Stories of the Border Marches

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Lang John. Stories of the Border Marches

PREFACE

THE WHITE LADY OF BLENKINSOPP

DICKY OF KINGSWOOD

STORM AND TEMPEST

GRISELL HOME, A SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY HEROINE

KINMONT WILLIE

IN THE DAYS OF THE '15

SEWINGSHIELDS CASTLE, AND THE SUNKEN TREASURE OF BROOMLEE LOUGH

THE KIDNAPPING OF LORD DURIE

THE WRAITH OF PATRICK KERR

THE LAIDLEY WORM OF SPINDLESTON-HEUGH

A BORDERER IN AMERICA

BORDER SNOWSTORMS

THE MURDER OF COLONEL STEWART OF HARTRIGGE

AULD RINGAN OLIVER

A LEGEND OF NORHAM

THE GHOST OF PERCIVAL REED

DANDY JIM THE PACKMAN

THE VAMPIRES OF BERWICK AND MELROSE

A BORDER MIDDY

SHEEP-STEALING IN TWEEDDALE

A PRIVATE OF THE KING'S OWN SCOTTISH BORDERERS

HIGHWAYMEN IN THE BORDER

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE

ILLICIT DISTILLING AND SMUGGLING

SALMON AND SALMON-POACHERS IN THE BORDER

THE GHOST THAT DANCED AT JETHART

A MAN HUNT IN 1813

LADY STAIR'S DAUGHTER

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Among the old castles and peel towers of the Border, there are few to which some tale or other of the supernatural does not attach itself. It may be a legend of buried treasure, watched over by a weeping figure, that wrings its hands; folk may tell of the apparition of an ancient dame, whose corpse-like features yet show traces of passions unspent; of solemn, hooded monk, with face concealed by his cowl, who passes down the castle's winding stair, telling his beads; they whisper, it may be, of a lady in white raiment, whose silken gown rustles as she walks. Or the tale, perhaps, is one of pitiful moans that on the still night air echo through some old building; or of the clank of chains, that comes ringing from the damp and noisome dungeons, causing the flesh of the listener to creep.

They are all to be found, or at least they used all to be found, somewhere or other in the Border, by those who love such legends. And, perhaps, nowhere are they more common than amongst the crumbling, grass-grown ruins of Northumberland.

.....

But rumour had it once that the long-sought hiding-place was found. Orders had been given that the vaults of the castle should be cleared of rubbish, and fitted up as winter quarters for cattle, and as the workmen proceeded with their task they came on a low doorway, hitherto unknown, on a level with the bottom of the keep. This doorway gave on a narrow passage, leading no man knew whither. The report flew abroad that here at last was the Lady's vault, and people flocked to see what might be seen. None dared venture far along this passage, till one, bolder than the rest, taking his courage in both hands, went gingerly down the way so long untrod by human foot. The passage was narrow and low, too low for a man to walk in erect; after a few yards it descended a short flight of steps, and then again went straight forward to a door so decayed that only a rusted bolt, and one rust-eaten hinge, held it in place. Beyond this door, an abrupt turn in the passage, and then a flight of steps so precipitous that the feeble beam of his lantern could give the explorer no help in fathoming their depth; and when this lantern was lowered as far as it was in his power to do so, the flame burned blue and went out, killed by the noxious gases that stagnant centuries had breathed. Dizzy and frightened, the explorer with difficulty groped his way back to the fresher air of the vault, and no persuasion could induce him, or any of his fellows, to venture again so far as to that long flight of steps. The employer of those labourers was a man entirely devoid of curiosity or of imagination, possessed of no interest whatsoever in archaeology; so it fell out that the passage was closed, without any further effort being made to discover to what mysteries it might lead.

About the year 1845, one who then wrote about the castle visited the place, and found that boys had broken a small hole in the wall where the passage had been built up. Through this hole they were wont to amuse themselves by chucking stones, listening, fascinated, to the strange sounds that went echoing, echoing through the mysterious depths far below. Here, say some, lies the buried treasure of the White Lady of Blenkinsopp. But there are not wanting unsympathetic souls, who pride themselves on being nothing if not practical, who pretend to think that this hidden depth is nothing more mysterious than the old draw-well of the castle.

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