The night was dark and threatening when Andrew Black and his shepherd left their cottage, and quickly but quietly made for the neighbouring hill. The weather was well suited for deeds of secrecy, for gusts of wind, with an occasional spattering of rain, swept along the hill-face, and driving clouds obscured the moon, which was then in its first quarter.
At first the two men were obliged to walk with care, for the light was barely sufficient to enable them to distinguish the sheep-track which they followed, and the few words they found it necessary to speak were uttered in subdued tones. Jean Black and her cousin Aggie Wilson had reported their rencontre with the two dragoons, and Quentin Dick had himself seen the main body of the troops from behind a heather bush on his way back to the farm, therefore caution was advisable. But as they climbed Skeoch Hill, and the moon shed a few feeble rays on their path, they began to converse more freely. For a few minutes their intercourse related chiefly to sheep and the work of the farm, for both Andrew and his man were of that sedate, imperturbable nature which is not easily thrown off its balance by excitement or danger. Then their thoughts turned to the business in hand.
“Nae fear o’ the sodgers comin’ here on a nicht like this,” remarked Andrew, as a squall nearly swept the blue bonnet off his head.
“Maybe no,” growled Quentin Dick sternly, “but I’ve heard frae Tam Chanter that servants o’ that Papist Earl o’ Nithsdale, an’ o’ the scoondrel Sir Robert Dalziel, hae been seen pokin’ their noses aboot at Irongray. If they git wund o’ the place, we’re no likely to hae a quiet time o’t. Did ye say that the sodgers ill-used the bairns?”
“Na!—ane o’ them was inclined to be impident, but the ither, a guid-lookin’ young felly, accordin’ to Jean, took their pairt an’ quarrelled wi’ his comrade, sae that they cam to loggerheeds at last, but what was the upshot naebody kens, for the bairns took to their heels an’ left them fechtin’.”
“An’ what if they sud fin’ yer hoose an’ the bairns unproteckit?” asked the shepherd.
“They’re no likely to fin’ the hoose in a nicht like this, man; an’ if they do, they’ll fin’ naebody but Ramblin’ Peter there, for I gied the lassies an’ the women strick orders to tak’ to the hidy-hole at the first soond o’ horses’ feet.”
By this time the men had reached a secluded hollow in the hill, so completely enclosed as to be screened from observation on all sides. They halted here a few moments, for two dark forms were seen in the uncertain light to be moving about just in front of them.
“It’s them,” whispered Andrew.
“Whae?” asked the shepherd.
“Alexander McCubine an’ Edward Gordon.”
“Guid an’ safe men baith,” responded Quentin; “ye better gie them a cry.”
Andrew did so by imitating the cry of a plover. It was replied to at once.
“The stanes are big, ye see,” explained Andrew, while the two men were approaching. “It’ll tak’ the strength o’ the fowr o’ us to lift some o’ them.”
“We’ve got the cairn aboot finished,” said McCubine as he came up. He spoke in a low voice, for although there was no probability of any one being near, they were so accustomed to expect danger because of the innumerable enemies who swarmed about the country, that caution had almost become a second nature.
Without further converse the four men set to work in silence. They completed a circular heap, or cairn, of stones three or four feet high, and levelled the top thereof to serve as a table or a pulpit at the approaching assembly. In front of this, and stretching towards a sloping brae, they arranged four rows of very large stones to serve as seats for the communicants, with a few larger stones between them, as if for the support of rude tables of plank. It took several hours to complete the work. When it was done Andrew Black surveyed it with complacency, and gave it as his opinion that it was a “braw kirk, capable o’ accommodatin’ a congregation o’ some thoosands, mair or less.” Then the two men, Gordon and McCubine, bidding him and the shepherd good-night, went away into the darkness from which they had emerged.
“Whar’ll they be sleepin’ the nicht?” asked the shepherd, as he and Andrew turned homeward.
“I’ the peat-bog, I doot, for I daurna tak’ them hame whan the dragoons is likely to gie us a ca’; besides, the hidy-hole wull be ower fu’ soon. Noo, lad,” he added, as they surmounted a hillock, from which they had a dim view of the surrounding country, “gang ye doon an’ see if ye can fin’ oot onything mair aboot thae sodgers. I’ll awa’ hame an see that a’s right there.”
