XVIII.—KINALDY.
Kinaldy is now the property of Mr Purves—an excellent country gentleman who has made an ample fortune in America; but the period to which my narrative refers, was long prior to this. The property is poor and moorish though now covered with wood, sheltered, and highly cultivated. In the days of Andrew Watson, it bore a very different appearance: in fact, Andrew was not the proprietor, but only the farmer; whilst a nephew of Archbishop Sharp, long resident in an asylum, was the nominal proprietor, under various trustees, of whom the famous Archbishop was one.
Farm houses in those days were very different from those of the present. A thatched and patched roof, with walls of alternate layers of turf and stone, and mid-walls or hallens of clay and straw, quite Egyptian manufacture, were all the go; and if any one, more advanced and uppish than his neighbours, got the length of a stone and clay wall, with a wooden partition within, he was deemed uncommonly appointed, as times went. Through these stone and turf walls there was free ingress and egress to the wind, as well as a plentiful allotment of rats, and the light infantry, the mice; and holes capable of admitting even the cat in full chase of her prey, perforated the clayey hallen in particular. Thus, by little and little, the frail separation betwixt but and ben—the house and the cha’mer—was in a manner undermined; and even the pressure of a little urchin’s elbow, of eight or ten years of age, was sufficient to shake it to its foundation. It is of one such as I am describing, that the author of Maggy Lauder speaks, when he makes his jolly heroine contemptuously exclaim—
“Begone ye hallenshauker,”
in other words, ye puir contemptible body, whom no respectable person will permit to advance further into their house than the hallen, against which ye loiter and lean till it shakes.
The fire, in these times, occupied, like the sun, the centre of the system, around which, at various distances, revolved, the Venus guidwife, the Mars guidman, the Juno Jenny, the Jupiter Jock, the Saturn Sandy, and a vast number of satellites, in the shape of half-clad, bare-footed, uncombed, squalling brats. Pocket handkerchiefs there were none; but coat-sleeves and petticoat tails did just as well; and though the Kenley Burn ran past, pure and pellucid, its waters were seldom defiled—unless perhaps, on a church-going Sunday—with the ablution of hands and faces. There was a byre covered with heath, and with rafters fixed in the earth, without the advantage of walls, from which issued, in their season, cows, stirks, and calves, all covered over, like the Dacians, in scaly armour, rattling as they went in hardened shairn, and sometimes carrying a considerable fragment of the door-head of their cabin along with them; ducks swattered in a Glenburnie midden dub; and an assortment of hens, over whom presided a most dignified cock in full feather, giving an air of extreme liveliness and stir to the whole. But although the outside of things was, comparatively with modern manners and improvements, somewhat rude and forbidding, there were warm hearts and tender consciences within. There literature was indeed but limited; but, limited as it was, it comprehended the Bible, the Confession of Faith, and “Knox’s History of the Church of Scotland.” Well acquainted was Andrew Watson, and so was his wife, Janet Morrison, with the grievous defections and oppressions of the times. And never did Andrew bend his knees in family worship, but he prayed the Lord in behoof of the poor persecuted remnant, of the good and faithful Mr Alexander Wilson, the ousted minister of Cameron, and of a’ those that opposed Prelacy and conformity, and supported Presbytery, in thae sairly afflicted lands.
