Telford, "and were every one like him, we should not
have been pining here like so many cattle in a pen."
"Promise me, Willie," suddenly interrupted Jeanie Irving, "that should I
contrive means of escape from this horrid place, you will take advantage
of them."
William Telford paused one moment ere he replied, but at length he said,
placing his hand in hers, "For your sake, clearest, and that of my
widowed mother, I will; but oh, take care, Jeanie, both for your own
sake and mine, what you do; consider how precious you are to me; plunge
not yourself into difficulties on my account; it may be that our captors
may relent, and and I may yet be free."
"Trust them not," replied Jeanie Irving, "they resemble the tiger, which
once having tasted blood, thirsteth for more; no, no, my Willie," she
continued, "a woman's wit must save you here; so trust to me for speedy
deliverance--but in the meantime I must be going, for I left my kind
aunt at the gate, who will necessarily feel anxious should I not return
soon."
"Why came she not in with you?" inquired her lover.
Whereupon, Jeanie Irving recounted to him the singular adventure she had
met with at the gate, and asked of him who the handsome young man was
the stranger had flown to, on entering the church-yard, but William
Telford could afford her no information on the subject.
After a warm embrace, and an assurance on the part of Jeanie Irving that
she should, without fail, return on the morrow, the lovers parted, and
hastening past the sentinels, who did not seek to detain her, Jeanie
rejoined her aunt, who was awaiting her return with the utmost
impatience. On the following morning. Mrs. Johnstone and her niece
again set off for the Greyfriars' Church-yard, the latter with a heart
lightened of half its former load of grief, and indulging in sweet
anticipations respecting the approaching interview. On nearing the
gate, they observed groups of people standing conversing together,
evidently discussing some important piece of news, many of them with
smiles of satisfaction on their faces, while the sentinels walked their
rounds with gloomy dissatisfied countenances, as if something had
occurred to make them more than usually sullen. Mrs. Johnstone having
inquired of a bystander the reason of the prevailing excitement, was
informed that, on the previous evening, young Lord C---- had escaped
from the church-yard, disguised as a female, and that the sentinels were
dreadfully annoyed at the occurrence, as they had received particular
directions regarding his safety. The thoughts of Jeanie Irving
instantly reverted to the interesting couple of the preceding day; and
she fervently thanked the Almighty that she had in some measure been
instrumental in the young man's escape, while the idea, instantly
occurred to her, that in a similar manner might William Telford be
conveyed from thence. This time, on advancing to the gate to seek
admittance, the sentinels gathered round them, uncovered the basket,
helped themselves pretty largely to a portion of its contents, and
examined both women closely in order to as certain that they carried no
disguises about with them after which precautions they permitted them to
pass. Jeanie Irving immediately made her lover acquainted with the
escape of Lord C----, and informed him as to her intentions, of taking
him from thence in a similar disguise. Sick and enfeebled from his
close confinement in the damp church-yard, William Telford listened
eagerly to Jeanie's proposals, and it was finally agreed upon between
them that she should watch well her opportunity when the attention of
the sentinels was otherwise occupied, to steal in with a bundle of
women's clothes, array her lover in the feminine garb, and embrace a
favourable moment to lead him forth. In pursuance of this arrangement,
each morning beheld Jeanie Irving stationed near the gate watching with
eager eyes the least symptom of abated vigilance on the part of the
sentinels to venture in. During the space of five days no suitable
opportunity presented itself, but on the morning of the sixth the
sentinels being attracted from their posts by a street broil, Jeanie
darted past them with the rapidity of lightning, and flew towards her
beloved William, bearing the precious burthen. Withdrawing a little
apart from his companions, young Telford was speedily arrayed in his
disguise, and many of those who witnessed the proceeding bade God bless
and prosper him in his attempt. All being now in readiness, Jeanie
Irving, whose nerves were strung up to the highest degree of tension,
took the arm of her lover and advanced toward the outer gate. Oh, what
a moment was this! They had passed two of the sentinels in safety, but
just as they arrived within reach of the other, whose back was at that
moment turned towards them, he wheeled suddenly round, and staring
Jeanie full in the face, advanced towards her, exclaiming, "So, ho, my
pretty maiden, you would fain retreat without paying toll; come now,
don't be in such haste, but just tarry a moment, and let us become
better acquainted." So saying, the soldier put his arm around her waist
and attempted to snatch a kiss. At sight of this indignity offered to
the woman he loved, the blood rushed to William Telford's brow, and
darting on the brutal fellow, he dealt him such a blow on the head as
felled him to the ground.
