meditations. He was seized with one of those extraordinary fits of
terror and remorse that afterwards visited him at regular intervals.
When the fit left him, he summoned up courage to publish an account of
the person who killed the king, and offered a large reward for his
apprehension. In this description, he followed the account of the woman
as well as his own experience; the fearful marks were set forth with
great care; and no one doubted but that an individual, so strangely
pointed out by nature, as differing from other men, would be instantly
seized and brought before the throne. While this hope was vigorous, the
king was in misery. He feared a meeting with the mysterious being who
had tracked him in his rebellious course. Every sound roused him, and
made him tremble. But the time passed, and the hope died. No such
person was ever seen or heard of; and James was left, during the
remainder of his life, to the terrors of a conscience that never slept.
We do not pretend to reconcile the conduct of this mysterious personage,
in first dissuading the prince from opposing his father, and then
killing the latter with the former's dagger; but James himself put a
construction upon it which accorded with the state of his mind and
feelings. He wore around him, ever after, an iron chain, as penance for
being the cause of the death of his father--conceiving that Providence
followed that extraordinary course we have detailed for punishing him
for his filial disobedience. Some say the same figure appeared to him
before he went to Flodden. A reference to our forthcoming story, "The
Death of James IV.," may clear up this point. The legends are clearly
connected, and make one history. They are, however, both equally
mysterious and obscure. In both, the figures boded for good, and yet
evil came. They were fearful demonstrations of a secret power, that
worketh "in strange ways." Inscrutable at the time, the mystery has
never been cleared up. We have done something--yet how much remains in
darkness!
GLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT.
V.--THE RESCUE AT ENTERKIN.
The Pass of Enterkin is well known to us. How often have we passed
through it in the joyous season of youth, when travelling to and from
the College of Edinburgh! It is a deep and steep ravine among the
Lowther Hills, which separate Dumfries from Lanarkshire; through which a
torrent pours its thousand-and-one cascades--
"Amidst the rocks around,
Devalling and falling into a pit profound."
The road, which is a mere track, winds along the banks of the torrent,
ever and anon covered and flanked by huge masses of rock, which have
been shaken from the brow of the mountain, or been excavated, as it
were, and brought into high relief, by the roaring flood. About the
middle of this pass, as if it were for the express purpose of relieving
the thirst of the weary traveller, in a wilderness "unknown to public
view," and at a distance from any human habitation, there sparkles out,
from beneath a huge mass of grey-stone, a most plentiful and refreshing
fount or well of spring-water. How often have we enjoyed the refreshment
of this spring, in the society of the companions of our travel and of
our early days! Here we reposed at noon, making use of refreshments, and
indulging in all the wild and ungoverned hilarity of high spirits and
bosoms void of care. Yet, even amidst our madness, we could not help
viewing, or at least imagining that we viewed, a blood-spot on the very
rock from which the water burst in such purity and abundance, and
recollecting the sad narrative with which that stone was connected--for
we were all Closeburn lads, and had heard the tale of the Pass of
Enterkin repeated by our nearest and dearest relatives. Fletcher of
Saltoun says, "Let me make the popular songs of a country, and any one
who pleases may make the laws." We would go a little farther, and say
that, in youth, the character is decidedly formed by traditionary lore;
and that thus mothers contribute, far more than they are aware of at the
time, to the formation of the future character--to the happiness or
misery, through life, of their children. At least we know this, that we
would not give what we learned from our mother, for all that we have
ever attained either by private or public study. But to our story.
It was during a drifty night in the month of February, 168-, that a
party of ten individuals were travelling up this awful pass. The party
consisted of six dragoons, who had dismounted from and were leading
their horses, and four country people, three males and one female, whom
they were driving before them, bound as prisoners, on their way to
Edinburgh. The drift was choking, and they had ever and again to turn
round to prevent suffocation. There were other and imminent dangers. At
every turn, the road, from the eddies of the drift, became invisible;
and they were in danger of losing footing, and of being precipitated
many fathoms down into the bottom of the roaring linn beneath. The
soldiers were loud in their curses against their commanding officer,
Captain Douglas, who had sent them, under command of a serjeant, on this
business, at such an unseasonable hour, in such a tempest, and along
such a difficult road; whilst the poor nonconformists--for such they
were--employed their breath, in the intervals of the blast, in singing a
part of the 121st Psalm:--
"I to the hills will lift mine eyes,
From whence doth come mine aid;
My safety cometh from the Lord,
Who heaven and earth hath made."