It was half-past one o’clock, on as beautiful a 3rd of May as ever burst, in glory and in song, upon the kingdom of Fife, in the year of grace 1679, when Peggy Watson—a girl about fourteen years of age, and daughter to the above-mentioned Andrew—entered her father’s door in a dreadful state of affright. It was some time before the poor girl could be brought to utter any coherent sounds at all; at last, she said that she and Tam Cargill, a neighbour’s boy had been amusing themselves in seeking for birds’ nests on Drumcarrow Craig, when she saw a number of men on horseback gathered round the tall ash tree, at the farm of Magus. By and by, a gentleman’s servant passed them on horseback, and then a fine coach appeared, drawn by six horses. When the coach passed (she said), the men under the tree set off at full gallop after it; and she heard firing, and loud speaking, and saw the coach overtaken, and stopped, and a man dragged out of it, and shot at, and murdered—she was quite sure that he was murdered. Thereupon, Tam Cargill had run off homewards in one direction, and she in another; for she was afraid the dreadful men might look up at Drumcarrow Craig, and murder her and her companion too. This narrative caused a great sensation in the family, and Andrew was at a loss how to understand it; for, although the archbishop’s treachery and cruelty were well known in the country, yet the more immediate object of popular detestation was Mr William Carmichael, sheriff-substitute of Fife, from whose hornings, and finings, and distrainings, and quarterings of a rapacious and sensual soldiery, scarcely any one individual, unconnected with the prelatic faction, had been excepted. Nothing farther occurred till about ten o’clock at night, when all the family had been summoned around a peat-fire, on a sandstone hearth, to family prayers. There were in all ten individuals, comprehending the lad, the lass, six bairns, of whom Peggy was the oldest, with the guidman and the guidwife, worshipping and nursing the youngest bairn at the same time. The dogs, which lay scattered about at their ease and convenience, and which seemed, hitherto, to be enjoying a comfortable repose, suddenly sprang to their legs, and gave tongue vociferously.
“Hide me,” ejaculated a young man, stout and square built, and of a somewhat prepossessing appearance. “O conceal me, honest Andrew Watson, for the pursuer is close at my heels!”
The Bible was immediately laid aside, and the whole family gathered round the strange intruder in the utmost consternation.
“Dear me!” said Andrew Watson, “and what has brought you about our hallen like an ill-doer, at this time o’ the night, and in sic a like manner. I wish ye haena been where ye sudna hae been, Mr George Balfour, my man. Are na the bonny woods o’ Gilston, o’er by there, sufficient to shelter the laird’s son in the hour o’ his difficulty and need?”
“I canna gang hame at ony rate—I have just seen, frae my hiding-hole in the Linns o’ Kenley, a whole band o’ soldiers scouring all over the country, and bearing down upon Gilston direct.”
“But——” Andrew was proceeding, when his well-known neighbour entreated of him to act and not to talk, for a party of dragoons would, in all probability, be at his door in a few seconds. What was to be done? The children screamed at the idea of dragoons; the guidwife wrung her hands, completely nonplussed; whilst Andrew, thinking for a moment, and ejaculating, “The son of the righteous father guilty or not, must not be deserted in his need; he asks shelter and secrecy, and he shall have both till morning, at least.” So saying, he conducted Mr George Balfour privately to a small barn immediately adjoining, and filling an empty sack nearly half-full of straw, he thrust his neighbour into it, bringing the straw up around his person and over his head—there being a sufficiency of holes towards the fastenings at the mouth of the sack, by which respiration could be effected, and even vision partially obtained. Having done this, Andrew placed the sack, head uppermost, in a recumbent position, in the centre of several other sacks filled apparently in a similar manner with grain. “There,” says Andrew, “stand ye there till morning; and gin ye hear the door open, and see armed men enter, beware of your breathing, for even that may betray you.”
Mr George Balfour had been seen passing Den Head, after the affair of the archbishop, and a herd callant had pointed his route out in the direction of Kinaldy farm-house. Thus instructed, a company of from ten to twelve dragoons surrounded the dwelling-house of Kinaldy about twelve o’clock at night, and, breaking up the door without any ceremony, proceeded immediately to search for the murderer. The children—even to that in the cradle—were all turned out naked; the cows were dislodged from their stakes, and set adrift in the fields; two horses were unstabled; and the dung-hill fowls were sent screaming and cackling from their perches in the byre. By and by, the barn occupied their attention; and having made short work of the door opening, they commenced cutting and thrusting with their broadswords amongst some straw which occupied the further end. One of the band laid his hand upon a sack, and finding that it contained oats, he immediately called for assistance, and carried it out to the adjoining field, emptying it immediately of its contents, and putting their horses to feed at will. Still the object of their pursuit was invisible, and they become more and more infuriated; so, taking the eldest girl, already mentioned, they questioned her, with their pistols at her breast, respecting what she had seen or knew. Fortunately, the girl was really ignorant, as was the whole family, except Andrew, of the hiding-place of him they were in pursuit of; but, terror-stricken as she was, she admitted that she had seen Mr George Balfour, whom she knew, in the house that very evening.
