_ CHAPTER TWELVE. THE DARKEST HOUR BEFORE THE DAWN
Many months passed away, during which Andrew Black, clean-shaved, brushed-up, and converted into a very respectable, ordinary-looking artisan, carried on the trade of a turner, in an underground cellar in one of the most populous parts of the Cowgate. Lost in the crowd was his idea of security. And he was not far wrong. His cellar had a way of escape through a back door. Its grated window, under the level of the street, admitted light to his whirling lathe, but, aided by dirt on the glass, it baffled the gaze of the curious.
His evenings were spent in Candlemaker Row, where, seated by the window with his mother, Mrs. Wallace, and the two girls, he smoked his pipe and commented on Scotland's woes while gazing across the tombs at the glow in the western sky. Ramblin' Peter--no longer a beardless boy, but a fairly well-grown and good-looking youth--was a constant visitor at the Row. Aggie Wilson had taught him the use of his tongue, but Peter was not the man to use it in idle flirtation--nor Aggie the girl to listen if he had done so. They had both seen too much of the stern side of life to condescend on trifling.
Once, by a superhuman effort, and with an alarming flush of the countenance, Peter succeeded in stammering a declaration of his sentiments. Aggie, with flaming cheeks and downcast eyes, accepted the declaration, and the matter was settled; that was all, for the subject had rushed upon both of them, as it were, unexpectedly, and as they were in the public street at the time and the hour was noon, further demonstration might have been awkward.
Thereafter they were understood to be "keeping company." But they were a grave couple. If an eavesdropper had ventured to listen, sober talk alone would have repaid the sneaking act, and, not unfrequently, reference would have been heard in tones of deepest pathos to dreadful scenes that had occurred on the shores of the Solway, or sorrowful comments on the awful fate of beloved friends who had been banished to "the plantations."
One day Jean--fair-haired, blue-eyed, pensive Jean--was seated in the cellar with her uncle. She had brought him his daily dinner in a tin can, and he having just finished it, was about to resume his work while the niece rose to depart. Time had transformed Jean from a pretty girl into a beautiful woman, but there was an expression of profound melancholy on her once bright face which never left it now, save when a passing jest called up for an instant a feeble reminiscence of the sweet old smile.
"Noo, Jean, awa' wi' ye. I'll never get thae parritch-sticks feenished if ye sit haverin' there."
Something very like the old smile lighted up Jean's face as she rose, and with a "weel, good-day, uncle," left the cellar to its busy occupant.
Black was still at work, and the shadows of evening were beginning to throw the inner end of the cellar into gloom, when the door slowly opened and a man entered stealthily. The unusual action, as well as the appearance of the man, caused Black to seize hold of a heavy piece of wood that leaned against his lathe. The thought of being discovered and sent back to Dunnottar, or hanged, had implanted in our friend a salutary amount of caution, though it had not in the slightest degree affected his nerve or his cool promptitude in danger. He had deliberately made up his mind to remain quiet as long as he should be let alone, but if discovered, to escape or die in the attempt.
The intruder was a man of great size and strength, but as he seemed to be alone, Black quietly leaned the piece of wood against the lathe again in a handy position.
"Ye seem to hae been takin' lessons frae the cats lately, to judge from yer step," said Black. "Shut the door, man, behint ye. There's a draft i' this place that'll be like to gie ye the rheumatiz."
The man obeyed, and, advancing silently, stood before the lathe. There was light enough to reveal the fact that his countenance was handsome, though bronzed almost to the colour of mahogany, while the lower part of it was hidden by a thick beard and a heavy moustache.
Black, who began to see that the strange visitor had nothing of the appearance of one sent to arrest him, said, in a half-humorous, remonstrative tone--
"Maybe ye're a furriner, an' dinna understan' mainners, but it's as weel to tell ye that I expec' men to tak' aff their bannets when they come into _my_ hoose."
Without speaking the visitor removed his cap. Black recognised him in an instant.
"Wull Wallace!" he gasped in a hoarse whisper, as he sprang forward and laid violent hands on his old friend. "Losh, man! are my een leein'? is't possable? Can this be _you_?"
"Yes, thank God, it is indeed--"
He stopped short, for Andrew, albeit unaccustomed, like most of his countrymen, to give way to ebullitions of strong feeling, threw his long arms around his friend and fairly hugged him. He did not, indeed, condescend on a Frenchman's kiss, but he gave him a stage embrace and a squeeze that was worthy of a bear.
