"By all the devils!" said Walter, almost bursting with laughter; "'tis the age of miracles this! What, ho! Dick Douglas and Mistress Anne Laurie, singing hymns among the heather like two true laverocks of the persecuted kirk."
"Woe unto thee, thou troubler of the just in spirit!" cried Mr. Ichabod, unsheathing his broadsword. "I have plucked the youth and the maiden like brands from the fire which is fated to consume all such unrepentant persecutors of Israel as thee."
"I have seen a new light," said Finland, giving Walter a sly wink of deep meaning.
"And so haveI," added Mistress Laurie, demurely; "and command thee, Walter Fenton, thou man of sin, to treat this holy expounder of the Gospel with becoming reverence."
"Annie—oh, Annie!" cried Lilian, as she boldly leaped the mare over the fauld dyke, and threw herself into the arms of her friend.
"My service to you, Mr. Ichabod," said Walter, bowing to the rawboned preacher; but quite unable to unriddle the mystery of this rencounter, he whispered to Finland (while the slayer of Joram was engaged with Lilian), "What the devil does all this mean, Dick?"
"Learn in a few words," replied Finland, who was in as miserable a plight as dust, smoke, and a hundred bruises could make him. "Annie and I had a most miraculous escape amid the horrors of last night. I will tell you of it anon—'twas quite a devil of a business. As for me, I am well used to such camisadoes, having been blown up at Namur, and twice nearly drowned in the Zuiderzluys; but how my adorable Annie escaped, Heaven, who saved her, can only know. We were in the hands of the most villanous mob the world ever saw; they were about to hang me from the arm of the Girth-cross; and Annie—oh! my blood bubbles like boiling water when I think of what they intended for her; when this leathern-jawed apostle, who, with all his psalm-singing and whiggery, hath some good points of honesty about him, brought us off, sword in hand; we bundled out of the city without blast of trumpet; and here we are. As a gentleman of cavalier principles," said Finland, colouring, "you may marvel that I would condescend to chant a psalm like a mere clown or canting herdsman; but as we are utterly at the mercy of this Ichabod Mummel or Bummel, I had no choice. He needs must——tush! you know the musty old saw."
"It is enough, maiden," said the preacher, replying to something Lilian had said, and taking, with an air of real kindness, the little hand of the shrinking girl within his own great bony paw, "I know thee to be the kinswoman of that godly matron, Grisel Napier, who, though wedded to as cruel a persecutor as ever bestrode a war-horse—yea, and though leavened in their wickedness withal, sheltered me in the days of my exceeding tribulation, when there was a flaming sword over Israel, and when, as a humble instrument in the cause of that great Saviour of the Kirk (whose coming I foretold in myBombshell, whilk hath not yet the luck to be printed), I came from Holland to this land of anarchy, and had no where to lay my head. She clothed and sheltered me, for the sake of that loved kinsman who is now no more, slain by some accursed persecutor, whom I would smite—yea, maiden, both hip and thigh, if I had him within reach of this good old whinger, that so oft hath avenged the fall of our martyrs!"
Walter instinctively grasped his sword, startled by the stern energy of the preacher, who continued—
"It is enough maiden,—with me ye are safe, and to a place of peace I will conduct you and your friend; but for these two sons of the scarlet woman—these slaves of Jezebel, who have been nursled in the blood of our saints and martyrs, and in whom it grieves me to think ye have garnered up your hearts, I may not, and cannot, with a safe conscience, protect them. Let them depart from me in peace; let them follow him who, ere long, will be called to a severe account for all his dark misdeeds—John Grahame of Claverhouse."
"'Tis sound advice, Mr. Bummel," said Walter, tightening his reins, and drawing off his glove. "By Heaven! I had quite forgotten; he will have crossed the Forth by this time, and it will require some exertion of horseflesh to rescue my honour. Finland, we must go. Mount Lilian's horse. Lilian," he added, in a low and tremulous voice, "farewell now; commend me to Lady Grisel, and bid her bless me; farewell, Lilian—we must part at last;" and stooping from his horse, he gently pressed her to his steel-cased breast, and kissed her.
