It would not be my painful task to record these and still other mournful scenes if it had been God's time to awake for us; but he who in his very chastenings "doeth great things, which we cannot comprehend," for his glory and the good of those who love him, had decreed for us a long and weary time of weeping. So it was that the ruffians, seeing that they had made sure work, took my father from our embrace, and we never saw him more. In vain we entreated that we might at least be permitted to bind his wound.
"Let him bleed," said the leader. "It will do him good to lose some of his rebellious Covenanting blood. He will be mair gentle after the loss of it."
Why they did not molest Alexander I cannot say, unless, being strangers, they did not know he was a minister. They looked sharply at him and Steenie.
"Gang straight noo, my lads, for ye hae seen what ye may come to," said one, as a parting admonition.
We were all too sad for speech. Two of the inmates of our house lay dead in our presence; the head of the family had been taken from us, to what fate we knew not. Human effort was powerless. We could only commit our griefs and anxieties to Him without whose notice not even a sparrow falls. How much more would he watch over our father, his faithful servant.
Without doubt it is God's will that some should glorify him in the furnace of affliction; and we may not question his providences, mysterious though they be. We are to "be still and know that he is God." Sometimes we are allowed to see why and how he leads us; when we cannot see we must trust.
But we had to rouse ourselves to action. We had mournful duties to perform for the dead in our midst, and we did the best we could in our sad, excited state. Steenie went for David and Bessie McDougal and a few other neighbors, and they performed the labor of caring for the dead. Words were useless, and few were spoken.
Partly from habit, and partly to break the stillness, I spread the board for the evening meal. No one tasted food but wee Jamie.
When all had been done that could be done, we sat down, sad and silent, in the family room. David McDougal and his wife remained with us. Then, as we never finished the day without prayer, my mother took the dear familiar Book and handed it to Alexander. He read the seventy-ninth Psalm. His voice quivered with emotion, and when he read the verse, "Let the sighing of the prisoner come before thee," his utterance was choked. Tears flowed for a while. I was glad he could shed them. Then by a great effort he continued:
"'According to the greatness of thy power preserve thou those that are appointed to die; and render unto our neighbors sevenfold into their bosoms their reproach, wherewith they have reproached thee, O Lord. So we thy people and sheep of thy pasture will give thee thanks for ever: we will show forth thy praise to all generations.'"
His prayer was a wail for the deliverance of the kirk and for him who was dearer to us than life.
We all wept, for we sadly missed the voice that had so long borne our petitions to the throne of heavenly grace.
At a late hour we retired to rest, if possible, after the excitements and calamities of the day. We had but laid ourselves down when mother was called to Mary's bedside. Then I remembered that when I pressed her to my heart as we parted for the night, and said, "God be with you and comfort you, my own dear sister," she replied, "He is with me, and I feel as if I should soon see him face to face." I looked at her; she was so pale, and looked so pure and heavenly, that I feared it might be even as she said. I gave her another kiss, and without trusting my voice to speak again I turned away. Now her manner, look, and words came back to me, filling me with dreadful apprehensions. Oh, the bitterness of that long night! It seemed as if it would never end. When it did end, the morning found Alexander Ramsay a father; but his bairn was motherless. Thus went out the life of one who was winsome beyond compare.
How can we comprehend the bitterness and greatness of Alexander's bereavement! Father, mother, and wife taken from him in a few short hours!
He took the little one in his arms, kissed it fondly, and moaned, "Oh, my bairn, thou art not long for this world; then all will be gone!"
At any other time it would have been accounted a strange thing that three dead bodies should lie in one house; but then, when the persecution was on us in all its horrors, there was little wonder. Such outrages, though not common as yet, were not unknown.
We laid them all side by side in the kirkyard, and it seemed to me that when the grave closed over our Mary the joy had all gone out of my life. The friends that were left to me might pass as quickly. I felt that I had but a slender hold upon them, and I turned away with a sad feeling of desolation which I had never before experienced.
Alexander regarded the infant as a very slender thread binding him to home, for it was evident it would soon leave the world it had entered at so inauspicious a time. When in a few days it ceased to breathe, the broken-hearted father said, "It is well with the child. Now no ties bind me. I am free to devote myself to the Lord's cause. Henceforth let me be found foremost in the ranks of those who shall do and dare for the afflicted of my church and of my country."
From this time Alexander Ramsay had no fixed abiding-place; but it was his willing service to carry consolation to the oppressed and despairing all over the country. He became the bold and fearless leader of conventicles, and the bearer of food and comforts to those who were proclaimed outlaws, and who were suffering the keenest privations and hardships for conscience' sake; for the king's agents had forbidden any, under severe penalties, to give food or shelter or succor of any kind to the hunted Covenanters. These very acts of mercy rendered him an outlaw also, and a price was soon set on his head.
Father was confined in a miserable place only a few miles away, yet none of us were permitted to see him. Mother grieved in silence; but her grief seemed wearing her life away. I prayed that she might even weep; but that she could not do. Yet when brought to speak, which scarcely anything but my tears could accomplish, she would express her confidence that the right would prevail. "The kirk will yet have rest," she said. "The Word of the Lord will have free course, will run, and be glorified. But alas for my earthly peace! I shall never with my natural eyes behold the prosperity of Zion."
My brother Steenie chafed like a chained lion. He sought to devise a way to liberate our father, and made several unsuccessful attempts, the only result of which was a closer confinement for the prisoner. This Steenie so resented that he became the sworn foe of the oppressor. He became a marked character, and our enemies cast designing looks upon him. It was no longer safe for him to stay with us when any of the troopers were near.
My other brothers were seeking to evade the persecutors by appearing to be neutral. They were seldom present at conventicles, and sometimes attended the curate's service in the parish church. Jamie and Richie were unlike Steenie. In the first place, they had stronger ties. Their wives, their children, and their homes were very dear to them. They thought, by a seeming indifference, to escape the troubles that were constantly befalling their more demonstrative neighbors. But their caution did not please us. Even mother, troubled as she was, did not approve their course. Once when they were both sitting at our fireside, she stepped between them, and laying a hand on the shoulder of each she thus addressed them:
"O my sons, do not imperil your eternal happiness to secure safety in this life. Remember the words of the Master: 'Whosoever will save his life shall lose it; and whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it.'" Having said this, she quickly left the room.
