CHAPTER IV. THE PRISON AND THE TOMB.
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!"