"And harkee, Finland!" continued the Earl, "take young Walter Fenton and fifty tall musqueteers, break open the English government arsenal, and bring off four pieces of cannon which I understand are there; press horses wherever you can get them; blow up the magazine; and join us at the bridge—forgetting not, if you are invaded, to handle the citizens at discretion, in our old Flemish fashion. By Heaven, they may be thankful that I have not treated their town of Ipswich as old John of Tsercla, the Count Tilly, did Magdeburg. Away, then!"
CHAPTER XIX.
FREE QUARTERS.
FALSTAFF. 'Sblood! 'twas time to counterfeit, or that hot termagant Scot had paid me scot and lot too.—HENRY IV.
The redness of the moon passed away as it ascended into the blue wide vault, and its cold white lustre was poured upon the level English landscape that spread at the feet of the Scottish soldiers, as they began to ascend the heights, or gentle eminence to the northward of Ipswich. Above the winter-smoke of the dense little town, the spires of its churches stood out in bold relief, like lances glittering through a sea of gauze; and the wich or bend of the beautiful Orwell swept in a silvery semicircle, like a gleaming snake, among the fallow fields and leafless copsewood; and far around the scenery spread like a moonlit map or fairy amphitheatre. All was still in the town below; at times, a light twinkled, or a voice rang out upon the quietness that reigned there, but the Scots' Royals, who were halted on the brow of an eminence, over which wound the northern road (the way to their distant home), heard nothing to indicate the success of their comrades.
Anon a vast blaze gleamed broadly and redly on the night, revealing a thousand striking objects unseen before,—the church of St. Peter, with its gleaming windows, and the Gothic façade of Wolsey's ruined college. A loud explosion followed, a shout rose up from the town below; then all became still, and it seemed, as before, to float in the calm misty light of the silver moon.
"Finland has blown up the English magazine," said the Earl; "and here he comes."
The clatter of hoofs and wheels ringing in the narrow streets, and rumbling above the hollow bridge of the Orwell, approached; steel caps flashed in the moonlight above the parapet, the gleam of arms was reflected in the surface of the river, and in a few minutes Douglas, Walter Fenton, Gavin of that ilk, and their party seated on the tumbrils, dashed up with four pieces of beautiful brass cannon, marked with the broad arrow and red rose of England, and drawn by twelve horses captured for the occasion.
"Bravo, Finland!" exclaimed the Earl; "here are four braw marrows for old Mons Meg."
"Would to heaven, my lord, they were in the Maiden Castle alongside of her, with the standard of the Cock o' the North waving over them!"
"How so?—art faint-hearted, man?"
"Tush, I am a Douglas.—Ask Gavin."
"What news, my tall grenadier?—You have the rix-dollars, I hope."
"My Lord Earl, the devil a tester. This English burgomaster was not a whit dismayed by my threats, but assailed me with a band of tip-staves; so, with drawn rapier, I was glad to beat a retreat and gain Finland's band with my skin whole."
"And what think you inspired him to beard us thus?" asked Walter.
"By the head of the King, I care not!" said Dunbarton, setting his teeth and rising in his stirrups. "I will hang him from yonder steeple and inquire after."
"Jeddart justice all the world over," muttered old Wemyss.
"He had received news that Sir John Lanier, with his regiment of Dragoon guards and Langstone's horse, have already reached Saffron Waldron, in which case it were madness in us to tarry."
"Gavin, must we then retreat?" said the Earl, colouring with passion. "Who brought these evil tidings?"
"An English gentleman."
"Pshaw—I don't think he can be relied on."
"I know him to be a man of good repute," replied Gavin: "Sir Tufton Shirley of Mildenham. He fought for the King at Sedgemoor. I warrant him brave and honourable as any cavalier in his country."
"Be advised, noble Earl," urged the grim old Laird of Drumquhasel; "every moment is worth the life of a brave comrade."
"Indubitably so," added the Reverend Dr. Joram, as he spurred a prancing mare which he had borrowed unconditionally, with holsters and saddle-bags, from the host of the Bulloign-gate. "As Sir John Mennys saith in his 'Musarum Delicæ'—
"Hee that fights and runnis away,
May live to fight——"
Ye know the rest, sirs."
"We are not wont to make such reservations, reverend sir; but you are in the right," replied the Earl. "March in silence, comrades, and with circumspection. Keep your ranks close and your matches lighted—forward!"
About midnight they passed Needham, a town on the Orwell. All was dark and silent; scarcely a dog barked as they marched through its deserted streets, and continued their way, by the light of the stars, across the fertile country beyond. The fugitive Scots marched with great care and rapidity; four hundred miles lay between them and their native land, a long and perilous route, on which they knew innumerable dangers and difficulties would attend them.
