HOW WE HEAR TIDINGS THAT MAKE OUR HEARTS ACHE, AND ILL PREPARE US FOR
THE GREAT SURPRISE
The short afternoon was closing in. The snow was falling steadily and
soft, for there was no wind and the frost still held. We sat at work in
the hall, being gathered there for warmth, for in this hard winter when
so many poor were abroad, my lady thought shame to burn coal freely,
choosing rather to give it away to her poorer neighbours, who, you may
be sure, blessed her for the thought. She had bidden us bring our work
and sit by her as she span, for she knew how restless and unhappy we
were, and hoped perhaps to ease her own burdened heart by friendly and
intimate talk.
We had that day had news which moved my lady sadly. For General
Cadogan, who shortly before had arrived at Stirling, having been sent
from the Court in London to urge the Duke of Argyle to immediate
action, had brought with him an order to deprive Colonel Erskine of
the Command of the Castle, and to send him, together with his son,
John, under a Guard to London, where he was to be lodged in the Fleet
prison. The thought of the poor old gentleman being made to suffer the
hardships of the long journey in this cruel winter weather, was very
bitter to us all, and to be obliged to sit helpless and do nothing but
talk, was, as Betty cried impatiently, the worst of it.
“I am convinced,” my lady said, again and again, “that nothing can be
found against them save their relationship to Sir John, and my Lord
Mar’s friendship for the Colonel, and that, as you know, has lasted
many years and is quite unconnected with this affair. ’Twould be
unreasonable indeed to think it.”
“Oh, sister,” cried Betty vehemently, “do you think those fools have
any reason? If they had, would they not know that it is _they_ who are
in the wrong, and stop all this cruel opposition? But for poor Colonel
Erskine I agree with all you say, and I must own I hope the good
gentleman may be treated with all the care and respect he deserves.”
“’Tis done to spite the Earl of Mar,” said my lady, “you may be sure.
The Governorship has been in his family for hundreds of years, and my
uncle holds it for him as his Lieutenant. I am not so blind as not to
see they are in the right to make a change at such a time, but ’tis
neither kind nor just to send a harmless old man to prison at such a
distance, in weather like this.”
“Who will take his place, madam, think you?” asked I.
“’Tis an open secret that the Government will offer it to Lord Rothes,”
said Betty. “That has long been talked in Fife.”
“Well,” said my lady, “he is a humane and generous enemy; we have
little to fear from him. If only they had confined the Colonel in
Blackness or Edinburgh Castle, and saved him the horrors of that long
journey to London.”
And again the tears came to her eyes, for there was a tender friendship
between these two, and my lady would have guarded the old man with a
daughter’s care.
There was nothing to say to comfort her, and we sat silent, weaving our
sad thoughts into our work as women will, for each of us had, as you
know, our private weight of woe. My own heart was away with the King’s
army, wondering and pondering over the welfare of one of his least
important officers; poor Betty, I knew, was following her brother in
his ignominious flight, and my dear lady, besides her other troubles,
had ever the fear for Sir John’s safety upon her mind.
It was while we were sitting thus, wrapped in gloom, that a messenger
arrived with news for my lady. With a sigh she bade him enter, fearing
that, like Job, she was about to hear of disaster upon disaster. And
so, indeed, it proved. This man was come to tell us how his Grace of
Argyle had set the country people to work, to the number of about two
thousand, to clear the roads of the snow, so as to make it possible
for his army to march to Perth; and scarcely was he finished speaking
when there arrived one of our neighbours, Mr. Abercrombie of Tullibody
I think it was, who broke to us the awful news of the burning of the
villages. I will not shock you now by describing the way in which the
deed was done, for officers, I suppose, are not wholly responsible
for the actions of the soldiery, and sure I am that those who gave
the order had no thought of thieving, or plundering from the poor
people, whom they believed themselves obliged to render homeless; but
neither was it necessary to take them by surprise at four o’clock in
the morning, and turn them out of their beds in scant attire in the
bitter cold. Long before Mr. Abercrombie, himself much moved, had come
to an end of his recital, we sat horrified and with streaming eyes
around him, seeing as he spoke the women with their infants, the feeble
old men, the tottering children, hungry and naked, driven ruthlessly
through the snow.
