It was late on the evening of the first of June, sixteen hundred and
seventy-nine, and the wife and family of Abel Armstrong, who resided in
the parish of Closeburn, were engaged in offering up fervent
supplications at the throne of mercy in behalf of all those who had gone
forth to fight the battles of the Lord; but the face of the mother waxed
pale, and her lips trembled with emotion as she prayed, more especially
for the safety of her husband and her son, who had also enrolled
themselves beneath the banners of the Covenant. While thus engaged, a
low knocking at the outer door caused them to start hastily to their
feet, and they stood gazing on each other with looks of eager alarm, at
a loss to comprehend the meaning of this unwelcome summons. Again it
was repeated; but this time a feeble voice was heard entreating for
admission in the name of God. Unable to withstand this earnest appeal,
Mrs. Armstrong ran to the door and undid the bar; it flew open, and an
officer of dragoons staggered into the cottage. At the sight of the
armed intruder, Mrs. Armstrong and her daughters uttered wild screams of
alarm; while the sole male inmate of the kitchen, a youth of not more
than fifteen years of age, darted to the farthest, corner where stood a
loaded gun, and grasping it in his hand, gazed on the soldier with
scowling brows, irresolute how to act.
"Fear nought from me," faintly exclaimed the dragoon, observing the
hostile attitude assumed by the boy; "I mean you no harm, nor have I the
power to inflict an injury, even had I the inclination."
As he spoke, a stream of blood, welling from a deep wound in his side,
dyed the cottage floor with a crimson stain.
"Water! water!" he murmured, and sank fainting into the nearest chair.
With all their womanly sympathies aroused within them at the sight of
the helpless condition of the stranger who had thus thrown himself upon
their hospitality, Mrs. Armstrong and her eldest daughter, Lucy, ran to
his assistance; the one to bathe his forehead with vinegar, and the
other to fetch bandages to bind up anew his bleeding wound.
"O but he has a bonnie sweet face o' his ain!" said Mrs. Armstrong in
pitying accents, as she undid his helmet and stroked down his long fair
hair, which, in obedience to the prevailing custom of the Cavaliers,
descended in ringlets to his shoulders, "and so young too! My poor lad,
what could have tempted you to leave your home to engage in such
unprofitable warfare?"
As she spoke, a faint smile stole over the pallid features of the
wounded dragoon; he opened his eyes, and warmly pressing the kind hand
at that instant engaged in staunching the blood which still flowed from
his side, he murmured the name of mother.
"O, an' it's maybe you have a lady mother who is even now praying for
the safety of her darling son, as I have done for that of mine this
night!" exclaimed Mrs. Armstrong, the tears coursing down her cheeks as
she spoke; "but fear ye nought, for although you are far from home and
kindred, and in the house of one who is hostile to your cause, yet are
you as safe beneath the humble roof-tree of Abel Armstrong as though you
were lying in your stately hall with your mother's arms around your
neck."
The exhausted youth again pressed her hand in token of his gratitude for
her promised protection, and speedily relapsed into insensibility.
Deeply moved on beholding his extreme weakness, Mrs. Armstrong, with the
assistance of Lucy, relieved him of his armour, and raising him gently
in her arms, conveyed him into their sole remaining apartment, where,
according to the usual Scottish custom, two beds were placed in the
wall, in one of which they laid the dragoon. Having succeeded, by means
of a reviving cordial, in restoring him to consciousness, the
tender-hearted woman hastened to examine his bandages, fearful lest they
might have slipped during his removal; but their fears proving
groundless, they bade God bless him, and left him to repose.
Scarcely had Mrs. Armstrong and her daughter resumed their seats by the
kitchen fire, when a low tap on the window pane caused them to tremble
anew with apprehension. But soon their fears were allayed when the
well-known voice of Abel Armstrong was heard demanding admittance.
With a scream of joy, Mrs. Armstrong darted towards the door which
speedily opened to admit her husband and son, accompanied by several
others of the Covenanting party.
"My husband! my son!" was all the weeping woman could exclaim, as the
clasped them alternately in her arms.
"Father! oh thank God you have returned in safety! but where is William
Crosbie? speak!" cried Lucy, as she turned to greet her brother; "Oh,
Jamie, is he wounded or dead?"
"Neither!" said her brother, smiling fondly in the face upturned to his
with a look of wistful inquiry; "only have patience, and you will see
him presently; he is tending his horse, and will be here ere many
minutes have elapsed."
"Oh God in heaven be praised for his goodness in thus having lent an
attentive ear to the humble petitions of his servants, which ascended
from afflicted, yet trusting hearts!" piously exclaimed both mother and
daughter; and they gazed upwards with streaming eyes and hearts full of
thankfulness for the safe return of those beloved ones whose absence had
paled their cheeks and filled their bosoms with apprehensions of evil.
"Yes, let us praise Him!" said Abel Armstrong, uncovering his head as he
spoke, "who hath this day upheld the cause of his saints, and scattered
their foes as the dust flies before the winds of heaven."
"What mean you, Abel?"
"That our arms have been victorious in battle. This morning we
encountered the enemy on the moor of Drumclog. We beheld them advancing
towards us with helmets glancing and banners waving. We noticed the
proud scorn with which they regarded us as we prayed that our cause
might be blessed and our hands guided in the fight; and we marked well
the contempt written on their countenances as they beheld us drawn up to
meet them. But they knew not our hearts. _They_ could not understand
the mighty spell that bound us together, and animated our souls with
hopes of victory. The bloody Claverhouse, secure in the power of his
might, boasted 'He would soon lay the psalm-singing caitiffs low!' but
we, trusting only in One whose arm is mighty to save, commended our
cause to Him, and went forth to battle. We met; they were scattered.
