THE CURATE OF DALRY.
When I returned to Earlstoun I found the house in sad disorder. Maisie
Lennox I found not, for she had ridden to the Duchrae to meet her father
and to keep the house, which had had some unwonted immunity lately
because of the friendship of the McGhies of Balmaghie. For old Roger
McGhie was a King's man and in good favour, though he never went far
from home. But only patrolled his properties, lundering such Whigs as
came his way with a great staff, but tenderly withal and mostly for
show. His daughter Kate, going the way of most women folk, was the
bitterest Whig and most determined hearer of the field-preachers in the
parish. Concerning which her father full well knew, but could neither
alter nor mend, even as Duke Rothes himself could not change his lady's
liking. Yet for Kate McGhie's sake the hunt waxed easier in all the
headend of Balmaghie. And during this lown blink, old Anton came home
from the hills to take the comforts of the bien and comfortable house of
the Duchrae, for it promised to be a bitter and unkindly season. So the
Earlstoun looked a little bare without Maisie Lennox, and I was glad
that I was to be but a short time in it.
For another thing, the soldiers had been before me, and by order of the
Council had turned the whole gear and plenishing over to find my brother
Alexander--which indeed seeing what he had done at Bothwell, we can
hardly wonder at. Even the intervention of our well-affected cousin of
Lochinvar could not prevent this. The horses were driven away, the
cattle lifted to be provender for the King's forces in the parish of
Carsphairn and elsewhere. And it would go hard with us--if indeed we
should even be permitted to keep the place that had been ours for
generations.
My mother was strongly advised that, as I had not been mixed with the
outbreaks, it was just scant possible that I might make something of an
appeal to the Privy Council for the continuing of the properties, and
the substituting of a fine. I was therefore to ride to Edinburgh with
what attendance I could muster, and with Wat Gordon of Lochinvar to lead
me as a bairn by the hand.
But it was with a sad heart and without much pleasure, save in having my
father's silver mounted pistols (for I counted myself no mean marksman),
that John Meiklewood, Hughie and I rode off from the arched door of the
Earlstoun. My mother stood on the step and waved me off with no tear in
her eye; and even poor Jean Hamilton, from the window whence she could
see the great oak where my brother, her husband, was in hiding, caused a
kerchief to show white against the grey wall of Earlstoun. I think the
poor feckless bit thing had a sort of kindness for me. But when there
was hardly the thickness of an eggshell between her man and death, it
was perhaps small wonder that she cherished some jealousy of me, riding
whither I listed over the wide, pleasant moors where the bumble bees
droned and the stooping wild birds cried all the livelong day.
At St. John's Clachan of Dalry we were to meet with Wildcat Wat, who was
waiting to ride forth with us to Edinburgh upon his own ploys. We
dismounted at the inn where John Barbour, honest man, had put out the
sign of his profession. It was a low, well-thatched change-house,
sitting with its end to the road in the upper part of the village, with
good offices and accommodation for man and horse about it--the same
hostel indeed in which the matter of Rullion Green took its beginning.
Wat came down the street with his rapier swinging at his side, his
feathered Cavalier hat on his head, and he walked with a grace that
became him well. I liked the lad, and sometimes it almost seemed to me
that I might be his father, though indeed our years were pretty equal.
For being lame and not a fighter, neither craving ladies' favours, I was
the older man, for the years of them that suffer score the lines deeper
on a man's brow--and on his heart also.
When Wat Gordon mounted into the saddle with an easy spring his horse
bent back its head and curveted, biting at his foot. So that I rejoiced
to see the brave lad sitting like a dart, holding his reins as I hold my
pen, and resting his other hand easily on his thigh. John Scarlet, his
man-at-arms, mounted and rode behind him; and when I saw them up,
methought there was not a pair that could match them in Scotland. Yet I
knew that with the pistolets at paces ten or twenty, I was the master of
both. And perhaps it was this little scrap of consolation that made me
feel so entirely glad to see my cousin look so bright and bonny. Indeed
had I been his lass--or one of them, for if all tales be true he had
routh of such--I could not have loved better to see him shine in the
company of men like the young god Apollo among the immortals, as the
heathens feign.
At the far end of the village there came one out of a white house and
saluted us. I knew him well, though I had never before seen him so near.
It was Peter McCaskill, the curate of the parish. But, as we of the
strict Covenant did not hear even the Indulged ministers, it was not
likely that we would see much of the curate. Nevertheless I had heard
many tales of his sayings and his humours, for our curate was not as
most others--dull and truculent knaves many of them, according to my
thinking--the scourings of the North. Peter was, on the other hand, a
most humoursome varlet and excellent company on a wet day. Sandy and he
used often to take a bottle together when they foregathered at John's in
the Clachan; but even the Bull of Earlstoun could not keep steeks or
count mutchkins with Peter McCaskill, the curate of Dalry.
On this occasion he stopped and greeted us. He had on him a black coat
of formal enough cut, turned green with age and exposure to the weather.
I warrant it had never been brushed since he had put it on his back, and
there seemed good evidence upon it that he had slept in it for a month
at least.
"Whaur gang ye screeving to, young sirs, so brave?" he cried. "Be canny
on the puir Whiggies. Draw your stick across their hurdies when ye come
on them, an' tell them to come to the Clachan o' Dalry, where they will
hear a better sermon than ever they gat on the muirs, or my name's no
Peter McCaskill."
