Hunted and Harried

At a signal the executioner promptly fitted the boot to the bold man’s right leg.

Black’s look of indignant defiance passed away, and was replaced by an expression of humility that, strangely enough, seemed rather to intensify than diminish his air of fixed resolve. While the instrument of torture was being arranged he turned his face to the Bishop of Galloway, who sat beside Lauderdale silently and sternly awaiting the result, and with an almost cheerful air and quiet voice said—

“God has, for His ain wise ends, made the heart o’ the puir man that has just left us tender, an’ He’s made mine teuch, but tak’ notice, thou wolf in sheep’s clothing, that it’s no upon its teuchness but upon the speerit o’ the Lord that I depend for grace to withstand on this evil day.”

“Strike!” said the Duke, in a low stern voice.

The mallet fell; the wedge compressed the strong limb, and Andrew compressed his lips.

“Again!”

A second time the mallet fell, but no sign did the unhappy man give of the pain which instantly began to shoot through the limb. After a few more blows the Duke stayed the process and reiterated his questions, but Black took no notice of him whatever. Large beads of sweat broke out on his brow. These were the only visible signs of suffering, unless we except the deathly pallor of his face.

“Again!” said the merciless judge.

The executioner obeyed, but the blow had been barely delivered when a loud snap was heard, and the tortured man experienced instant relief. Jock Bruce’s little device had been successful, the instrument of torture was broken!

“Thanks be to Thy name, O God, for grace to help me thus far,” said Black in a quiet tone.

“Fix on the other boot,” cried Lauderdale savagely, for the constancy as well as the humility of the martyr exasperated him greatly.

The executioner was about to obey when a noise was heard at the door of the Council Chamber, and a cavalier, booted and spurred and splashed with mud, as if he had ridden fast and far, strode hastily up to the Duke and whispered in his ear. The effect of the whisper was striking, for an expression of mingled surprise, horror, and alarm overspread for a few moments even his hard visage. At the same time the Bishop of Galloway was observed to turn deadly pale, and an air of consternation generally marked the members of Council.

“Murdered—in cold blood!” muttered the Duke, as if he could not quite believe the news,—and perhaps realised for the first time that there were others besides the Archbishop of Saint Andrews who richly deserved a similar fate.

Hastily ordering the prisoner to be removed to the Tolbooth, he retired with his infamous companions to an inner room.

The well-known historical incident which was thus announced shall receive but brief comment here. There is no question at all as to the fact that Sharp was unlawfully killed, that he was cruelly slain, without trial and without judicial condemnation, by a party of Covenanters. Nothing justifies illegal killing. The justice of even legal killing is still an unsettled question, but one which does not concern us just now. We make no attempt to defend the deed of those men. It is not probable that any average Christian, whether in favour of the Covenanters or against them, would justify the killing of an old man by illegal means, however strongly he might hold the opinion that the old man deserved to die. In order to form an unprejudiced opinion on this subject recourse must be had to facts. The following are briefly the facts of the case.

A merchant named William Carmichael, formerly a bailie of Edinburgh, was one of Sharp’s favourites, and one of his numerous commissioners for suppressing conventicles in Fife. He was a licentious profligate, greedy of money, and capable of undertaking any job, however vile. This man’s enormities were at last so unbearable that he became an object of general detestation, and his excessive exactions had ruined so many respectable lairds, owners, and tenants, that at last nine of these (who had been outlawed, interdicted the common intercourse of society, and hunted like wild beasts on the mountains) resolved, since all other avenues of redressing their unjust sufferings were denied them, to take the law into their own hands and personally chastise Carmichael. Accordingly, hearing that the commissioner was hunting on the moors in the neighbourhood of Cupar, they rode off in search of him. They failed to find him, and were about to disperse, when a boy brought intelligence that the coach of Archbishop Sharp was approaching.