Some fled; others lay stretched on the plain. Then we raised our
standards aloft, and returned thanks to the God of heaven."
"The Lord be praised!" said Mrs. Armstrong, "for he hath indeed showered
rich blessings on our sinful heads this day; he hath blessed our arms in
the field, and restored those dear ones who went forth to fight in his
service. Oh, Abel," she continued, again clasping him in her arms, "God
in his mercy grant that you may long be spared; for were you to be taken
away from me, the trial would indeed be greater than I could bear."
"Do not speak thus," said Abel Armstrong, fondly returning his wife's
embrace: "we are all in the Lord's keeping; that life we enjoy came from
him, and at his command we must resign it. We have, therefore, no right
to murmur when those we love are taken from us. At all times let us
commend ourselves to him, and he will give us strength to endure the
severest trials, and cause us to come forth purified from the furnace of
affliction."
Scarcely had Abel Armstrong finished speaking, when the door opened, and
a young man entered. This was William Crosbie, who, at the time of the
breaking out of the religious disturbances then agitating Scotland, had
followed the occupation of a shoe-maker in the neighbourhood of Abel
Armstrong's cottage. He and Lucy had been lovers since the days of
their childhood, and were to have been married some months previously;
but on the morning of the day appointed for the wedding, the aged
minister, engaged to perform the ceremony, was taken prisoner by some of
Claverhouse's dragoons, and lodged in Dumfries jail. As no one could be
procured to supply his place, the marriage was necessarily postponed
until the return of more tranquil days. The disappointment of his
hopes, coupled with the imprisonment of one whom he had always regarded
in the light of a parent, so wrought upon the hitherto peaceful
disposition of William Crosbie, that he, long taught to regard the
measures adopted by the then existing Government as being in the highest
degree tyrannical, at length threw up his employment, and went forth to
fight on the aide of the Covenanters.
On the entrance of her lover, Lucy darted towards him, and
exclaiming--"William, you too are safe!" threw herself sobbing on his
neck. With a low cry of pain young Crosbie disengaged himself from
Lucy's embrace, and staggered back against the wall; while the excessive
pallor overspreading his countenance attested the agony under which he
laboured.
"William!" shrieked Lucy, gazing on her lover's face with lips white and
trembling as his own, "you are wounded--perhaps mortally!"
"Oh, no, dearest, it is nothing!" replied her lover, struggling manfully
to regain his composure; "it is only a mere scratch in the shoulder; but
a sudden twinge of pain caused me to wax somewhat faint----"
"Ha, then; he hit you after all!" said Abel Armstrong, his brows
contracting as he spoke.
"How chanced it, William? by whom were you wounded?" anxiously inquired
Lucy, who had in some measure regained her composure on being assured by
one of the men who had proceeded to examine the wound, that it was not
of a serious nature--the ball having merely grazed the fleshy part of
the arm.
"It was a cowardly dragoon who fired the shot," replied Abel Armstrong;
"the fellow fled in this direction, and we pursued him on horses taken
from the enemy. William Crosbie, who was far ahead of us all, called
upon him to surrender; when, for answer, the dastardly fellow turned
round in the saddle, and discharged his pistol at him, wounding him, as
it now appears, in the shoulder. We soon lost sight of the fugitive in
the darkness; but he seems to have found refuge somewhere in this
neighbourhood, for we discovered his horse grazing at no very great
distance from hence; but of the dragoon himself we saw nothing.
"Why, how came these things here?" suddenly exclaimed one of the party,
pointing, as he spoke, to the pieces of armour Mrs. Armstrong had taken
off the person of her wounded guest ere removing him from the kitchen,
and which, till that instant, had remained unobserved in a corner of the
apartment. Mrs. Armstrong and Lucy exchanged quick glances of alarm, but
vouchsafed no answer to the startling inquiry.
"The fellow must be here!" said several of his companions; handling the
triggers of their guns in a manner which boded no good to the
unfortunate youth, should he fall into their hands.
"Wife!" exclaimed Abel Armstrong in a low stern whisper, "you hear the
inquiry--'How came these things here?' Why answer ye not? Speak--I
command you."
"Oh, Abel, press me not to tell; indeed I cannot!" said the distracted
woman, wringing her hands and gazing beseechingly in her husband's face.
"What!" he cried in wrath; "have you then dared to shelter one of our
foes beneath this roof of mine? Woman, you have done me a foul wrong;
but tell us instantly where you have concealed him, that we may yet
revenge ourselves."
"He lies there," said Mrs. Armstrong in trembling accents, and shrinking
from the fiery glance of her husband's eye.
"Ha, then, he dies!" shouted divers others of the party; and they rushed
towards the door as they spoke.
"You shall not touch him," cried Mrs. Armstrong, throwing herself on her
knees before them, and endeavouring to prevent their egress; "you dare
not pollute my threshold with a stranger's blood! Oh, spare his young
life!" she continued, in tones of earnest entreaty, "and crush not your
own souls with the crime of murder----"
"Woman, prevent us not," was the stern reply; "he is the foe of the
Covenant, and as such must die!" and the speaker threw Mrs. Armstrong
from him, and darted into the next apartment, followed by several of his
companions, eager to wreak their vengeance on the wounded youth.