"Oh! Walter, remain—remain," murmured Lilian.
"It cannot be—it is impossible now; I am pledged to Grahame of Claverhouse." And afraid to trust himself longer within hearing of her soft entreaties, lest love might overcome the stern principles of loyalty in which he had schooled himself, he leaped his horse over the fauld dyke; and while he felt as if his very heart was torn by the agony of that separation, he dashed along the road to the west, leaving Finland to follow as he chose.
With a mind overcharged by sad and bitter thoughts, Walter galloped madly on, retracing the way he had come with Lilian; his mind seemed a very whirlpool, and the events of the last twenty-four hours a dream. A steep old bridge, which the roadway crossed near the ancient manor of Sauchtoun was ringing beneath his horse's heels, when a distant shout made him rein up.
"Hollo!" cried Finland, as he came after him breathlessly on the panting mare; "what the devil—art gone mad, Walter? Oh this tormenting love—ha! ha!"
"I envy this happy flow of spirits, Finland!"
"Then you envy me the possession of all that fate hath left me in this bad world. This devilish commotion hath confiscated my free barony of Finland, and torn my arms at the cross; still I am more gay than thee who hath nothing to lose."
"And after parting with one you love," continued Walter, almost piqued by his friend's lightness of heart; "parting perhaps for ever——"
"Tush, man—I am used to such partings. I have had many a love that was true while it lasted; but none like the passion I bear my dear Annie. My first flame was a blue-eyed damoisella of the Low Countries (her mother was a fleuriste in Ghent). I thought I loved her very much; but somehow at Bruges, Mons, and Bergen-op-Zoom, 'twas ever the same; I always left some one with a heavy heart; and cursed the générale, when in the cold foggy mornings it rang through the dark muddy streets, waking the storks on the high roofs above, and the drowsy boors in their beds below. I know that the wheels of fate and fortune are ever turning; some points may, and others must come round, to their first starting place, so I always live in hope. I was very sad in Ghent when our drums beat along the street of St. Michael, and I bade adieu to my fair one, coming away I remember by the window instead of the door."
"How—why?"
"I don't know, man," laughed Douglas; "but so we often left our billets in French Flanders. But I assure thee, lad, that under all this gaiety my heart is as heavy as thine; for I vow to thee, that the recollection of Annie with her beseeching blue eyes, her dark clustering hair and pallid cheek, the touching cadence of her voice, and the words she said to me are imprinted on my heart as if the hand of Heaven had written them there. By the bye I have composed a famous song about her."
"A song!"
"Music and all. I wrote it on the night we were about to sack the old house of Bruntisfield in search of yonder spindle-shanked apostle. Ah, if in my absence Craigdarroch should dare—but ho! yonder are some of our friends halted under a tree upon that grassy knowe."
"There is something odd being acted there. Does not yonder white feather wave in the steel bonnet of Dundee?"
"He is permitting some false Whig to sing his last psalm undertheconvenient branch where he is doomed to feed the corbies. Dundee is very kind in that way sometimes."
Recrossing the stream called the Leith, they rode towards a knoll that rose amid the marshy ground near the castle loch of Corstorphine. There a dozen of the cavalier troopers were dismounted, and leaning on their swords or carbines, were holding their bridles in a cluster round Dundee, who was still on horseback, and in the act of addressing a disarmed prisoner, in whom with surprise and sorrow they recognized the young Laird of Holsterlee.
Cool and collected, with folded arms he firmly encountered the large dark eyes of Dundee, which were fixed with stern scrutiny upon him. The group of his comrades surveyed him with glances of mingled scorn and pity.
"Holsterlee!" said the Viscount, who held in one hand a long Scots pistol, in the other a letter; "how little could I once have suspected that you, the best cavalier of the king's life guard, and one in whose loyalty and high spirit I trusted so much, would stoop to this dishonour! The attempt simply of deserting to take service with this vile usurper, though bad enough in itself, is as nothing compared to the treachery which this stray letter has revealed. Fool and villain! thou knowest that I am the last hope of the king's cause in Scotland, and that if I fall it will be buried in my grave; and yet thou art in league with this accursed Convention to destroy me! A thousand English guineas for my head, thou villanous scape-the-gallows and companion of grooms and horseboys, who hast squandered away a fair repute and noble patrimony among rakehelly gamesters and women of pleasure, dost thou value the head of a Scottish peer at a sum so trifling? hah!" He uttered a bitter laugh. "What," he resumed, "hast thou to urge, that I should not hang thee from the branch of this beech tree?"
