Chapter XLVII The Borderers and the Jacobites
During the Jacobite Rising, many of the Border chiefs took up arms in the Stuart cause. Two of these, Lord Derwentwater and Viscount Kenmure, were beheaded on Tower Hill for their part in the unsuccessful rising of 1715, and another, Lord Nithsdale, was only saved from the same fate by the courage of his wife.
This brave woman travelled in the depth of winter from Scotland, but when she reached York the snow was so deep that the stage coach could go no further. She continued her journey alone, though the snow was above the horse’s knees, and by good luck she reached London and the Tower in safety, where, by bribing the guards, she managed to see her husband.
She then resolved to petition the King for his life, and she herself tells in a letter to her sister how she waited in the ante-room to see the King (George I.), and how she threw herself at his feet to present the petition. The King tried to get away from her, but she seized hold of his coat, and was dragged on her knees along the floor. This scene produced no result, and as other efforts to procure Nithsdale’s release also failed, the Countess determined to save him by a stratagem. She again bribed the guards to let her in, telling them she had joyful news for her husband about the petition. She dressed him in woman’s clothes, which she had smuggled in for the occasion, and painted his face, and brought him out, speaking to him as to the woman friend who had accompanied her, but who had already left the prison, calling him “Mrs Betty,” and asking him for the love of God to go as quickly as he could to her lodging and fetch her maid, as she wished to go and present her final petition for the release.
All went well, and Nithsdale escaped to France; but the King was highly incensed and declared that the Countess cost him more trouble than any woman in Europe.
Her adventures were not yet over, however. In spite of the fact that the King had wished for her arrest, she travelled to Scotland to fetch her son, and the valuable papers which she had taken the precaution to bury underground on her departure for London.
She was successful in this second journey, and, after concealing herself and her son, until no further search was made for them, this noble and enterprising woman escaped to France and joined her husband. They afterwards went to Rome, where they lived happily for many years.
In an old ballad called “Lord Nithsdale’s Dream,” he is described as dreaming in the Tower the night before his execution, after having said farewell to his beloved wife.
“Farewell to thee, Winifred, pride of thy kind,
Sole ray in my darkness, sole joy in my pain.”
He listens for the last sound of her footfall, and catches the last glimpse of her robe at the door, and then all joy and gladness depart out of his life, and he prays alone in his dungeon, thinking of the dreadful dawn that awaits him.
He falls asleep and dreams that he is a frolicsome boy again, playing amongst the bracken on the braes of the Nith, bathing in its waters and treading joyfully the green heather. Or again he is riding to the hunt on his gallant grey steed, with a plume in his bonnet and a star on his breast, chasing the red deer and the wild mountain roe.
The vision changes, and he dreams that he is telling his love to Winifred, and swearing to be faithful to her, watching the red blushes rise on her cheeks at his words of love, and hearing her sweet voice replying.
Again he is riding at the head of his gallant band.
“For the pibroch was heard on the hills far away,
And the clans were all gathered from mountain and glen.
For the darling of Scotland, their exile adored,
They raised the loud slogan—they rushed to the strife;
Unfurl’d was the banner, unsheathed was the sword,
For the cause of their heart, that was dearer than life.”
And now the darksome morn has come, the priest is standing by his side, saying the prayers for the dead. He hears the muffled drum and the bells tolling his death knell; the block is prepared, the headsman comes; and the victim is led bare-headed from his cell.
Waking, he turns on his straw pallet, and sees, by the pale, misty light of a taper, the form of his wife.
“’Tis I, ’tis thy Winifred!” softly she said,
“Arouse thee and follow, be bold, never fear,
There was danger ahead, but my errand has sped,
I promised to save thee, and lo! I am here!”
Then she puts woman’s garb upon him, and together they pass the unsuspecting guards and weary sentinels.
When the peasantry on the Nithsdale estates heard of their Lord’s escape their joy was unbounded.
One of the songs published and sung everywhere at the time, begins:—
“What news to me, carlin’?
What news to me?”
“What news!” quo’ the carlin’,
The best that God can gie.”
The speaker asks if the true king has come to his own, and the carlin’ answers.
“Our ain Lord Nithsdale
Will soon be ’mang us here.
Then the speaker says:—
“Brush me my coat, carlin’,
Brush me my shoon;
I’ll awa and meet Lord Nithsdale,
When he comes to our town.”
“Alack-a-day,” says the carlin’. “He has escaped to France, with scarce a penny.”
“Then,” says the first speaker, “we’ll sell our corn and everything we have and send the money to our lord, and we’ll make the pipers blow and lads and maidens dance, and we’ll all be glad and joyful and play ‘The Stuarts back again,’ and make the Whigs go mad.”
Lord Derwentwater’s fate was not so happy as that of Lord Nithsdale, though Lady Derwentwater made a desperate effort to save him.
