Highways and Byways in the Border
Many a warrior, no doubt, lies buried in the graveyard of Hermitage chapel, but I do not think any tombstones of very-great age have ever been found. Outside, however, between the wall of the burial ground and the river, there is an interest ing mound, the reputed grave of the famous Cout o' Keilder. Keilder is a district of Northumberland adjoining Peel Fell, and in the day of the wizard Soulis, that iniquitous lord's most noted adversary was the chief of Keilder, locally called, from his great size and strength and activity, "the Cout." In his last desperate fight with Soulis and his followers on the banks of Hermitage Water, the Cout was hewing a bloody path through the press of men, towards his chief enemy, when weight of numbers forced him, like a wounded stag, to take to the water. Here, at bay in the rushing stream, guarding himself from the foes who swarmed on either bank, the Cout stumbled and fell, and, hampered by his armour, he could not regain his feet; for each time that the drowning man got his head above water, Soulis and his band thrust him back with their long spears. Finally, as he became more exhausted, they held him down. And so the Cout perished. Here on the grassy bank, hard by what is still called "The Cout o' Keilder's pool," is his grave.
But one is disappointed to learn that when an examination of it was made some years ago, no gigantic bones were unearthed, nor indeed any bones at all.
There is in some of the hills near Hermitage a peculiarity which cannot fail to strike observers; and that is, the deep gashes – you cannot call them glens – that have been cut here and there by the small burns. Scored wide and deep into the smooth sides of the hills, they are yet not so wide as to force themselves on the eye. It would be possible to drive into them, and there effectually to conceal for a time, large mobs of cattle, and I do not doubt that in old days these fissures were often so used when a hostile English force was moving up the valley.
As one goes down Hermitage Water towards its junction with the Liddel, the country, one finds, is plentifully sprinkled with the ruins of peel towers, – abandoned rookeries of the Elliot clan, I suppose, for the Armstrong holdings were a little lower down. But in old days, when the de Soulis's held all Liddesdale, there were other strong castles besides Hermitage. Near Dinlabyre there stood the castle of Clintwood, and not far from the meeting of the two streams, on the high bank of Liddel, stood one of their strongholds – Liddel Castle. It was from this castle that the old village of Castleton look its name: the village was at first merely a settlement of de Soulis's followers.
The old Statistical Account of the Parish gives an extract from the Session Records of Castleton church which is of interest. It is as follows: "17 January 1649. The English army commanded by Colonels Bright and Pride, and under the conduct of General Cromwell, on their return to England, did lie at the Kirk of Castleton several nights, in which time they brak down and burnt the Communion table and the seats of the Kirk; and at their removing carried away the minister's books, to the value of one thousand merks and above, and also the books of Session, with which they lighted their tobacco pipes, the baptism, marriage, and examination rolls from October 1612 to September 1648, all which were lost and destroyed."
Castleton as a village does not now exist, and the old church has disappeared, though the churchyard is still used. The other village, the present Newcastleton, is of course entirely a township of yesterday – to be precise, it dates only from 1793. But it is interesting from the fact that the present railway station occupies the site where once stood the tower of Park, the peel of that "Little Jock Elliot" who so nearly put an end to the life of Bothwell. What a difference it might have made if he had but stabbed in a more vital spot, or a little deeper.
Not far from Castleton was the home of the notorious Willie of Westburnflat, last of the old reivers, and – it almost goes without saying – an Armstrong; the last of those of whom it was written:
"Of Liddisdail the common thiefis,Sa peartlie stellis now and reifis,That nane may keipHorse, nolt, nor scheip,Nor yett dar sleipFor their mischeifis."But Willie lived in degenerate days; the times were out of joint, and reiving as a profession had gone out of fashion. People now resented having their eye "lifted," and meanly invoked the new-fangled aid of the Law in redressing such grievances. Nevertheless, Willie did his best to maintain old customs, and consequently he was feared and hated far beyond the bounds of Liddesdale.