De Ginckel, the Dutch Earl of Athlone, Sir John Lamer, and Colonel Langstone, with six regiments of horse and dragoons, and Major Maitland with a brigade of the renegade Scottish Guards, were pressing forward by various routes to intercept and cut them off. No man dared, on peril of his life, to straggle from the ranks; for, as Scotsmen and Loyalists, they were doubly enemies to the English peasantry, who would infallibly have murdered any that fell into their hands, as they had done all the Scottish wounded and stragglers after the battle of Worcester. And thus, animated by anxiety, hope, and the exhortations of the gallant Dunbarton and his cavaliers, they marched—all heavily accoutred as they were—with such amazing rapidity, that, long ere daybreak, they had left Bury St. Edmunds, with its ancient spire and once magnificent abbey, twenty miles behind them.
Making detours through the fields, cutting a passage through walls, hedges, and fences, they avoided every town and village, and more than once were brought to a halt by Gavin, who led the avant guard, declaring that he saw helmets glittering in the light of the waning moon. They forded the waters of the Lark, and the cold grey light of the winter morning began to brighten the level horizon, throwing forward in dark relief the distant trees and village spires, as they came in sight of Ely, without having encountered their Dutch or English foemen.
The cold was intense; and the same white frost that powdered the grassy lawns and leafless trees encrusted the iron helmets and corslets of the soldiers, whose breath curled from their close ranks like smoke from a fire. To Scotsmen even the most hilly parts of the landscape appeared almost a dead level, where Ely, with its fine cathedral and street, that straggled on each side of the roadway, seemed floating in a sea of white mist, through which the Ouse wound like a golden thread. Shorn of its beams by the thick winter haze, the morning sun, like a luminous ball of glowing crimson, ascended slowly into its place, and the great tower and pinnacles of Ely Cathedral gleamed in its light as if their rich Gothic carving had been covered with the richest gilding, and the tall traceried windows shone like plates of burnished gold.
The Reverend Dr. Joram, who had dashed forward with cocked pistols to reconnoitre, returned to report, with military precision, that "it was a fair city, open, without cannon or fortifications of any kind; and that, if it contained soldiers, they kept no watch or ward. And I pray Heaven," he added, "we may get wherewith to break our fast."
"We will march in with drums beating," said the Earl. "Allons, mon tambour Major! Give us the old Scottish march, with which stout James of Hepburn so often scared the Imperialists in their trenches on the Oder and the Maine."
With drums beating, standards displayed, and matches lighted, the solid column marched into the little city of Ely just as the tenth hour rang from the cathedral bells, and halting, the Earl sent to the affrighted mayor to demand peaceably three hours' quarters and subsistence for 1,500 Scots in the service of King James. The mayor, who on the previous night had dispatched a most loyal address to the new King William, was considerably dismayed to find the city so suddenly filled by the soldiers of a nation he equally feared and detested: but to hear was to obey. The determined aspect of young Walter Fenton, with his features flushed and red by the long and frosty night march, his drawn rapier, and Scottish accent and fashion of armour, made the mayor use every exertion to get his unwelcome visitors peaceably billeted on the terrified citizens, who expected nothing less than immediate sack and slaughter.
To the Earl he sent a flowery invitation to breakfast, thus anticipating Dunbarton, who had proposed to invite himself. The other cavaliers quartered themselves on any houses that suited their fancy; and Walter Fenton, Finland, and their jovial chaplain took possession of a handsome old mansion at the extremity of the city, having with them Wemyss and a few soldiers, to prevent treachery, surprise, or inattention on the part of the occupants, whom they desired to prepare a substantial breakfast, on peril of their lives, ere the drums beat to arms.
It was an ancient, oriel-windowed house, with clusters of carved chimnies rising from steep wooden gables, around which the withered vine and dark-green ivy clambered; its gloomy dining-hall, lighted by three painted and mullioned windows, was floored with oak, and curiously wainscotted. A great pile of roots and coal was blazing in the projecting fireplace, and a shout of approbation burst from the frozen guests as they clattered in, and drawing chairs around the joyous hearth, threw aside their steel caps, and demanded breakfast as vociferously as if each was lord of the mansion, and the venerable butler looked from one to another in confusion and dismay.
"Fellow, where is thy master?" asked Finland; "why comes he not to greet the King's soldiers, if he is a true cavalier?"
"To be plain, sir, his honour took horse, and rode off whenever your drums were heard beating down-hill."
"Some rascally old roundhead! and why did he ride—was he afraid we would eat him?"
"I know not, sir; but a bold horseman is my master; and he dashed into the Ouse as if he saw the game before him."