"That I am a gentleman," replied Holsterlee boldly; "a lesser baron of blood and coat-armour by twelve descents, and should not die the death of a peasant churl or faulty hound."
"Right!" exclaimed Dundee, whose dark and terrible eyes began to fill with their dusky fire. "A gentleman should die by the hand of another, for every punishment is disgraceful. DEATH is the only relief from the consciousness of crime. Thou shalt have the honour of perishing by the hand of the first cavalier in Scotland.Thusshalt thou die—now God receive thy soul!" and pointing upward with his bridle hand, he levelled the pistol and fired. The ball passed through the brain of Holsterlee, and flattened against the plastered wail of a neighbouring cottage. The body sank prostrate on the turf, quivered for a moment, and then lay still and stiffening, with upturned eyes and relaxed jaws.
This act, which was the most terrible episode in the life of the stern Dundee, threw a chill on the hearts of his comrades; but he did not permit them to remain gazing on the lifeless remains of one who had ridden so long in their ranks, and who was the gayest fellow that ever cracked a jest, shuffled a card, or handed a coquette through the stately cotillion or joyous couranto.
"Our nags are somewhat breathed after the hot chase he gave us, gentlemen," said Dundee, deliberately reloading his pistol, and endeavouring under an aspect of external composure to conceal the immediate sorrow, remorse, and anger that too surely preyed upon his heart. "To horse! sling carbines—forward—trot!" and away they rode in silence leaving the cold remains of the dead man lying on the grassy sward, with his blood-dabbled locks waving in the morning wind, while the gleds and ravens wheeled and croaked around him with impatience.
But he felt not the one, and heard not the other.
He was stripped by the cottagers, and as his dress was remarkably rich, to prevent further inquiry they interred him where he lay between the bare beech tree and the old cottage wall*.
* On removing the walls of an old cottage near Tynecastle, a mile westward of Edinburgh, in 1843, the remains of a skeleton were found buried close by; the skull had been pierced by a bullet. In the plastered wall of the edifice a ball was found flattened against the stone.—Edin. Advert., April 18, 1843.
Heard ye not! heard ye not! how that whirlwind the Gael,Through Lochaber swept down from Lochness to Locheil—And the Campbells to meet them in battle array,Came on like the billow, and broke like its spray!Long, long shall our war-song exult in that day!IAN LOM, OF KEPPOCH.
TheRevolutionmight be said to be now fully achieved; save Dundee, Balcarris, and a few of their followers, all had submitted to the new sovereign whom these two nobles would rather have slain than acknowledged. Dundee had been required by a trumpet to return to the Convention; he treated the summons with scorn, and after cutting his way through a party sent to intercept him, reached the Highlands a proscribed fugitive, branded as an outlaw and traitor, and stigmatized with every epithet that Presbyterian rancour, heightened by the remembrance of his former military excesses, could heap upon him.
Colin, Earl of Balcarris, the High Treasurer, was captured and thrown into a dungeon. The weak and servile Melville, the crafty and fanatical Stair (the Scottish Tallyrand), and the not less crafty Duke of Hamilton, were now at the head of the Government, and these, though all staunch Presbyterians were by the king united in council with a few of the high church nobles, an intermixture which inflamed the animosities of both parties, and sowed the seeds of hatred, discord, and confusion.
With his troop of faithful cavaliers Dundee continued to wander from place to place in the Highlands until the beginning of May, 1689, when he appeared at the head of about two thousand clansmen led by Sir Donald Macdonald, the chiefs of Glengarry, Maclean, Locheil, and Clanronald—all names which shall ever be associated with the purest ideas of chivalry, generosity, and valour. He had only about 120 horse, but they were composed entirely of gentlemen, and were commanded by a Sir William Wallace, a brave cavalier; Walter Fenton was his cornet, and carried the standard.