I arose and followed her. I found her seated on a low chair, her hands pressed closely to her heart. "O God! I have done it," she said as I entered. "I have counselled them. I have triumphed over the weakness of the flesh. Thanks be to thy grace, O Lord, now the weight of this unfulfilled duty is lifted from my heart and conscience!"
But we were not to escape further molestation. Troops were now sent through Ayrshire and the adjoining counties to make diligent search for such as they should please to consider rebels; and no house could hope to be exempt from their visitations.
On an evening bordering on winter we sat around our wide, warm hearth; we had already supped, and that in silence, for all knew, except my nephew, that search would soon be made in our neighborhood. We did not expect to be molested that night, but still the news had made me fearful, and I had barred the door. Watch, the wee house-dog, was sleeping on the hearth. The wind was making sad music without, while now and then a gust drove the smoke from the chimney into the room. It was an evening to accord with my feelings; for I was brooding over the desolation of our spiritual state and the dangers which threatened us, particularly Steenie; and a tear once fell on wee Jamie's head, which rested on my lap as he sat on a stool at my feet.
"Will you never have done wi' greetin', Aunt Effie?" asked he. "You are far stouter of heart when trouble is on us than when we are clear of it."
Just then David McDougal knocked and was admitted.
"I am come," said he, addressing Steenie, "to tell you that ye hae nae time to lose. Take to your heels, man!"
"I have no inclination to run," replied Steenie resolutely. "I would rather fight than run any day."
"Hoot, man, what would you do, wi' a score o' thae sons o' Belial lightin' doon in your midst! Awa wi' ye, and haud back a' the fight that is in ye till ye hae a fair chance in the field."
Just then the wee dog pricked up his ears. We looked at one another. David nodded, as if to say, "I told you so." A moment later we distinctly heard the tramp of horses. Mother waved her hand, silently bidding Steenie leave us. He wrapped his plaid about him and hurriedly embraced us.
"Be cautious, my dear brother, and hide yourself well," said I.
"God be with you!" said our mother.
"The great Shepherd of Israel keep thee," said our neighbor.
"Gang to the opening in the Black Rock," said wee Jamie, who had grown wise by our terrible experiences; "but tak tent to your feet; it maun be icy there. Rin, and hae nae fears for me. I winna betray you, though they should pull ilka hair frae my head."
We smiled sadly at the lad, in spite of ourselves, Steenie and I, he was such an old-fashioned bairn. Poor wee man! he had need of all his wits before an hour was past.
Steenie went out into the cold and darkness, and David went with him; Steenie to go where Jamie had said, and David to return home.
I again barred the door. Some little time had elapsed when there was a loud knock. I did not move. No act of ours was to admit them, although we knew they would soon break in upon us. A moment later force was used to burst open the door. But although it creaked, it withstood repeated assaults. Then the window was broken in, and one after another the legalized ruffians leaped into our midst.
"How comes it, my auld dame, and you, my bright-eyed lassie, that ye are sae dull o' hearin'? Ye s'ould hae made speed to entertain the king's messengers, sin' we hae sic a modest request to mak o' your leddyships. We want naething but the deliverin' up o' your son and brother;" and with a smile of impertinence and exultation the speaker gazed at us to observe the effect of his request.
"There are none in the house but ourselves, as ye may see," said my mother.
"Where then is Stephen Patterson?"
"Please God, he is out o' your reach."
"Aweel, there are ways and means to unseal tight lips, ye ken," said he, nodding significantly. "We will begin wi' the bairn. Ken ye aught o' your uncle?" asked the man, who, strange as it may seem, had once called himself our friend, and, I doubt not, had more than once held Jamie on his knee. Now he was our worst enemy. He had volunteered to lead the way up and down braes, through hills and dales, by wimpling burns and wraith-haunted lochs, in order to tear from peaceful homes the honored and the good. Such was the man who questioned Jamie. I blessed the brave lad in my heart, while I trembled for the effect of his answer.
"If I do, or if I dinna, it is a' the ane thing to you."
"We shall see whether it is or no. When did he gang awa?"
No answer was given.
"When did he awa? I hae asked you. Was it the nicht?"
Still no answer.
"We will soon gar ye tell all ye know," said the man, as he took from his pocket a match. Lighting it at the fire, he placed it between the poor lad's fingers, and held it there. "That will soon fetch an answer," said he.
The tears coursed down poor Jamie's cheeks, but he made no moan. I did not dare open my lips for fear I should anger them still more; but my mother could not see the bairn tortured and hold her peace.
"Leave the bairn go," she said authoritatively. "Ye hae hearts harder than a millstone."
"Are ye in ony hurry for your ain share?" asked the ruffian.
"I would liefer bear it than see the bairn bear it," was her reply.
"Weel, if it suits ye, we will leave the bairn and try yoursel."
So saying, he seized her hand and applied the burning match. She raised her eyes, looking steadfastly upward as she repeated the following portion of God's Word—the sixty-fourth Psalm:
"'Hear my voice, O God, in my prayer: preserve my life from fear of the enemy.
"'Hide me from the secret counsel of the wicked, from the insurrection of the workers of iniquity,
"'Who whet their tongue like a sword, and bend their bows to shoot their arrows, even bitter words,
"'That they may shoot in secret at the perfect: suddenly do they shoot at him, and fear not.
"'They encourage themselves in an evil matter: they commune of laying snares privily; they say, Who shall see them?
"'They search out iniquities; they accomplish a diligent search: both the inward thought of every one of them, and the heart, is deep.
"'But God shall shoot at them with an arrow; suddenly shall they be wounded.
"'So they shall make their own tongue to fall upon themselves: all that see them shall flee away.
