And, to my breast, a bodkin in her hand
Were worth a thousand daggers.
Marlow.
The cavalcade which left the Castle of Tillietudlem, halted for a few
minutes at the small town of Bothwell, after passing the outposts of the
insurgents, to take some slight refreshments which their attendants had
provided, and which were really necessary to persons who had suffered
considerably by want of proper nourishment. They then pressed forward
upon the road towards Edinburgh, amid the lights of dawn which were now
rising on the horizon. It might have been expected, during the course of
the journey, that Lord Evandale would have been frequently by the side of
Miss Edith Bellenden. Yet, after his first salutations had been
exchanged, and every precaution solicitously adopted which could serve
for her accommodation, he rode in the van of the party with Major
Bellenden, and seemed to abandon the charge of immediate attendance upon
his lovely niece to one of the insurgent cavaliers, whose dark military
cloak, with the large flapped hat and feather, which drooped over his
face, concealed at once his figure and his features. They rode side by
side in silence for more than two miles, when the stranger addressed Miss
Bellenden in a tremulous and suppressed voice.
"Miss Bellenden," he said, "must have friends wherever she is known; even
among those whose conduct she now disapproves. Is there any thing that
such can do to show their respect for her, and their regret for her
sufferings?"
"Let them learn for their own sakes," replied Edith, "to venerate the
laws, and to spare innocent blood. Let them return to their allegiance,
and I can forgive them all that I have suffered, were it ten times more."
"You think it impossible, then," rejoined the cavalier, "for any one to
serve in our ranks, having the weal of his country sincerely at heart,
and conceiving himself in the discharge of a patriotic duty?"
"It might be imprudent, while so absolutely in your power," replied Miss
Bellenden, "to answer that question."
"Not in the present instance, I plight you the word of a soldier,"
replied the horseman.
"I have been taught candour from my birth," said Edith; "and, if I am to
speak at all, I must utter my real sentiments. God only can judge the
heart--men must estimate intentions by actions. Treason, murder by the
sword and by gibbet, the oppression of a private family such as ours, who
were only in arms for the defence of the established government, and of
our own property, are actions which must needs sully all that have
accession to them, by whatever specious terms they may be gilded over."
"The guilt of civil war," rejoined the horseman--"the miseries which it
brings in its train, lie at the door of those who provoked it by illegal
oppression, rather than of such as are driven to arms in order to assert
their natural rights as freemen."
"That is assuming the question," replied Edith, "which ought to be
proved. Each party contends that they are right in point of principle,
and therefore the guilt must lie with them who first drew the sword; as,
in an affray, law holds those to be the criminals who are the first to
have recourse to violence."
"Alas!" said the horseman, "were our vindication to rest there, how easy
would it be to show that we have suffered with a patience which almost
seemed beyond the power of humanity, ere we were driven by oppression
into open resistance!--But I perceive," he continued, sighing deeply,
"that it is vain to plead before Miss Bellenden a cause which she has
already prejudged, perhaps as much from her dislike of the persons as of
the principles of those engaged in it."
"Pardon me," answered Edith; "I have stated with freedom my opinion
of the principles of the insurgents; of their persons I know
nothing--excepting in one solitary instance."
"And that instance," said the horseman, "has influenced your opinion of
the whole body?"
"Far from it," said Edith; "he is--at least I once thought him--one in
whose scale few were fit to be weighed--he is--or he seemed--one of early
talent, high faith, pure morality, and warm affections. Can I approve of
a rebellion which has made such a man, formed to ornament, to enlighten,
and to defend his country, the companion of gloomy and ignorant fanatics,
or canting hypocrites,--the leader of brutal clowns,--the brother-in-arms
to banditti and highway murderers?--Should you meet such an one in your
camp, tell him that Edith Bellenden has wept more over his fallen
character, blighted prospects, and dishonoured name, than over the
distresses of her own house,--and that she has better endured that famine
which has wasted her cheek and dimmed her eye, than the pang of heart
which attended the reflection by and through whom these calamities were
inflicted."
