CHAPTER III.
Things were precisely in this state, when the goodman of Chapelhope, taking his plaid and staff, went out to the heights one misty day in autumn to drive off a neighbour’s flock from his pasture; but, as Walter was wont to relate the story himself, when any stranger came there on a winter evening, as long as he lived, it may haply be acceptable to the curious, and the lovers of rustic simplicity, to read it in his own words, although he drew it out to an inordinate length, and perhaps kept his own personal feelings and prowess too much in view for the fastidious or critical reader to approve.
“It was on a mirk misty day in September,” said Walter, “I mind it weel, that I took my plaid about me, and a bit gay steeve aik stick in my hand, and away I sets to turn aff the Winterhopeburn sheep. The wind had been east–about a’ that harst, I hae some sma’ reason ne’er to forget it, and they had amaist gane wi’ a’ the gairs i’ our North Grain. I weel expected I wad find them a’ in the scaithe that dark day, and I was just amind to tak them hame in a drove to Aidie Andison’s door, and say, ‘Here’s yer sheep for ye, lad; ye maun outher keep them better, or else, gude faith, I’ll keep them for ye.’—I had been crost and put about wi’ them a’ that year, and I was just gaun to bring the screw to the neb o’ the mire–snipe.—Weel, off I sets—I had a special dog at my feet, and a bit gay fine stick in my hand, and I was rather cross–natured that day—‘Auld Wat’s no gaun to be o’er–trampit wi’ nane o’ them, for a’ that’s come and gane yet,’ quo’ I to mysel as I gaed up the burn.—Weel, I slings aye on wi’ a gay lang step; but, by the time that I had won the Forkings, I gat collied amang the mist, sae derk, that fient a spark I could see—Stogs aye on through cleuch and gill, and a’ the gairs that they used to spounge, but, to my great mervel, I can nouther see a hair of a ewe’s tail, nor can I hear the bleat of a lamb, or the bell of a wether—No ane, outher of my ain or ither folks!—‘Ay,’ says I to mysel, ‘what can be the meaning o’ this? od, there has been somebody here afore me the day!’ I was just standin looking about me amang the lang hags that lead out frae the head o’ the North Grain, and considering what could be wort of a’ the sheep, when I noticed my dog, Reaver, gaun coursing away forrit as he had been setting a fox. What’s this, thinks I—On he gangs very angry like, cocking his tail, and setting up his birses, till he wan to the very brink of a deep hag; but when he gat there, my certy, he wasna lang in turning! Back he comes, by me, an’ away as the deil had been chasing him; as terrified a beast I saw never—Od, sir, I fand the very hairs o’ my head begin to creep, and a prinkling through a’ my veins and skin like needles and preens.—‘God guide us!’ thinks I, ‘what can this be?’ The day was derk, derk; for I was in the very stamoch o’ the cludd, as it were; still it was the day time, an’ the e’e o’ Heaven was open. I was as near turned an’ run after my tike as ever I’ll miss, but I just fand a stound o’ manheid gang through my heart, an’ forrit I sets wi’ a’ the vents o’ my head open. ‘If it’s flesh an’ blude,’ thinks I, ‘or it get the owrance o’ auld Wat Laidlaw, od it sal get strength o’ arm for aince.’ It was a deep hag, as deep as the wa’s o’ this house, and a strip o’ green sward alang the bottom o’t; and when I came to the brow, what does I see but twa lang liesh chaps lying sleeping at ither’s sides, baith happit wi’ the same maud. ‘Hallo!’ cries I, wi’ a stern voice, ‘wha hae we here?’ If ye had but seen how they lookit when they stertit up; od, ye wad hae thought they were twa scoundrels wakened frae the dead! I never saw twa mair hemp–looking dogs in my life.
‘What are ye feared for, lads? Whaten twa blades are ye? Or what are ye seeking in sic a place as this?’
‘This is a derk day, gudeman.’