Lieutenant-General Hugh Mackay, of Scoury, now commander-in-chief of the Scottish forces, Colonel-Commandant of the Scottish Brigade, and Privy Councillor of Scotland, marched against him at the head of nearly five thousand foot, and with two regiments of cavalry. Neither the fall of Edinburgh Castle (which Sir John Lanier demolished), nor the disappointment of assistance from Ireland which James had promised him, could damp the ardour of the brave Dundee. Deficiency of provisions had compelled him to shift his quarters frequently, and his devoted followers had endured the most severe privations; but under these they disdained to complain, when they knew that Dundee shared them all. Like Montrose, he was eminently calculated for a Highland leader. In his buff coat and headpiece he marched on foot, now by the side of one clan, and anon by the ranks of another, addressing the soldiers in their native Gaelic, flattering their long genealogies, and animating the fierce rivalry of clanship by reciting the deeds of their forefathers, and the sonorous verses of their ancient bards.
"It has ever been my maxim, Mr. Fenton," said he to our friend on one occasion, "that no general should command an irregular army in the field without becoming acquainted with every man under his baton."
On the 17th June, 1689, he marched to the Pass of Killycrankie, where one of the most decisive battles in Scottish history was bravely fought and fruitlessly won. Dawn was brightening on the hills of Athole; and Walter, who, quite exhausted by a long series of hardships, cold, starvation, and a pistol-shot wound, was sleeping under his horse's legs, was aroused by the sonorous and guttural cry of a sentinel, who screamed out in Gaelic—
"Hoigh, Mhic Alastair Mhor! Hark to the war-drum of the Saxon!"
It was the morning of a battle! Walter's first thought was of Lilian; his second of the prospects of victory. The dear image of Lilian made him rise superior to his fortune. Since they had so abruptly separated, he had never heard from her; and it was now many months. How long the time seemed! Amid his dreamy musings, the gentle expression of her face often came powerfully to his recollection, with, all the vigour of a deeply impressed vision; and recollection summoned the tones of her sweet voice to his heart like the memory of some old familiar air, and all the gushing tenderness of his soul was awakened. But with these remembrances too often came bitterness and despair, and he kissed with all a lover's fervour the scarf her hands had wrought him. Gleams of memory, and vivid visions of happiness, which he foresaw too surely could never be realized, made his heart swell alternately with tender recollections and joyous anticipations, that died away to leave him hopeless and despairing. Now they were on the brink of a battle which Walter welcomed with anxious joy, for it would be not less decisive as to the issue of his love, than for the fortune of James and the fate of the British people.
It was a glorious morning in June; the purple summer heather, the long yellow broom, the wild briar and honeysuckle, that clambered among the basaltic cliffs, loaded the air with a rich perfume; while, through the savage and stupendous gorge of Killycrankie, the rising sun poured a flood of golden lustre, bringing forward in strong light the wooded acclivities of those sublime hills, that heave up to heaven their scaured and wooded sides, involving in dark shadow the deep rocky chasms, through which the foaming Garry rushes to mingle its waters with the rapid Tummel—chasms so profound, and hidden by the overhanging foliage, that the roar only of the unseen water was heard, awakening the echoes of the dewy woods and shining rocks.
Nothing in nature can surpass the wild grandeur and imposing sublimity of this mountain gorge, the frowning terrors of which, in after years, so impressed a brigade of Hessians in the last of our Scottish wars, that they refused to penetrate what appeared to them to be the end of the habitable world. Save the mountain torrent foaming down from the lofty hills, appearing one moment to hurl its spray against the shining rocks, and urge masses of earth and stones along with it, and disappearing the next, as it plunged into the bosky woodlands,—all was still as death in that Highland solitude, when, in steadiness and order, Dundee drew up his little host at its northern verge, admirably posted on well-chosen ground, two miles from the mouth of the pass; the only road to his position being the ancient pathway that wound along the face of the precipitous cliffs, where the least false step threatened instant destruction even to the most wary passenger.
