coming events cast shadows.
in february 1685 charles the second died—not without some suspicion of foul play. his brother, the duke of york, an avowed papist, ascended the throne as james the second. this was a flagrant breach of the constitution, and argyll—attempting to avert the catastrophe by an invasion of scotland at the same time that monmouth should invade england—not only failed, but was captured and afterwards executed by the same instrument—the “maiden”—with which his father’s head had been cut off nigh a quarter of a century before. as might have been expected, the persecutions were not relaxed by the new king.
when good old cargill was martyred, a handsome fair young man was looking on in profound sorrow and pity. he was a youth of great moral power, and with a large heart. his name was james renwick. from that hour this youth cast in his lot with the persecuted wanderers, and, after the martyrdom of cameron and cargill, and the death of welsh, he was left almost alone to manage their affairs. the “strict covenanters” had by this time formed themselves into societies for prayer and conference, and held quarterly district meetings in sequestered places, with a regular system of correspondence—thus secretly forming an organised body, which has continued down to modern times.
it was while this young servant of god—having picked up the mantle which cargill dropped—was toiling and wandering among the mountains, morasses, and caves of the west, that a troop of dragoons was seen, one may morning, galloping over the same region “on duty.” they swept over hill and dale with the dash and rattle of men in all the pride of youth and strength and the panoply of war. they were hasting, however, not to the battlefield but to the field of agriculture, there to imbrue their hands in the blood of the unarmed and the helpless.
at the head of the band rode the valiant graham of claverhouse. most people at that time knew him as the “bloody clavers,” but as we look at the gay cavalier with his waving plume, martial bearing, beautiful countenance, and magnificent steed, we are tempted to ask, “has there not been some mistake here?” some have thought so. one or two literary men, who might have known better, have even said so, and attempted to defend their position!
“methinks this is our quarry, glendinning,” said claverhouse, drawing rein as they approached a small cottage, near to which a man was seen at work with a spade.
“yes—that’s john brown of priesthill,” said the sergeant.
“you know the pestilent fanatic well, i suppose?”
“ay. he gets the name o’ being a man of eminent godliness,” answered the sergeant in a mocking tone; “and is even credited with having started a sabbath-school!”
john brown, known as the “christian carrier,” truly was what glendinning had sneeringly described him. on seeing the cavalcade approach he guessed, no doubt, that his last hour had come, for many a time had he committed the sin of succouring the outlawed covenanters, and he had stoutly refused to attend the ministry of the worthless curate george lawless. indeed it was the information conveyed to government by that reverend gentleman that had brought claverhouse down upon the unfortunate man.
the dragoons ordered him to proceed to the front of his house, where his wife was standing with one child in her arms and another by her side. the usual ensnaring questions as to the supremacy of the king, etcetera, were put to him, and the answers being unsatisfactory, claverhouse ordered him to say his prayers and prepare for immediate death. brown knew that there was no appeal. all scotland was well aware by that time that soldiers were empowered to act the part of judge, jury, witness, and executioner, and had become accustomed to it. the poor man obeyed. he knelt down and prayed in such a strain that even the troopers, it is said, were impressed—at all events, their subsequent conduct would seem to countenance this belief. their commander, however, was not much affected, for he thrice interrupted his victim, telling him that he had “given him time to pray, but not to preach.”
“sir,” returned brown, “ye know neither the nature of preaching nor praying if ye call this preaching.”
“now,” said claverhouse, “take farewell of your wife and children.”
after the poor man had kissed them, claverhouse ordered six of his men to fire; but they hesitated and finally refused. enraged at this their commander drew a pistol, and with his own hand blew out john brown’s brains.
“what thinkest thou of thy husband now, woman?” he said, turning to the widow.
“i ever thought much good of him,” she answered, “and as much now as ever.”
“it were but justice to lay thee beside him,” exclaimed the murderer.
“if you were permitted,” she replied, “i doubt not but your cruelty would go that length.”
thus far the excitement of the dreadful scene enabled the poor creature to reply, but nature soon asserted her sway. sinking on her knees by the side of the mangled corpse, the widow, neither observing nor caring for the departure of the dragoons, proceeded to bind up her husband’s shattered skull with a kerchief, while the pent-up tears burst forth.
the house stood in a retired, solitary spot, and for some time the bereaved woman was left alone with god and her children; but before darkness closed in a human comforter was sent to her in the person of quentin dick.
on his arrival in wigtown, quentin, finding that his friends the wilson girls had been imprisoned with an old covenanter named mrs mclachlan, and that he could not obtain permission to see them, resolved to pay a visit to john brown, the carrier, who was an old friend, and who might perhaps afford him counsel regarding the wilsons. leaving ramblin’ peter behind to watch every event and fetch him word if anything important should transpire, he set out and reached the desolated cottage in the evening of the day on which his friend was shot.
