“Then shall the black gown flapO’er desk and true man;Then shall the horny capShine like the new moon;An’ the kist fu’ o’ whistlesThat maks sic a cleary,Lool away, bool away,Till we grow weary.Till we grow weary, &c.Charlie, the cypher–man,Drink till ye stew dame;Jamie, the wafer–man,Eat till ye spue them;Lauderdale lick–my–fud,Binny and Geordie,Leish away, link away.Hell is afore ye.Hell is afore ye, &c.Græme will gang ower the brink,Down wi’ a flaughter;Lagg an’ DrumlandrickWill soon follow after;Johnston and Lithgow,Bruce and Macleary,Scowder their harigalds,Deils, wi’ a bleery.Till ye grow weary,” &c.
“Then shall the black gown flapO’er desk and true man;Then shall the horny capShine like the new moon;An’ the kist fu’ o’ whistlesThat maks sic a cleary,Lool away, bool away,Till we grow weary.Till we grow weary, &c.
Charlie, the cypher–man,Drink till ye stew dame;Jamie, the wafer–man,Eat till ye spue them;Lauderdale lick–my–fud,Binny and Geordie,Leish away, link away.Hell is afore ye.Hell is afore ye, &c.
Græme will gang ower the brink,Down wi’ a flaughter;Lagg an’ DrumlandrickWill soon follow after;Johnston and Lithgow,Bruce and Macleary,Scowder their harigalds,Deils, wi’ a bleery.Till ye grow weary,” &c.
In the mean time, Katharine, on hearing the loud notes of the song, had returned within the door to listen, and heard the most part of the lines and names distinctly. She had heard it once before, and the singer reported it to be a new song, and the composition of a young man who had afterwards been executed in the Grass–Market. How Nanny came to sing such asong, with so much seeming zest, after the violent prelatic principles which she had so lately avowed, the maid could not well comprehend, and she began to suspect that there was more in Nanny’s mind than had yet been made manifest. Struck with this thought, and ruminating upon it, she continued standing in the same position, and heard Nanny sometimes crooning, and at other times talking rapidly and fervently to herself. After much incoherent matter, lines of psalms, &c. Katharine heard with astonishment the following questions and answers, in which two distinct voices were imitated:—
“Were you at the meeting of the traitors at Lanark on the 12th of January?”
“I never was amang traitors that I was certain of till this day—Let them take that! bloody fruesome beasts.”
“Were you at Lanark on that day?”
“If you had been there you would have seen.”
“D‑‑n the old b‑‑! Burn her with matches—squeeze her with pincers as long as there’s a whole piece of her together—then throw her into prison, and let her lie till she rot—the old wrinkled hag of h‑‑! Good woman, I pity you; you shall yet go free if you will tell us where you last saw Hamilton and your own goodman.”
“Ye sall hing me up by the tongue first, and cut me a’ in collops while I’m hingin.”
“Burn her in the cheek, cut baith her lugs out, and let her gae to h‑‑ her own way.”
After this strange soliloquy, the speaker sobbed aloud, spoke in a suppressed voice for some time, and then began a strain so sweet and melancholy, that it thrilled the hearer, and made her tremble where she stood. The tune was something like the Broom of Cowdenknows, the sweetest and most plaintive of the ancient Scottish airs; but it was sung so slow, as to bear with it a kind of solemnity.
“The kye are rowting in the lone,The ewes bleat on the brae,O, what can ail my auld gudeman,He bides sae lang away!An’ aye the Robin sang by the wud,An’ his note had a waesome fa’;An’ the corbie croupit in the clud,But he durstna light ava;Till out cam the wee grey moudiwortFrae neath the hollow stane,An’ it howkit a grave for the auld grey head,For the head lay a’ its lane!But I will seek out the Robin’s nest,An’ the nest of the ouzel shy,For the siller hair that is beddit thereMaun wave aboon the sky.”
“The kye are rowting in the lone,The ewes bleat on the brae,O, what can ail my auld gudeman,He bides sae lang away!
An’ aye the Robin sang by the wud,An’ his note had a waesome fa’;An’ the corbie croupit in the clud,But he durstna light ava;
Till out cam the wee grey moudiwortFrae neath the hollow stane,An’ it howkit a grave for the auld grey head,For the head lay a’ its lane!
But I will seek out the Robin’s nest,An’ the nest of the ouzel shy,For the siller hair that is beddit thereMaun wave aboon the sky.”
The sentiments of old Nanny appeared now to her young mistress to be more doubtful than ever. Fain would she have interpreted them to be such as she wished, but the path which that young female was now obliged to tread required a circumspectionbeyond her experience and discernment to preserve, while danger and death awaited the slightest deviation.
Next morning Clavers, with fifty dragoons, arrived at Chapelhope, where they alighted on the green; and putting their horses to forage, he and Sir Thomas Livingston, Captain Bruce, and Mr Adam Copland, before mentioned, a gentleman of Clavers’ own troop, went straight into the kitchen. Walter was absent at the hill. The goodwife was sitting lonely in the east room, brooding over her trials and woes in this life, and devising means to get rid of her daughter, and with her of all the devouring spirits that haunted Chapelhope; consequently the first and only person whom the gentlemen found in the kitchen was old Nanny. Clavers, who entered first, kept a shy and sullen distance, for he never was familiar with any one; but Bruce,who was a jocular Irish gentleman, and well versed in harassing and inveigling the ignorant country people to their destruction, made two low bows (almost to the ground) to the astonished dame, and accosted her as follows: “How are you to–day, mistress?—I hope you are very well?”
“Thank ye kindly, sir,” said Nanny, curtseying in return; “deed I’m no sae weel as I hae been; I hae e’en seen better days; but I keep aye the heart aboon, although the achings and the stitches hae been sair on me the year.”
“Lack–a–day! I am so very sorry for that!—Where do they seize you? about the heart, I suppose?—Oh, dear soul! to be sure you do not know how sorry I am for your case—it must be so terribly bad! You should have the goodness to consult your physician, and get blood let.”
“Dear bairn, I hae nae blude to spare—an’ as for doctors, I haena muckle to lippen to them. To be sure, they are whiles the means, under Providence”——
“Oho!” said he, putting his finger to his nose, and turning to his associates with a wry face,—“Oho! the means under Providence!—a d‑‑d whig, by ‑‑‑‑. Tell me, my dear and beautiful Mistress Stitchaback, do you really believe in that blessed thing, Providence?”
“Do I believe in Providence!—Did ever ony body hear sic a question as that? Gae away, ye muckle gouk—d’ye think to make a fool of a puir body?”
So saying, she gave him a hearty slap on the cheek; at which his companions laughing, Bruce became somewhat nettled, and, drawing out his sword, he pointed at the recent stains of blood upon it. “Be so good as to look here, my good lady,” said he, “and take very good note of all that I say, and more; for harkee, you must either renounce Providence, and all that I bid you renounce,—and you must, beside that, answer all the questions that I shall ever be after asking,—or, do you see, I am a great doctor—this is my very elegantlance—and I’ll draw the blood that shall soon ease you of all your stitches and pains.”