They parted, the shepherd turning sharp off to the right, while the farmer descended towards his cottage. He had not advanced above half the distance when an object a little to the left of his path induced him to stop. It resembled a round stone, and was too small to have attracted the attention of any eye save one which was familiar with every bush and stone on the ground. Grasping a stout thorn stick which he carried, Andrew advanced towards the object in question with catlike caution until quite close to it, when he discovered that it was the head of a man who was sleeping soundly under a whin-bush. A closer inspection showed that the man wore an iron headpiece, a soldier’s coat, and huge jack-boots.
“A dragoon and a spy!” thought Andrew, while he raised his cudgel, the only weapon he carried, and frowned. But Andrew was a merciful man; he could not bring himself to strike a sleeping man, even though waking him might entail a doubtful conflict, for he could see that the trooper’s hand grasped the hilt of his naked sword. For a few moments he surveyed the sleeper, as if calculating his chances, then he quietly dropped his plaid, took off his coat, and untying his neckcloth, laid it carefully on one side over a bush. Having made these preparations, he knelt beside Will Wallace—for it was he—and grasped him firmly by the throat with both hands.
As might have been expected, the young trooper attempted to spring up, and tried to use his weapon; but, finding this to be impossible at such close quarters, he dropped it, and grappled the farmer with all his might; but Andrew, holding on to him like a vice, placed his knee upon his chest and held him firmly down.
“It’s o’ nae manner o’ use to strive, ye see,” said Andrew, relaxing his grip a little; “I’ve gotten ye, an’ if ye like to do my biddin’ I’ll no be hard on ye.”
“If you will let me rise and stand before me in fair fight, I’ll do your business if not your bidding,” returned Wallace in a tone of what may be termed stern sulkiness.
“Div ye think it’s likely I’ll staund before you in fair fecht, as you ca’d—you wi’ a swurd, and me wi’ a bit stick, my lad? Na, na, ye’ll hae to submit, little though ye like it.”
“Give me the stick, then, and take you the sword, I shall be content,” said the indignant trooper, making another violent but unsuccessful effort to free himself.
“It’s a fair offer,” said Andrew, when he had subdued the poor youth a second time, “an’ reflec’s favourably on yer courage, but I’m a man o’ peace, an’ have no thirst for bloodshed—whilk is more than ye can say, young man; but if ye’ll let me tie yer hands thegither, an’ gang peaceably hame wi’ me, I’s promise that nae mischief’ll befa’ ye.”
“No man shall ever tie my hands together as long as there is life in my body,” replied the youth.
“Stop, stop, callant!” exclaimed Andrew, as Will was about to renew the struggle. “The pride o’ youth is awful. Hear what I’ve gotten to say to ye, man, or I’ll hae to throttle ye ootright. It’ll come to the same thing if ye’ll alloo me to tie ane o’ my hands to ane o’ yours. Ye canna objec’ to that, surely, for I’ll be your prisoner as muckle as you’ll be mine—and that’ll be fair play, for we’ll leave the swurd lyin’ on the brae to keep the bit stick company.”
“Well, I agree to that,” said Wallace, in a tone that indicated surprise with a dash of amusement.
“An’ ye promise no’ to try to get away when you’re tied to—when I’m tied to you?”
“I promise.”
Hereupon the farmer, reaching out his hand, picked up the black silk neckcloth which he had laid aside, and with it firmly bound his own left wrist to the right wrist of his captive, talking in a grave, subdued tone as he did so.
“Nae doot the promise o’ a spy is hardly to be lippened to, but if I find that ye’re a dishonourable man, ye’ll find that I’m an uncomfortable prisoner to be tied to. Noo, git up, lad, an’ we’ll gang hame thegither.”
On rising, the first thing the trooper did was to turn and take a steady look at the man who had captured him in this singular manner.
“Weel, what d’ye think o’ me?” asked Andrew, with what may be termed a grave smile.
“If you want to know my true opinion,” returned Wallace, “I should say that I would not have thought, from the look of you, that you could have taken mean advantage of a sleeping foe.”
