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THE MEN OF THE MOSS-HAGS
_BEING A HISTORY OF ADVENTURE TAKEN FROM THE PAPERS OF WILLIAM GORDON OF
EARLSTOUN IN GALLOWAY AND TOLD OVER AGAIN BY_
S. R. CROCKETT
New York
MACMILLAN AND CO.
AND LONDON
1895
_All rights reserved_
COPYRIGHT, 1895,
BY MACMILLAN AND CO.
Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing & Co--Berwick & Smith
Norwood Mass. U.S.A.
_To
ANDREW LANG
Poet, Romancer, Scholar, and Friend
of the goodly fellowship of the White Rose
I, born of the Hill-Folk
dedicate this attempt at a true history of
some who fought bravely beneath
the Banner of Blue_
_PREFATORY NOTE._
_I desire to express grateful thanks to my researchers, Mr. James
Nicholson of Kirkcudbright, who examined on my behalf all the local
records bearing upon the period and upon the persons treated of in this
book; and to the Reverend John Anderson of the Edinburgh University
Library, who brought to light from among the Earlstoun Papers and from
the long-lost records of the United Societies, many of the materials
which I have used in the writing of this story._
_I owe also much gratitude to the Library Committee of the University of
Edinburgh, for permission to use the letters which are printed in the
text, and for their larger permission to publish at some future time,
for purposes more strictly historical, a selection from both the sets of
manuscripts named above._
_Most of all, I am indebted to my friend, Mr. John McMillan of Glenhead
in Galloway, who has not only given me in this, as in former works, the
benefit of his unrivalled local knowledge, but has travelled with me
many a weary foot over those moors and moss-hags, where the wanderers of
another time had their abiding places. Let him accept this word of
thanks. He is not likely to forget our stay together in the wilds of
Cove Macaterick. Nor I our journey home._
_S. R. CROCKETT._
_Penicuik, Aug. 5, 1895._
CONTENTS.
I. MY GOSSIP, MAISIE MAY
II. GAY GARLAND CARRIES DOUBLE
III. GAY GARLAND COMES HOME SADDLE EMPTY
IV. SANDY GORDON COMES OVER THE HILL ALL ALONE
V. THE CLASH OF WORDS
VI. THE CLASH OF SWORDS
VII. THE FIELD OF BOTHWELL BRIG
VIII. THE CURATE OF DALRY
IX. THROUGH DEATH'S DARK VALE
X. THE GRAVE IN THE WILDERNESS
XI. THE BLOOD OF THE MARTYRS
XII. WE RIDE TO EDINBURGH
XIII. WULLCAT WAT DARES HEAVEN AND HELL
XIV. THE THING THAT FELL FROM TRAITOR'S GATE
XV. THE BICKER IN THE SNOW
XVI. THE GREY MOWDIEWORT
XVII. OVER THE MUIR AMANG THE HEATHER
XVIII. AULD ANTON OF THE DUCHRAE
XIX. THE SWEET SINGERS OF THE DEER-SLUNK
XX. THE HOME OF MY LOVE
XXI. THE GREAT CONVENTICLE BY THE DEE WATER
XXII. PEDEN THE PROPHET
XXIII. BIRSAY THE COBBLER
XXIV. THE SANQUHAR DECLARATION
XXV. THE LAST CHARGE AT AYRSMOSS
XXVI. HIDING WITH THE HEATHER-CAT
XXVII. THE WATER OF THE WELL OF BETHLEHEM
XXVIII. THE WELL-HOUSE OF EARLSTOUN
XXIX. CUPBOARD LOVE
XXX. THE BULL OF EARLSTOUN'S HOMECOMING
XXXI. JEAN'S WA'S
XXXII. PLAIN WORDS UPON MEN
XXXIII. THE GARDENER OF BALMAGHIE
XXXIV. THE TESTING OF THE TYKE
XXXV. KATE OF THE DARK BROWS
XXXVI. THE BLACK HORSE COMES TO BALMAGHIE
XXXVII. A CAVALIER'S WOOING
XXXVIII. IN COVE MACATERICK
XXXIX. THE BOWER OF THE STAR
XL. MARDROCHAT THE SPY
XLI. THE HOUSE OF THE BLACK CATS
XLII. THE NICK O' THE DEID WIFE
XLIII. THE VENGEANCE OF "YON"
XLIV. A DESIRABLE GENERAL MEETING
XLV. THE OUTFACING OF CLAVERS
XLVI. THE FIGHT AT THE CALDONS
XLVII. THE GALLOWAY FLAIL
XLVIII. THE FIGHT IN THE GUT OF THE ENTERKIN
XLIX. THE DEATH OF MARDROCHAT
L. THE BREAKING OF THE THIEVES' HOLE
LI. THE SANDS OF WIGTOWN
LII. THE MADNESS OF THE BULL OF EARLSTOUN
LIII. UNDER SENTENCE OF DEATH
LIV. ROBBERY ON THE KING'S HIGHWAY
LV. THE RED MAIDEN
LVI. THE MAID ON THE WHITE HORSE
FOLLOWETH THE AUTHOR'S CONCLUSION
THE MEN OF THE MOSS-HAGS.