“I dinna like your fleem ava, man—’tis rather ower grit for an auld body’s veins. But ye’re surely some silly skemp of a fallow, to draw out your sword on a puir auld woman. Dinna think, howanabee, that I care for outher you or it. I’ll let ye see how little I mind ye; for weel I ken your comrades wadna let ye fash me, e’en though ye were sae silly as to offer. Na, na; d’ye ever think that little bonny demure–looking lad there wad suffer ye to hurt a woman?—I wat wad he no! He has mair discreation in his little finger than you hae i’ your hale bouk.—Now try me, master doctor—I’ll nouther renounce ae thing that ye bid me, nor answer ae question that ye speer at me.”
“In the first place, then, my good hearty dame, do you acknowledge or renounce the Covenant?”
“Aha! he’s wise wha wats that, an’ as daft that speers.”
“Ay, or no, in a moment—No juggling with me, old Mrs Skinflint.”
“I’ll tell ye what ye do, master—if ony body speer at ye, gin auld Nanny i’ the Chapelhope renounces the Covenant, shake your head an’ say ye dinna ken.”
“And pray, my very beautiful girl, what do you keep this old tattered book for?”
“For a fancy to gar fools speer, an’ ye’re the first—Come on now, sir, wi’ your catechis—Wally–dye man! gin ye be nae better a fighter than ye’re an examiner, ye may gie up the craft.”
Bruce here bit his lip, and looked so stern that Nanny, with a hysterical laugh, ran away from him, and took shelter behind Clavers.
“You are a d‑‑d fool, Bruce,” said he, “and constantly blundering.—Our business here, mistress, is to discover, if possible, who were the murderers of an honest curate, and some of our own soldiers thatwere slain in this neighbourhood while discharging their duty; if you can give us any information on that subject, you shall be well rewarded.”
“Ye’ll hear about the curate, sir—ye’ll hear about him—he was found out to be a warlock, and shot dead.—But ah, dear bairn! nane alive can gie you information about the soldiers!—It was nae human hand did that deed, and there was nae e’e out o’ heaven saw it done—There wasna a man that day in a’ the Hope up an’ down—that deed will never be fund out, unless a spirit rise frae the dead an’ tell o’t—Muckle fear, an’ muckle grief it has been the cause o’ here!—But the men war a’ decently buried; what mair could be done?”
“Do you say that my men were all decently buried?”
“Ay, troth, I wat weel, worthy sir, and wi’ the burial–service too.—My master and mistress are strong king’s folk.”
“So you are not the mistress of this house?”
“A bonny like mistress I wad be, forsooth—Na, na, my mistress is sittin be hersel ben the house there.” With that, Nanny fell a working and singing full loud—
“Little wats she wha’s coming,Little wats she wha’s coming,Strath and Correy’s ta’en the bent,An’ Ferriden an’ a’s coming;Knock and Craigen Sha’s coming,Keppoch an’ Macraw’s coming,Clan–Mackinnon’s ower the Kyle,An’ Donald Gun an’ a’s coming.”
“Little wats she wha’s coming,Little wats she wha’s coming,Strath and Correy’s ta’en the bent,An’ Ferriden an’ a’s coming;Knock and Craigen Sha’s coming,Keppoch an’ Macraw’s coming,Clan–Mackinnon’s ower the Kyle,An’ Donald Gun an’ a’s coming.”
Anxious now to explore the rest of the house, they left Nanny singing her song, and entered the little parlour hastily, where, finding no one, and dreading that some escape might be effected, Clavers and Livingston burst into the Old Room, and Bruce and Copland into the other. In the Old Room they found the beautiful witch Katharine, with the train of her snow–white joup drawn over her head, who looked as if taken in some evil act by surprise, andgreatly confounded when she saw two gentlemen enter her sanctuary in splendid uniforms. As they approached, she made a slight curtsey, to which they deigned no return; but going straight up to her, Clavers seized her by both wrists. “And is it, indeed, true,” said he, “my beautiful shepherdess, that we have caught you at your prayers so early this morning?”
“And what if you have, sir?” returned she.
“Why, nothing at all, save that I earnestly desire, and long exceedingly to join with you in your devotional exercises,” laying hold of her in the rudest manner.
Katharine screamed so loud that in an instant old Nanny was at their side, with revenge gleaming from her half–shaded eyes, and heaving over her shoulder a large green–kale gully, with which she would doubtless have silenced the renowned Dundee for ever, had not Livingston sprung forward with the utmost celerity, and caught her arm just as the stroke was descending.But Nanny did not spare her voice; she lifted it up with shouts on high, and never suffered one yell to lose hearing of another.
Walter, having just then returned from the hill, and hearing the hideous uproar in the Old Room, rushed into it forthwith to see what was the matter. Katharine was just sinking, when her father entered, within the grasp of the gentle and virtuous Clavers. The backs of both the knights were towards Walter as he came in, and they were so engaged amid bustle and din that neither of them perceived him, until he was close at their backs. He was at least a foot taller than any of them, and nearly as wide round the chest as them both. In one moment his immense fingers grasped both their slender necks, almost meeting behind each of their windpipes. They were rendered powerless at once—they attempted no more struggling with the women, for so completely had Walter’s gripes unnerved them, that they could scarcely lift theirarms from their sides; neither could they articulate a word, or utter any other sound than a kind of choaked gasping for breath. Walter wheeled them about to the light, and looked alternately at each of them, without quitting or even slackening his hold.
“Callants, wha ir ye ava?—or what’s the meanin’ o’ a’ this unmencefu’ rampaging?”
Sir Thomas gave his name in a hoarse and broken voice; but Clavers, whose nape Walter’s right hand embraced, and whose rudeness to his daughter had set his mountain–blood a–boiling, could not answer a word. Walter, slackening his hold somewhat, waited for an answer, but none coming—
“Wha ir ye, I say, ye bit useless weazel–blawn like urf that ye’re?”
The haughty and insolent Clavers was stung with rage; but seeing no immediate redress was to be had, he endeavoured to pronounce his dreaded name, but it wasin a whisper scarcely audible, and stuck in his throat—“Jo—o—o Graham,” said he.
“Jock Graham do they ca’ ye?—Ye’re but an unmannerly whalp, man. And ye’re baith king’s officers too!—Weel, I’ll tell ye what it is, my denty clever callants; if it warna for the blood that’s i’ your master’s veins, I wad nite your twa bits o’ pows thegither.”
He then threw them from him; the one the one way, and the other the other, and lifting his huge oak staff, he strode out at the door, saying, as he left them,—“Hech! are free men to be guidit this gate—I’ll step down to the green to your commander, an’ tell him what kind o’ chaps he keeps about him to send into fock’s houses.—Dirty unmensefu’ things!”