“And who dare issue an order so monstrous?” cried Betty at last, being
ever the first to find her tongue. “Who among our people could invent
so diabolical a measure?”
“Ah, madam,” said our guest sadly, “all is fair in war ’tis said, and
if we can embarrass the enemy we think little of the means taken to do
so. The order was signed by the Chevalier himself, as was necessary, he
being at the head of his army.”
“I’ll not believe it!” cried Betty. “He is a humane and gentle prince.
I’ll never believe he understood what he wished them to do.”
“Why, Bess, my dear,” said my lady, “’twas sure not by his good will
’twas done; but can you not see that if his General Officers advised
it, the King must put his name to the order?”
“Ay, sister,” wailed Betty, “and can _you_ not see the folly of it,
even apart from the cruelty? I say that they have betrayed their King.
Who will believe in the reluctance of his Majesty? Who will ever know
anything of it? Whatever happens now, this deed that has been done
in his name will cling to the memory of the people. Whenever he is
mentioned their hearts will burn within them at the thought of it.
Never, never will they do him justice, but will remember him only as
the cause of their misery and ruin for ever.”
My lady bowed her head sadly, and I wept the more, for Betty’s burning
words fell upon our ears like a solemn prophecy, and we knew that her
words were true. ’Twas indeed a miserable and mistaken act, long, long
to be rued among us.
“I hear,” said Mr. Abercrombie, “that the barony of Dalreoch, belonging
to Mr. Haldane of Gleneagles, is utterly destroyed; straw and corn and
fodder being heaped around the houses and then set alight, and the
servants and farm people having barely escaped with their lives. They
looked to find horses and cattle for their use, but those have long ago
been carried off.”
“I am sorry for my sister,” said my lady, “but they suffer only with
the rest; and she at least has the comfort of knowing that her husband
is on the safe side of the fence. We are told, sir, that the Duke is
pushing on towards Perth. Is it known in that town of his approach?”
“Oh, without doubt,” replied our visitor, “and for some time they have
been occupied fortifying the place; but I have private information,
madam, that ’tis likely the army may retire to Aberdeen, rather than
stay to be besieged in Perth. And after all this may be the safer
method to draw Argyle further from his base.”
“Why, indeed, I am glad to hear this,” cried my lady, (for since the
departure of her brother from Perth, we had heard but little news from
that quarter); “they will fight him further north, and for one thing
they will be nearer the sea, so that the troops when they arrive from
France may be able to join them without delay.”
I thought that Mr. Abercrombie looked dubious at the mention of troops,
but he did not discourage my lady, and after some more talk, which I am
bound to say he endeavoured to lead into a more cheerful channel, he
went away.
But it was impossible to hide from ourselves, and from each other,
that our hopes were very faint indeed and our fears greatly increased.
We could talk and think of little save those poor, starving, suffering
folk in the Stewarty of Strathearn, and many were the plans arranged
by Lady Erskine to send them help of food and clothing, tho’ the poor
about her own doors were numerous and necessitous enough.
Meantime the enemy, having once begun to act, seemed bent on losing no
more time. The great fall of snow, which was everywhere two or three
feet deep, was followed by another hard frost, and the roads were thus
rendered extremely difficult. But the Duke, urged on by his orders from
Court, was only waiting for the arrival of some regiments from Glasgow,
and artillery from Berwick and Edinburgh. The storm having delayed a
train of artillery from England under Colonel Borgard, it arrived in
the Roads of Leith late one Saturday afternoon, and marching with all
possible speed to Stirling, reached that place in time to join the main
army in its march northwards. Once again upon a Sunday could be seen
the dark stream of horse, foot, and artillery winding slowly along
the snowy road, and though the Duke went no further that day than to
Dunblane, a detachment was sent forward to the Castle of Braco, which
however they found deserted. And still we had to sit and nurse our
fears in patience, and for a whole long week we suffered the martyrdom
that women in all ages of the world have suffered, that of sitting at
home and waiting.