quentin was naturally a reserved man, and had never been able to take a prominent part with his covenanting friends in conversation or in public prayer, but the sight of his old friend’s widow in her agony, and her terrified little ones, broke down the barrier of reserve completely. although a stern and a strong man, not prone to give way to feeling, he learned that night the full meaning of what it is to “weep with those that weep.” moreover, his tongue was unloosed, and he poured forth his soul in prayer, and quoted god’s word in a way that cheered, in no small degree, his stricken friend. during several days he remained at priesthill, doing all in his power to assist the family, and receiving some degree of comfort in return; for strong sympathy and fellowship in sorrow had induced him to reveal the fact that he loved margaret wilson, who at that time lay in prison with her young sister agnes, awaiting their trial in wigtown.
seated one night by the carrier’s desolated hearth, where several friends had assembled to mourn with the widow, quentin was about to commence family worship, when he was interrupted by the sudden entrance of ramblin’ peter. the expression of his face told eloquently that he brought bad news. “the wilsons,” he said, “are condemned to be drowned with old mrs mclachlan.”
“no’ baith o’ the lasses,” he added, correcting himself, “for the faither managed to git ane o’ them off by a bribe o’ a hundred pounds—an’ that’s every bodle that he owns.”
“which is to be drooned?” asked quentin in a low voice.
“marget—the auldest.”
a deep groan burst from the shepherd as the bible fell from his hands.
“come!” he said to peter, and passed quickly out of the house, without a word to those whom he left behind.
arrived in wigtown, the wretched man went about, wildly seeking to move the feelings of men whose hearts were like the nether millstone.
“oh, if i only had siller!” he exclaimed to the wilsons’ father, clasping his hands in agony. “hae ye nae mair?”
“no’ anither plack,” said the old man in deepest dejection. “they took all i had for aggie.”
“ye are strang, quentin,” suggested peter, who now understood the reason of his friend’s wild despair. “could ye no’ waylay somebody an’ rob them? surely it wouldna be coonted wrang in the circumstances.”
“sin is sin, peter. better death than sin,” returned quentin with a grave look.
“aweel, we maun just dee, then,” said peter in a tone of resignation.
nothing could avert the doom of these unfortunate women. their judges, of whom grierson, laird of lagg, was one, indicted this young girl and the old woman with the ridiculous charge of rebellion, of having been at the battles of bothwell bridge and airsmoss and present at twenty conventicles, as well as with refusing to swear the abjuration oath!
the innocent victims were carried to the mouth of the river bladenoch, being guarded by troops under major winram, and followed by an immense crowd both of friends and spectators. quentin dick and his little friend peter were among them. the former had possessed himself of a stick resembling a quarter-staff. his wild appearance and bloodshot eyes, with his great size and strength, induced people to keep out of his way. he had only just reached the spot in time. no word did he speak till he came up to major winram. then he sprang forward, and said in a loud voice, “i forbid this execution in the name of god!” at the same time raising his staff.
instantly a trooper spurred forward and cut him down from behind.
“take him away,” said winram, and quentin, while endeavouring to stagger to his feet, was ridden down, secured, and dragged away. poor peter shared his fate. so quickly and quietly was it all done that few except those quite close to them were fully aware of what had occurred. the blow on his head seemed to have stunned the shepherd, for he made no resistance while they led him a considerable distance back into the country to a retired spot, and placed him with his back against a cliff. then the leader of the party told off six men to shoot him.
not until they were about to present their muskets did the shepherd seem to realise his position. then an eager look came over his face, and he said with a smile, “ay, be quick! maybe i’ll git there first to welcome her!”
a volley followed, and the soul of quentin dick was released from its tenement of clay.
peter, on seeing the catastrophe, fell backwards in a swoon, and the leader of the troop, feeling, perhaps, a touch of pity, cast him loose and left him there. returning to the sands, the soldiers found that the martyrdom was well-nigh completed.
the mouth of the bladenoch has been considerably modified. at this time the river’s course was close along the base of the hill on which wigtown stands. the tide had turned, and the flowing sea had already reversed the current of the river. the banks of sand were steep, and several feet high at the spot to which the martyrs were led, so that people standing on the edge were close above the inrushing stream. two stakes had been driven into the top of the banks—one being some distance lower down the river than the other. ropes of a few yards in length were fastened to them, and the outer ends tied round the martyrs’ waists—old mrs mclachlan being attached to the lower post. they were then bidden prepare for death, which they did by kneeling down and engaging in fervent prayer. it is said that the younger woman repeated some passages of scripture, and even sang part of the 25th psalm.
at this point a married daughter of mrs mclachlan, named milliken, who could not believe that the sentence would really be carried out, gave way to violent lamentations, and fainted when she saw that her mother’s doom was fixed. they carried the poor creature away from the dreadful scene.
the old woman was first pushed over the brink of the river, and a soldier, thrusting her head down into the water with a halbert, held it there. this was evidently done to terrify the younger woman into submission, for, while the aged martyr was struggling in the agonies of death, one of the tormentors asked margaret wilson what she thought of that sight.
