CHAPTER VIII.
THE CURATE OF DALRY.
When I returned to Earlstoun I found the house in sad disorder. MaisieLennox I found not, for she had ridden to the Duchrae to meet her fatherand to keep the house, which had had some unwonted immunity latelybecause of the friendship of the McGhies of Balmaghie. For old RogerMcGhie was a King's man and in good favour, though he never went farfrom home. But only patrolled his properties, lundering such Whigs ascame his way with a great staff, but tenderly withal and mostly forshow. His daughter Kate, going the way of most women folk, was thebitterest Whig and most determined hearer of the field-preachers in theparish. Concerning which her father full well knew, but could neitheralter nor mend, even as Duke Rothes himself could not change his lady'sliking. Yet for Kate McGhie's sake the hunt waxed easier in all theheadend of Balmaghie. And during this lown blink, old Anton came homefrom the hills to take the comforts of the bien and comfortable house ofthe Duchrae, for it promised to be a bitter and unkindly season. So theEarlstoun looked a little bare without Maisie Lennox, and I was gladthat I was to be but a short time in it.
For another thing, the soldiers had been before me, and by order of theCouncil had turned the whole gear and plenishing over to find my brotherAlexander--which indeed seeing what he had done at Bothwell, we canhardly wonder at. Even the intervention of our well-affected cousin ofLochinvar could not prevent this. The horses were driven away, thecattle lifted to be provender for the King's forces in the parish ofCarsphairn and elsewhere. And it would go hard with us--if indeed weshould even be permitted to keep the place that had been ours forgenerations.
My mother was strongly advised that, as I had not been mixed with theoutbreaks, it was just scant possible that I might make something of anappeal to the Privy Council for the continuing of the properties, andthe substituting of a fine. I was therefore to ride to Edinburgh withwhat attendance I could muster, and with Wat Gordon of Lochinvar to leadme as a bairn by the hand.
But it was with a sad heart and without much pleasure, save in having myfather's silver mounted pistols (for I counted myself no mean marksman),that John Meiklewood, Hughie and I rode off from the arched door of theEarlstoun. My mother stood on the step and waved me off with no tear inher eye; and even poor Jean Hamilton, from the window whence she couldsee the great oak where my brother, her husband, was in hiding, caused akerchief to show white against the grey wall of Earlstoun. I think thepoor feckless bit thing had a sort of kindness for me. But when therewas hardly the thickness of an eggshell between her man and death, itwas perhaps small wonder that she cherished some jealousy of me, ridingwhither I listed over the wide, pleasant moors where the bumble beesdroned and the stooping wild birds cried all the livelong day.
At St. John's Clachan of Dalry we were to meet with Wildcat Wat, who waswaiting to ride forth with us to Edinburgh upon his own ploys. Wedismounted at the inn where John Barbour, honest man, had put out thesign of his profession. It was a low, well-thatched change-house,sitting with its end to the road in the upper part of the village, withgood offices and accommodation for man and horse about it--the samehostel indeed in which the matter of Rullion Green took its beginning.Wat came down the street with his rapier swinging at his side, hisfeathered Cavalier hat on his head, and he walked with a grace thatbecame him well. I liked the lad, and sometimes it almost seemed to methat I might be his father, though indeed our years were pretty equal.For being lame and not a fighter, neither craving ladies' favours, I wasthe older man, for the years of them that suffer score the lines deeperon a man's brow--and on his heart also.
When Wat Gordon mounted into the saddle with an easy spring his horsebent back its head and curveted, biting at his foot. So that I rejoicedto see the brave lad sitting like a dart, holding his reins as I hold mypen, and resting his other hand easily on his thigh. John Scarlet, hisman-at-arms, mounted and rode behind him; and when I saw them up,methought there was not a pair that could match them in Scotland. Yet Iknew that with the pistolets at paces ten or twenty, I was the master ofboth. And perhaps it was this little scrap of consolation that made mefeel so entirely glad to see my cousin look so bright and bonny. Indeedhad I been his lass--or one of them, for if all tales be true he hadrouth of such--I could not have loved better to see him shine in thecompany of men like the young god Apollo among the immortals, as theheathens feign.
At the far end of the village there came one out of a white house andsaluted us. I knew him well, though I had never before seen him so near.It was Peter McCaskill, the curate of the parish. But, as we of thestrict Covenant did not hear even the Indulged ministers, it was notlikely that we would see much of the curate. Nevertheless I had heardmany tales of his sayings and his humours, for our curate was not asmost others--dull and truculent knaves many of them, according to mythinking--the scourings of the North. Peter was, on the other hand, amost humoursome varlet and excellent company on a wet day. Sandy and heused often to take a bottle together when they foregathered at John's inthe Clachan; but even the Bull of Earlstoun could not keep steeks orcount mutchkins with Peter McCaskill, the curate of Dalry.
On this occasion he stopped and greeted us. He had on him a black coatof formal enough cut, turned green with age and exposure to the weather.I warrant it had never been brushed since he had put it on his back, andthere seemed good evidence upon it that he had slept in it for a monthat least.
"Whaur gang ye screeving to, young sirs, so brave?" he cried. "Be cannyon the puir Whiggies. Draw your stick across their hurdies when ye comeon them, an' tell them to come to the Clachan o' Dalry, where they willhear a better sermon than ever they gat on the muirs, or my name's noPeter McCaskill."