Clavers soon recovering his breath, and being ready to burst with rage and indignation, fell a cursing and fuming most violently; but Sir T. Livingston could scarcelyrefrain from breaking out into a convulsion of laughter. Clavers had already determined upon ample revenge, for the violation of all the tender ties of nature was his delight, and wherever there was wealth to be obtained, or a private pique to be revenged, there never was wanting sufficient pretext in those days for cutting off individuals, or whole families, as it suited. On the very day previous to that, the Earl of Traquair had complained, in company with Clavers and his officers, of a tenant of his, in a place called Bald, who would neither cultivate his farm nor give it up. Captain Bruce asked if he prayed in his family? The Earl answered jocularly, that he believed he did nothing else. Bruce said that was enough; and the matter passed over without any farther notice. But next morning, Bruce went out with four dragoons, and shot the farmer as he was going out to his work. Instances of this kind are numerous, if either history or tradition canbe in aught believed; but in all the annals of that age, there is scarcely a single instance recorded of any redress having been granted to the harassed country people for injuries received. At this time, the word of Argyle’s rising had already spread, and Clavers actually traversed the country more like an exterminating angel, than a commander of a civilized army.
Such were the men with whom Walter had to do; and the worst thing of all, he was not aware of it. He had heard of such things, but he did not believe them; for he loved his king and country, and there was nothing that vexed him more than hearing of aught to their disparagement; but unluckily his notions of freedom and justice were far above what the subjects of that reign could count upon.
When Clavers and Livingstone entered the Old Room, it will be remembered that Bruce and Copland penetrated into the other. There they found the goodwife of Chapelhope, neatly dressed in her old–fashionedstyle, and reading on her Bible, an exercise in which she gloried, and of which she was very proud.
Bruce instantly desired her “to lay that very comely and precious book on the hottest place of all the beautiful fire, that was burning so pleasantly with long crackling peat; and that then he would converse with her about things that were, to be sure, of far greater and mightier importance.”
“Hout, dear sir, ye ken that’s no consistent wi’ natural reason—Can any thing be o’ greater importance than the tidings o’ grace an’ salvation, an’ the joys o’ heaven?”
“Oho!” cried Bruce, and straddled around the room with his face turned to the joists.—“My dear Copland, did you ever hear such a thing in all the days that ever you have to live? Upon my soul, the old woman is talking of grace, and salvation, and the joys of heaven too, by Saint G‑‑! My dearest honey and darling, will you be so kind as stand up upon the solesof your feet, and let me see what kind of a figure you will be in heaven. Now, by the cross of Saint Patrick, I would take a journey there to see you go swimming through Heaven in that same form, with your long waist, and plaitted quoif, and that same charming face of yours. Och! och! me! what a vile she whig we have got in this here corner!—Copland, my dear soul, I foresee that all the ewes and kine of Chapelhope will soon be rouped at the cross of Selkirk, and then what blessed lawings we shall have! Now my dear mistress Grace, you must be after renouncing the joys of heaven immediately; for upon my honour, the very sight of your face would spoil the joys of any place whatever, and the first thing you must do is to lay that delightful old book with the beautiful margin along the side of it, on the coals; but before you do that we shall sing to his praise and glory from the 7th verse of the 149th psalm.”
He then laid aside his helmet and sungthe psalm, giving out each line with a whine that was truly ludicrous, after which he put the Bible into the goodwife’s hand, and desired her, in a serious tone, instantly to lay it on the fire. The captain’s speech to his companions about the ewes and kine of Chapelhope was not altogether lost on the conscience of Maron Linton. It was not, as she afterwards said, like water spilt upon the ground, which cannot be gathered up again. “Why, dear sir,” said she, “ye ken, after a’, that the beuk’s naething but paper an’ ink, an’ three shillings an’ aughtpence will buy as gude a ane frae Geordy Dabson, the morn, an’ if there be ony sin in’t, it will lye at your door, an’ no at mine. I’ll ne’er haigel wi’ my king’s officer about three and aughtpence.”
So saying, Maron laid the Bible on the fire, which soon consumed it to ashes.
“Now, may the devil take me,” said Bruce, “if I do not believe that you are a true woman after all, and if so, my purse is lighter by one half than it was; but, mydear honey, you have the very individual and genuine seeds of whiggism in your constitution—You have, I will swear, been at many a harmless and innocent conventicle.”
“Ye ken little about me, sir.—Gude forbid that ever I countenanced sic traitors to the kirk and state!”
“Amen! say I; but I prophecy and say unto thee, that the first field–meeting into which thou goest in the beauty of holiness, thou shalt be established for ever with thy one foot in Dan and the other in Beersheba, and shalt return to thy respective place of abode as rank a whig as ever swung in the Grass–Market.”
A long dialogue next ensued, in which the murder of the priest, Mass John Binram, was discussed at full length, and by which Bruce and Copland discerned, that superstitious as Maron was, she told them what she deemed to be the truth, though in a strange round–about way. Just as they were beginning to talk over the mysterious murderof the soldiers, Claverhouse and Sir Thomas joined them, and Bruce, turning round to them, said, “My lord, this very honest woman assures me, that she believes the two principal murderers of the curate are lying concealed in a linn not far hence, and there seems to be little doubt but that they must likewise have been concerned in the murder of our soldiers.”
Clavers, the horrors of whose execrations are yet fresh in the memory of our peasants, burst out as follows, to the astonishment of Bruce, who was not aware of his chagrin, or of aught having befallen him.
“May the devil confound and d‑‑n them to hell!—May he make a brander of their ribs to roast their souls on!”
Maron Linton, hearing herself called a good woman, and finding that she was approven of, could not refrain from interfering here.
“Dear sir, my lord, ye sudna swear that gate, for it’s unco ill–faur’d ye ken—an’ atony rate, the deil canna damn naebody—if ye will swear, swear sense.”
The rage of the general, and the simplicity of the goodwife, was such an amusing contrast, that the three attendants laughed aloud. Clavers turned his deep grey eye upon them, which more than the eye of any human being resembled that of a serpent—offence gleamed in it.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “do you consider where you are, and what you are about? Sacre! am I always to be trysted with boys and fools?”
He then began and examined the goodwife with much feigned deference and civility, which so pleased her that she told him every thing with great readiness. She was just beginning to relate the terrible, but unfortunate story of the Brownie of Bodsbeck, and his train of officious spirits; of the meat which they devoured, and in all probability would have ended the relation with the woeful connection between the Brownie and her daughter, and the partthat she had taken in the murder of the soldiers, when Walter entered the room with a discomposed mien, and gave a new turn to the conversation. But that eventful scene must be left to the next chapter.