"'And all men shall fear, and shall declare the work of God; for they shall wisely consider of his doing.
"'The righteous shall be glad in the Lord, and shall trust in him; and all the upright in heart shall glory.'"
The match had burned out, but she had disclosed nothing.
"Perhaps the lassie has a glib tongue," said one, and he sought another match to torture me. Following my mother's example, I too had recourse to the Sword of the Spirit. I repeated, though not as calmly as she had, these words, feeling more truly than ever their comfort:
"'In thee, O Lord, do I put my trust: let me never be put to confusion.
"'Deliver me in thy righteousness and cause me to escape: incline thine ear unto me and save me.
"'Be thou my strong habitation, whereunto I may continually resort: thou hast given commandment to save me, for thou art my rock and my fortress.
"'Deliver me, O my God, out of the hand of the wicked, out of the hand of the unrighteous and cruel man.'"
"These cursed people all have the Scriptures at their tongues' end," one of them was saying, when a sudden blast of wind shook our little cottage till all could feel it rock. The smoke was driven down the chimney, and came into the room in great puffs, and the candle went out. All was confusion. The men were seized with fear, and when the fire again sent out a ruddy glow, they hastened to find the door and escape.
"The very elements fight for them," said one as they hurried away.
Steenie heard them gallop down the lane and out on the high road. Convinced that they were gone, he returned to the house.
"The Lord has delivered us all," said mother.
"Yes," said Steenie, "we are all safe; but it is only for the present. Sooner or later I am sure to fall into their hands. But, as David McDougal was saying, I would like it if we could encounter our enemies on the battlefield."
Jamie showed his uncle his burned hand. Steenie carried it to his lips. "Poor wee man!" said he, "did you indeed have to suffer for Uncle Steenie's sake?"
"Grandmother did too," said the lad.
"It is a fearful state of things," said Steenie, "when women and bairns are not safe at their own firesides."
From that time Steenie sought to evade his pursuers, and his life was generally that of a wanderer. Often he narrowly escaped being taken. Frequently we laid ourselves down without knowing where he was or how he fared; but whether the earth was wet with summer dew or wrapped in winter's snow, he was always the subject of our ardent prayers. How often I would have shared his night-watches if it could have been so. I carried food to him when I knew where he was; aside from this we could do nothing but pray.
In November, 1666, some of our people at the South became entangled, under great provocation, in a skirmish with some of Turner's soldiers; knowing that this would bring further trouble, they resolved to remain in arms. Coming northward, they gathered a little strength as they advanced. On reaching Ayrshire some of our acquaintances joined them, Steenie, Alexander, and good, honest David McDougal with the rest. Moving in a northeasterly direction, they came to Lanark. Here they renewed their Covenant, and called to mind their grievances, at the same time publishing a declaration vindicating themselves from rebellion. Though frost and snow and hunger and fatigue made dreadful inroads on their little army, they pushed on boldly till they came within a few miles of Edinburgh, which, unexpectedly, they found in arms against them. Knowing that they were pursued by a force larger than their own, and that to remain where they were was to sacrifice their lives to no purpose, they began a retreat, and halted at a place called Rullion Green, on a ridge of the Pentland Hills. Here they were attacked by the pursuing army, which had turned out of its course to intercept them. The Covenanters, stout of heart and confident of the righteousness of their cause, fought valiantly, and several times put their assailants to flight; but they were finally overpowered by superiority of numbers. Many of our brave men were left dead or dying on the field, and more were taken prisoners. Some of these met a cruel death afterwards, and several were put to the torture before they were hanged.
Steenie made his escape, and, after long and painful wanderings, travelling by night and hiding by day, he at last came to us weary and worn. Yet, weary and footsore as he was, the poor lad could not venture to bide within or rest one night under his mother's roof. He remained, however, long enough to tell us that several of our friends and neighbors had sealed their covenant with their blood.
"David McDougal fell beside me early in the fray," said Steenie. "With his last breath he exhorted his brethren to continue the struggle. 'Fight the good fight of faith, my comrades,' said he, 'and the great Leader of your cause strengthen your hearts and your hands!' With a sore heart I bent over him and asked if I could do anything for him. 'I want naething mair in this warld,' he replied. 'But gang ye back to the fray, and slacken nae whit while ye hae strength to stand. Tell the folk at hame that auld Davie McDougal regretted that he had but ane life to lay down for his Master. Tell the gudewife that though we gang hame by different roads, we shall meet at the end of the journey.'"
Alexander was taken prisoner, and suffered with those who were condemned to be hanged at the Cross of Edinburgh. His right hand was cut off and nailed up at Lanark, because there he had lifted it in making oath to the Covenant. Thus perished the last member of a peaceful, God-serving family. In considering their fate, one cannot but recall the words of the apostle Paul: "If in this life only we have hope in Christ, we are of all men most miserable." But, thank God, this is not the only life of Christians; and by whatever way they may be led to that other life, they shall find that "the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory" that they shall share.
A body of soldiers now ranged through our part of the country, seeking out Covenanters who had taken any part in the late rising, and perpetrating all such deeds of cruelty as their evil thoughts could devise. Some were tortured for aiding their friends to escape. Life and property were at the mercy of these ruthless invaders.
Steenie was obliged to remain in hiding. Sometimes, when I knew where he was, I stole out to him in the gloaming. Seated on the same rock, with my hand in his, I passed an hour or more with him; but never did I do so without fearing it might be the last time. In the long summer evenings I sometimes stayed and chatted till a late hour, and, after a bit of forgetfulness, it did seem almost like old times. One of those evenings I have special cause to remember. The air was delightfully fresh, and fragrant with the scent of summer blossoms. The wield sang its song in the woods anent us; the owl hooted on the cliff; and the wee, timid hare, startled by our footsteps on the dry twigs, ran across our path. For the time we dropped all thoughts of fear. We were at the back of our own cottage, in the thicket where in our childhood we had often played. The moonlight glinted through it as of yore, and a bit to the north sang the same busy, babbling brook. Oh, that was an evening long to be remembered!
