Tales of the Covenanters

by Ellen Emma Guthrie

The narrow space in which they were enclosed was scarcely of size sufficient to contain a hundred men, and yet nearly thrice that number were thrust in by their unfeeling jailors; men, regardless alike of the safety and misery of those entrusted to their care. Several of the poor fellows were so dreadfully ill, that their more robust companions were obliged to stand upright, in order to afford their sick companions room to stretch their tortured limbs. The prayers and entreaties addressed to the captain by the almost stifled prisoners that some of their party might be allowed to go upon deck, were for a long time unheeded, until at length he was obliged, from the continued indisposition of the men, to accede to their request. Accordingly, about fifty of the strongest were removed to upper deck, where they soon recovered from the sad effects of their late confinement. The weather hitherto had been favourable for their voyage, but soon a succession of fearful storms arose, and the ship seemed entirely at the mercy of the waves. On the tenth of December the crew found themselves lying off Orkney, a coast dreaded by sailors, on account of the stormy sea surrounding it. Perceiving for the first time the full extent of their danger, the captain, as the ship was already within reach of the shore, ordered the sailors to cast anchor, which being done, they awaited with impatience the abating of the storm. But towards evening the hurricane increased in intensity, and about ten o'clock at night the sea, lashed into fury by the terrific violence of the wind, forced the ill-fated ship from its anchor, and dashed it in twain on the rocks. Hearing the dreadful crash, the wretched prisoners, fearing shipwreck, implored to be put on shore, wherever the captain pleased, but their request was denied; and the sailors in terror and dismay tore down the mast, and laying it between the vessel and the rocks, prepared to save themselves from impending shipwreck. "My God," exclaimed William Telford, who was one of those placed upon deck, horrified on seeing that the crew made no attempts to open the hatches, which, chained and locked, confined the suffering inmates in a living tomb, "are you going to leave your prisoners thus?" At this instant a huge wave dashed over the ship, and overwhelming several of the men exposed to its fury in its fearful embrace, consigned them to a watery grave. "Men, fiends!" reiterated young Telford, making frantic efforts to break open the hatches as he spoke, "there will be a fearful reckoning to pay for this night's work." With shouts of derisive laughter, the sailors crossed the prostrate mast, and reached the shore in safety. Some of the poor fellows who imitated their example were thrown back by them into the sea, but about forty, in spite of all efforts made to destroy them, wore successful in their attempt.

Perceiving the imminent danger in remaining where he was, William Telford, having abandoned all hopes of freeing the prisoners, prepared to follow his companions along the mast. On his reaching the beach, one of the sailors strove to prevent his landing, but greatly his superior in strength and agility, young Telford seized the ruffian by the throat, and dashed him senseless on the ground. And now was accomplished one of the most fearful tragedies ever recorded in history. The storm at this moment seemed to have reached the climax of its fury; the thunder rolled, and the blue lightning danced around the sinking vessel, while foam crested waves rose mountains high, and then dashed with terrific violence over her yielding spars. But louder than the crash of the pealing thunder—far above the roaring of the mighty billows was heard the death-wail of the wretched prisoners, as they sunk beneath the heaving tallows; there to remain until that dread day when the murdered and their murderers shall stand before the great white throne—when the sea, at the command of its Creator, shall yield up the dead which have slept for ages in its mighty depths.

Months have elapsed since the fearful event we have just narrated took place, and Jeanie Irving is once more seated by her father's fireside, still pale and exhausted from the effects of her late severe illness. She has heard of the fatal shipwreck—she knows that her lover is no more, and has learned to say with resignation, "Not my will, but thine be done!" It is Sunday evening, and the grey-haired father is seated at the table with the Bible before him, from which he reads aloud words of joy and consolation. It is the fourteenth chapter of John, and Jeanie, her eyes filled with tears, is listening with breathless attention to the beautiful words of inspiration, when a low tap at the door arrests their attention. No answer is vouchsafed in return to the invitation to enter, but a quick step is heard in the passage, it approaches nearer, the door opens, and Jeanie Irving falls fainting into the arms of William Telford.