Baffled in their previous search, and smarting under the sense of their intolerable wrongs, the party regarded this as a providential deliverance of their arch-enemy into their hands. Here was the chief cause of all their woes, the man who, more almost than any other, had been instrumental in the persecution and ruin of many families, in the torture and death of innumerable innocent men and women, and the banishment of some of their nearest and dearest to perpetual exile on the plantations, where they were treated as slaves. They leaped at the sudden and unexpected opportunity. They reasoned that what had been done in the past, and was being done at the time, would continue to be done in the future, for there was no symptom of improvement, but rather of increasing severity in the Government and ecclesiastics. Overtaking the coach, which contained the Prelate and his daughter, they stopped it, made Archbishop Sharp step out, and slew him there on Magus Moor.

It was a dark unwarrantable deed, but it was unpremeditated, and necessarily unknown, at first, to any but the perpetrators, so that it would be inexcusably unfair to saddle it upon the great body of the Covenanters, who, as far as we can ascertain from their writings and opinions, condemned it, although, naturally, they could not but feel relieved to think that one of their chief persecutors was for evermore powerless for further evil, and some of them refused to admit that the deed was murder. They justified it by the case of Phinehas. A better apology lies in the text, “oppression maketh a wise man mad.”

This event had the effect, apparently, of causing the Council to forget our friends Black and Ramblin’ Peter for a time, for they were left in the Tolbooth for about three weeks after that, whereat Andrew was much pleased, for it gave his maimed limb time to recover. As Peter remarked gravely, “it’s an ill wund that blaws naebody guid!”

A robust and earnest nation cannot be subdued by persecution. The more the Council tyrannised over and trampled upon the liberties of the people of Scotland, the more resolutely did the leal-hearted and brave among them resist the oppressors. It is ever thus. It ever should be thus; for while an individual man has a perfect right, if he chooses, to submit to tyranny on his own account, he has no right to stand tamely by and see gross oppression and cruelty exercised towards his family, and neighbours, and country. At least, if he does so, he earns for himself the character of an unpatriotic poltroon. True patriotism consists in a readiness to sacrifice one’s-self to the national well-being. As far as things temporal are concerned, the records of the Scottish Covenanters prove incontestably that those long-tried men and women submitted with unexampled patience for full eight-and-twenty years to the spoiling of their goods and the ruin of their prospects; but when it came to be a question of submission to the capricious will of the King or loyalty to Jesus Christ, thousands of them chose the latter alternative, and many hundreds sealed their testimony with their blood.

When at last the question arose, “Shall we consent to the free preaching of the Gospel being suppressed altogether, or shall we assert our rights at the point of the sword?” there also arose very considerable difference of opinion among the Covenanters. Many of those who held the peace-at-almost-any-price principle, counselled submission. Others, such as Richard Cameron, Donald Cargill, and Thomas Douglas, who believed in the right of self-defence, and in such a text as “smite a scorner and the simple will beware,” advocated the use of carnal weapons for protection alone, although, when driven to desperation, they were compelled to go further. Some of the ejected ministers, such as Blackadder and Welsh, professed to be undecided on this point, and leant to a more or less submissive course.

Matters were now hastening to a crisis. A lawless Government had forced a law-abiding people into the appearance, though not the reality, of rebellion. The bands of armed men who assembled at conventicles became so numerous as to have the appearance of an army. The council, exasperated and alarmed, sent forth more troops to disperse and suppress these, though they had been guilty of no act of positive hostility.

At this crisis, Cargill and his friends, the “ultra-Covenanters,” as they were styled, resolved to publish to the world their “Testimony to the cause and truth which they defended, and against the sins and defections of the times.” They chose the 29th of May for this purpose, that being the anniversary of the King’s birth and restoration. Led by Robert Hamilton, a small party of them rode into the royal burgh of Rutherglen; and there, after burning various tyrannical Acts—as their adversaries had previously burnt the Covenants—they nailed to the cross a copy of what is now known as the Declaration of Rutherglen, in which all their grievances were set forth.

The news of this daring act spread like wildfire, and the notorious Graham of Claverhouse was sent to seize, kill, and destroy, all who took any part in this business. How Claverhouse went with his disciplined dragoons, seized John King, chaplain to Lord Cardross, with about fourteen other prisoners, in passing through Hamilton, tied them in couples, drove them before the troops like sheep, attacked the Covenanters at Drumclog, received a thorough defeat from the undisciplined “rebels,” who freed the prisoners, and sent the dragoons back completely routed to Glasgow, is matter of history.