Dundee's band—for it was indeed no more, though named an army—was only two thousand strong, and composed of various little parties, which were the nucleus of the corps he expected yet to form. On the right was the soi-disant regiment of Sir John Macdonald; a small body of the clans, under the illustrious chiefs of Locheil, Glengarry, and Clanronald, the Atholemen under Ballechin, Wallace's troop of horse, and a corps of three hundred half-clad and miserably accoutred Irishmen, composed the mainbody. Dundee's old troop, in which rode the Earl of Dunbarton, his officers, and several Highland gentlemen, formed the reserve of cavalry. The Highlanders, arrayed each in the picturesque tartan of their native tribes, were formed in close ranks, with their filleadhbegs belted about them; their brass-studded targets, long claymores, ponderous poleaxes, and long-barrelled Spanish rifles, shining in the rays of the meridian sun.
The brandishing of weapons and clan-standards, and the fierce notes of war and defiance, as the various pibrochs rang among the echoing hills, announced that the troops of Mackay were in sight. And now the brave and anxious Dundee, clad in his rich scarlet uniform, with the tall plumes waving on his polished headpiece, his fine features full of animation, and his black eyes alternately clouded by anxiety, or flashing with valour and energy,—galloped from clan to clan, inspiring them by every exertion of graceful gesture and military eloquence to add that day to the fame of their forefathers.
The murmuring hum which, from afar off, announced the drums of Mackay, grew more and more palpable, and increased until the hoarse and sharp reverberations of the martial music rang between the steep impending rocks of the long mountain pass through which the foe was penetrating. Anon the Scottish standards, the red lion with the silver cross, and one with that of St. George (borne by Hastings' regiment), and the yellow banners of the Scots brigade, appeared at intervals of time, and weapons were seen flashing through the openings of the chasmed rocks and sable woods of drooping pine.
The day had passed slowly in anxious expectation: it was evening now, and the sun had verged to the northwest, but from between gathered masses of saffron clouds streams of dazzling light were radiating; and the setting rays, as they poured aslant on the mountain sides, made the deep pass seem darker as it receded beyond them. The rattle of the drums, and the blare of trumpet and bugle, the clank of bandoliers and tread of feet, rang with a thousand reverberations between the brows of that tremendous gorge, as the army of Mackay debouched from its windings, and formed successive battalions on the little level plain or hollow, above which the fierce and impatient Highlanders, "like greyhounds in the slips straining upon the start," were formed in array of battle. Undauntedly they surveyed the measured steadiness and precision of the Lowland soldiers, whose silken standards fluttered gaily above their moving masses of polished steel caps, their screwed bayonets, and long pikes, that were ever flashing in the setting sun.
Sir James Hastings' English regiment, and those of Leven and Mackay belonging to Scotland, were arrayed in that bright scarlet which was to become so famous in future wars; but the battalions of Balfour, Ramsay, and Kenmore wore the black iron caps, the scarlet hose, and yellow coats of the Scotch-Dutch brigade. The cavalry corps of the Marquis of Annandale and the Lord Belhaven wore coats of spotless buff and caps of polished steel. Their numbers, discipline, and order would have stricken with dismay any other volunteers than the Highlanders, whose hearts had never known fear, and who had long been accustomed to rout both horse and foot with equal speed and success. As the practised eye of Mackay reconnoitred the position of Dundee, he pointed to the clan, and said to young Cameron of Locheil, who rode near him—
"Behold your father and his wild savages: how would you like to be with him?"
"It matters little," replied the young man haughtily; "but I recommend you to be prepared, or my father and his 'wild savages' before night may be nearer you than you would wish."
The reports of a slight skirmish between the right wing of the Highlanders and Mackay's left, made the hearts of all beat quicker; and in the interval, Dundee exchanged his scarlet coat for one of buff, richly laced with silver; and over it he tied a scarf ofgreen, which the Highlanders considered ominous of evil. Leaping on horseback, he galloped to the front, and a shout of impatience burst from the Highland ranks.
