Chapter XXIII In Captivity
The prisons in Edinburgh were so full that they could hold no more. What, then, was to be done with the twelve hundred victims brought from the slaughter at Bothwell Bridge?
The Government ordered that they should be shut into the churchyard of the Greyfriars, and there kept unceasing watch over day and night. So the old burying-ground, made memorable and sacred by another great gathering which had assembled within its boundaries forty years before, was now converted into an open gaol, the horrors of which pen could never describe.
In the Grass-market there abode still Edward Kilgour, the merchant, brother-in-law to the late minister of Inverburn. Although a zealous and worthy Presbyterian, he had never joined with his brethren in arms, but had followed the dictates of his conscience and religion more quietly at home, attending to his business and the affairs of his household, and had thus escaped molestation. He was a man now stricken in years, but was still able to perform the duties of his calling, and attend personally in his place of business. His daughter Ailie, now a middle-aged woman, had remained unmarried for her father’s sake, and kept his house.
When they heard of the arrival of the prisoners from Bothwell, they were both much exercised in their minds as to whether any of their Inverburn kinsfolk should be among them.
“I’ll go up, Ailie,” said the old man, “I’ll go up to the kirkyard, and, if permitted to approach the gates, see whether I can discern any of the faces of our dear ones among that pitiful throng. Very sure am I that, unless your cousins Andrew and David and Adam Hepburn were slain on the field, they will be there, for they would never turn their backs upon the foe.”
“Do not needlessly expose yourself, father,” said his daughter, anxiously. “Though you find any of my cousins there, what profit will it be but only to vex us, seeing we cannot help them?”
“You may be right, but I cannot sit still at home till I learn whether any of them be there,” said the old man, quietly, and, getting his plaid about his shoulders, went out upon his quest.
Ailie Kilgour busied herself about the house, but as the time passed she began to grow extremely anxious for her father’s return. He had been more than two hours gone, when, to her great relief, she at length heard his foot on the stair. When he entered the house she at once saw that he was greatly troubled, for seldom had she seen him look so grave and yet so agitated.
“Well, father?” she said, inquiringly.
“Let me sit down, my daughter, for I am exhausted with sorrow over what I have seen this day. That the Almighty does not at once interpose in the might of His omnipotent arm is, to my mind, evidence that the Church has required all these fearful sufferings to purify her from her iniquity, and that not yet is she refined enough in the fire to be a meet vessel for her Master’s glory.”
“Tell me what you saw, father,” said Ailie, anxiously.
“Saw, lassie! Ask me rather what I did not see! Hundreds of my fellow-countrymen penned up among the tombs like beasts, without any of the comforts which the beasts of the field and the fowls of the air are allowed to seek for themselves. And, more, they are at the ribald mercy of their vile and brutal sentinels, who never cease to taunt them, asking them what has become of their God, that He does not interpose in their behalf,” said the old man, with heaving chest and flashing eye, which told how his whole being was stirred.
“Did they allow you to go near the gates?”
“No; I had to stand a good distance away. No man is allowed to approach the gates, though I saw some pious and kind-hearted women enduring patiently the jibes and insults of the soldiers, thankful that they were allowed to pass some little comforts to the prisoners through the iron bars. It seems that they receive no food save what is grudgingly allowed to be given in this way.”
“How terrible!” said Ailie, and her ruddy cheek blanched as the picture of the wretched state of the captives was thus vividly presented to her mind. “But tell me, did you see any one you know there?”
“Yes, I saw the face of your cousin, David Gray, the minister of Broomhill, and he also recognised me. I saw, too, a figure I could swear belongs to Adam Hepburn, though the face was so changed that I would not have known it,” returned the old man, sorrowfully.
Ailie Kilgour reflected a moment in silence, and then spoke in quiet but decided tones.
“Since they allow women to carry necessaries to the prisoners, I will go at once and take some food to my cousins. I am not afraid of the insults of the soldiers, for I can bear much, and make no sign.”
“My daughter, I knew your kind heart would be moved to do this thing,” said the old man, gladly. “Make haste, then, Ailie, for if ever hunger and want set their mark on human faces I saw it to-day on the wretched countenances of your cousins.”
Accordingly, Ailie got some food prepared, and immediately set out for the Greyfriars. As was to be expected, there were many people about, for the unwonted spectacle to be seen in the churchyard drew many to the place, some out of idle curiosity, others out of sorrow and anxiety, lest perchance any relative or friend might be among that miserable throng. The chief entrance to the churchyard was guarded by half-a-dozen soldiers, who alternately amused themselves with the prisoners within and those compassionate people who sought to minister to them from without. The captives, gaunt, hungry-eyed, and eager-looking, were flocking near the entrance, watching with painful intensity the meagre dole of provisions allowed to be passed within the bars.
