The truth of this story—like that of John Brown of Priesthill, though attested by a letter of Claverhouse himself (See Dr Cunningham’s History of the Church of Scotland, volume two, page 239.)—has been called in question, and the whole affair pronounced a myth! We have no space for controversy, but it is right to add that if it be a myth, the records of the Kirk-sessions of Kirkinner and Penninghame—which exist, and in which it is recorded—must also be mythical. The truth is, that both stories have been elaborately investigated by men of profound learning and unquestionable capacity, and the truth of them proved “up to the hilt.”
As to Graham of Claverhouse—there are people, we believe, who would whitewash the devil if he were only to present himself with a dashing person and a handsome face! But such historians as Macaulay, McCrie, McKenzie, and others, refuse to whitewash Claverhouse. Even Sir Walter Scott—who was very decidedly in sympathy with the Cavaliers—says of him in Old Mortality: “He was the unscrupulous agent of the Scottish Privy Council in executing the merciless seventies of the Government in Scotland during the reigns of Charles the Second and James the Second;” and his latest apologist candidly admits that “it is impossible altogether to acquit Claverhouse of the charges laid to his account.” We are inclined to ask, with some surprise, Why should he wish to acquit him? But Claverhouse himself, as if in prophetic cynicism, writes his own condemnation as to character thus: “In any service I have been in, I never inquired further in the laws than the orders of my superior officer.” An appropriate motto for a “soldier of fortune,” which might be abbreviated and paraphrased into “Stick at nothing!”
Coupling all this with the united testimony of tradition, and nearly all ancient historians, we can only wonder at the prejudice of those who would still weave a chaplet for the brow of “Bonnie Dundee.”
Turning now from the south-west of Scotland, we direct attention to the eastern seaboard of Kincardine, where, perched like a sea-bird on the weatherbeaten cliffs, stands the stronghold of Dunnottar Castle.
Down in the dungeons of that rugged pile lies our friend Andrew Black, very different from the man whose fortunes we have hitherto followed. Care, torment, disease, hard usage, long confinement, and desperate anxiety have graven lines on his face that nothing but death can smooth out. Wildly-tangled hair, with a long shaggy beard and moustache, render him almost unrecognisable. Only the old unquenchable fire of his eye remains; also the kindliness of his old smile, when such a rare visitant chances once again to illuminate his worn features. Years of suffering had he undergone, and there was now little more than skin and bone of him left to undergo more.
“Let me hae a turn at the crack noo,” he said, coming forward to a part of the foul miry dungeon where a crowd of male and female prisoners were endeavouring to inhale a little fresh air through a crevice in the wall. “I’m fit to choke for want o’ a breath o’ caller air.”
As he spoke a groan from a dark corner attracted his attention. At once forgetting his own distress, he went to the place and discovered one of the prisoners, a young man, with his head pillowed on a stone, and mire some inches deep for his bed.
“Eh, Sandy, are ye sae far gane?” asked Black, kneeling beside him in tender sympathy.
“Oh, Andry, man—for a breath o’ fresh air before I dee!”
“Here! ane o’ ye,” cried Black, “help me to carry Sandy to the crack. Wae’s me, man,” he added in a lower voice, “I could hae carried you ye wi’ my pirlie ance, but I’m little stronger than a bairn noo.”