"Or the devil behind!" added the clergyman. "Mahoud! a thought strikes me—he crossed the Ouse—what if he be gone to warn De Ginckel of our route? The Swart Ruyters were last seen at Haverhill."
"Convince us of that, Doctor," said Walter, "and we should burn this fair house to the ground-stone."
"Gadso, lad; let us have breakfast first. Harkee, butler——"
"Thou see'st, reverend sir," began the old servant, trembling.
"Avaunt, caitiff! dost thou thou me? 'I am come of good kin,' as the old morality saith," cried Joram; "fetch me a pint of sack posset, dashed with ginger, and a white loaf, while breakfast is preparing; and if you would save your back from my riding-rod, and your master's mansion from the flames, see that our repast be such as not even Heliogabalus could find a fault with."
"And bring me a wassail bowl of spiced ale," said Finland.
"And me a stoup of brandy, master butler," added Sergeant Wemyss.
"And me the same," chorussed Hab Elshender and the soldiers at the lower end of the hall; while his Reverence the chaplain, stretching himself before the ruddy flames, began the old ditty of the Cavaliers of Fortune.
"Now all you brave lads that would hazard for honour,
Hark! how Bellona her trumpet doth blow;
Mars, with many a warlike banner,
Bravely displayed, invites you to goe!
Germani, Denmark, and Sweden, are smoking,
With a band of brave sworders each other provoking,
Marching in their armour bright,
Summonis you to glory's fight,
Sing tan ta, ra, ra, ra, ra, ra!"
As his Reverence concluded, he drained the sack posset, which the white-haired butler placed obsequiously before him.
"Many a time and oft have I heard my father chant that old Swedish war-song," said Finland. "He commanded a regiment of Ruyters under Gustavus."
"O Vivat! Gustavus Adolphus, we cry,
With thee all must either win honour or die!
Tan, ta ra, ra, ra, ra, ra!"
sang the chaplain; "O 'tis a jolly anthem. Heres to his memory—Gustavus Adolphus, the friend of the soldier of fortune—the Cæsar of Sweden—the Star of the North! I perceive, gentlemen," continued the divine, "that there are virginals and music in yonder oriel window. What say ye—shall we summon the rosy English dame, whose dainty fingers I doubt not, press those ivory keys, that she may sing us some of the merry southern madrigals King Charles loved so well?"
"Nay, Doctor, by Heaven!" said Walter, as the thought of his absent Lilian (for whose sake all the sex were dear to him) flashed upon his mind. "If there are ladies here, no man shall molest them while I can hold a rapier."
"Hear this young cock o' the game," said Joram, angrily; "he cocks his beaver like a mohock already."
"Well spoken, young comrade," said Finland; "our clerical friend hath mistaken his avocation. Instead of entering holy orders, he should have been purveyor to old Dalyel's Red Cossacks."
"'Sdeath! gentlemen," said the divine, colouring; "I only jested, and you turn on me like so many harpies. But as for you, Mr. Fenton, my pretty cavaliero, who proposed burning the mansion to the ground-stone?"
"I knew not that it contained ladies."
"My lady comes of an old cavalier family, noble sirs," said the old butler, with great perturbation; "and would herself appear to greet you, but illness——"
"It is enough, good fellow," replied Finland; "how is she named?"
"She is a daughter of old Sir Tufton Shirley."
"Then God bless her!" said Joram; "her father's Hall of Mildenham can show the marks of Cromwell's bullets. And your master, gaffer Englishman—his name?"
"Marmaduke Langstone," answered the servant, hesitatingly.
"Who commands a corps of Red Dragoons on the borders of Bedfordshire?"
"The same."
"Then hell's malison on him for a false, canting, prick-eared, round-headed, double-dyed traitor!" exclaimed the chaplain, furiously, as he attacked a cold sirloin, with the same energy as if it had been the proprietor. "He is now tracking us from place to place; but if he comes within reach of our cannon—Gadso! let him look to it."
A sumptuous breakfast of cold roasted beef, venison pies, broiled salmon, white manchets, cheese, butter, eggs, milk, possets of sack, tankards of spiced ale, coffee, &c. had been spread on the table of the dining-hall, by the timid English servants, whose dread and aversion of their unwelcome guests often made the latter laugh outright.
"I am glad," said Walter, as he breakfasted, "we have taken quarters in the house of so false a traitor. I should like much to have a horse; and, for the service of King James, I will mulct him of the best in his stable."
Wemyss and other soldiers, who occupied the lower end of the long oak table, were feasting, with all the voracity of famished kites, on the rich viands; but while hewing down the great sirloin in vast slices, Hab Elshender declared that he "would rather have a cogue of brose at his mother's ingle-neuk, than the best that bluff England could produce."