Ailie Kilgour stood a little back, scanning the faces in the hope that her eyes would presently fall upon that of her cousin, David Gray. Adam Hepburn she did not think she could recognise again, having only seen him on the occasion of his marriage with her cousin Agnes, thirty years before. Seeing an old, worn-looking man, with a thin, haggard face, and flowing white hair, very earnestly regarding her, she looked more particularly at him, and then gave a violent start, for a look of undisguised recognition of her was on his face. Could that old, old man, with the bent head and tottering frame, be her cousin David, whom she had last seen in all the pride and glory of his manhood, not ten years before? The recognition was so marked, and there was something so strangely familiar in the glance of the eye, that she felt she could not be mistaken. She therefore made a sign to him, and advanced towards the gate. Her basket was then rudely snatched from her by a soldier, and emptied of its contents. The tastiest morsels he reserved for his own eating; then, pointing to what lay on the ground, he bade her, with an oath and a coarse laugh, feed the dogs with the crumbs which fell from the master’s table.
A sharp retort was on Ailie’s lips, for her temper was easily roused, but she resolutely forced it back, and, meekly stooping, picked up the despised articles he had cast down, and passed them through the bars. A sentinel stood close by her side to see that no word was exchanged betwixt her and the prisoners, but he could not prevent them exchanging glances with each other. The plain loaves which the pampered soldier had so contemptuously cast aside were greedily devoured by the starving prisoners. David Gray distributed a portion among those about him and retired with the remainder to a tombstone, whereon sat Adam Hepburn, a picture of utter dejection and despair. As she walked home, Ailie Kilgour’s mind was filled with certain plans and thoughts, which as yet she would not even communicate to her father. She was a shrewd, clever woman, and a prudent one as well, who never got herself into any trouble whatsoever through her tongue; therefore she kept all her thoughts that day to herself.
In the course of the week she went down to Leith, ostensibly to visit a kinswoman who dwelt in that town. But instead of directing her steps to the suburbs, where the maiden lady dwelt, she took her way directly towards that busier portion of the town which clustered about the harbour. Arrived there, she sought out the house of an old school companion, who had married the captain of a trading vessel, and who lived on shore during her husband’s voyaging betwixt Denmark and Leith. This woman, Mrs. Barclay by name, was strongly attached to Ailie Kilgour, because she had shown her much real kindness in a time of distress, having herself come from Edinburgh to nurse her through a serious illness. Mrs. Barclay was unfeignedly glad to see her, and bade her a warm welcome. After the usual greetings, the talk turned, as was natural, upon the grievous condition of affairs, and the woeful sufferings of the Presbyterians, and especially of those lately taken on the field of Bothwell. In the course of their talk, Ailie informed Mrs. Barclay that her two cousins were among those imprisoned in the Greyfriars, and then asked when Captain Barclay was expected in port.
“On Sabbath morning, if the wind favour him,” responded Mrs. Barclay. “And he will be at home for a few days before leaving to fill a cargo at Queensferry for Copenhagen.”
“You can guess my interest in enquiring about your husband, Effie,” said Ailie Kilgour, with a slight smile. “You have often said you wished you could repay what I did for you. It is in your power now, not only to repay me, but to place me for ever in your debt, if you will persuade your husband to assist my cousins to escape from the country, that is, if they can by any means get out of their present wretched prison.”
“It is a great risk to attempt such a thing, and is accounted a grave offence,” said Mrs. Barclay. “Nevertheless, I will very gladly do my utmost. I do not think William will be very difficult to persuade, for he is a real Covenanter at heart.”
“Then if I come down again, say upon the Sabbath night, I will see Captain Barclay himself, and get his advice,” said Ailie. Then warmly thanking her friend, she went away home. That same day she again prepared a basket of food for the prisoners, and about the sunset proceeded with it to the Greyfriars. Being now known to the sentinels, they did not seek much to molest her, and she was allowed to pass the food through the bars, though one kept guard as formerly, lest any words should pass betwixt them. As Ailie took one small loaf out of the basket, she lifted her eyes to her cousin’s face, with a look of such deep and peculiar meaning, that he at once understood he was to keep it to himself, there being something of special importance about it. Having, as was his wont, distributed a portion among a few of his less favoured fellow-sufferers, David Gray rejoined his brother-in-law, who occupied his usual position of listless despairing dejection on one of the tombs. So utterly impossible was it to arouse for a moment his extreme apathy, that David Gray sometimes feared lest Adam’s mind had become unhinged by too long dwelling upon one morbid idea. Looking round, to see that none was particularly watching him, David Gray broke in two halves the loaf to which Ailie had directed his attention, and found in the inside a small slip of paper, whereon were some written words, which he immediately perused with feverish eagerness. They ran thus:—
“There are steps being taken for your flight from the country, in the vessel of a friend now lying at Leith. If you can make good your escape, and come here, we will assist you.”