"One can almost forget that he is a hunted fugitive in a place and a time like this," said Steenie.
"Yes, Steenie," I answered, "would to God we were clear of the great trouble which we this evening have been able to put from our minds."
While I was yet speaking the sound of horses' feet was borne to our ears on the still night air.
"Go home quickly, Effie," said Steenie, "and I'll not stop till I am hidden behind the black crags."
As I entered the house I found mother sitting with wee Jamie, for he was aye at our house since father was led away. Mother saw something was amiss, but she questioned only by look.
"The troopers," I said.
"Where is Steenie?"
"Well on to a place of safety by this time."
"God protect him!" she murmured.
The soldiers soon surrounded our house. Three of them entered and searched it. We had hurried the bairn to bed and bidden him turn his face to the wall, and on no account show that he was awake, rightly thinking they would not be likely to wake him. Mother and I suffered much from their insolence, and they bore away with them whatever they chose to take, otherwise we came to no harm.
After this Steenie was almost lost to us for a long time. It was very seldom he could be found in the places where he was wont to be concealed, so diligent was the search for those who had fought at Rullion Green.
Sometimes we saw him at conventicles. These meetings were then held in unfrequented places, and often under the cover of darkness. Precious was the divine message to our long-waiting souls, and our thoughts were uplifted by the power of the truth. But with me the feeling of exaltation would subside, leaving in my heart a weary waste, a dread uncertainty, a fearful looking forward to some unknown yet certain evil. In God was my trust; but humanity is frail, and the sickness of heart that attends blighted hopes was often mine to bear.
On the few occasions when I saw my brother I observed that he grew wan and pale—that he had at times a look almost amounting to fierceness. Naturally ambitious, he chafed at his inactivity, and was tormented by a throng of unfulfilled desires. Although we hoped he had been born into the kingdom of grace, and was willing to follow where Providence led, still the natural man struggled against the submission that was to keep him in hiding.
The bonnie summer months had passed, the cool and pleasant autumn also, and winter was again upon us. Not a few were pinched with hunger, for oppression had wrung from many families nearly all their means of subsistence. We often thought of Steenie and prayed for him; but we knew not where he was, as the cold had driven him from all his old haunts.
One wild December night we sat by our comfortable fire: without, the hoarse wind roared in strange tones and in loud blasts that were fearful even to those who were comfortably housed. I was looking at the window opposite me, and almost reproaching myself for receiving so many comforts since they were denied to Steenie. Just then some one knocked at the door. I felt at once that it was my wandering brother; and so it was. But oh, how changed! He had been driven by actual hunger to venture home. The man whom we had employed to carry food to him, and whom we had liberally paid, even to the abatement of our own comforts, had proved faithless.
Great was our surprise and joy to behold our Steenie once more, and great was our sorrow to see him as he was, chilled and sick as well as hungry. I fastened the door again and drew the window-curtain, and mother and I both hastened to set food before the half-famished lad. Being warmed and refreshed, he began to talk freely, for at first he was too much exhausted to say much.
"This is not life," he said with bitterness, "and if I am never in some active way to serve my family and friends in the true cause, I wish that I might die. Why do not our party take the field? Our condition could scarcely be worse. I might as well be captured if I am to have free limbs only to lie behind rocks until they are benumbed from disuse. I shall bide here to-night; I shall sleep once more under our own roof; and if I am taken, I am taken."
The morning found him far from well and in no condition again to brave the rigors of winter. I bethought me of a little nook over the cow-shed that could be made very comfortable, and that would be little likely to attract attention. We made him a bed there, and we did not spare the best in the house. We carried some books up to him, and did all we could for his comfort; then we closed the trap-door, so that there appeared to be no opening. The ladder was drawn up into the little corner he occupied, and he thus had the means to let himself down whenever he chose. Having made these arrangements, we trusted that he was safe for the present.
But it soon became apparent that he was in danger of being betrayed by our own wee dog, for the affectionate creature sniffed and barked about the byre the whole time to win to his master. We thought at first to tie him up; but this might be inquired into and lead to a search. Some of our own neighbors we could scantly trust; and if any one had let the dog loose he would have gone straight to Steenie. I soon thought out a sure way to end that difficulty, but I said nothing about my plan.
When I gathered up the scraps from the table and put them into Watch's tray, I cast poison on the meat; and I mind well that a tear dropped in with it all, for I was fond of the wee doggie. But he must not live to endanger Steenie, although it was the poor beast's joy at his master's return that caused him to make such a din.
At noon I noticed that Jamie put aside a portion of his meat. "I'll no pick the banes clean the day," said he, seeing that his movements were observed, "because the doggie is sick-like, for he wunna play with me. I'll coax him a bit wi' the fresh meat."
I felt sorry for the bairn, but I said nothing.
After a while he came in, looking very sad. "Aunt Effie," said he sorrowfully, "Watch wunna tak his meat. I fear he will dee."
I patted his head. "Poor wee laddie, it is a tender heart you have," said I. I did not know what else to say.
An hour or two later he came in again, greeting outright. "Wee Watch is deid, Aunt Effie; wee Watch is deid!" and he sobbed as if his heart would break.
It seems a small thing to write, but to the bairn it was a great sorrow; he had lost his only companion. We had been so much occupied with our own troubles that we scarcely gave him a thought beyond seeing that he was well clothed and fed; but I can feel a pang even now for the grief of the poor bairn on account of the death of his playmate.
We succeeded in keeping Steenie safely through the winter, though there were times when our hearts quaked with fear. In spring-time, as the weather grew milder, he went back to his old retreats.
I pass over in silence ten or a dozen years of continued oppression, which brought us little change save that our hearts grew ever sadder.
It had been declared a treasonable act to attend a conventicle, and troops were sent through the country with orders to suppress them at the point of the sword; therefore we no longer met in small bodies.