"And well I agree with thee, friend Hab," said the veteran Wemyss. "My heart misgives me, we will be sorely forfoughten, ere we see the blue reek curling from our ain lumheeds. But here is to Dunbarton—God bless his noble heart, and the good old cause."
"Good Wemyss, and you, my brave lads," said Dr. Joram, from the head of the table, "I crave to drink with you."
"Thanks to your Reverence—thanks to your honour," muttered the soldiers, bowing and drinking.
The meal was a very protracted one; but the moment it was over, Dr. Joram muttered a hasty blessing, called loudly for more wine, lighted his great pipe, unbuttoned his vest, and with Finland sat down to a game at tric-trac; the soldiers began to examine their bandoleers and musquets, and Walter repaired to the ample but nearly empty stables, where, from among the indifferent farm horses the necessities of war had left behind, he selected a fine-looking charger, high-headed, close-eared, square-nosed, and broad-chested, and having saddled, bridled, and caparisoned him to his entire satisfaction, led him forth just as the générale was beaten. Mounting, he galloped to the muster-place, well pleased with the acquisition the law of reprisal and the fortune of war entitled him to make.
CHAPTER XX.
THE REDEEMED PLEDGE.
Ha! dost thou know me? that I am Lothario?
As great a name as this proud city boasts of.
Who is this mighty man, then, this Horatio,
That I should basely hide me from his anger?
FAIR PENITENT.
Refreshed by their halt at Ely, the soldiers of Dunbarton pushed on towards "Merry Lincoln," the merriment of whose citizens would probably be no way increased by their arrival. Marching by the most unfrequented route to avoid the highway, they pursued a devious path through fallow fields and frozen lawns, and sought the shelter of every copsewood.
The level plains of fertile England could oppose but few and feeble obstacles to the hill-climbing Scots, accustomed from infancy to the rocky glens and pathless forests of their rugged mountain home; however they found it necessary to abandon the four pieces of English cannon, which were spiked and concealed in a thicket, and thus unencumbered, they hurried on with increased speed.
Walter's heart grew buoyant and gay as the day wore apace, and the picturesque villages with their yellow thatched cottages and ivy-covered churches, the old Elizabethan halls and brick-built manors of Cambridge and Lincolnshire, were passed in rapid succession. He knew that every pace lessened the distance between Lilian and himself, and before the sober winter sun descended in the saffron west, he hailed with pleasure the old town of Crowland, with its great but ruined abbey, the walls of which were buried under masses of luxuriant ivy.
Far over the gently undulated landscape shone the purple and yellow rays of the setting sun; Crowland Abbey, its old fantastic houses and village spire, on the summit of which the vine and ivy flourished, and all the winter scenery were bathed in warm light. The Scots were descending a slope towards the town, when a shot fired by the avant guard, gave them an alert; then the voice of Dunbarton was heard commanding his brave musqueteers to halt, while Gavin of that ilk came galloping back from the front.
"My lord earl," said he, "we have seen the glitter of steel above the uplands yonder."
"Then we have been brought to bay at last. With 6000 horse on our flanks, it was not likely we would pass the Ridings of Yorkshire without a camisado. Strike up the Scottish point of war, and let these knaves show themselves."
The shrill fifes and brattling drums rang clear and sharp in the pure frosty air, and ere the last note had died away, a body of horse appeared on an opposite eminence. Their broad beaver hats and waving feathers, polished corslets and scarlet coats, declared them English.
"'Sdeath," said the earl, "they are Langstone's Red Dragoons, so de Ginckel's Black Riders are not far off."
"'Tis but a troop of sixty, my lord," said Walter.
"Dost think thee are within range?" asked Gavin, as his grenadiers began to open their pouches and blow their fuses.
"Scarcely, and we have no ammunition to spare; so if they molest us not, I freely bid them good speed in God's name."
A single cavalier was now seen to spur his horse to the front, and after riding along the roadway a few yards, to rein up and fire a pistol in the air. By the military etiquette of the time, this was understood to be a challenge to single encounter, or to exchange shots with any cavalier so inclined.
Full of ardour and youthful rashness, and burning to distinguish himself, Walter Fenton exclaimed,
"I accept the challenge of this bravadoer; you will permit me, my Lord Dunbarton?"
"Doubtless, my brave lad, but beware; yonder fellow appears an old rider; his harness is complete, à la Cuirassier, as we used to say in France."
"Scaled all over like an armadillo, as we used to say at Tangier," added Dr. Joram. "Speed thee, Fenton, and shew the rebel villain small mercy."
