Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland Volume V Part 15

"Your fire's no sae guid as the ane I saw last nicht," he said to the tavern-keeper.

"It is only newly lighted," was the apology of the host.

"It may be the better o' that," said the other, throwing the whisky into the grate, and making the fire blaze up. "Sae should a' burnin, fiery liquors be used. They might then warm the outsides, in place o' burnin the insides o' sinners. Ye hae seen some o' the first acts o' my repentance. This is ane o' them. Ye may hear and sae mair, if ye consider Duncan Schulebred worthy o' yer consideration, and trace his conduct through this weary, wicked, waefu warld, during the remainin period o' an ill-begun but (I hope) weel-ended life."

ARCHY ARMSTRONG.

For thirty years Sandy Armstrong of the Cleughfoot had been one of the most daring and successful freebooters of his clan. His name was a sound of terror on the Borders, and was alike disagreeable to Scotch and English ears; for, like Esau, Sandy's hand was against every man, and every man's hand against him. His clan had been long broken and without a leader, and the Armstrongs were regarded as outlaws by both nations.

Cleughfoot, in which Sandy resided, was a small square building of prodigious strength, around it was a court-yard, or rather an enclosure for cattle, surrounded by a ma.s.sy wall, in which was an iron gate strong as the wall itself. The door of the dwelling was also of iron, and the windows, which were scarce larger than loop-holes, were barred. It was generally known by the name of "Lang Sandy's _Keep_," and was situated on the side of the Tarras, about ten miles from Langholm. Around it was a desolate mora.s.s, the pa.s.ses of which were known only to Sandy and his few followers, and beyond the mora.s.s was a decaying but almost impenetrable forest. Sandy, like his forefathers, knew no law, save

"The good old law--the simple plan-- That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can."

He had had seven sons, and of these five had fallen while following him in the foray, the sixth had been devoured by a blood-hound, and he had but one, Archy, his youngest, left, to whom he could bequeath his stronghold, a fleet steed, and his sword. Land he had none, and he knew not its value: he found it more profitable to levy blackmail, to the right and to the left, on Englishman and on Scot; and he laughed at the authority of Elizabeth and of James, and defied the power of the Wardens of their Marches--"Bess may be Queen o' England," said he, "and book-learned Jamie, King o' braid Scotland, but Sandy Armstrong is lord o' the wilds o' Tarras."

On the death of Elizabeth, Sandy and his handful of retainers had been out in the raid to Penrith; in that desperate attempt, some of them had fallen, and others had been seized and executed at Carlisle. But Sandy had escaped, driving his booty through the wilds before him to Cleughfoot. On one side of the court-yard stood a score of oxen and six fleet steeds, and on the other was provender for them for many days. On the flat roof of Cleughfoot Keep sat Sandy Armstrong; before him was a wooden stoup filled with _aqua vitae_, and in his hand he held a small quegh, neatly hooped round, and formed of wood of various colours. It had a short handle for the finger and thumb, was about two inches in diameter, and three quarters of an inch in depth, and out of this vessel Sandy, ever and anon, quaffed his strong potations, while his son Archy, a boy of twelve years old, stood by his side, receiving from his parent a Borderer's education. But, leaving the freebooter and his son on the turret of their fastness, we shall also, for a few moments, leave Dumfriesshire, and carrying back our narrative for some weeks, introduce the reader to the ancient town of Berwick-upon-Tweed.

On Wednesday, the 8th of April, 1603, every soul in the good town of Berwick was up by daybreak;--wife and maiden flaunted in their newest gowns, with ample fardingales, and the sweating mechanic looked as spruce in his well brushed "jack," as a courtly cavalier. By sunrise, the cannon thundered from the ramparts. Before noon, the Marshal, Sir John Carey, at the head of the garrison, composed of horse and foot, marched out of the town towards Lamberton, firing _feu-d'-joies_ as they went, while the cannon still pealed and the people shouted. The thunder of the artillery became more frequent--the bells rang merrily--the volleys of the garrison became louder and more loud, as though they again approached, and "He comes!--He comes!" shouted the crowd; "Hurra!

Hurra!--the King! the King!" The garrison again entered the town, they filed to the right and left, lining the street. In front of Marygate stood William Selby, the gentleman porter, with the keys of the town.