“Come, come,” said the leader of the troop—one of Carmichael’s instruments of oppression—“we will make short work of it, Andrew; either give up him we are in search of, or we will make a bonfire of the hail bigging, and leave you and these naked savages to warm your skins at the flames.” This they would actually have put into execution, had not a horseman arrived at the critical moment with information that Balfour of Burley had been traced to Dura Den, and that their immediate presence was required to surround the retreat on all sides, and capture the main instrument in the bloody transaction. A retreat was thereupon immediately sounded, but not till Andrew Watson had been assured that he, at least, should not escape, but that his property; if not his person, should pay dearly for harbouring a murderer. With great speed was the pass of Dura surrounded, and afterwards searched, even to that cave in the steep face of the rock, part of which is visible, immediately opposite to Yoolfield, even to this hour; but, if even Balfour had taken refuge here, as is, from several circumstances, more than probable, he had received warning in time, and had fled to Lanark, in the west country. So the avengers of blood were too late for their quarry, and were obliged to return to Cupar towards morning, with the report of their total failure in capturing any of the offenders.
In the meantime, Mr. George Balfour, younger of Gilston, escaped from his durance, and, without saying to any one in what direction he meant to retreat, escaped by Kenley Glen, from the old barn of Kinaldy. That he went on board a ship at Elie, and immediately got off to the Continent, was afterwards fully ascertained.
In the meantime, the poor family of Andrew Watson suffered most severely. They were dragged up to the Sheriff-court at Cupar, and, being examined on oath, were compelled to admit the concealment of Mr. George Balfour; they pled, as was true, their ignorance of the precise crime of which he had been guilty; for, although they might suspect the nature of the crime from what the girl had witnessed, and Mr. George himself had expressed, yet, no name had been mentioned by either party, and the accused was entitled to plead the benefit of ignorance on the main point. No matter; their goods were distrained by orders of the infamous Carmichael, and they themselves turned adrift as outlaws, to seek for shelter with the beasts of the field. Such doings in those days were not uncommon, and scarcely dared any one to express disapprobation, for fear of involving themselves in the same fate.
Houseless and homeless did Andrew Watson, his wife, and six children—of whom Peggy, already mentioned, was the eldest—take their way on the 15th day of May (old style), across the moors of Fife, towards Auchtermuchty, where an uncle of Andrew’s kept a small public house, and dealt a little in horse flesh. This uncle was a great favourite of Carmichael’s, and one of the most active informers against the non-conformists, and, in particular, against the murderers of the Archbishop. All this was known to Andrew; but what was to be done; he did not know where to turn himself; and, in the extremity of his condition, was, in a manner, compelled to seek for refuge where he had never hitherto placed any confidence. Wearied and worn out, the whole family arrived at Norman Watson’s about sunset, and found his wife at home, but not himself. Their piteous tale was told, and temporary sustenance rather grudgingly afforded, when Norman arrived himself—his face dreadfully flushed with drink and rage, and in words and with acts anything but friendly—he insisted upon their immediately leaving his threshold. His wife, though somewhat inclined to mercy and hospitality, was manifestly the slave of her husband’s temper, and she offered no resistance.