It was she indeed who had urged him to throw in his lot with the Stuarts, saying that it was not good that he should hide his head when other gentlemen were mustering for the cause.
The peasantry still think that Lady Derwentwater sits on her ruined tower lamenting the evil counsel she gave her husband, and they hasten by in fear when they see her lamp-light flickering.
Derwentwater is described in the old ballads, as “a bonny lord,” with hair of gold, and kind love dwelling in his hawk-like eyes.
He passionately loved his beautiful home in Tynedale, the foundations of which may still be seen. The wooded glen below the castle, with the little burn running through it, spanned by a grey bridge is romantically beautiful.
His “Farewell” to all this beauty is pathetic.
“Farewell to pleasant Ditson Hall,
My father’s ancient seat;
A stranger now must call thee his,
Which gars[#] my heart to greet.[#]
Farewell each kindly well-known face,
My heart has held so dear:
My tenants now must leave their lands,
Or hold their lives in fear.
[#] makes.
[#] weep.
No more along the banks of Tyne,
I’ll rove in autumn grey;
No more I’ll hear, at early dawn,
The lav’rocks[#] wake the day:
Then fare thee well, brave Witherington,
And Forster ever true.
Dear Shaftsbury and Errington,
Receive my last adieu.
[#] larks.
And fare thee well, George Collingwood,
Since fate has put us down,
If thou and I have lost our lives,
Our King has lost his crown.
Farewell, farewell, my lady dear,
Ill, ill thou counsell’dst me:
I never more may see thy babe
That smiles upon thy knee.
And fare thee well, my bonny grey steed,
That carried me aye so free;
I wish I had been asleep in my bed,
The last time I mounted thee.
The warning bell now bids me cease;
My troubles nearly o’er;
Yon sun that rises from the sea,
Shall rise on me no more.
Albeit that here in London town
It is my fate to die,
O carry me to Northumberland,
In my father’s grave to lie:
There chant my solemn requiem
In Hexham’s holy towers,
And let six maids of fair Tynedale
Scatter my grave with flowers.
And when the head that wears the crown,
Shall be laid low like mine,
Some honest hearts may then lament
For Radcliff’s fallen line.
Farewell to pleasant Ditson Hall,
My father’s ancient seat;
A stranger now must call thee his,
Which gars my heart to greet.”
Before his death, Earl Derwentwater signed a paper acknowledging “King James the Third” as his sovereign, and saying that he hoped his death would contribute to the service of his King.
He is said to have looked closely at the block, and to have asked the executioner to chip off a rough place that might hurt his neck. Then, pulling off his coat and waistcoat, he tried if the block would fit his head, and told the executioner that when he had repeated “Lord Jesus receive my soul” for the third time, he was to do his office, which the executioner accordingly did at one blow.
History tells that Derwentwater was brave and open-hearted and generous, and that his fate drew tears from the spectators, and was a great misfortune to his country. He was kind to the people on his estates, to the poor, the widow and the orphan.
His request to be buried with his ancestors was refused, and he was interred at St Giles, Holborn, but his corpse was afterwards removed and carried secretly to Northumberland, where it was deposited in Dilston Chapel. The aurora borealis, which appeared remarkably vivid on the night of his execution, was long called in that part of the country “Lord Derwentwater’s Lights.”
Immediately after Derwentwater’s execution, Lord Kenmure also suffered death. After his execution, a letter was found in his pocket addressed to the Pretender, by the title of King James, saying that he died in his faithful service, and asking him to provide for his wife and children.
The following ballad describes his rising in the Stuart cause—
“O Kenmure’s on and awa’, Willie,
O Kenmure’s on and awa’;
And Kenmure’s lord’s the bravest lord
That ever Galloway saw.
Success to Kenmure’s band, Willie!
Success to Kenmure’s band!
There’s no a heart that fears a Whig,
That rides by Kenmure’s hand.
His lady’s cheek was red, Willie,
His lady’s cheek was red,
When she saw his steely jupes[#] put on,
Which smell’d o’ deadly feud.
Here’s Kenmure’s health in wine, Willie,
Here’s Kenmure’s health in wine;
There ne’er was a coward o’ Kenmure’s blude,
Nor yet o’ Gordon’s line.
[#] armour.
There’s a rose in Kenmure’s cap, Willie,
There’s a rose in Kenmure’s cap,
He’ll steep it red in ruddie heart’s blade,
Afore the battle drap.
Here’s him that’s far awa’, Willie,
Here’s him that’s far awa’,
And here’s the flower that I lo’e best,
The rose that’s like the snaw.
O Kenmure’s lads are men, Willie,
O Kenmure’s lads are men,
Their hearts and swords are metal true,
And that their foes shall ken.
They’ll live, or die wi’ fame, Willie,
They’ll live, or die wi’ fame,
And soon wi’ sound o’ victorie
May Kenmure’s lord come hame.”