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By D.M. Moir, M.D.
“How was the Devil drest?
He was in his Sunday best;
His coat was red, and his breeches were blue,
With a hole behind, where his tail came through.
Over the hill, and over the dale,
And he went over the plain;
And backwards and forwards he switched his tail,
As a gentleman switches his cane.”
- Coleridge.
About this time* there
arose a great sough and surmise that some loons were playing false with
the kirkyard, howking up the bodies from their damp graves, and hurling
them away to the college. Words canna describe the fear, and the dool,
and the misery it caused. All flocked to the kirk yett; and the friends
of the newly buried stood by the mools, which were yet dark, and the
brown, newly—cast divots, that had not yet ta’en root, looking with
mournful faces, to descry any tokens of sinking in.
I’ll never forget it. I
was standing by when three young lads took shools, and, lifting up the
truff, proceeded to howk down to the coffin, wherein they had laid the
gray hairs of their mother. They looked wild and bewildered like, and
the glance of their een was like that of folk out of a mad—house ; and
none dared in the world to have spoken to them. They didna even speak to
ane anither; but wrought on wi’ a great hurry till the spades struck on
the coffin-lid—which was broken. The dead-claithes were there huddled a’
thegither in a nook, but the dead was gane. I took haud o’ Willie
Walker’s arm, and looked down. There was a cauld sweat all ower me ;—losh
me! but I was terribly frighted and eerie. Three mair graves were
opened, and a’ just alike, save and except that of a wee unkirstened
wean. which was aff bodily, coffin and a’.
There was a burst of
righteous indignation throughout the parish; nor without reason. Tell me
that doctors and graduates maun hae the dead ; but tell it not to Mansie
Wauch, that our hearts maun be trampled in the mire of scorn, and our
best feelings laughed at, in order that a bruise may be properly
plaistered up, or a sair head cured. Verily, the remedy is waur than the
disease.
But what remead? It was
to watch in the session-house, with loaded guns, night about, three at a
time. I never likit to gang into the kirkyard after darkening, let-a-be
to sit there through a lang winter night, windy and rainy, it may be, wi’
nane but the dead around us. Save us! it was an unco thought, and garred
a’ my flesh creep; but the cause was gude,—my spirit was roused, and I
was determined no to be dauntoned.
I counted and counted,
but the dread day at length came, and I was summonsed. All the leivelang
afternoon, when ca'ing the needle upon the brod, I tried to whistle
Jenny Nettles, Niel Gow, and ither funny tunes, and whiles crooned to
mysel between hands; but my consternation was visible, and a' wadna do.
It was in November, and
the cauld glimmering sun sank behind the Pentlands. The trees had been
shorn of their frail leaves; and the misty night was closing fast in
upon the dull and short day; but the candles glittered at the shop
windows, and leery-light-the-lamps was brushing about wi’ his ladder in
his oxter, and bleezing flamboy sparking out behind him. I felt a kind
of qualm of faintness and down-sinking about my heart and stomach, to
the dispelling of which I took a thimbleful of spirits, and, tying my
red comforter about my neck, I marched briskly to the session-house. A
neighbour (Andrew Goldie, the pensioner) lent me his piece, and loaded
it to me. He took tent that it was only half-cock, and I wrapped a
napkin round the dog-head, for it was raining. No being acquaint wi’
guns, I keepit the muzzle aye awa frae me; as it is every man’s duty no
to throw his precious life into jeopardy.
A furm was set before the
session-house fire, which bleezed brightly, nor had I ony thought that
such an unearthly place could have been made to look half so
comfortable, either by coal or candle; so my speerits rose up as if a
weight had been ta’en aff them, and I wondered in my bravery, that a man
like me could be afeard of onything. Nobody was here but a touzy,
ragged, halflins callant of thirteen (for I speared his age), wi’ a
desperate dirty face, and lang carroty hair, tearing a speldrin wi’ his
teeth, which lookit lang and sharp eneugh, and throwing the skin and
lugs intil the fire.
We sat for amaist an hour
thegither, cracking the best way we could in sic a place; nor was
onybody mair likely to cast up. The night was now pit-mirk; the wind
soughed amid the headstanes and railings of the gentry (for we maun a’
dee); and the black corbies in the Steeple-holes cackled and crawed in a
fearsome manner. A’ at ance we heard a lonesome sound; and my heart
began to play pit-pat … my skin grew a' rough, like a poukit chicken—and
I felt as if I didna ken what was the matter with me. It was only a
false alarm, however, being the warning of the clock ; and in a minute
or twa thereafter the bell struck ten. Oh, but it was a lonesome and
dreary sound! Every chap gaed through my breast like the dunt of a
forehammer.
Then up and spak the red
headed laddie: "It’s no fair; anither should hae come by this time. I
wad rin awa hame, only I’m frightened to gang out my lane. Do ye think
the doup o’ that candle wad carry in my cap?”
“Na, na, lad; we maun
bide here, as we are here now. Leave me alane! Lord save us! and the
yett lockit, and the bethrel sleepin’ wi’ the key in his breek-pouches!
