SHOWS HOW WE ARE SWEPT INTO THE STREAM OF EVENTS
We had scarce been at home a day, when we seemed to be drawn into the
current that was setting towards active warfare, whether we would or no.
Not content with doing her best to guard her own property, my Lady
Erskine was diligent to lend what help she could to our party in
various ways. Having heard from her brother at Perth of an expedition
being sent, under Major Graham, to levy a cess, as it was called,
in Dunfermline, which, being a Whiggish town, was not too ready to
pay taxes to King James, she sent out scouts from among her trusted
servants, who were to pick up information in a private way, and had
orders from her to act according to what they heard. My Lady Alva
being much beloved by the country-folk, and on good terms with all
her neighbours, her people had little difficulty in learning the
doings of both parties, and acted with no little discretion in several
emergencies. On this occasion the force from Perth made the mistake of
taking their way among the hills so as to avoid the direct road, and in
so doing passed “under the nose,” as the Master put it, of the small
garrison placed by the Duke of Argyle in Castle Campbell above the
little village of Dollar. The reason of this detour we were never able
to understand, for, as a natural consequence, news of the expedition
was immediately sent to the Duke at Stirling, who ordered Colonel
Cathcart with a party of dragoons to start at once for the threatened
town. This coming to my lady’s ears, she despatched a trusty servant on
a fleet horse to warn Major Graham of the movements of the enemy; and
we all awaited his return with some anxiety, which greatly increased
when three days had passed and the worthy man had not returned home. My
lady was making up her mind to send a second messenger after the first,
when early in the morning of the fourth day, poor Andrew arrived at the
house, hungry and cold and much crest-fallen. Upon my lady bidding him
into her presence, and asking the reason of his tardy return, he told a
tale which caused his mistress much chagrin, and covered the narrator
himself with confusion.
Colonel Cathcart, it seems, had reached the town before him, but not
caring to enter it until the middle of the night, he with his dragoons
lay without the walls in the dark, sending spies hither and thither to
bring him word as to how things were within. Into this watchful company
poor Andrew, all unwittingly, fell; and while they did not ill-treat
him they took from him his horse, and by dint of threats compelled him
to act as guide to those who would enter the town. This they did about
two o’clock in the morning, and as it seems the gentlemen were all
abed, and the watch very carelessly kept, the enemy were among them
before they were aware. Some few were killed, and Colonel Cathcart took
eighteen gentlemen prisoners. He did not wait to follow up his success,
but the result was the same as if he had done so, for the startled
invaders waited not to reason or to fight, but fled from the place on
horse or on foot until all were escaped in various directions. Our poor
Andrew was carried back to Stirling by the dragoons, kept in durance
for two nights and a day, and on disclosing his name and occupation was
liberated early on the second morning and bidden to make his way home.
I think I have never seen my lady so angry as she became upon the
recital of this shameful tale. The carelessness and indifference of
the King’s officers, sent upon so important a mission, appeared to her
criminal in a high degree. Such waste of life and loss of property,
where a little foresight and military precision would have saved all,
rankled in her mind and set her brain and heart on fire. But angry as
she was, it did not prevent her making the attempt to save another
party sent on a like errand, under Lord George Murray, a week or
two later, and this time her interference was crowned with success.
Our good Andrew was again her emissary; and he not only succeeded
in reaching the town in time to warn Lord George of the approach of
the dragoons, but made the attempt by his own observation to further
benefit our party a little. He returned to Alva without delay, and in
high disgust informed his mistress that his entry into Dunfermline had
been all too easy, for not a single sentry was set, and no opposition
was made, nor question put to the visitor. My lady shared the good
man’s righteous indignation.