"What, ho, treachery, treachery!" shouted the other sentinels, suddenly
apprized of the real state of affairs, and darting upon William Telford,
they tore off his disguise, and dragged him back to the church-yard,
kicking and swearing at him the while. Pale and speechless, with horror
at the failure of her scheme, Jeanie Irving attempted to rejoin her
lover, but was rudely pushed back by the infuriated sentinels, who
threatened that, if she ever dared to show her face there again, they
should tear her limb from limb. In an agony of feeling impossible to
describe, Jeanie Irving dragged her fainting steps to her temporary
home, and scarcely had she crossed the threshold ere her trembling limbs
gave way, and she fell senseless on the floor. With a cry of grief, Mrs.
Johnstone flew to her side, and raising her tenderly in her arms, with
the assistance of Mrs. Hamilton, conveyed her to her bed, and strove by
every means in her power to soothe and comfort her in her distress. But
the fearful excitement the poor girl had undergone during the last few
weeks proved to have been too much for her delicate nature to sustain;
reason forsook her throne, and for weeks her life trembled in the
balance. We must now leave Jeanie Irving stretched on her bed of
sickness, and return once more to her unfortunate lover, whose situation
was rendered even more wretched than before on account of the brutal
treatment of his captors, who incensed beyond measure at his attempted
escape, strove by every possible means to embitter his already
unbearable lot.
About this time a bond, by permission of the king, was presented for the
prisoners to sign, certifying that they should under no pretext whatever
take up arms in future against His Majesty; and those who appended their
names to this document were instantly to be set free. Many of the poor
men pining for their homes, and weary of their long confinement, signed
it readily, in order to obtain their freedom.
Yet a numerous body, amongst whom was William Telford, refused to sign
the paper, and, indeed, many of them were denied the opportunity of
doing so. Then an order arrived from King Charles, to the effect, that
thirteen of the ringleaders of the rebellion, and who approved of the
murder of Archbishop Sharpe, were to be placed in prison for a time, and
then executed. Twelve had been already selected from amongst the
prisoners, and either accidentally or designedly, the fatal paper was
placed in the hands of young Telford; he took it with an untrembling
hand, and with the fear of death before his eyes, wrote, that he could
not on his conscience declare that he esteemed himself wrong in taking
up arms in the cause of the Covenant, or, that he considered the killing
of the perjured prelate, Archbishop Sharpe, a murder; and this done, he
was marched off with his companions. The determination of these devoted
men to suffer death in support of their opinions created a great
sensation among the more moderate portion of their party; and
immediately on their arrival at the prison, they were awaited upon by
several of their clergymen, who impressed upon them the folly, not to
say criminality, of sacrificing their lives, when, by merely signing the
required bond, they might long be spared to comfort their weeping
friends. Eleven of them, persuaded by their ministers, appended their
names to the document, but the remaining two, one of whom was William
Telford--whose pride would not allow him to retract his
opinions--remained firm in their determination to suffer death rather
than yield the required submission.
These two prisoners were supported in their inflexible resolution by
their companions, who while visiting them in prison, expressed their
sorrow and repentance at having signed the bond, stating that since
then, they had neither known peace nor happiness as their inhuman
adversaries treated them, in consequence of their having done so, with
the utmost cruelty and contempt, styling them turn-coats, and doing all
in their power to render them wretched at the thoughts of what they had
done.
Shortly afterwards, the companion of William Telford was publicly
executed, while he himself, from some unknown cause, was led back to his
old quarters in the Greyfriars' Church-yard.
Months rolled on, and as the winter advanced the prisoners began to
experience the bad effects of their long exposure in the open air;
indeed, so sick and enfeebled did they become, that the public
authorities at once saw the necessity of adopting means for their
removal. A memorial to that effect was despatched to the King, who gave
orders that a ship should immediately be provided to transport the
prisoners to Barbadoes, where they were to be sold as slaves; yet so
little were His Majesty's orders obeyed in this respect, that it was the
fifteenth of November ere the captain declared the ship in readiness to
receive them. In order to get the prisoners removed to the ship without
the knowledge of their friends, they were conveyed away at an early hour
in the morning, and on their arrival on deck they were instantly stowed
away under the hatches, which were carefully chained and locked, in
order to prevent their escape. Twelve days was the ship detained in
Leith Roads, and during that time the poor men were treated with the
greatest inhumanity.
The narrow space in which they were enclosed was scarcely of size
sufficient to contain a hundred men, and yet nearly thrice that number
were thrust in by their unfeeling jailors; men, regardless alike of the
safety and misery of those entrusted to their care. Several of the poor
fellows were so dreadfully ill, that their more robust companions were
obliged to stand upright, in order to afford their sick companions room
to stretch their tortured limbs. The prayers and entreaties addressed
to the captain by the almost stifled prisoners that some of their party
might be allowed to go upon deck, were for a long time unheeded, until
at length he was obliged, from the continued indisposition of the men,
to accede to their request. Accordingly, about fifty of the strongest
were removed to upper deck, where they soon recovered from the sad
effects of their late confinement. The weather hitherto had been
favourable for their voyage, but soon a succession of fearful storms
arose, and the ship seemed entirely at the mercy of the waves. On the
tenth of December the crew found themselves lying off Orkney, a coast
dreaded by sailors, on account of the stormy sea surrounding it.