“what do i see?” was her reply. “i see christ in one of his members wrestling there. think ye that we are sufferers? no! it is christ in us; for he sends none a warfare on his own charges.”
these were her last words as she was pushed over the bank, and, like her companion, forcibly held, down with a halbert. before she was quite suffocated, however, winram ordered her to be dragged out, and, when able to speak, she was asked if she would pray for the king.
“i wish the salvation of all men,” she replied, “and the damnation of none.”
“dear margaret,” urged a bystander in a voice of earnest entreaty, “say ‘god save the king,’ say ‘god save the king.’”
“god save him if he will,” she replied. “it is his salvation i desire.”
“she has said it! she has said it!” cried the pitying bystanders eagerly.
“that won’t do,” cried the laird of lagg, coming forward at the moment, uttering a coarse oath; “let her take the test-oaths.”
as this meant the repudiation of the covenants and the submission of her conscience to the king—to her mind inexcusable sin—the martyr firmly refused to obey. she was immediately thrust back into the water, and in a few minutes more her heroic soul was with her god and saviour.
the truth of this story—like that of john brown of priesthill, though attested by a letter of claverhouse himself (see dr cunningham’s history of the church of scotland, volume two, page 239.)—has been called in question, and the whole affair pronounced a myth! we have no space for controversy, but it is right to add that if it be a myth, the records of the kirk-sessions of kirkinner and penninghame—which exist, and in which it is recorded—must also be mythical. the truth is, that both stories have been elaborately investigated by men of profound learning and unquestionable capacity, and the truth of them proved “up to the hilt.”
as to graham of claverhouse—there are people, we believe, who would whitewash the devil if he were only to present himself with a dashing person and a handsome face! but such historians as macaulay, mccrie, mckenzie, and others, refuse to whitewash claverhouse. even sir walter scott—who was very decidedly in sympathy with the cavaliers—says of him in old mortality: “he was the unscrupulous agent of the scottish privy council in executing the merciless seventies of the government in scotland during the reigns of charles the second and james the second;” and his latest apologist candidly admits that “it is impossible altogether to acquit claverhouse of the charges laid to his account.” we are inclined to ask, with some surprise, why should he wish to acquit him? but claverhouse himself, as if in prophetic cynicism, writes his own condemnation as to character thus: “in any service i have been in, i never inquired further in the laws than the orders of my superior officer.” an appropriate motto for a “soldier of fortune,” which might be abbreviated and paraphrased into “stick at nothing!”
coupling all this with the united testimony of tradition, and nearly all ancient historians, we can only wonder at the prejudice of those who would still weave a chaplet for the brow of “bonnie dundee.”
turning now from the south-west of scotland, we direct attention to the eastern seaboard of kincardine, where, perched like a sea-bird on the weatherbeaten cliffs, stands the stronghold of dunnottar castle.
down in the dungeons of that rugged pile lies our friend andrew black, very different from the man whose fortunes we have hitherto followed. care, torment, disease, hard usage, long confinement, and desperate anxiety have graven lines on his face that nothing but death can smooth out. wildly-tangled hair, with a long shaggy beard and moustache, render him almost unrecognisable. only the old unquenchable fire of his eye remains; also the kindliness of his old smile, when such a rare visitant chances once again to illuminate his worn features. years of suffering had he undergone, and there was now little more than skin and bone of him left to undergo more.
“let me hae a turn at the crack noo,” he said, coming forward to a part of the foul miry dungeon where a crowd of male and female prisoners were endeavouring to inhale a little fresh air through a crevice in the wall. “i’m fit to choke for want o’ a breath o’ caller air.”
as he spoke a groan from a dark corner attracted his attention. at once forgetting his own distress, he went to the place and discovered one of the prisoners, a young man, with his head pillowed on a stone, and mire some inches deep for his bed.
“eh, sandy, are ye sae far gane?” asked black, kneeling beside him in tender sympathy.
“oh, andry, man—for a breath o’ fresh air before i dee!”
“here! ane o’ ye,” cried black, “help me to carry sandy to the crack. wae’s me, man,” he added in a lower voice, “i could hae carried you ye wi’ my pirlie ance, but i’m little stronger than a bairn noo.”
sandy was borne to the other side of the dungeon, and his head put close to the crevice, through which he could see the white ripples on the summer sea far below.
a deep inspiration seemed for a moment to give new life—then a prolonged sigh, and the freed happy soul swept from the dungeons of earth to the realms of celestial, light and liberty.
“he’s breathin’ the air o’ paradise noo,” said black, as he assisted to remove the dead man from the opening which the living were so eager to reach.
“ye was up in the ither dungeon last night,” he said, turning to the man who had aided him; “what was a’ the groans an’ cries aboot?”
“torturin’ the puir lads that tried to escape,” answered the man with a dark frown.
“hm! i thoucht as muckle. they were gey hard on them, i dar’say?”
