MEANWHILE nothing could exceed the panic that had taken possession of
the town of Edinburgh. The question of the hour was, could the city be
defended _at all_, and if so, could it, in case of siege, hold out till
Cope might be expected with his troops? That dilatory general, finding
nothing to do in the North, was returning to Edinburgh by sea, and might
be looked for any day. There could be no question of the strength of the
Castle. It was armed and garrisoned, and no army without large guns need
attempt to attack it. But with the town it was different. The old town
of Edinburgh, as everybody knows, is built along the narrow ridge of a
hill running from the hollow of Holyrood, in constant ascent, up to the
Castle rock. On each side narrow wynds and lanes descend down steep
slopes, on the south side to the Grassmarket and the Cowgate, on the
north--at the time of which we write--the sides of the city sloped down
to a lake called the Norloch, a strong position, had the city been
properly fortified. More than two hundred years before, in the desolate
and anxious days that followed Flodden, the magistrates of the city,
hourly expecting to be invaded, had hastily built a high wall round the
whole city as it then was. For the time the defence was sufficient. But
the wall had been built without reference to artillery, it had neither
towers nor embrasures for mounting cannons. It was simply a very high,
solid, park wall, as may be seen to this day by the curious who care to
visit the last remnants of it, in an out-of-the-way corner near the
Grassmarket.
If the material defences were weak, the human defenders were weaker
still. The regular soldiers were needed for the Castle; Hamilton's
dragoons, stationed at Leith, were of no use in the defence of a city,
the town guard was merely a body of rather inefficient policemen, the
trained bands mere ornamental volunteers who shut their eyes if they had
to let off a firearm in honour of the king's birthday. As soon as it
seemed certain that the Highland army was approaching Edinburgh,
preparations, frantic but spasmodic, were made to put the city in a
state of defence.
The patriotic and spirited Maclaurin, professor of mathematics, alone
and unaided, tried to mount cannons on the wall, but not with much
success. The city determined to raise a regiment of volunteers; funds
were not lacking; it was more difficult to find the men. Even when
companies were formed, their ardour was not very great. Rumour and
ignorance had exaggerated the numbers and fierceness of the Highland
army; quiet citizens, drawn from desk or shop, might well shrink from
encountering them in the field. Parties were divided in the town; the
Prince had many secret friends among the citizens. In back parlours of
taverns 'douce writers,' and advocates of Jacobite sympathies, discussed
the situation with secret triumph; in many a panelled parlour high up in
those wonderful old closes, spirited old Jacobite ladies recalled the
adventures of the '15, and bright-eyed young ones busied themselves
making knots of white satin. 'One-third of the men are Jacobite,' writes
a Whig citizen, 'and two-thirds of the ladies.'
On Saturday, 14th, the news reached Edinburgh that the Prince had
arrived at Linlithgow, and that Gardiner had retired on Corstorphine, a
village two miles from Edinburgh. Consternation was general; advice was
sought from the law officers of the Crown, and it was found that they
had all retired to Dunbar. The Provost was not above suspicion. His
surname was Stuart; no Scotsman could believe that he really meant to
oppose the chief of his name.
[Illustration: 'In many a panelled parlour']
On Sunday, as the townsfolk were at church about eleven o'clock, the
firebell rang out its note of alarm, scattering the congregation into
the streets. It was the signal for the mustering of the volunteers. The
officer in command at the Castle was sending the dragoons from Leith to
reinforce Gardiner at Corstorphine, and the volunteers were ordered to
accompany them. They were standing in rank in the High Street, when the
dragoons rattled up the Canongate at a hard trot; as they passed they
saluted their brothers in arms with drawn swords and loud huzzas, then
swept down the West Bow and out at the West Port. For a moment military
ardour seized the volunteers, but the lamentations and tears of their
wives and children soon softened their mood again. A group of Jacobite
ladies in a balcony mocked and derided the civic warriors, but had
finally to close their windows to prevent stones being hurled at them.
One of the volunteer companies was composed of University students.