In May, 1679, a great conventicle was appointed to be held on a moor near Lanark. Steenie went up in company with many others from among us. No secret was made of the meeting, and most of the men went armed. Claverhouse with his dragoons was then in Glasgow. He marched directly to Loudoun Hill, or Drumclog, the place where our people had assembled for worship. He seized some who were on the way to the meeting and drove them before him. The service was scarcely commenced when the alarm was given. Our people flew to arms to defend themselves, and in the battle that ensued they were the victors. Elated with hope, the people flocked to our standard, and a large force was soon in the field.
My two older brothers and my nephew Jamie, now a grown man, thought of joining the army. They were weary of fines, robberies, and all the oppressions which they suffered. They felt that they could no longer submit to these things and lift up their heads as free-born Scots should do.
While they were weighing the matter tidings of our father's death reached us. He with others had been taken from the place of their imprisonment and driven like beasts before the merciless soldiers. My father, weak from age, long confinement, and insufficient nourishment, became exhausted, and lagged in the march. A brutal soldier pierced him with a spear, and he fell. His head and hands were cut off and exposed to public gaze at Edinburgh. The mangled body was left without proper burial. The enemy alleged, in justification of their conduct, that he was the most obstinate of all the "ranting rebels."
Ah, well we understood that charge! It meant that torture, keenest torture, had been his; and he had borne it uncomplainingly, sustained by God's grace.
And now when I think of the Heavenly City, and of the just made perfect who dwell there, I can almost see my father amid the throng of the redeemed; I can almost hear him sing praises to God and the Lamb with the tongue that never denied the faith while on earth.
My brothers and nephew no longer hesitated, as may well be supposed. Margaret, James' wife and the mother of Jamie, no longer "wee," freely gave her consent. "Alas!" she said, "war is a fearsome thing; but since it is your duty to go, go, and may God protect you both and bring you safe home."
Ellen could not feel the same resignation. She clung to Richie till the last moment, almost upbraiding him for leaving her. He turned on her a look in which pity was blent with reproach.
"Ellen," he said, "I cannot forget that I am a man, and not a dog. I can no longer patiently suffer these outrages."
With aching hearts they took leave of their weeping families, their own eyes filled with tears and their lips tremulous with unspoken anxieties. But they bravely endeavored to suppress their emotion, and, sustained by firmness of purpose and hopeful anticipation of righted wrongs, they tore themselves away.
Bessie McDougal, who could never forget her loss at Rullion Green, still, with patriotic piety, encouraged her only son Robert to devote himself to the cause of our kirk and country. She came with him as far as our house, for Robert was to go with Jamie and Richie. I very well remember how she looked at that time. Naturally cheerful, hale, and ruddy, she had borne up remarkably well under her afflictions. But her cheek had grown paler and her step less firm and elastic, so that she leaned a little heavily on the stout walking-stick she carried.
It was at our door that she took leave of Robert. Collecting all her strength, she took her son's hand and bravely spoke her farewells.
"Robert, my son, you are my only earthly prop and stay; but I will nae grudge ye to God and his ain cause. And if my auld e'en shall behold your face nae mair in the flesh, we shall meet again where troubles are nae mair. Should you fall in battle, you will but follow in the steps of him who has gane before you. Gie your mither a kiss, my bairn. Fare ye weel, fare ye weel!"
The bereaved mother turned to retrace her steps towards her now solitary home. We called after her to come in and stop a while. "I can neither gie nor tak comfort," said she, "and I would fain grieve in my ain hame."
Our own hearts were sore too, as any one may judge, seeing that all our loved ones who could bear the sword were away to face danger and death. But sorer yet would they have been if we could have foreseen the disastrous defeat of our army at Bothwell Bridge, a defeat chargeable in no small degree to the dissensions that nearly rent our people asunder.
Oh, that dreadful day! Even now the memory of it comes unbidden far oftener than the morning sun salutes the earth. My brother Jamie, my poor, sad mother's firstborn, was left on that fatal field cold in death—Jamie, the husband of the good, brave, patient Margaret, and father of six bonnie bairns. Oh, what a stroke was that! Then when we called to mind how many fathers, sons, and brothers, of the very flower of Scotland, shared a like fate, we cried out in bitterness of soul,
"O Lord God, to whom vengeance belongeth; O God, to whom vengeance belongeth, show thyself. Lift up thyself, thou Judge of the earth: render a reward to the proud. Lord, how long shall the wicked, how long shall the wicked triumph?"
But I have more to tell of that terrible battle. Richie was one of the twelve hundred who, when all was lost, threw down their arms and cried for quarter. They were taken prisoners to Edinburgh, and penned, half naked, in the same Grayfriars kirkyard in which the Covenant was signed in 1638. They were herded there for five months like so many brute beasts, without shelter by day or covering by night. At the end of that time, Richie and many others regained their freedom by signing a bond never again to take up arms against the king.
Steenie was thrice taken prisoner, and as many times made his escape. Just as he was leaving the field he stumbled over the dead body of Jamie. In regaining his feet his eye caught sight of the dear, familiar face, then rigid in death. Regardless of consequence he threw himself down beside his lifeless brother. Two soldiers rode that way in search of flying fugitives. Seeing a living man among the dead, they halted. Struck with the grief and affection that could lead to such a disregard of personal safety, some touch of humanity returned to their stony hearts.
"What hinders us to run you through, man?"
"It is all one to me," replied Steenie. "My brother is dead, and our cause is lost."
"Let us show pity to our fellow-mortal," said one to the other, "and when death comes to us, I warrant we shall not grieve at the mercy."
"Rise and take to your heels," said the first speaker, "and hide yourself as soon as you can. If your escape is seen it may cost us our lives."
Steenie afterwards told Robert McDougal, who also escaped, that he was so thoroughly weary of life under the tyranny of the oppressor that nothing but thoughts of the grief his death would cause our mother made him avail himself of the mercy shown by the two humane soldiers. "But," added he, "what, after all, signifies an escape that must eventually end in torture or death?" He knew that for those who would not renounce the Covenant life could be but a weary waiting and lurking in wild moors and caves.