Modern prejudice however at length became too strong for him. It so fell out that a dozen or so of cows, raided one night from Teviotdale, were traced to Westburnflat. In the dead of night, when Willie was peacefully asleep, tired perhaps, and soothed by the consciousness of a deed well done, the men of Teviotdale arrived, and, bursting in, before Willie could gather his scattered wits or realise what was happening he was overpowered by numbers, and they had bound him fast, hand and foot. His trial, along with that of nine friends and neighbours, was held at Selkirk, and though the lost cattle had not been found in his possession, and the evidence of this particular theft was in no way conclusive, on the question of general character alone the jury thought it safer to find all the prisoners guilty. Sentence of death was pronounced. Thereupon Willie arose in wrath, seized the heavy oak chair on which he had been seated, broke it in pieces by main strength, kept a strong leg for himself, and passing the remainder to his condemned comrades, called to them to stand by him and they would fight their way out of Selkirk. There is little doubt, too, that he would have succeeded had he been properly backed up. But his friends – poor "fushiunless," spiritless creatures, degenerate Armstrongs surely, if they were Armstrongs – seized his hands and cried to him to "let them die like Christians."
Perhaps it was a kind of equivalent to turning King's Evidence; they may have hoped to curry favour and to be treated leniently because of their services in helping to secure the chief villain. But they might better have died fighting; pusillanimity availed them nothing. They were all duly hanged.
A few miles down the Liddel from Westburnfiat is the site of Mangerton Castle, home of the chief of the Armstrong clan, Johnie of Gilnockie's brother.
Nothing now is left of the building, but Sir Walter mentions that an old carved stone from its walls is built into a neighbouring mill. Near to Mangerton, in a field between Newcastleton and Ettletown Churchyard, is the interesting Milnholm Cross, said to have been erected somewhere about six hundred years ago to mark the spot where a dead chief of the Armstrongs lay, prior to being buried at Ettletown. The tradition as given in the Statistical Account of 1798, is as follows: "One of the governors of Hermitage Castle, some say Lord Soulis, others Lord Douglas, having entertained a passion for a young woman in the lower part of the parish, went to her house, and was met by her father, who, wishing to conceal his daughter, was instantly killed by the Governor. He was soon pursued by the people, and, in extreme danger, took refuge with Armstrong of Mangerton, who had influence enough to prevail on the people to desist from the pursuit, and by this means saved his life. Seemingly with a view to make a return for this favour, but secretly jealous of the power and influence of Armstrong, he invited him to Hermitage, where he was basely murdered. He himself, in his turn, was killed by Jock of the Side, of famous memory, and brother to Armstrong. The cross was erected in memory of the transaction." Here, too, I fear tradition is untrustworthy. Jock of the Syde – "a greater thief did never ride" – lived long after the day of the de Soulis's or of Douglas; he was, indeed, contemporary with the equally notorious "Johne of the Parke," – Little Jock Elliot. This Milnholm Cross is a little over eight feet in height. The carving is worn, and not very distinct, but on a shield there is the heraldic device of the Armstrongs, a bent arm; some lettering, i.h.s.; below, the initials m.a., and what appears to be a.a.; and on the shaft is cut a two-handed sword, about four feet in length. In his "History of Liddesdale," (1883). Bruce Armstrong says the shield was added "recently."
CHAPTER XVII KERSHOPEFOOT, CARLISLE CASTLE, SOLWAY MOSS
A little further down the river we come to the Kershope Burn, here the boundary between Scotland and England. It was here, at "the Dayholme of Kershoup" – which I take to be the flat land on the Scottish side of Liddel, opposite to the mouth of the burn – that the Wardens' Meeting was held in 1596, which became afterwards so famous owing to the illegal capture by the English of Kinmont Willie. All the world knows the tale, and all the world knows how gallantly Buccleuch rescued the prisoner from Carlisle Castle. But until one goes to Carlisle, and takes note for oneself of the difficulties with which Buccleuch had to contend, and the apparently hopeless nature of his undertaking, it is not possible to appreciate the full measure of the rescuer's gallantry. Kinmont, I suppose, on the day of his capture was riding quietly homeward down the Scottish side of the river, suspecting no evil, for the day was a day of truce. "Upon paine of death, presentlie to be executed, all persones whatsoever that come to these meitings sould be saife fra any proceiding or present occasioun, from the tyme of Meiting of the Wardens, or their Deputies, till the next Day at the sun rysing." The English did not play the game; from their own side of Liddel they had probably kept Kinmont in sight, meaning to seize him if opportunity offered. And they made the opportunity. For the most part, the banks of Liddel here are steep and broken, and the river is devoid of any ford; but a mile or two down from Kershopefoot the land on the Scottish side slopes gently from the water, and it is easily fordable.