The voice of the artillery, the muskets, and the mult.i.tude, again mingled together. James of Scotland and of England stood before the gate--Selby bent upon his knee, he placed the keys of the town in the hands of the monarch, who instantly returned them, saying, "Rise, _Sir_ William Selby, an' saul o' me, man, but ye should take it as nae sma'

honour to be the first knight made by James, by the grace of G.o.d, an'

the love o' our gracious cousin, King o' England an' Scotland likewise."

His Majesty, followed by the mult.i.tude, proceeded down Marygate, through the files of the garrison, to the market-place, where the worshipful Hugh Gregson, the mayor, his brother aldermen, the bailiffs, and others of the princ.i.p.al burgesses, waited to receive him. The mayor knelt and presented him with a purse of gold and the corporation's charter. "Ye are a leal and considerate gentleman," said the king, handing the purse to one of his attendants--"worthy friends are ye a'; and now take back your charter, an' ye sall find in us a gracious and affectionate sovereign, ready to maintain the liberty and privileges it confers upon our trusty subjects o' our town o' Berwick." Mr. Christopher Parkinson, the recorder, then delivered a set and solemn speech, after which the king proceeded to the church, where the Rev. Toby Mathews, Bishop of Durham, preached a sermon suited to royal ears. On the following day, the demonstrations of rejoicing were equally loud, and his Majesty visited the garrison and fortifications; and as he walked upon the ramparts surrounded by lords from Scotland and from England, and while the people shouted, and the artillery belched forth fire, smoke, and thunder, the monarch, in order to give an unquestionable demonstration of his courage, in the presence of his new subjects, boldly advanced to the side of one of the cannon, and took the match from the hands of the soldier who was about to fire it. Once--twice--thrice, the monarch stretched forth his hand to the touch-hole, but touched it not. It was evident the royal hand trembled--the royal eyes were closed--yea, the royal cheeks became pale. At length the quivering match touched the powder, back bounded the thundering cannon, and back sprang the terrified monarch, knocking one of his attendants down--dropping the match upon the ground, and thrusting his fingers in his ears--stammering out, as plainly as his throbbing heart would permit, that "he feared their drum was split in twa!" Scarce had his Majesty recovered from this demonstration of his bravery, when a messenger arrived with the intelligence that the Armstrongs and other clans had committed grievous depredations on the Borders, and had even carried their work of spoliation and plunder as far as Penrith.

"Borders, man!" quoth the king, "our kingdom hath nae _borders_ but the sea. It is our royal pleasure that the word _borders_ sall never mair be used: wat ye not that what were the _extremities_ or _borders_ o' the twa kingdoms, are but the _middle_ o' _our_ kingdom, an' in future it is our will an' decree that ye ca' them nae langer the borders, but the _middle_ counties. An' now, Sir William Selby, as we were graciously pleased yesterday by our ain hand, to confer on ye the high honour o'

knighthood, take ye twa hundred and fifty hors.e.m.e.n, and gae ye up our middle counties, commanding every true man in our name, capable o'

bearing arms, to join ye in crushing and in punishing sic thieves and rievers; hang ilka Armstrong and Johnstone amang them that resists our royal will--an' make the iron yetts o' their towers be converted into ploughshares. Away, sir, an' do your wark surely an' right quickly."

On the following day, Sir William Selby set out upon his mission; and before he had proceeded far, he found himself at the head of a thousand hors.e.m.e.n. They burned and destroyed the strongholds of the Borderers, as they went, and the more desperate amongst them who fell into their hands were sent in fetters to Carlisle.

It was early in May, and the young leaves, bursting into beauty and being, were spreading their summer livery over Tarras forest, and the breeze wafted their grateful fragrance over the mora.s.s; even on the mora.s.s itself, a thousand simple flowers, like fragments of beauty scattered in hand-fuls amidst the wide-spread desolation, peeped forth; and over the sharp cry of the wheeling lapwing rang the summer hymn of the joyful lark, when, as we have said before, Sandy Armstrong sat on the turret of Cleughfoot with his son by his side.

"Archy," said the freebooter, "this warld is turning upside down, an'

honest men hae nae chance in't. We hear o' naething noo but law! law!

law!--but the fient a grain o' justice is to be met wi' on the Borders.