“See, here, Adam Hepburn, say, did ever such a thought occur to you?” queried David Gray, furtively slipping the paper into his brother-in-law’s hand.
“Yes, the thought of my escape has never once left my mind since we came here,” said Adam. “I have gotten the plan matured now, and if you will join me, I think it could be done.”
“I am willing and ready,” said the minister, eagerly. “What is your plan?”
“I have two, either to boldly scale the wall yonder under cover of the night, and trust to our speed to make good our escape,” said Adam, “or else by stratagem creep down to the little gate at the north side, where they consider two guards sufficient. Surely, David, you and I yet could silence a man apiece.”
“Desperation lends a new courage to a man when he is in straits,” said the minister, thoughtfully. “I would be for trying the north gate in the darkness, but we will wait till Ailie comes again.”
On the Sabbath evening, Ailie Kilgour again journeyed to Leith, and found Captain Barclay at home. She also found him sympathetic, and willing to assist, although quite conscious of the risk he incurred in aiding and abetting the escape of Government prisoners. There was one thing in his favour, however, that he was first to convey a cargo from Leith to Hamburg, the Queensferry commission being set aside, so that his passage would be direct from one port to the other.
The harbour and other officials in the employment of the Government were strictly enjoined to rigorously inspect every outward bound vessel, in quest of fugitives, but Captain Barclay did not despair of being able to steal a march upon them in some way or other. He was a bold man, and loved a spice of adventure by sea or land, so Ailie Kilgour knew the matter was safe in his hands.
She was to carry another message to the prisoners next day warning them to try and make good their escape the following night, as Captain Barclay expected to be ready to sail at daybreak on Tuesday morning, and unless they were at hand, could not possibly delay voyaging on their account. Late on the Sabbath evening, Ailie Kilgour and her father were sitting by the kitchen fire, discussing the probability of the prisoners’ escape, when they heard a great scuffling on the stair, and a low knocking at the door.
Both started to their feet in alarm, and Ailie, recovering herself first, at once went and undid the bolts. What was her unutterable amazement to behold upon the threshold David Gray and Adam Hepburn!
“Are you pursued?” she asked, in a breathless whisper, and at the same time holding the door wide open.
“Not here; they have lost the scent, and are following us out the Lanark road,” they responded. “Except God had veritably helped us this night, by sending down a thick mist when we leaped the wall, we had been both dead men,” added David Gray, reverently; then suddenly, in the painful intensity of his feelings, he bent his head on his hands and burst into tears. Looking upon his emaciated frame, guessing the weakness which encompassed him, they marvelled not at his lack of self-control.
The old man now came forward, and being assured that they were indeed there in the body, and not pursued, he bade them, with tears of joy, welcome to his house.
The night was spent in earnest discussion, as to the next step to be taken on the morrow. Adam Hepburn expressed his readiness to go aboard, since it mattered not what became of him, but David Gray shook his head.
“The Almighty, who covered us this night with the wings of His mist, must have some other work for me here,” he said. “My soul does not bid me leave Scotland, and my heart cleaves to mine own kindred, upon whose faces I have not looked for many weary days. Therefore I will travel westward as opportunity offers, knowing that except of my Lord’s will the enemy shall not again lay hands on me.”
On the morrow Ailie Kilgour produced a seaman’s dress, which Captain Barclay had given her for a disguise to one of the prisoners, and when Adam Hepburn had shorn off his beard, and attired himself in this garb, his nearest kindred could not have recognised him. It was then agreed, that instead of stealing to the port in the darkness, he should walk boldly down in the broad light of day, and present himself at the abode of Captain Barclay, who might then take him on board publicly as one of his crew.
So Adam Hepburn bade farewell to his friends in the Grass-market, walked without molestation over to Leith, and was duly taken on board the Bittern. The vessel was rigorously inspected before she sailed, but no suspicion being attached to the crew, she was allowed to quit the harbour, and in the dawning of Tuesday morning was out in the open sea.