RUMOUR OF WAR.
(_Connect and Addition by Hob MacClellan._)
The crown had indeed been set upon the work. The business, as said the
Right Reverend Presbytery, was finished, and with well-satisfied hearts
the brethren went back to their manses.
It was long ere in his private capacity my brother could lift up his
head or speak to us that were about him. The dark day and darker night
of the 30th of December had sorely changed him. He was like one standing
alone, the world ranged against him. Then I that was his brother
according to the flesh watched him carefully. Never did he pace by the
rivers of waters nor yet climb the heathery steeps of the Dornal without
a companion. There were times when almost we feared for his reason. But
Quintin MacClellan, the deposed minister of Balmaghie, was not the
stuff of which self-slayers are made.
When it chanced that I could not accompany him, I had nothing to do but
arrange with Alexander-Jonita, and she would take the hill or the
water-edge, silent as a shadow, tireless as a young deer. And with her
to guard I knew that my brother was safe.
Never did he know that any watched him, for during these days he was a
man walking with shadows. I think he never ceased blaming himself for
poor Jean’s death. At any rate Quintin MacClellan was a changed man for
long after that night.
My mother came down from Ardarroch to bide a while with him, and at orra
times he aroused himself somewhat to talk with her. But when she began
to speak of the ill-set Presbytery, or even of the more familiar things
at home--the nowt, the horse, and the kindly kye--I, who watched every
shade on Quintin’s face as keenly as if he had been my sweetheart, knew
well that his mind was wandering. And sometimes I thought it was set on
the dead lass, and sometimes I thought that he mourned for the public
misfortune which had befallen him.
To the outer world, the world of the parish and the countryside, he
kept ever a brave face. He preached with yet more mighty power and
acceptance. The little kirk was crowded Sabbath after Sabbath. Those who
had once spoken against him did it no more openly in the parish of
Balmaghie.
With calm front and assured carriage he went about his duties, as though
there were no Presbyteries nor forces military to carry out his sentence
of removal and deposition.
Only the chief landowners wished him away. For mostly they were men of
evil life, rough-spoken and darkly tarred with scandal. My brother had
been over-faithful with them in reproof. For it was of Quintin that an
old wife had said, “God gie thee the fear o’ Himsel’, laddie! For faith,
ye haena the fear o’ man aboot ye!”
But there were others who could take steps as well as Presbyteries and
officers of the law.
Alexander-Jonita rode like a storm-cloud up and down the glen and listed
the lads to do her will, as indeed they were ever all too ready to do.
Her father, with several of the elders, men grave and reverend, met to
concert measures for defending the bounds, lest the enemy should try to
oust their minister out of his “warm nest,” as they called the manse
which cowered down under lee of the kirk.
So it came about that there was scarce a man in Balmaghie who was not
enrolled to protect the passage perilous of kirk and manse. The parish
became almost like a defended city or an entrenched camp. There were
watchers upon the hilltops everywhere. Week-day and Sabbath-day they
abode there. All the fords were guarded, the river-fronts patrolled, for
save on the wild and mountainous side our parish is surrounded by waters
deep and broad or else rapid and dangerous.
Did a couple of ministers approach from Crossmichael to “preach the kirk
vacant” their boat was pushed back again into the stream, and a hundred
men stood in line to prevent a landing. Yet all was carried out with
decency and order, as men do who have taken a great matter in hand and
are prepared to stand within their danger.
The elders also held mysterious colloquies with men from a distance, who
went and came to their houses under cloud of night. There was discipline
and drill by Gideon Henderson and other former officers of the Scotch
Dutch regiments. I remember a muster on the meadows of the Duchrae at
which a stern-faced man, with his face half muffled, came and put us
through our duty. I knew by the tones of his voice that this was none
other than the Colonel Sir William Gordon who had marched with us to
Edinburgh in the great convention year.
But the climax was yet to come.
It was in July that the Sheriff had first tried in vain to land at the
Kirk-Knowe in order to expel my brother from his manse. But a hundred
men had started up out of the bushes, and with levelled pistols turned
the boat back again to the further shore.
Next there was a gathering of the Presbytery at Cullenoch, under the
wing of the Laird of Balmaghie, to concert measures with the other
landowners, who in time past had often smarted under Quintin’s rebuke.
It was to be held at the inn, and the debate was to settle many things.