All sorts of rumours continued to fly about, and friendly neighbours
came to discuss whatever they heard. There had been a battle--the
King’s army was stricken--nay, the French troops had arrived in time
and Argyle had had the worst of it. There had been no fight, but half
the Highland chiefs had surrendered and asked for protection, indeed
they had delivered the King’s person to his Grace of Argyle who was
bringing him in triumph to Edinburgh; or again the King had been
crowned at Scone, and upon hearing of it the greater number of Argyle’s
soldiers, excepting always the Dutch troops, had deserted to the enemy.
These and other wild stories were afloat, to be listened to, frowned
at, laughed over, and, for the most part, rejected, but nothing so wild
and improbable as the truth ever entered our heads.
It was not until Tuesday, the 7th of February, that the final blow
came, and again it was Mr. Abercrombie that brought the news. The
King’s army had evacuated Perth, it is true, and under General Gordon
had retired upon Aberdeen; but the King, accompanied by the Earl of
Mar, and one or two other noblemen, had embarked at Montrose three days
before, and were now well on their way back to France.
It was impossible to palliate or disguise the bitter fact, and our
informant blurted it out in the shortest and plainest words. What
terror we were in, what surprise and disappointment, what shame and
chagrin we suffered, I will leave you to imagine. By degrees we learnt
that there had been no council held by the General Officers before
taking this step, that only a few intimates of my Lord Mar knew of it,
and that the rest were full of rage and indignation, considering that
they had been betrayed and abandoned to the enemy. That the King had
been persuaded it was the best and wisest thing he could do, believing
that with his removal the Rising would collapse, the army disperse, and
the country become quiet, we could not of course have any doubt. But
when all was said and done, the vengeance of the Government was still
to be reckoned with, and he had left them to face it alone. It was
not by my lady nor her sister that any censure was passed upon their
beloved King, nor did they voice their opinion of my Lord Mar in any
way to blame him. But those outside the house were not so discreet, and
indeed it added to our pain to hear the free comments that were made
upon the affair.
In the meantime, where was Sir John; what had become of the Master of
Sinclair, whose wisdom and foresight Betty now extolled to the skies;
and what, oh, what of Barbara’s lover, too insignificant to all but
herself to be worthy of mention in the general reports? I can tell you
there were three sorrowful women at Alva in those days, and the saddest
of all perhaps was my Lady Erskine, who went about with folded lips
and fear-haunted eyes, forcing herself to her daily tasks, as she told
me after, “with a thousand pins and needles in her heart.”
By degrees we heard fresh tidings: how General Gordon had abandoned
Aberdeen, after occupying it for only two days; how the army, upon
deciding that each man must shift for himself, had dispersed in various
directions, promising however to come together again upon word received
from the King; how many of the officers and noblemen had embarked in
ships for France and Sweden; and how others, less fortunate, were
hiding in the mountain-districts of the Highlands, expecting, as was
natural, to be hunted by the Government troops, and waiting till they
also could find ships to bear them to the Continent. But all this time
not a word of our good Sir John. We watched my lady’s face grow whiter
and more worn, and longed in our helplessness to comfort her.
“Why, oh why, does he not contrive to send word to her?” cried Betty,
the tears in her eyes. “He cannot be dead. I defy them to keep him
prisoner; and if he be anywhere in Scotland he could surely have sent a
messenger of some sort to Alva. But men are all alike, thoughtless and
selfish, and have little care for the unfortunate woman at home once
they have left them.”
I forgave the bitterness of her tone knowing how her heart yearned
after her eldest brother, for no news had been received for long, and
her words applied equally to him. But the very next day relief came.