Perceiving for the first time the full extent of their danger, the
captain, as the ship was already within reach of the shore, ordered the
sailors to cast anchor, which being done, they awaited with impatience
the abating of the storm. But towards evening the hurricane increased
in intensity, and about ten o'clock at night the sea, lashed into fury
by the terrific violence of the wind, forced the ill-fated ship from its
anchor, and dashed it in twain on the rocks. Hearing the dreadful crash,
the wretched prisoners, fearing shipwreck, implored to be put on shore,
wherever the captain pleased, but their request was denied; and the
sailors in terror and dismay tore down the mast, and laying it between
the vessel and the rocks, prepared to save themselves from impending
shipwreck. "My God," exclaimed William Telford, who was one of those
placed upon deck, horrified on seeing that the crew made no attempts to
open the hatches, which, chained and locked, confined the suffering
inmates in a living tomb, "are you going to leave your prisoners thus?"
At this instant a huge wave dashed over the ship, and overwhelming
several of the men exposed to its fury in its fearful embrace, consigned
them to a watery grave. "Men, fiends!" reiterated young Telford, making
frantic efforts to break open the hatches as he spoke, "there will be a
fearful reckoning to pay for this night's work." With shouts of
derisive laughter, the sailors crossed the prostrate mast, and reached
the shore in safety. Some of the poor fellows who imitated their
example were thrown back by them into the sea, but about forty, in spite
of all efforts made to destroy them, wore successful in their attempt.
Perceiving the imminent danger in remaining where he was, William
Telford, having abandoned all hopes of freeing the prisoners, prepared
to follow his companions along the mast. On his reaching the beach, one
of the sailors strove to prevent his landing, but greatly his superior
in strength and agility, young Telford seized the ruffian by the throat,
and dashed him senseless on the ground. And now was accomplished one of
the most fearful tragedies ever recorded in history. The storm at this
moment seemed to have reached the climax of its fury; the thunder
rolled, and the blue lightning danced around the sinking vessel, while
foam crested waves rose mountains high, and then dashed with terrific
violence over her yielding spars. But louder than the crash of the
pealing thunder--far above the roaring of the mighty billows was heard
the death-wail of the wretched prisoners, as they sunk beneath the
heaving tallows; there to remain until that dread day when the murdered
and their murderers shall stand before the great white throne--when the
sea, at the command of its Creator, shall yield up the dead which have
slept for ages in its mighty depths.
Months have elapsed since the fearful event we have just narrated took
place, and Jeanie Irving is once more seated by her father's fireside,
still pale and exhausted from the effects of her late severe illness.
She has heard of the fatal shipwreck--she knows that her lover is no
more, and has learned to say with resignation, "Not my will, but thine
be done!" It is Sunday evening, and the grey-haired father is seated at
the table with the Bible before him, from which he reads aloud words of
joy and consolation. It is the fourteenth chapter of John, and Jeanie,
her eyes filled with tears, is listening with breathless attention to
the beautiful words of inspiration, when a low tap at the door arrests
their attention. No answer is vouchsafed in return to the invitation to
enter, but a quick step is heard in the passage, it approaches nearer,
the door opens, and Jeanie Irving falls fainting into the arms of
William Telford.
Now, added Mr. Anderson, at the conclusion of his story, you must not
imagine, although I have dwelt at a considerable length on the
sufferings causelessly inflicted on the Covenanters, that I altogether
take their part, far from it; as I think in some instances they were
much to blame. For instance, when they assembled together for the
purpose of having divine worship, instead of going quietly and
respectably with only their Bibles in their hands as beseemeth
Christians, there they were armed with swords and guns, only too ready
to use them should occasion require, that was entirely going against the
doctrine of St. Paul, who says, "For though we walk in the flesh, we do
not war after the flesh. (For the weapons of our warfare are not
carnal, but mighty through God to the pulling down of strongholds.")
Why, if we were to assemble in that way now-a-days, singing psalms of
defiance in the glens, with fire-arms beside us, wouldn't the present
government be down upon us in no time? and quite right too, say I; for I
am quite of opinion they were as much to blame as the royalists, and if
they could, would have been quite as cruel. Look, for instance, at the
murder of Archbishop Sharpe, although there can be no doubt he was a
cruel, relentless foe to their cause, yet they should have respected his
grey hairs, and spared him at the request of his daughter. And, again, I
do not believe all the stories told in the Scotch Worthies, such as that
one of Peden and some of his friends being saved while on the moors,
just at the moment the dragoons were coming down upon them, by his
praying that a mist might surround them to the discomfiture of their
enemies, and that instantly, on his ceasing to pray, they were enveloped
in a fog. I do not mean to say that a mist did not conceal them from
their enemies, but that it was chance, and not a miracle, as they
pretended. For many a time, when on the heights myself, have I been
overtaken by these fogs, which come down so suddenly that there is no
escaping from them, and very disagreeable things they are when one is
far removed from a house of any kind, and there is not light sufficient
to guide one on one's way.