From this time Steenie and Robert were inseparable. I scarcely could see one without the other. The truth came slowly to me that Robert was especially interested in me, and that Steenie was glad it was so. I never could see why he was glad, since in those troublous times no tie could be so binding as to secure to us the companionship of our friends.
My nephew Jamie was spared to us. A serious and lingering illness had suddenly prostrated him and prevented him from joining the Covenanters' army, according to his intention; and when news of his father's death and of our crushing defeat came, his mother was still watching by his bedside. As his strength slowly returned, she blessed God for the sickness that for the time had so increased her sorrow and her cares, but in which she now saw the divine hand in mercy holding her son back from death or capture on the field. And truly she needed Jamie, her other bairns being much younger than he, and all lasses but the youngest.
Richie's return was a source of thankfulness; yet Steenie would never have accepted liberty on such conditions. Ellen was overjoyed; she had no regrets that he was never again to fight for liberty of conscience. But his health was never again robust; he had suffered too much from exposure in his confinement at Edinburgh.
Margaret welcomed Richie with tears.
"I rejoice with you, dear Ellen, at the return of your husband," she said. "Mine will never come back to me. I do not even know where his body lies. But the trump of God will wake him; and we shall meet again in a better world, where are no wars nor rumors of wars, no more crushing by a tyrant's heel, no more heart-achings or heart-breakings. There the great King himself will bid his subjects be glad for evermore."
The state of the country was daily becoming more terrible. No one felt safe at any time.
The daring exploits of Steenie and Robert drew upon them blessings from their friends but curses from their enemies. They were obliged again to exercise the greatest care to hide themselves from the armed bands that Claverhouse sent in every direction to hunt to the death all that had escaped from Bothwell Bridge. We risked our lives in giving them comforts, for the persecutors, enraged that any had escaped, took measures to punish most severely those who should succor friend or stranger. Some of our own acquaintances suffered death by lingering torture for no other offence. Can my readers imagine the feelings of a mother, a wife, or a sister, who, knowing her loved ones were suffering, scarcely dared give them food, or even speak to them?
As a rule, those who were true to the good cause were dear to each other. But some, I am grieved to say, had a "zeal that was not according to knowledge." They had suffered so much that they were nearly demented. They would not listen to reason, even when counselled by their best friends; and they did rash deeds that made things worse for us all.
And now I have a sad tale to tell. I would it were the only one of its kind!
Few were more zealous in every good work than Rev. Hugh McAdam. He counted not his life dear to him, but cheerfully risked it in works of love and mercy. He sought out the wanderers, carried them food and clothing, prayed with them, and exhorted them to steadfastness in the holy cause. When we thought it safe, we gathered on a lone moor and he broke the bread of life to our famishing souls.
He and his sweet daughter Janet were loved by all our suffering people; yet it was the sorrowful lot of many of us to see him shot down at a conventicle, in the presence of his daughter, and while the words of Christian counsel were yet on his lips. Though death lurked in every corner, and similar scenes were not new to many of us, few deaths caused so universal sorrow in our neighborhood.
Orders to disperse were unnecessary. The men seized their arms and prepared to defend the retreating assembly; but the dragoons, few in number, galloped quickly away having done the foul deed. The little band, that had met with so much hope and confidence, returned sad and dispirited to their homes. The body of the beloved minister was borne with us from the field, and Bessie McDougal took the orphaned daughter home with her.
When I reached home I found that some one had already told mother the dreadful news. She met me at the door. "Alas! alas!" she exclaimed, "what is to become of the sheep when so many of the shepherds are taen awa?"
"There is still the great Shepherd of Israel," answered I. "When the right time comes, he will gird himself with might and deliver his flock."
"Oh, ay, my bairn, I maunna forget that; but trouble has been my portion so long that both heart and flesh quake and quail under every new sorrow. But I am glad you can aye have sae muckle faith."
Dear mother! She little knew with what sickness of heart I turned to my duties. Again and again the face of the dead as I had seen it in the morning came before me. His silvered locks were matted with gore, despoiling of its comeliness the face on which age had sat with so winsome a grace.
But if we were so unsettled by the sad event, how must the new inmate of Bessie McDougal's home have felt? The good woman had no lack of tenderness and sympathy, and when Janet's tears still flowed she did not try to check them.
"Greet on, hinny, greet on," she said. "Let your tears spend themsels. I ken weel the heart is less heavy when the e'en o'erflow. Auld Bessie has had troubles o' her ain; but there has aye been comfort gien to her in them a'; and the same Comforter will bring comfort to yoursel in his ain gude time. He wunna be vexed wi' ye that ye mourn. He kens a' our frames, and he kens that we are but dust and weakness."
In this way did this mother in Israel bring Christ before the afflicted daughter, until her heart was drawn closer to Him who is so gentle and so considerate of human frailties.
After we had buried the slain servant of the Lord in our own kirkyard, Bessie McDougal, whose home was ever a shelter to those in distress, begged the orphaned Janet to bide with her. Her great motherly heart warmed towards the daughter of her old and Christian counsellor. Indeed, many would have opened their doors to the bonnie lass who was so sorely smitten, but when Bessie questioned, "Will ye bide wi' me, puir stricken lamb?" Janet gladly answered, "I will."
Somewhere on these pages it will be my pleasant duty to tell how Janet repaid with filial affection the kindness of her friend.
In these times I often went to see sister Margaret and cheer her loneliness as much as I could. She had removed her family from their house in the village to a small cottage nearer to mother and me. While the excitement about our murdered minister was still fresh I went to spend the evening with her. Jamie took the minister's death much to heart.
"I have often thought to be a minister myself," said he, "but now I scarcely ken whether I am willing. I could fight on the battlefield, but it is a fearsome thing to be hunted and shot down like a wild beast."
"Yes, Jamie," replied his mother, "it is a fearsome thing; but God grant that before you are prepared to stand up before his people the scourge will be removed from Scotland."
"And yet we believe that martyrs have a brighter crown in the heavenly inheritance, and a more abundant entrance into the joy and service of the King."