Walter, on coming to the troopers and asking for their leader, soon discovered how roughly he had treated Clavers; and it being so much the reverse of the reception he meant to have given him, he was particularly vexed about it. Still he was conscious that he had done nothing that was wrong, nor any thing that it did not behove a parent and a master of a family to have done in the same circumstances; therefore there was nothing farther from his intention than offering any apology. He entered his own room, as he supposed he had a good right to do, bluntly enough. He indeed touched the rim of his bonnet as he came in; but, seeing all the officerscovered, he stalked into the midst of them with that immense circle of blue woollen on his head, which moved over their helmets like a black cloud as he advanced. Bruce, who was well used to insult the peasantry with impunity, seeing Walter striding majestically by his general in this guise, with his wonted forwardness and jocularity lifted up his sword, sheathed as it was, and with the point of it kicked off Walter’s bonnet. The latter caught it again as it fell, and with his fist, he made Bruce’s helmet ring against the wall; then again fitting on his bonnet, he gave him such an indignant and reproving look, that Bruce, having no encouragement from the eye of Clavers, resented it no farther than by saying good–humouredly, “‘Pon my body and shoul, but the carle keeps his good–looking head high enough.”
“Copland,” said Clavers, “desire Serjeant Daniel Roy Macpherson, with eleven troopers, to attend.” They were instantly at the door.“Seize and pinion that haughty rebel, together with all his family,” said he, “and then go and search every corner, chest, and closet in the house; for it is apparent that this is the nest and rendezvous of the murdering fanatics who infest this country. Let the rest of the soldiers guard the premises, that none escape to the mountains with tidings of our arrival. This good dame we will first examine privately, and then dispose of her as shall seem most meet.”
The command was promptly obeyed. Walter and all his family were taken into custody, pinioned, and a guard set on them; the house was ransacked; and in the meantime the general and his three associates continued the examination of the goodwife. Clavers observed that, on the entrance of Walter before, she seemed to be laid under some restraint, stopped short in her narration, and said, “But there’s the gudeman; he’ll tell ye it wi’ mair preceesion nor me;” and he had no doubt, if she were left to herself, of wormingas much out of her as would condemn her husband, or at least furnish a pretext sufficient for the forfeiture of his wealth. Clavers had caused to be sold, by public roup, the whole stock on the farm of Phillhope, which belonged to Walter’s brother–in–law, merely because it was proven that the farmer’s wife had once been at a conventicle.
In the present instance, however, Clavers was mistaken, and fairly overshot his mark; for poor Maron Linton was so overwhelmed with astonishment when she saw her husband and family taken prisoners and bound, that her speech lost all manner of coherence. She sobbed aloud—complained one while, entreated another; and then muttered over some ill–sorted phrases from the Scripture. When Clavers pressed his questions, she answered him, weeping,“O dear sir, my lord, ye ken I canna do naething, nor think naething, nor answer naething, unless ye let Watie loose again; I find as I war naebody, nor nae soul, nor naething ava wantin’ him, but just like a vacation or a shadow. O my lord, set my twa bits o’ callants an’ my puir auld man loose again, and I’ll say ony thing that ever ye like.”
Threats and proffers proved alike in vain. Maron’s mind, which never was strong, had been of late so much unhinged by the terrors of superstition, that it wavered in its frail tenement like “the baseless fabric of a vision,” threatening to depart, and leave not a wreck behind. Clavers told her that her husband’s life depended on the promptness and sincerity of her answers, he having rendered himself amenable to justice by rescuing his daughter by force, whom they had taken prisoner on their arrival, having found her engaged in a very suspicious employment. This only increased Maron’s agony; and at length Clavers was obliged to give up the point, and ordered her into custody.
The soldiers had by this time taken old John of the Muchrah and another of Laidlaw’s shepherds prisoners, who had come to assist their master with the farm–work that day. All these Clavers examined separately; and their answers, as taken down in short–hand by Mr Adam Copland, are still extant, and at present in my possession. The following are some of them, as decyphered by Mr J. W. Robertson, whose acquaintance with ancient manuscripts is well known.
John Hay, shepherd in Muchrah, aged fifty–six, sworn and examined.
“Do you know such a man as the Rev. James Renwick?”
“Yes. I once heard him pray and preach for about the space of two hours.”
“Was it on your master’s farm that he preached?”
“No, it was in a linn on the Earl Hill, in the march between two lairds’ lands, that he preached that day.”
“How durst you go to an unlawful conventicle?”
“I didna ken there was a law against ittill after—it’s a wild place this—we never hear ony o’ the news, unless it be twice a–year frae the Moffat fairs. But as soon as I heard him praying and preaching against the king I cam aff an’ left him, an’ brought a’ my lads an’ lasses wi’ me; but my wife wadna steer her fit—there she sat, shaking her head and glooming at me; but I trow I cowed her for’t after.”
“What did he say of the king?”
“O, I canna mind—he said nae muckle gude o’ him.”
“Did he say that he was a bloody perjured tyrant?”
“Ay, he said muckle waur nor that. He said some gayan ill–farr’d things about him. But I cam away and left him; I thought he was saying mair than gude manners warrantit.”
“Were you in the Hope, as you call it; on that day that the king’s soldiers were slain?”
“Ay, that I was; I was the first wha came on them whan they war just newdead, an’ a’ reeking i’ their warm blude—Gude keep us a’ frae sic sights again!—for my part, I never gat sic a confoundit gliff sin’ I was born o’ my mother.”
“Describe the place where the corpses were lying.”
“It is a deep cleuch, wi’ a sma’ sheep rodding through the linn not a foot wide; and if ye war to stite aff that, ye wad gang to the boddom o’ the linn wi’ a flaip.”
“Were the bodies then lying in the bottom of that linn?”
“Odd help ye, whar could they be lying else?—D’ye think they could lie on the Cleuch–brae? Ye might as weel think to lie on the side o’ that wa’ gin ye war dead.”
“How did it appear to you that they had been slain—were they cut with swords, or pierced with bullets?”
“I canna say, but they war sair hashed.”
“How do you mean when you say they were hashed?”
“Champit like—a’ broozled and jurmummled, as it war.”
“Do you mean that they were cut, or cloven, or minced?”
“Na, na—no that ava—But they had gotten some sair doofs—They had been terribly paikit and daddit wi’ something.”
“I do not in the least conceive what you mean.”
“That’s extrordnar, man—can ye no understand folk’s mother–tongue?—I’ll mak it plain to you. Ye see, whan a thing comes on ye that gate, that’s a dadd—sit still now. Then a paik, that’s a swapp or a skelp like—when a thing comes on ye that way, that’s a paik. But a doof’s warst ava—it’s”——
“Prithee hold; I now understand it all perfectly well.—What, then, is your opinion with regard to these men’s death? How, or what way do you think they were killed?”
“O, sir, there’s naebody can say. It was some extrordnar judgment, that’s out of a’doubt. There had been an unyerdly raid i’ the Hope that day.”
“What reason have you for supposing such a thing?”
“Because there wasna a leevin soul i’ the hale Hope that day but theirsels—they wadna surely hae felled ane another—It’s, by an’ attour, an awsome bit where they war killed; there hae been things baith seen and heard about it; and I saw an apparition there mysel on the very night before.”
“You saw an apparition at the place the night before, did you? And, pray, what was that apparition like?”