Now, added Mr. Anderson, at the conclusion of his story, you must not imagine, although I have dwelt at a considerable length on the sufferings causelessly inflicted on the Covenanters, that I altogether take their part, far from it; as I think in some instances they were much to blame. For instance, when they assembled together for the purpose of having divine worship, instead of going quietly and respectably with only their Bibles in their hands as beseemeth Christians, there they were armed with swords and guns, only too ready to use them should occasion require, that was entirely going against the doctrine of St. Paul, who says, "For though we walk in the flesh, we do not war after the flesh. (For the weapons of our warfare are not carnal, but mighty through God to the pulling down of strongholds.") Why, if we were to assemble in that way now-a-days, singing psalms of defiance in the glens, with fire-arms beside us, wouldn't the present government be down upon us in no time? and quite right too, say I; for I am quite of opinion they were as much to blame as the royalists, and if they could, would have been quite as cruel. Look, for instance, at the murder of Archbishop Sharpe, although there can be no doubt he was a cruel, relentless foe to their cause, yet they should have respected his grey hairs, and spared him at the request of his daughter. And, again, I do not believe all the stories told in the Scotch Worthies, such as that one of Peden and some of his friends being saved while on the moors, just at the moment the dragoons were coming down upon them, by his praying that a mist might surround them to the discomfiture of their enemies, and that instantly, on his ceasing to pray, they were enveloped in a fog. I do not mean to say that a mist did not conceal them from their enemies, but that it was chance, and not a miracle, as they pretended. For many a time, when on the heights myself, have I been overtaken by these fogs, which come down so suddenly that there is no escaping from them, and very disagreeable things they are when one is far removed from a house of any kind, and there is not light sufficient to guide one on one's way.

"Ay, ay," said Mrs. Anderson, addressing her husband, "but for all that ye say, Mr. Peden was a great prophet;" then turning towards me, she continued. "when I was a little girl I resided for some time wi' a farmer who lived on the celebrated farm of Wellwood, near Airdsmoss, and used to hear a great deal about Mr. Peden. You must know that he is buried at Cumnock. He was first interred in the Laird of Affleck's aisle (Auchenleck), a mile distant, but was lifted, as he predicted, by soldiers, and conveyed to the foot of Cumnock gallows, which stands near the village. That spot soon came to be used as the public burying-grouud, and, in my younger days, was a very pretty rustic graveyard. But it is said that before his death, Peden stated that after his second burial a thorn bush should grow at his head, and an ash tree at his feet; and when the branches of each met, there should be a bloody battle in Shankson wood (about a mile distant), where the blood would be up to the horse's bridles. The thorn did grow, and is there yet, I believe, and many slips have been taken from it by strangers, but the ash is said to have been pulled up ere it was large enough to touch the thorn, so the battle never took place. And I mind weel o' a strange epitaph that was on an ancient tomb-stone beside Peden's grave, which, if I remember rightly, was something like this:—'Here lies David Dun and Simon Paterson, who was shot in this place for their adherence to the word of God and the covenanting work of reformation, 1685,' (the black year.) There was also another stone, just in front of Peden's grave, but I forget the precise words; they ran, however, nearly as follows:—

'Halt, passengers, and I will tell to thee

For what and how I here did dee,

For always in my station.

Adhering to the work of reformation,

I was in on time of prayer

By Douglas (Colonel) shot;

O, cruelty, ne'er to be forgot.'

Now ye see," she continued, "there are no less than three poor men, there may be more for all that I mind o', lying in Cumnock burying-ground who were shot by the royalists, and I think, Willie," she said, again addressing her husband, "seeing that your own forefathers all fought in the good cause, you need'na say just sae much in favour o' their adversaries."

"Dear me," said Mr. Anderson, in reply to this rebuke, "I am not denying that there were many cruel actions done in these sad times, but I am just saying that I don't believe all the stories told in the Scots' Worthies: do you imagine for one moment that I can credit that one about open, open to the Duke o' Drumlanrig? No, nor any other sensible person."

"What one was that?" I inquired.

"Oh, just some idle tale not worth repeating——"