We had but just finished dinner when a noise in the lobby attracted our
attention, and Charles rising and running to the door called out: “’Tis
Andrew! Oh, mama, Andrew Short is returned. And why did you not bring
my papa home again, Andrew? Where is he?”
Trembling and agitated we rose to greet him, for Andrew had been with
Sir John, and we dreaded what his tidings might be. A sore-stricken and
weary man was he that entered the room; so woe-begone his countenance,
so shame-faced his mien that I for one feared the very worst. “Andrew,
where is Sir John?” cried my lady, running up to him, and looking in
his face with such haggard anxiety in her eyes as touched the good
fellow to the heart.
“Sir John is safe, my leddy!” he said quickly, in a hoarse voice, “or
ye never wad hae seen me here. But does yer leddyship ken whaur the
King is, an’ his freend, the Earl o’ Mar?”
“Alas, yes! my good Andrew, and our hearts are heavy enough at the
knowledge, and all it means to Scotland. But you are spent and hungry,
and though you must satisfy me about Sir John, we will wait till you
are warmed and fed before you give us further news. You have a letter
for me, belike?”
She looked at him eagerly, and her face fell when he shook his head.
“Na, my leddy, nae letter. Sir John wadna trust a written line; but I
was tae tell ye he sailed for France on the second day of this month,
that was twa days _afore_ the ither folk took their leave, ye ken, mem.
And landed safe he is, I mak’ nae doot, by this time.”
My lady sank down upon a chair, and covered her face with her hands for
a little space.
“Thank God!” she said at length, “he is at least beyond danger. But can
you not tell me more, Andrew? Who sent him away, and for what purpose?”
“My leddy,” said the man, “I canna tell ye mair than Sir John tellt me,
and that was that he had orders tae sail for France from Montrose on
the Thursday nicht, wi’ despatches, he said, tae the Queen; that I was
tae bide whaur I was for twa days, and then tae come hame as fast but
as secret as I could manage it, and bring his love and kind respects
tae yer leddyship, and tell ye he was gane awa’ tae France.”
And though we questioned him closely he had no more to tell us of the
matter. After he had been sent away to rest and be fed, my lady looked
at us uneasily.
“I must send an express to Charles Erskine this very night,” she said,
“to give him news of his brother. But why has Sir John sent me no
instructions as to what he wishes me to do?”
“Indeed, sister,” said Betty, “it surprises me that Sir John did
not acquaint you with his plans when you saw him at Dysart. It is
impossible he did not know something of what was to happen, for he was
ever in the confidence of my Lord Mar. Why did he not prepare you for
this?”
“God knows,” said my lady, in sad perplexity, gazing out of the window
at the snow-clad world; “and He alone knows what will happen to us now.”
“Perhaps if Sir John knew anything he was bound to secrecy,” cried I,
who could not bear to hear my kind guardian blamed even by those who
loved him. “But tell me, dear madam, what is’t you fear?”
“Vengeance, Barbara,” she answered, with sombre earnestness, “the
vengeance of the reigning house. Sir John is no longer a trusted agent
of the rightful King, he is a Rebel, an Outlaw, an Exile; and who knows
whether he may not be attainted, and all his estates forfeited to the
Crown?”
“What’s forfeited, mama?” cried little Charles. “Oh, I do want my papa
to come home,” and at that my lady caught the boy to her breast, and
broke into a fit of wild weeping, pouring out her anguish, poor soul,
to us who wept with her, all the more freely that she had hitherto kept
her feelings so well under control.