“It was like a man and a woman.”
“Had the figure of the woman no resemblance to any one you had ever seen before? Was it in any degree, for instance, like your master’s daughter?”
“No unlike ava.”
“Then I think I can guess what the other form was like—Had it a bonnet on its head?”
“Not a bonnet certainly, but it had the shape o’ ane.”
“I weened as much—And was it a tall gigantic figure?”
“Na, na, sir; the very contrair o’ that.”
“Are you certain of that you say? Was it not taller than the apparition of the woman?”
“No half sae tall, sir.”
“Had it not some slight resemblance to your master, little as it was? Did that not strike you?”
“Na, na, it was naething like my master, nor nae yerdly creature that ever was seen; indeed it was nae creature ava.”
“What then do you suppose it was?”
“Lord kens!—A wraith, I hae little doubt. My een rins a’ wi’ water whan I think about it yet.”
“Wraiths are quite common here, are they?”
“O yes, sir!—oure common. They appear aye afore death, especially if the death be to be sudden.”
“And what are they generally like?”
“Sometimes like a light—sometimes like a windin–sheet—sometimes like the body that’s to dee, gaen mad—and sometimes like a coffin made o’ moon–light.”
“Was it in the evening you saw this apparition?”
“It was a little after midnight.”
“And pray, what might be your business in such a place at that untimely hour?—Explain that fully to me if you please.”
“I sall do that, sir, as weel as I can:—Our ewes, ye see, lie up in the twa Grains an’ the Middle a’ the harst—Now, the Quave Brae again, it’s our hogg–fence, that’s the hained grund like; and whenever the wind gangs easterly about, then whan the auld luckies rise i’ the howe o’ the night to get their rug, aff they come, snouckin a’ the way to the Lang Bank, an’ the tither end o’ them round the Piper Snout, and into the Quave Brae to the hained grund; an’ very often they think naething o’ landing i’ the mids o’ the corn. Now I never mindit thecorn sae muckle; but for them to gang wi’ the hogg–fence, I coudna bide that ava; for ye ken, sir, how coud we turn our hand wi’ our pickle hoggs i’ winter if their bit foggage war a’ riven up by the auld raikin hypalts ere ever a smeary’s clute clattered on’t?”
Though Clavers was generally of an impatient temper, and loathed the simplicity of nature, yet he could not help smiling at this elucidation, which was much the same to him as if it had been delivered in the language of the Moguls; but seeing the shepherd perfectly sincere, he suffered him to go on to the end.
“Now, sir, ye ken the wind very often taks a swee away round to the east i’ the night–time whan the wather’s gude i’ the harst months, an’ whanever this was the case, and the moon i’ the lift, I had e’en aye obliged to rise at midnight, and gang round the hill an’ stop the auld kimmers—very little did the turn—just a bit thrawyont the brae, an’ they kend my whistle, or my tike’s bark, as weel as I did mysel, still they wadna do wantin’t. Weel, ye see, sir, I gets up an’ gangs to the door—it was a bonny night—the moon was hingin o’er the derk brows o’ Hopertoody, an’ the lang black scaddaws had an eiry look—I turned my neb the tither gate, an’ I fand the air was gane to the eissel; the se’en starns had gaen oure the lum, an’ the tail o’ the king’s elwand was just pointin to the Muchrah Crags. It’s the very time, quo’ I to mysel, I needna think about lying down again—I maun leave Janet to lie doverin by hersel for an hour or twa—Keilder, my fine dog, where are ye?—He was as ready as me—he likes a play i’ the night–time brawly, for he’s aye gettin a broostle at a hare, or a tod, or a foumart, or some o’ thae beasts that gang snaikin about i’ the derk. Sae to mak a lang tale short, sir, off we sets, Keilder an’ me, an’ soon comes to the place. The ewes had been very mensefu’ that night, theyhad just comed to the march and nae farther; sae, I says, puir things, sin’ ye hae been sae leifu’, we’ll sit down an’ rest a while, the dog an’ me, an’ let ye tak a pluck an’ fill yersels or we turn ye back up to your cauld lairs again. Sae down we sits i’ the scaddaw of a bit derksome cleuch–brae—naebody could hae seen us; and ere ever I wats, I hears by the grumblin o’ my friend, that he outher saw or smelled something mair than ordinar. I took him in aneath my plaid for fear o’ some grit brainyell of an outbrik; and whan I lookit, there was a white thing and a black thing new risen out o’ the solid yird! They cam close by me; and whan I saw the moon shinin on their cauld white faces, I lost my sight an’ swarfed clean away. Wae be to them for droichs, or ghaists, or whatever they war, for aye sin’ syne the hogg–fence o’ the Quave Brae has been harried an’ traisselled till its little better nor a drift road—I darna gang an’ stop the ewes now for the saulthat’s i’ my bouk, an’ little do I wat what’s to come o’ the hoggs the year.”
“Well now, you have explained this much I believe to your own satisfaction—Remember then, you are upon oath—Who do you think it was that killed these men?”
“I think it was outher God or the deil, but whilk o’ them, I coudna say.”
“And this is really your opinion?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Have you seen any strangers about your master’s house of late?”
“I saw one not long ago.”
“What sort of a man was he?”
“A douse–looking man wi’ a brown yaud; I took him for some wool–buyer.”
“Was he not rather like a preacher?”
“The man might hae preached for aught contrair till’t in his appearance—I coudna say.”
“Are you certain it was not Mr Renwick?”
“I am certain.”
“Is your master a very religious man?”
“He’s weel eneugh that way—No that very reithe on’t; but the gudewife hauds his neb right sair to the grindstane about it.”
“Does he perform family worship?”
“Sometimes.”
“Is he reckoned a great and exemplary performer of that duty?”
“Na, he’s nae great gun, I trow; but he warstles away at it as weel as he can.”
“Can you repeat any part, or any particular passage of his usual prayer?”
“I’m sure I might, for he gangs often aneuch oure some o’ them. Let me see—there’s the still waters, and the green pastures, and the blood of bulls and of goats; and then there’s the gos–hawk, and the slogy riddle, and the tyrant an’ his lang neb; I hae the maist o’t i’ my head, but then I canna mouband it.”
“What does he mean by the tyrant and his long neb?”
“Aha! But that’s mair nor ever I couldfind out yet. We whiles think he means the Kelpy—him that raises the storms an’ the floods on us, ye ken, and gars the waters an’ the burns come roarin down wi’ bracks o’ ice an’ snaw, an’ tak away our sheep. But whether it’s Kelpy, or Clavers, or the Deil, we can never be sure, for we think it applies gay an’ weel to them a’.”
“Repeat the passage as well as you can.”
“Bring down the tyrant an’ his lang neb, for he has done muckle ill this year, and gie him a cup o’ thy wrath; an’ gin he winna tak that, gie him kelty.”
“What is meant by kelty?”
“That’s double—it means twa cups—ony body kens that.”
“Does he ever mention the king in his prayer?”