This employment was matter of scoffing and merriment to the soldiers,
who said they would prefer a good fire and a warm supper, with a kind
landlady, to all the hills in Scotland. They continued, however, captive
and guard, to advance, till they arrived at a spot somewhat sheltered by
a rock, beneath which the snow had melted, and presented a black
appearance amidst the surrounding whiteness. It was manifest that this
was a well of spring-water; and the serjeant called a halt, that the
soldiers might partake of some refreshment from a flask of brandy which
he had wisely provided. The poor prisoners were not so well supplied,
and were admonished by the licentious and cruel-hearted soldiers to
refresh themselves with a stave. Amidst the prisoners there was a young
woman of great beauty, the daughter of the Laird of Stennis, or
Stonehouse; whom, because she had refused to betray her own father, and
had intercommuned, as they termed it, with a young man in her
neighbourhood, to whom she was promised in marriage, they were dragging
onward to Edinburgh, to stand her trial, along with her uncle, Thomas
Harkness, Peter M'Kechnie, and John Gibson. After the soldiers had made
several applications to the flask, one of them, manifestly intoxicated,
put his arms around the maiden's waist, and, using language improper to
be mentioned, was in the act of compelling her to admit his unseemly and
dishonourable addresses, when all at once a musket was fired, and the
soldier fell down, gave one groan, and expired. This was clearly a
signal which had been anticipated by the survivors, for in an instant
they were out of sight, with the exception of poor John Gibson, who was
shot through the head as he was making for the linn beneath. There was
an intended rescue; for several more shots were fired from behind the
rock, and one of the surviving soldiers was severely wounded. However,
the three remaining prisoners had escaped for the time, probably through
their better knowledge of the road, which at this point leads to a
fordable part of the torrent. This was the famous rescue of Enterkin,
mentioned in Woodrow, in consequence of which the whole lower district
of Dumfries-shire was laid under military law; and Grierson, and
Douglas, and Dalzell of Binns, went about like roaring lions, devouring
and murdering at their pleasure. The rescue had been planned and
conducted by William M'Dougal, the young Laird of Glenross, who, knowing
the route the soldiers would take, and arranging the thing with Mary
Maxwell, had resolved upon a rescue at this very spot. The impertinence,
however, of the soldier had accelerated the catastrophe; for Robert
M'Turk, one of his own servants--whom, along with a young band of seven
or eight from Monihive, he had associated with himself in the
plot--observing the indignity to which Miss Maxwell was exposed, could
not wait orders, but killed the brute on the spot. Poor Robert suffered
for his rashness; for a volley was immediately fired in the direction of
the shot, which proved immediately fatal to him, and wounded, though
slightly, one or two of his associates. William M'Dougal, immediately
observing the affray, followed Mary, who, according to a preconcerted
scheme, had fled into the linn; and, detaching themselves from the other
two, for purposes of safety, they, with great difficulty, gained the
summit of the Lowther Hills, from which the snow had drifted into the
hollows; and, after various efforts to secure shelter, were compelled to
sit down amidst the cold drift, and under the scoug of a peat-brow. Poor
Mary was entirely overcome; but her lover was strong and resolute; and,
having provided himself with sufficient refreshments, these two attached
lovers felt themselves comparatively comfortable, even amidst the snow
and the tempest. Burns talks of "a canny hour at een," and Goldsmith of
"the hawthorn shade, for whispering lovers made;" but here was the bare
fell; the cold snow accumulating in drifted wreaths around their
persons; and yet Will never kissed his Mary with greater good-will; nor
did Mary at any other time--not even in the snug "chaumer ayont the
close"--cling so closely to the breast or to the lips of her faithful
lover and the saviour of her life. But what was to be done? The tempest
continued unabated. It was twelve o'clock, and the moon was up, though
only visible at intervals. There was no house known to them nearer than
the shieling at Lowtherslacks, about two miles distant. The hollows were
heaped up with drift, and it was scarcely possible to clear or to avoid
them, in directing their course towards Lowtherslacks. What was to be
done? They might have kindled a fire with Will's musket; but where were
the combustibles? In spite of French brandy, a chilliness was gradually
coming over them; and they were upon the point of falling into that
fatal state in such a situation--namely, into a sound sleep--when their
attention was aroused by the barking, or rather howling, of a dog in
their immediate neighbourhood. At first Will sprung to his gun; but,
upon reflection, he began to divine the cause; and, whilst raising his
voice to invite the approach of the dog, the animal was literally
betwixt his shoulders. It was manifestly in a great state of alarm, and
looked and pulled at his clothes, as if inviting him to follow it. This
was immediately done; and the couple were led on, across the moss, into
a ravine or hollow, on the further side of which, where the snow lay
deep, the dog began to scrape and work most vigorously. In a little the
end or corner of a shepherd's plaid made its appearance, and ultimately
the full-length figure of a man, who was still warm, and breathed as in
a deep and refreshing sleep. With much difficulty the reclining body was
aroused into perception, and he was made aware of his danger, and help
which had thus miraculously arrived. There being still some of the
cordial remaining, it was immediately applied to the awakened sleeper's
lips; and, after a few minutes of mutual inquiry, it was resolved to
attempt the road to Lowtherslacks, whence the shepherd had come, in
quest, and to secure the safety, of his master's flocks. This, however,
would have been almost impossible, had not the shepherd's son, with a
young and stout lad, been in the neighbourhood, and actually in quest of
the perishing man. With much difficulty, however, and through some
danger from scaurs and deep wreaths, the party at last reached the
shieling, where a half-distracted wife and a daughter, woman-grown, were
thrown into ecstasy by their safe arrival.
