One was a female, who had grievous ill
Wrought in revenge, and she enjoy’d it still;
Sullen she was, and threatening; in her eye
Glared the stern triumph that she dared to die.
George Crabbe, The Borough
On the morning appointed, Jeanie took a grateful farewell of Mrs Glass and placed herself, her goods, purchases and presents in a hackney-coach and joined her travelling companions in the housekeeper’s apartment at Argyle House. While the carriage was being readied, she was informed that the Duke wished to speak with her. She was ushered into a splendid saloon to find that he wished to present her to his Duchess and daughters.
‘I bring you my countrywoman, Duchess.’
The Duchess advanced and, in a few kind and civil words, assured Jeanie of the respect generated by her affectionate and firm character, adding,
‘When you get home, you will perhaps hear from me.’
‘And from me.’ ‘From me.’ ‘And from me, Jeanie,’ added the young ladies, one after the other.
Jeanie, overpowered by these compliments, and unaware that the Duke’s investigation had covered her behaviour on her sister’s trial, could only answer by blushing and saying,
‘My thanks!’
‘Jeanie,’ said the Duke, ‘you must have doch an’ dorroch1 or you will be unable to travel.’
There was a salver with cake and wine on the table. He took up a glass, drank “to all true hearts that love Scotland”, and offered a glass to his guest. Jeanie declined, saying,
‘I have never tasted wine in my life.’
‘How comes that, Jeanie?’
‘Sir, my father is like Jonadab the son of Rechab who charged his children that they should drink no wine.’2
‘Then, Jeanie, if you will not drink you must eat!’ He gave her a large piece of cake.
‘Take it with you, Jeanie,’ said he; ‘you will be glad of it before you see St Giles. I wish to Heaven I might see it as soon as you! And so, my best service to all my friends about Auld Reekie and a blithe journey to you.’
He shook hands with his protégée, and committed her to the charge of Archibald, knowing that his unusual attention to her would ensure the same from his domestics.
Accordingly, in the course of her journey, she found both her companions paying her every civility so that her return, in terms of comfort and safety, formed a distinct contrast to her journey to London. Her heart also was relieved of the weight of grief, shame and fear, which had loaded her before the interview with the Queen at Richmond. But the human mind, when freed from real misery, becomes open and sensitive to lesser calamities. She was now much disturbed that she had heard nothing from Reuben Butler.
‘It would have cost him sae little fash,’ she said to herself; ‘for I hae seen his pen go as fast ower the paper, as ever it did when it was on the grey goose’s wing. Maybe he may be ill, but then my father wad hae said something about it. But, I shall wish him weel; and if he has the luck to get a Kirk in our county, I sall gang and hear him to show that I bear nae malice.’
As she imagined the scene, a tear stole over her eye.
Approaching Carlisle, they noticed a considerable crowd upon an eminence at a little distance from the high road. From some people heading towards that busy scene they heard that the cause of the concourse was,
‘To see a doomed Scotch witch and thief get only half of her due upo’ Haribeebroo’ yonder; for she was only to be hanged, when she should hae been boorned alive.’
‘How interesting, Mr. Archibald,’ said May Dutton, the Argyles’ new dame of the dairy. ‘I never seed a woman hanged in a’ my life, and only four men. It makes a goodly spectacle.’
Archibald, however, was a Scotsman and a man of sense and delicacy. The cause of Jeanie’s expedition to London was known to him. He answered drily that it was impossible to stop as he must be early at Carlisle on some business of the Duke’s. He bade the postilions press on.
The road at that time passed at about a quarter of a mile’s distance from the eminence called Haribee or Harabee-brow which, though of modest height, is nevertheless visible from a great distance owing to the flatness of the Eden valley. Here many an outlaw and border-reiver of both kingdoms wavered in the wind during the wars and hostile truces between the two countries.
The postilions drove on, wheeling as the Penrith road led them round the verge of the rising ground. Yet still the eyes of Mrs Dutton turned towards the scene of action. All could plainly discern the outline of the gallows-tree against the clear sky, the dark shade formed by executioner and condemned upon the tall ladder. One of the objects, launched into the air, gave unequivocal signs of mortal agony though appearing in the distance not larger than a spider dangling at the end of her invisible thread. The remaining form descended and rejoined the crowd. This termination of the tragic scene drew forth a squeal from Mrs Dutton. Jeanie instinctively turned away, the sight of a female undergoing what her beloved sister had so nearly faced being too much for her mind. Faint, she turned to the other side of the carriage with a sensation of sickness and loathing. Archibald, calm and considerate, had the carriage pushed forward till they were beyond sight of the spectacle. Seeing Jeanie’s paleness, he stopped the carriage and went in search of a draught of water.
While Archibald was absent, spectators of the execution began to pass the stationary vehicle on their way back to Carlisle. From their half-heard words, Jeanie, her attention involuntarily rivetted on them, discerned that the victim had died ‘game’ that is, sullen and impenitent, neither fearing God nor man.
‘She has gone to hor master, with his name in her mouth,’ said another; ‘Shame the country should be harried wi’ Scotch witches and Scotch bitches. Hang ‘em and drown ‘em, says I.’
‘Silence wi’ your fule tongues,’ said an old woman, hobbling past, ‘this was nae witch, but a bluidy-fingered thief and murderess.’
‘But isna the daughter o’ yon hangit body as rank a witch as sho?’