“Are they _all_ fools in my Lord Mar’s army?” she exclaimed in great
vexation. “Sure, never was so much negligence shown, or such ignorance
allowed to flourish. I heartily wish we might take an example by the
enemy, who, as you know, place sentries in all the passages of the
hills within two miles of this house, when taking away my corn and
straw. This news of their carelessness shall reach the Earl’s ears
before many hours are over, for I shall write a letter to my brother
this very day, with the request to have it shown at headquarters.”
Which she accordingly did, and sent it to the Master by a sure hand;
but whether it produced the effect she desired, we had no opportunity
of judging.
* * * * *
One afternoon in the beginning of November, having returned from
walking abroad with Phemie and the little boys who were anxious to
visit their favourite haunts before the winter set in, I found my dear
Lady Erskine seated in her own room with a letter in her lap and the
traces of tears upon her face. I ran to her, eager to know the reason
of her grief, but she would not suffer me to condole with her.
“Indeed, I am but a foolish woman, my dear,” she said with a smile,
though her voice quivered, “and not fit to be the wife of an officer
immersed in affairs. Here is Sir John sent off to France at very short
notice, and Heaven knows when we shall see him again! I ought to feel
glad and proud that he is trusted with business of so great moment; but
I must own the thought of being without him for so many weeks is very
bitter to me.”
“Oh, and to me too, madam!” I cried foolishly. “The house is not the
same without him. Pray, cousin, is this important business a secret, or
may I know what it is?”
“’Tis not to be talked of to all and sundry,” my lady replied, “but
you may see here what he says for your own satisfaction,” and she gave
me the letter, pointing to these words which Sir John had written.
“_Having orders from Mar to presse the King’s coming, and the sending
over officers, arms and ammunition, and in particular to inform Earl
Bolingbroke how much all these are wanted._”
“An onerous task truly,” sighed my lady, “and I pray God he may
succeed; and above all that he may be kept from harm, and brought safe
back to us who love him.”
“Amen!” cried I fervently, greatly impressed by the importance of Sir
John’s mission, and realising full well my lady’s sorrow at being thus
parted from her husband.
“I think the heaviest end of my burden,” said she, “lies in the fact
that under the circumstances his letters to me may be long delayed,
and mine may never reach him. You see here he was despatched upon the
28th October, and ’tis now the 6th day of November, yet this letter has
never left Britain. Situated as we are, Sir John being an agent in the
Jacobite interests, he cannot trust his papers and despatches to the
common post nor, can I address letters openly to him, who has reason
for keeping his movements private. This, Barbara, I foresee, will
constitute one of my worst troubles in the coming time. It is no little
relief for one so indeterminate as myself to be able to pour out my
difficulties on paper to him who is my best friend, and to be certain
of receiving sympathy and counsel and safe advice in return.”
“Sir John does not say when he will return, madam?” I asked.
“Alas! child, he probably knows as little about that as we do. My only
comfort is, that for the moment he is out of danger, should the Earl
of Mar decide to give battle as my brother in his last epistle gives a
hint of.”
“He talked of the Earl coming south did he not?”
“Ay, he intends to cross over the Forth above Stirling into the
Lowlands, and so march into England to join the friends there. My
brother, to be sure, sees a hundred difficulties and dangers, the
chief being the impossibility of making use of the fords in face of
the enemy, for the Duke of Argyle has them very well guarded, and as
we heard yesterday has cut the bridge of Doune which is the only way
to reach them; how it will end, I know not. The country is already
bare and destitute, and the poor folk reduced almost to beggary. They
tremble at the rumours of a horde of wild Highlandmen being let loose
upon them, for brave and loyal as the clansmen are, Barbara, they
are a rough and undisciplined set, and were it for nothing else but
to satisfy their hunger they must needs make raids upon many of the
peaceful farms and cottages.”
“Truly,” said I soberly, “civil war is a grievous thing, and the
working out of King James’s Restoration is not quite the exciting
romance I foolishly pictured it.”