Here probably began the chase which ended in Willie's capture. A very fine sword was found near this.
The night of Kinmont's release, the 13th of April, 1596, was very dark, with rain falling, and a slight mist rising over the river flats at Carlisle. And the Eden was swollen. It is not possible to form any very definite idea of the initial difficulty Buccleuch must have met with at this point, because the bed of the river is now entirely different from what it was then. In former days, I believe, a long, low island lay in mid-stream, the water flowing swiftly through two channels. Even now there is shallow water part way across, but the stream runs strong and it would be ill to ford, especially on a dark night. Buccleuch, I take it, must have swum his horses across the Eden nearly opposite, but a trifle above, the mouth of the litde river Caldew, the water being at the tyme, through raines that had fallen, weill thick; he comes to the Sacray, a plaine place under the toune and castell, and halts upon the syde of a little water or burn that they call "Caday."
The "Sacray" is of course what now goes by the name of the Sauceries.
Buccleuch's scaling ladders proved too short to enable him to get within the castle walls by their means; but there is a small postern gate in the wall (nearly abreast of the present public Abattoirs), and this was forced, or at least one or two men squeezed in here, possibly by removing a stone below the gate, and opened the postern to their comrades. This postern has recently been reopened. After Buccleuch's exploit it had been securely built upon both sides, outside and in; and later, a Cook's galley and other domestic offices were erected on the inner side, against the wall, effectually hiding the old gate.
These buildings and the stonework blocking the postern have now been pulled down, and the identical little oaken gate through which Buccleuch and his men entered, once more has seen the light of day, and, I understand, is now being put in a state of thorough repair.
Having made his entry, Buccleuch placed one part of his force between the castle and the town, so that he might not be assailed in rear, and, leaving a few men to guard the postern and secure their retreat, the rest pushed towards Kinmont Willie's place of confinement in the Keep, all making as great a noise as possible, "to terrifie both castell and toune by ane imaginatioun of a greater force." Hitherto they had encountered only the castle sentinels, who were easily scattered and brushed aside; "the rest that was within doors heiring the noyse of the trumpet within, and that the castell was entered, and the noyse of others without, both the Lord Scroope himself and his deputy Salkeld being thair with the garrisone and hys awin retinew, did keep thamselffis close."
It was one thing, however, for the rescuers to have forced their way inside the castle walls, but it should have been quite another, to accomplish the feat of getting the prisoner out of the dungeon. Through a female spy they knew in what part of the castle he lay; but his place of confinement, – inside the Keep, – was quite a hundred yards from the postern gate, and surely a few resolute men might have held so strong a post for a time without much difficulty. Lord Scrope, however, did not emerge from his retreat; and to the others as well, discretion seemed the better part of valour.