As she thus spoke, she turned upon her companion a countenance, whose
faded cheek attested the reality of her sufferings, even while it glowed
with the temporary animation which accompanied her language. The horseman
was not insensible to the appeal; he raised his hand to his brow with the
sudden motion of one who feels a pang shoot along his brain, passed it
hastily over his face, and then pulled the shadowing hat still deeper on
his forehead. The movement, and the feelings which it excited, did not
escape Edith, nor did she remark them without emotion.
"And yet," she said, "should the person of whom I speak seem to you too
deeply affected by the hard opinion of--of--an early friend, say to him,
that sincere repentance is next to innocence;--that, though fallen from a
height not easily recovered, and the author of much mischief, because
gilded by his example, he may still atone in some measure for the evil he
has done."
"And in what manner?" asked the cavalier, in the same suppressed, and
almost choked voice.
"By lending his efforts to restore the blessings of peace to his
distracted countrymen, and to induce the deluded rebels to lay down their
arms. By saving their blood, he may atone for that which has been already
spilt;--and he that shall be most active in accomplishing this great end,
will best deserve the thanks of this age, and an honoured remembrance in
the next."
"And in such a peace," said her companion, with a firm voice, "Miss
Bellenden would not wish, I think, that the interests of the people were
sacrificed unreservedly to those of the crown?"
"I am but a girl," was the young lady's reply; "and I scarce can speak on
the subject without presumption. But, since I have gone so far, I will
fairly add, I would wish to see a peace which should give rest to all
parties, and secure the subjects from military rapine, which I detest as
much as I do the means now adopted to resist it."
"Miss Bellenden," answered Henry Morton, raising his face, and speaking
in his natural tone, "the person who has lost such a highly-valued place
in your esteem, has yet too much spirit to plead his cause as a criminal;
and, conscious that he can no longer claim a friend's interest in your
bosom, he would be silent under your hard censure, were it not that he
can refer to the honoured testimony of Lord Evandale, that his earnest
wishes and most active exertions are, even now, directed to the
accomplishment of such a peace as the most loyal cannot censure."
He bowed with dignity to Miss Bellenden, who, though her language
intimated that she well knew to whom she had been speaking, probably had
not expected that he would justify himself with so much animation. She
returned his salute, confused and in silence. Morton then rode forward to
the head of the party.
"Henry Morton!" exclaimed Major Bellenden, surprised at the sudden
apparition.
"The same," answered Morton; "who is sorry that he labours under the
harsh construction of Major Bellenden and his family. He commits to my
Lord Evandale," he continued, turning towards the young nobleman, and
bowing to him, "the charge of undeceiving his friends, both regarding the
particulars of his conduct and the purity of his motives. Farewell, Major
Bellenden--All happiness attend you and yours--May we meet again in
happier and better times!"
"Believe me," said Lord Evandale, "your confidence, Mr Morton, is not
misplaced; I will endeavour to repay the great services I have received
from you by doing my best to place your character on its proper footing
with Major Bellenden, and all whose esteem you value."
"I expected no less from your generosity, my lord," said Morton.
He then called his followers, and rode off along the heath in the
direction of Hamilton, their feathers waving and their steel caps
glancing in the beams of the rising sun. Cuddie Headrigg alone remained
an instant behind his companions to take an affectionate farewell of
Jenny Dennison, who had contrived, during this short morning's ride, to
re-establish her influence over his susceptible bosom. A straggling tree
or two obscured, rather than concealed, their /tete-a-tete/, as they
halted their horses to bid adieu.
"Fare ye weel, Jenny," said Cuddie, with a loud exertion of his lungs,
intended perhaps to be a sigh, but rather resembling the intonation of a
groan,--"Ye'll think o' puir Cuddie sometimes--an honest lad that lo'es
ye, Jenny; ye'll think o' him now and then?"
"Whiles--at brose-time," answered the malicious damsel, unable either to
suppress the repartee, or the arch smile which attended it.
[Illustration: Whiles--at Brose-Time--pa098]
Cuddie took his revenge as rustic lovers are wont, and as Jenny probably
expected,--caught his mistress round the neck, kissed her cheeks and lips
heartily, and then turned his horse and trotted after his master.
"Deil's in the fallow," said Jenny, wiping her lips and adjusting her
head-dress, "he has twice the spunk o' Tam Halliday, after a'.--Coming,
my leddy, coming--Lord have a care o' us, I trust the auld leddy didna
see us!"