A man canna take a bit beast or twa in an honest way, or make a bonfire o' an enemy's haystack, but there's naethin' for't but Carlisle and a hempen cravat. But mind, callant, ye ha'e the bluid o' the Armstrongs in your veins, and their hands never earned bread by ony instrument but the sword, and it winna be the son o' Sandy o' Cleughfoot that will disgrace his kith and kin by trudging at a ploughtail, or learning some beggarly handicraft. Swear to me, Archy, that ye will live by the sword like your faithers afore ye--swear to your faither, callant, an' fear neither Jamie Stuart, his twa kingdoms, nor his hors.e.m.e.n--they'll ha'e stout hearts that cross Tarras moss, and there will be few sheep in Liddesdale before the pot at Cleughfoot need nae skimming."

"I will live like my faither before me--king o' Tarras-side," said the youth.

"That shall ye, Archy," rejoined the freebooter; "an' though the Scotts an' the Elliots may, like fause louns, make obeisance to the king, and get braid lands for bending their knees, what cares Sandy Armstrong for their lands, their manrents, or their sheep-skins, scrawled owre by a silk-fingered monk--his twa-handed blade and his Jeddart-staff shall be a better t.i.tle to an Armstrong than an acre o' parchment."

The boy caught the spirit of his sire, and flourished his Jedburgh-staff, or battle-axe, in his hand. The father raised the quegh to his lips--"Here's to ye, Archy," he cried, "ye'll be cooper o' Fogo!"

He crossed his arms upon his breast--he sat thoughtful for a few minutes, and again added--"Archy--but my heart fills to look on ye--ye are a brave bairn, but this is nae langer the brave man's country.

Courage is persecuted, and knaves only are encouraged, that can scribble like the monks o' Melrose. Ye had sax brithers, Archy--sax lads whase marrows warna to be found on a' the lang Borders--wi' them at my back an' I could hae ridden north and south, an' made the name o' Sandy Armstrong be feared; but they are gane--they're a' gane, and there's nane left but you to protect and defend your poor mother when I am gane too; and now they would hunt me like a deer if they durst, for they are butchering guid and true men for our bit raid to Penrith, as though the life o' an Armstrong were o' less value than an English nowt. If ye live to be a man, Archy, and to see your poor auld mother's head laid in the mould, take my sword and leave this poor, pitifu', king-ridden, an'

book-ruined country; an' dinna ye disgrace your faither by makin'

bickers like the coopers o' Nicolwood, or pinglin' wi' an elshin like the souters o' Selkirk."

The sleuth-dog, which lay at their feet, started up, snuffed the air, growled and lashed its tail. "Ha! Tiger! what is't, Tiger?" cried Sandy, addressing the dog, and springing to his feet.

"Troopers! troopers, faither!" cried Archy, "an' they are comin' frae ilka side o' the forest."

"Get ready the dags,[3] Archy," said the freebooter; "it's twa lang spears' length to the bottom o' Tarras moss, an they'll be light men and lighter horses that find na a grave in't--get ready the dags, and cauld lead shall welcome the first man that mentions King Jamie's name before the walls o' Cleughfoot."

[Footnote 3: Pistols.]

The boy ran and brought his father's pistols--his mother accompanied him to the turret. She gazed earnestly on the threatening bands of hors.e.m.e.n as they approached, for a few seconds, then taking her husband's hand--"Sandy," said she, "I hae lang looked for this; but others that are wives the now shall gang widows to bed the night, as well as Elspeth Armstrong!"

"Fear naething, Elspeth, my doo," replied the riever; "there will be blood in the way if they attack the lion in his den. But there's a lang and tangled moss atween them an' Cleughfoot. We hae seen an enemy nearer an' be glad to turn back again."

"They will reach us, faither," cried Archy; "do ye no see they hae m.u.f.fled men before them?"

"m.u.f.fled men! then, bairn, your faither's betrayed!" exclaimed the freebooter, "an' there's naething but revenge and death left for Sandy Armstrong!"

