SHOWS HOW THE CAUSE SUFFERS MANY REVERSES
My dear Lady Erskine was so wrapt in the perusal of her brother’s
letter that she neither noticed my delay in quitting the bedroom, nor
my agitation when I joined her. For a moment it seemed to me that the
overwhelming emotion I had experienced must have left its mark upon my
face, that my eyes would betray it, and my lips tremble forth their
confession, without her saying one word. But the next instant it came
to me, as a woman, that the sweet and agitating secret was not mine
own, that indeed ’twas so vague and impalpable I scarce had the right
to regard its existence, and with the marvellous self-control that
comes to our sex in such crises, I closed the door behind me and slowly
followed my lady to her room.
The letter from the Master told us little that we had not already
heard, except that it gave us the names of many friends who were taken
prisoners to Stirling. Lord Strathallan among others, and his brother,
Mr. Thomas Drummond, Colonel Walkinshaw, the Laird of Barafield,
and Mr. Murray, younger, of Auchtertyre. He found time to lament in
touching words the sad death of young Lord Strathmore, than whom a
truer gentleman, or a braver soldier, never bore a sword. I give his
words as he wrote them--
“On our left the brave young Strathmore was killed. I can’t help
wishing he had kept his promise to me to honour me with being under
my command, and joyning my squadron. When he found all turning their
backs, he seized the Colours, and persuaded fourteen, or some such
number, to stand by him for some time, which drew upon him the enemie’s
fire by which he was wounded; and going off was taken and murdered by
a dragoon--a mill-stone crushing a brilliant. He was the young man of
all I ever saw who approached the nearest to perfection, and had a just
contempt of all the little lyes and selfish tricks so necessary to some
and so common among us.”
He told us also that Mr. Irvine of Drum, “a young gentleman of good
hopes, was ill wounded.” On the other side, my Lord Islay, the Duke’s
brother, was sore hurt; and the Earl of Forfar was so badly wounded,
that although he was taken prisoner by Mar, they could not carry him to
Perth, but sent him back to Stirling, where alas! he died next day.
The Master we learned in a later letter (and I beg you will forgive me
if I confuse the information got at different times), toiled and moiled
for hours with the cannon, wishing rather to bury them than to leave
them a gift to the enemy; but eventually he was obliged to abandon most
of them on the highroad to Ardoch, though some he did get to Perth. He
lost his way in the darkness, and rode about the moor half the night,
being indebted at last to the kindness of a gentleman, met by accident,
who carried him to Urchell where he had a few hours’ sleep.
Lord Panmure, of whose staunch courage I can never say enough, was,
as I told you, taken prisoner, but being grievously wounded, was left
in the hut of some peasants, where the good souls tended him kindly.
He was but slightly guarded, and was soon rescued by his brother, Mr.
Harry Maule, and taken to a safe place till he was a little recovered,
when he rejoined the army at Perth.
Indeed and indeed we had grounds enough for mourning, for not only were
we grieved by all this loss and suffering, but our hearts were heavy
because we knew not if the sacrifice was to bring its own reward; in
other words, we had begun to fear that success was not to crown our
efforts.
“It is not, Barbara,” said my lady to me, “that I think the Cause
unworthy, but it may be that God in His infinite wisdom has ordained
that it shall not prosper.”
And in how many minds this bitter doubt was growing up it would be
difficult to tell, for except in the privacy of our own closets, no
loyal tongue would give it voice.
But all this time my lady had no word from Sir John, and this, as you
may imagine, did not ease her burden. Our patient, too, was causing her
great anxiety, and for many days had been so ill that, by Mr. Peck’s
orders, no one but himself and one of the women appointed as nurse, was
allowed to enter his chamber.
The secretary went about with a troubled face, and for a little time we
feared the worst.
What this meant to me I cannot tell you; but in those days I first
learned the meaning of patience, not the meek and lifeless resignation
of the placid mind, but the discipline of soul which forces an outward
quiet, while the spirit within consumes itself in an agony of waiting.
Ah! how many times in her life has Barbara had to endure the same
fear, anxiety, and helpless longing; but at that time her heart was
fierce and wild, and her nature all unused to pain. I had grasped my
inheritance of happiness, only to have it wrenched from my hand. I had
stood and gazed into Heaven, and the door had been shut in my face.