But alas! when the day came every room in the hostel was filled with
armed men, so that there was no place for the reverend fathers and their
terrified hosts.
So without in the wide spaces where four roads meet, the Presbyters one
by one addressed the people, if addresses they could be called, which
were interrupted at every other sentence.
It was Warner, the father of the Presbytery, who was speaking when I
arrived. He was one of those who had sat safe and snug under the King’s
indulgences and agreements in the days of persecution.
“People of Balmaghie,” he cried, “hearken to me. Ye are supporting a man
that is no minister, a man outed and deposed. Your children will be
unbaptized, your marriages unblessed, yourselves excommunicated, because
of this man!”
“Maister Warner,” cried a voice from the crowd, which I knew for that of
Drumglass, “I am auld eneuch to mind how ye were a member in the
Presbytery at Sunday-wall that sat on Richard Cameron in order to depose
him. Now ye wad spend your persecuting breath on our young minister.
Gang hame, man, and think on your latter end!”
But, indeed, as half-a-dozen bare swords were within a yard of his nose,
Mr. Warner might quite as well have thought on his latter end where he
was.
Then it was Cameron’s turn. But him the people would not listen to on
any protest, because he had been accounted chief agent and mover in the
process of law against their minister.
“Better ye had died at Ayrsmoss wi’ you twa brithers,” they cried to
him; “man, ye’ll never win nearer to them than Kirkcudbright town. And
Guid kens that’s an awesome lang road frae heeven!”
To Telfair the Ghost-seer of Rerrick, they cried, when he strove to say
a word, “What for did ye no bring the deil wi’ ye in a bag? Man, ye are
ower great wi’ him. But there’s neither witch nor warlock can look at
MacClellan’s cup nor come near our minister. It’s easy seen Quintin
MacClellan wasna in the Presbytery when the deil played sic pliskies
doon aboot the Rerrick shores.”
Then came Boyd, who in his day had proclaimed King William at Glasgow
Cross. But he found that an easier task than to shout down the cause of
righteousness at the Four Roads of Pluckemin.
“You pay overmuch attention to the words of a man without honour!” This
was his beginning, heard over all the crowd to the very midst of the
street, for he had a great voice, which in a better cause would have
been listened to like the voice of an apostle.
“Have ye paid back the siller the poor hill-folk spent on your
colleging?” they asked him. “Our minister paid for his ain schooling.”
The question was a feathered arrow in the white, but Boyd avoided it.
“Your minister is a man that should be ashamed to enter a kirk and
preach the Gospel. Who would associate with the like of Quintin
MacClellan?”
“Of a certainty not traitors and turncoats!” cried a deep voice in the
background, toward which all turned in amazement.
It was that of Sir Alexander Gordon of Earlstoun, the reputed head of
the Societies, whose boast it had been that he could call seven thousand
men to arms in the day of trouble.
I saw Boyd pale to the lips at sight of him.
“I do not argue with sectaries!” he stammered, turning on his heel.
“Nor I with knavish deceivers,” cried Alexander Gordon, “of whom there
are two here--Andrew Cameron and William Boyd. With this right hand I
paid them the golden money for their education, wrung from the instant
needs of poor hill folk who had lost their all, and who depended
oftentime on charity for their bite of bread. From men attainted, from
men earning in foreign lands the bitter bread of exile, from men and
women imprisoned, shilling by shilling, penny by penny, that money came.
It was ill-spent on men like these. William Boyd and Andrew Cameron
swore solemn oaths. They took upon them the unbreakable and immutable
Covenants. In time they became ministers, and we looked for words of
light and wisdom and guidance from them. But we of the Faithful Remnant
looked in vain. For lo! Cæsar sat upon his throne, and right gladly they
bowed the knee. They licked the gold from his garments like honey. They
mumbled his shoe-string that he might graciously permit them to sit at
ease in his high places.
“Bah!” he cried, so that his voice was heard miles off on the hill-tops,
“out upon all such cowards and traitors! And now, folk of this parish,
will ye let such scurril loons persuade you to give up your true and
faithful minister, on whose tongue is the word of truth, and in whose
heart is no fear of the face of any man?”
The frightened Presbyters melted before him, some of them swarming off
with the men of evil life--the lairds and heritors of the parish.
Others mounted their horses and rode homeward as if the devil of Rerrick
himself had been after them.
Thus was ended the Disputation of Cullenoch near to Clachanpluck, in the
shaming of those that withstood us.