We canna win out now, though we would," answered I, trying to look
brave, though half frightened out of my seven senses. "Sit down, sit
down; I’ve baith whisky and porter wi’ me. Hae, man, there’s a cauker to
keep your heart warm; and set down that bottle," quoth I, wiping the
sawdust aff it with my hand, " to get a toast; I’se warrant it for
Deacon Jaffrey’s best brown stout."
The wind blew higher, and
like a hurricane; the rain began to fall in perfect spouts; the auld
kirk rumbled, and rowed, and made a sad soughing; and the bourtree tree
behind the house, where auld Cockburn, that cuttit his throat, was
buried, creakit and crazed in a frightful manner; but as to the roaring
of the troubled waters, and the bumming in the lum-head, they were past
a’ power of description. To make bad worse, just in the heart of the
brattle, the grating sound of the yett turning on its rusty hinges was
but too plainly heard. What was to be done? I thought of our baith
running away; and then of our locking oursels in, and tiring through the
door; but wha was to pull the trigger?
Gudeness watch ower us! I
tremble yet when I think on’t. We were perfectly between the deil and
the deep sea —either to stand and fire our gun, or rin and be shot at.
It was really a hang choice. As I stood swithering and shaking, the
laddie ran to the door, and thrawing round the key, clapped his back
till’t. Oh! how I lookit at him, as he stude, for a gliff, like a magpie
hearkening wi’ his lug cockit up, or rather like a. terrier watching a
rotten.
"They’re coming! they’re
coming!” he cried out; "cock the piece, ye sumph,” while the red hair
rose up from his pow like feathers; "they’re coming, I hear them
tramping on the gravel !” Out he stretched his arms against the wall,
and brizzed his back against the door like mad; as if he had been Samson
pushing over the pillars in the house of Dagon. "For the Lord’s sake,
prime the gun,” he cried out, "or our throats will be cut frae lug to
lug, before we can say Jack Robinson! See that there’s priming in the
pan! "
I did the best I could;
but my hale strength could hardly lift up the piece, which waggled to
and fro like a cock’s tail on a rainy day; my knees knockit against ane
anither, and though I was resigned to dee—I trust I was resigned to dee—’od,
but it was a frightfu’ thing to be out of ane’s bed, and to be murdered
in an auld session-house, at the dead hour of night, by unyearthly
resurrection-men—or rather let me call them devils incarnate—wrapt up in
dreadnoughts, wi’ blackit faces, pistols, big sticks, and other deadly
weapons.
A snuff-snuffing was
heard; and through below the door I saw a pair of glancing black een.
’Od, but my heart nearly loupit aff the bit-—a snouff and a gur-gurring,
and ower a' the plain tramp of a man’s heavy tackets and cuddy-heels
amang the gravel. Then cam a great slap like thunder on the wall; and
the laddie quitting his grip, fell down, crying, " Fire, Fire!—murder!
holy murder! ”
"Wha’s there?” growled a
deep rough voice; "open—I’m a friend."
I tried to speak, but
could not; something like a halfpenny roll was sticking in my throat, so
I tried to cough it up, out it wadna come. "Gie the pass-word, then,"
said the laddie, staring as if his een wad loupen out; "gie the
pass-word!"
First cam a loud whussle,
and then "Copmahagen," answered the voice. Oh! what a relief! The laddie
started up like ane crazy wi’ joy. "Ou! ou! ” cried he, thrawing round
the key, and rubbing his hands, "by jingo! it’s the bethrel—it’s the
bethrel—it’s auld Isaac himsel! ”
First rushed in the dog,
and then Isaac, wi’ his glazed hat, slouched ower his brow, and his horn
bowet glimmering by his knee. "Has the French landit, do ye think? Losh
keep us a’ !" said he, wi’ a smile on his half-idiot {ace (for he was a
kind of a sort of a natural, wi’ an infirmity in his leg).
"’Od sauf us, man, put by
your gun. Ye dinna mean to shoot me, do ye? What are ye aboot here wi’
the door lockit? I just keppit four resurrectioners louping ower the wa’.”
"Gude guide us!" I said,
taking a long breath to drive the blude frae my heart, and something
relieved by Isaac’s company. "Come now, Isaac, ye’re just giein’ us a
fright. Isn’t that true, Isaac?”
"Yes, I’m joking,— and
what for no? But they might have been, for onything ye wad hae hindered
them to the contrair, I’m thinking. Na, na, ye maunna lock the door ;
that’s no fair play."
When the door was put
ajee, and the furm set fornent the fire, I gied Isaac a dram to keep his
heart up on sica cauld, stormy night. 'Od, but he was a droll fallow,
Isaac. He sung and leuch as if he had been boozing in Lucky Tamson’s, wi’
some of his drucken cronies. Fient a hair cared he about auld kirks, or
kirkyards, or vouts, or through-stanes, or dead folk in their
winding-sheets, wi’ the wet grass growing ower them; and at last I began
to brighten up a wee mysel ; so when he had gone ower a good few funny
stories, I said to him, quoth I, " Mony folk, I daresay, mak mair noise
about their sitting up in a kirkyard than it’s a’ worth. 'There’s
naething here to harm us."