Such accommodation and refreshment as the house could afford was freely
and kindly given; and Mary Maxwell slept soundly, after all her troubles
and escapes, in the arms of the shepherd's daughter.
Next morning brought light, a keen frost, a clear sky, and many serious
thoughts regarding the safety of all concerned. The shepherd was not
ignorant of the risk which he ran; and the guests were equally aware of
the danger to which this hospitable family was exposed, in consequence
of an act of humanity, or rather of gratitude. It was resolved at last,
that, till the weather mitigated, Mary Maxwell should remain in hiding,
in the corner of a ewe bught, in the neighbourhood, having her food
supplied from the house, and coming out occasionally, during the
darkness of night in particular, to join the family party. This small
erection had been made to shelter one or two ewes, which had felt the
severities of a late spring, during lambing time. It was lined with
rushes, built of turf, and scarcely visible even when you were close
upon it, in consequence of a high wall, into a corner or angle of which
it was fixed, like a limpet to a rock. William M'Dougal bore away by a
glen which opened into the Clyde; and, having promised to return for his
beloved Mary when occasion should suit, he was seen no more for the
present.
Leadhills was the nearest inhabited abode to this lonely shieling; and
any little necessaries which so humble a cottage required were obtained
from this village. In consequence of this intercourse, it was early
known at the shieling of Lowtherslacks, that the strictest search had
been made, and was still making, for the prisoners, and for the rescuers
at the Pass of Enterkin; that several had been taken, and marched off to
Edinburgh; but whether William Macdougal was of the number or not was
not ascertained. In fact, it was more than dangerous to make any direct
inquiry respecting any particular individual, as attention was thus
drawn to his case; and informers were kept and paid all over the country
(under the superintendence of the Aberdeen curates), to give information
to the military, even of the most casual surmise. It was during a dark
night, about a fortnight after Will M'Dougal's disappearance, that he
reappeared at Lowtherslacks, and spent the whole evening in company with
his beloved Mary and her kind entertainers. He had learned, he said,
whilst in hiding at Crawfordjohn, that the soldiers had been called off
to quell an apprehended insurrection at Glencairn, and had taken this
opportunity of revisiting the spot which was so pleasantly associated in
his mind. He had been observed, however, in crossing the hills, which
had now escaped from a part of their covering, and information had been
lodged with Grierson at Wanlockhead of the fact. The truth was, that the
report of the absence of the dragoons from the hill country was a mere
device to bring forth the poor nonconformist from his hiding-place, and
to expose him the more readily to surprise. The fireside of
Lowtherslacks was never more cheerfully encircled than on this memorable
evening. The peats burned brightly, and the sooty rafters looked down
from their smoky recesses, with a placid gleam, on the happy group.
About twelve o'clock, it was judged safe to separate--Mary to return to
her straw bed in the sheepfold, and William to make the best of his way
back to his retreat at Crawfordjohn. Next morning, an hour before
daybreak, and under the dim light of a waning moon, saw this solitary
cottage surrounded with armed men on horseback. The inmates were
immediately summoned from their beds, and a strict and unceremonious
search for William M'Dougal commenced. The father, the son, the wife,
the daughters, and the herd-lad, were all turned out, half naked, to the
croft before the door. Never, perhaps, was there a more fearful and
melancholy gathering. That moon,
"Well known to hynd and matron old,"
in her last quarter, hung on the southern horizon, ready to shroud
herself from such unhallowed doings in the mountain shadow. Above them
was the famous burial-ground, where, time out of mind, the suicides of
two counties had been enearthed. The earth was partially blackened by a
thaw, which still continued; but vast wreaths lay in the hollows, and
looked out in cold and chilly brightness from their mountain recesses.
Grierson insisted, in terms peculiar to himself, on the old shepherd and
his family giving information of the retreat of M'Dougal, who had been
traced but last night to the neighbourhood. It was mentioned by one of
the dragoons, that he even saw the herd-lad foregather with a figure,
which he took to be William M'Dougal, on the hill-top; but he was too
distant, and without his horse, else he would have given chase.