“O yes: always.”
“What does he say about him?”
“Something about the sceptre of righteousness, and the standard of truth. I ken he has some rhyme about him.”
“Indeed! And does he likewise make mention of the Covenant?”
“Ay, that’s after—that’s near the end, just afore the resurrection. O yes, he harls aye in the Covenant there. ‘The bond o’ the everlasting Covenant,’ as he ca’s it, weel ordered in all things, and sure.”
“Ay, that’s very well; that’s quite sufficient. Now, you have yourself confessed, that you were at an unlawful and abominable conventicle, holding fellowship with intercommuned rebels, along with your wife and family. Youmustbe made an example of to the snarling and rebellious hounds that are lurking in these bounds; but as you have answered me with candour, though I might order you instantly to be shot, I will be so indulgent as to give you your choice, whether you will go to prison in Edinburgh, and be there tried by the Council, or submit to the judgment which I may pronounce on you here?”
“O, sir, I canna win to Edinbrough atno rate—that’s impossible. What think ye wad come o’ the sheep? The hogg–fence o’ the Quave Brae is maistly ruined already; and war I to gae to the prison at Edinbrough, it wad be mair loss than a’ that I’m worth. I maun just lippen to yoursel; but ye maunna be very sair on me. I never did ony ill designedly; and as for ony rebellion against the Bruce’s blood, I wad be hangit or I wad think o’ sic a thing.”
“Take the old ignorant animal away—Burn him on the cheek, cut off his ears, and do not part with him till he pay you down a fine of two hundred merks, or value to that amount. And, do you hear, make him take all the oaths twice; and a third oath, that he is never to repent of these. By G‑‑; if either Monmouth or Argyle get him, they shall have a perjured dog of him.”
As John was dragged off to this punishment, which was executed without any mitigation, he shook his head and said, “Ah, lak–a day! I fear things are muckle waurwi’ us than I had ony notion o’! I trowed aye that even down truth an’ honesty bure some respect till now—I fear our country’s a’ wrang thegither.”—Then looking back to Clavers, he added, “Gude–sooth, lad, but ye’ll mak mae whigs wherever ye show your face, than a’ the hill preachers o’ Scotland put thegither.”
It has been remarked by all the historians of that period, that the proceedings of Clavers about this time were severe in the extreme. The rising, both in the north and south at the same time, rendered the situation of affairs somewhat ticklish. Still the Lowlands were then perfectly peaceable; but he seemed determined, lest he should be called away, to destroy the Covenanters, and all that hankered after civil and religious liberty, root and branch. Certainly his behaviour at Chapelhope that morning, was sufficient to stamp his character for ever in that district, where it is still held in at least as great detestation as that of the arch–fiend himself.
When the soldiers, by his order, seized and manacled Walter, he protested vehemently against such outrage, and urged the general to prove his fidelity to his sovereign by administering to him the test oath, and the oath of abjuration; but this Clavers declined, and said to him, with a sneer, that “they had other ways of trying dogs beside that.”
When those who had been appointed to search the house came before him, and gave in their report, among other things, they said they had found as much bread new baked, and mutton newly cooked, as would be a reasonable allowance for an hundred men for at least one whole day. Clavers remarked, that in a family so few in number, this was proof positive that others were supported from that house. “But we shall disappoint the whigs of one hearty meal,” added he; and with that he ordered the meat to be brought all out and set down upon the green—bid his trooperseat as much as they could—feed their horses with the bread which they left, and either destroy the remainder of the victuals or carry them away.
It was in vain that Walter told him the honest truth, that the food was provided solely for himself and his soldiers, as he knew they were to come by that road, either on that day or the one following; nay, though all the family avouched it, as they well might, he only remarked, with a look of the utmost malignity, that “he never in his life knew a whig who had not a d‑‑d lie ready on his tongue, or some kind of equivocation to save his stinking life, but that they must necessarily all be taught who they were dealing with.” He then made them all swear that they were to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and to utter the most horrid imprecations on themselves and their souls for ever, if they deviated in one single item; and beginning with old John, asbefore related, he examined them all separately and out of hearing of one another.
The interrogations and answers are much too long to be inserted here at full length; but the only new circumstances that came to light were these two. One of the young men deponed, that, when the bodies of the soldiers were found in the Hope, their muskets were all loaded, which showed that they had not fallen in a regular skirmish; and the other boy swore, that he had lately seen eighty large thick bannocks baked in one day in his father’s house, for that he had counted them three times over as they stood cooling. This was another suspicious circumstance, and Clavers determined to search it to the bottom. He sifted the two youths backward and forward, trying to get the secret out of them by every wile in his power; and because they were unable to give him any satisfactory account who consumed all that store of bread, he caused his dragoons to take hold of the youngest andgird his head with a cord, twisting it with a horse pistol, until in some places it cut him to the skull. The eldest he hung up to the beam by the thumbs until he fainted through insufferable pain; but he could get nothing more out of them, for they had at first told him all that they knew, being quite unconscious of any evil.
Still bent, as it seemed, on the full conviction and ruin of the family, he told the boys that they were two of the most consummate knaves and rebels that he had in all his life seen; and that if they had any hopes at all of going to Heaven, they should say their prayers, for in a few minutes he would order them both to be shot.
John, the eldest, who possessed a good deal of his mother’s feebleness of character, and was besides but newly recovered from a fainting fit, was seized with a stupor, appeared quite passive, and acted precisely as they bade him, without seeming to know what he did; but the youngest,whose name was William, preserved an interesting firmness, in such a trial, for a considerable time. On being advised by Clavers to tell all he knew rather than die, and asked if he was not afraid of death? He answered, with the tear in his eye, “I’m nouther feared for you nor death, man. I think if fock may be guidit this way at their ain hames, the sooner they’re dead the better.” Then turning his looks to his brother, who kneeled according to the general’s order on the green beside him, he added, with convulsive sobs, “But poor Jock’s gaun to be shot too—I wonder what ye need kill him for?—What ill hae we ever done t’ye?—Jock’s a very good callant—I canna pray weel, but if ye’ll let my billy Jock gang, I’ll pray for ye as I can, and kiss ye too.”
Happy was it for the wits of poor Maron that she saw nothing of this touching scene; she, as well as Walter, being then with the rest under a strong guard in the Old Room. Clavers paid no regard to the kneeling boy’s request. He caused his troopers to draw up around them, present their firelocks, and then an executioner, who was always one of his train, tied up both their eyes. He gave the word himself, and instantly ten or twelve carabines were discharged on them at once. John fell flat on the earth; but William, with a violent start, sprung to his feet, and, being blindfolded, ran straight on the files of soldiers.
Clavers laid hold of him. “My brave little fellow,” said he, “the soldiers have all missed you, bungling beasts that they are! and since so wonderful a thing hath befallen, you shall yet have your life, though a most notorious rebel, if you will tell me what people frequent your father’s house.”
“What’s comed o’ Jock?” said the boy, “O tell me what’s comed o’ Jock, for I canna see.”