“Ay—an’ I would not have thought, from the look o’ you,” retorted Andrew, “that ye could hae sell’t yersel’ to gang skulkin’ aboot the hills as a spy upon the puir craters that are only seekin’ to worship their Maker in peace.”
Without further remark Andrew Black, leaving his coat and plaid to keep company with the sword and stick, led his prisoner down the hill.
Andrew’s cottage occupied a slight hollow on the hillside, which concealed it from every point of the compass save the high ground above it. Leading the trooper up to the door, he tapped gently, and was promptly admitted by some one whom Wallace could not discern, as the interior was dark.
“Oh, Uncle Andrew! I’m glad ye’ve come, for Peter hasna come back yet, an’ I’m feared somethin’ has come ower him.”
“Strike a light, lassie. I’ve gotten haud o’ a spy here, an’ canna weel do’t mysel’.”
When a light was procured and held up, it revealed the pretty face of Jean Black, which underwent a wondrous change when she beheld the face of the prisoner.
“Uncle Andrew!” she exclaimed, “this is nae spy. He’s the man that cam’ to the help o’ Aggie an’ me against the dragoon.”
“Is that sae?” said Black, turning a look of surprise on his prisoner.
“It is true, indeed, that I had the good fortune to protect Jean and her friend from an insolent comrade,” answered Wallace; “and it is also true that that act has been partly the cause of my deserting to the hills, being starved for a day and a night, and taken prisoner now as a spy.”
“Sir,” said Andrew, hastily untying the kerchief that bound them together, “I humbly ask your pardon. Moreover, it’s my opeenion that if ye hadna been starvin’ ye wadna have been here ’e noo, for ye’re uncommon teuch. Rin, lassie, an’ fetch some breed an’ cheese. Whar’s Marion an’ Is’b’l?”
“They went out to seek for Peter,” said Jean, as she hastened to obey her uncle’s mandate.
At that moment a loud knocking was heard at the door, and the voice of Marion, one of the maid-servants, was heard outside. On the door being opened, she and her companion Isabel burst in with excited looks and the information, pantingly given, that the “sodgers were comin’.”
“Haud yer noise, lassie, an’ licht the fire—pit on the parritch pat. Come, Peter, let’s hear a’ aboot it.”
Ramblin’ Peter, who had been thus named because of his inveterate tendency to range over the neighbouring hills, was a quiet, undersized, said-to-be weak-minded boy of sixteen years, though he looked little more than fourteen. No excitement whatever ruffled his placid countenance as he gave his report—to the effect that a party of dragoons had been seen by him not half an hour before, searching evidently for his master’s cottage.
“They’ll soon find it,” said the farmer, turning quickly to his domestics— “Away wi’ ye, lassies, and hide.”
The two servant-girls, with Jean and her cousin Aggie Wilson, ran at once into an inner room and shut the door. Ramblin’ Peter sat stolidly down beside the fire and calmly stirred the porridge-pot, which was nearly full of the substantial Scottish fare.
“Noo, sir,” said Black, turning to Will Wallace, who had stood quietly watching the various actors in the scene just described, “yer comrades’ll be here in a wee while. May I ask what ye expect?”
“I expect to be imprisoned at the least, more probably shot.”
“Hm! pleasant expectations for a young man, nae doot. I’m sorry that it’s oot o’ my power to stop an’ see the fun, for the sodgers have strange suspicions aboot me, so I’m forced to mak’ mysel’ scarce an’ leave Ramblin’ Peter to do the hospitalities o’ the hoose. But before I gang awa’ I wad fain repay ye for the guid turn ye did to my bairns. If ye are willin’ to shut yer eyes an’ do what I tell ye, I’ll put you in a place o’ safety.”
“Thank you, Mr Black,” returned Wallace; “of course I shall only be too glad to escape from the consequences of my unfortunate position; but do not misunderstand me: although neither a spy nor a Covenantor I am a loyal subject, and would not now be a deserter if that character had not been forced upon me, first by the brutality of the soldiers with whom I was banded, and then by the insolence of my comrade-in-arms to your daughter—”
“Niece; niece,” interrupted Black; “I wish she was my dauchter, bless her bonny face! Niver fear, sir, I’ve nae doot o’ yer loyalty, though you an’ yer freends misdoot mine. I claim to be as loyal as the best o’ ye, but there’s nae dictionary in this warld that defines loyalty to be slavish submission o’ body an’ sowl to a tyrant that fears naether God nor man. The quastion noo is, Div ye want to escape and wull ye trust me?”
