So saying, the troop, with the exception of two, galloped off for Drumlanrig, the seat of the Douglasses of Queensberry.
The following Sabbath was clear, cold, and frosty, and the ground where the people met was dry, and free from snow. The crowd was immense; many stood all day; some brought stools and benches; and an old fallen ash-tree was completely occupied by human beings. The manse-family, with some of the better classes, were accommodated under the tent; whilst the young Laird of Closeburn (for which he was afterwards severely fined) sat in the tent behind the speaker. In the papers of this good man already mentioned, I find the following reflections written manifestly on the eve of the Communion Sabbath:—“The Lord has been very good and very gracious this day. Five hundred Presbyterian believers partook this day of the bread of life. There was no hand to help—no voice to rouse but mine, and that of my poor dying child. My text—‘I will not leave you comfortless,’ John xiv. 18—afforded me great openings of the spirit, and His blessed spirit was indeed upon me this day in this great work; but my poor boy has laboured too hard in preaching and in prayer.”
On Monday morning, the manse of Penpont was surrounded by carts and waggons, and the plenishing of the minister was conveyed to several places of safety in the parish, awaiting the return, if ever they should arrive, of better times. The weather was exceedingly stormy; and, to attempt an immediate journey through the Lauder Hills, towards the north, was altogether impossible. Yet whosoever should harbour this ousted family, under existing circumstances, would do so at their own peril, as well as that of the proscribed individuals. When the cart, borrowed from a kind neighbour, set out with the aged, the blind, and the sick, there was one universal wailing heard from the surrounding parishioners; nor did the procession separate, till they had reached the then very small village of Thornhill, where the poor, expatriated family had agreed to spend the first night in a small public-house, till some ulterior measure could be resolved upon. Poor William was immediately put to bed, for he was sadly exhausted by the previous preaching and travel, as well as by that mental anxiety which cuts through the body, as the sword does the scabbard. To remove him in this state seemed impossible; and yet, to remain with him was dangerous in the extreme; for Dalziell, accustomed to the massacre of Turks and Russians, cared no more for life, or for sickness, than for matters of the most ordinary interest! Accordingly, on the second day, a detachment of soldiers was sent from Drumlanrig, with orders to convey Samuel Austin, dead or alive, to his destined place of banishment, beyond the Tay, to which place many of the non-conforming ministers of the south of Scotland had already been removed. It was a sad, sad parting for a father, who thought that he would never more see his son alive, and for a son, who loved and valued his father’s benediction over his last moments so highly; but there was no remedy; and Mr Austin was marched off for Leadhills about ten o’clock in the morning, accompanied by three rank and file well armed men. To paint the separation is impossible; even the hard-hearted soldiers, inured as they were to all Dalziell’s cruelties, were moved; but it was but an involuntary and momentary feeling, which soon gave way to the recollection of their strict and military order. Away they marched onwards, slowly and with difficulty, by Carron Bridge and Durrisdeer. At Durrisdeer they halted for refreshment; and under some faint hope of some means or other occurring to favour his escape, Austin supplied the soldiers with a handsome sum to drink his health with, and he even affected to become jovial on the occasion, and ultimately won that most dangerous of all designations—“a good fellow.” One of the soldiers became ultimately obstinate and quarrelsome, and swore that he would march no farther that night. In vain did his companions remonstrate with him—he swore he would shoot the first man that laid hold of him, and fell suddenly fast asleep in his chair. The other two, though considerably touched, were still determined to march up the Well Path, and to reach Elwand foot that night. The Well Path is a narrow ravine, which runs through the range of mountains which separate Nithsdale from Clydesdale. The hills on either hand are high, and almost perpendicular, and the pass beneath is rough and winding; in snow, in particular, very difficult to keep, and very dangerous to miss. Away, however, they marched; and, with great difficulty, contrived to get to about the middle of the pass. By this time the day, or rather evening, had darkened down, and the yird drift had become choaking and perplexing. The path was covered over, and smoothed in with snow, and beneath was a precipice of some hundreds of feet, a tumble over which would probably be fatal. Austin was well acquainted with the pass, but so were not the soldiers; and, having now reached the famous well from which the path derives its name, they halted, and Austin drew out from his pocket a bottle pretty well filled with brandy, which he had secretly provided against accident at the inn. The men, in succession, drew pretty copiously from this source of refreshment, till, at last, fearing that they might fall fast asleep in the snow, and thus perish, Mr Austin urged them to proceed. To this they still had reason and prudence left to assent, and immediately pushed, recklessly and speedily, through the snow; but, having pushed in a wrong direction, they instantly disappeared, the one catching hold of the other, and both tumbling down the abyss.
