Copland now began to suspect that his force was too small to accomplish any thing of moment; he determined, however, to make a dash into the wild next morning, and, if possible, to seize some prisoners, and thereby gain more accurate information. On the morning of the 24th, having procured two trusty guides, he proceeded on his expedition. He and nine of his followers went up by a place called Sheilhope, the other nine by Chapelhope—they were to scour the broken ground, take all those prisoners whom they found skulking, fire upon such as refused to stand, and meet on a certain height at noon. Copland and his party reached the appointed place without making any reprisal; they perceived some stragglers on the heights and rocks at a great distance, who always vanished away, like beings not of this world. Three of the other party took one poor lad prisoner, who was so spent and emaciated that he had been unable to fly at the signal–sound; but so intent were they on blood that he was not ever brought before their leader, who never so much as knew of the capture.
The guide was wont to relate the circumstances of this poor man’s trial and execution, for, but for him, no such thing would ever have been known; the death of a whig, or a straggler of any kind, was then a matter of no concern—They were three Brae–mar Highlanders who took him; like the most part of his associates, he answered their questions in a surly manner, and by the most cutting retorts, which particularly enraged a Donald Farquharson, one of the party, against him. “Weel, I’ll pe pitting you to ’e test, and tat fery shun, my coot freen,” said Donald; “and I’ll just pe teeling you, eince for a’, tat ye haif ne meer but tway meenets and a half to leef.”
The poor forlorn wight answered, “that he expected no better at their hands,—that he desired no longer time, and he hoped they would bear patiently with him for that short space.” He then kneeled down and prayed most fervently, while Donald, who wanted only a hair to make a tether of, as the saying is, seemed watching diligently for a word at which to quarrel. At length he spoke words to the following purport. “Father, forgive these poor misled creatures, as I forgive them; they are running blindly upon a wrong path, and without the power of thy grace they shall never gain the right one more.” Donald, who did not well understand the dialect in which the prisoner prayed, looked shrewdly at his companions. “Dugald More,” said he—“Dugald More, fat’s ’e man saying?”
“He is praying,” replied the other, “that we may lose our way, and never find it more.”
“Cot t—n ’e soul o’ ’e tief, is he?” said Donald, and ran him through with his bayonet.
The wounded man groaned, and cried most piteously, and even called out “murder,” but there was none to rescue or regard him. The soldiers, however, cut the matter short, by tossing him into a deep hole in the morass, where he sunk in the mire and was seen no more.
When Copland arrived at the place of rendezvous, five out of his ten associates were no where to be seen, nor did they make their appearance, although he tarried there till two in the afternoon. The guide then conducted him by the path on which those missing should have come, and on arriving at a narrow pass in Chapelhope, he found the bodies of the four soldiers and their guide mangled and defaced in no ordinary way; and judging from this that he had been long enough in that neighbourhood, he hasted back to Traquair with the news of the loss. Clavers is said to have broke out into the most violent rage, and to have sworn that night by the Blessed Virgin and all the Holy Trinity, utterly to extirpate the seed of the d—d whining psalm–singing race from the face of the earth, and that ere Beltein there should not be as much whig blood in Scotland as would make a dish of soup to a dog. He however concealed from the privy council the loss of these five men, nor did they ever know of it to this day.
Chapter III
Things were precisely in this state, when the goodman of Chapelhope, taking his plaid and staff, went out to the heights one misty day in autumn to drive off a neighbour’s flock from his pasture; but, as Walter was wont to relate the story himself, when any stranger came there on a winter evening, as long as he lived, it may haply be acceptable to the curious, and the lovers of rustic simplicity, to read it in his own words, although he drew it out to an inordinate length, and perhaps kept his own personal feelings and prowess too much in view for the fastidious or critical reader to approve.
“It was on a mirk misty day in September,” said Walter, “I mind it weel, that I took my plaid about me, and a bit gay steeve aik stick in my hand, and away I sets to turn aff the Winterhopeburn sheep. The wind had been east–about a’ that harst, I hae some sma’ reason ne’er to forget it, and they had amaist gane wi’ a’ the gairs i’ our North Grain. I weel expected I wad find them a’ in the scaithe that dark day, and I was just amind to tak them hame in a drove to Aidie Andison’s door, and say, ‘Here’s yer sheep for ye, lad; ye maun outher keep them better, or else, gude faith, I’ll keep them for ye.’—I had been crost and put about wi’ them a’ that year, and I was just gaun to bring the screw to the neb o’ the mire–snipe.—Weel, off I sets—I had a special dog at my feet, and a bit gay fine stick in my hand, and I was rather cross–natured that day—‘Auld Wat’s no gaun to be o’er–trampit wi’ nane o’ them, for a’ that’s come and gane yet,’ quo’ I to mysel as I gaed up the burn.—Weel, I slings aye on wi’ a gay lang step; but, by the time that I had won the Forkings, I gat collied amang the mist, sae derk, that fient a spark I could see—Stogs aye on through cleuch and gill, and a’ the gairs that they used to spounge, but, to my great mervel, I can nouther see a hair of a ewe’s tail, nor can I hear the bleat of a lamb, or the bell of a wether—No ane, outher of my ain or ither folks!—‘Ay,’ says I to mysel, ‘what can be the meaning o’ this? od, there has been somebody here afore me the day!’ I was just standin looking about me amang the lang hags that lead out frae the head o’ the North Grain, and considering what could be wort of a’ the sheep, when I noticed my dog, Reaver, gaun coursing away forrit as he had been setting a fox. What’s this, thinks I—On he gangs very angry like, cocking his tail, and setting up his birses, till he wan to the very brink of a deep hag; but when he gat there, my certy, he wasna lang in turning! Back he comes, by me, an’ away as the deil had been chasing him; as terrified a beast I saw never—Od, sir, I fand the very hairs o’ my head begin to creep, and a prinkling through a’ my veins and skin like needles and preens.—‘God guide us!’ thinks I, ‘what can this be?’ The day was derk, derk; for I was in the very stamoch o’ the cludd, as it were; still it was the day time, an’ the e’e o’ Heaven was open. I was as near turned an’ run after my tike as ever I’ll miss, but I just fand a stound o’ manheid gang through my heart, an’ forrit I sets wi’ a’ the vents o’ my head open. ‘If it’s flesh an’ blude,’ thinks I, ‘or it get the owrance o’ auld Wat Laidlaw, od it sal get strength o’ arm for aince.’ It was a deep hag, as deep as the wa’s o’ this house, and a strip o’ green sward alang the bottom o’t; and when I came to the brow, what does I see but twa lang liesh chaps lying sleeping at ither’s sides, baith happit wi’ the same maud. ‘Hallo!’ cries I, wi’ a stern voice, ‘wha hae we here?’ If ye had but seen how they lookit when they stertit up; od, ye wad hae thought they were twa scoundrels wakened frae the dead! I never saw twa mair hemp–looking dogs in my life.
‘What are ye feared for, lads? Whaten twa blades are ye? Or what are ye seeking in sic a place as this?’
‘This is a derk day, gudeman.’
‘This is a derk day, gudeman! That’s sic an answer as I heard never.