“Jock is lying dead on the green there, all bathed in his blood,” said Clavers;“poor wretch! it is over with him, and unless you instantly tell me who it was that consumed all that store of bread that has been baked in your father’s house for the last month, you must be sent after him.”
William withdrew backward a few paces, and kneeling a second time down on the sward with great decency and deliberation, “Shoot again,” said he; “try me aince mair; an’ O see to airch a wee better this time. I wad rather dee a hunder times, or I saw poor Jock lying a bloody corp.”
Clavers made a sign to one of his dragoons, who unbound William, and took the bandage from his eyes. Regardless of all else, he looked wildly around in search of his brother, and seeing his only companion lying flat on his face, he at first turned away, as if wishing to escape from a scene so dismal; but his helpless and forlorn situation staring him in the face, and the idea doubtless recurring that he was never to part with his brother, but forthwith to be slaughtered and carried to the grave with him, he returned, went slowly up to thebody, kneeled down beside it, and pulling the napkin farther down over the face to keep the dead features from view, he clasped his arms about his brother’s neck, laid his cheek to his, and wept bitterly.
The narrator of this part of the tale was wont to say, that the scene which followed had something more touching in it than any tongue could describe, although Clavers and his troops only laughed at it. William had now quite relinquished all sensations of fear or danger, and gave full vent to a flood of passionate tenderness and despair. He clasped his brother’s neck closer and closer, steeped his cheek with his tears, and seemed to cling and grow to the body with a miserable fondness. While he was giving full scope in this manner to the affections of his young heart, his brother made a heave up with his head and shoulder, saying at the same time, like one wakening from a dream, “Little Will, is that you?—Haud aff—What ails ye?”
William raised up his head,—fixed hiseyes on vacancy,—the tears dried on his cheek, and his ruby lips were wide open,—the thing was beyond his comprehension, and never was seen a more beautiful statue of amazement. He durst not turn his eyes towards his brother, but he uttered in words scarcely articulate, “Lord! I believe they hae missed Jock too!”
Clavers had given private orders to his dragoons to fire over the heads of the two boys, his intent being to intimidate them so much as to eradicate every principle of firmness and power of concealment from their tender minds; a scheme of his own fertile invention, and one which he often practised upon young people with too sure effect. When William found that his brother was really alive, and that both of them were to be spared on condition that he gave up the names and marks of all the people that had of late been at Chapelhope; he set himself with great earnestness to recount them, along with every mark bywhich he remembered them, determined that every hidden thing should be brought to light, rather than that poor Jock should be shot at again.
“Weel, ye see, first there was Geordie Skin–him–alive the flesher, him that took away the crocks and the paulies, and my brockit–lamb, and gae me a penny for setting him through atween the lochs. Then there was Hector Kennedy the tinkler, him that the bogles brought and laid down at the door i’ the night–time—he suppit twa bickerfu’s o’ paritch, an’ cleekit out a hantle o’ geds an’ perches wi’ his toum. Then there was Ned Huddersfield the woo–man, wi’ the leather bags and the skeenzie thread—him that kissed our bire–woman i’ the barn in spite o’ her teeth,—he had red cheeks and grit thees, and wasna unlike a glutton; he misca’d my father’s woo, an’ said aye, ‘Nay, it’s nane clean, howsomever,—it’s useless, that’s its warst fault.’ Then there was wee Willie the nout herd, him that hadthe gude knife an’ the duddy breeks; but the Brownie’s put him daft, an’ his mither had to come an’ tak him away upon a cuddy.”
In this manner went he on particularizing every one he remembered, till fairly cut short with a curse. John continued perfectly stupid, and when examined, answered onlyYes, orNo, as their way of asking the question dictated.
“Are there not great numbers of people who frequent your father’s house during the night?”
“Yes.”
“Do you see and hear them, after you go to bed?”
“Yes.”
“What are they generally employed in when you hear them? Do they read, and pray, and sing psalms?”
“Yes.”
“Do your father and mother always join them?”
“Yes.”
Here William could restrain himself no longer. “Gude faith, Jock, man,” said he, “ye’re just telling a hirsel o’ eindown lees. It canna be lees that the man wants, for that maks him nae the wiser; an’ for you to say that my father rises to pray i’ the night–time, beats a’, when ye ken my mither has baith to fleitch an’ fight or she can get him eggit on till’t i’ the Sabbath e’enings. He’s ower glad to get it foughten decently by, to rise an’ fa’ till’t again. O fye, Jock! I wad stand by the truth; an’, at ony rate, no just gaung to hell open mouth.”
When the volley of musketry went off, all the prisoners started and stared on one another; even the hundred veterans that guarded them appeared by their looks to be wholly at a loss. Macpherson alone ventured any remark on it. “Pe Cot’s life, fat she pe pluff pluffing at now? May the teal more pe her soul’s salvation, if she do not believe te man’s pe gone out of all reason.”
The women screamed; and Maron, whosetongue was a mere pendulum to the workings of the heart within, went on sighing and praying; asking questions, and answering them alternately; and at every pause, looked earnestly to her husband, who leaned against the corner of the room, ashamed that his bound hands should be seen.
“Och! Aigh me!” cried Maron,—“Dear sirs, what’s the fock shootin at?—Eh?—I’m sure they hae nae battlers to fight wi’ there?—No ane—I wat, no ane. Aigh now, sirs! the lives o’ God’s creatures!—They never shoot nae callants, do they? Oh, na, na, they’ll never shoot innocent bairns, puir things! They’ll maybe hae been trying how weel they could vizy at the wild ducks; there’s a hantle o’ cleckins about the saughs o’ the lake. Hout ay, that’s a’.—He hasna forgotten to be gracious, nor is his mercy clean gane.”
Thus poor Maron went on, and though she had but little discernment left, she perceived that there was a tint of indignant madness in her husband’s looks. His lipsquivered—his eyes dilated—and the wrinkles on his brow rolled up to the roots of his dark grizzled hair, “Watie,” cried she, in a shrill and tremulous voice—“Watie, what ails ye—Oh! tell me what ails ye, Watie?—What’s the fock shooting at? Eh? Ye’ll no tell me what they’re shooting at, Watie?—Oh, oh, oh, oh!”
Walter uttered no word, nor did his daughter, who sat in dumb astonishment, with her head almost bent to her feet; but old Nanny joined in full chorus with her mistress, and a wild unearthly strain the couple raised, till checked by Serjeant Roy Macpherson.
“Cot’s curse be t‑‑ning you to te everlasting teal! fat too–whooing pe tat? Do you think that should the lenoch beg pe shot trou te poty, tat is te son to yourself? Do you tink, you will too–whoo him up akain?—Hay—Cot tamn, pe holding your paice.”