"Ay, ay," said Mrs. Anderson, addressing her husband, "but for all that
ye say, Mr. Peden was a great prophet;" then turning towards me, she
continued. "when I was a little girl I resided for some time wi' a
farmer who lived on the celebrated farm of Wellwood, near Airdsmoss, and
used to hear a great deal about Mr. Peden. You must know that he is
buried at Cumnock. He was first interred in the Laird of Affleck's
aisle (Auchenleck), a mile distant, but was lifted, as he predicted, by
soldiers, and conveyed to the foot of Cumnock gallows, which stands near
the village. That spot soon came to be used as the public
burying-grouud, and, in my younger days, was a very pretty rustic
graveyard. But it is said that before his death, Peden stated that
after his second burial a _thorn bush_ should grow at his head, and an
_ash tree_ at his feet; and when the branches of each met, there should
be a bloody battle in Shankson wood (about a mile distant), where the
blood would be up to the horse's bridles. The thorn did grow, and is
there yet, I believe, and many slips have been taken from it by
strangers, but the ash is said to have been pulled up ere it was large
enough to touch the thorn, so the battle never took place. And I mind
weel o' a strange epitaph that was on an ancient tomb-stone beside
Peden's grave, which, if I remember rightly, was something like
this:--'Here lies David Dun and Simon Paterson, who _was_ shot in this
place for their adherence to the word of God and the covenanting work of
reformation, 1685,' (the black year.) There was also another stone,
just in front of Peden's grave, but I forget the precise words; they
ran, however, nearly as follows:--
'Halt, passengers, and I will tell to thee
For what and how I here did dee,
For always in my station.
Adhering to the work of reformation,
I was in on time of prayer
By Douglas (Colonel) shot;
O, cruelty, ne'er to be forgot.'
Now ye see," she continued, "there are no less than three poor men,
there may be more for all that I mind o', lying in Cumnock
burying-ground who were shot by the royalists, and I think, Willie," she
said, again addressing her husband, "seeing that your own forefathers
all fought in the good cause, you need'na say just sae much in favour o'
their adversaries."
"Dear me," said Mr. Anderson, in reply to this rebuke, "I am not denying
that there were many cruel actions done in these sad times, but I am
just saying that I don't believe all the stories told in the Scots'
Worthies: do you imagine for one moment that I can credit that one about
open, open to the Duke o' Drumlanrig? No, nor any other sensible
person."
"What one was that?" I inquired.
"Oh, just some idle tale not worth repeating----"
"Here it is; let the lady read it," interrupted Mrs. Anderson, taking as
she spoke a book from the shelf, which, after cleansing off a vast
accumulation of dust she handed to me, saying as she did so, "maybe it
is true, and maybe it is no, but the like o' us canna pretend to ken
onything about it."
After a little research, in which I was aided by Mrs. Anderson's
directions, I at length came to the following:--"Concerning the death of
the Duke of Drumlanrig _alias_ Queensbury, we have this curious
relation--that a young man, perfectly well acquainted with the Duke,
(probably one of those he had formerly banished,) being now a sailor,
and in foreign countries, while the ship was upon the coast of Naples or
Sicily, near one of the burning mountains, one day espied a coach and
six all in black going towards the mount with great velocity; when it
passed them they were so near that they could perceive the dimensions
and features of one that sat in it.
"The young man said to the others, 'If I could believe my own eyes, or
if ever I saw one like another, I would say, that is the Duke.' In an
instant they heard an audible voice echo from the mount, 'Open to the
Duke of Drumlanrig!' upon which the coach, now near the mount,
evanished.
"The young man took pen and paper, and marked down the month, day, and
hour of the apparition; and upon his return, found it exactly answer the
day and hour the Duke died."
*THE LAIRD OF CULZEAN.*
"I think," said Mrs. Anderson, as she carefully restored the Scots'
Worthies to its late position on the book-shelf, "that whoever got the
disposal of the souls and bodies of these persecutors after their death
seems to have treated them wi' a' the respect becoming their high
station in this world, for it was always coaches and six, and coaches
and four that came for them. You see, it was a coach and six that came
for the Duke o' Drumlanrig, and there was the Laird of Culzean, a
wickeder old fellow never lived, and just the same kind o' thing
occurred at the time o' his death."
"Tush, nonsense, wife," interrupted Mr. Anderson.