The sound of horses galloping in the distance tended to quicken the young trooper’s decision. He submitted to be blindfolded by his captor.
“Noo, Peter,” said Andrew, as he was about to lead Wallace away, “ye ken what to dae. Gie them plenty to eat; show them the rum bottle, let them hae the rin o’ the hoose, an’ say that I bade ye treat them weel.”
“Ay,” was Ramblin’ Peter’s laconic reply.
Leading his captive out at the door, round the house, and re-entering by a back door, apparently with no other end in view than to bewilder him, Andrew went into a dark room, opened some sort of door—to enter which the trooper had to stoop low—and conducted him down a steep, narrow staircase.
The horsemen meanwhile had found the cottage and were heard at that moment tramping about in front, and thundering on the door for admittance.
Wallace fancied that the door which closed behind him must be of amazing thickness, for it shut out almost completely the sounds referred to.
On reaching the foot of the staircase, and having the napkin removed from his eyes, he found himself in a long, low, vaulted chamber. There was no one in it save his guide and a venerable man who sat beside a deal table, reading a document by the light of a tallow candle stuck in the mouth of a black bottle.
The soldiers, meanwhile, having been admitted by Ramblin’ Peter, proceeded to question that worthy as to Andrew Black and his household. Not being satisfied of the truth of his replies they proceeded to apply torture in order to extract confession. It was the first time that this mode of obtaining information had been used in Black’s cottage, and it failed entirely, for Ramblin’ Peter was staunch, and, although inhumanly thrashed and probed with sword-points, the poor lad remained dumb, insomuch that the soldiers at length set him down as an idiot, for he did not even cry out in his agonies—excepting in a curious, half-stifled manner—because he knew well that if his master were made aware by his cries of what was going on he would be sure to hasten to the rescue at the risk of his life.
Having devoured the porridge, drunk the rum, and destroyed a considerable amount of the farmer’s produce, the lawless troopers, who seemed to be hurried in their proceedings at that time, finally left the place.
About the time that these events were taking place in and around Black’s cottage, bands of armed men with women and even children were hastening towards the same locality to attend the great “conventicle,” for which the preparations already described were being made.
The immediate occasion of the meeting was the desire of the parishioners of the Reverend John Welsh, a great-grandson of John Knox, to make public avowal, at the Communion Table, of their fidelity to Christ and their attachment to the minister who had been expelled from the church of Irongray; but strong sympathy induced many others to attend, not only from all parts of Galloway and Nithsdale, but from the distant Clyde, the shores of the Forth, and elsewhere; so that the roads were crowded with people making for the rendezvous—some on foot, others on horseback. Many of the latter were gentlemen of means and position, who, as well as their retainers, were more or less well armed and mounted. The Reverend John Blackadder, the “auld” minister of Troqueer—a noted hero of the Covenant, who afterwards died a prisoner on the Bass Rock—travelled with his party all the way from Edinburgh, and a company of eighty horse proceeded to the meeting from Clydesdale.
Preliminary services, conducted by Mr Blackadder and Mr Welsh, were held near Dumfries on the Saturday, but at these the place of meeting on the Sabbath was only vaguely announced as “a hillside in Irongray,” so anxious were they to escape being disturbed by their enemies, and the secret was kept so well that when the Sabbath arrived a congregation of above three thousand had assembled round the Communion stones in the hollow of Skeoch Hill.
Sentinels were posted on all the surrounding heights. One of these sentinels was the farmer Andrew Black, with a cavalry sword belted to his waist, and a rusty musket on his shoulder. Beside him stood a tall stalwart youth in shepherd’s costume.
“Yer ain mother wadna ken ye,” remarked Andrew with a twinkle in his eyes.
“I doubt that,” replied the youth; “a mother’s eyes are keen. I should not like to encounter even Glendinning in my present guise.”
As he spoke the rich melody of the opening psalm burst from the great congregation and rolled in softened cadence towards the sentinels.
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