Meantime, Buccleuch's trumpets were blaring out the arrogant old Elliot slogan; "O wha daur meddle wi' me?"; and his men, falling to with energy, forced the gate of the Keep, burst in the massive door of the outer dungeon, tore away that of the dark and noisome inner prison, a rough, vaulted stone chamber to which no ray of light ever penetrated even on the brightest clay, and there they found Kinmont, chained to the wall. No time now to strike off his fetters; they could but free him from the long iron bar that ran along one side of the wall, and
"Then Red Rowan has hente him up,The starkest man in Teviotdale —'Abide, abide now, Red Rowan,Till of my Lord Scroope I take farewell.'"'Farewell, farew ell, my gude Lord Scroope!My gude Lord Scroope, farewell!' he cried —'I'll pay ye for my lodging maill,When first we meet on the Border side.'"Then shoulder high, with shout and cry,We bore him down the ladder lang;At every stride Red Rowan made,I wot the Kinmont's aims played clang!"We scarce had won the Staneshaw-bank,When a' the Carlisle bells were rung,And a thousand men on horse and foot,Cam' wi' the keen Lord Scroope along."But still they held aloof, hesitating to attack the retreating little Scottish band, and Buccleuch and his men, with Willie in their midst, plunged in and safely recrossed the swollen river.
"He turned him on the other side,And at Lord Scroope his glove flung he —'If ye likena my visit in merry England,In fair Scotland come visit me!'"But Lord Scrope on this night scarcely merited the term, "keen"; he went no farther towards Scotland than the water's edge.
"'He is either himself a devil frae hell,Or else his mother a witch maun be;I wadna have ridden that wan waterFor a' the gowd in Christentie,'"cried he, according to the ballad. Was he, one cannot help wondering, ashamed of the English breach of Border law entailed in the matter of Kinmont's capture, and was he in a measure wilfully playing into Buccleuch's hands? If that were the case, he took on himself a heavy risk. Elizabeth was not exactly the kind of Sovereign who would be likely to be tender hearted and to make allowances for slackness in such an affair, nor one with whom her servants might safely take liberties. As safely might the gambolling lamb play pranks with the drowsing wolf.
Not far from Longtown, at a place called Dick's Tree, on the farther side of Esk, there still stands the "smiddy" (or smith's shop) where Kinmont's irons were struck off. In one of Sir Walter Scott's M.S. letters of 1826 it is told that: "Tradition preserves the account of the smith's daughter, then a child, how there was a sair clatter at the door about daybreak, and loud crying for the smith; but her father not being on the alert, Buccleueh himself thrust his lance thro' the window, which effectually bestirred him. On looking out, the woman continued, she saw, in the grey of the morning, more gentlemen than she had ever before seen in one place, all on horseback, in armour, and dripping wet – and that Kinmont Willie, who sat woman fashion behind one of them, was the biggest carle she ever saw – and there was much merriment in the company." Except for this event, Dick's Tree is quite uninteresting, and quite unpicturesque; it is merely a cottage like a thousand others to be seen in the Border, possessing no special feature, or even any indication of antiquity.
And no one works the "smiddy" now, except at odd times; modern requirements have, I understand, taken the business away to Longtown.
What was the end of Kinmont Willie no one knows, but he certainly lived to pay, to some small extent, for his "lodging maill;" he was engaged in a raid on Lord Scrope's tenants in the year 1600, and doubtless he did not forget the debt incurred at Carlisle. Later than this I think there is no record of him, but it would not be surprising to learn that at the last Lord Scrope was able to give a receipt in full. Many an Armstrong in old days danced at the end of a rope at "Hairribie." Not improbably, Kinmont was one of them. There is a grave in an old churchyard not far from the Tower of Sark, which is pointed out as his. But the date on the tombstone makes it impossible that the veritable Willie of Kinmont lies underneath. The name of "William Armstrong called Kynmount" is in Lord Maxwell's Muster Roll of 1585, together with those of his seven sons. Willie, therefore – if at that date he had seven sons fit to fight – could have been no youth. Now the William Armstrong to whose memory the Sark tombstone is erected died in 1658, which, if he had been the famous Kinmont, would give him an age of considerably over a hundred years. But in any case, it is an interesting old stone. Many years ago steps were taken to preserve it from further decay, and the lettering and other points were retouched. Round the edges of the stone is cut:
"HEIR LYES. ANE. WORTHIE. PERSON. CALLIT. WILLIAM. ARMSTRONG. OF. SARK. WHO. DIED. TE IO. DAY. OF. JUNE. 16. 58. AETATIS. SVAE. 56."