"Yes, we believe that, Jamie. But there is opportunity in every life for winning an abundant entrance. Ay, ay, there are many ways to glorify God and prove his sustaining grace."
Margaret bore up bravely in her bereavement. She had little time to yield to sorrow. To support her fatherless bairns required the utmost efforts of Jamie and herself.
When it was time for me to leave them for the night, she told Jamie to take the good Book and read the tenth Psalm.
Jamie read, while Margaret's full heart often prompted her to interrupt him with some earnest comment, as she felt the force of the truth and applied it to present circumstances.
"The Lord will hear in his own good time," she remarked as Jamie concluded. "Meanwhile we will take all our griefs and cares to him, and so far as we can we will leave them all with him."
Then she knelt and poured out her heart in prayer. Since her husband's death she and Jamie had kept burning the sacred fire on the family altar.
In the chill gray of an autumnal morning Janet McAdam awoke in her new home a few days after her father's burial. With the first dawning of consciousness came always the leaden weight of grief. But she had been prepared for changes the most dreadful; and with the remembrance of her loss came the comforting thought that her father had entered into his rest, though rough had been his exit from this world of trouble. In this thought she found some consolation. "No storm can reach him now in the calm haven he has entered," she murmured. She rose and dressed herself with her usual care; then, kneeling down, she asked for strength equal to her day.
In an adjoining room Bessie McDougal was already busy with her morning duties. With a huge pair of tongs she drew from the bed of ashes in the fireplace the brands she had buried the night before. These she placed close to the back-log, and, laying on some bits of wood, she soon had a blaze that crackled and roared in a right comfortable, homelike way. She was hanging the kettle over the fire when Janet entered the room.
"How hae ye sleepit, my bairn?" she asked.
"I have slept quite well, thank you. Can I help you now?"
"Nae, dearie, nae. The kettle will nae mair than boil before I am in frae the byre. Tak ye the Ward of God, and seek out a portion suited to your need."
Bessie went out to do the work that Robert would have done if he could have remained at home. She unfastened the door of the byre, went in, looked around to see that all was right, and gently patted the cow. "Puir beastie, I maunna forget ye amid a' the troubles," she said, thinking aloud. She fed her with a liberal hand, then scattered grain for the fowls. These were all she had to care for now, for the soldiers had taken from her whatever they liked. Having finished her work there, she returned to the house.
The kettle was already boiling. She prepared the morning meal, spread the table, and the two sat down. Short and simple was the prayer of thankfulness for daily bread which the good woman offered. For a while they ate in silence, for trouble aye makes us think more and speak less. Bessie's voice at length broke the stillness. Pointing to the head of the table, she said,
"It was there David aye sat, and there," pointing to the window-sill, "he laid his bonnet. And it was on that side Robert sat. Alas! the ane will come nae mair, and the ither maun steal his chance if he comes. These are times to try the strongest faith;" and she wiped her tearful eyes. Then observing that the other was taking very little food, she spoke more cheerfully:
"Janet, my bairn, ye maun do better than this at your meals, and graw stoot."
She had scarcely finished speaking when Robert, her son, entered, followed by Steenie.
Great was the astonishment of Bessie. She embraced her son and warmly pressed the hand of his companion. She piled high the hearth-fire and heaped the table with plenty. But she could not bring herself to ask what had brought them there. She feared it might be to say good-by before facing known danger.
The hungry men made inroads on the cakes and cheese; and well they might.
"Oh, my bairn," sad the glad, sad mother, "when will ye daily sit at this table and pass your evenings at your ain hearthstane?"
"When I am let, mother."
"I must take a look at the beasts," said Robert, when the meal was finished.
His mother, unwilling to lose one precious moment of her son's stay, went with him to the byre. Robert's anger was kindled to find that the sheep had all been driven away, and only one cow out of three was left.
But he had other thoughts in his mind, and he spoke of me, of Effie Patterson.
"It is no a time to marry, or to be gien in marriage," said his mother, "and I would leifer ye would bring nae mair care on yoursel while these times last."
"What you say is o'er true, mother; but one canna always keep down his heart. It is one of the hardest features of this troubled time that a man has no power to shield and protect his own household. But for all that, I would fain call Effie mine. If I am slain by the enemy, you must tell her that naught but the fear of adding to the dangers which now beset her path has kept me from declaring my love for her and asking her hand in marriage. And, mother, Steenie's heart is bound up in the lass Janet. He cannot hide his sympathy for her in this her time of bereavement. It is that that has brought us here the morn. He would fain tell her he sorrows for her sake. You did well to take her in; it is like you, mother; only you must not care more for her than you care for Effie."
"Oh, my bairn, I canna promise. The dear lass wi' me has nae kin left to her; and if she twines hersel about my auld heart, I canna thrust her aside for anither. It was but the morn that my silly fancy was imagining the times again settled, and yoursel hame and weel; but never mind what I was about to say. Effie is a gude, gentle soul, and helpfu' witha'; and should it be that we hae peace granted to us, ye will see that I can love Effie weel, although I love anither lass as mickle."
This is word for word what Bessie told me more than two years afterwards; but two years afterwards was not then. No, no; and how much of sorrow was yet to be crowded into those two years is my painful task to relate.
There were no more real battles after that of Bothwell Bridge, but only skirmishes, where a few on both sides met by accident or otherwise.
I will now leave off telling what happened throughout the country, and relate what more particularly concerned myself and my friends.
Steenie, as you may know from what I have said, was like the apple of my eye. I liked not to think the time might come when another would have a deeper hold on his affections; and I persuaded myself that this would never be. But, like it or not, it was all the same thing in the end. When Janet McAdam's father was shot, Steenie's heart went over to his orphan daughter with one great bound, and his sister was never to be the same to him as before. I always thought that his love for Janet was born of pity, for when the trouble came to her she stretched her hands imploringly towards heaven in helpless, hopeless agony; and that meek and mute appeal to the great and good God reached also a brave and loving human heart. But there was cause for admiration as well as pity, for hers was truly a sweet face to look upon. Her eyes closed slowly, and the long, dark, silken lashes fell on her pale cheek, while the sensitive quivering of the mouth showed her great effort to bear up bravely. Many times was it whispered then and there, "See the dear sweet lassie! See the dear smitten lamb!"