While these stirring events were going on, our friend Andrew Black and Ramblin’ Peter were languishing in the unsavoury shades of the Tolbooth Prison.

One forenoon Andrew was awakened from an uneasy slumber. They bade him rise. His arms were bound with a rope, and he was led up the Canongate towards the well-remembered Council Chamber, in company with Ramblin’ Peter, who, owing to his size and youth, was not bound, but merely held in the grasp of one of the guards.

At the mouth of one of the numerous closes which lead down to the Cowgate and other parts of the old town stood Will Wallace, Quentin Dick, David Spence, and Jock Bruce, each armed with a heavy blackthorn. Bruce had been warned by a friendly turnkey of what was pending—hence their opportune presence.

As soon as the prison party was opposite the close, the rescue party made a united rush—and the united rush of four such strapping fellows was worth seeing. So thought the crowd, and cheered. So thought not the City Guard, four of whom went down like ninepins. Black’s bonds were cut and himself hurried down the close almost before the guard had recovered from the surprise. No doubt that guard was composed of brave men; but when they met two such lions in the mouth of the close as Wallace and Quentin—for these two turned at bay—they paused and levelled their pikes. Turning these aside like lightning the lions felled their two foremost adversaries. The two who followed them met a similar fate. Thinking that four were sufficient to block the entry, at least for a few moments, our heroes turned, unlionlike, and fled at a pace that soon left the enemy far behind.

This delay had given time to Black and his other friends to make good their retreat. Meanwhile Ramblin’ Peter, taking advantage of the confusion, wrenched himself suddenly free from the guard who held him, and vanished down another close. The rescue having been effected, the party purposely scattered. Black’s leg, however, prevented him from running fast. He therefore thought it best to double round a corner, and dash into a doorway, trusting to having been unobserved. In this, however, he was mistaken. His enemies, indeed, saw him not, but Ramblin’ Peter chanced to see him while at some distance off, and made for the same place of refuge.

Springing up a spiral stair, three steps at a time, Black did not stop till he gained the attics, and leaped through the open doorway of a garret, where he found an old woman wailing over a bed on which lay the corpse of a man with a coffin beside it.

“What want ye here?” demanded the old creature angrily.

“Wow! wumman, I’m hard pressed! They’re at my heels!” said Black, looking anxiously at the skylight as if meditating a still higher flight.

“Are ye ane o’ the persecuted remnant?” asked the woman in a changed tone.

“Ay, that am I.”

“Hide, then, hide, man—haste ye!”

“Where?” asked the perplexed fugitive. “There,” said the woman, removing the coffin lid. Andrew hesitated. Just then hurrying footsteps were heard on the stair. He hesitated no longer. Stepping into the coffin he lay down, and the woman covered him up.

“Oh, wumman!” said Black, lifting the lid a little, “tak’ care ye dinna meddle wi’ the screw-nails. They may—”

“Wheesht! Haud yer tongue!” growled the woman sharply, and reclosed the lid with a bang, just as Ramblin’ Peter burst into the room.

“What want ye here, callant?”

Peter drew back in dismay.

“I’m lookin’ for—I was thinkin’—Did ’ee see a man—?”

The lid of the coffin flew off as he spoke, and his master sprang out.

“Man, Peter,” gasped the farmer, “yours is the sweetest voice I’ve heard for mony a day. I verily thocht I was doomed—but come awa’, lad. Thank ’ee kindly, auld wife, for the temporary accommodation.”

The intruders left as abruptly as they had entered. That night the whole party was reassembled in Mrs Black’s residence in Candlemaker Row, where, over a supper “o’ parritch an’ soor mulk,” Andrew Black heard from Jock Bruce all about the Declaration of Rutherglen, and the defeat of Claverhouse by the Covenanters at Drumclog.

“The thundercloods are gatherin’,” said Black with a grave shake of the head, as the party broke up and were about to separate for the night. “Tak’ my word for ’t, we’ll hear mair o’ this afore lang.”

We need scarcely add that on this occasion Andrew was a true prophet.

Chapter Eight.

Bothwell Bridge

Matters had now come to such a pass that it was no longer possible to defer the evil day of civil war.