“O man!” exclaimed Andrew Watson, whilst he gathered up his weary limbs, and beckoned to his wife to nurse her child ere they departed—“O Norman, but ye are a hard-hearted man, and totally destitute of natural feelings! But the Lord will provide, in his own good way, for me and mine; whilst you, wha persecuted his chosen flock, shall be reduced, ay, to want and beggary.” This last expression touched old Norman even to frenzy; and he even lifted up the handle of a horse whip, which he had in his hand, to strike down his nephew with.
“Come on, man!—come on!” said Andrew. “Strike down and murder your brothers bairn, and send her there husbandless and them there fatherless, into the woods of Falkland; but ye canna strike down the uplifted arm of Him who now sees you, and who one day will reward the sinner according to his deeds. But shall e’en mak ye free of us.” And thus saying, he left the house, followed by a sobbing wife, and five weeping and screaming children. They wandered forth, in the dusk of a beautiful evening, into the woods of Falkland, and, sitting down under the shelter of a large oak tree, Andrew Watson proceeded to give out from memory, the 121st Psalm, which was sung by the whole family, with the exception of the child at the breast. It is impossible to conceive a more appropriate exercise in such a locality than this. The twin Lomonts rose to a considerable height above them. The moon had just taken possession of the southern sky, and looked mildly and benevolently down upon their sylvan resting-place. The sun had set in glory, and his beams yet lingered on the nor’-western sky. The air was warm, and the grass was dry, soft, and matted—the “tenaci gramine” of Horace. Before proceeding to conclude with prayer, and in consideration that they would not see to read a chapter from the small pocket Bible which had been spared to them, Andrew gave the following commentary on the psalm which had just been sung:—
‘I to the hills will lift mine eyes,’
Yes, there they lift their heads before us, the beautiful work of God—the twin Lomonts of His own creation!
‘From whence doth come mine aid.’
“O Lord of Hosts! do thou descend here as thou didst on Sinai and Horeb, and aid thy poor, wandering, houseless servants; for the aid and protection of man I have not; and unless thou leavest thy heavens and comest down, I and the wife of my bosom, and my poor little ones, must perish.”
Hereupon the voice of lamentation was heard; but it was suddenly repressed by Andrew springing to his feet, and repeating with great emphasis:—
“‘My safety cometh from the Lord,
Who Heaven and Earth hath made.
The moon by night thee shall not smite,
Nor yet the sun by day.’
“So we will e’en go to rest in the confidence of the fulfilment of His gracious promise.”
And, having prayed fervently, and placed the younger ones in each other’s arms, they laid themselves down and fell asleep. They must have slept long and soundly, for the sun was more than an hour risen, when a staghound was seen licking the face of Andrew Watson as he and his family lay in the woods of Falkland: in fact, Lord Crawfurd had left, that morning, his residence at Struthers, in the parish of Ceres, and had pursued a fallow deer, with “hound and horn,” into Falkland forest. The hounds had been taken off the scent by the unusual finding of a covey, as it were, of human beings beneath a tree, and sleeping in the open air; so this naturally excited observation, and his lordship himself, with several attendants, immediately rode up to the spot. The Earls of Crawfurd, from time immemorial, were distinguished not less by their high and noble descent, than by their princely bearing and kindly feeling; besides, they had all along aided the Reformation from its opening, and supported Presbytery against the inroads of Prelacy. The mournful story was told and listened to. A horseman was called upon, and dismissed on a secret errand, and the family were directed to make the best of their way to Struthers—the Fife residence of his lordship. An ample breakfast with the housekeeper awaited their arrival; and they were told after breakfast, that as his lordship’s hen-wife had died suddenly—a few days before—and no new appointment had been made, Andrew Watson should possess the lodge, which she formerly occupied at the gate. And whilst he looked after the gate, and a few black-faced sheep which were kept, for table use, in an adjoining park, his wife should take the management of the poultry.
Thus ended the trials of Andrew Watson, who lived to see his uncle bankrupt, turned out of house and hold, and carried to his grave, with scarcely a mourning attendant, in consequence of his own acts. Truly,
“The ways of God are righteous altogether.”