"But it's no nonsense," rejoined the dame, "for my forefathers lived a
long time near Culzean Castle, and many and many a time have they told
me when a child of what was seen the night the Laird died; and as the
lady seems to wish to hear all she can about these things, I'll just
give her the account given me by my grandfather, who was as decent an
old man as ever lived, though I say it that shouldna' say it."
Having expressed the pleasure I should feel in listening to her story,
Mrs. Anderson put away her sewing, and, resting her arms comfortably on
her knees, related the following wild tale, which, illustrating as it
does the strange superstitions of the times in which these men lived, I
here render as nearly as possible in the words of the narrator:--
The old Castle of Culzean, standing as it does on a rock rising two or
three hundred feet above the level of the sea, is probably one of the
finest marine seats in the kingdom. At the foot of the rock on which
the castle stands, there are some romantic caves, more familiarly known
as the "Fairy coves of Culzean." Many and many a night have I played
about there, when the setting sun caused the dancing waves to glitter
like gold, as they rippled over the pebbled beach towards the entrance
to the caves. It was said that King Robert Bruce and his followers took
refuge there, after landing from Arran, until all was in readiness for
their enterprise. They are also particularly mentioned by Burns in his
well-known "Hallowe'en." But still, for all that they were so
beautiful, there were few o' the country people that cared to venture
near them after it was dark, on account of the many strange things that
were said to have been done there during the time of the wicked Laird of
Culzean. Ay, but it was he that was the cruel man! It would make the
very hairs on your head stand on end could ye but hear tell of all the
cruelties he practised towards the Covenanters, while permitted to
remain on earth. Oh, dearie me, how people in these days could dare to
ask the Almighty's blessing on their dark deeds beats my comprehension
altogether; but now to begin wi' my tale:--In the parish of Kirkmichael
there lived an aged widow, called Mrs. M'Adam, who had an only son named
Gilbert; and a nice quiet young man he was, and greatly beloved of his
mother, for she was a lone woman, and had no one in the world to look to
but him; and well did he repay her affection, poor lad, for there was
nothing he thought too good for his mother. When these dreadful
religious disturbances broke out, like many other young men who were at
all given to think seriously about their spiritual welfare, Gilbert
M'Adam was a Covenanter; but he did not join the body, as numbers did,
merely for diversion, or from a hatred to the higher authorities, but
simply from a sincere belief in the soundness of their doctrine and
sympathy for their wrongs. His mother was also o' that way o' thinking,
and, being a godly living person, she was greatly respected in the
neighbourhood where she resided. Well, one wild stormy night, as Mrs.
M'Adam and her son were seated by the side of the kitchen fire, the door
opened and in entered their minister, a most worthy man, who had been
forced, like many others, to leave his church, and wander up and down
the country, teaching and ministering to the spiritual wants of his
people whenever an opportunity presented itself. Greeting them with the
blessing of peace, Mr. Weir--I think that was the minister's
name--proceeded to encumber himself of his dripping cloak, while Gilbert
flew to place a chair for him near the blazing hearth, and Mrs. M'Adam
proceeded to put on the table the best her store afforded, to succour
her esteemed guest. After having partaken of the eatables set before
him, Mr. Weir informed his kind entertainers that he intended holding a
prayer meeting on the following morning, in a retired glen near
Kirkmichael, where he expected a numerous attendance, as the inhabitants
of the surrounding districts had been apprized of his intention, and
expressed great joy at the intelligence, as they had lately been like
sheep without a shepherd. In reply to some anxious inquiries on the
part of Mrs. M'Adam, regarding the aspect of affairs throughout the
country. Mr. Weir informed her that as yet the hand of the smiter was
not stayed, but rather on the contrary, as their persecutors seemed more
than ever zealous in their bloody work; and that, in the course of his
wanderings in Dumfriesshire, many cruel murders had come under his
knowledge, two of which, from the melancholy circumstances attending
them, had made an indelible impression on his mind. At the request of
Mrs. M'Adam, Mr. Weir related the following:--
"Late one evening, during the month of last February, while an aged
woman of the name of Martin, who resides in the parish of Barr, was
sitting by her hearth conversing with her son David, and a young man
named Edward Kyan, who had but recently come from Galloway, a party of
dragoons, under the command of Lieutenant Douglas, surrounded the house.