“they were that! ye see, the disease that’s broke oot amang them—whatever it is—made some o’ them sae desprit that they got through the wundy that looks to the sea an’ creepit alang the precipice. it was a daft-like thing to try in the daylight; but certain death would hae been their lot, i suspec’, if they had ventured on a precipice like that i’ the dark. some women washin’ doon below saw them and gied the alarm. the gairds cam’, the hue and cry was raised, the yetts were shut and fifteen were catched an’ brought back—but twenty-five got away. my heart is wae for the fifteen. they were laid on their backs on benches; their hands were bound doon to the foot o’ the forms, an’ burnin’ matches were putt atween every finger, an’ the sodgers blew on them to keep them alight. the governor, ye see, had ordered this to gang on withoot stoppin’ for three oors! some o’ the puir fallows were deid afore the end o’ that time, an’ i’m thinkin’ the survivors’ll be crippled for life.”
while listening to the horrible tale andrew black resolved on an attempt to escape that very night.
“wull ye gang wi’ me?” he asked of the only comrade whom he thought capable of making the venture; but the comrade shook his head. “na,” he said, “i’ll no’ try. they’ve starved me to that extent that i’ve nae strength left. i grow dizzy at the vera thoucht. but d’ye think the wundy’s big enough to let ye through?”
“oo ay,” returned black with a faint smile. “i was ower stoot for’t ance, but it’s an ill wund that blaws nae guid. stervation has made me thin enough noo.”
that night, when all—even the harassed prisoners—in dunnottar castle were asleep, except the sentinels, the desperate man forced himself with difficulty through the very small window of the dungeon. it was unbarred, because, opening out on the face of an almost sheer precipice, it was thought that nothing without wings could escape from it. black, however, had been accustomed to precipices from boyhood. he had observed a narrow ledge just under the window, and hoped that it might lead to something. just below it he could see another and narrower ledge. what was beyond that he knew not—and did not much care!
once outside, with his breast pressed against the wall of rock, he passed along pretty quickly, considering that he could not see more than a few yards before him. but presently he came to the end of the ledge, and by no stretching out of foot or hand could he find another projection of any kind. he had now to face the great danger of sliding down to the lower ledge, and his heart beat audibly against his ribs as he gazed into the profound darkness below. indecision was no part of andrew black’s character. breathing a silent prayer for help and deliverance, he sat down on the ledge with his feet overhanging the abyss. for one moment he reconsidered his position. behind him were torture, starvation, prolonged misery, and almost certain death. below was perhaps instantaneous death, or possible escape.
he pushed off, again commending his soul to god, and slid down. for an instant destruction seemed inevitable, but next moment his heels struck the lower ledge and he remained fast. with an earnest “thank god!” he began to creep along. the ledge conducted him to safer ground, and in another quarter of an hour he was free!
to get as far and as quickly as possible from dunnottar was now his chief aim. he travelled at his utmost speed till daybreak, when he crept into a dry ditch, and, overcome by fatigue, forgot his sorrow in profound unbroken slumber. rising late in the afternoon, he made his way to a cottage and begged for bread. they must have suspected what he was and where he came from, but they were friendly, for they gave him a loaf and a few pence without asking questions.
thus he travelled by night and slept by day till he made his way to edinburgh, which he entered one evening in the midst of a crowd of people, and went straight to candlemaker row.
mrs black, mrs wallace, jean black, and poor agnes wilson were in the old room when a tap was heard at the door, which immediately opened, and a gaunt, dishevelled, way-worn man appeared. mrs black was startled at first, for the man, regardless of the other females, advanced towards her. then sudden light seemed to flash in her eyes as she extended both hands.
“mither!” was all that andrew could say as he grasped them, fell on his knees, and, with a profound sigh, laid his head upon her lap.
chapter twelve.
the darkest hour before the dawn.
many months passed away, during which andrew black, clean-shaved, brushed-up, and converted into a very respectable, ordinary-looking artisan, carried on the trade of a turner, in an underground cellar in one of the most populous parts of the cowgate. lost in the crowd was his idea of security. and he was not far wrong. his cellar had a way of escape through a back door. its grated window, under the level of the street, admitted light to his whirling lathe, but, aided by dirt on the glass, it baffled the gaze of the curious.
his evenings were spent in candlemaker row, where, seated by the window with his mother, mrs wallace, and the two girls, he smoked his pipe and commented on scotland’s woes while gazing across the tombs at the glow in the western sky. ramblin’ peter—no longer a beardless boy, but a fairly well-grown and good-looking youth—was a constant visitor at the row. aggie wilson had taught him the use of his tongue, but peter was not the man to use it in idle flirtation—nor aggie the girl to listen if he had done so. they had both seen too much of the stern side of life to condescend on trifling.
once, by a superhuman effort, and with an alarming flush of the countenance, peter succeeded in stammering a declaration of his sentiments. aggie, with flaming cheeks and downcast eyes, accepted the declaration, and the matter was settled; that was all, for the subject had rushed upon both of them, as it were, unexpectedly, and as they were in the public street at the time and the hour was noon, further demonstration might have been awkward.