But whatever was the first cause of Steenie's love, it was deep and lasting. I did not know his feelings in regard to her till he told me himself. It was wrong, it was selfish, but I liked Janet less from that very moment. I regarded her as an intruder. I turned away with a stony look on my face and a weight at my heart. I did not look at Steenie, but I felt that his eyes were following me. I knew there was entreaty in them, but I would not listen to the voice within me, "You are wrong, Effie." He told me he had already made known to her his love; so there was nothing for me to do but submit to unkind fate, as I in my blindness thought. I had pictured Steenie always living with mother and me, with peace and plenty restored to us. I thought that together we would soothe the declining years of our aged parent; together we would read and walk, as in past days.
Steenie told me that I also was beloved. I gave him no reply. I did not then know that I could feel love beyond that which I cherished for my brother, and I thought he said this that I might grieve less for his companionship. I was offended, and for the first time in my life I parted from my brother with coldness.
Six months passed, during which we seldom met. At the end of that time Steenie was married. The ceremony was performed quietly, and even secretly, at Bessie McDougal's house.
I was still displeased, although I made a faint show of affection for my new sister; but it was so unreal that neither my mother nor Steenie were deceived by it. Janet, in her sweet trustfulness, accepted it. Mother told me I was unreasonable; but I said it was Steenie who was unreasonable—to marry when death stared him in the face; but certain it is that was not the cause of my opposition to the marriage.
Steenie was still obliged to remain in concealment most of the time. Robert McDougal and a few other brave men were with him. Sometimes they came down upon a stray party of the enemy to liberate one of their captive brethren; but oftener they were stationed at a little distance to warn and guard the people as they convened to worship God.
It was on a bonnie June morning in 1683 that we were thus convened and he was thus on duty. A spy communicated with the persecutors, and a troop of horse came in hot haste towards us. In less time than I can write it a bullet pierced Steenie, and he fell to the ground. The soldiers passed on to the open glade in which the meeting was held; but the people were scattered in every direction.
Regardless of danger, we, his friends, hurried to the spot. I was among the last to reach him. As I approached I heard him ask, "Where is Effie?" "I am come," I said, as I knelt beside him and kissed his brow, then pale and strange in his struggle with death. He looked affectionately at me, and seemed to wish for something. I put my arm around Janet, who was weeping over him, and drawing her closer to me I kissed her again and again. Then he smiled a faint, glad smile, and beckoned me to come nearer. I bent my ear to catch his words, which were becoming more indistinct. He spoke of Robert. "Do not turn away from my old and true friend," he whispered. Fainter and fainter were the words which came from the fast whitening lips, till every sound died away. A slight motion of the lips, and a scarcely perceptible heaving of the chest, and Steenie's soul took flight to that bonnie land where we well believe there is no more sorrow.
The agony of poor Janet was very great. Twice within one year had the dearest object of her earthly affections been ruthlessly slain. I looked at her, though I scarcely dared to do so. I saw that strong arms were supporting her; they were those of Robert McDougal. His face was very pale, but his voice was steady as he said, "One less with us, one more in heaven."
It is hard to give up our friends, even from a peaceful death-bed, when we can realise that God's hand alone rules; but to feel that our loved ones fall a prey to the anger of their oppressors—the innocent by the hand of the guilty—is a sore trial to the most trusting Christians. There are moments when the human nature within them cries out for redress, if not for vengeance. I felt as if my own heart would burst between sorrow for Janet and my anguish for the loss of Steenie.
We were bearing our dead from the fatal spot when, strange to say, I first thought of my mother, who was in our little home miles away. Poor mother, whose hair was whitened with age and her many afflictions, whose step was slow and feeble, whose grief had already been too deep for tears, how could I tell her! How could she bear this added sorrow! "God help her," I groaned.
"O Margaret," I said, for she was walking beside me, "how can we tell her these heavy tidings? You must tell her, for indeed I cannot."
"May God give me wisdom to break it to her gently," said Margaret.
Slowly and carefully she broke the sad news to our mother, who said not a word. Her face assumed a fixed, ghastly look. I feared the news would kill her. Soon her lips moved as if in prayer. Then I felt relieved; for was she not laying her burden at the feet of One who can sustain us in all our troubles?
We took the body of Steenie to Bessie McDougal's because it was Janet's home, and because we thought mother might be less affected by his death if she did not see him at first. She did not object to this arrangement; and she waited till evening before she asked to go and see him. Then, with more composure than I had anticipated, she made preparations to go to her son.
"I maun see my bairn now," she said. "I trow these auld limbs will not refuse to take me to him."
"Who shall go with you, mother?" I asked.
"Margaret," she replied; for Margaret had remained with us through the day.
I was not sorry that she was chosen, for she had great fortitude and presence of mind; and I felt that I could not endure any more heart-harrowing scenes that day.
But mother controlled herself in a wonderful manner, Margaret said. She spoke comforting words to Janet, telling her that our compassionate Lord would help her to bear her burdens and sorrows. When the question of burial came up for consideration, mother was quick to express her wish. "He maun sleep near his auld hame," she said. "None o' my dead lie where I can look on their graves."
So we made him a grave in a nook of our own plot of ground; for we could scarcely feel that even a grave was sacred in the eyes of our enemies. Close by the grave runs the little burn that aye sings its song of praise in summer-time. We could see the mound from our window, and for years every change about it was noted. "The grass is green on Steenie's grave now; and there are bonnie wee flowers amang it," mother would say; or in winter, "The snow lies fresh on Steenie's grave the morn." And after she was gone other eyes watched it. I can see it to-day from my window as I write; for I live here still, the only one left of our once happy family. But I am not alone here; and to tell who bides with me will lead me back to my story.