What wonder that I struggled with indignation and surprise against this
blow of Fate, and that many secret tears bedewed my pillow?
It was a merciful relief to find very soon my hands and thoughts so
occupied that my private troubles must be pushed and hidden out of
sight. You must not imagine that Mr. Fleming was our only patient,
for in all the great houses round the scene of the battle, kind
hearts were moved to set up hospitals for the wounded, and you will
readily believe that Alva was not behind the rest in this work of
mercy. The men were mostly of the rank and file, for the officers were
made prisoners; and though on both sides there was much leniency and
courtesy shown, it was not to be expected in a conflict of this sort
that gentlemen of influence could be trusted in the houses of their
friends and sympathisers. A few of the worst cases Lady Erskine caused
to be brought into the house, but for the most part the men were
provided with accommodation in the barns and out-houses; and being
sturdy fellows, not used to lying soft, nor to delicate fare, they
very quickly responded to the kindness of their rescuers, and were
speedily healed of their wounds. One or two died, to our great sorrow,
especially when, as in the case of two of the Highlanders, who had no
English and could not make known to us more than their names, we were
unable to learn their wishes or bear any message to their friends.
I must not forget to tell you that outside our little world affairs had
not been prospering. You will remember that after the battle the Earl
of Mar drew off slowly to Perth, resting his exhausted army by the way,
and taking three or four days to perform the journey. But, ere they
reached the town, tidings were brought to the Earl of Seaforth that
Inverness had fallen to my Lord the Earl of Sutherland, and he with
General Gordon hurried north to prevent the victorious Earl from coming
south to threaten Perth. Another bitter disappointment followed, for
on Saturday the 19th day of November, my Lord Mar, having reached the
town, received there a despatch from Brigadier Mackintosh at Preston
in Lancashire, stating how they had taken that town, and hoped on the
morrow to march to Manchester. The Earl of Mar gave orders for what
proved to be premature rejoicings, for he set the bells a-ringing; and
next day, being Sunday, was made the occasion of a public thanksgiving.
But alas! in the midst of their jubilation another messenger arrived
from the same quarter with very sorry tidings to tell, namely: the
surrender of Preston to General Wills, and the complete collapse of the
rising in the north of England. Many of our bravest and most important
leaders were thus taken prisoners and carried to London, among them
the brave old Mackintosh, Lords Kenmure and Nithsdale, Lord Nairn and
the Earl of Wintoun, also of Englishmen, the young and popular Earl of
Derwentwater, my Lord Widdington, and Mr. Thomas Forster, a gentleman
of Northumberland. I leave you to imagine the effect of this dismal
news upon the already disaffected army at Perth. It did not take long
for the tidings to spread, though to us it was first conveyed in a
letter from the Master of Sinclair to his sister. Following hard upon
this disaster came rumours of the approach of English regiments from
across the border, and of the arrival of the Dutch troops on our
shores, and although these last did not come upon us for some weeks
yet, the fear of their invasion filled our hearts with terror.
In the midst of all this woe and trouble I can still recall two
happy events which, oddly enough, fell upon the same day, the 5th of
December, being just three weeks after the Battle of Sheriffmuir. Very
early in the morning, my lady, coming to the door to give some order,
descried in the wan light the figure of a man hurrying along the broad
walk which gave upon the highroad. He was dressed in the rough garb
of a common sailor, but his face when he came nearer was clean and
intelligent, and he doffed his hat with a certain courtesy of manner
not quite in keeping with the dress.
My lady eyed him keenly, and demanded what she could do for him. He
replied by taking a packet from his breast and holding it out before
her eyes, but he did not utter a word. It was a letter addressed to
herself, and in her husband’s writing. Most gladly did she seize it
from him, asking eagerly how he had come by it, and a dozen other
questions in a breath; but the man merely smiled and bowed, making
signs as though he were dumb. Whether this was so or not, we were never
able to discover, but all the time he was at Alva (and you may be sure
he was well-fed and well-paid ere he left), he never spoke, nor made
the least attempt at communicating with any. He departed as silently
and mysteriously as he came, and we never, to my knowledge, heard of
him again.
