Chapter XV Brave to the Last
Meanwhile Adam Hepburn had stolen across the fields to the glen with the intention of entering the hole in the Corbie’s Cliff. He was making his way down the hill-side, keeping cautiously in shelter of the whins and bracken, for the dragoons were in sight, when, to his no small amazement, he saw the two ministers and Andrew Gray of Hartrigge emerge from the mouth of the subterranean passage with a haste which proclaimed that they were pursued. And now truly the poor fugitives were betwixt two fires, for there were dragoons scattered all over the surrounding hills, and some were so near that it was a marvel they were not at once discovered. They had to thank the luxuriance of the brushwood and tangle for affording them a shelter, and, if they could but remain unobserved till nightfall, they could then seek a safer hiding. Adam Hepburn crawled upon his hands and knees down through the thicket, and came up with the others, as they were creeping slowly along, hoping to reach the steep hill behind Hartrigge, where the cave was still undiscovered.
“We were betrayed in our hiding, and were only warned in time to flee by the noise overhead,” whispered Andrew Gray. “See yonder!”
Lifting their heads the fugitives saw three dragoons emerge from the mouth of the Corbie’s Cliff and look all round them, as if expecting to see those for whom they sought. In mortal terror the miserable Covenanters laid themselves flat down on their faces and pulled the friendly bracken over them, and waited breathlessly, thinking the dragoons would be certain to scour the entire glen.
“If they come I think I could silence the three,” said Adam Hepburn, grimly; “only they might, by their cries, bring some of their mounted comrades upon us. They are not far distant, I trow, for I can hear the neighing of their horses even here.”
After a few minutes’ suspense, the anxious fugitives saw the dragoons re-enter the mouth of the cave; then they slowly crept yet a little farther along the glen, for every moment spent in this comparatively exposed place was not only precious, but laden with deadly peril. At length they arrived unmolested at the base of the steep hill behind Hartrigge, and, as it was crowned with a thick belt of fir trees, there was no fear of them being seen from above.
The minister of Inverburn, whose feeble strength was now utterly spent through excitement and suspense, had to be half carried up the rocky ascent, but at length all landed safely in the cave. It was but a small place, and very damp; a great contrast in every way to the comfortable hiding at Rowallan. After having recovered a little from his fatigue, the minister of Inverburn folded his hands and returned thanks for their deliverance; but Adam Hepburn sat gloomily in a corner, his hands grasping his sword, for it was foreign to his nature to flee before the enemy, and he felt as if he had sullied his manhood by deserting Rowallan, and leaving Jane Gray to encounter the dragoons alone. And yet there are times when even the bravest soldier is forced to admit that discretion is the better part of valour.
Meanwhile the body of dragoons, under command of Captain Ingram, who had ridden up to the glen to disperse the conventicle, baulked of their prey, had proceeded to Hartrigge, it being the only house in view. Captain Ingram was a very different man from his brother officer, who had so peaceably performed his duty at Rowallan. He was of a short, burly figure, with a countenance much swollen and disfigured by his drunken excesses, and his fiery eye gave some expression to the fierce and choleric nature of his temper. He was utterly void of one kindly feeling or generous impulse, and his troops were famous for their brutal and disgraceful behaviour, it being said of them that they showed no mercy to man, woman, or child.
Mistress Gray, who with her son, Gavin, had been present at the conventicle, had been in the house some little time before the dragoons surrounded Hartrigge.
The little ones, who had remained at home under charge of Jeanie, who was growing more sensible and womanly every day, began to cry at sight of the soldiers, remembering the occasion of their former visit, and how their father had been carried off as a prisoner. Gavin, however, exhibited his usual fearless spirit, and ran to the kitchen cupboard for the old fowling-piece; yet, poor lad, what could he do with it, against the powerful arms of a company of dragoons? Captain Ingram did not trouble to alight, but thundered at the door of the house with the butt-end of his musket, a summons which brought Mistress Gray tremblingly to the threshold.
“Hey, mistress! is this not the house of that vile renegade, Andrew Gray, son of the notorious field-preacher, the minister of Inverburn?” he asked, fiercely.
“It is the house of Andrew Gray,” she made answer, sadly. “And I would that he were within its walls. They have not sheltered him these many weary days.”
“Are you his wife? and are these his brats?” asked the Captain, pointing to the little ones clinging to her skirts.
She bowed her head, but made no verbal reply.
“Come, tell me, mistress, were you at the field preaching down in the glen yonder, listening to the snivelling of that old renegade, your husband’s father?”
“I was there, sir,” Susan Gray made answer, firmly, for she saw that it would be useless to deny it.
“Good! we have come upon one Whig dame at last who can speak the truth,” said the Captain, in tones of satisfaction. “Come, oblige me still further, mistress, and give me the names of those who were present besides yourself.”
“I went to listen to the preaching of the Word, sir, and not to count those who were present,” answered Susan Gray, with fearless firmness.
“Well, if you will not tell me that, let me know the secret hiding of those who conducted the service. Come, now, mistress, you are completely in my power, and if you do not speak of your own free will, I may take measures to make you,” said the Captain, significantly.
“I cannot tell whither they have fled, sir. I was too much taken up making my own escape, to look to them,” she answered quietly.
“Just so. With your permission, mistress, we will have a look through the house, and if any of the renegades be found within, by the powers, I will punish them for your obstinacy,” said the Captain, with an oath, and dismounting, he flung his reins to a dragoon, ordered some of them to follow him into the house, and others to make a complete search of the out-houses. Entering the kitchen, the Captain beheld young Gavin standing with the old fowling-piece in his hand, which sight caused him to burst into a loud laugh.