“They are to march from Perth by Dunning, Auchterarder and Dunblane,”
said my lady, “so that we are luckily not in the direct route. But
with several thousand horse and foot sweeping along in one direction,
many will spread out over the hills and may even be diverted into this
road to reach the south, should their passage of the Fords of Forth
prove impossible. We can but take all precautions for the safety of the
stockin’, and be you very careful, child, to keep close to the house
these days lest any harm befall you.”
Not the least of the troubles for the country folk at this time was the
wintry weather which now began, for a frost so severe and so continuous
set in, that their privations were greatly increased. On the night of
the tenth there was a slight sprinkling of snow, which was only the
forerunner of the heavy storms that all that winter continued to fall.
Aunt Betty Erskine, who was with us, suffered much from the cold,
which with the sad state of matters in the country afforded her ample
grounds for grumbling and discontent; but my lady bore it all with
exemplary patience, her mind in truth being fully occupied with other
matters.
We were living in a state of expectation, not unmixed with dread, for
no one knew what might take place next.
My Lord Mar and his army could not, we judged, remain much longer
inactive at Perth. Indeed there were already impatient voices heard
condemning him for the lack of energy, or the excess of caution,
which kept him from coming to issues with the Duke of Argyle. The
latter nobleman was lodged in his own house at Stirling (the Earl of
Stirling’s mansion, as it was still called, tho’ it had now belonged
to the Argyle family for about fifty years) at the head of the Castle
Wynd, and his forces lay in the King’s Park. His design was to prevent
the Insurgents getting besouth Forth, and being a good General he kept
himself well informed by his spies and scouts of all the movements
going on at Perth.
I need not tell you now, who are by no means ignorant of the history
of your country, that the remembrance of those November days and all
that occurred in them is fraught with humiliation to me. The Battle of
Sheriffmuir has long ago become a word of scorn in the ears of Whig
and Jacobite alike. The tears caused by its tragedy (for no battle is
wanting in that element) were scarcely dried, ere the humour of it
struck the common people, who, whatever our English friends may say
(and I have often heard the Scots accused of melancholy and gloom) are
not slow to perceive the comic side of a thing. It became the subject
of much ribald rhyme, and the great men engaged on either side were not
spared by the rhymsters. But without stopping to give you my comments
on this unlucky affair, I will try to tell you what happened in our
own small sphere, in which I well remember we experienced as much
excitement, terror, anxiety and amazement, as if we had been witnesses
of the entire drama.
On Saturday afternoon, the 12th day of November, one of my lady’s
messengers, who were posted secretly among the hills and on the roads,
came in hot haste to say that a mighty host, horse and foot, was on
the road between Auchterarder and Dunblane. Scarcely had we realised
the significance of these tidings, when another arrived with the news
that the Duke of Argyle had marched out from Stirling about noon, and
was also approaching Dunblane from the other side. What consternation
ensued among us! Were they each aware, we wondered, of the other’s
proximity, or would they fall upon each other without warning? My
lady, whose faith in my Lord Mar’s skill as a General was not so great
as she could have wished, felt tolerably certain that the meeting,
if it occurred, would come as a surprise to their side at least. She
therefore sent off a trusty man, a shepherd, swift of foot and well
acquainted with the hills, to find her brother who was with the Earl,
and deliver him a letter in which she gave him as much information as
possible of Argyle’s movements. This the shepherd, Allan Maclean, had
orders to deliver to the Master of Sinclair only if he found the army
dangerously near Dunblane and all unwarned. The messenger despatched,
my lady set us all to work, preparing food, baking bread, brewing
cordials, looking out old garments, and in every way she could think
of making ready for emergencies should a battle be fought in our
neighbourhood.