thereafter they were understood to be “keeping company.” but they were a grave couple. if an eavesdropper had ventured to listen, sober talk alone would have repaid the sneaking act, and, not unfrequently, reference would have been heard in tones of deepest pathos to dreadful scenes that had occurred on the shores of the solway, or sorrowful comments on the awful fate of beloved friends who had been banished to “the plantations.”
one day jean—fair-haired, blue-eyed, pensive jean—was seated in the cellar with her uncle. she had brought him his daily dinner in a tin can, and he having just finished it, was about to resume his work while the niece rose to depart. time had transformed jean from a pretty girl into a beautiful woman, but there was an expression of profound melancholy on her once bright face which never left it now, save when a passing jest called up for an instant a feeble reminiscence of the sweet old smile.
“noo, jean, awa’ wi’ ye. i’ll never get thae parritch-sticks feenished if ye sit haverin’ there.”
something very like the old smile lighted up jean’s face as she rose, and with a “weel, good-day, uncle,” left the cellar to its busy occupant.
black was still at work, and the shadows of evening were beginning to throw the inner end of the cellar into gloom, when the door slowly opened and a man entered stealthily. the unusual action, as well as the appearance of the man, caused black to seize hold of a heavy piece of wood that leaned against his lathe. the thought of being discovered and sent back to dunnottar, or hanged, had implanted in our friend a salutary amount of caution, though it had not in the slightest degree affected his nerve or his cool promptitude in danger. he had deliberately made up his mind to remain quiet as long as he should be let alone, but if discovered, to escape or die in the attempt.
the intruder was a man of great size and strength, but as he seemed to be alone, black quietly leaned the piece of wood against the lathe again in a handy position.
“ye seem to hae been takin’ lessons frae the cats lately, to judge from yer step,” said black. “shut the door, man, behint ye. there’s a draft i’ this place that’ll be like to gie ye the rheumatiz.”
the man obeyed, and, advancing silently, stood before the lathe. there was light enough to reveal the fact that his countenance was handsome, though bronzed almost to the colour of mahogany, while the lower part of it was hidden by a thick beard and a heavy moustache.
black, who began to see that the strange visitor had nothing of the appearance of one sent to arrest him, said, in a half-humorous, remonstrative tone—
“maybe ye’re a furriner, an’ dinna understan’ mainners, but it’s as weel to tell ye that i expec’ men to tak’ aff their bannets when they come into my hoose.”
without speaking the visitor removed his cap. black recognised him in an instant.
“wull wallace!” he gasped in a hoarse whisper, as he sprang forward and laid violent hands on his old friend. “losh, man! are my een leein’? is’t possable? can this be you?”
“yes, thank god, it is indeed—”
he stopped short, for andrew, albeit unaccustomed, like most of his countrymen, to give way to ebullitions of strong feeling, threw his long arms around his friend and fairly hugged him. he did not, indeed, condescend on a frenchman’s kiss, but he gave him a stage embrace and a squeeze that was worthy of a bear.
“your force is not much abated, i see—or rather, feel,” said will wallace, when he was released.
“abated!” echoed black, “it’s little need, in thae awfu’ times. but, man, your force has increased, if i’m no mista’en.”
“doubtless—it is natural, after having toiled with the slaves in barbadoes for so many years. the work was kill or cure out there. but tell me—my mother—and yours?”
“oh, they’re baith weel and hearty, thank the lord,” answered black. “but what for d’ye no speer after jean?” he added in a somewhat disappointed tone.
“because i don’t need to. i’ve seen her already, and know that she is well.”
“seen her!” exclaimed andrew in surprise.
“ay, you and jean were seated alone at the little window in the candlemaker raw last night about ten o’clock, and i was standing by a tombstone in the greyfriars churchyard admiring you. i did not like to present myself just then, for fear of alarming the dear girl too much, and then i did not dare to come here to-day till the gloamin’. i only arrived yesterday.”
“weel, weel! the like o’ this bates a’. losh man! i hope it’s no a dream. nip me, man, to mak sure. sit doon, sit doon, an’ let’s hear a’ aboot it.”
the story was a long one. before it was quite finished the door was gently opened, and jean black herself entered. she had come, as was her wont every night, to walk home with her uncle.
black sprang up.
“jean, my wummin,” he said, hastily putting on his blue bonnet, “there’s no light eneuch for ye to be intryduced to my freend here, but ye can hear him if ye canna see him. i’m gaun oot to see what sort o’ a night it is. he’ll tak’ care o’ ye till i come back.”
without awaiting a reply he went out and shut the door, and the girl turned in some surprise towards the stranger.