“So, my young friend, you are going to show fight. You are Andrew Gray’s son, I take it. Here, Dawson, bind the young chip; we may have to screw the truth out of him by-and-by.”
Gavin presented his gun, and drew the trigger, but it was dashed out of his hand, and he was bound hand and foot, and laid on the floor. Then the ruffians continued their search through the house, lifting many valuables as they went, but found no traces of the fugitives, nor any corner where they could possibly be hid. Those searching outside were equally unsuccessful, and Captain Ingram got into a great rage, and swore some dreadful oaths, which made Susan Gray tremble, and marvel that judgment did not overtake him at once.
Stepping out to the door, he again addressed Mistress Gray, and brutally demanded that she should at once divulge all she knew concerning the movements and probable hiding of her husband and his kindred. But Susan Gray resolutely shook her head, and maintained that she knew not whither they had fled.
“Here, Dawson, bring out that young branch of the rebel tree, and we will try to refresh his memory,” said the captain, peremptorily, and young Gavin was presently brought out, and set up against the beech tree in front of the house.
At sight of her first-born son, the dearest of all her children to her heart, Susan Gray grew as pale as death, and leaned against the lintel of the door for support.
Captain Ingram then stepped forward, and pointing his sword at the young lad, swore at him, and bade him at once reveal his father’s hiding, or suffer the consequences.
“Think you I would betray my father to save myself, sir?” asked the young Gavin, in a clear and steadfast voice, and his fine eye fearlessly looked into the face of his cruel questioner. “Not though I had twenty lives. I would lose them all rather than be guilty of such black treachery and cowardice.”
In her boundless admiration of the courage of the boy, Susan Gray half forgot the agonising fear which rent her motherly heart.
“Sure, we have an out-and-out Covenanter here, boys!” said the Captain, looking round upon his dragoons. “Faith, I have shot many a man for less! but on account of his tender years we will give him another chance for his life.”
At these ominous words Susan Gray gave a loud scream, and rushed forward as if to protect her son, but she was rudely pushed back, and sank down on her knees on the ground, uttering broken prayers to God, and almost beside herself in her agony.
“Now, my blithe young rebel,” said Captain Ingram, fixing his mocking eyes on Gavin’s pale yet steadfast face, “I give you twenty seconds to make up your mind. Reveal your father’s hiding, or bear the penalty of your contempt for an officer of the King. Dawson, Baird, and Luttrell, have your muskets charged.”
The lad winced slightly at the last words, but only for a moment; then he drew himself up as well as his bonds would allow.
“Life would be no boon at the price you ask,” he then made answer, in a low yet firm voice. “You can only kill the body, and my blood will be on your head.”
“You hear, mistress?” said Ingram, turning then to the kneeling figure of the mother. “Ten seconds of the twenty are gone. If you will yield the required information his life will be spared.”
Susan Gray hesitated a moment. It was an awful moment for her, to be called upon to choose, as it were, betwixt husband and child.
“Mother, mother, don’t be tempted!” cried Gavin. “What is my life compared with that of my father and grandfather, and uncle David? Let them shoot. I am not afraid to die. I remember Mr. Guthrie’s fearlessness on the scaffold. I understand it now, for God is with me here, close beside me, and I will go straight to glory.”
The sublimity of the lad’s courage, the pathetic and beautiful faith with which he spoke, moved more than one of these hardened hearts to pity, but it only further enraged their brutal Captain.
“Get into the house, mistress, and shut the door,” he said, curtly; “unless you want to see the young rebel receive his baptism of fire.”
Susan Gray spoke not, but remained kneeling, with her face hidden in her hands; all feeling seemed to be frozen in her broken heart.
There was a moment’s dread silence; then the sharp report of three musket shots, simultaneously fired, rang through the quiet Sabbath air. Then the order was given to march, and the dragoons, having finished their deadly work, turned their horses’ heads away from Hartrigge. As they did so, a volume of smoke began slowly to arise from behind the house; they had finished their work of destruction by setting fire to the barn and granary ere they left. Little knew the brave men in hiding what was being enacted at so little a distance from them. The cave was too far away to admit of the sound of voices, or even the trampling of the horses to penetrate their ears, but they heard quite distinctly the report of musketry, and involuntarily all started to their feet.
“That sound comes from the house,” said Hartrigge. “I must go and see what is being done there. I cannot sit here while these miscreants murder my wife and children in cold blood.”
Adam Hepburn, only too ready to accompany his brother-in-law, grasped his sword, and the two stole cautiously up the hill in the friendly shelter of the trees. The two ministers, who were unarmed, followed at a little distance, so that, in case of alarm, they might yet make good their escape. The hearts of all four were filled with foreboding and anxious fears, for too well they knew the meaning of that portentous report. Arrived at the summit of the hill, Hartrigge stole a little in advance of Adam Hepburn, and thence could see the road, at the far end of which he caught a glimpse of the rear of the dragoons ere they emerged out upon the public highway. Satisfied that there was nothing to apprehend from them, he went boldly forward, and, emerging from the shadow of the trees, saw a sight which almost made his heart stand still. There on the greensward lay the prostrate form of his firstborn son, with his mother kneeling motionless by his side; the two little bairns were holding each other close and weeping bitterly; and Jeanie, with white face and dry eyes, was bathing a ghastly wound in her brother’s left temple.
A moment more and those following more slowly up the hill were startled by the sound of a hoarse and bitter cry. Andrew Gray’s iron composure, his absolute self-control were swept away, and, darting forward, he knelt by his murdered boy, calling him by every loving name, in accents of anguish and entreaty. It was in vain: life was gone!
Then there arose upon the wings of the soft September wind the echo of that desolate and anguished cry with which David of old bewailed his firstborn: “O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! would to God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!”