"Your force is not much abated, I see--or rather, feel," said Will Wallace, when he was released.
"Abated!" echoed Black, "it's little need, in thae awfu' times. But, man, _your_ force has increased, if I'm no mista'en."
"Doubtless--it is natural, after having toiled with the slaves in Barbadoes for so many years. The work was kill or cure out there. But tell me--my mother--and yours?"
"Oh, they're baith weel and hearty, thank the Lord," answered Black. "But what for d'ye no speer after Jean?" he added in a somewhat disappointed tone.
"Because I don't need to. I've seen her already, and know that she is well."
"Seen her!" exclaimed Andrew in surprise.
"Ay, you and Jean were seated alone at the little window in the Candlemaker Raw last night about ten o'clock, and I was standing by a tombstone in the Greyfriars Churchyard admiring you. I did not like to present myself just then, for fear of alarming the dear girl too much, and then I did not dare to come here to-day till the gloamin'. I only arrived yesterday."
"Weel, weel! The like o' this bates a'. Losh man! I hope it's no a dream. Nip me, man, to mak sure. Sit doon, sit doon, an' let's hear a' aboot it."
The story was a long one. Before it was quite finished the door was gently opened, and Jean Black herself entered. She had come, as was her wont every night, to walk home with her uncle.
Black sprang up.
"Jean, my wummin," he said, hastily putting on his blue bonnet, "there's no light eneuch for ye to be intryduced to my freend here, but ye can hear him if ye canna see him. I'm gaun oot to see what sort o' a night it is. He'll tak' care o' ye till I come back."
Without awaiting a reply he went out and shut the door, and the girl turned in some surprise towards the stranger.
"Jean!" he said in a low voice, holding out both hands.
Jean did not scream or faint. Her position in life, as well as her rough experiences, forbade such weakness, but it did not forbid--well, it is not our province to betray confidences! All we can say is, that when Andrew Black returned to the cellar, after a prolonged and no doubt scientific inspection of the weather, he found that the results of the interview had been quite satisfactory--eminently so!
Need we say that there were rejoicing and thankful hearts in Candlemaker Row that night? We think not. If any of the wraiths of the Covenanters were hanging about the old churchyard, and had peeped in at the well-known back window about the small hours of the morning, they would have seen our hero, clasping his mother with his right arm and Jean with his left. He was encircled by an eager group--composed of Mrs. Black and Andrew, Jock Bruce, Ramblin' Peter, and Aggie Wilson--who listened to the stirring tale of his adventures, or detailed to him the not less stirring and terrible history of the long period that had elapsed since he was torn from them, as they had believed, for ever.
Next morning Jean accompanied her lover to the workshop of her uncle, who had preceded them, as he usually went to work about daybreak.
"Are ye no feared," asked Jean, with an anxious look in her companion's face, "that some of your auld enemies may recognise you? You're so big and--and--" (she thought of the word handsome, but substituted) "odd-looking."
"There is little fear, Jean. I've been so long away that most of the people--the enemies at least--who knew me must have left; besides, my bronzed face and bushy beard form a sufficient disguise, I should think."
"I'm no sure o' that," returned the girl, shaking her head doubtfully; "an' it seems to me that the best thing ye can do will be to gang to the workshop every mornin' before it's daylight. Have ye fairly settled to tak' to Uncle Andrew's trade?"
"Yes. Last night he and I arranged it while you were asleep. I must work, you know, to earn my living, and there is no situation so likely to afford such effectual concealment. Bruce offered to take me on again, but the smiddy is too public, and too much frequented by soldiers. Ah, Jean! I fear that our wedding-day is a long way off yet, for, although I could easily make enough to support you in comfort if there were no difficulties to hamper me, there is not much chance of my making a fortune, as Andrew Black says, by turning parritch-sticks and peeries!"
Wallace tried to speak lightly, but could not disguise a tone of despondency.
"Your new King," he continued, "seems as bad as the old one, if not worse. From all I hear he seems to have set his heart on bringing the country back again to Popery, and black will be the look-out if he succeeds in doing that. He has quarrelled, they say, with his bishops, and in his anger is carrying matters against them with a high hand. I fear that there is woe in store for poor Scotland yet."