"How now, Curate," began my cousin, reining in his black and sitting at
ease, "are you going to take to the hill and put Peden's nose out of
joint?"
"Faith, an' it's my mither's ain son that could fettle that," said the
curate. "I'm wae for the puir Whiggies, that winna hear honest doctrine
an' flee to the hills and hags--nesty, uncanny, cauldrife places that
the very muir-fowl winna clock on. Ken ye what I was tellin' them the
ither day? Na, ye'll no hae heard--it's little desire ye hae for either
kirk or Covenant, up aboot the Garryhorn wi' red-wud Lag and headstrong
John Graham. Ye need as muckle to come and hear Mess John pray as the
blackest Whig o' them a'!"
"Indeed, we do not trouble you much, Curate," laughed my cousin; "but
here is my cousin Will of Earlstoun," he said, waving his hand to me,
"and he is nearly as good as a parson himself, and can pray by screeds."
Which was hardly a just thing to say, for though I could pray and read
my Bible too when I listed, I did not trouble him or any other with the
matter. Cain, indeed, had something to say for himself--for it is a hard
thing to be made one's brother's keeper. There are many ways that may
take me to the devil. But, I thank God, officiousness in other men's
matters shall not be one of them.
"He prays, does he?" quoth McCaskill, turning his shaggy eyebrows on me.
"Aweel, I'll pray him ony day for a glass o' John's best. Peter
McCaskill needs neither read sermon nor service-book. He leaves sic-like
at hame, and the service ye get at his kirk is as guid and godly as gin
auld Sandy himsel' were stelled up in a preaching tent an' thretty
wizzened plaided wives makkin' a whine in the heather aneath!"
"How do you and the other Peter up the way draw together?" asked my
cousin.
The curate snapped his fingers.
"Peter Pearson o' Carsphairn--puir craitur, he's juist fair daft wi' his
ridin' an' his schemin'. He will hear a pluff o' pouther gang blaff at
his oxter some fine day, that he'll be the waur o'! An' sae I hae telled
him mony's the time. But Margate McCaskill's son is neither a Whig
hunter nor yet as this daft Peter Pearson. He bides at hame an' minds
his glebe. But for a' that I canna control the silly fowk. I was fearin'
them the ither day," he went on. "I gied it oot plain frae the pulpit
that gin they didna come as far as the kirkyaird at ony rate, I wad tak'
no more lees on my conscience for their sakes. I hae plenty o' my ain to
gar me fry. 'But,' says I, 'I'll report ye as attendin' the kirk, gin ye
walk frae yae door o' the kirk to the ither withoot rinnin'. Nae man can
say fairer nor that.'"
"An' what said ye next, Curate?" asked my cousin, for his talk amused us
much, and indeed there were few merry things in these sad days.
"Ow," said Peter McCaskill, "I juist e'en said to them, 'Black be your
fa'. Ye are a' off to the hills thegither. Hardly a tyke or messan but's
awa' to Peden to get her whaulpies named at the Holy Linn! But I declare
to ye a', what will happen in this parish. Sorra gin I dinna inform on
ye, an' then ye'll be a' eyther shot or hangit before Yule!' That's what
I said to them!"
Wat Gordon laughed, and I was fain to follow suit, for it was a common
complaint that the curate of Dalry was half a Whig himself. And, indeed,
had he not been ever ready to drink a dozen of Clavers's officers under
the table, and clout the head of the starkest carle in his troop, it
might have gone ill with him more than once.
"But I hae a bit sma' request to make of ye, Walter Gordon o' Lochinvar
an' Gordiestoun," said the curate.
"Haste ye," said Wat, "for ye hae taigled us overly long already."
"An' it's this," said the curate, "I hae to ride to Edinburgh toon,
there to tell mair lees than I am likely to be sained o' till I am a
bishop an' can lee wi' a leecence. But it's the Privy Council's wull,
an' sae I maun e'en lee. That tearin' blackguard, Bob Grier, has written
to them that I am better affected to the Whigs than to the troopers of
Garryhorn, and I am behoved to gang and answer for it."
"Haste ye, then, and ride with us," cried Walter, whose horse had stood
long enough. "We ride toward the Nith with Colonel Graham, and after
that to Edinburgh."
So in a little the curate was riding stoutly by our side. We were to
travel by Dumfries and Lockerbie into Eskdale, whither Claverhouse had
preceded us, obeying an urgent call from his acquaintance, Sir James
Johnstone of Westerhall, who was still more eager to do the King's will
than he--though, to begin with, he had been a Covenant man, and that of
some mark too. But the fear of fines, and the bad example of his
neighbours ever before his eyes, had brought out the hidden cruelty of
the man. So now he rode at Claverhouse's bridle-rein, and the pair of
them held black counsel on the state of the country. But the mood of
Claverhouse was, at worst, only that of military severity, without heart
of ruth or bowels of mercy indeed; but that of Westerhall was rather of
roystering and jubilant brutality, both of action and intent.
So we rode and we better rode till we came to Eskdale, where we found
Westerhall in his own country. Now I could see by the behaviour of the
soldiers as we went, that some of them had small good will to the kind
of life they led, for many of them were of the country-side and, as it
seemed, were compelled to drive and harry their own kith and kin. This
they covered with a mighty affectation of ease, crying oaths and curses
hither and thither tempestuously behind their leaders--save only when
John Graham rode near by, a thing which more than anything made them
hold their peace, lest for discipline's sake he should bid them be
silent, with a look that would chill their marrows.