CHAPTER I.
MY GOSSIP, MAISIE MAY.
It was upon the fair green braes that look over the Black Water of Dee
near by where it meets the clear Ken, that Maisie May and I played many
a morning at Wanderers and King's men. I mind it as it were yesterday,
for the dales and holms were pranked out with white hawthorn and broad
gowans, and by our woodland hiding-places little frail wildflowers grew,
nodding at us as we lay and held our breath.
Now Maisie Lennox (for that was her proper given name) was my cousin,
and had been gossip of mine ever since we came to the age of five years;
Sandy, my elder brother, making nothing of me because I was so much
younger and he ever hot upon his own desires. Neither, if the truth must
be told, did I wear great love upon him at any time. When we fell out,
as we did often, he would pursue after me and beat me; but mostly I
clodded him with pebble stones, whereat I had the advantage, being ever
straight of eye and sure of aim. Whereas Sandy was gleyed[1] and threw
stones like a girl, for all the stoutness of his arm.
[Footnote 1: Could not see straight.]
But that is not to say like Maisie Lennox, who was Anthony Lennox's
daughter, and could throw stones with any one. She lived at the Lesser
Duchrae above the Black Water. As for me I lived at Earlstoun on the
hillside above the Ken, which is a far step from the Duchrae. But our
fathers were of the one way of thinking, and being cousins by some
former alliance and friends of an ancient kindliness, it so happened, as
I say, that Maisie Lennox and I played much together. Also my mother had
great tenderness of heart for the bit lass that had no mother, and a
father as often on the moors with the wildfowl, as at home with his one
little maid.
For the times were very evil. How evil and contrary they were, we that
had been born since 1660 and knew nothing else, could but dimly
understand. For though fear and unrest abode in our homes as constant
indwellers, with the fear of the troopers and plunderers, yet because it
had always been so, it seemed not very hard to us. Indeed we bairns of
these years played at Covenanting, as it had been the game of "Scots and
English" on the hillside, even from the time when we first began to run
alone.
Well do I mind that day when I pleaded and fleeched on my father to take
me before him on Gay Garland, as he rode to the Duchrae. It was a brisk
May day with an air vigorous as a draught of wine, yet cool, clear, and
sweet as spring water is--a pearl of a day, such as hardly seems to come
in these sullen later years.
So I cried out upon my father to take me. And as his manner was, he told
me to inquire of my mother. But I desired rather that he should ask for
me himself. So I lingered about the doors till he should ride forth upon
his great black horse, that he might catch me up beside him on the
cantle and cry in at the door, "Mother, I am taking William," as was his
kindly wont. Never a man so brave and true and simple as my father.
While I bided there, Alexander my brother seeing me wait, called me to
come with him to the hill. But because my heart was set to ride to the
Duchrae with my father, I had no desire to go to the rabbit hunting. So
when he saw that I would not company with him, he mocked me and called
me "Lassie-boy!" Whereupon I smote him incontinent with a round pebble
between the shoulder-blades, and he pursued me to the hallan door within
which was my mother, looking to the maids and the ordering of the house.
From thence I mocked him, but under my breath, for fear that for
ill-doing my mother would not permit me to go to the Duchrae.
"Stable-boy!" I called him, for he loved to be ever among the lowns of
the wisp and currying comb, and as my mother said, grew like them even
in manners. "Faugh, keep wide from me, mixen-varlet!"
These were no more than our well-accustomed greetings.
"Wait till I catch you, little snipe, down by the water-side!" Sandy
cried, shaking his fist at me from the barn-end.
"And that will be a good day for your skin," answered I, "for I shall
make you wash your face thoroughly--ay, even behind your ears."
For Sandy, even when in after days he went a-courting, was noways
partial to having many comings and goings with a basin of cold water.
So he departed unsatisfied, because that in words I had the better of
him.
Then came my father, and as I expected, stooping from the saddle he
swung me up before him, supposing that I had already advised my mother.
But indeed I had not said so, and happily he asked me nothing.
"A good day and an easy mind, sweetheart," he cried up the stairs to my
mother, "I ride to the Duchrae for Conference. William goes with me for
company."
And my mother came down the steps to see us ride off. For my father and
she were like lad and lass after their years together, though not so as
to make a show before strangers.
"Watch warily for the dragoons as you come to the narrows of the Loch,"
she said, "and bide not at Kenmuir. For if there be mounted muskets in
all the neighbourhood, it is at the Kenmuir that they will be found."