It was about four o’clock in the morning, when the mother and blind aunt were standing at the bedside of the dying lad. He had become very rapidly worse since his father’s departure, and had occasionally been delirious; calling aloud for his father—his dear father, without whom he was unable to live. There was a small lamp or cruise burning on a chest-lid by his bedside, and his mother sat at his head with a cup of cold water, whilst the blind woman was rubbing his legs, which now, alas! had begun to swell. The tempest howled without, and an unfeeling landlord snored loudly and fitfully from a bed in the adjoining chamber. All at once, William Austin became more composed, and began to repeat various texts and psalms—discoursing from them—as his mother said, most beautifully, and, ever and anon, declaring that this was the last night he would ever see. All at once he paused—and, looking fearfully wild, and forcing himself up from his pillow, he exclaimed—
“My father—my father—my dear, persecuted father!”
His mother and aunt, whose faces were turned to his, imagined that he had begun suddenly to rave, and tried to press him down on his pillow, when the well-known voice of Samuel Austin was indeed heard declaring—
“It is I—it is I, indeed!—your earthly, and real father, whom the Lord has delivered, for this special purpose, from his enemies, that he might see and bless his beloved boy, once more, ere he depart;” but, alas—alas! laying hold of his son’s hand, and finding it cold, and, at the same time, marking the fatal signal in the throat, “My boy—my boy is gone—he is gone to his God! Let us pray.”
And, hereupon, he uttered the most composed and comforting prayer, thanking his Maker for the loan—the pleasing loan; and expressing his gratitude for the removal from the evil to come, which had just taken place. Meanwhile, the mother and aunt had ascertained the truth of the father’s averment, and were bathing the cold brow of the lovely boy with their tears.
An explanation then took place; from which it appeared that, after the soldiers had tumbled over the precipice, Mr Austin had made his way backwards, with the view of seeing his beloved son once more before he died, and of giving him a father’s blessing. The precipice, he said, besides, over which the soldiers had tumbled, was so covered in with snow, and so formed by nature, that he had little doubt but that they would escape, with some bruises, perhaps, but with life. In these circumstances, his adjourn at Thornhill would probably be short; as the men would naturally infer that he would return, rather than advance, in their absence. In the meantime, a coffin was prepared, and the body was removed to Mortontown (a village now extinct), where a relation of his, an uncle, tenanted a small farm from the Douglas of Drumlanrig. This being closely adjoining to the kirkyard, the body was quietly and secretly, during the second night after the decease, deposited in the grave; and, much to the astonishment of his friends at the time, another coffin was kept empty in the room beside him. His wife and uncle having expressed their surprise at this, he disclosed to them his plan, which was, to take possession of the box, with the suitable cover over it, and other necessary precautions with regard to air, should a search for him be made within a few days; and that, if necessary, they should carry him out on spokes to the churchyard, through the file of soldiers, as if it were his son’s body. As he had anticipated, so it happened—the same three men who had accompanied him before, assisted by a fourth, a sergeant, surrounded the dwelling, and passed their swords, as usual, through everything piercable in the house; swearing and roaring, and eating and drinking, all the while. The coffin, however, even they respected; and, having seen it conveyed out of doors, and in the act of being carried towards the grave, they uttered a horrible quartette of oaths and departed, determined to find out the old fox in the old den—namely, at Penpont. Thus, by his own forethought and sagacity, were these wicked men put upon a wrong scent; and ultimately, broken and cashiered by their commanding officer, for a criminal, and seemingly irremediable, neglect of duty.
Brownrig is now united with the adjoining farm of Mitchelslacks; but it was, at this time, tenanted by a Mr Hunter, a predecessor of the late distinguished Professor of Humanity, at St Andrew’s. This honest man, Halbert Hunter, was a decided Covenanter; and had often walked from ten to fifteen miles, of a Sabbath morning, to hear Mr Austin preach. His residence was in the wildest division of the parish of Closeburn, and very far removed from neighbours. Having heard of Mr Austin’s misfortunes, Honest Hab—for by that name this worthy man was familiarly known—set out westward, with the view of tracing out Mr Austin’s retreat, and, at all risks, offering him a refuge in his remote and obscure dwelling. But nobody could give him information; and he was upon the point of returning home to Brownrig again, without attaining the purpose, when, in passing Morton Manse, his horse, scared at some clothes which were hanging, hard-frozen, and rattling in the twilight wind, suddenly reared, and, throwing him off, he was severely bruised, and carried into the farm of Mortontown, where Mr Austin was actually lodged. Great care was at first taken to keep Mr Austin and his family out of the way; but, as soon as old Halbert was recognized, and his errand accertained, the Lord’s doing was instantly perceptible, and the evening was spent in pious conversation and devotional exercise.