"It may be so," returned Jean sadly. "The Lord knows what is best; but He can make the wrath of man to praise Him. Perhaps," she added, looking up with a solemn expression on her sweet face, "perhaps, like Quentin Dick an' Margaret Wilson, you an' I may never wed."
They had reached the east end of the Grassmarket as she spoke, and had turned into it before she observed that they were going wrong, but Wallace explained that he had been directed by Black to call on Ramblin' Peter, who lived there, and procure from him some turning-tools. On the way they were so engrossed with each other that they did not at first observe the people hurrying towards the lower end of the market. Then they became aware that an execution was about to take place.
"The old story," muttered Wallace, while an almost savage scowl settled on his face.
"Let us hurry by," said Jean in a low tone. At the moment the unhappy man who was about to be executed raised his voice to speak, as was the custom in those times.
Jean started, paused, and turned deadly pale.
"I ken the voice," she exclaimed.
As the tones rose in strength she turned towards the gallows and almost dragged her companion after her in her eagerness to get near.
"It's Mr. Renwick," she said, "the dear servant o' the Lord!"
Wallace, on seeing her anxiety, elbowed his way through the crowd somewhat forcibly, and thus made way for Jean till they stood close under the gallows. It was a woeful sight in one sense, for it was the murder of a fair and goodly as well as godly man in the prime of life; yet it was a grand sight, inasmuch as it was a noble witnessing unto death for God and truth and justice in the face of prejudice, passion, and high-handed tyranny.
The martyr had been trying to address the crowd for some time, but had been barbarously interrupted by the beating of drums. Just then a curate approached him and said, "Mr. Renwick, own our King, and we will pray for you."
"It's that scoundrel, the Reverend George Lawless," murmured Wallace in a deep and bitter tone.
"I am come here," replied the martyr, "to bear my testimony against you, and all such as you are."
"Own our King, and pray for him, whatever ye say of us," returned the curate.
"I will discourse no more with you," rejoined Renwick. "I am in a little to appear before Him who is King of kings and Lord of lords, who shall pour shame, contempt, and confusion on all the kings of the earth who have not ruled for Him."
After this Renwick--as was usual with the martyrs when about to finish their course--sang, read a portion of Scripture, and prayed, in the midst of considerable interruption from the drums. He also managed to address the spectators. Among the sentences that reached the ears of Jean and Wallace were the following:--
"I am come here this day to lay down my life for adhering to the truths of Christ... I die as a Presbyterian Protestant... I own the Word of God as the rule of faith and manners... I leave my testimony against ... all encroachments made on Christ's rights, who is the Prince of the kings of the earth."
The noise of the drums rendered his voice inaudible at this point, and the executioner, advancing, tied a napkin over his eyes. He was then ordered to go up the ladder. To a friend who stood by him he gave his last messages. Among them were the words--
"Keep your ground, and the Lord will provide you teachers and ministers; and when He comes He will make these despised truths glorious in the earth."
His last words were--"Lord, into thy hands I commit my spirit; for thou hast redeemed me, Lord God of truth."
Thus fell the last, as it turned out, of the martyrs of the Covenants, on the 17th of February 1688. But it did not seem to Will Wallace that the storm of twenty-eight long years had almost blown over, as he glanced at the scowling brows and compressed lips of the upturned faces around him.
"Come--come away, Jean," he said quickly, as he felt the poor girl hang heavily on his arm, and observed the pallor of her face.
"Ay, let's gang hame," she said faintly.
As Will turned to go he encountered a face that was very familiar. The owner of it gazed at him inquiringly. It was that of his old comrade in arms, Glendinning. Stooping over his companion as if to address her, Wallace tried to conceal his face and pushed quickly through the crowd. Whether Glendinning had recognised him or not, he could not be sure, but from that day forward he became much more careful in his movements, went regularly to his work with Andrew Black before daylight, and did not venture to return each night till after dark. It was a weary and irksome state of things, but better--as Black sagaciously remarked--than being imprisoned on the Bass Rock or shut up in Dunnottar Castle. But the near presence of Jean Black had, no doubt, more to do with the resignation of our hero to his position than the fear of imprisonment.