He stalked rapidly around the turret--he examined his pistols, the edge of his sword, his Jedburgh-staff, and his spear. Elspeth placed a steel cap on his head, and, from beneath it, his dark hair, mingled with grey, fell upon his brow. He stood with his ponderous spear in one hand and a pistol in the other, and the declining sun cast his shadow across the moss, to the very horses' feet of his invaders. Still the hors.e.m.e.n, who amounted to several hundreds, drew nearer and nearer on every side, and impenetrable as the mora.s.s was to strangers, yet, by devious windings, as a hound tracks its prey, the m.u.f.fled men led them on, till they had arrived within pistol shot of Cleughfoot.

"What want ye, friends?" shouted the outlaw--"think ye that a poor man like Sandy Armstrong can gi'e upputtin' and provender for five hundred horse?"

"We come," replied an officer, advancing in front of the company, "by the authority o' our gracious prince, James, king o' England and Scotland, and in the name o' his commissioner, Sir William Selby, to punish and hand over to justice Border thieves and outlaws, o' whom we are weel a.s.sured that you, Sandy Armstrong, o' the Cleughfoot, are habit and repute, amangst the chief."

"Ye lie! ye lie!" returned the outlaw; "ye dyvors in scarlet an'

c.o.c.kades, ye lie! I hae lived thir fifty years by my ain hand, an' the man was never born that dared say Sandy Armstrong laid finger on the widow's cow or the puir man's mare, or that he scrimpit the orphan's meal. But I hae been a protector o' the poor and helpless, an' a defender o' the cowan-hearted, for a sma' but honest blackmail, that other men, wi' no half the strength o' Sandy Armstrong, wadna ta'en up at their foot.

"Do ye surrender in peace, ye boastin' rebel?" replied the herald, "or shall we burn your den about your ears?"

"I ken it is death ony way ye take it," rejoined the outlaw--"ye would show me an' mine the mercy that was shown to my kinsman, John o'

Gilnokie,[4] and I shall surrender as an Armstrong surrenders--when the breath is out."

[Footnote 4: This subject forms another of the Border Tales.]

Fire flashed from a narrow crevice which resembled a cross in the turrets--the report of a pistol was heard, and the horse of the herald bounded, and fell beneath him.

"That wasna done like an Armstrong, Archy," said the freebooter; "ye hae shot the horse, an' it might hae been the rider--the man was but doing his duty, an' it was unfair and cowardly to fire on him till the affray began."

"I shall mind again, faither," said Archy, "but I thought, wi' sic odds against us, that every advantage was fair."

While these events transpired, Elspeth was busied placing powder and b.a.l.l.s upon the roof of the turret; she brought up also a carabine, and putting it in her husband's hands, said--"Tak ye that, Sandy, to aim at their leaders, and gie Archy an' me the dags."

The hors.e.m.e.n encompa.s.sed the wall; Sandy, his wife, and his son, knelt upon the turret, keeping up, through the crevices, a hurried but deadly fire on the besiegers. It was evident the a.s.sailants intended to blow up the wall. The freebooter beheld the train laid, and the match applied.

Already his last bullet was discharged. "Let us fire the straw among the cattle!" cried little Archy. "Weel thought, my bairn!" exclaimed the riever. The boy rushed down into the house, and in an instant returned with a flaming pine torch in his hand. He dropped it amongst the cattle.

He dashed a handful of powder on the spot, and in a moment half of the court-yard burst into a flame. At the same instant a part of the court-wall trembled--exploded--fell. The horned cattle and the horses were rushing wildly to and fro through the fire. The invaders burst through the gap. Elspeth tore a pearl drop from her ears,[5] and, thrusting it into the pistol, discharged it at the head of the first man who approached the house. It was evident they intended to blow up the house, as they had done the wall. Sandy had now no weapon that he could render effective but his spear, and he said--"They shall taste the p.r.i.c.k of the hedgehog before I die." He thrust it down furiously upon them, and several of them fell at his threshold, but the deadly instrument was grasped by a number of the besiegers, and wrenched from his hands.

[Footnote 5: The wives and daughters of the Borderers, at this period, wore numerous trinkets--spoils, no doubt, presented them by their husbands and wooers.]

The sun had already set, darkness was gathering over the mora.s.s, and still the fire burned, and the cattle rushed amongst the armed men in the court-yard.