‘This is a derk day, gudeman! That’s sic an answer as I heard never. I wish ye wad tell me something I dinna ken—and that’s wha ye are, and what ye’re seeking here?’
‘We’re seeking nought o’ yours, friend.’
‘I dinna believe a word o’t—ye’re nae folk o’ this country—I doubt ye ken o’er weel what stealing o’ sheep is—But if ye winna tell me plainly and honestly your business here, the deil be my inmate gin I winna knock your twa heads thegither.’
‘There is a gude auld say, honest man, It is best to let sleeping dogs lie, they may rise and bite you.’
‘Bite me, lad!—Rise an’ bite me!—I wad like to see a dog on a’ the heights o’ Chapelhope that wad snarl at me, let be to bite!’
“I had a gay steeve dour aik stick in my hand, an’ wi’ that I begoud to heave’t up, no to strike them, but just to gi’e them a glisk o’ the coming–on that was in’t. By this time they were baith on their feet; and the ane that was neist me he gi’es the tabie of his jockey–coat a fling back, and out he pu’s a braid sword frae aneath it—an’ wi’ the same blink the ither whups a sma’ spear out o’ the heart o’ his aik stick, ‘Here’s for ye then, auld camstary,’ says they; ‘an unlucky fish gets an unlucky bait.’ Od sir, I was rather stoundit; I began to look o’er my shouther, but there was naething there but the swathes o’ mist. What wad I hae gien for twa minutes of auld John o’ the Muchrah! However, there was nae time to lose—it was come fairly to the neb o’ the mire–snipe wi’ me. I never was gude when taken by surprise a’ my life—gie me a wee time, an’ I turn quite foundemental then—sae, to tell the truth, in my hurry I took the flier’s part, flang the plaid frae me, and ran off up the hag as fast as my feet could carry me, an’ a’ the gate the ragamuffian wi’ the sword was amaist close at my heels. The bottom o’ the hag was very narrow, twa could hardly rin abreast. My very bluid began to rise at being chased by twa skebels, and I thought I heard a voice within me, crying, ‘Dinna flee, Wat Laidlaw! dinna flee, auld Wat! ye hae a gude cause by the end!’ I wheeled just round in a moment, sir, and drew a desperate straik at the foremost, an’ sae little kend the haniel about fencing, that instead o’ sweeing aff my downcome wi’ his sword, he held up his sword–arm to save his head—I gart his arm just snap like a pipe–stapple, and down fell his bit whittle to the ground, and he on aboon it. The tither, wi’ his sma’ spear, durstna come on, but ran for it; I followed, and was mettler o’ foot than he, but I durstna grip him, for fear he had run his bit spit through my sma–fairns i’ the struggle, for it was as sharp as a lance, but I keepit a little back till I gat the end o’ my stick just i’ the how o’ his neck, and then I gae him a push that soon gart him plew the flow with his nose. On aboon him I gets, and the first thing I did was to fling away his bit twig of a sword—I gart it shine through the air like a fiery dragon—then I took him by the cuff o’ the neck, and lugged him back to his neighbour, wha was lying graning in the hag. ‘Now, billies,’ says I, ‘ye shall answer face to face, it wad hae been as good soon as syne; tell me directly wha ye are, and what’s your business here, or, d’ye hear me, I’ll tye ye thegither like twa tikes, and tak ye to them that will gar ye speak.’
‘Ah! lack–a–day, lack–a–day!’ said the wounded man, ‘ye’re a rash, foolish, passionate man, whaever ye be.’
‘Ye’re maybe no very far wrang there,’ quo’ I; ‘but for aince, I trow, I had gude reason. Ye thought to kill me wi’ your bits o’ shabbles o’ swords!’