As time passed, things in the political horizon looked blacker than ever. The King began to show himself more and more in his true colours--as one who had thoroughly made up his mind to rule as an absolute monarch and to reclaim the kingdom to Popery. Among other things he brought troops over from Ireland to enforce his will, some of his English troops having made it abundantly plain that they could not be counted on to obey the mandates of one who wished to arrogate to himself unlimited power, and showed an utter disregard of the rights of the people. Indeed, on all hands the King's friends began to forsake him, and even his own children fell away from him at last.
Rumours of these things, more or less vague, had been reaching Edinburgh from time to time, causing uneasiness in the minds of some and hope in the hearts of others.
One night the usual party of friends had assembled to sup in the dwelling of Mrs. Black. It was the Sabbath. Wallace and Black had remained close all day--with the exception of an hour before daylight in the morning when they had gone out for exercise. It was one of those dreary days not unknown to Auld Reekie, which are inaugurated with a persistent drizzle, continued with a "Scotch mist," and dismissed with an even down-pour. Yet it was by no means a dismal day to our friends of Candlemaker Row. They were all more or less earnestly religious as well as intellectual, so that intercourse in reference to the things of the Kingdom of God, and reading the Word, with a free-and-easy commentary by Mrs. Black and much acquiescence on the part of Mrs. Wallace, and occasional disputations between Andrew and Bruce, kept them lively and well employed until supper-time.
The meal had just been concluded when heavy footfalls were heard on the stair outside, and in another moment there was a violent knocking at the door. The men sprang up, and instinctively grasped the weapons that came first to hand. Wallace seized the poker--a new and heavy one-- Andrew the shovel, and Jock Bruce the tongs, while Ramblin' Peter possessed himself of a stout rolling-pin. Placing themselves hastily in front of the women, who had drawn together and retreated to a corner, they stood on the defensive while Mrs. Black demanded to know who knocked so furiously "on a Sabbath nicht."
Instead of answering, the visitors burst the door open, and half-a-dozen of the town-guard sprang in and levelled their pikes.
"Yield yourselves!" cried their leader. "I arrest you in the King's name!"
But the four men showed no disposition to yield, and the resolute expression of their faces induced their opponents to hesitate.
"I ken o' nae King in this realm," said Andrew Black in a deep stern voice, "an' we refuse to set oor necks under the heel o' a usurpin' tyrant."
"Do your duty, men," said a man who had kept in the background, but who now stepped to the front.
"Ha! this is your doing, Glendinning," exclaimed Wallace, who recognised his old comrade. The sergeant had obviously been promoted, for he wore the costume of a commissioned officer.
"Ay, I have an auld score to settle wi' you, Wallace, an' I hope to see you an' your comrades swing in the Grassmarket before lang."
"Ye'll niver see that, my man," said Black, as he firmly grasped the shovel. "Ye ha'ena gotten us yet, an' it's my opeenion that you an' your freends'll be in kingdom-come before we swing, if ye try to tak' us alive. Oot o' this hoose, ye scoondrels!"
So saying, Black made a spring worthy of a royal Bengal tiger, turned aside the pike of the foremost man, and brought the shovel down on his iron headpiece with such force that he was driven back into the passage or landing, and fell prostrate. Black was so ably and promptly seconded by his stalwart comrades that the room was instantly cleared. Glendinning, driven back by an irresistible blow from the rolling-pin, tripped over the fallen man and went headlong down the winding stairs, at the bottom of which he lay dead, with his neck broken by the fall.
But the repulse thus valiantly effected did not avail them much, for the leader of the guard had reinforcements below, which he now called up. Before the door could be shut these swarmed into the room and drove the defenders back into their corner. The leader hesitated, however, to give the order to advance on them, partly, it may be, because he wished to induce submission and thus avoid bloodshed, and partly, no doubt, because of the terrible aspect of the four desperate men, who, knowing that the result of their capture would be almost certain death, preceded by imprisonment, and probably torture, had evidently made up their minds to fight to the death.
At that critical moment a quick step was heard upon the stair, and the next moment the Reverend Frank Selby entered the room.
"Just in time, I see," he said in a cool nonchalant manner that was habitual to him. "I think, sir," he added, turning to the leader of the guard, "that it may be as well to draw off your men and return to the guard-room."
"I'll do that," retorted the man sharply, "when I receive orders from my superiors. Just now I'll do my duty."