Among them was, doubtless, more than one stout young heart, eager for
fame and fighting, but most were more at home with their books than
their broadswords. 'Oh, Mr. Hew, Mr. Hew,' whispered one youth to his
comrade, 'does not this remind you of the passage in Livy where the Gens
of the Fabii marched out of the city, and the matrons and maids of Rome
were weeping and wringing their hands?' 'Hold your tongue,' said Mr.
Hew, affecting a braver spirit, 'you'll discourage the men.' 'Recollect
the end, Mr. Hew,' persisted his trembling comrade; '_they all perished
to a man!_' This was not destined to be the fate of the Edinburgh
volunteers. On the march down the West Bow, one by one they stole off,
up the narrow wynds and doorways, till by the time they reached the West
Port, only the student corps remained, and even its ranks were sadly
thinned. The remnant were easily persuaded that their lives were too
precious to their country to be rashly thrown away, and quietly marched
back to the college yards.
There was no alarm that night. At one o'clock the Provost, accompanied
by a few of the city guard, carrying a lantern before him, visited the
outposts and found all at their places. In the narrow streets of
Edinburgh the people were accustomed to transact all their business out
of doors. Next morning (Monday, 16th), the streets were already crowded
at an early hour with an anxious, vociferous crowd. At 10 o'clock a man
arrived with a message from the Prince, which he incautiously proclaimed
in the street. If the town would surrender it should be favourably
treated; if it resisted it must expect to be dealt with according to the
usages of war. Greatly alarmed, the people clamoured for a meeting, but
the Provost refused; he trusted to the dragoons to defend the city. A
little after noon, the citizens looking across from the Castle and the
northern windows of their houses, saw the dragoons in retreat from
Coltbridge As they watched the moving figures, the pace quickened and
became a regular flight; by the time the dragoons were opposite the city
on the other side of the Norloch, they were running like hares. They
made at first for their barracks at Leith, but the distance still
seemed too short between them and the terrifying Highlanders; they never
drew rein till they had reached Prestonpans, nor did they rest there
longer than an hour or two, but galloped on, and were at Dunbar before
nightfall. And yet they had not exchanged a blow with their foes! At the
first sight of a reconnoitring party of horsemen, panic had seized them
and they had fled. This was the celebrated 'Canter of Coltbridge.'
The effect on the city was disturbing in the extreme. A tumultuous
meeting was held in the council chamber, the volunteers were drawn up in
the streets. As they stood uncertain what to do a man on horseback--it
was never known who he was--galloped up the Bow, and as he passed along
the ranks, shouted 'The Highlanders are coming, sixteen thousand
strong.'
It was too much for the volunteers, they marched up to the Castle and
gave in their arms! Meanwhile, a packet was handed into the council
chamber signed C. P., and offering the same terms as in the morning,
only adding that the town must open its gates by two o'clock next
morning. The cry was unanimous to surrender, but to gain time deputies
were sent to the Prince at Gray's Mill, two miles from Edinburgh, to ask
for further delay. Hardly had the deputies gone when, in through the
opposite gate galloped a messenger from Dunbar, to say that Cope had
landed there with his troops. Opinion now swung round the other way, and
men's courage rose to the point of _speaking_ about resistance. The
deputies returned at ten at night; Charles, they said, was inexorable
and stuck to his conditions. To cause a delay, a new set of deputies
were sent forth at a very late hour, and went out by the West Bow _in a
hackney coach_.
[Illustration: 'Och no! she be relieved']
To gain time, and then steal another march on Cope, was even more
important to the Prince than to his enemies. There were weak points in
the wall that might be attacked. The chief gate of the city, the
Netherbow, lay midway up the High Street, dividing the real borough of
Edinburgh from the Canongate; on each side of this gate the wall
descended sharply down hill, running along Leith Wynd on the north side
and St. Mary's Wynd on the south. The houses of the latter--Edinburgh
houses numbering their ten or twelve stories--were actually built on to
the wall. By entering one of these, active and determined men might
clear the wall by a fire of musketry from the upper windows, and then
make an escalade. Another weak point was at the foot of Leith Wynd,
where the wall met the Norloch. About midnight Locheil and five hundred
of his men started to make a night attack. They were guided by Mr.