‘In the first place then,’ said he, ‘ken that we wadna hae shed ae drap o’ your blood, nor wranged a hair o’ your head—all that we wanted was to get quit of ye, to keep ye out o’ danger an’ scaith. Ye hae made a bonny day’s wark on’t truly, we had naething in view but your ain safety—but sin’ ye will ken ye maun ken; we belang to a poor proscribed remnant, that hae fled from the face of a bloody persecution. We have left all, and lost all, for the cause of our religion, and are driven into this dismal wilderness, the only miserable retreat left us in our native land.’
‘Od, sir! he hadna weel begun to speak till the light o’ the truth began to dawn within me like the brek o’ the day–sky, an’ I grew as red too, for the devil needna hae envied me my feelings at that time. I couldna help saying to mysel, ‘Whow, whow, Wat Laidlaw! but ye hae made a bonny job o’t this morning!—Here’s twa puir creatures, worn out wi’ famine and watching, come to seek a last refuge amang your hags and mosses, and ye maun fa’ to and be pelting and threshing on them like an incarnate devil as ye are.—Oh, wae’s me! wae’s me!’—Lord, sir, I thought my heart wad burst—There was a kind o’ yuke came into my een that I could hardly bruke; but at length the muckle tears wan out wi’ a sair faught, and down they came down ower my beard, dribble for dribble. The men saw the pliskie that I was in, and there was a kind o’ ruefu’ benevolence i’ their looks, I never saw ony thing like it.’
‘Dinna be wae for us, honest man,’ said they; ‘we hae learned to suffer—we hae kend nought else for this mony a lang and bloody year, an’ we look for nought else for the wee while we hae to sojourn in this weary world—we hae learned to suffer patiently, and to welcome our sufferings as mercies.’
‘Ye’ve won a gude length, man,’ quo’ I; ‘but they’re mercies that I’m never very fond o’—I wish ye had suffered under ony hand but mine, sin’ it be your lot.’
‘Dinna be sorry for us, honest man; there never was an act o’ mair justice than this that ye hae inflicted. Last night there were fifteen o’ us met at evening worship—we hadna tasted meat for days and nights; to preserve our miserable lives, we stole a sheep, dressed, and ate it; and wi’ this very arm that you hae disabled, did I grip and kill that sheep. It was a great sin, nae doubt, but the necessity was also great—I am sae far punished, and I hope the Lord will forgie the rest.’
‘If he dinna,’ quo’ I, ‘he’s no what I think him.’ Then he began a lang serious harangue about the riches o’ free grace, and about the wickedness o’ our nature; and said, that we could do naething o’ oursells but sin. I said it was a hard construction, but I couldna argy the point ava wi’ him—I never was a dab at these lang–winded stories. Then they cam on about prelacy and heresies, and something they ca’d the act of abjuration. I couldna follow him out at nae rate; but I says, I pit nae doubt, callants, but ye’re right, for ye hae proven to a’ the warld that ye think sae; and when a man feels conscious that he’s right, I never believe he can be far wrang in sic matters. But that’s no the point in question; let us consider what can be done for ye e’en now—Poor souls! God kens, my heart’s sair for ye; but this land’s mine, an’ a’ the sheep around ye, an’ ye’re welcome to half–a–dozen o’ the best o’ them in sic a case.’
‘Ah! lack–a–day, lack–a–day! If ye be the gudeman o’ the Chapelhope, ye’ll rue the day that ever ye saw us. If it’s kend that ye countenanced us in word or deed, ye’re a ruined man; for the blood–hounds are near at hand, and they’ll herry ye out and in, but and ben—Lack–a–day! lack–a–day! in a wee while we may gang and come by the Chapelhope, and nouther see a lum reek nor hear a cock craw; for Clavers is on the one hand and Lag on the other, and they’re coming nearer and nearer us every day, and hemming us in sairer and sairer—renounce us and deny us, as ye wish to thrive.’
‘Na, na, lads, let them come—let them come their ways! Gin they should take a’ the ewes and kye on the Chapelhope, I can stock it o’er again. I dinna gie a bawbee about your leagues, and covenants, and associations, for I think aye there’s a good deal o’ faction and dourness in them; but or I’ll desert a fellow–creature that’s oppressed, if he’s an honest man, and lippens to me, od, I’ll gie them the last drap o’ my heart’s bluid.’