"Abel! Abel! will you stand idly by and see murder committed beneath
your roof. Oh, save him!" and as she uttered these words Mrs. Armstrong
seized her husband by the arm, and dragged him from the kitchen. It was
a strange wild scene that greeted her eyes on gaining the door of the
sleeping apartment. The sterner portion of the Covenanters stood grouped
together; their hands grasping their ready muskets, their eyes, whose
glances were dark and menacing, glared on the wounded youth, who,
aroused from his slumbers by the stormy entrance of the party, sat
upright in his bed, and, with undaunted mien, repaid their scowling
regards with looks of haughty scorn, while he indignantly exclaimed,
"Come you here with the purpose of murder in your hearts that you gaze
thus gloomily on me! If so, approach and do your bloody work; I fear
you not. It will be a deed worthy of your base-born natures to slay a
youth, and he a defenceless one. I despise you from the depths of my
heart," he continued, in tones of withering scorn, heedless of the fiery
glances and threatening gestures of the infuriated men who surrounded
him; "and learn this, if you need an incentive to urge you to the deed,
that on the plain of Drumclog my good broadsword caused one or more of
your body to bite the dust."
"Ha! boastest thou of thy evil doings! villain, thou diest." And with
these words several of the Covenanters rushed towards the undaunted
youth, with their guns uplifted, as if to strike him dead where he lay,
when Mrs. Armstrong, with a scream of terror, threw her arms around the
neck of the wounded dragoon, to shield him from danger, while she
exclaimed, "Oh, forbear to slay him! How can you condemn your enemies
for their cruelties, if you do such evil deeds as this? Shame on your
manhood, ever to dream of harming a defenceless foe, and he a mere boy.
You shall not touch him," she cried, pushing back the men who stood
nearest her; "he came to my house, wounded and bleeding, and begged
admission in the name of God. Could I refuse to listen to the voice of
suffering, even when coming from the lips of an enemy? No; I tended him
as though he were mine own child. He spoke of his mother. I too am a
mother. And I thought on my husband and son, who even at that instant
might be entreating aid from the hands of strangers, and my heart melted
within me. Will you be less kind--less forgiving? It is true you heard
it from his own mouth that this day his hand was raised against the
soldiers of the Covenant, and that to the destruction of some of our
party; but did you spare those who fell into your hands? Think ye on
that, and forgive the part he hath chosen."
As Mrs. Armstrong finished her touching address, William Crosbie, who
had been speaking apart with Lucy, advanced towards her, and placing one
hand in hers, grasped with the other that of the young soldier, and
turning round to his still frowning companions, said in a stern voice,
"Now look you, my friends, if I, who this evening barely escaped being
killed by the hands of this misguided youth, can say I freely forgive
and mean him no injury, surely you may do the same. Mrs. Armstrong is
right. It is with men like ourselves we should wage war, and not with
beardless boys. On the open field and in the broad daylight we should
attack our enemy; not in the darkness of night and beneath the roof of
one who hath promised him protection. Let the lad go. Remember with
what horror we regard the cold-blooded murders daily committed by those
who are opposed to our cause; and in what respect should we differ from
them did we yield to the dictates of our baser natures, and stain our
hearths with the sacred blood of a guest? No, no; let us act as men who
have the fear of God before their eyes, and if an enemy fall into our
hands, friendless and wounded, as this poor youth is, let us succour him
till he is well, and then bid him go in peace from our dwelling."
"You are right, William," cried Abel Armstrong, dropping his gun on the
floor, and motioning on the others to imitate his example, "let us do
good even to an enemy; and if this poor lad hath shed some of our blood
this day, his own hath flowed freely in exchange. So come, my friends,
let us mount and ride; there is yet much for us to perform, and we must
hasten to rejoin our comrades, lest they be uneasy concerning our
safety. Nay, nay, now; look not thus sullen at being deprived of your
revenge! Remember the nobler purpose that brought us together, namely,
to fight for the spiritual freedom of Scotland, and abandon all thoughts
which would lead away the heart from the mighty end to be accomplished."
The men hesitated a moment ere they obeyed the voice of their leader;
but the command being repeated in a sterner tone, they reluctantly
quitted the room, casting, as they did so, lowering glances in the
direction of the young soldier, who, wholly overcome by the excitement
of the scene, coupled with his late fearful loss of blood, sunk back
exhausted on his pillow. As William Crosbie was preparing to follow his
companions, the dragoon called him to his bed-side, and clasping his
hand in his, said in a faltering voice,--"Young man, under the
providence of God, I this night owe to you a life which is precious to
me for my mother's sake. I am her only remaining son, and it would have
killed her had anything happened unto me. I will not insult you by
offering you money; but, should the chances of war ever throw you into
the power of our party, inquire for Lieutenant Musgrave of Claverhouse's
dragoons, and display this chain; it will secure you safety and
attention in the meanwhile; and if spared to redeem my promise, I will
procure your pardon, even should I die to obtain it."
With these words, the grateful youth threw a massive gold chain around
the neck of William Crosbie, who, after warmly thanking the dragoon for
his promised aid, rejoined his companions.
"God bless and protect you both in the midst of battle," sobbed Mrs.
Armstrong, her voice failed her and she turned weeping from the door as
her husband and son once more departed from their home to join the
Covenanting host.
"And must we then part?" cried Lucy, gazing with tearful eyes in the
face of her lover, who had lingered on the threshold to exchange a few
parting words with her, as she now clung to him in all the abandonment
of grief.