Kyan, on being made aware of their approach, leaped through a side
window, and took refuge behind the wall of the cottage. But his retreat
being discovered by the soldiers, they dragged him forth into an
adjoining yard. After being asked where he lived, without any further
questions, or even being allowed to prepare for eternity, the said
lieutenant shot him through the head, and then discharging his other
pistol, shot him again as he lay on the ground quivering in the agonies
of death. Not contented with this, one of the dragoons, pretending he
was still alive, shot him again. After having glutted their vengeance
on this unfortunate youth--whose only crime was that of concealing
himself--the dragoons rushed into the house, and, bringing forth David
Martin, tore off his coat, and placed him beside the mangled body of his
friend. One of the soldiers more compassionate than the others, and
moved at the sight of the mother's tears, besought his officer to spare
him another day, and stepped in between the kneeling man and his
executioners, who stood with their pieces levelled, awaiting the signal
of destruction. After much entreaty, the lieutenant was prevailed upon
to spare his life; but so great was the terror of the poor man, that he
lost his reason, and is now a helpless bed-ridden maniac. And now,"
continued Mr. Weir, "the other sad affair I am about to relate--the
particulars of which came under my own observation--will serve, in some
measure, to enlighten you as to the manner in which these cruel men
perform their bloody work:--
"In the course of the same month, I went with a friend, in whose house I
was then staying, to attend communion service in a secluded part of the
parish of Irongray. The morning was cold and damp, and a dull leaden
mist overshadowed the landscape, as if nature had donned her saddest
garments on this melancholy occasion--still the meeting was numerously
attended. It was indeed an impressive sight to witness these poor
people--many of whom seemed overcome with fatigue from the distance they
had travelled--assembled on this sequestered heath, to hear the word of
God, and partake of his blessed ordinance.
"The service had just commenced, when the sentinels stationed on the
heights gave notice that a party of dragoons were approaching.
"On receipt of this warning, the meeting instantly dispersed. Some fled
towards the banks of the Cairn, and others towards the moor of
Lochen-Kit, in the parish of Uir. Here the six poor men who suffered on
this occasion were captured by their pursuers. Four of them were shot
dead on the spot. The other two, whose names were Alexander M'Cubbin,
of the parish of Glencairn, and Edward Gordon, from Galloway, were taken
by the captain to the bridge of Orr, where the Laird of Lag was busily
employed in carrying on the work of persecution. Immediately on their
arrival, Lag wished to pass sentence of death upon them, because they
refused to swear; but the captain insisted that, as four of them had
been summarily despatched, an assize should be called to judge and
condemn them. Lag swore fiercely that he should call no assizes, still
the captain got the matter deferred till another day. On the following
morning they were conveyed to the parish of Irongray, by Lag and his
party, and hanged on an oak tree near the church of Irongray, at the
foot of which they lie interred. When about to suffer death, an
acquaintance of M'Cubin's inquired of him if he had any message to send
to his wife, upon which he answered, that he commended her and his two
children to the care of a merciful God; and, having bestowed his
forgiveness on the person employed to hang him, he, with his companion,
suffered death with much cheerfulness.
"Immediately on the departure of the soldiers, the bodies of these
martyrs received Christian burial, and a simple stone was erected on the
solitary heath to mark the spot where they fell."[#]
[#] Epitaph upon a stone in a moor near Lochon-Kit, on the grave of John
Gordon, William Stuart, William Heron, and John Wallace, shot by Captain
Bruce:--
"Behold here in this Wilderness we lie,
Four Witnesses of hellish cruelty.
Our eyes and blood could not their ire assuage
But when we're dead they did against us rage,
That match the like we think ye scarcely can;
Except the Turks, or Duke de Alva's men."
Epitaph on the grave-stone lying on Edward Gordon, and Alexander
M'Cubin, executed at the Church of Irongray, at the command of the laird
of Lag and Captain Bruce:--
"As Lag and bloody Bruce command,
We were hung up by hellish hand,
And thus their furious rage to stay,
We died at Kirk of Irongray.
Here now in peace sweet rest we take,
Once murder'd for religion's sake."
"Puir murdered things," sobbed forth Mrs. M'Adam at the close of the
minister's narration, raising her handkerchief to her eyes as she spoke.
"Oh dear, dear! is'na it sad to think that religion, whilk ought to make
men sae peaceful and godly in their lives, should, in many cases, just
hae the contrary effect. See now at the present time, a' men are set by
the ears, and what is it all about?--a mere trifle--just a difference o'
opinion. How true are the words of Him that knew all things, 'I am come
not to bring peace on earth, but a sword!'"
"Yes," was the reply, "but I am afraid religion is often made a cloak to
cover bitter feelings engendered by party strife. No one possessing the
meek Christian feeling of brotherly love and charity towards all men,
could thus wantonly imbrue his hands in the blood of a fellow-creature."
"'Deed no, Mr. Weir, you say very true; they are no' the richt sort o'
Christians who delight in bloodshed and warfare; a wheen apostates are
they; wolves in sheep's clothing, whom we are expressly warned
against----"
Here Gilbert, who knew from experience that whenever his mother got upon
these topics she could continue, without pausing to draw her breath,
until pretty near midnight, suggested to her the propriety of Mr. Weir
retiring early to rest, as he would need to rise betimes in the
following morning. The worthy minister, homeless and ill-provided for
as he was, accepted with gratitude the humble accommodation offered to
him by the poor but hospitable widow, and shortly afterwards withdrew to
his sleeping apartment. By the early hour of six o'clock, Mr. Weir,
accompanied by Mrs. M'Adam and her son, was on his way to the place of
meeting. The morning was fine, and a numerous concourse of people, many
of whom had come from a great distance, were assembled to hear their
beloved Clergyman. The incense of praise had been offered up, and Mr.