On the body of the stone:
"Man as grass to grave he flies.Grass decays and man he dies.Grass revives and man doth rise.Yet few they be who get the prise."Below are the Armstrong bent arm holding a sword, a skull and crossed bones, an hour glass and other emblems, and below all, "memento mora." This William Armstrong, therefore, who died in 1658, aged 56, was not born when Kinmont Willie was rescued by Buccleuch from Carlisle Castle.
Here, on the lower part of Sark, we are in a country world famed for its old fashioned run-away marriages, more famed even than was Coldstream.
Down the river is Sark Bridge, with its toll-bar, and adjacent to it, Gretna Green. At the tollhouse alone in the early part of last century, within six years thirteen hundred couples were married – a profitable business for the "priest," (usually the village blacksmith,) for his fee ranged from half a guinea to a hundred pounds, according to the circumstances of each fond couple. But what was charged in a case such as that of Lord Erskine, Lord High Chancellor of England, who, when he was nearly seventy years of age, eloped with a blushing spinster and was married at Gretna – in the Inn, I think – history does not tell. There is a something, part comic, part pathetic, in the thought of the tired old gentleman gallantly propping himself in a corner of his post chaise, flying through the darkness of night on Love's wings, a fond bride by his side.
And when grey dawn at length stole through the breath-dimmed glass of the closed windows, revealing the "elderly morning dew" on his withered cheeks and stubbly chin, with callous disregard emphasizing the wrinkles, the bags below the puffy eyes – bloodshot from want of sleep – and the wig awry, did the young lady begin to repent her bargain, one may wonder.
Stretched between Sark and Longtown is the Debateable Land and Solway Moss; the latter "just a muckle black moss," they will tell you here, yet surely not without its own beauty under certain combinations of sun and cloud. "Solway Moss" is a name of evil repute to us of Scotland, for here on 24th November 1542 took place the most miserable of all Border battles – if indeed "battle" is a term in any degree applicable to the affair.
The encounter, such as it was, took place not so much in Solway Moss, however, as over towards Arthuret. The Scots – a strong raiding army, but disorganised, and in a state of incipient mutiny against their newly-appointed leader, Oliver Sinclair, (Ridpath says: "a general murmur and breach of all order immediately ensued" when his appointment was made known,) – at dawn of the 24th were already burning northward through the Debateable Land. Wharton with his compact little English force watched them from Arthuret Howes and skilfully drew them into a hopeless trap between the Esk and an impassable swamp, where there was no room to deploy. Here the English – at most not a sixth part so numerous as the Scots – charging down on the Scottish right flank threw them into hopeless confusion, and from that minute all was over. Panic seized the Scots: men cast aside whatever might hamper their flight, and, plunging into the water, scrambled for what safety they might find among the Grahams and the English borderers of Liddesdale – which, as it turned out, meant little better than scrambling from the frying pan into the fire.
Many were driven into the swamp and perished there miserably, many were drowned in the river, and twelve hundred men – including a large percentage of nobles – were captured. Out of a force variously estimated at from two to three thousand strong – Sir William Musgrave, who was with the cavalry, puts it at the higher figure – the English lost but seven men killed. It was a sorry business, a dreadful day for Scotland; and it ended the life of James V as effectually as if he had been slain on the field of battle.
I do not know if Arthuret church was injured on this occasion; it is recorded in 1597 that it had then been ruinous for about sixty years. Perhaps the Armstrongs may have been responsible; they made a big raid hereaway in 1528. The present building dates, I believe, from 1609.
There was another calamity connected with Solway Moss, later than the battle and local in effect, yet sufficiently terrible to cast over the district a black shadow of tragedy, the memory of which time has lightened but even yet has not entirely wiped out. November 1771 was a month of evil note for its storms and ceaseless wet. Day followed day sodden with driving rain, and the country lay smothered under a ragged grey blanket of mist. Firm ground became a quagmire that quaked under foot, pools widened into lakes, and the rivers rose in dreadful spate that yet failed to carry off the superfluous water.