Howbeit he had brought light and gladness into my lady’s heart and
relief to the whole household, so that we were better attuned for the
hearing of further good news in the assurance of Mr. Peck that Captain
Fleming was now convalescent, and might receive visits from the inmates
of the house. My lady, it is true, had seen him once or twice during
the past week; but now she called me, and bidding me take Charles as
companion, sent me into the sick-room with a cup of coffee for the
invalid.
Now you must know that ever since we had been escorted home by Mr.
Fleming and his troopers, our little lads had talked incessantly of
“Captain Anthony”--how brave he was, how tall; what a great horse he
rode, and how kind he looked when he smiled. Since our adventure in the
glen, Charles had enacted the interesting scene many times in his play,
he, himself, being the wounded soldier, and little Hal taking now the
part of Cha, running breathless down the dark road, now of Barbara,
ministering to the unconscious man alone. It was with feelings,
therefore, of great and awe-struck delight that the boy put his hand
in mine as I stood before the door of the bed-room, and at my bidding
knocked. Upon our entering, I was relieved to find the gentleman up and
sitting in a chair by the hearth. His face was pale and thin, for the
fever had been high; but his eyes were clear and bright, and he held
out his hand with a smile.
“Forgive me, Mistress Barbara,” he cried, “that I cannot rise to greet
you; and accept my best thanks for the kindness of your visit.”
Charles walked up to him and shook him gravely by the hand.
“I am pleased to see you, sir,” he said in his old-fashioned way, “and
Cousin Barbara and I are very glad that we found you in the glen.”
“Hush, Charles!” cried I. “Remember your mama said you were not to talk
too much.”
“This is not ‘too much,’ Barbe,” returned the boy, “and you know we
_are_ glad!”
“Pardon me, madam,” said Mr. Fleming, when he had, at my bidding, drunk
the coffee. “It will amuse me greatly and do me no harm if you permit
your little cousin to explain himself. I imagined that I was found by
some of my Lady Erskine’s men, sent out to look for stragglers in the
hills.”
I could only smile and give my permission, begging him at the same
time to make all allowances for the childish narrator. I seated myself
a little way off, and hoped that the child would say nothing I should
regret; but at the same time I was not averse to the idea that my
friend should know to whom, in all probability, he owed his life.
“You see, sir,” said Charles, standing by the chair, and putting his
little hand on Mr. Fleming’s knee, “my mama had sent my Cousin Barbara
with some comforts to a poor woman in the glen, and I was sent with her
as her protector. There was nothing, truly, to protect her from, but
there might have been, you know! And I was of some use too--of a great
deal of use, wasn’t I, Barbe? For ’twas I that saw you first, sir,
under the bush.”
“Yes, indeed,” I said, “your sharp little eyes descried Mr. Fleming
before mine did.”
“Then Cousin Barbe went and looked at you, and at first she thought you
were dead, but I knew you weren’t for I saw you breathing. And then
she said would I be frighted to run back to the house alone for help,
and I said ‘no;’ but I was, you know, a good deal frighted--’specially
when the pig grunted, and I thought ’twas a Highlander after me! But I
runned very fast, and got to the house all safe.”
He stopped for breath, and his listener patted him on the head.
“Bravo, little comrade! That is the true courage, to be a good deal
frighted but still to go on. And what of Mistress Barbara left alone?”
“Oh,” said Charles, “I think Barbara was frighted too, for you wouldn’t
wake up; and it was very cold and dark, and she took off her plaid and
put it over you, and ran all the way back to the hut for brandy, and
made you, _made_ you take some, and rubbed your hands, and--”
“Come, that will do, my lad!” I exclaimed, my cheeks very hot, my heart
beating quick, for my friend had turned to look at me, and there was
that in his eyes which I found it not easy to meet.
“Nay!” cried Charles, carried away by his own tale, “I have but one
thing more to say. Do you know, Captain Anthony, she did all that, and
you never--even--said ‘Thank you!’”
At that we both laughed heartily till the boy, not comprehending,
began to look uncomfortable, and Mr. Fleming, taking his hand, said
seriously.
“You must forgive me, Charles, as I can only hope your cousin does.
