Mrs Black was a woman of sedate character and considerable knowledge for her station in life—especially in regard to Scripture. Like her son she was naturally grave and thoughtful, with a strong tendency to analyse, and to inquire into the nature and causes of things. Unlike Andrew, however, all her principles and her creed were fixed and well defined—at least in her own mind, for she held it to be the bounden duty of every Christian to be ready at all times to give a “reason” for the hope that is in him, as well as for every opinion that he holds. Her natural kindness was somewhat concealed by slight austerity of manner.
She was seated, one evening, plying her ever active needle, at the same small window which overlooked the churchyard. The declining sun was throwing dark shadows across the graves. A ray of it gleamed on a corner of the particular tombstone which, being built against her house, slightly encroached upon her window. No one was with the old woman save a large cat, to whom she was in the habit of addressing occasional remarks of a miscellaneous nature, as if to relieve the tedium of solitude with the fiction of intercourse.
“Ay, pussie,” she said, “ye may weel wash yer face an’ purr, for there’s nae fear o’ you bein’ dragged before Airchbishop Sherp to hae yer thoombs screwed, or yer legs squeezed in the—”
She stopped abruptly, for heavy footsteps were heard on the spiral stair, and next moment Will Wallace entered.
“Well, Mrs Black,” he said, sitting down in front of her, “it’s all settled with Bruce. I’m engaged to work at his forge, and have already begun business.”
“So I see, an’ ye look business-like,” answered the old woman, with a very slight smile, and a significant glance at our hero’s costume.
A considerable change had indeed taken place in the personal appearance of Will Wallace since his arrival in Edinburgh, for in place of the shepherd’s garb, with which he had started from the “bonnie hills of Galloway,” he wore the leathern apron and other habiliments of a blacksmith. Moreover his hair had been allowed to grow in luxuriant natural curls about his head, and as the sun had bronzed him during his residence with Black, and a young beard and moustache had begun to assert themselves in premature vigour, his whole aspect was that of a grand heroic edition of his former self.
“Yes, the moment I told your friend,” said Wallace, “that you had sent me to him, and that I was one of those who had good reason to conceal myself from observation, he gave me a hearty shake of the hand and accepted my offer of service; all the more that, having already some knowledge of his craft, I did not require teaching. So he gave me an apron and set me to work at once. I came straight from the forge just as I left off work to see what you would think of my disguise.”
“Ye’ll do, ye’ll do,” returned Mrs Black, with a nod of approval. “Yer face an’ hands need mair washin’ than my pussie gies her nose! But wheesht! I hear a fit on the stair. It’ll be Quentin Dick. I sent him oot for a red herrin’ or twa for supper.”
As she spoke, Quentin entered with a brown paper parcel, the contents of which were made patent by means of scent without the aid of sight.
The shepherd seemed a little disconcerted at sight of a stranger, for, as Wallace stood up, the light did not fall on his face; but a second glance sufficed to enlighten him.
“No’ that bad,” he said, surveying the metamorphosed shepherd, “but I doot yer auld friends the dragoons wad sune see through ’t—considerin’ yer size an’ the soond o’ yer voice.”
So saying he proceeded to place the red herrings on a gridiron, as if he were the recognised cook of the establishment.
Presently Bruce himself—Mrs Black’s friend the blacksmith—made his appearance, and the four were soon seated round a supper of oat-cakes, mashed potatoes, milk, and herring. For some time they discussed the probability of Wallace being recognised by spies as one who had attended the conventicle at Irongray, or by dragoons as a deserter; then, as appetite was appeased, they diverged to the lamentable state of the country, and the high-handed doings of the Privy Council.
“The Airchbishop cam’ to the toon this mornin’,” remarked Mrs Black, “so there’ll be plenty o’ torterin’ gaun on.”
“I fear you’re right,” said Bruce, who, having sojourned a considerable time in England, had lost much of his northern language and accent. “That horrible instrument, the boot, was brought this very morning to my smiddy for repair. They had been so hard on some poor wretch, I suppose, that they broke part of it, but I put a flaw into its heart that will force them to be either less cruel or to come to me again for repairs!”
“H’m! if ye try thae pranks ower often they’ll find it oot,” said Quentin. “Sherp is weel named, and if he suspects what ye’ve done, ye’ll get a taste of the buit yersel’.”