It was quite dark and about nine of the clock when Allan returned, not
having reached Lord Mar’s army. He had been told by several of the
country folk upon the roads that my Lady Kippendavie had already sent
to warn them early in the afternoon, and the leaders had decided to
bivouack for the night in a hollow place near the little village of
Kinbuck. Here, as we were told afterwards by the Master, eight thousand
men were packed into so small a space, that “it could not,” he wrote,
“be properly said they had a front or a rear, more than it can be said
of a barrel of herrings.” By the kindness of Providence it did not
occur to my Lord of Argyle to plan an attack that night, otherwise, as
our informant told us, the entire force might have been slaughtered
almost before they could defend themselves. The horses were picketted
in the small kailyards of two farm-houses, while the officers found
quarters where they could in house or barn. It was a bitter cold
night, the frost being very hard, and many a time I waked to think
of the poor men of both armies shivering under the stars. But such
privations were common, I knew, in time of war, and worse would surely
follow.
The next day being Sunday, we rose with mingled feelings, not knowing
what the day might bring forth. Very early came a lad with a message
for my lady from the minister, to say that, “There wad be nae Sabbath
the day.” This meant, as you know, that the church was not open, and
that no services were held either at Alva or in any of the neighbouring
parishes, the people all being gone out to _see the battle_. To my
lady, ever of a serious and pious nature, this proceeding did not
commend itself.
“For where,” she asked, “was it more fitting we should spend our time,
or carry our burdens on such a day, than into the House of God?”
But as the ministers were gone after their flocks, no bells were rung
and the church doors remained closed.
As the hours wore on, we heard from time to time items of news which
gave us some idea of the proceedings taking place within a few miles
of the house. A spur of the Ochils, as you will remember, lies between
Alva and Dunblane, but by climbing the hills a good view could be had
of all the country round. On a clear winter day, such as this was, one
could see for many miles, and it was plain to our watchers that about
noon the two armies had met on the rising ground of Sheriffmuir and
that the fighting had begun. The noise of the cannon and fusils was
plain to be heard in the frosty air, and sent panic into our hearts,
for we were new to the idea of war; and now that the worst had come,
I, for one, was no more anxious for the destruction of the Government
troops than of those on our own side. Oh, indeed I fear that little of
the world’s fighting would have been done had it been left to the women
to decide, and yet I know not in truth if they could have devised any
better method for settling many difficulties.
With my lady’s leave, I climbed the hill in company with Mr. Rose, the
grieve, and sat there during the short afternoon, my eyes fixed upon
the distant scene in a strange turmoil of hope and fear. Little could
I see save the smoke of the guns, and masses of men moving or running
among the undulating hills, in what seemed a very aimless way. But the
noise of the firing, the clash of steel, the wild hoarse cries of the
Highlanders as they rushed on their foes, made strange clamour in the
peaceful upper air of that un-Sabbathlike Sunday afternoon. It would
require the pen of a person skilled in warfare to explain the movements
of both armies from so great a distance, for to me it was mostly
confusion, and I scarce knew what I expected to see when I begged to
be allowed to climb the hill. Perhaps I imagined a mighty host from
the north rushing furiously upon the Government troops, so that in the
course of an hour or so they should be completely annihilated, or only
a remnant left to cry quarter, as the Earl of Mar pushed triumphant on
to Stirling Castle. If so, I was mightily disappointed, for as dusk
fell it seemed that the fighting ceased; both parties appeared to
stand at gaze, motionless themselves, but watching for the movements
of the other. Then Argyle’s men were seen to draw off along the road
to Dunblane, and the Earl of Mar’s army marched slowly away northwards
towards Ardoch.
“Is it finished?” I cried to Mr. Rose, rising to my feet. “Is this all?
Which side has won? Will they fight again to-morrow?”
For so quickly had the end come, that I was plunged in amazement and
perplexity, and could scarce realise that I had been witness of a
genuine battle.
The grieve shook his head doubtfully.
“Deed, missy, I couldna say,” he answered. “But it’s time ye were back
in the hoose wi’ my lady, I’m thinkin’.”
And stiff with the cold, and burdened with a dull weight of
apprehension which I did not understand, I made my way down the hill
which was now shrouded in darkness.