“jean!” he said in a low voice, holding out both hands.
jean did not scream or faint. her position in life, as well as her rough experiences, forbade such weakness, but it did not forbid—well, it is not our province to betray confidences! all we can say is, that when andrew black returned to the cellar, after a prolonged and no doubt scientific inspection of the weather, he found that the results of the interview had been quite satisfactory—eminently so!
need we say that there were rejoicing and thankful hearts in candlemaker row that night? we think not. if any of the wraiths of the covenanters were hanging about the old churchyard, and had peeped in at the well-known back window about the small hours of the morning, they would have seen our hero, clasping his mother with his right arm and jean with his left. he was encircled by an eager group—composed of mrs black and andrew, jock bruce, ramblin’ peter, and aggie wilson—who listened to the stirring tale of his adventures, or detailed to him the not less stirring and terrible history of the long period that had elapsed since he was torn from them, as they had believed, for ever.
next morning jean accompanied her lover to the workshop of her uncle, who had preceded them, as he usually went to work about daybreak.
“are ye no feared,” asked jean, with an anxious look in her companion’s face, “that some of your auld enemies may recognise you? you’re so big and—and—” (she thought of the word handsome, but substituted) “odd-looking.”
“there is little fear, jean. i’ve been so long away that most of the people—the enemies at least—who knew me must have left; besides, my bronzed face and bushy beard form a sufficient disguise, i should think.”
“i’m no sure o’ that,” returned the girl, shaking her head doubtfully; “an’ it seems to me that the best thing ye can do will be to gang to the workshop every mornin’ before it’s daylight. have ye fairly settled to tak’ to uncle andrew’s trade?”
“yes. last night he and i arranged it while you were asleep. i must work, you know, to earn my living, and there is no situation so likely to afford such effectual concealment. bruce offered to take me on again, but the smiddy is too public, and too much frequented by soldiers. ah, jean! i fear that our wedding-day is a long way off yet, for, although i could easily make enough to support you in comfort if there were no difficulties to hamper me, there is not much chance of my making a fortune, as andrew black says, by turning parritch-sticks and peeries!”
wallace tried to speak lightly, but could not disguise a tone of despondency.
“your new king,” he continued, “seems as bad as the old one, if not worse. from all i hear he seems to have set his heart on bringing the country back again to popery, and black will be the look-out if he succeeds in doing that. he has quarrelled, they say, with his bishops, and in his anger is carrying matters against them with a high hand. i fear that there is woe in store for poor scotland yet.”
“it may be so,” returned jean sadly. “the lord knows what is best; but he can make the wrath of man to praise him. perhaps,” she added, looking up with a solemn expression on her sweet face, “perhaps, like quentin dick an’ margaret wilson, you an’ i may never wed.”
they had reached the east end of the grassmarket as she spoke, and had turned into it before she observed that they were going wrong, but wallace explained that he had been directed by black to call on ramblin’ peter, who lived there, and procure from him some turning-tools. on the way they were so engrossed with each other that they did not at first observe the people hurrying towards the lower end of the market. then they became aware that an execution was about to take place.
“the old story,” muttered wallace, while an almost savage scowl settled on his face.
“let us hurry by,” said jean in a low tone. at the moment the unhappy man who was about to be executed raised his voice to speak, as was the custom in those times.
jean started, paused, and turned deadly pale.
“i ken the voice,” she exclaimed.
as the tones rose in strength she turned towards the gallows and almost dragged her companion after her in her eagerness to get near.
“it’s mr renwick,” she said, “the dear servant o’ the lord!”
wallace, on seeing her anxiety, elbowed his way through the crowd somewhat forcibly, and thus made way for jean till they stood close under the gallows. it was a woeful sight in one sense, for it was the murder of a fair and goodly as well as godly man in the prime of life; yet it was a grand sight, inasmuch as it was a noble witnessing unto death for god and truth and justice in the face of prejudice, passion, and high-handed tyranny.
the martyr had been trying to address the crowd for some time, but had been barbarously interrupted by the beating of drums. just then a curate approached him and said, “mr renwick, own our king, and we will pray for you.”
“it’s that scoundrel, the reverend george lawless,” murmured wallace in a deep and bitter tone.
“i am come here,” replied the martyr, “to bear my testimony against you, and all such as you are.”
“own our king, and pray for him, whatever ye say of us,” returned the curate.
“i will discourse no more with you,” rejoined renwick. “i am in a little to appear before him who is king of kings and lord of lords, who shall pour shame, contempt, and confusion on all the kings of the earth who have not ruled for him.”
after this renwick—as was usual with the martyrs when about to finish their course—sang, read a portion of scripture, and prayed, in the midst of considerable interruption from the drums. he also managed to address the spectators. among the sentences that reached the ears of jean and wallace were the following:—
“i am come here this day to lay down my life for adhering to the truths of christ... i die as a presbyterian protestant... i own the word of god as the rule of faith and manners... i leave my testimony against ... all encroachments made on christ’s rights, who is the prince of the kings of the earth.”
the noise of the drums rendered his voice inaudible at this point, and the executioner, advancing, tied a napkin over his eyes. he was then ordered to go up the ladder. to a friend who stood by him he gave his last messages. among them were the words—
“keep your ground, and the lord will provide you teachers and ministers; and when he comes he will make these despised truths glorious in the earth.”
his last words were— “lord, into thy hands i commit my spirit; for thou hast redeemed me, lord god of truth.”
thus fell the last, as it turned out, of the martyrs of the covenants, on the 17th of february 1688. but it did not seem to will wallace that the storm of twenty-eight long years had almost blown over, as he glanced at the scowling brows and compressed lips of the upturned faces around him.
