Hunted and Harried, R. M. Ballantyne [the unexpected everything txt] 📗

In February 1685 Charles the Second died—not without some suspicion of foul play. His brother, the Duke of York, an avowed Papist, ascended the throne as James the Second. This was a flagrant breach of the Constitution, and Argyll—attempting to avert the catastrophe by an invasion of Scotland at the same time that Monmouth should invade England—not only failed, but was captured and afterwards executed by the same instrument—the “Maiden”—with which his father’s head had been cut off nigh a quarter of a century before. As might have been expected, the persecutions were not relaxed by the new king.

When good old Cargill was martyred, a handsome fair young man was looking on in profound sorrow and pity. He was a youth of great moral power, and with a large heart. His name was James Renwick. From that hour this youth cast in his lot with the persecuted wanderers, and, after the martyrdom of Cameron and Cargill, and the death of Welsh, he was left almost alone to manage their affairs. The “Strict Covenanters” had by this time formed themselves into societies for prayer and conference, and held quarterly district meetings in sequestered places, with a regular system of correspondence—thus secretly forming an organised body, which has continued down to modern times.

It was while this young servant of God—having picked up the mantle which Cargill dropped—was toiling and wandering among the mountains, morasses, and caves of the west, that a troop of dragoons was seen, one May morning, galloping over the same region “on duty.” They swept over hill and dale with the dash and rattle of men in all the pride of youth and strength and the panoply of war. They were hasting, however, not to the battlefield but to the field of agriculture, there to imbrue their hands in the blood of the unarmed and the helpless.

At the head of the band rode the valiant Graham of Claverhouse. Most people at that time knew him as the “bloody Clavers,” but as we look at the gay cavalier with his waving plume, martial bearing, beautiful countenance, and magnificent steed, we are tempted to ask, “Has there not been some mistake here?” Some have thought so. One or two literary men, who might have known better, have even said so, and attempted to defend their position!

“Methinks this is our quarry, Glendinning,” said Claverhouse, drawing rein as they approached a small cottage, near to which a man was seen at work with a spade.

“Yes—that’s John Brown of Priesthill,” said the sergeant.

“You know the pestilent fanatic well, I suppose?”

“Ay. He gets the name o’ being a man of eminent godliness,” answered the sergeant in a mocking tone; “and is even credited with having started a Sabbath-school!”

John Brown, known as the “Christian carrier,” truly was what Glendinning had sneeringly described him. On seeing the cavalcade approach he guessed, no doubt, that his last hour had come, for many a time had he committed the sin of succouring the outlawed Covenanters, and he had stoutly refused to attend the ministry of the worthless curate George Lawless. Indeed it was the information conveyed to Government by that reverend gentleman that had brought Claverhouse down upon the unfortunate man.

The dragoons ordered him to proceed to the front of his house, where his wife was standing with one child in her arms and another by her side. The usual ensnaring questions as to the supremacy of the King, etcetera, were put to him, and the answers being unsatisfactory, Claverhouse ordered him to say his prayers and prepare for immediate death. Brown knew that there was no appeal. All Scotland was well aware by that time that soldiers were empowered to act the part of judge, jury, witness, and executioner, and had become accustomed to it. The poor man obeyed. He knelt down and prayed in such a strain that even the troopers, it is said, were impressed—at all events, their subsequent conduct would seem to countenance this belief. Their commander, however, was not much affected, for he thrice interrupted his victim, telling him that he had “given him time to pray, but not to preach.”

“Sir,” returned Brown, “ye know neither the nature of preaching nor praying if ye call this preaching.”

“Now,” said Claverhouse, “take farewell of your wife and children.”

After the poor man had kissed them, Claverhouse ordered six of his men to fire; but they hesitated and finally refused. Enraged at this their commander drew a pistol, and with his own hand blew out John Brown’s brains.

“What thinkest thou of thy husband now, woman?” he said, turning to the widow.

“I ever thought much good of him,” she answered, “and as much now as ever.”

“It were but justice to lay thee beside him,” exclaimed the murderer.

“If you were permitted,” she replied, “I doubt not but your cruelty would go that length.”

Thus far the excitement of the dreadful scene enabled the poor creature to reply, but nature soon asserted her sway. Sinking on her knees by the side of the mangled corpse, the widow, neither observing nor caring for the departure of the dragoons, proceeded to bind up her husband’s shattered skull with a kerchief, while the pent-up tears burst forth.

The house stood in a retired, solitary spot, and for some time the bereaved woman was left alone with God and her children; but before darkness closed in a human comforter was sent to her in the person of Quentin Dick.

On his arrival in Wigtown, Quentin, finding that his friends the Wilson girls had been imprisoned with an old covenanter named Mrs McLachlan, and that he could not obtain permission to see them, resolved to pay a visit to John Brown, the carrier, who was an old friend, and who might perhaps afford him counsel regarding the Wilsons. Leaving Ramblin’ Peter behind to watch every event and fetch him word if anything important should transpire, he set out and reached the desolated cottage in the evening of the day on which his friend was shot.

Quentin was naturally a reserved man, and had never been able to take a prominent part with his covenanting friends in conversation or in public prayer, but the sight of his old friend’s widow in her agony, and her terrified little ones, broke down the barrier of reserve completely. Although a stern and a strong man, not prone to give way to feeling, he learned that night the full meaning of what it is to “weep with those that weep.” Moreover, his tongue was unloosed, and he poured forth his soul in prayer, and quoted God’s Word in a way that cheered, in no small degree, his stricken friend. During several days he remained at Priesthill, doing all in his power to assist the family, and receiving