"Yes, dearest; but only for a time; ere the song of the reapers is heard
in the fields, I will return--never more to leave you."
As William Crosbie uttered these words, a dark cloud passed over the
face of the moon; and as Lucy beheld the sudden eclipse of its bright
rays, a sense of coming evil smote her heart, and a shudder passed
through her slender frame, as though the hope of future happiness she
ventured to entertain was doomed to wither ere it bloomed. The voice of
Abel Armstrong was now heard calling on William Crosbie to join the
party. On hearing the fatal summons, Lucy clung yet closer to her
lover; and her lips trembled as she bade God guard him from all danger
and restore him in safety to her, in company with her father and her
brother.
"Think on the coming harvest," whispered William Crosbie, as he clasped
Lucy again and again to his throbbing heart; then resigning her almost
inanimate form into the arms of her mother, he mounted his horse, and
without daring to turn his head in the direction of her from whom it was
almost death to part, galloped after his companions.
Under the fostering care of his kind hostess and her daughter, the
soldier speedily recovered from the effects of his wound; the glow of
returning health mantled on his cheek, and in the course of a few days
he declared his intention of proceeding to Dumfries, there to join his
regiment, commanded by the redoubted Claverhouse in person. Mrs.
Armstrong was deeply moved as she bade farewell to the departing
dragoon, and said, raising the corner of her apron to her eyes as she
spoke, "That although a follower of the bloody Clavers, and a dweller in
the tents of the wicked, he had such a kindly heart and gentle manners
that she loved him as if he were her own son. And oh!" she exclaimed,
gazing imploringly in his face, "should you chance to encounter in
battle those who are dearer to rue than life, remember the night you
found shelter in my house, and spare them for the sake of one who tended
you with a mother's care."
"I will; I will!" answered the soldier, wringing her hand in the fervour
of his gratitude. "God is my witness that I will protect them with my
latest breath; and rest assured, my sweet maiden," he said, addressing
Lucy, "your lover's interference on my behalf, when the hearts of his
cowardly companions were intent on my destruction, will never fade from
my memory. I have sworn to save him should his life be in danger; and
if at any time you think of quitting this part of the country, come to
Cumberland; there I will give you a home, and my mother will be the
first to welcome those who succoured and befriended her wounded son.
Farewell. God grant we may meet again, and that I may be able to
testify my gratitude for kindness which can never be repaid and will
never be forgotten."
"Farewell, farewell!" said the gentle-hearted women, and with tearful
eyes they stood on the threshold gazing after the departing soldier till
his nodding plume disappeared in the distance.
Barely three short weeks had elapsed since the victory of Drumclog, when
the fatal battle of Bothwell Bridge extinguished, it seemed, almost for
ever, the hopes of the Covenanting party in Scotland. A prey to
treachery, and divided among themselves, the soldiers of the Covenant
were slaughtered without mercy by Claverhouse and his dragoons, who
burned to wipe out the stain of their defeat on the moor of Drumclog.
Tidings that a great battle had been fought, and the Covenanters
defeated, found their way to the sequestered home of Abel Armstrong,
filling the minds of both mother and daughter with fearful apprehensions
lest those they loved might be among the number of the slain. Each
succeeding day beheld Lucy--trembling, yet hopeful--stationed at the
door, eager to obtain the first glimpse of their well-known forms--but
she looked in vain. At distant intervals a few way-worn
Covenanters--fugitives from the disastrous field of Bothwell--might be
seen dragging their weary steps along, but all passed on their way,
unable to afford any information regarding the missing men. Then hope
for ever fled from the mother's breast, and she wept in the solitude of
her dwelling for those whom she felt she should never more behold on
earth. The younger portion of her children--whose tender years did not
permit of their sharing in their mother's grief--stood gazing in
wondering silence on beholding her bitter sorrow; while Lucy strove to
reassure her by comforting words regarding the speedy return of her
father and brother, the tears running down her own pale cheeks as she
thought on the probable fate of one still more loved than they. Weeks
rolled on. The vernal tints of summer had given place to the more sober
hues of autumn, still they came not. Then she too ceased to hope, and
mourned for her absent relatives and lover as one mourneth for the dead.
One lovely evening, towards the end of August, Lucy--too wretched to
enjoy the childish prattle of her younger brothers and sisters--went
forth from the cottage to indulge, in solitude, in her own sad thoughts.
She paused on the threshold, overcome with the tranquil beauty of the
scene. The sun was slowly sinking behind the distant hills, and its
bright rays tinged with a yet richer hue the now golden corn as it
slowly waved to and fro in the grateful breeze. With a heart torn with
anguish, Lucy recalled her lover's parting words--"Ere the song of the
reapers is heard in the fields, I will return!" and she wept, for the
harvest was come--but where was he? Unconsciously, as it were, she
lifted her eyes to traverse the far-stretching plain, when the figure of
a young man, approaching in the direction of the cottage, at once
arrested her attention. For the quick eye of affection one glance
sufficed. It was William Crosbie who was rapidly advancing towards her.
With a scream of "Mother, he is come!" Lucy darted forward to meet him.
Already she is within two hundred paces of him. He sees her--he
quickens his pace--their arms are outstretched to embrace each other,
when, oh, horror! the sun's bright rays flash on the brass helmets of
two mounted dragoons as they gallop swiftly across the plain. Paralysed
at the sight, Lucy endeavours in vain to apprise her lover of his
danger. She warns him back. He notices them not. Thinking only of
her, he rushes eagerly forward. Suddenly the stern command--"Halt, in
the King's name!" rings out in the silence of the night. He staggers at
the awful sound. He turns to fly--too late. The soldiers dismount from
their horses, and with unslung carbines, command him to yield--or die!