It was now eight o'clock, and the sun was dipping behind the hills, when a simultaneous volley ran from flank to flank along Mackay's line; and while the roar of the musketry rang from peak to peak, and rebellowed along the sky and among the hills like thunder, with a thousand echoes, Dundee gave the order to charge; and in deep silence, and like a cloud of battle, the race of old Selma came down!
Reserving their fire until within a pike's length of King William's troops, the Highlanders poured upon them a deadly volley; and throwing down their muskets, drew their claymores, and, under cover of the smoke, charged with the fury of an avalanche, striking up the levelled bayonets with their studded targets, and hewing down with sword and axe, routed the Lowland soldiery in a moment.
The brave Maclean cut the left wing to pieces; while Hastings' Englishmen, on the right, had equal fortune from the Camerons and Macdonalds. Dunbarton, at the head of sixteen mounted cavaliers, actually routed the whole artillery, and seized the cannon; while, led by Finland, the remainder of the troop broke among the dense and recoiling mass of Mackay's regiment, riding through it as easily as through a field of rye. King William's Dutch standard was captured by Walter Fenton, who, after a short conflict, drove his sword through the corslet of the bearer, and, spurning him with his foot and stirrup, bore off the trophy.
Meanwhile Finland encountered a mounted cavalier, and had exchanged blows before he recognised Craigdarroch, his rival, in the leader of Annandale's Horse, whom his brave little band had now assailed, and with whom they were maintaining a desperate and unequal combat of one to five.
"Surrender, Finland!" said Fergusson haughtily.
"Have at thee, rebel!" cried his adversary, and by one blow struck his rapier to pieces. His sword was raised to cut down the now defenceless trooper, and end their rivalry for ever, but, animated by chivalric generosity, he spared him, and pressed further on the broken ranks of the enemy.
Carrying aloft the Dutch banner, Walter Fenton rode towards Dundee, who was applauding Sir Evan Cameron of Locheil, and urging his clan yet further to advance. Dundee (whose panting horse was in the act of stooping to drink of a mountain runnel), with his eyes of fire turned to the disordered masses of Mackay, was brandishing his sword towards them, when a random bullet pierced his buff coat above the corslet, and buried itself in his shoulder under the left arm.
The sword dropped from his hand; a deadly pallor overspread his beautiful features; he reeled in his saddle, and would have fallen, but Walter supported him, and held before his eyes the yellow standard of the Statholder.
"Now God be thanked, they fly!" said he, in a voice which showed how intense were the torments he endured; "you are a brave lad, Fenton—the dying hour of Claver'se is at hand, but he will not forget you. Meet me at the house of Urrard in an hour, if all goes well and I survive till then. Make my dutiful service to the noble Lord Dunbarton, and desire him to assume the command. Adieu;" and placing his hand on the orifice to staunch the blood, he rode over the field at a rapid trot.
In a mass of disorder, horse and foot, musqueteers, pikemen, and cavalry, the soldiers of Mackay were driven like a flock of frightened sheep down the narrow pass, while the fierce clansmen, swaying with both hands axe and claymore, "cut down," says an old author, many of Mackay's officers and soldiers, "through skull and neck to the very breast; others had their skulls cut off above their ears like nightcaps; some had their bodies and crossbelts cut through at one blow; pikes and swords were cut like willows, and whoever doubts this may consult the witnesses of the tragedy." Thanks to the skill of Dundee and the valour of the Highlanders, never was a more decisive victory won. Mackay lost his tents, baggage, artillery, provisions, and his standards; he had two thousand men slain and five hundred taken prisoners. Such was the battle of Killycrankie, orRinn Ruaradh, as it is still named by the peasantry, who attribute the ultimately fatal effects of the victory to the circumstance of Dundee wearinggreen, a colour still esteemed ominous to his sirname. A rude obelisk of rough stone still marks the place where the death-shot struck him, and is pointed out by the mountaineers with respect and regret as theTombh Claverse.
The grief and consternation that spread through the Highland ranks on the fall of their beloved leader becoming known, prevented the pursuit being followed with sufficient vigour, otherwise few would ever have reached the southern mouth of that terrible pass.