The hatred with which by far the greater part of the people of Scotland regarded Archbishop Sharp of Saint Andrews is scarcely a matter of wonder when the man’s character and career is considered. Originally a Presbyterian, and Minister of Crail, he was sent to Court by his brethren and countrymen as their advocate and agent, and maintained there at their expense for the express purpose of watching over the interests of their church. Sharp not only betrayed his trust but went over to what might well at that time be described as “the enemy,” and secretly undermined the cause which he was bound in honour to support. Finally he threw off all disguise, and was rewarded by being made Archbishop of Saint Andrews and Primate of Scotland! This was bad enough, but the new Prelate, not satisfied with the gratification of his ambition, became, after the manner of apostates, a bitter persecutor of the friends he had betrayed. Charles the Second, who was indolent, incapable and entirely given over to self-indulgence, handed over the affairs of Scotland to an unprincipled cabal of laymen and churchmen, who may be fittingly described as drunken libertines. By these men—of whom Middleton, Lauderdale, and Sharp were the chief—all the laws passed in favour of Presbytery were rescinded; new tyrannical laws such as we have elsewhere referred to were enacted and ruthlessly enforced; Prelacy was established; the Presbyterian Church was laid in ruins, and all who dared to question the righteousness of these transactions were pronounced rebels and treated as such. There was no impartial tribunal to which the people could appeal. The King, who held Presbyterianism to be unfit for a gentleman, cared for none of these things, and even if he had it would have mattered little, for those about him took good care that he should not be approached or enlightened as to the true state of affairs in Scotland.
Sharp himself devised and drafted a new edict empowering any officer or sergeant to kill on the spot any armed man whom he found returning from or going to a conventicle, and he was on the point of going to London to have this edict confirmed when his murderous career was suddenly terminated.
In the days of James the Sixth and Charles the First, the bishops, although forced on the Scottish Church and invested with certain privileges, were subject to the jurisdiction of the General Assembly, but soon after Charles the Second mounted the throne ecclesiastical government was vested entirely in their hands, and all the ministers who refused to recognise their usurped authority were expelled.
It was in 1662 that the celebrated Act was passed by Middleton and his colleagues in Glasgow College. It provided that all ministers must either submit to the bishops or remove themselves and families out of their manses, churches, and parishes within a month. It was known as the “Drunken Act of Glasgow,” owing to the condition of the legislators. Four hundred brave and true men left their earthly all at that time, rather than violate conscience and forsake God. Their example ultimately saved the nation from despotism.
The Archbishop of Saint Andrews was chief in arrogance and cruelty among his brethren. He afterwards obtained permission to establish a High Commission Court in Scotland—in other words, an Inquisition—for summarily executing all laws, acts, and orders in favour of Episcopacy and against recusants, clergy and laity. It was under this authority that all the evil deeds hitherto described were done, and of this Commission Sharp was constant president.
It may be well to remark here that the Prelacy which was so detested by the people of Scotland was not English Episcopacy, but Scotch Prelacy. It was, in truth, little better at that time than Popery disguised—a sort of confused religio-political Popery, of which system the King was self-constituted Pope, while his unprincipled minions of the council were cardinals.
No wonder, then, that at the mere mention of Sharp’s name Mrs Black shook her head sorrowfully, Bruce the blacksmith frowned darkly, and Quentin Dick not only frowned but snorted vehemently, and smote the table with such violence that the startled pussie fled from the scene in dismay.
“Save us a’! Quentin,” said Mrs Black, “ye’ll surely be hanged or shot if ye dinna learn to subdue yer wrath.”
“Subdue my wrath, wumman!” exclaimed the shepherd, grinding his teeth; “if ye had seen the half o’ what I’ve seen ye wad—but ye ken ’maist naething aboot it! Gie me some mair tatties an’ mulk, it’ll quiet me maybe.”
In order that the reader may know something of one of the things about which Mrs Black, as well as Quentin Dick himself, was happily ignorant at that time, we must change the scene once more to the neighbourhood of Andrew Black’s cottage.
It was early in the day, and the farmer was walking along the road that led to Cluden Ford, bent on paying a visit to Dumfries, when he was overtaken by a troop of about twenty horsemen. They had ridden out of the bush and come on the road so suddenly that Black had no time to secrete himself. Knowing that he was very much “wanted,” especially after the part he had played at the recent conventicle on Skeoch Hill, he at once decided that discretion was the better part of valour, and took to his heels.