"O, Lucy! and is it thus we meet?" groaned forth William Crosbie, as the
frantic girl rushed madly forward, and throwing herself on her knees
before the dragoons, besought them in the most moving terms to free her
lover. "For many a weary day, when hungry and homeless, and forced to
seek refuge in the caves of the earth, did I comfort myself with
thoughts of my return to claim you as mine. I dreamt of it--prayed for
it; and now I have seen you, but to lose you for ever."
"Say not so, William! Men, men! you have hearts--God gave you
them--hearts to feel--to share in another's sorrow. O think on
mine--close not your breasts to the voice of pity; free him--let him go,
and I will bless you!" and the distracted girl clung in her agony to the
knees of the rude soldiers, who repulsed her with violence, and laughed
at all her efforts to move their stern natures to compassion.
"Waste not your breath on us!" one of them exclaimed, "you will require
it soon; there are those behind us to whom you may kneel for mercy----"
"But to little purpose I fear," said the other with a laugh, in which
his companion joined. "Sir Robert Grierson, not to mention our own
worthy leader, is by no means fond of being bothered by praying women
when in the discharge of duty; so you need not expect to obtain any
favour from him," he said, addressing Lucy, who became deadly pale on
hearing those dreadful words, and with one more frantic appeal for
mercy, she sank senseless on the ground.
"Lucy! oh heavens, you have killed her by your brutal speech!" cried
William Crosbie in an agony of fear, on beholding her death-like
countenance, "let me go--let me--men, devils! will you not release me?"
and he made violent efforts to free himself from their grasp, but in
vain. And incensed by his stout resistance, the soldiers seized him by
the throat, and beat him with the butt-end of their muskets till he
reeled beneath their blows. At this instant a large party of dragoons,
headed by the stern Claverhouse, rode up to the spot.
"What is the meaning of this?" said the dreaded leader, gazing
alternately on William Crosbie and Lucy Armstrong, who, in some measure
recovered from her faint, lay on the ground, her hair dishevelled, and
her eyes fixed on the dragoons with a vacant stare, as though unable to
comprehend the nature of the scene.
"Why, most noble Colonel," said one of the soldiers, "as we, in
obedience to your commands, were scouring the fields in search of
rebels, we came upon this young fellow who was running to meet his
sweetheart. It appears he was returning to marry her, and----"
"So, ho! then we have arrived most opportunely to witness a bridal!"
said Sir Robert Grierson, who accompanied Claverhouse on this occasion;
"what say you, my friend," addressing Sir James Graham, "to hanging them
both on a tree, and having a stone placed beneath, bearing this
inscription--'They were lovely in their lives, and in death they were
not divided?'" And the speaker laughed long and loudly.
"Surely I have seen this fellow before," said Claverhouse, gazing
sternly on William Crosbie, who met his eye with a gaze unflinching as
his own. "Tell me, young man, were you at Bothwell?"
"I was."
"You confess it?"
"I do."
"And you were one of those who slew the dragoon and bore back your
colours from the bridge?"
"I did the deed myself!" said William Crosbie proudly.
"Ha! I thought so! Soldiers, unsling your carbines--he dies!"
[Illustration: "Mercy, mercy!" cried Lucy, now fully alive to the
horrors of her lover's situation; and dragging herself to the feet of
Claverhouse, she seized his hand and besought him in the most
heart-rending terms to spare her lover.]
"Mercy, mercy!" cried Lucy, now fully alive to the horrors of her
lover's situation; and dragging herself to the feet of Claverhouse, she
seized his hand and besought him in the most heart-rending terms to
spare her lover. "He will never more fight against the King," she said,
"he was returning here to live in peace--oh let him go!"
With a calm, cold smile, Claverhouse withdrew his hand from her hold,
and made a signal to his men to prepare their arms.
"Mother, mother!" shrieked Lucy, as Mrs. Armstrong, almost breathless
from her exertions, reached the spot where she knelt, "kneel with me
before these men. The sight of your grey hairs may move their hearts to
compassion, and they may grant you the mercy they have denied me."
"William!" exclaimed Mrs. Armstrong in faltering accents, "what of my
husband and son--where are they?"
Young Crosbie's lips trembled. He sadly shook his head. She was
answered--both had fallen at Bothwell Bridge.
"Now may I indeed kneel--kneel in sorrow and in anguish, for I am
bereaved!" And with these words the weeping widow threw herself on her
knees, and with clasped hands and upturned eyes, besought pardon for the
youth about to suffer.
"O!" she exclaimed, "if your hearts still retain one human feeling; if
they are not yet wholly seared by the bloody scenes through which you
have passed, hearken unto me this night. It is a heart-broken woman who
addresses you--one who is sorrowful even unto death. Husband and son
have fallen. The lover of my youth, and he who would have been the stay
of mine old age, are taken from me; and yet, I trust, in the midst of my
affliction, I can say, God's will, not mine, be done! Will not, then,
the blood of two suffice you----?"
"Two!" shouted Sir Robert Grierson, "though you had lost twenty such
rebellious knaves, what matters it to us? death to all such rascals!"