Walter galloped within a few paces of his adversary, who had now reloaded his pistol. His powerful frame which exhibited great muscular strength, was cased in a corslet of bright steel, buff coat and gloves, and enormous jack boots, fenced by plates of iron; his head was defended by an iron cap covered with black velvet (a fashion of James VII.,) and was adorned by a single feather; he carried a long carbine and still longer broadsword. His hair was cut short, and his chin shaved close in the Dutch fashion. He levelled a pistol between his horse's ears with a long and deliberate aim at Walter, whose eye was fixed in painful acuteness upon the little black muzzle and stern grey eye that glared along the barrel.
He fired!
The ball grazed the cheek plate of Walter's morion. He never winced, but felt his heart tingle with rage and exultation, as in turn he levelled his long horse pistol at the Williamite trooper, who was reloading with the utmost coolness. Walter fired, and with a loud snort, a strange cry, and terrific bound, the strong Flemish horse of his adversary sank to the earth, and tore up the turf with its hoofs. Its brain had been pierced. The rider lost his pistol by the plunge, but adroitly disengaging himself from the twisted stirrups, high saddle, and convulsed legs of the fallen steed, he unsheathed his long sword, and brandished it, crying—
"Vive le Roi Guillaume! come on young coistrel!"
While the cheers of his comrades and a brisk ruffle on their drums made his heart leap within him, Walter sprang from his horse, and throwing the reins to Hab Elshender, drew his slender, cavalier rapier, and rushed to encounter his strong antagonist, but a glance sufficed to stay his forward step and upraised hand, and to lull the excitement of his spirit.
"Captain Napier!" he exclaimed, on recognizing beneath the dark head piece, the stern, unmoved, but not unhandsome features of Lilian's kinsman, and his rival.
"I told thee, Fenton, we would meet again," said Napier, coldly and sternly, "and I swore when that hour came to spare thee not. It hath come, so do unto me, as thou wilt be done by."
"For the sake of her whose name and blood you inherit in common, I would rather shun than encounter you. Your life—I spared it once."
"Why remind me of that?" said Napier, furiously, while his cheek reddened. "'Tis better to die than remember that the boldest heart of the Scots Brigade owes its existence to the favour of a beardless moppet like thee! bethink thee, man," continued Napier, sneeringly, "the entail—your sword can break it in a moment; Quentin Napier is the last of his race, and then Lilian becomes an heiress."
"Away, sir," replied Walter, sadly and calmly, as he dropped the point of his sword, "you have mentioned the only thing that in an hour like this, unnerves my hand to encounter you."
At that moment a drum of Dunbarton's beat a charge.
"Hark! your comrades are impatient," said Napier scornfully; "fall on, you nameless loon, for here shall I redeem the pledge I gave or die," and swaying his sword with both hands, he attacked Walter with great fury and undisguised ferocity.
His courage was well met by Walter's address, but his bodily strength and weight of weapon were far superior, and he pressed on pell mell, until a deep gash in the right cheek reminded him of the necessity of coolness. The wound which would undoubtedly have roused another man to additional fury, had the effect of giving Napier a caution, that enabled him to parry Walter's successive cuts and thrusts with great success. Without the least advantage being gained on either side, the combat continued for three or four minutes, during which the greatest skill in swordsmanship was exhibited by both cavaliers, in their attempts to pass each other's points, until a stone in the frozen turf caught Walter's heel and he was thrown to the earth with great force. Ere he could draw breath, the captain sprang upon him like a tiger, and with his sword shortened in his hand, and a knee pressed upon his breast, he exclaimed in a fierce whisper through his clenched teeth,
"Now I have thee! now your life is in my hand, but even now will I spare it, if here before the God that is above us, ye swear for the future to renounce all hope and thought of Lilian Napier—now, yea, and for ever!"
"Never!" gasped Walter, panting with rage and shame, for an exulting shout from the Red dragoons stung him to the soul; "never; by what title dare you impose such terms on me?"
"By the right of a kinsman and betrothed lover who would save her from contamination, by becoming the wife of an unknown foundling, a beggarly varlet, a soldier's wallet boy—ha!" and he ground his teeth.
Walter felt stifled as his corslet was compressed beneath the heavy knee of his conqueror, and he made many ineffectual struggles to grasp his poniard, but it lay below him.
"Renounce—renounce! swear—swear!" hissed Napier through his teeth.
"Never, never," groaned Walter.
"Then die!" shouted Napier; and raised his shortened sword which he grasped by the blade; but endued with new energy at the prospect of instant death, Walter by a vigorous effort of strength, with one hand flung his adversary from him and pinning him to the earth in turn, unsheathed his long dagger, and while labouring under a storm of wrath and fury, drove it twice through the joints of his shining gorget, but unable to withdraw it after the second blow, sank upon his enemy, and they lay weltering together in blood.