"Of course you will do what is right, my good sir," replied the Reverend Frank; "yet I venture to think you will regret neglecting my advice, which, allow me to assure you, is given in quite a friendly and disinterested spirit. I have just left the precincts of the Council Chamber, where I was told by a friend in office that the Councillors have been thrown into a wild and excusable state of alarm by the news that William, Prince of Orange, who, perhaps you may know, is James's son-in-law and nephew, has landed in Torbay with 15,000 Dutchmen. He comes by invitation of the nobles and clergy of the kingdom to take possession of the Crown which our friend James has forfeited, and James himself has fled to France--one of the few wise things of which he has ever been guilty. It is further reported that the panic-stricken Privy Council here talks of throwing open all the prison-doors in Edinburgh, after which it will voluntarily dissolve itself. If it could do so in prussic acid or some chemical solvent suited to the purpose, its exit would be hailed as all the more appropriate. Meanwhile, I am of opinion that all servants of the Council would do well to retire into as much privacy as possible, and then maintain a careful look-out for squalls."
Having delivered this oration to the gaping guard, the Reverend Frank crossed the room and went through the forbidden and dangerous performance of shaking hands heartily with the "rebels."
He was still engaged in this treasonable act, and the men of the town-guard had not yet recovered from their surprise, when hurrying footsteps were again heard on the stair, and a man of the town-guard sprang into the room, went to his chief, and whispered in his ear. The result was, that, with a countenance expressing mingled surprise and anxiety, the officer led his men from the scene, and left the long-persecuted Covenanters in peace.
"Losh, man! div 'ee railly think the news can be true?" asked Andrew Black, after they had settled down and heard it all repeated.
"Indeed I do," said the Reverend Frank earnestly, "and I thank God that a glorious Revolution seems to have taken place, and hope that the long, long years of persecution are at last drawing to a close."
And Frank Selby was right. The great Revolution of 1688, which set William and Mary on the throne, also banished the tyrannical and despotic house of Stuart for ever; opened the prison gates to the Covenanters; restored to some extent the reign of justice and mercy; crushed, if it did not kill, the heads of Popery and absolute power, and sent a great wave of praise and thanksgiving over the whole land. Prelacy was no longer forced upon Scotland. The rights and liberties of the people were secured, and the day had at last come which crowned the struggles and sufferings of half a century. As Mrs. Black remarked--
"Surely the blood o' the martyrs has not been shed in vain!"
-----------------------
But what of the fortunes of those whose adventures we have followed so long? Whatever they were, the record has not been written, yet we have been told by a man whose name we may not divulge, but who is an unquestionable authority on the subject, that soon after the persecution about which we have been writing had ceased, a farmer of the name of Black settled down among the "bonnie hills of Galloway," not far from the site of the famous Communion stones on Skeoch Hill, where he took to himself a wife; that another farmer, a married man named Wallace, went and built a cottage and settled there on a farm close beside Black; that a certain Ru Peter became shepherd to the farmer Black, and, with his wife, served him faithfully all the days of his life; that the families of these men were very large, the men among them being handsome and stalwart, the women modest and beautiful, and that all of them were loyal subjects and earnest, enthusiastic Covenanters. It has been also said, though we do not vouch for the accuracy of the statement, that in the Kirk-session books of the neighbouring kirk of Irongray there may be found among the baptisms such names as Andrew Wallace and Will Black, Quentin Dick Black, and Jock Bruce Wallace; also an Aggie, a Marion, and an Isabel Peter, besides several Jeans scattered among the three families.
It has likewise been reported, on reliable authority, that the original Mr. Black, whose Christian name was Andrew, was a famous teller of stories and narrator of facts regarding the persecution of the Covenanters, especially of the awful killing-time, when the powers of darkness were let loose on the land to do their worst, and when the blood of Scotland's martyrs flowed like water.
Between 1661, when the Marquis of Argyll was beheaded, and 1668, when James Renwick suffered, there were murdered for the cause of Christ and Christian liberty about 18,000 noble men and women, some of whom were titled, but the most of whom were unknown to earthly fame. It is a marvellous record of the power of God; and well may we give all honour to the martyr band while we exclaim with the "Ayrshire Elder":--
"O for the brave true hearts of old,
That bled when the banner perished!
O for the faith that was strong in death--
The faith that our fathers cherished.
"The banner might fall, but the spirit lived,
And liveth for evermore;
And Scotland claims as her noblest names
The Covenant men of yore."
[THE END]
R. M. Ballantyne's Book: Hunted and Harried
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