Murray of Broughton (the Prince's secretary, afterwards a traitor), who
had been a student in Edinburgh and knew the town well. To avoid chance
shots from the guns of the Castle, they made a wide circle round the
town, but so still was the night that across the city they could hear
the watches called in the distant fortress. Swift and silent as Red
Indians, the Highlanders marched in the shadow cast by the high, dark
houses of the suburbs without arousing the sleeping inmates. They could
see cannons on the walls, but no sentinels were visible. They determined
to try fraud before resorting to force. Twenty Camerons placed
themselves in hiding on each side of the gate, sixty stood in the dark
recess of the Wynd, the rest were at the bottom of the slope. One of the
number, disguised as the servant of an English officer of dragoons,
knocked loudly at the gate, demanding admission. The watch refused to
open and threatened to fire. So this stratagem was not successful.
Already the dawn was beginning to break, and a council was held among
the leaders of the band in low hurried whispers. They were deliberating
whether they should not retreat, when all at once a heavy rumbling
noise from within the city broke the silence of the night. The hackney
coach before mentioned had deposited its load of deputies at the council
chamber and was returning to its stable-yard in the Canongate. A word to
the watchmen within and the gates swung on their heavy hinges. In rushed
the body of Camerons, secured the bewildered watchmen, and in a few
minutes had seized the city guard-house and disarmed the soldiers. Then
they struck up the wild pibroch 'We'll awa' to Sheriffmuir to haud the
Whigs in order,' and startled citizens rushing to their windows saw in
the dim twilight the streets filled with plaids and bonnets. The
conquerors visited all the outposts as quietly as if they were troops
relieving guard. A citizen strolling along by the wall early next
morning found a Highland soldier astride on one of the cannons, 'Surely
you are not the same soldiers who were here yesterday?' 'Och no!' was
the answer with a grave twinkle, 'she be relieved.'
At noon Prince Charles rode to Holyrood by way of Arthur's Seat and
Salisbury Crags. He was on foot as he approached the ancient home of his
race, but the large and enthusiastic crowd which came out to meet him
pressed so closely upon him in their eagerness to kiss his hand, that he
had to mount a horse, and rode the last half mile between the Duke of
Perth and Lord Elcho. A gallant young figure he must have appeared at
that moment--tall and straight and fresh-coloured, in a tartan coat and
blue bonnet, with the cross of St. Andrew on his breast. As he was about
to enter the old palace of Holyrood, out of the crowd stepped the noble
and venerable figure of Mr. Hepburn of Keith. He drew his sword, and,
holding it aloft, with grave enthusiasm marshalled the Prince up the
stairs. It was surely a good omen; no man in Scotland bore a higher
character for learning, goodness, and patriotism than Mr. Hepburn; he
was hardly less respected by the Whigs than the Jacobites.
That same afternoon, at the old Cross in the High Street, with pomp of
heralds and men-at-arms, James VIII. was proclaimed king, and his son's
commission as regent was read aloud to the listening crowd. Loud huzzas
almost drowned the wild music of the bagpipes, the Highlanders in
triumph let off their pieces in the air, and from every window in the
high houses on each side ladies fluttered their white handkerchiefs.
Beside the Cross, beautiful Mrs. Murray of Broughton sat on horseback, a
drawn sword in one hand, while with the other she distributed white
cockades to the crowd. Even grave Whig statesmen like the Lord
President Forbes were disturbed by the enthusiastic Jacobitism that
possessed all the Scotch ladies. More than one followed the example of
the high-spirited Miss Lumsden, who let her lover clearly understand
that she would have nothing more to say to him unless he took up arms
for the Prince, and doubtless more young gallants than Robert Strange
joined the rebels for no better reason than their ladies' command.
[Illustration: Mrs. Murray of Broughton distributes cockades to the
crowd]
A ball was given at Holyrood that same evening, and surrounded by all
that was bravest and most beautiful and brilliant in Scottish society,
it was no wonder that Charles felt that this was but the beginning of a
larger and more complete triumph.
V