No man in all the country-side could beat the stout farmer at a race either short or long, but he soon found that four legs are more than a match for two. The troopers soon gained on him, though he ran like a mountain hare. Having the advantage, however, of a start of about three hundred yards, he reached the bend in the road where it begins to descend towards the ford before his pursuers overtook him. But Andrew felt that the narrow strip of wood beside which he was racing could not afford him shelter and that the ford would avail him nothing. In his extremity he made up his mind to a desperate venture.
On his right an open glade revealed to him the dark gorge through which the Cluden thundered. The stream was in flood at the time, and presented a fearful aspect of seething foam mingled with black rocks, as it rushed over the lynn and through its narrow throat below. A path led to the brink of the gorge which is now spanned by the Routen Bridge. From the sharp-edged cliff on one side to the equally sharp cliff on the other was a width of considerably over twenty feet. Towards this point Andrew Black sped. Close at his heels the dragoons followed, Glendinning, on a superb horse, in advance of the party. It was an untried leap to the farmer, who nevertheless went at it like a thunderbolt and cleared it like a stag. The troopers behind, seeing the nature of the ground, pulled up in time, and wheeling to the left, made for the ford. Glendinning, however, was too late. The reckless sergeant, enraged at being so often baulked by the farmer, had let his horse go too far. He tried to pull up but failed. The effort to do so rendered a leap impossible. So near was he to the fugitive that the latter was yet in the midst of his bound when the former went over the precipice; head foremost, horse and all. The poor steed fell on the rocks below and broke his neck, but the rider was shot into the deep dark pool round which the Cluden whirled in foam-flecked eddies. In the midst of its heaving waters he quickly arose flinging his long arms wildly about, and shouting for help with bubbling cry.
The iron helm, jack-boots, and other accoutrements of a seventeenth century trooper were not calculated to assist flotation. Glendinning would have terminated his career then and there if the flood had not come to his aid by sweeping him into the shallow water at the lower end of the pool, whence some of his men soon after rescued him. Meanwhile, Andrew Black, plunging into the woods on the opposite side of the river, was soon far beyond the reach of his foes.
But escape was not now the chief anxiety of our farmer, and selfishness formed no part of his character. When he had left home, a short time before, his niece Jean was at work in the dairy, Ramblin’ Peter was attending to the cattle, Marion Clark and her comrade, Isabel Scott were busy with domestic affairs, and old Mrs Mitchell—who never quite recovered her reason—was seated in the chimney corner calmly knitting a sock.
To warn these of their danger was now the urgent duty of the farmer, for well he knew that the disappointed soldiers would immediately visit his home. Indeed, he saw them ride away in that direction soon afterwards, and started off to forestall them if possible by taking a short cut. Glendinning had borrowed the horse of a trooper and left the dismounted man to walk after them.
But there was no particularly short cut to the cottage, and in spite of Andrew’s utmost exertions the dragoons arrived before him. Not, however, before the wary Peter had observed them, given the alarm, got all the inmates of the farm—including Mrs Mitchell—down into the hidy-hole and established himself in the chimney corner with a look of imbecile innocence that was almost too perfect.
Poor Peter! his heart sank when the door was flung violently open and there entered a band of soldiers, among whom he recognised some of the party which he had so recently led into the heart of a morass and so suddenly left to find their way out as they best could. But no expression on Peter’s stolid countenance betrayed his feelings.
“So, my young bantam cock,” exclaimed a trooper, striding towards him, and bending down to make sure, “we’ve got hold of you at last?”
“Eh?” exclaimed Peter interrogatively.
“You’re a precious scoundrel, aren’t you?” continued the trooper.
“Ay,” responded Peter.
“I told you the lad was an idiot,” said a comrade. The remark was not lost upon the boy, whose expression immediately became still more idiotic if possible.
“Tell me,” said Glendinning, grasping Peter savagely by one ear, “where is your master?”
“I dinna ken, sir.”
“Is there nobody in the house but you?”
“Naebody but me,” said Peter, “an’ you,” he added, looking vacantly round on the soldiers.
“Now, look ’ee here, lad, I’m not to be trifled with,” said the sergeant. “Where are the rest of your household hidden? Answer; quick.”
Peter looked into the sergeant’s face with a vacant stare, but was silent. Glendinning, whose recent misfortune had rendered him unusually cruel, at once knocked the boy down and kicked him; then lifting him by the collar and thrusting him violently into the chair, repeated the question, but received no answer.
Changing his tactics he tried to cajole him and offered him money, but with similar want of success.
“Hand me your sword-belt,” cried the sergeant to a comrade.
With the belt he thrashed Peter until he himself grew tired, but neither word nor cry did he extract, and, again flinging him on the floor, he kicked him severely.