"My bitter and my heavy curse be on thee, Walter Fenton!" hissed the dying Napier through his chattering teeth; "and if thou gettest her, may the curse of Heaven, and the curse that fell on Jeroboam be thine! mayest thou die childless, and be the last as thou art the first of thy race!" He fell back and expired.
CHAPTER XXII.
THE SWART RÜYTERS!
With burnished brand and musketoon,
So gallantly you come;
I read you for a bold dragoon,
That lists the tuck of drum.
ROKEBY.
When Walter Fenton recovered, he found himself on horseback, and his comrades on the march, beyond Crowland, and the setting sun was about to dip below the far-off horizon. A throng of thoughts chased each other through his mind, but sorrow was the prevailing one. The rage he had felt against Napier for his taunts, the hatred for his rivalry, and animosity for his politics had all passed away; he felt now the keenest sorrow for his fate, and remorse that he had fallen by his hand.
The thought did flash upon him, that by the fatal issue of the encounter, Lilian was indisputably heiress of Bruntisfield and the Wrytes, but shrinking from contemplation of it, he dismissed it from his mind, as unworthy to be dwelt upon. By him, the warm congratulations of his friends were unheeded and unheard; his whole mind was absorbed in the idea that he had slain the only kinsman of his beloved Lilian, and destroyed the last of a long and gallant race, and already in anticipation he beheld her tears, and heard the sorrowful reproaches of the proud Lady Grisel.
The appearance of the advanced party of Langstone's troopers, whom the earl knew belonged to Sir John Lanier's brigade of English horse, had considerably increased the dread of the retreating regiment. There was now every prospect of being enclosed and cut off, for independent of infantry pouring from twenty different roads upon their route, there were 6000 horse following them on the spur from the eastern and western counties. Actuated by loyalty, by dread of capture and consequent disarmment, decimation, captivity, or dispersion, they marched with great rapidity, and to cheer them on, the earl and his officers constantly encouraged them by enthusiastic addresses and encomiums, to which the brave Royals responded by shouts and cheers.
Shrill blew the fifes, and the braced drums rang briskly, as they entered upon a dreary wold to the northward of Crowland, a grassy and heathy waste, or down, over which the fading light of the setting sun shone in all its saffron splendour. On debouching from the road over which the tall poles with the slender stems of the hops twining and clambering, though leafless and faded, formed an archway through the thick and dense hop gardens that bordered each side of the way, the advanced guard uttered a shout of surprise and defiance, and halted till the main body came up.
Goring his horse, Dunbarton dashed to the front, and beheld a dense column of darkly-armed cavalry formed in line across the moor, about a gunshot distant. They were motionless as statues, and the setting sun shone full upon their serried files and glittering weapons; they were soldierlike in aspect; their helmets and corslets were of unpolished iron, as black as their long jackboots; their yellow coats, heavily cuffed, and with looped skirts, proclaimed them Dutch, Their horses were large, heavily jointed, and as phlegmatic in aspect as their riders, for the whole brigade stood motionless and still as a line of bronze statues. Even their blue standards, with, the white fess, hung pendant and unmoven.
A little in advance of the line was an officer on horseback, motionless, inert, and seemingly fast asleep; he was a man of vast rotundity, and cased in a capacious cuirass of polished steel, which gave him the aspect of a mighty tortoise, or some great bulb of which the gilt helmet formed the apex. An enormous basket-hilted sword swung on one side of him, and a brass blunderbuss on the other; while a great tin speaking-trumpet, like that of a Dutch skipper (then common in all armies, and last used by the brave Lord Heathfield), was grasped in his right hand. So utterly lifeless seemed the whole array, that if any other proof was wanting, it alone would have proclaimed them Hollanders.
"Dutch, by all the devils!" cried Dunbarton, galloping back to the Royals. "'Tis the Baron De Ginckel and his Swart Ruyters. Pikes against cavalry! Gavin, throw your grenadiers into the centre. Finland, Drumquhazel, brave gentlemen, march me your companies to the front. Musqueteers, blow your matches, open your pans, and prepare to give fire!"
"Shoulder to shoulder, my boys!" cried Dr. Joram; "though the number of Gog be countless as the sand on the sea-shore, fear not!"
"God save King James! Hurrah!" cried the Royals, as the pikemen rushed forward to form the outer faces of the square, in which Dunbarton resolved to cut a passage through the Dutch, as there was no time for a protracted fight by taking advantage of the localities; for other troops were pressing forward on every hand. Like a vast hedgehog with all its bristles erected, the band of Scots, in one dense mass, debouched upon the wold, with their fifteen hundred helmets and myriads of bright points gleaming in the last flush of the set sun. The stout pikemen, with their long weapons charged (or levelled) from the right haunch before them, formed the outer faces of the square; and the musqueteers, with their smoking matches and polished barrels, the rear-rank; in the centre were the grenadiers with their open pouches and lighted grenades, clustered round the Scottish standards, beneath which the old national march was beaten by twenty drums, as the whole column moved, with admirable order and invincible aspect, towards the centre of that long line of horse, whose flanks, when thrown forward, would quite have encircled them.