"Surely," continued the widow, regardless of the interruption, "you will
feel for me, and grant my prayer. Kill not the prisoner. I have grown
old and gray with affliction, and my time on earth may not be long; but
my daughter is young in years, and her happiness is bound up in the life
of this young man. O spare her the fearful trial of losing him--bring
not down her youthful hairs with sorrow to the grave. Pardon him, I
beseech you!"
Claverhouse sternly answered "No!" and impatiently waved his hand for
them to be gone.
"Lucy, Lucy!" cried William Crosbie, "let not your mother kneel to these
cold-blooded wretches! Do not debase yourself by imploring mercy from
creatures who know it not. I can face death like a man. I do not fear
it. Farewell, Lucy, we shall, I trust, meet in another and a better
world where none can part us." Then bidding the soldiers do their
worst, the brave youth uncovered his head, and stood prepared to receive
the fatal fire. These last words, uttered in a louder tone, reached the
ears of a young officer who stood at some little distance from his
companions, as though unwilling to witness the bloody tragedy about to
be enacted. He started on hearing the familiar voice; and coming
hastily forward, gazed earnestly on the prisoner as he stood bold and
erect before the dragoons. A flush passed over the officer's face, and
advancing to the spot where Claverhouse stood conversing with Sir Robert
Grierson, he requested to speak a few words with him in private.
Claverhouse at once complied with the request; and withdrawing his horse
a little apart from the others, a long and earnest conversation ensued.
The conference seemed to terminate unfavourably, for a darker frown sat
upon Claverhouse's brow, and his voice sounded harsh and cruel as he
uttered these last words aloud--"I am sorry to refuse your request; but
his life is forfeited by the laws of this land, and my conscience would
for ever upbraid me should I fail in my duty to my king and my country."
The red blood mantled on the cheeks of the supplicant; and he seemed
about to make an angry reply, but instantly checking the impulse, he
bowed his head, and then added carelessly, "As you please, Colonel; but
since the poor fellow must suffer, have I your permission to exchange a
few words with him ere he dies? I should like to tell him I have done
what I could to procure his pardon, as I promised faithfully to save
him."
"Most certainly!" said Claverhouse with a courtly smile, apparently well
satisfied to get off with so small a concession. "Soldiers, down
muskets! Lieutenant Musgrave wishes to speak with the prisoner."
At mention of the name, Lucy, who had been weeping passionately on her
mother's shoulder, raised her head, a ray of hope animated her
countenance, and she watched the young officer's movements in breathless
anxiety--William Crosbie also looked disturbed and anxious. With a
swaggering gait and careless mien, young Musgrave approached the
prisoner, and taking him by the arm, led him some little distance apart,
when he addressed him as follows:--"I have vainly endeavoured to procure
your pardon. I vowed to save you; and my oath must be kept. Therefore
listen to me. Accept this purse; you may stand in need of money, and
when I say aloud farewell! dart off as quickly as you can in the
direction of Crichup Linn. The darkness will favour your escape, and I
will, if necessary, prevent the soldiers from following, until you are
beyond their reach. Fear not for Lucy! I will protect her as though she
were mine own sister. God bless you--farewell!" Scarcely had the word
escaped Lieutenant Musgrave's lips, ere William Crosbie was speeding
along the plain towards Crichup Linn; and so thoroughly was the whole
party overwhelmed with astonishment at this unlooked-for proceeding on
the part of the prisoner, that ere the soldiers could mount their horses
and set off in pursuit, he was already lost in the gloom. With a cry of
thankfulness Lucy fell down on her knees; but not to man she knelt. She
was breathing a prayer of gratitude to Heaven for her lover's safety.
"Traitor!" shouted Claverhouse, his eyes sparkling with fury, "how dare
you do this? By heavens! you shall answer for it, and that presently."
"When and where you please," said Lieutenant Musgrave haughtily; "you
have yourself to blame for what I have done. I begged the young man's
life. I told you this good woman and her daughter had sheltered me when
wounded, and that William Crosbie had prevented my blood being shed by
his companions. In return, I vowed I would protect him if ever he fell
into your hands. You refused to listen to my petition. It was the
first request I had ever made, and I told you it should be the last; but
you scorned my entreaties, and now you have reaped the fruits of your
cruel refusal. Disgusted by your cold-blooded murders,----"
"Ha! this insolence to your commanding officer? Consider yourself under
arrest! Captain Lennox, relieve Lieutenant Musgrave of his sword."
"Never!" said young Musgrave; "here I resign my commission, and for ever
abandon a cause characterised only by cruelty and oppression."
With these words he drew his sword from its sheath, and breaking it
across his knee, threw the pieces on the ground. Then taking Mrs.
Armstrong by the hand, he led her and Lucy from the spot. Claverhouse
remained motionless with rage on beholding himself deprived of his
revenge; while Sir Robert Grierson exclaimed with a shrug of his
shoulders--"We are well rid of the fellow. He has been too long in the
society of these psalm-singing rascals not to have imbibed some of their
notions. Let him go. He is not fit for the society of loyal-hearted
subjects like ourselves; his place is the conventicle; there he will
have whining and praying enough." Unwilling to exhibit any further
annoyance before his soldiers, Ciaverhouse joined in the laugh
occasioned by this speech of Sir Robert's, and after issuing a command
to one of his men to follow in the direction of the dragoons and
ascertain whether they had discovered any traces of the fugitive, he set
out on his return to Dumfries. Favoured by the darkness which now
enveloped the earth like a mantle, William Crosbie succeeded in baffling
the dragoons. More than once their bullets whistled close past his
ears, and their voices sounded ominously near, still he held on his way;
and at length, when nearly exhausted, he gained the entrance to Crichup
Linn. With a shout of triumph, which sounded in the ears of his
pursuers like the yell of a demon, William Crosbie darted into its
friendly shades; and, as he sped along its narrow path, he heard with
unmingled pleasure the voices of the dragoons--who, unwilling to
encounter the evil spirits said to infest the linn, had turned back from
the pursuit--grow faint in the distance. The first act of the grateful
Covenanter, on reaching a place of safety, was to fall on his knees and
return thanks to God for his deliverance. This done, he proceeded, so
far as the increasing darkness would permit, to examine the nature of
the place he had chosen as a refuge against his enemies. For never
before had he dared to venture within the haunted precincts of Crichup
Linn.