Weir was about to commence his sermon, when a party of soldiers appeared
in sight. These proved to be a body of militia, under the command of
Sir Archibald Kennedy of Culzean, then scouring the country in search of
prey. Mr. Weir on perceiving their approach, closed his Bible, and
exhorting his hearers to remain quietly in their seats, went forward to
meet the hostile band.
"Why come ye thus to interrupt us in our devotions?" he inquired, when
the rapid advance of the soldiers brought them within hearing.
"You shall soon see that, you old canting hypocrite," thundered forth
Sir Archibald Kennedy in his fiercest tones. "I'll teach you to come
here with your psalm-singing, dismal faced companions. Come, be off
with you, or I will this instant send a brace of bullets through that
thick head-piece of yours!"
"Not at thy command, thou man of Belial," said Mr. Weir, "shall I
abandon my post in the hour of danger! These are the souls the Lord
hath committed to my charge, and woe be unto me or any other of my
brethren who shall neglect their sacred trust----"
"Cease your prating, you old dotard: soldiers, do your duty;" so saying,
the fiery leader wheeled his horse round, and stood with his back
purposely placed towards Mr. Weir, who, seizing him by the arm,
exclaimed, "Do unto me even as ye list, but let these go their way. Oh,
slay them not!"
"Men, do your duty!" was the only answer vouchsafed to this request; and
Sir Archibald Kennedy, as if to set an example to his followers, drew
his sword from its scabbard, and advanced towards the Covenanters, who,
in accordance with their minister's wishes, had remained quietly seated,
awaiting the issue in breathless suspense.
"Fly, my children, fly!" cried Mr. Weir, perceiving that offensive
measures were about to be taken by the soldiers. "Oh God! it is too
late," he exclaimed, as the blood-thirsty men rushed eagerly on the
helpless group; and covering his face with his hands, to shut out the
bloody scene about to ensue, he remained for a few moments motionless as
a statue, while his lips moved, as though he was engaged in prayer.
In the meantime, Gilbert M'Adam, armed with a stout walking-stick,
prepared to defend his aged mother, who clung to his arm in an agony of
terror; but just as he raised it to ward off a blow from the butt-end of
a musket, it was stricken from his grasp, and he was left at the mercy
of his foe. Fortunately for his safety, a man stationed near him that
instant darted on the soldier, and wrenched the gun out of his hand,
which went off in the struggle, wounding a woman standing near the
combatants. Perceiving the folly of attempting self-defence, Gilbert
M'Adam seized his mother in his arms, and, making his way out of the
affray, ran hastily towards a hill, situated a little way off. He had
gained the foot of the eminence, when the clatter of a horse's feet
behind them causing the young man to turn round, a pistol bullet,
discharged by the advancing horseman, entered his brain, and Gilbert
M'Adam fell dead at his mother's feet. With a loud laugh of insolent
triumph, Sir Archibald Kennedy--for it was he who fired the deadly
shot--was about to return to the scene of action, when, with a scream
that in its agony resembled nothing earthly, the frenzied mother, with a
strength almost supernatural, seized the horse's bridle, and compelled
him to remain stationary, while she burst forth thus:--
"Hence to your stronghold, you cruel bird of prey! Back to your proud
towers, ye accursed of the Lord! but think not, in the pride of your
heart, that this day's work will pass unavenged, for a day of
retribution awaits you. In the silence of the night, when the meanest
hind in the land is locked in slumber, shall a mother's curse ring in
your ears till ye madden at the thought. From this day henceforward
life shall be a burden to you: then--then, when the hour of death
approaches, shall your horrors be redoubled ten-fold. No priest will be
able to quench the ceaseless flames which burn in your bosom, and no
words of affection soothe your dying pillow; for the torments of a lost
soul will be yours, and in your last moments let the thoughts of this
day's work add another drop to your cup of misery."
[Illustration: "Having given vent to these terrible maledictions, Mrs
M'Adam withdrew her hand from the horse's bridle, and motioning Sir
Archbald Kennedy to begone, threw himself sobbing and screaming on the
corpse of her son."]
Having given vent to these terrible maledictions, Mrs. M'Adam withdrew
her hand from the horse's bridle, and motioning Sir Archibald Kennedy to
begone, threw herself sobbing and screaming on the corpse of her son.