With his half-pike in his hand, Walter marched in front of the first face, and he felt a glow of ardour burn within him as they neared the Swart Ruyters—for so these horsemen were named, from their black armour.
The moment the Royals advanced, De Ginckel placed his great trumpet to his mouth, and puffing out his cheeks, in a voice of thunder bellowed an order to break and form squadrons, for the purpose of attacking the Scots on every side. Hoarsely and deeply, in guttural Dutch, rang the words of command, as each successive captain gave the order to his troop; and the whole line became instinct with life and action. Swords and helmets flashed, and standards waved, as the heavy iron squadrons, galloping obliquely to the right and left, formed in two dense columns, preparatory to charging.
"We will be assailed on every hand," exclaimed the Earl; "but be firm, my brave hearts, and quail not, for our lives and liberties depend upon the issue of this conflict. Halt! pikemen, keep shoulder to shoulder like a wall."
"Vivat!" cried the Dutch dragoons; "gluck! gluck! vivat Wilhelm!"
On they came in heavy masses, but ere their goring spurs had urged their ponderous chargers to the gallop, the voice of Dunbarton was again heard—
"Musqueteers, open your pans—give fire!"
"Hurrah; down with the Stadtholder, and death to his hirelings!" cried the Scots; and the roar of six hundred muskets seemed to rend the very air, and reverberated like thunder over the echoing heath. From each face of the square, above the stands of pikes, six ranks poured at once their vollies, three kneeling and three firing over their heads, according to the old Swedish custom of the Scots when formed in squares. Two hundred grenades soared hissing into the air, sank and burst, and the effect was tremendous on the advancing Dutch.
More than a hundred and fifty troopers and horses fell prone on the frozen heath, dead or rolling in the agonies of death, and were fearfully trampled and kicked as the rearward squadrons, instead of dashing onward, reined up simultaneously, and appalled by the slaughter, and aware of the inutility of attacking a square of resolute infantry, began to recoil.
A shout of fierce derision burst from the retreating Scots, as de Ginckel, like a vast Triton blowing on a conch, galloped from troop to troop, bellowing in furious Dutch the order to advance, accompanied by a storm of hoarse abuse; but his Ruyters were immoveable, and he beat both officers and men with the bell of his trumpet in vain. While reloading and blowing their matches the musketeers continued retiring with all expedition towards a thick coppice that grew on the margin of the moor about a mile distant. The Dutch cavalry re-formed, for pursuit. The roadway on the snow-covered moorland was scarcely visible in the grey twilight; on the right it branched off towards Boston, and on the left towards Folkingham.
Dunbarton knew not the exact route, but his whole aim for the present moment was to reach the copse wood, where he would be less assailable by horse.
When but a quarter of a mile from this friendly bourne, a drum was heard to beat within its recesses, a long line of bright arms flashed under its dark shadows, and as if by magic the fugitive band beheld Maitland's brigade of the Scots Guards two thousand strong, drawn up in firm array, with the red matches of their shouldered muskets gleaming like a wavy line of wildfire in the twilight of the evening.
The shout of wrath and dismay that burst from the soldiers of Dunbarton, was immediately succeeded by another—for lo! a dense body of cavalry debouched from the Boston road, forming line at full gallop as they spread over the wold, while another in dark and close array, came leisurely up at a trot from the ancient town of Folkingham, and all their trumpets sounded at once in martial and varying cadence, as they came in sight of the fugitives, and reined up for further orders.
"Lanier's troopers on the right!" said Finland.
"Marmaduke Langstone on the left!" added Dr. Joram; "hemmed in—lost—there is nothing for it now but surrender to the Philistines."
"Or die in our ranks!" said Walter Fenton.
"Right, my young gallant!" replied the Earl. "All is indeed lost now—but discretion is oft the better part of valour, and by yielding for the present we may the better serve King James at a future period, than by being shot on the instant, and thus ending our lives and our loyalty together. What say ye, cavaliers and comrades?" Though the Earl spoke thus lightly, his heart was throbbing with smothered passion, and the murmur that broke from his soldiers was expressive rather of wrath and fury than acquiescence to his advice.
Then a dead silence followed, and not a sound was heard throughout the different bands arrayed on the level waste, but the clank of accoutrements as two Dutch officers, dispatched by the Baron de Ginckel rode up to Langstone and to Lanier, to communicate the orders of their leader, who was rapidly advancing with his strong column of Ruyters, so disposed as completely to cut off all hope of flight in any direction.