"Jenny," said Lady Margaret, as the damsel came up, "was not that young
man who commanded the party the same that was captain of the popinjay,
and who was afterwards prisoner at Tillietudlem on the morning
Claverhouse came there?"
Jenny, happy that the query had no reference to her own little matters,
looked at her young mistress, to discover, if possible, whether it was
her cue to speak truth or not. Not being able to catch any hint to guide
her, she followed her instinct as a lady's maid, and lied.
"I dinna believe it was him, my leddy," said Jenny, as confidently as if
she had been saying her catechism; "he was a little black man, that."
"You must have been blind, Jenny," said the Major: "Henry Morton is tall
and fair, and that youth is the very man."
"I had ither thing ado than be looking at him," said Jenny, tossing her
head; "he may be as fair as a farthing candle, for me."
"Is it not," said Lady Margaret, "a blessed escape which we have made,
out of the hands of so desperate and bloodthirsty a fanatic?"
"You are deceived, madam," said Lord Evandale; "Mr Morton merits such a
title from no one, but least from us. That I am now alive, and that you
are now on your safe retreat to your friends, instead of being prisoners
to a real fanatical homicide, is solely and entirely owing to the prompt,
active, and energetic humanity of this young gentleman."
He then went into a particular narrative of the events with which the
reader is acquainted, dwelling upon the merits of Morton, and expatiating
on the risk at which he had rendered them these important services, as if
he had been a brother instead of a rival.
"I were worse than ungrateful," he said, "were I silent on the merits of
the man who has twice saved my life."
"I would willingly think well of Henry Morton, my lord," replied Major
Bellenden; "and I own he has behaved handsomely to your lordship and to
us; but I cannot have the same allowances which it pleases your lordship
to entertain for his present courses."
"You are to consider," replied Lord Evandale, "that he has been partly
forced upon them by necessity; and I must add, that his principles,
though differing in some degree from my own, are such as ought to command
respect. Claverhouse, whose knowledge of men is not to be disputed, spoke
justly of him as to his extraordinary qualities, but with prejudice, and
harshly, concerning his principles and motives."
"You have not been long in learning all his extraordinary qualities, my
lord," answered Major Bellenden. "I, who have known him from boyhood,
could, before this affair, have said much of his good principles and
good-nature; but as to his high talents"--
"They were probably hidden, Major," replied the generous Lord Evandale,
"even from himself, until circumstances called them forth; and, if I have
detected them, it was only because our intercourse and conversation
turned on momentous and important subjects. He is now labouring to bring
this rebellion to an end, and the terms he has proposed are so moderate,
that they shall not want my hearty recommendation."
"And have you hopes," said Lady Margaret, "to accomplish a scheme so
comprehensive?"
"I should have, madam, were every whig as moderate as Morton, and every
loyalist as disinterested as Major Bellenden. But such is the fanaticism
and violent irritation of both parties, that I fear nothing will end this
civil war save the edge of the sword."
It may be readily supposed, that Edith listened with the deepest interest
to this conversation. While she regretted that she had expressed herself
harshly and hastily to her lover, she felt a conscious and proud
satisfaction that his character was, even in the judgment of his
noble-minded rival, such as her own affection had once spoke it.
"Civil feuds and domestic prejudices," she said, "may render it necessary
for me to tear his remembrance from my heart; but it is not small relief
to know assuredly, that it is worthy of the place it has so long retained
there."
While Edith was thus retracting her unjust resentment, her lover arrived
at the camp of the insurgents, near Hamilton, which he found in
considerable confusion. Certain advices had arrived that the royal army,
having been recruited from England by a large detachment of the King's
Guards, were about to take the field. Fame magnified their numbers and
their high state of equipment and discipline, and spread abroad other
circumstances, which dismayed the courage of the insurgents. What favour
they might have expected from Monmouth, was likely to be intercepted by
the influence of those associated with him in command. His
lieutenant-general was the celebrated General Thomas Dalzell, who, having
practised the art of war in the then barbarous country of Russia, was as
much feared for his cruelty and indifference to human life and human
sufferings, as respected for his steady loyalty and undaunted valour.