Persecuted inhumanly and beyond endurance, with every natural avenue of redress closed, and flushed with recent victory, the Covenanters resolved not only to hold together for defensive purposes, but to take the initiative, push their advantage, and fight for civil and religious liberty. It was the old, old fight, which has convulsed the world probably since the days of Eden—the uprising of the persecuted many against the tyrannical few. In the confusions of a sin-stricken world, the conditions have been occasionally and partially reversed; but, for the most part, history’s record tells of the abuse of power on the part of the few who possess it, and the resulting consequence that:—

“Man’s inhumanity to manMakes countless thousands mourn—”

Until the down-trodden have turned at bay, and, like the French in 1793, have taken fearful vengeance, or, as in the case of the Covenanters at the time of which we write, have reaped only disaster and profounder woe.

There were, however, two elements of weakness among the Covenanters in 1679 which rendered all their efforts vain, despite the righteousness of their cause. One was that they were an undisciplined body, without appointed and experienced officers; while their leader, Robert Hamilton, was utterly unfitted by nature as well as training for a military command. The other weakness was, that the unhappy differences of opinion among them as to lines of duty, to which we have before referred, became more and more embittered, instead of being subordinated to the stern necessities of the hour.

The earnest men of God amongst them could no doubt have brought things to a better state in this crisis if their counsels had prevailed, but the men whose powers of endurance had at last given way were too many and strong for these; so that, instead of preparing for united action, the turbulent among them continued their dissensions until too late.

After Drumclog, Hamilton led his men to Glasgow to attack the enemy’s headquarters there. He was repulsed, and then retired to Hamilton, where he formed a camp.

The Privy Council meanwhile called out the militia, and ordered all the heritors and freeholders to join with the Regulars in putting down the insurrection. A good many people from all quarters had joined the Covenanters after the success at Drumclog; but it is thought that their numbers never exceeded 4000. The army which prepared to meet them under the command of the Duke of Monmouth and Buccleuch was said to be 10,000 strong—among them were some of the best of the King’s troops.

The Duke was anxious to delay matters, apparently with some hope of reconciliation. Many of the Covenanters were like-minded; and it is said that Mr Welsh visited the royal camp in disguise, with a view to a peaceful solution; but the stern spirits in both camps rendered this impossible. Some from principle, others from prejudice, could not see their way to a compromise; while the unprincipled on either side “cried havoc, and let slip the dogs of war!”

It was on Sabbath the 22nd of June that the Duke’s army reached Bothwell Moor; the advanced guards entering Bothwell town within a quarter of a mile of the bridge which spans the Clyde. The Covenanters lay encamped on Hamilton Moor, on the southern side of the river.

That morning a company of stalwart young men, coming from the direction of Edinburgh, had crossed Bothwell Bridge before the arrival of the royal army and joined the Covenanters. They were preceded by two men on horseback.

“It seems a daft-like thing,” said one horseman to the other as they traversed the moor, “that the likes o’ me should be ridin’ to battle like a lord, insteed o’ trudgin’ wi’ the men on futt; but, man, it’s no’ easy to walk far efter wearin’ a ticht-fittin’ buit—though it was only for a wee while I had it on. It’s a’ verra weel for you, Wull, that’s oor eleckit captain, an’ can sit yer horse like a markis; but as for me, I’ll slip aff an’ fecht on my legs when it comes to that.”

“There’s no military law, Andrew, against fighting on foot,” returned the captain, who, we need scarcely say, was Will Wallace; “but if you are well advised you’ll stick to the saddle as long as you can. See, yonder seems to be the headquarters of the camp. We will report our arrival, and then see to breakfast.”

“Ay—I’ll be thankfu’ for a bite o’ somethin’, for I’m fair famished; an’ there’s a proverb, I think, that says it’s ill fechtin’ on an emp’y stammack. It seems to me there’s less order an’ mair noise yonder than befits a camp o’ serious men—specially on a Sabbath mornin’.”

“The same thought occurred to myself,” said Wallace. “Perhaps they have commenced the services, for you know there are several ministers among them.”

“Mair like disputation than services,” returned the farmer with a grave shake of his head.