But the express was sent that afternoon to Edinburgh, and the very
next evening Mr. Erskine was with us. Kind and calm and cheerful,
it is impossible to exaggerate the helpful influence he exercised
upon us. He combated my lady’s fears, telling her that though it was
impossible to know yet what parliament might or might not decide, he
had great hopes that, as the Rebellion had not gone far, they would
not act with extreme rigour. Again, he said, although Sir John had
shown himself active in the Cause, he had many friends upon the other
side, all of them in good odour with the Government; and everything
that could be said or done in Sir John’s favour, to create a feeling of
confidence, would, he knew, be willingly carried out. In the meantime
he thought there was nothing to do but to wait quietly and see what
should transpire. His one anxiety seemed to be that his brother, Sir
John, in his impulsive way, might decide at once to settle abroad and
desire his wife to come to him with their children, and this he thought
would be unwise, as it would mean abandoning his estate to whoever
might be ready to seize it. Patience and silence were the two things
he recommended, besides promising my lady all the help in his power
whenever she should desire it. The letter of the thirteenth of February
was written while Mr. Erskine was in the house with us, and in it you
will see that my dear lady had schooled herself to write quietly and
moderately. The very day before she wrote, poor Betty had been somewhat
comforted by receiving a letter from her brother, who wrote to her on
the eve of his sailing for France.
He had, after many hardships, got as far north as Kirkwall in the
Orkney Islands, and from thence to Stromness, where, with several
others, he seized a ship with a French pilot on board and set sail for
Calais. Her mind was therefore at rest about his person, though like my
lady she dreaded on his account the impending _vengeance_ which had all
the horrors of the unknown.
LETTER IV
MY DEAREST LIFE,
It was no small satisfaction to me in the present
state of affairs to hear you was gone. It is what I shall bless God
for while I live. Your servant’s return was the first account I had;
tho’ my grief was unexpressable the thoughts of your safety did
mitigate it very much. It was impossible but you did foresee what
wold happen when I was with you, and if you did, you were much to
blame not (to) tell me your thoughts of itt, and what methods should
be taken for your private affairs. Charles is here just now and most
kindly offers to doe all in his power, as I doubt not all your other
friends will; but he expected I wold have had a method from you.
Whether you did not imagin so suden an end, or would not give mee a
sore heart befor the time, I know not.
Now let me beg of you, as you regard me and your children, not to
have any uneasy thoughts about us. I am not afraid of want of sober
bread for them and myself; but as I told you the thoughts of your
being in pinches is very Bitter, and the prospect I must have of
being absent from you for some time, and perhaps for ever, is what
imploys my thoughts night and day. But why should I complain of what
God in his wise providence has ordered as a just punishment for the
abuse of many mercys. Let us then, my Dearest, submit with patience,
and trust in that mercyful Father who has hitherto preserv’d you
from so imminent dangers, that He will, in His own good time, give
us a comfortable meeting, and to live as becomes the children of
affliction, in endeavouring to set our hearts above the world and the
vanitys thereof.
I am most impatient to hear from you, and if ye knew what a relief it
wold be to have a letter, you wold (have) writ the moment you landed.
The person mine is directed to wold find a way to send one to me. I
was heartily sorry you was not better provided with money, but if
you please to take 100 pound from Mr. Gordon, and make him draw on
his correspondent at Edinr., I shall endeavour to have it ready on
some day’s sight. I am to beg (you) earnestly to let me know what
resolution you have taken as to the place of your abode, and not to
be sudden in resolving, but to let me know what you intend, and I hop
as you regard my quiet you will not doe anything till you have my
consent. I must see what shape things will take here, before I can
frame a resolution of seeing you.... There was a great consternation
amongst your freinds att the departure of two great men that followed
you, and I find the not acquainting them with it is thought hard. I
hear they keep still together, but that cannot doe long, God help
them! You are lucky in your misfortune that you have kind freinds
that are both willing and capable to serve you, and I am hopeful by
their means to be in a better state than many others, which is great
deal more than we deserve.
Now let me again beg of you to writ freely to me, and tell me every
uneasy thought you have, and make youself as easy as possible, and
put in practice the virtue of resignation which you have so often
talkt of to me. The more frequently you writ I will be the easyer.
Your children are well, but poor B. is in great affliction for her
brother and talks of leaveing me. Charls and all freinds here salute
you, and I am, my Dearest, Life,
Yours,
Fe. 13.
I must say Charls makes all the kind offers to me that you
can imagine.