It was noticed by many then present that Sir Archibald looked scared and
discomposed on his return to join his men; and that, contrary to his
general mode of acting, he contented himself with taking a few
prisoners, and rode off at a much slower and more thoughtful pace, than
was his wont. Well, the persecuting work went on with unabated zeal,
and Sir Archibald Kennedy, or, as he was more commonly styled, the Laird
o' Culzean, was a noted man among them all. Wherever blood was to be
shed, there was the Laird, grim and dark, wi' the marks o' an evil
conscience on his face. (Some people said that the older he got, the
more crimes he committed, just to drown his remorse for some cruel deeds
he had done in his youth; but if that was the case, it was a queer way
he took to do it, for as the old proverb has it, "every single stick
adds to a burden.") Although the Laird was, to all outward appearances,
as bold and daring like as ever, yet the servants about the house said
it was a very different thing wi' him when alone; for many and many a
time in the long winter nights, did they see him pacing up and down his
hall, as if he would fain, by the loudness of his step, drown the voice
of conscience within; and often, when the wind rose louder than usual,
and moaned and shrieked through the passages, he would start hastily
from his seat and demand in a furious tone what woman it was who dared
to scream so within the walls o' Culzean Castle. These are the kind o'
things his servants told about him, so my grandfather said; but whether
they were true or false, I canna pretend to say. Well, time rolled on,
and the decree was sent forth that the wicked Laird o' Culzean must
prepare to meet his Maker--a summons which the now aged persecutor
seemed in no way anxious to obey, for them that were near him declared
that he threatened to knock off the doctors' heads, because they couldna
promise him that he should get better. The people who went about his
room at that time, recalled to mind the curse of the bereaved widow,
for, somehow or another, the story had got about, and many wondered when
it came to the push, how the Laird would meet his end. Sir Archibald,
as Mrs. M'Adam prophesied, seemed in his last moments to derive comfort
from nothing. In vain the physicians exercised their skill to the
utmost; in vain the attendant clergymen whispered words of consolation
and hope, he scorned them all, and drove them from the room because they
could not quench the flames which burned in his breast. (You see the
widow's curse was beginning to work.) As the hour of death approached
his agony was fearful. The drops of perspiration stood like beads on
his brow; and his eyes which seemed like to start from their sockets wi'
mortal agony, were fixed wi' a horrible stare on the foot o' his bed.
Some who were present at that time said they were convinced that
something, not meant for other e'en to see, was standing there, for
every now and again he pointed wi' his finger and laughed; but the laugh
was like that o' ane in despair. At length he died, and the night o'
his death was one of the most fearful that ever occurred in the memory
of man. The wind roared round the castle wi' a force that threathened
to lay it in ruins; while the thunder rolled, and the lightning flashed
in a manner awful to witness. The servants always maintained that the
powers of darkness were let loose that night; for at the moment the
Laird died, such shrieks of laughter, mingled with wild screams of
agony, rang through the whole house, that overwhelmed with fear, they
fell on their knees and prayed for protection against the horrors which
surrounded them. Then came the day of his funeral; and, by all
accounts, sair, sair work they had to get the hearse from the door.
First there were four white horses put to the bier; but no sooner were
they yoked-to, than one of them fell dead on the spot, and the others
kicked and plunged so, they had to be taken out. Then four black ones
were put in their place; but still they wadna go, until the coffin was
taken from the hearse, and the priest muttered some prayers over it.
Then, when they had proceeded a few steps wi' their burden, a dreadful
tempest of thunder arose to the terror and amazement of all
present--many of whom talked of returning; but the storm having now
ceased, they were dissuaded from doing so. However, on nearing the
place of interment, it again burst forth in such a fearful manner that
the flashes of fire seemed to run along the coffin. Owing to the
extreme lightness of the bier after this terrific outburst of the
elements, it was conjectured, either that the body had been consumed by
the lightning, or that it had been taken away by the master whom the
Laird served so well while on earth, from among their hands, ere ever
they got to the church-yard.
But now I must tell you o' what took place on the night o' the Laird's
death, to the great horror of a ship's crew who chanced to be at sea.
Just as they were sailing past the coves of Culzean, the fearful
tempest, I mentioned before, arose, and the ship was tossed by the waves
in such a manner, that the sailors gave themselves up for lost. Well,
in the very midst of this awful turmoil o' the elements, when even the
mightiest vessel was in danger of perishing, the man at the helm cried
aloud, "a boat, a boat!"
"Nonsense," replied the Captain, "what boat could live in a night like
this?"
Just as they were speaking, a fearful flash of lightning lit up the
darkness, thereby permitting the terror-stricken crew to perceive a
coach and four coming along the sea. Again the blue lightning flew down
the mast, while onward pranced the horses, whose black plumes waved, as
the ghastly-looking driver urged them onwards. The hair of each
individual sailor stood on end as he gazed on the appalling sight; when,
just as they were passing the side of the vessel, the Captain hailed the
spectral-looking coachman with, "From whence to were?"