Upon the whole, there was no proof against Walter. Presumption was against him, but the evidence was rather in his favour. Military law, however, prevailed; and he found that there was no redress to be had of any grievance or insult, that this petty tyrant, in his caprice, thought fit to inflict. His drivers were ordered to take the whole stock from the farms of Kirkinhope, belonging to David Bryden, who lived at a distance, because it was proven, that Mr Renwick had preached and baptized some children on the bounds of that farm. That stock he caused to be taken to Selkirk, and sent orders to the sheriff to sell it by public roup, at the cross, to the highestbidder; but with Walter’s stock he did not meddle at that time; so far did justice mark his proceedings. He strongly suspected him, and wished to have him convicted; and certainly would have taken all the family with him prisoners, had not the curate–clerk arrived at that critical time. Him Clavers consulted apart, and was soon given to understand the steadfast loyalty of the gudewife, daughter, and all the family, save Walter, whom, he said, he suspected of a secret connivance with the Cameronians. This was merely to serve a selfish purpose, for the clerk suspected no such thing at that time. It had the desired effect. Clavers set all the rest of the family free, but took the good man with him prisoner; put two of his best horses in requisition; mounted himself on a diminutive poney, with the thumbikins on his hands, and his feet chained below its belly. In this degrading situation, he was put under the care of Serjeant RoyMacpherson and five troopers; and Clavers, with the rest of his company, hasted, with great privacy and celerity, into that inhospitable wild, which forms the boundary between Drummelzier and the Johnstons of Annandale. The greater part of the fugitives had taken shelter there at that time, it being the most inaccessible part in the south of Scotland, and that where, of all others, they had been the least troubled. No troops could subsist near them; and all that the military could do was to set watches near every pass to and from these mountains, where a few stragglers were killed, but not many in proportion to the numbers that had there sought a retreat.
The Covenanters knew that Clavers would make a sweeping and exterminating circuit about that time—incidents which were not to be overlooked, had been paving the way for it—incidents with which the main body of that people were totally unconnected. But it was usual at that time, and a very unfair practice it was, that whatever wassaid, or perpetrated, by any intemperate fanatical individual, or any crazy wight, driven half mad by ill usage—whatever was said or done by such, was always attributed to the whole sect as a body. It is too true that the Privy Council chose, invariably, men void of all feeling or remorse to lead these troops. A man had nothing to study but to be cruel enough to rise in the army in those days; yet, because there was a Dalziel, a Graham, a Creighton, and a Bruce among the king’s troops, it would be unfair to suppose all the rest as void of every principle of feeling and forbearance as they. In like manner, because some of the Covenanters said violent and culpable things, and did worse, it is hard to blame the whole body for these; for, in the scattered prowling way in which they were driven to subsist, they had no controul over individuals.
They had been looking for the soldiers’ appearing there for several days, and that same morning had been on the watch; butthe day was now so far advanced that they were waxen remiss, and had retired to their dens and hiding–places. Besides, he came so suddenly upon them, that some parties, as well as several stragglers, were instantly discovered. A most determined pursuit ensued, Clavers exerted himself that day in such a manner, gallopping over precipices, and cheering on his dragoons, that all the country people who beheld him believed him to be a devil, or at least mounted on one. The marks of that infernal courser’s feet are shewn to this day on a steep, nearly perpendicular, below the Bubbly Craig, along which he is said to have ridden at full speed, in order to keep sight of a party of the flying Covenanters. At another place, called the Blue Sklidder, on the Merk side, he had far outrode all his officers and dragoons in the pursuit of five men, who fled straggling athwart the steep. He had discharged both his pistols without effect; and just as he was making ready to cleave downthe hindmost with his sabre, he was attacked by another party, who rolled huge stones at him from the precipice above, and obliged him to make a hasty retreat.
Tradition has preserved the whole of his route that day with the utmost minuteness. It is not easy to account for this. These minute traditions are generally founded on truth; yet though two generations have scarcely passed away since the date of this tale,[2]tradition, in this instance, relates things impossible, else Clavers must indeed have been one of the infernals. Often has the present relater of this tale stood over the deep green marks of that courser’s hoof, many of which remain on that hill, in awe and astonishment, to think that he was actually looking at the traces madeby the devil’s foot, or at least by a horse that once belonged to him.
Five men were slain that day; but as they were all westland men, very little is known concerning them. One of them was shot at a distance by some dragoons who were in pursuit of him, just as he was entering a morass, where he would certainly have escaped them. He is buried on a place called the Watch Knowe, a little to the south–east of Loch Skene, beside a cairn where he had often sat keeping watch for the approach of enemies, from which circumstance the height derived its name. When he fell, it being rough broken ground, they turned and rode off without ever going up to the body. Four were surprised and taken prisoners on a height called Ker–Cleuch–Ridge, who were brought to Clavers and shortly examined on a little crook in the Erne Cleuch, a little above the old steading at Hopertoudy.
Macpherson kept the high road, such asit was, with his prisoner; but travelled no faster than just to keep up with the parties that were scouring the hills on each side; and seeing these unfortunate men hunted in from the hill, he rode up with his companions and charge to see the issue, remarking to Walter, that “he woolt not pe much creat deal te worse of scheeing fwat te Cot t‑‑n’d fwigs would pe getting.”
How did Walter’s heart smite him when he saw that one of them was the sensible, judicious, and honourable fellow with whom he fought, and whose arm he had dislocated by a blow with his stick! It was still hanging in a sling made of a double rash rope.
They would renounce nothing, confess nothing, nor yield, in the slightest degree, to the threats and insulting questions put by the general. They expected no mercy, and they cringed for none; but seemed all the while to regard him with pity and contempt. Walter often said that he was an ill judge of the cause for which these mensuffered; but whatever might be said of it, they were heroes in that cause. Their complexions were sallow, and bore marks of famine and other privations; their beards untrimmed; their apparel all in rags, and their hats slouched down about their ears with sleeping on the hills. All this they had borne with resignation and without a murmur; and, when brought to the last, before the most remorseless of the human race, they shewed no symptoms of flinching or yielding up an item of the cause they had espoused.
When asked “if they would pray for the king?”
They answered, “that they would with all their hearts;—they would pray for his forgiveness, in time and place convenient, but not when every profligate bade them, which were a loathful scurrility, and a mockery of God.”
“Would they acknowledge him as their right and lawful sovereign?”
“No, that they would never do! Hewas a bloody and designing papist, and had usurped a prerogative that belonged not to him. To acknowledge the Duke of York for king, would be to acknowledge the divine approbation of tyranny, oppression, usurpation, and all that militates against religion or liberty, as well as justifying the abrogation of our ancient law relating to the succession; and that, besides, he had trampled on every civil and religious right, and was no king for Scotland, or any land where the inhabitants did not chuse the most abject and degrading slavery. For their parts, they would never acknowledge him; and though it was but little that their protestations and their blood could avail, they gave them freely. They had but few left to mourn for them, and these few might never know of their fate; but there wasOnewho knew their hearts, who saw their sufferings, and in Him they trusted that the days of tyranny and oppression were wearing to a close, and that a race yet to comemight acknowledge that they had not shed their blood in vain.”