“come—come away, jean,” he said quickly, as he felt the poor girl hang heavily on his arm, and observed the pallor of her face.
“ay, let’s gang hame,” she said faintly.
as will turned to go he encountered a face that was very familiar. the owner of it gazed at him inquiringly. it was that of his old comrade in arms, glendinning. stooping over his companion as if to address her, wallace tried to conceal his face and pushed quickly through the crowd. whether glendinning had recognised him or not, he could not be sure, but from that day forward he became much more careful in his movements, went regularly to his work with andrew black before daylight, and did not venture to return each night till after dark. it was a weary and irksome state of things, but better—as black sagaciously remarked—than being imprisoned on the bass rock or shut up in dunnottar castle. but the near presence of jean black had, no doubt, more to do with the resignation of our hero to his position than the fear of imprisonment.
as time passed, things in the political horizon looked blacker than ever. the king began to show himself more and more in his true colours—as one who had thoroughly made up his mind to rule as an absolute monarch and to reclaim the kingdom to popery. among other things he brought troops over from ireland to enforce his will, some of his english troops having made it abundantly plain that they could not be counted on to obey the mandates of one who wished to arrogate to himself unlimited power, and showed an utter disregard of the rights of the people. indeed, on all hands the king’s friends began to forsake him, and even his own children fell away from him at last.
rumours of these things, more or less vague, had been reaching edinburgh from time to time, causing uneasiness in the minds of some and hope in the hearts of others.
one night the usual party of friends had assembled to sup in the dwelling of mrs black. it was the sabbath. wallace and black had remained close all day—with the exception of an hour before daylight in the morning when they had gone out for exercise. it was one of those dreary days not unknown to auld reekie, which are inaugurated with a persistent drizzle, continued with a “scotch mist,” and dismissed with an even down-pour. yet it was by no means a dismal day to our friends of candlemaker row. they were all more or less earnestly religious as well as intellectual, so that intercourse in reference to the things of the kingdom of god, and reading the word, with a free-and-easy commentary by mrs black and much acquiescence on the part of mrs wallace, and occasional disputations between andrew and bruce, kept them lively and well employed until supper-time.
the meal had just been concluded when heavy footfalls were heard on the stair outside, and in another moment there was a violent knocking at the door. the men sprang up, and instinctively grasped the weapons that came first to hand. wallace seized the poker—a new and heavy one—andrew the shovel, and jock bruce the tongs, while ramblin’ peter possessed himself of a stout rolling-pin. placing themselves hastily in front of the women, who had drawn together and retreated to a corner, they stood on the defensive while mrs black demanded to know who knocked so furiously “on a sabbath nicht.”
instead of answering, the visitors burst the door open, and half-a-dozen of the town-guard sprang in and levelled their pikes.
“yield yourselves!” cried their leader. “i arrest you in the king’s name!”
but the four men showed no disposition to yield, and the resolute expression of their faces induced their opponents to hesitate.
“i ken o’ nae king in this realm,” said andrew black in a deep stern voice, “an’ we refuse to set oor necks under the heel o’ a usurpin’ tyrant.”
“do your duty, men,” said a man who had kept in the background, but who now stepped to the front.
“ha! this is your doing, glendinning,” exclaimed wallace, who recognised his old comrade. the sergeant had obviously been promoted, for he wore the costume of a commissioned officer.
“ay, i have an auld score to settle wi’ you, wallace, an’ i hope to see you an’ your comrades swing in the grassmarket before lang.”
“ye’ll niver see that, my man,” said black, as he firmly grasped the shovel. “ye ha’ena gotten us yet, an’ it’s my opeenion that you an’ your freends’ll be in kingdom-come before we swing, if ye try to tak’ us alive. oot o’ this hoose, ye scoondrels!”
so saying, black made a spring worthy of a royal bengal tiger, turned aside the pike of the foremost man, and brought the shovel down on his iron headpiece with such force that he was driven back into the passage or landing, and fell prostrate. black was so ably and promptly seconded by his stalwart comrades that the room was instantly cleared. glendinning, driven back by an irresistible blow from the rolling-pin, tripped over the fallen man and went headlong down the winding stairs, at the bottom of which he lay dead, with his neck broken by the fall.
but the repulse thus valiantly effected did not avail them much, for the leader of the guard had reinforcements below, which he now called up. before the door could be shut these swarmed into the room and drove the defenders back into their corner. the leader hesitated, however, to give the order to advance on them, partly, it may be, because he wished to induce submission and thus avoid bloodshed, and partly, no doubt, because of the terrible aspect of the four desperate men, who, knowing that the result of their capture would be almost certain death, preceded by imprisonment, and probably torture, had evidently made up their minds to fight to the death.
at that critical moment a quick step was heard upon the stair, and the next moment the reverend frank selby entered the room.