Finding that Andrew was correct, and that the leaders of the little army were wasting the precious moments in irrelevant controversy, the Edinburgh contingent turned aside and set about preparing a hasty breakfast. This reinforcement included Quentin Dick, Jock Bruce, David Spence, and Ramblin’ Peter; also Tam Chanter, Edward Gordon, and Alexander McCubine, who had been picked up on the march.

Of course, while breaking their fast they discussed the pros and cons of the situation freely.

“If the King’s troops are as near as they are reported to be,” said Wallace, “our chances of victory are small.”

“I fear ye’re richt,” said Black. “It becomes Ignorance to haud its tongue in the presence o’ Knowledge, nae doot—an’ I confess to bein’ as ignorant as a bairn o’ the art o’ war; but common sense seems to say that haverin’ aboot theology on the eve o’ a fecht is no sae wise-like as disposin’ yer men to advantage. The very craws might be ashamed o’ sic a noise!”

Even while he spoke a cry was raised that the enemy was in sight; and the confusion that prevailed before became redoubled as the necessity for instant action arose. In the midst of it, however, a few among the more sedate and cool-headed leaders did their best to reduce the little army to something like order, and put it in battle array. There was no lack of personal courage. Men who had, for the sake of righteousness, suffered the loss of all things, and had carried their lives in their hands for so many years, were not likely to present a timid front in the hour of battle. And leaders such as John Nisbet of Hardhill, one of the most interesting sufferers in the twenty-eight years’ persecution; Clelland, who had fought with distinguished courage at Drumclog; Henry Hall of Haughhead; David Hackston of Rathillet; John Balfour of Burley; Turnbull of Bewlie; with Major Learmont and Captain John Paton of Meadowhead—two veterans who had led the Westland Covenanters in their first battle at the Pentland Hills—such men were well able to have led a band of even half-disciplined men to victory if united under a capable general. But such was not to be. The laws of God, whether relating to physics or morals, are inexorable. A divided army cannot conquer. They had assembled to fight; instead of fighting they disputed, and that so fiercely that two opposing parties were formed in the camp, and their councils of war became arenas of strife. The drilling of men had been neglected, officers were not appointed, stores of ammunition and other supplies were not provided, and no plan of battle was concerted. All this, with incapacity at the helm, resulted in overwhelming disaster and the sacrifice of a body of brave, devoted men. It afterwards intensified persecution, and postponed constitutional liberty for many years.

In this state of disorganisation the Covenanters were found by the royal troops. The latter were allowed quietly to plant their guns and make arrangements for the attack.

But they were not suffered to cross Bothwell Bridge with impunity. Some of the bolder spirits, leaving the disputants to fight with tongue and eye, drew their swords and advanced to confront the foe.

“It’s every man for himsel’ here,” remarked Andrew Black indignantly, wiping his mouth with his cuff, as he rose from the meal which he was well aware might be his last. “The Lord hae mercy on the puir Covenanters, for they’re in sair straits this day. Come awa’, Wull Wallace—lead us on to battle.”

Our hero, who was busily forming up his men, needed no such exhortation. Seeing that there was no one in authority to direct his movements, he resolved to act “for his own hand.” He gave the word to march, and set off at a quick step for the river, where the fight had already begun. Soon he and his small band were among those who held the bridge. Here they found Hackston, Hall, Turnbull, and the lion-like John Nisbet, each with a small band of devoted followers sternly and steadily defending what they knew to be the key to their position. Distributing his men in such a way among the coppices on the river’s bank that they could assail the foe to the greatest advantage without unnecessarily exposing themselves, Wallace commenced a steady fusillade on the King’s foot-guards, who were attempting to storm the bridge. The Covenanters had only one cannon and about 300 men with which to meet the assault; but the gun was effectively handled, and the men were staunch.

On the central arch of the old bridge—which was long and narrow—there stood a gate. This had been closed and barricaded with beams and trees, and the parapets on the farther side had been thrown down to prevent the enemy finding shelter behind them. These arrangements aided the defenders greatly, so that for three hours the gallant 300 held the position in spite of all that superior discipline and numerous guns could do. At last, however, the ammunition of the defenders began to fail.

“Where did ye tether my horse?” asked Will Wallace, addressing Peter, who acted the part of aide-de-camp and servant to his commander.