I found the house in the deepest gloom, for to my surprise not a
lantern or taper had been lit, and as I mounted the stairs I heard the
sound of loud weeping coming from one of the rooms of which the door
was open. I entered quickly and a curious scene met my eyes. My lady
was seated upon a couch, little Hal whimpering on her knees, while
Charles leant against her side and gazed fearfully up in her face.
Phemie stood silent and grim beside her, while all the other women of
the house, some in attitudes of despair upon the floor, some supporting
each other in their arms, were sobbing and wailing as if the last day
had come. My lady’s face was a study, so white, so set, so stern, and
with eyes fixed in a stare so fateful, that for a moment my heart was
in my mouth, as the saying is, and I imagined nothing less than that
the awful tidings of the death of Sir John had reached her. At the
thought I rushed into the room, crying out,
“For Heaven’s sake, madam, what is amiss? Pray, Phemie, bid those women
hold their peace, and tell me what has happened. Is it Sir John? Why
looks my lady so?”
While Phemie tried to quiet the maids, my lady turned to answer me,
and the effort seemed to break the frozen spell that held her, for the
tears welled up in her eyes and rolled down her face.
“Oh, Barbara, did you not see--have you not heard? The battle is over
and Argyle hath vanquished Mar, whose army is broken and fleeing to the
hills. The Cause is lost, my girl, and we are undone. The kindest thing
to do now is to stop the King from coming over, and did I but know
where to address Sir John, I would send a despatch to France this very
night.”
Utterly bewildered I tried to put into sane words what I had just
witnessed from the hill, but as I spoke I felt that I was not
convincing my audience.
“A battle there was surely, madam,” I said, “but indeed there was no
rout of my Lord Mar’s army. It drew off when the dusk fell as orderly
as the other, and if I am not mistaken they have but retired for the
night to fight again to-morrow.”
Even while they looked at me, trying to take in my words of hope, a
clamour arose in the courtyard, and a great voice shouted, “Hurrah!”
I flew to the window, and opening it wide, leaned out. A group of men
holding torches were round the door, and among them I could see the
shepherd, Allan Maclean, who appeared to have but just arrived among
them.
“What news?” I cried. “What news, men? Is it Allan Maclean that has
brought them?”
The men looked up, and seeing that my lady had joined me, surrounded by
the agitated women, they tossed their bonnets into the air, shouting,
“Victory, my leddy, victory for my Lord Mar! A gran’ fecht, and
Argyle’s beaten! Lang live King Jamie, and doun wi’ German Geordie.”
Now on hearing these cries, my lady turned and caught my hand, and we
looked in each other’s faces, perplexed; and there was something so
whimsical in the occurrence (also the relief of the reaction was so
great), that we both burst out laughing, and stood there swaying to and
fro till we became exhausted with our mirth and were obliged to stop.
“Sure,” said my dear lady, wiping her eyes, “this is the strangest
battle that ever was fought, where both sides claim the victory, and
neither has suffered defeat. For the Stirling folk, we are told, are
rejoicing over their success as heartily as Allan Maclean, and have
already spread abroad about the town that my Lord Mar’s forces are
utterly broken.”
“That,” cried I, “I am convinced they are not; but how far the rest
is true or untrue I fear we must wait till the morrow to learn. Oh,
madam, ’tis pity that the field lies so far from us--there must be many
wounded and dying. To think of them lying out in this bitter cold nigh
breaks my heart. Pray God none of your own people are among them!”
“Alas!” she sighed, “if all is not well with them, they are either dead
or taken prisoners. But I would fain succour the others, even as you
would, Barbara, were we not too distant here. To-morrow we must see
what can be done. Ah, my dear, how could we laugh so heartily just now,
when some of our kindest neighbours and friends may be lying stark and
stiff on Sheriffmuir?”
And I hope you will not despise us when you hear that upon that we both
sat down and wept.