“just in time, i see,” he said in a cool nonchalant manner that was habitual to him. “i think, sir,” he added, turning to the leader of the guard, “that it may be as well to draw off your men and return to the guard-room.”
“i’ll do that,” retorted the man sharply, “when i receive orders from my superiors. just now i’ll do my duty.”
“of course you will do what is right, my good sir,” replied the reverend frank; “yet i venture to think you will regret neglecting my advice, which, allow me to assure you, is given in quite a friendly and disinterested spirit. i have just left the precincts of the council chamber, where i was told by a friend in office that the councillors have been thrown into a wild and excusable state of alarm by the news that william, prince of orange, who, perhaps you may know, is james’s son-in-law and nephew, has landed in torbay with 15,000 dutchmen. he comes by invitation of the nobles and clergy of the kingdom to take possession of the crown which our friend james has forfeited, and james himself has fled to france—one of the few wise things of which he has ever been guilty. it is further reported that the panic-stricken privy council here talks of throwing open all the prison-doors in edinburgh, after which it will voluntarily dissolve itself. if it could do so in prussic acid or some chemical solvent suited to the purpose, its exit would be hailed as all the more appropriate. meanwhile, i am of opinion that all servants of the council would do well to retire into as much privacy as possible, and then maintain a careful look-out for squalls.”
having delivered this oration to the gaping guard, the reverend frank crossed the room and went through the forbidden and dangerous performance of shaking hands heartily with the “rebels.”
he was still engaged in this treasonable act, and the men of the town-guard had not yet recovered from their surprise, when hurrying footsteps were again heard on the stair, and a man of the town-guard sprang into the room, went to his chief, and whispered in his ear. the result was, that, with a countenance expressing mingled surprise and anxiety, the officer led his men from the scene, and left the long-persecuted covenanters in peace.
“losh, man! div ’ee railly think the news can be true?” asked andrew black, after they had settled down and heard it all repeated.
“indeed i do,” said the reverend frank earnestly, “and i thank god that a glorious revolution seems to have taken place, and hope that the long, long years of persecution are at last drawing to a close.”
and frank selby was right. the great revolution of 1688, which set william and mary on the throne, also banished the tyrannical and despotic house of stuart for ever; opened the prison gates to the covenanters; restored to some extent the reign of justice and mercy; crushed, if it did not kill, the heads of popery and absolute power, and sent a great wave of praise and thanksgiving over the whole land. prelacy was no longer forced upon scotland. the rights and liberties of the people were secured, and the day had at last come which crowned the struggles and sufferings of half a century. as mrs black remarked—
“surely the blood o’ the martyrs has not been shed in vain!”
but what of the fortunes of those whose adventures we have followed so long? whatever they were, the record has not been written, yet we have been told by a man whose name we may not divulge, but who is an unquestionable authority on the subject, that soon after the persecution about which we have been writing had ceased, a farmer of the name of black settled down among the “bonnie hills of galloway,” not far from the site of the famous communion stones on skeoch hill, where he took to himself a wife; that another farmer, a married man named wallace, went and built a cottage and settled there on a farm close beside black; that a certain r. peter became shepherd to the farmer black, and, with his wife, served him faithfully all the days of his life; that the families of these men were very large, the men among them being handsome and stalwart, the women modest and beautiful, and that all of them were loyal subjects and earnest, enthusiastic covenanters. it has been also said, though we do not vouch for the accuracy of the statement, that in the kirk-session books of the neighbouring kirk of irongray there may be found among the baptisms such names as andrew wallace and will black, quentin dick black, and jock bruce wallace; also an aggie, a marion, and an isabel peter, besides several jeans scattered among the three families.
it has likewise been reported, on reliable authority, that the original mr black, whose christian name was andrew, was a famous teller of stories and narrator of facts regarding the persecution of the covenanters, especially of the awful killing-time, when the powers of darkness were let loose on the land to do their worst, and when the blood of scotland’s martyrs flowed like water.
between 1661, when the marquis of argyll was beheaded, and 1668, when james renwick suffered, there were murdered for the cause of christ and christian liberty about 18,000 noble men and women, some of whom were titled, but the most of whom were unknown to earthly fame. it is a marvellous record of the power of god; and well may we give all honour to the martyr band while we exclaim with the “ayrshire elder”:—
“o for the brave true hearts of old,
that bled when the banner perished!
o for the faith that was strong in death—
the faith that our fathers cherished.
“the banner might fall, but the spirit lived,
and liveth for evermore;
and scotland claims as her noblest names
the covenant men of yore.”