“Here’s a rope, sergeant,” said one of the men at this point, “and there’s a convenient rafter. A lad that won’t speak is not fit to live.”
“Nay, hanging is too good for the brute,” said Glendinning, drawing a pistol from his belt. “Tie a cloth over his eyes.”
Peter turned visibly paler while his eyes were being bandaged, and the troopers thought that they had at last overcome his obstinacy, but they little knew the heroic character they had to deal with.
“Now,” said the sergeant, resting the cold muzzle of his weapon against the boy’s forehead, “at the word three your brains are on the floor if you don’t tell me where your people are hid—one—two—”
“Stop, sergeant, let him have a taste of the thumbscrews before you finish him off,” suggested one of the men.
“So be it—fetch them.”
The horrible instrument of torture was brought. It was constantly used to extract confession from the poor Covenanters during the long years of persecution of that black period of Scottish history. Peter’s thumbs were placed in it and the screw was turned. The monsters increased the pressure by slow degrees, repeating the question at each turn of the screw. At first Peter bore the pain unmoved, but at last it became so excruciating that his cheeks and lips seemed to turn grey, and an appalling shriek burst from him at last.
Talk of devils! The history of the human race has proved that when men have deliberately given themselves over to high-handed contempt of their Maker there is not a devil among all the legions in hell who could be worse: he might be cleverer, he could not be more cruel. The only effect of the shriek upon Glendinning was to cause him to order another turn of the screw.
Happily, at the moment the shriek was uttered Andrew Black arrived, and, finding the troop-horses picketed outside, with no one apparently to guard them, he looked in at the window and saw what was going on.
With a fierce roar of mingled horror, surprise, and rage, he sprang into the room, and his huge fist fell on the brow of Glendinning like the hammer of Thor. His left shot full into the face of the man who had worked the screws, and both troopers fell prone upon the floor with a crash that shook the building. The act was so quick, and so overpoweringly violent that the other troopers were for a moment spellbound. That moment sufficed to enable Black to relieve the screws and set Peter free.
“C’way oot, lad, after me!” cried Andrew, darting through the doorway, for he felt that without more space to fight he would be easily overpowered. The dragoons, recovering, darted after him. The farmer caught up a huge flail with which he was wont to thresh out his oats. It fell on the headpiece of the first trooper, causing it to ring like an anvil, and stretching its owner on the ground. The second trooper fared no better, but the head of the flail broke into splinters on his iron cap, and left Andrew with the stump only to continue the combat. This, however, was no insignificant weapon, and the stout farmer laid about him with such fierce rapidity as to check for a few moments the overwhelming odds against him. Pistols would certainly have been used had not Glendinning, recovering his senses, staggered out and shouted, “Take him alive, men!” This was quickly done, for two troopers leaped on Andrew behind and pinioned his arms while he was engaged with four in front. The four sprang on him at the same instant. Even then Andrew Black’s broad back—which was unusually “up”—proved too strong for them, for he made a sort of plunging somersault and carried the whole six along with him to the ground. Before he could rise, however, more troopers were on the top of him. Samson himself would have had to succumb to the dead weight. In a few seconds he was bound with ropes and led into the house. Ramblin’ Peter had made a bold assault on a dragoon at the beginning of the fray, but could do nothing with his poor maimed hands, and was easily secured.
“Let him taste the thumbscrews,” growled Glendinning savagely, and pointing to Black.
“Dae yer warst, ye born deevil,” said Black recklessly—for oppression driveth even a wise man mad.
“Very good—fetch the boot,” said the sergeant.
The instrument of torture was brought and affixed to the farmer’s right leg; the wedge was inserted, and a blow of the mallet given.
Black’s whole visage seemed to darken, his frowning brows met, and his lips were compressed with a force that meant endurance unto the death.
At that moment another party of dragoons under Captain Houston galloped up, the captain entered, and, stopping the proceedings of his subordinate, ordered Black and Peter to be set on horseback and bound together.
“Fire the place,” he added. “If there are people in it anywhere, that will bring them out.”
“Oh dear!” gasped Peter, “the hidy—”
“Wheesht, bairn,” said Black in a low voice. “They’re safe enough. The fire’ll no’ touch them, an’ besides, they’re in the Lord’s hands.”
A few minutes more and the whole farm-steading was in flames. The dragoons watched the work of destruction until the roof of the cottage fell in; then, mounting their horses, they descended to the road with the two prisoners and turned their faces in the direction of Edinburgh.
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