And she watched us out of sight with her hand to her brows, before
turning inward to the maids--a bonny woman in these years, fair as a
blowing rose, was my mother. Or at least, so the picture rises before me
as I write.
Thus my father, William Gordon of Earlstoun, rode away through these
sweet holms and winding paths south toward the Duchrae. Nowhere is the
world to my thinking so gracious as between the green woodlands of
Earlstoun and the grey Duchrae Craigs. For the pools of the water of Ken
slept, now black, now silver, beneath us. They were deep set about with
the feathers of the birches, and had the green firs standing bravely
like men-at-arms on every rocky knoll. Then the strath opened out and we
saw Ken flow silver-clear between the greenest and floweriest banks in
the world. The Black Craig of Dee gloomed on our right side as we rode,
sulky with last year's heather. And the great Kells range sank behind
us, ridge behind ridge of hills whose very names make a storm of
music--Millyea, Milldown, Millfire, Corscrine, and the haunted
fastnesses of the Meaull of Garryhorn in the head end of Carsphairn. Not
that my father saw any of this, for he minded only his riding and his
prayers; but even then I was ever taken up with what I had better have
let alone. However, I may be held excused if the memory rises unbidden
now, before the dimmer eye of one that takes a cast back into his youth,
telling the tale as best he may, choosing here and there like a dorty
child, only that which liketh him best.
In a little we clattered through the well-thatched roofs of New Galloway
and set Gay Garland's head to the southward along the water-side, where
the levels of the Loch are wont to open out upon you blue and broad and
bonny. All that go that way know the place. Gay Garland was the name of
my father's black horse that many a time and oft had carried him in
safety, and was loved like another child by my mother and all of us. I
have heard it said that in the Praying Society of which he was a grave
and consistent member, my father was once called in question because he
gave so light a name to his beast.
"Ye have wives of your own," was all the answer he made them, "I suppose
they have no freits and fancies, but such as you are ready to be
answerable for this day."
When my mother heard of this she said, "Ay, William, thy excuse was but
old and lame, even that of our first father Adam--'The woman thou gavest
me she called my horse Gay Garland.'"
I suppose that to-day Ken flashes as clear and the heather blooms as
bonny on the Bennan side. But not for me, for I have laid away so many
that I loved in the howe of the Glen since then, and seen so many places
of this Scotland red with a crimson the bell heather never made. Ay me
for the times that were, and for all that is come and gone, whereof it
shall be mine to tell!
But we came at long and last to the Duchrae, which is a sweet bit house,
sitting on a south-looking brae-face, though not a laird's castle like
the tower of Earlstoun. Maisie Lennox met us at the loaning foot,
whereat I begged that my father would put me down so that I might run
barefoot with her. And I think my father was in nowise unwilling, for a
twelve-year-old callant on the saddle before one is no comfort, though
Gay Garland bore me like a feather.
So Maisie Lennox and I fell eagerly a-talking together after our first
shy chill of silence, having many things to say. But as soon as ever we
reached the Craigs we fell to our fantasy. It was an old game with us,
like the sand houses we used to build in bairns' play. We drew lots,
long stalk and short stalk, which of us should be the Wanderer. Maisie
Lennox won the lot--as she always did, for I had no good fortune at the
drawing of cuts. So she went to hide in some bosky bouroch or moss-hag,
while I bode still among the hazels at the woodside, accoutring myself
as a trooper with sword and pistol of tree.
Then I rode forth crying loud commands and sending my soldiers to seek
out all the hidie-holes by the water-sides, and under all the tussocks
of heather on the benty brows of the black mosses.
Soon Maisie Lennox began to cry after the manner of the hunted
hill-folk--peeping like the nestlings of the muir-birds, craiking like
the bird of the corn, laughing like the jack-snipe--and all with so
clear a note and such brisk assurance that I declare she had imposed
upon Tom Dalyell himself.
After seeking long in vain, I spied the fugitive hiding behind a
peat-casting on the edge of the moss, and immediately cried on the men
to shoot. So those that were men-at-arms of my command pursued after and
cracked muskets, as the Wanderers jooked and fled before us. Yet
cumbered with cavalry as I was on the soft bog land, the light-foot
enemy easily escaped me.
Then when I saw well that catch her I could not, I sat me down on a
heather bush and cried out to her that it was a silly game to play, and
that we should begin something else. So she stopped and came back slowly
over the heather. What I liked at all times about Maisie Lennox was that
she never taunted back, but only took her own way when she wanted
it--and she mostly did--silently and as if there were no other way in
the world. For in all things she had an excellent humour of silence,
which, though I knew it not then, is rarer and worthier than diamonds.
Also she knew, what it seems to me that a woman but rarely knows, when
it is worth while making a stand to gain her will.