"I beg to differ wi’ ye
there” answered Isaac, taking out his horn mull from his coat pouch, and
tapping on the lid in a queer style—"I could gie anither version of that
story. Did ye no ken of three young doctors—Eirish students—alang wi'
some resurrectioners, as waff and wild as themselves, fixing shottie for
shottie wi’ the guard at Kirkmabreck, and lodging three slugs in ane o’
their backs, forbye tiring a ramrod through anither ane’s hat?"
This was a wee alarming.
“No," quoth I —" no, Isaac, man, I ne’er heard o’t.”
"But let alane
resurrectioners, do ye no think there is sic a thing as ghaists? Guide
ye, my man, my granny could hae telled ye as muckle about them as wad
hae filled a minister’s sermons from June to January."
"Kay—kay—that’s a’ buff”
I said. "Are there nae cutty-stool businesses--are there nae marriages
gaun, Isaac?” for I was keen to change the subject.
"Ye may kay—kay—as ye
like, though; I can just tell ye this—ye’ll mind auld Armstrong, wi’ the
leather breeks, and the brown three-storey wig — him that was the
grave-digger? Weel, he saw a ghaist wi’ his leeving een—aye, and what’s
better, in this very kirkyard too. It was a cauld spring morning, and
daylight just coming in, when he cam to the yett yonder, thinking to
meet his man, paidling Jock — but Jock had sleepit in, and wasna there.
Weel, to the wast comer ower yonder he gaed, and throwing his coat ower
a headstane, and his hat on the tap o’t, he dug awa wi’ his spade,
casting out the mools, and the coffin-handles, and the green banes, and
sic-like, till he stoppit a wee to tak breath. —What are ye whistling to
yoursel?" quo’ Isaac to me, "and no hearing what’s God’s truth ?”
"Ou ay," said I, "but ye
didna tell me if ony body was cried last Sunday?" I wad hae given every
farthing I had made by the needle to hae been at that blessed time in my
bed wi’ my wife and wean. Ay, how I was gruing! I mostly chacked aff my
tongue in chitterin’. But a’ wadna do.
"Weel, speaking of
ghaists ;—when he was resting on his spade, he looked up to the steeple,
to see what o’clock it was, wondering what way Jock hadna come,—when lo,
and behold in the lang diced window of the kirk yonder, he saw a lady a’
in white, wi’ her hands clasped thegither, looking out to the kirkyard
at him.
"He couldna believe his
een, so he rubbit them wi’ his sark sleeve, but she was still there
bodily, and, keeping ae ee on her, and anither on his road to the yett,
he drew his coat and hat to him below his arm, and aff like mad,
throwing his shool half a mile ahint him. Jock fand that; for he was
coming singing in at the yett, when his maister ran clean ower the tap
o’ him, and capseized him like a toom barrel; and never stoppin’ till he
was in at his ain house, and the door baith bolted and barred at his
tail.
"Did ye ever hear the
like of that, Mansie? Weel man, I’ll explain the hale history o’t to ye.
Ye see,—’od! how sound that callant’s sleeping,” continued Isaac; "he’s
snoring like a nine-year-auld.”
I was glad he had stoppit,
for I was like to sink through the grund wi’ fear; but na, it wadna do.
"Dinna ye ken—sauf us !
what a fearsome night this is! The trees’ll be a’ broken, What a noise
in the lum! I dare say there is some auld hag of a witch-wife gaun to
come rumble doun’t. lt’s no the first time, I’ll swear. Hae ye a silver
sixpence? Wad ye like that?" he bawled up the chimley. "Ye’ll hae
heard,” said he, "lang ago, that a wee murdered wean was buried—didna ye
hear a voice?—was buried below that corner—the hearthstane there, where
the laddie’s lying on?”
I had now lost my breath,
so that I couldna stop him.
"Ye never heard tell o’t,
didna ye? Weel, I’se tell’t ye.—Sauf us! what swurls o’ smoke coming
down the chimley—I could swear something no canny’s stopping up the lum-head—gang
out and see!”
At that moment, a clap
like thunder was heard-—the candle was driven ower — the sleeping laddie
roared "Help!" and "Murder!" and "Thieves!” and as the furm on which we
were sitting played flee backwards, cripple Isaac bellowed out, "I’m
dead!—I’m killed! shot through the head!—oh, oh, oh!"
Surely I had fainted
away; for when I came to rnysel, I found my red comforter loosed; my
face a’ wet—Isaac rubbing down my waistcoat with his sleeve—the laddie
swigging ale out of a bicker—and the brisk brown stout, which, by
casting its cork, had caused a` the alarm, whizz—whizz—whizzing in the
chimley-lug. … {Mansie Wauch} |