The young man was interrogated, but refused to give any information on
the subject. Grierson lost all patience, swore a round oath, and,
presenting his pistol, shot him dead on the spot. The report of firearms
brought up two figures, scarcely discernible in the dubious light, from
the fold-dyke. The one was a female, the other a male. O God! they were
those of Mary and William, who, being unable to withdraw himself from
his beloved, had ensconced himself, along with her, amongst the rushes
of the little cot. They came rushing on in frenzy, exclaiming that they
were there to suffer--to be shot--to be tortured; but entreating that
their kind and innocent entertainers might not suffer on their account.
"So ho!" exclaimed Grierson, "we have unkennelled the foxes at last;
secure them, lambs, and let us march for the guid town of Biggar; we
will reach it ere night; and then, ho! my jolly lovers, for
Edinburgh--sweet Edinburgh! Can you sing, my sweet maiden,
'Now wat ye wha I met yestreen?'
It's a pretty song, my neat one; and all about Edinburgh, and Arthur's
Seat, and love, and sweet William. You will certainly give us a stanza
or two by the way? It beats your covenanting psalm-singing hollow." And
then he sang out, in a whining covenanting tone--
"'Wo's me, that I in Meschech am
A sojourner so long;
Or that I in the tents do dwell
To Grierson that belong.'
March, march, devils and devil's dams; we have now picked up a goodly
company of these heather-bleats--these whistling miresnipes of the
hills--no less than eight; we will march them, every clute, in at the
West Port, to glorify God at the head of the Grassmarket. March! It is
broad day, and we have a pretty long journey. As for you" (speaking to
the shepherd), "old sheep's-head and Moniplies, we will leave you and
your good friends to do the duties of sepulture to this bit of treason.
There is good ground, I am told, hard by, where the weary rest. You can
all cut your own throats, to save us the trouble, and your churchyard
accommodation is secured to you. Good-by, old Lucky and young Chucky! I
have no time at present to doff my bonnet and do the polite; and your
joe, there, is past speaking, I suspect, much more past kissing.
Good-by! good-by!" said the monster, waving his sword, and laughing
immoderately at his own savage wit.
The body of Sandy Laidlaw was indeed carefully interred--not where
pointed out by Lag, but in the churchyard of Leadhills, over which a
small headstone still retains the letters, "A. L., murdered 1687." Poor
Leezy Lawson, who was indeed the betrothed of Sandy, never saw a day to
thrive after this dreadful morning. She went out of one strong
convulsion into another for many hours; and then sank into a lethargic
unconsciousness, which terminated in mental and bodily imbecility, which
ended, in less than twelve months, in death. Her body lies alongside of
that of her lover; but there is no intimation of this fact on the stone;
and all marks of the presence on earth of these two once living and
happy beings has passed away--_etiam periere ruinae_--their very dust has
perished.
The court at Edinburgh was crowded on the trial of the state prisoners,
particularly of those who had been concerned in the rescue at Enterkin.
There Lauderdale sat, after an evening's debauch, with his long hair
hanging uncombed about his shoulders and over his brow; with his
waistcoat unbuttoned towards the bottom; his face round, swollen, red,
and fiery, and his eyes swimming in every cruel and unhallowed
imagining. Poor Mary Maxwell, trembling, weak, and worn out with
travelling on foot, was placed at the bar, and M'Kenzie, the king's
advocate, proceeded against her. Her indictment was in the usual style.
She was accused of harbouring nonconformists; of intercommuning with
outlaws; of conspiring and aiding in the hellish rescue at Enterkin,
where murder had been committed; and in continuing, after all due
warning, to hold intercourse with the king's enemies. But the proof of
all this was somewhat deficient; and even in these awful times, such was
the respect for public opinion, that the court durst not, in the absence
of some direct evidence, pronounce sentence of death. She, as well as
William M'Dougal, against whom there was still less evidence, were
remitted to Dunnottar Castle--of which march and unheard-of misery we
have already told the tale--and were to have been exported thence, in
due time, to America; but mercy and King William intercepted the cruel
sentence: and William M'Dougal and Mary Maxwell were permitted to return
to their native glen in peace. The M'Dougals of Glenross are sprung from
this root, and still continue a respected name in the valley.
VI.--THE FATAL MISTAKE.
Old Elspeth Wallace lived, at the time of which I am about to speak, in
a sequestered spot in the Parish of Dalry, in the district of Carrick,
Ayrshire. She was a widow woman, but not in indigent circumstances.
Through the kindness of the family of Cassilis, she had a cow's grass, a
small croft, a pickle barley, which, in due time, and under the usual
process, was converted into small drink, or tippenny, as it was called
in those days.
"Wi' tippeny," says Burns, "I fear nae evil."