The shades of night lent a still deeper gloom to the savage character of
the linn; and as William Crosbie gazed on the huge rocks, which seemed
from their tottering appearance as though the slightest touch would
dislodge them, and listened to the noise of the ceaseless cascades, as
they fell from rock to rock, a feeling of wonder, not unmixed with awe,
took possession of his breast. As he stood beneath the shade of a
beetling crag, his eyes striving to penetrate the darkness below, all
the strange tales he had heard told around the cottager's ingle-nook
regarding the linn, rose up, unbidden guests, in his imagination. He
remembered, with cold shudderings, the weird dance described by his
uncle as having been seen by him when forced, from adverse
circumstances, to seek refuge among its caves; and how the precise spot
where he beheld the midnight revelry of the unearthly crew was still
familiarly known as the "Elf's Kirk,"[#] and the strange lights
frequently seen leaping from crag to crag by those whom necessity had
forced to be unwilling spectators of the unnatural flame. All these and
more did fancy conjure up, like spectral demons, to haunt him with their
presence, until at length, excited beyond measure at their remembrance
and the thought of spending an entire night in a place so infested with
horrors, William Crosbie wrought himself up to believe that he too was
about to become the victim of supernatural agency. The air seemed
filled with wild unearthly sounds. The blasted trees which burst forth
from the rocks above his head appeared like so many hideous forms
pointing at him with warning gestures from amid the gloom, while the
abyss beneath was peopled with gigantic beings, who, as they issued
forth from the portals of their unhallowed mansion, regarded him with
malignant eyes, and tossed their menacing arms aloft in the air, as
though invoking the elements to lash themselves into fury and descend on
the doomed head of him who had thus dared to invade their dominions. As
if in obedience to their call, a loud peal of thunder suddenly broke
overhead, announcing an approaching storm. Another and another
succeeded, and the blue electric fluid, fraught with death and disaster,
quivered in the air like the sword of Divine wrath suspended over a
guilty world. William Crosbie stood trembling and aghast as the storm,
which had now reached the climax of its fury, rolled along the sky in
terrible majesty. Crash followed crash with incredible velocity, while
the forked lightning darted through the gloom like some heavenly
messenger sent from the realms of bliss on an errand of mercy to the pit
of woe. Appalled at the scene, the terror-stricken Covenanter, in
acknowledgment of the Almighty's power to preserve him in this awful
hour, fell on his knees amid the fierce strife of the elements, and
raised his right arm on high as though appealing for protection against
the horrors that surrounded him. To his inexpressible relief, the
storm-cloud, having spent its fury, at length passed over the linn. The
flashes of lightning became less frequent; the peals of thunder waxed
fainter and fainter, and then died away in broken murmurs in the
distance.
[#] Crichup Linn, _vide_ Fordyce's Beauties at Scotland, vol. 2, page
312.
Under cover of a protecting rock, William Crosbie passed, what seemed to
his terror-struck imagination, an eternal night; and, as soon as the
early beams of the rising sun proclaimed the presence of morning, he
forsook his hard couch and made for the nearest outlet; determined
rather to face Claverhouse and all his host, than be doomed again to
encounter the horrors of a night spent in Crichup Linn. While threading
his way through the tangled brushwood, which then almost obscured the
entrance to the linn, William Crosbie was startled on observing several
persons running in his direction. Apprehensive of danger, he screened
his person behind some bushes, in order that he might ascertain their
purpose ere discovering himself to them. On they came, panting and
breathless, evidently making for the linn. On their nearer approach,
William Crosbie discovered them to be friends of his own, and staunch
adherents of the Covenanting party. He then came forth from his place of
concealment, and addressed them by their names.
"Back! back!" they cried with one voice, "he is coming! he is coming!"
"Who is coming?"
"Claverhouse! do you not see him yonder?"
William Crosbie turned his eyes in the indicated direction, and there he
beheld the dreaded persecutor, mounted on a splendid black charger,
galloping furiously towards them, followed by his dragoons.
"Come back with us!" said one of the new-comers, addressing William
Crosbie, "we know the way to the caves; there we shall be safe."
"You need not fear pursuit now!" said one of his companions, "not even
the evil spirit, were he mounted on horse-back, would dare to follow us
hither!"
As he spoke, a crashing of the boughs behind them caused them to start
and look back, when to their unutterable horror they beheld their
terrible enemy dashing through amidst the trees. William Crosbie stood
transfixed at the sight. He had neither power to move nor speak, while
Claverhouse, with dishevelled locks and flashing eyes, rode towards him,
with his sword uplifted in the air as if to hew him down.