"How now, Curate," began my cousin, reining in his black and sitting atease, "are you going to take to the hill and put Peden's nose out ofjoint?"
"Faith, an' it's my mither's ain son that could fettle that," said thecurate. "I'm wae for the puir Whiggies, that winna hear honest doctrinean' flee to the hills and hags--nesty, uncanny, cauldrife places thatthe very muir-fowl winna clock on. Ken ye what I was tellin' them theither day? Na, ye'll no hae heard--it's little desire ye hae for eitherkirk or Covenant, up aboot the Garryhorn wi' red-wud Lag and headstrongJohn Graham. Ye need as muckle to come and hear Mess John pray as theblackest Whig o' them a'!"
"Indeed, we do not trouble you much, Curate," laughed my cousin; "buthere is my cousin Will of Earlstoun," he said, waving his hand to me,"and he is nearly as good as a parson himself, and can pray by screeds."
Which was hardly a just thing to say, for though I could pray and readmy Bible too when I listed, I did not trouble him or any other with thematter. Cain, indeed, had something to say for himself--for it is a hardthing to be made one's brother's keeper. There are many ways that maytake me to the devil. But, I thank God, officiousness in other men'smatters shall not be one of them.
"He prays, does he?" quoth McCaskill, turning his shaggy eyebrows on me."Aweel, I'll pray him ony day for a glass o' John's best. PeterMcCaskill needs neither read sermon nor service-book. He leaves sic-likeat hame, and the service ye get at his kirk is as guid and godly as ginauld Sandy himsel' were stelled up in a preaching tent an' threttywizzened plaided wives makkin' a whine in the heather aneath!"
"How do you and the other Peter up the way draw together?" asked mycousin.
The curate snapped his fingers.
"Peter Pearson o' Carsphairn--puir craitur, he's juist fair daft wi' hisridin' an' his schemin'. He will hear a pluff o' pouther gang blaff athis oxter some fine day, that he'll be the waur o'! An' sae I hae telledhim mony's the time. But Margate McCaskill's son is neither a Whighunter nor yet as this daft Peter Pearson. He bides at hame an' mindshis glebe. But for a' that I canna control the silly fowk. I was fearin'them the ither day," he went on. "I gied it oot plain frae the pulpitthat gin they didna come as far as the kirkyaird at ony rate, I wad tak'no more lees on my conscience for their sakes. I hae plenty o' my ain togar me fry. 'But,' says I, 'I'll report ye as attendin' the kirk, gin yewalk
frae yae door o' the kirk to the ither withoot rinnin'. Nae man cansay fairer nor that.'"
"An' what said ye next, Curate?" asked my cousin, for his talk amused usmuch, and indeed there were few merry things in these sad days.
"Ow," said Peter McCaskill, "I juist e'en said to them, 'Black be yourfa'. Ye are a' off to the hills thegither. Hardly a tyke or messan but'sawa' to Peden to get her whaulpies named at the Holy Linn! But I declareto ye a', what will happen in this parish. Sorra gin I dinna inform onye, an' then ye'll be a' eyther shot or hangit before Yule!' That's whatI said to them!"
Wat Gordon laughed, and I was fain to follow suit, for it was a commoncomplaint that the curate of Dalry was half a Whig himself. And, indeed,had he not been ever ready to drink a dozen of Clavers's officers underthe table, and clout the head of the starkest carle in his troop, itmight have gone ill with him more than once.
"But I hae a bit sma' request to make of ye, Walter Gordon o' Lochinvaran' Gordiestoun," said the curate.
"Haste ye," said Wat, "for ye hae taigled us overly long already."
"An' it's this," said the curate, "I hae to ride to Edinburgh toon,there to tell mair lees than I am likely to be sained o' till I am abishop an' can lee wi' a leecence. But it's the Privy Council's wull,an' sae I maun e'en lee. That tearin' blackguard, Bob Grier, has writtento them that I am better affected to the Whigs than to the troopers ofGarryhorn, and I am behoved to gang and answer for it."
"Haste ye, then, and ride with us," cried Walter, whose horse had stoodlong enough. "We ride toward the Nith with Colonel Graham, and afterthat to Edinburgh."
So in a little the curate was riding stoutly by our side. We were totravel by Dumfries and Lockerbie into Eskdale, whither Claverhouse hadpreceded us, obeying an urgent call from his acquaintance, Sir JamesJohnstone of Westerhall, who was still more eager to do the King's willthan he--though, to begin with, he had been a Covenant man, and that ofsome mark too. But the fear of fines, and the bad example of hisneighbours ever before his eyes, had brought out the hidden cruelty ofthe man. So now he rode at Claverhouse's bridle-rein, and the pair ofthem held black counsel on the state of the country. But the mood ofClaverhouse was, at worst, only that of military severity, without heartof ruth or bowels of mercy indeed; but that of Westerhall was rather ofroystering and jubilant brutality, both of action and intent.
So we rode and we better rode till we came to Eskdale, where we foundWesterhall in his own country. Now I could see by the behaviour of thesoldiers as we went, that some of them had small good will to the kindof life they led, for many of them were of the country-side and, as itseemed, were compelled to drive and harry their own kith and kin. Thisthey covered with a mighty affectation of ease, crying oaths and curseshither and thither tempestuously behind their leaders--save only whenJohn Graham rode near by, a thing which more than anything made themhold their peace, lest for discipline's sake he should bid them besilent, with a look that would chill their marrows.