In spite of his natural courage, Walter felt his heart now become a prey to intense sadness, if not apprehension. Jaded and wearied by excessive fatigue, his comrades were dispirited and little inclined for new strife, to engage in which, so far from their native land, and when hemmed in by forces so much more numerous, would have been madness. He contemplated with horror being a prisoner to the Dutch or English, to be banished perhaps to the West Indies or some far foreign station, or to endure a protracted captivity, and a shameful death—in either case perhaps never again to behold his Lilian and his loved native land, for to a Scotsman the love of home is a second being—a part of his existence. So much was he occupied with these sad thoughts that he was not aware a flag of truce was approaching, until he saw an English cavalier rein up his horse within a few yards of him. The stranger bowed gracefully, saying,
"Sir Marmaduke Langstone would speak with the Earl of Dunbarton—he is bearer of a message from Goderdt de Ginckel, Earl of Athlone."
"Say forth, Sir Marmaduke," replied the noble Douglas; "if it be such as a Scottish Earl may hear without dishonour. What says Mynheer of Athlone?"
The Englishman laughed and replied,
"He desires me to acquaint your Lordship and those gallant Scots who have so rashly revolted from King William——"
"You mistake, Sir; we never joined the banner of the statholder, and cannot be termed revolters."
"Then ye are rebels by the laws of the land."
"Not of England, as we owe it neither suit nor service."
"Then ye have broken the laws of your own country."
"Under favor, Sir Marmaduke! We hold our commissions from the Scottish Parliament, from whom we have received no orders, since we marched south among you here; and you sadly mistake in naming those rebels, who still wear the king's uniform."
"My Lord," rejoined the English knight haughtily, "I have no time to argue these niceties with you. De Ginckel desires me to inform you, that he will grant such terms as might be expected by any other foreign foe who hath marched on English ground, with drums beating and standards displayed—and these are, life and kindness, on an unconditional surrender of arms and all martial insignia, yielding yourselves prisoners at discretion."
The swarthy cheek of the Earl grew gradually crimson with passion as Langstone spoke; but an expression of shame and mortification succeeded.
"Alas, alas!" said he, looking sadly on the silk standards that rustled in the evening wind. "Are those old banners that were wrought for us by the noble demoiselles of Versailles to be thus dishonoured at last? Often have they been pierced by the bullets, but never sullied by the touch of a foe!"
"We will yield to our ain kindly folk," cried Sergeant Wemyss and several soldiers; "we will yield us to Major Maitland and the Scots Guards."
"You must surrender to the Swart Ruyters alone, my brave hearts!" cried Langstone.
"And what if we do not?" asked Dunbarton.
"Good my Lord, the consequences will be frightful—unconditional surrender, or utter extermination, Dutch terms. On every hand you are hemmed in, and every road to your native land is blocked up by enemies. My noble Lord," and here with generous confidence the brave Englishman rode close to the levelled pikes, "be advised by one who wishes well to Scot as to Southern. If one cannot fight prudently to-day, better be fighting a year hence, than have the sod growing green over us. Shall I ride back to the Baron, and promise your surrender?"
"Be it so; but deeply do I grieve that Sir Marmaduke Langstone, whose family has ever been distinguished for valour and loyalty, is the propounder of such bitter terms to George of Dunbarton."
"The times are changed, my Lord; live and let live is my motto; had such been the maxim of James II., this sword, which my father drew for his at Marston, had not this day been drawn against him. Liberty of conscience is dear to us all, and I respect the high principles of those soldiers who rushed to the standard of our deliverer."
"Then learn still more to respect the chivalry and generosity of the few whose principles of loyalty bound them to their unhappy king in the darkest hour of his distress and misfortune."
"Decide, my Lord, decide—for the Swart Ruyters are closing up troop upon troop."
"We will yield our national standards to the Scottish Guards—our arms and persons to de Ginckel."
"It is enough," replied Sir Marmaduke, as he wheeled round his horse, and rode towards the immense Dutch commander, whose Ruyters with the brigades of Scots and English, had now hemmed in the fugitives, as it were in a large hollow square.
Far off, at the horizon of the frozen heath, the winter moon shining, red and luminous rose slowly into the blue sky, eclipsing the light of the diamond-like stars as it ascended; and its pale splendour fell brightly and steadily on the fitful weapons and the dark masses of half mailed men, among whom they gleamed—on the white and powder-like frost that glittered silvery and clearly on every blade of grass, and on the dark spots that dotted the plain to the southward.
There many a rider and horse were lying stiff and cold.
END OF VOL. II.
LONDON:
HARRISON AND SON, PRINTERS,
ST. MARTIN'S LANE.