‘I dunno, but folk are speaking o’ swimming her i’ the Eden.’
Mr Archibald returned with water as a crowd of boys and girls, and some of the rabble of more mature age, came up from the place of execution, grouping themselves around a tall, fantastically dressed female who was bounding in the midst of them. A horrible recognition hit Jeanie – and it was mutual. With a sudden burst of strength, Madge Wildfire broke away from her circle of tormentors. Clinging fast to the door of the calash, she screamed,
‘Jeanie Deans! They hae hangit our mother! O gar them let me cut her down!’
Archibald, embarrassed by the madwoman clinging to the carriage and drawing a crowd around it, was now looking out for a constable to whom he might commit her. Seeing no such person, he tried to loosen her hold on the carriage, so that they might escape by driving on. Madge, however, held on fast, renewing her frantic entreaties to be allowed to cut her mother down. There now came up, however, a group of fierce-looking graziers among whose cattle there had been a fatal distemper, imputed to witchcraft. They tore Madge from the carriage, exclaiming, ‘Stop folk on’t king’s highway? Hast no’ done enough wi’ thy murders and witcherings?’
‘Oh, Jeanie Deans, Jeanie Deans!’ cried Madge. ‘Save my mother! I will take ye to the Interpreter’s house – and teach ye a’ my bonny sangs – and I will tell ye what came o’ the…’
The rest of her entreaties were drowned in the shouts of the rabble.
‘Save her, for God’s sake!’ cried Jeanie to Archibald.
‘She is mad, but innocent. She is mad, gentlemen!’ called Archibald; ‘do not maltreat her. Take her before the Mayor.’
‘Aye, we’ll tak care o’her,’ grimly answered one of the fellows; ‘gang on thy way, man, an’ mind thine own matters.’
It was clear nothing could be done to rescue Madge. Archibald could only bid the postilions hurry on to Carlisle to obtain assistance for the woman. As they drove off, they heard the hoarse roar with which a mob prefaces acts of riot, yet even above that they could discern the screams of the victim. In Carlisle, Archibald, at Jeanie’s urgent entreaty, found a Magistrate who went with him and managed to rescue the woman. When they came to the muddy pool in which the mob were ducking her, the Magistrate succeeded in rescuing her. She was unconscious. Revived, she was carried to the workhouse.
Wildfire was not expected to survive the treatment she had received, but Jeanie seemed so agitated that Archibald did not think it prudent to tell her the worst at once. Indeed, she appeared so affected by the incident that although their intention was to go on to Longtown that evening, he judged it advisable to pass the night at Carlisle.
Jeanie wished to see Madge Wildfire. Connecting some of her wild flights with George Staunton’s story, she hoped to hear the fate of her sister’s infant. She did not cherish great hopes of useful intelligence, but with Madge’s mother now silent for ever, it was her only chance. Jeanie hastened to the workhouse hospital with her companions. They found Madge in a large ward of ten beds, of which the patient’s was the only one occupied.
Madge was singing when they entered. It was her usual wild snatches of songs and old airs, but a voice with now softened and subdued by bodily exhaustion. There was death in the plaintive tones of her voice which yet had something of a mother’s lullaby. Jeanie went to the bedside and, though she addressed Madge by name, there was no sign of recognition. On the contrary, the patient changed her posture, and called out,
‘Nurse—nurse! Turn my face to the wa’, that I may never answer to that name!’
The attendant arranged her as she desired, her face to the wall and her back to the light. As soon as she was quiet in this position, she began to sing again. The strain, however, was different, rather resembling the music of Methodist hymns, though the measure of the song was similar to that of the former:
Doff thy robes of sin and clay;
Christian, rise, and come away.
The strain was solemn and affecting, sustained by a voice naturally fine but one which weakness had softened. Even Archibald, a pococurante by profession,3 was affected. The dairy maid blubbered. Jeanie felt tears rise to her eyes. Even the nurse seemed moved. The patient was evidently growing weaker, as was shown by her difficulty of breathing. Nature was succumbing in the last conflict. But the spirit of melody, which must originally have been so strong, seemed to rise over her pain and weakness. It was remarkable that in her songs there could always something appropriate. She sang softly a fragment of some old ballad:
Cauld is my bed, Lord Archibald,
And sad my sleep of sorrow;
But thine sall be as sad and cauld,
My fause true-love, to-morrow!
Again she changed the tune. It was to one wilder and less regular. Of the words, only a fragment or two could be made out by the listeners:
Proud Maisie is in the wood,
Walking so early;
Sweet Robin sits on the bush,
Singing so rarely.
Who makes the bridal bed,
Birdie, say truly?
‘Tis the grey-headed sexton,
That delves the grave duly.
The glow-worm o’er the grave and stone
Shall light thee steady;
The owl from the steeple sings,
‘Welcome, proud Lady…
With the last notes her voice died away and she fell into a slumber, from which the attendant assured them that she would never awake; it proved true.
Madge Murdockson parted with existence without again uttering a sound of any kind.
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1 Gaelic: Deoch an doruis, literally: drink of the door.
2 See Jeremiah 35.6–19. His name was adopted by The Rechabites, a total abstinence society. The sounds of singing from the pier would alert Para Handy aboard the Vital Spark that Dougie the Mate had, once again, ‘broken with the Rechabites.’
3 Of an incurious, indifferent nature. From Italian: Poco curante; little caring.