"Have you a mind to be killed that you stand there while the arch-fiend
himself is within a few paces of you?" said one of the men, and seizing
William Crosbie by the arm he dragged him onwards to the verge of the
precipice. "Down, down!" he cried, "we will cheat him yet!" and with
these words the man, still holding young Crosbie by the hand, slid down
among the rocks, whither his companions had gone before. "He has lost
his prey; he dare not follow us."
The speaker was interrupted by a cry of horror proceeding from his
companions. He looked up, and beheld the horse with its rider bounding
over the chasm. In his eager haste to capture the men, Claverhouse did
not perceive the danger which lay in his path, until too late to
retreat; so clapping spurs to his steed, which equalled in spirit its
fiery master, he urged it to the leap. His horse cleared the chasm at a
single bound, and landed its rider safe on the opposite side. The noble
animal fared not so well; one of its legs was broken in the effort; and
from his seat in the face of the rock William Crosbie beheld with
admiration the feat achieved by the gallant charger, and witnessed with
sorrow its death inflicted by the hands of his master. The dragoons on
foot now rushed into the linn, and discharged their muskets down the
abyss, thereby hoping to kill or wound some of the men who had taken
refuge there. But their bullets glanced harmlessly off the rocks; and at
length, wearied with their futile attempts to capture the Covenanters,
they departed, venting maledictions on all such rebels. For the space
of four days and nights did William Crosbie and his companions remained
concealed in Crichup Linn. Their food was regularly supplied by a
shepherd boy, who always managed to visit them unseen, and to furnish
them with information regarding the movements of the dragoons.
On the morning of the fifth day he brought the welcome tidings that the
soldiers, wearied of guarding the entrance to the linn, had abandoned
their post, and gone off in search of a more promising expedition. This
was indeed joyful news to the oppressed hearts of the Covenanters; and
when the shades of evening rendered their escape easy, they abandoned
their hiding-places, and set out for their respective habitations.
William Crosbie at once directed his steps towards Mrs. Armstrong's
cottage; the door of which was opened by Lucy in person. The meeting of
the lovers, after the fearful scene through which they had so lately
passed, may be better imagined than described. Suffice it to say that
Lucy clung to her lover's neck, and cried and laughed alternately; while
William Crosbie kissed the tears away, and whispered sweet words of
affection, which soon restored the rose to Lucy's cheek. During this
affecting scene, Mrs. Armstrong stood a little apart; her eyes were
filled with tears, and her lips moved as though engaged in mental
prayer. It was so. Her tears were to the memory of her husband and
son; while her prayer was for the continued happiness of those who had,
through the providence of God, been permitted to taste of joy after
having drunk so deeply of the cup of affliction. Lucy listened in
breathless awe as William Crosbie recounted the horrors he had
experienced during his solitary vigil in Crichup Linn; and in her turn
she related all that had befallen her since that fearful evening,
dwelling at considerable length on the more than brotherly kindness of
Lieutenant Musgrave, who had done everything in his power to render her
happy during the absence of her lover. "And what do you think,
William?" she said at the conclusion of her recital, "he has offered us
all a home in Cumberland; and my mother, to whom this part of the
country has now became unbearable, has decided upon accepting his kind
offer, so it only remains for you to consent to accompany us."
The answer her lover gave is not recorded; but that it was in the
affirmative may be gathered from the fact that in the course of a few
days Mrs. Armstrong, her family and her future son-in-law, set out on
their journey to another home. As the humble vehicle, which bore the
travellers, proceeded on its way, the eyes of Lucy, beaming with love
and happiness, were fixed on the blue hills of Cumberland, as they rose
up before her in yet distant beauty, while the tear-stained eyes of the
widow wandered back to the lowly cottage, which never seemed so dear to
her as at that instant when she was leaving it for ever. Youth was
looking hopefully to the future--age was ruminating sadly on the past.
On their arrival at their destination, they found Mr., no longer
Lieutenant, Musgrave in waiting to receive them; who, taking Mrs.
Armstrong by the hand, led her towards a lovely little cottage embowered
in woodbine and roses.
"This," he said, "is your home; and yonder," pointing as he spoke to a
smiling farm-house peeping out from amongst some venerable poplar-trees,
"stands the future residence of William and Lucy."
"O, sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Armstrong with streaming eyes, "your
kindness----"
"Nay, thank not me!" he replied with a smile, "it is the gift----"
"Of a grateful mother," said a soft womanly voice, and the speaker, a
mild-benevolent looking lady--whom Mr. Musgrave speedily introduced as
his mother--came forth from the cottage, and, with deep emotion,
welcomed the Scottish Covenanters to their English home.
At her bridal, which took place shortly after her arrival in Cumberland,
Lucy looked more than usually pretty in her simple white muslin dress;
while her neck was adorned with the gold chain given to her lover by the
grateful benefactor, to whom, they were proud to say, they owed all
their present happiness. Long and happily did William Crosbie and his
Lucy live on the shores of Cumberland; and even Mrs. Armstrong forgot,
for a while, the sorrows of the past, as she dandled her fair-haired
grandchildren on her knee. Some of the descendants of this worthy
family are still to be found on the banks of the Solway; and in their
possession may be seen the massive gold chain, which is carefully
treasured up by them in remembrance of the sufferings their forefathers
were called upon to endure in the dark and dismal days of persecution.
Still is the story of Claverhouse's daring leap related in the parish of
Closeburn; and the natural chair in which the young shoemaker sat during
his brief sojourn in Crichup Linn is pointed out to the curious visitor,
as