The next resting-place seems to have been in the midst of the "Lang Whang"—a barren and bleak muir, which stretches eastward ten or eleven miles beyond Carnwath. Here an enclosure was effected by means of stakes and ropes, as the binding system had been found ineffectual, there being generally some method adopted by the fettered sufferers to relieve themselves. Within this enclosure these three hundred men stood or lay during a dark and a rainy night, without fire, and with very scanty provisions; whilst the demons on the outside of the enclosure lighted up fires of the heath, and of some peats which were found ready dried in the neighbourhood, and spent the night in roasting all manner of barn-door fowls, pigs, and even sheep, which they had captured as they passed along. Refreshment of a spirituous character was not denied them; and their songs, and their blasphemies, and their insulting language, "rose up in the midst of the wilderness" as Govan expresses it—"to the throne of the Most High, calling for vengeance in the day of retribution, on the head of the oppressor."
"This," continues he, "is a second morning, and a cold, and a gloomy, and a dreadful one it is. Clavers and his attendants are galloping up from Carnwath, where they have been spending the night in jollification wi' the laird; and we are just about to renew our dismal march. My leg is exceedingly troublesome; but, as we advance but slowly, I make a shift to get on. One man died last night raving mad; and another, I much fear, has put an end, with his own hand, to an unendurable existence. O Lord, give me strength to bear whatever thy wisdom sees meet to inflict!"
From the Lang Whang, the Grass Market was reached on the succeeding evening, and, after being united with two hundred prisoners from Stirling, they were all marched from the Grass Market; and, after some seasonable refreshment, ordered by the humane and kind-hearted Duke of Monmouth, into the Greyfriars' Churchyard, there to abide—from the month of June to that of December following—all the peltings of the pitiless storm, without a sufficiency of food, and entirely without covering.
Men of Scotland, was there ever anything like this? Can the remembrance of such atrocities ever be obliterated? Can century upon century, as they slowly roll on their course, ever place these events, and this event in particular, beyond the range of your interest? We read with horror of the scaffold and the guillotine; but what immediate death could equal in atrocity their protracted sufferings? Friends have they, indeed, within these walls, but they cannot, or but seldom, and at great risk, obtain an entrance. Many are disposed to supply the houseless prisoner with couch and covering, but they only supply additional means of debauchery to the ruffian soldiery. The chambers of the many dead are defiled and rendered pestilential by the presence of the many living. Death, in ordinary circumstances, is a boon to this. Winter approaching—(nay, has arrived)—the sleety shower plashing over the Castle—the whirling drifts, eddying about, amongst, and beneath the tombstones—the wild, long, endless night, to which succeeds no dawn of comfort—no warm chamber—no invigorating and cheering meal. Oh, honest and fearless shades, tell us all! how did you stand it? How was it that you did not sell your remaining strength as dearly as possible?—that you did not rush like tigers upon your guards, and perish whilst rending them with your teeth and nails? But ye are silent as becomes ye; so I must apply to honest John Govan's MS.
"This is now the sixth week that I have dwelt in this dreary place. Oh, happy they who lie beneath! they are covered, and feel not our privations, and pains, and sufferings; and yet freedom and home is offered to us, and accepted by many. God forgive them, if it be His will!—but John Govan will never accept his liberty on such terms. His mother's shade would rise up in judgment. Shall I take their infamous oaths, or subscribe their no less infamous bonds? Shall I swear that the Bishop's death is murder, and that the resistance of an oppressed and persecuted people is rebellion? Shall I 'bind, oblige, and enact myself,' that I shall not hereafter take up arms in so good a cause? No! I will sooner perish, inch by inch; I will sooner suffer the tortures of the boot, and the final cruel judgment of the maiden. Men are yet unborn that will bless us—a whole people, happy in a pure religion and a free government, will adore the memory of the most humble son of the Covenant; they will build and erect pillars and monuments to our memory; they will count, anxiously count, kindred with us; they will record and register our deeds and our sufferings; and, when this world, with all its interests, shall have ceased to exist, we shall be in everlasting remembrance."
Thus reasoned, and thus were supported, these men, who set at defiance threats, and entreaties, and insidious reasonings; who valued the approbation of their own consciences above every other; who feared their God, and had no other fear.
As winter drew on, the intercourse with the inhabitants of Edinburgh became more frequent and less easily obstructed. It was absolutely necessary that brothers, and even sisters, and wives, and mothers, should be permitted occasionally to carry some warm broth, or some still stronger stimulants, to those whose rations were so limited, and whose exposure to the cold air was so dismally protracted. Even partial scaffoldings were erected around the churchyard, and towards the east, or town side in particular; and some imperfect, no doubt, but still acceptable shelter, was thus extended to the perishing inmates. It was not possible that disease should not walk in the train of so much deprivation. Many died of fever; some of consumption or bad colds; and not a few of downright debility. The guards, too, became tired of the monotony of their task, and often retired into adjoining taverns to keep up their spirits. Some escaped by one means and some by another; one in the dress of a sister, and another in the garb of a mason. An Act of Indemnity was at last passed, from which, however, about twenty were exempted, and perhaps nine or ten executed. John Govan seems to have survived these dismal times by some years; for I find him next on Magus Muir, encouraging and supporting his friends who suffered. His concluding sentences are these:—
"I have seen, I have seen—mine eyes have seen thy salvation; Presbytery, my beloved Presbytery, established by law; freedom of conscience secured to all; a Protestant King; a Protestant government; every man dwelling in peace, under his own vine and his own fig-tree; mine own son delivering the word of God to a Protestant congregation, and protected by law. My old age has been soothed by many comforts; the partner of my fortunes and sharer of all my trials still alive, and capable of uniting with me in the song of thanksgiving—verily, the Lord has been merciful and gracious, and I now await his divine pleasure with perfect resignation. I am old, and have had my day. I trust I have not altogether neglected my duty; and when it shall be His blessed will to call me, I will depart cheerfully home, and appear in his presence. My sins and imperfections are indeed many; but I know in whom I have believed, and to whom I have committed the soul, my immortal part. Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace."
Thus far honest John Govan, who seems to have slept with his fathers a year or two after the Revolution, in the eighty-fourth year of his age. The papers, John Brown informed me, passed into his grandfather's keeping, in consequence of the friendship which continued to exist betwixt the Govans and the Browns; the Govans having long ago emigrated to America, and left the Browns a bequest of books, and these papers besides.