“When they heard that, they took me out to the tap of a knowe, and began to whistle like plovers—nae herd alive could hae kend but they were plovers—and or ever I wist, ilka hag, and den, and tod–hole round about, seemed to be fu’ o’ plovers, for they fell a’ to the whistling an’ answering ane another at the same time. I had often been wondering how they staid sae lang on the heights that year, for I heard them aye whewing e’en an’ morn; but little trowed I they were a’ twa–handed plovers that I heard. In half an hour they had sic a squad gathered thegither as e’e never glimed on. There ye might hae seen auld gray–bearded ministers, lairds, weavers, and poor hinds, a’ sharing the same hard fate. They were pale, ragged, and hungry, and several o’ them lame and wounded; and they had athegither sic a haggard severity i’ their demeaner. Lord forgie me, gin I wasna feared to look at them! There was ane o’ them a doctor blade, wha soon set the poor chield’s arm; and he said, that after a’ it wasna broken, but only dislockit and sair brizzed. That doctor was the gabbiest body ever I met wi’; he spake for them a’, and I whiles feared that he sclented a wee. He tried a’ that he could to make me a Cameronian, but I wadna grip; and when I was coming away to leave him, ‘Laidlaw,’ quo’ he, ‘we ken ye to be an honest, honourable man; here you see a remnant of poor, forlorn, misrepresented creatures, who have thrown themselves on your mercy; if ye betray us, it will be the worse for ye both here and hereafter; if you save and protect us, the prayers of the just win their way to Heaven, though fiends should be standing by to oppose them—Ay, there’s naething can stop their journey, Laidlaw!—The winds canna blaw them aside, the clouds canna drown them, and the lights o’ Heaven canna burn them; and your name will stand at that bar where there’s nae cruel and partial judge—What you gie to us, ye gie to your Maker, and he will repay you seven fold.’ Od, the body was like to gar me play the bairn and greet even out. Weel, I canna mind the half that he said, but he endit wi’ this:—‘We have seen our friends all bound, banished, and destroyed; they have died on the field, on the scaffold, and at the stake; but the reek o’ their blood shall drive the cruel Stuarts frae the land they have disgraced, and out of it a church of truth and liberty shall spring. There is still a handfu’ remaining in Israel that have not yet bowed the knee to Baal, nor yet kissed him—That remnant has fled here to escape the cruelty of man; but a worse fate threatens us now—we are all of us perishing with famine—For these three days we have tasted nothing but the green moss, save a few wretched trouts, eels, and adders.’ ‘Ethers, man!’ quo’ I,—‘For the love o’ God take care how ye eat the ethers—ye may as weel cut your throats at aince as eat them. Na, na, lad, that’s meat that will never do.’ I said nae mair, but gae just a wave to my dog. ‘Reaver,’ quo’ I, ‘yon’s away.’—In three minutes he had ten score o’ ewes and wedders at my hand. I grippit twa o’ the best I could wale, and cut aff their heads wi’ my ain knife. ‘Now, doctor,’ quo’ I, ‘take these and roast them, and part them amang ye the best way ye can—ye’ll find them better than the ethers—Lord, man, it will never do to eat ethers.’”
After a hearty laugh, in which his guests generally joined, Walter concluded thus: “That meeting cost me twa or three hunder round bannocks, and mae gude ewes and wedders than I’ll say; but I never missed them, and I never rued what I did. Folk may say as they like, but I think aye the prayers out amang the hags and rash–bushes that year did me nae ill—It is as good to hae a man’s blessing as his curse, let him be what he may.”
Walter never went farther with his story straight onward than this; for it began to involve family concerns, which he did not much like to recount. He had a number of abstract stories about the Covenanters and their persecutors; but as I must now proceed with the narrative as I gathered it from others, these will be interwoven in their due course.