This man was second in command to Monmouth, and the horse were commanded
by Claverhouse, burning with desire to revenge the death of his nephew,
and his defeat at Drumclog. To these accounts was added the most
formidable and terrific description of the train of artillery and the
cavalry force with which the royal army took the field.
[Note: Royal Army at Bothwell Bridge. A Cameronian muse was
awakened from slumber on this doleful occasion, and gave the
following account of the muster of the royal forces, in poetry
nearly as melancholy as the subject:--
They marched east through Lithgow-town
For to enlarge their forces;
And sent for all the north-country
To come, both foot and horses.
Montrose did come and Athole both,
And with them many more;
And all the Highland Amorites
That had been there before.
The Lowdien Mallisha--Lothian Militia they
Came with their coats of blew;
Five hundred men from London came,
Claid in a reddish hue.
When they were assembled one and all,
A full brigade were they;
Like to a pack of hellish hounds,
Roreing after their prey.
When they were all provided well,
In armour and amonition,
Then thither wester did they come,
Most cruel of intention.
The royalists celebrated their victory in stanzas of equal merit.
Specimens of both may be found in the curious collection of Fugitive
Scottish Poetry, principally of the Seventeenth Century, printed for
the Messrs Laing, Edinburgh.]
Large bodies, composed of the Highland clans, having in language,
religion, and manners, no connexion with the insurgents, had been
summoned to join the royal army under their various chieftains; and these
Amorites, or Philistines, as the insurgents termed them, came like eagles
to the slaughter. In fact, every person who could ride or run at the
King's command, was summoned to arms, apparently with the purpose of
forfeiting and fining such men of property whom their principles might
deter from joining the royal standard, though prudence prevented them
from joining that of the insurgent Presbyterians. In short, everyrumour
tended to increase the apprehension among the insurgents, that the King's
vengeance had only been delayed in order that it might fall more certain
and more heavy.
Morton endeavoured to fortify the minds of the common people by pointing
out the probable exaggeration of these reports, and by reminding them of
the strength of their own situation, with an unfordable river in front,
only passable by a long and narrow bridge. He called to their remembrance
their victory over Claverhouse when their numbers were few, and then much
worse disciplined and appointed for battle than now; showed them that the
ground on which they lay afforded, by its undulation, and the thickets
which intersected it, considerable protection against artillery, and even
against cavalry, if stoutly defended; and that their safety, in fact,
depended on their own spirit and resolution.
But while Morton thus endeavoured to keep up the courage of the army at
large, he availed himself of those discouraging rumours to endeavour to
impress on the minds of the leaders the necessity of proposing to the
government moderate terms of accommodation, while they were still
formidable as commanding an unbroken and numerous army. He pointed out to
them, that, in the present humour of their followers, it could hardly be
expected that they would engage, with advantage, the well-appointed and
regular force of the Duke of Monmouth; and that if they chanced, as was
most likely, to be defeated and dispersed, the insurrection in which they
had engaged, so far from being useful to the country, would be rendered
the apology for oppressing it more severely.
Pressed by these arguments, and feeling it equally dangerous to remain
together, or to dismiss their forces, most of the leaders readily agreed,
that if such terms could be obtained as had been transmitted to the Duke
of Monmouth by the hands of Lord Evandale, the purpose for which they had
taken up arms would be, in a great measure, accomplished. They then
entered into similar resolutions, and agreed to guarantee the petition
and remonstrance which had been drawn up by Morton. On the contrary,
there were still several leaders, and those men whose influence with the
people exceeded that of persons of more apparent consequence, who
regarded every proposal of treaty which did not proceed on the basis of
the Solemn League and Covenant of 1640, as utterly null and void,
impious, and unchristian. These men diffused their feelings among the
multitude, who had little foresight, and nothing to lose, and persuaded
many that the timid counsellors who recommended peace upon terms short of
the dethronement of the royal family, and the declared independence of
the church with respect to the state, were cowardly labourers, who were
about to withdraw their hands from the plough, and despicable trimmers,
who sought only a specious pretext for deserting their brethren in arms.
These contradictory opinions were fiercely argued in each tent of the
insurgent army, or rather in the huts or cabins which served in the place
of tents. Violence in language often led to open quarrels and blows, and
the divisions into which the army of sufferers was rent served as too
plain a presage of their future fate.