Hunted and Harried by Robert Michael Ballantyne (booksvooks TXT) 📕

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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