But to make up for my rudeness, I mean to go on thanking her all my
life--if she will let me!”
The last words were uttered in a lower tone, and his eyes were again
fixed on my face. Charles ran off to the window, some noise outside
attracting him, and I took the opportunity to say as carelessly as I
might,
“You make too much, sir, of a trivial kindness, which any woman would
have performed for a wounded man.”
“No doubt, madam,” he answered gravely, leaning forward in his chair,
“but that cannot lessen my gratitude, for my life is incomparably sweet
and precious to me now. You gave it back to me, and were it not too
early in our acquaintance, I would say I herewith offer it to you--nay,
listen, madam! Ever since that first morning when I saw you, with your
sweet face pale with terror, and your eyes appealing to any chivalry
that was left in man, my one thought, outside my duty as a soldier, has
been to be worthy to care for and protect you all through life, so that
if my faithful love could shield you, you should never suffer fear or
pain again.”
I made no answer and my eyes were hid. “This, I know, is not the time
to talk of such things,” he went on, “neither do I expect a prize so
exquisite to fall into my hand at the first touch. Grant me but time,
madam, to prove my honesty in the words of the motto of our house,
‘_Let deed show_,’ and if Heaven be so kind as to preserve me in future
dangers, give me leave to come to you again.”
Did ever maid listen to such perfect wooing! Ah! Barbara, happy
Barbara, did not that hour atone for all your pain? Even as I write,
an old and faded woman, my heart gives a throb of bliss when I think
of it. How good God is, how tender and loving, when He grants us, all
undeserving as we are, our heart’s desire!
I said not a word in answer, but rose and went to him and gave him both
my hands. As he seized them and pressed them to his lips, a footstep
sounded in the passage, and the next moment Mr. Peck entered, telling
us in his kindly nervous way that he thought his patient would be the
better of a rest.
“Ah! Mr. Peck,” cried my dear Anthony gaily, “their visit has done
me more good than all your medicines, though but for your kind and
constant care, good friend, I should never have been able to profit by
it.”
Charles now came forward and looked at him inquisitively.
“Are you going to be well very soon, Captain Anthony?” he said.
“I hope so, little comrade,” was the reply. “You know there is much
work to be done still for the King.”
“Ay,” said Charles, “but I shall be sorry when you go away. My papa,
Sir John, says in his letter that the King is coming to Scotland in a
few days.”
“God grant he be not too late!” groaned Mr. Peck, but we did not heed
him, and taking a kindly leave of our friend we left the room.
Four days later, my lady had the pleasure of another letter from Sir
John, and wrote to him the following in reply. And here I may say that
the fears she had expressed to me about their correspondence were
justified, for this tender but cautious epistle missed Sir John at this
time, and lay for two months at St. Germains, where he found it on the
15th of February on his second visit to France.
LETTER III
“MY DEAREST LIFE,
I received yours of the 20th and another of the
29th of Nov., which were both most acceptable, but they had both
been long by the way, for it was the 5 of Dec. before I received the
first. You are much mistaken in thinking I was displeas’d with you
for leaveing this country. I doe assure you I thought it a lucky
providence, and, tho I was in fear from not hearing from you, yett
it was easy to bear in comparison of what terror I must have had if
you had been in the danger some other of our freinds have been in. I
suppose you know all our difficultys from better hands long ere now,
and by that you may guess the torment and fear and terrible horror I
must be in for you and many others. If I had known your adress I had
writ to you three weeks ago and beg’d of you to stay where you was
till you saw how things would be. I writ to your Brother in hopes he
would learn itt from some att Edinr., but he told me he could not,
and you was soon expected, and I was so far from wishing you soon
back, I was afraid to hear of your return. I pray God send a happy
end to all, for I am just where I was and my hops are still very
faint, that person you mention in yours not being come yett. Your
children are very well, and all your other friends. I doe not wish to
hear you are returned, but when you doe, pray God you may be saffe,
which is the earnest wish of her who is intirely
Yours.
Dec. 10.
I am better than could be expected, all things considered. If you can
have any reasonable pretence to stay, doe not come by any means. Mr.
Peck gives you his most humble service, so does Aunt B. and I.”