"Dundee hath assuredly been slain," said General Mackay, as he breathed his sinking charger at the other extremity of Killycrankie, two miles from the field. "I am convinced of it; otherwise we would not have been permitted to retreat thus far unmolested."
Oh last and best of Scots! who did'st maintainThy country's freedom from a foreign reign;New people fill the land, now thou art gone,New gods the temples, and new kings the throne!ARCHIBALD PITCAIRN.
Now the battle was over, and the fury of the conflict with the fierce energies it excited had passed away together. In that narrow gorge lay more than two thousand slain, and the broad round moon, as its shining circle rose above the dark ridge of the far-off mountains, poured its cold lustre on the distorted visages of the writhing wounded, and more ghastly linaments of the pallid dead. While the Highlanders were plundering the baggage and carousing on the provisions of Mackay (who was then retreating to Stirling), Walter Fenton rode to the house of Urrard, and repaired to the presence of his leader.
Within a little wainscotted apartment, lighted by four long candles, that flared in a brazen branch, stretched upon a low canopied bed lay the great and terrible Dundee. On his proud heart of fierce impulses and high aspirations, the hand of the grim monarch was now laid surely and heavily. His fine features were sharpened, pale and ghastly, by agony and approaching death. He breathed slowly. His Monmouth wig was laid aside, and his own raven hair, which formed a strong contrast with the whiteness of his skin, flowed over the pillow like the tresses of a woman.
"Can this be Claverhouse?" thought Walter.
His bloodstained buff coat, his sword and helmet, lay near him on a chair, and around the couch were Dunbarton, Finland, the great Sir Evan of Locheil, Glengarry, Clanronald, Grant of Glenmorriston, and other leaders, who leaned on their swords, conversed in low whispers, and watched with unfeigned sorrow the ebbing life of the only man who could lead them like Montrose.
The whole of his dying energies were now directed to one object, a despatch to his exiled king, containing an account of the glories he had gained in his cause, and the long career of service he had sealed with his own gallant blood. Though every muscle of his face was contracted at times with the agony he endured, when stretching from bed to write at the low table beside it, supported by his brother David Grahame, who was sheathed in steel,à la Cuirassier, he finished this memorable and disputed letter with singular coolness, appended his name, and instantly falling back, closed his eyes and lay motionless, as if in death.
"He is gone," whispered the agitated Earl of Dunbarton to the stern Locheil. "There lies the strongest pillar of the good old cause."
"Hereditary right will face the rocks!" replied the chieftain in Gaelic, as he grasped his dirk; "cursed be the green scarf that wrought this evil work to Scotland and to us!"
Their voices seemed to call back the fleeting spirit; and, controlling the painful trembling of his limbs, Dundee opened his bloodshot eyes, and looked slowly round him.
"Do not persist," said he to the surgeon, who approached. "I know that all is over—let me die in peace. Approach, Mr. Fenton—unfurl that standard;" and his wild dark eyes flashed with their old energy at the sight of the Stadtholder's banner. "You will, at all risks, bear this despatch and that trophy to the hands of King James, and say they are the last—the best—the dying bequest of Dundee."
Walter's heart was full; he could only lay his hand upon his breast, and bow a grateful assent.
"To Colonel Cannon I bequeath my baton and authority; let him use them well in the King's service, if he would wish to die in peace when he comes to liehere."
"Colonel Cannon!" muttered the Highland chiefs, as they drew themselves up, exchanged glances of hauteur, and twisted their mustachios.
"Be merciful to our prisoners," continued the sufferer in a voice more weak and quavering, and stopping often to take breath; "be merciful to them, for they are our countrymen. Release and bid them return to their homes in peace; say that such was the last wish of Dundee. Many have styled me merciless in my time, sirs, and bitterly will they speak of my spirit when it is far beyond the reach of mortal malevolence. I have done fierce and stern things, but I have been hurried to do them by an irrevocable destiny, and a tide of circumstances incident to these our troubled times. Every iota of what I have done was fore-ordained—hah! do not your Presbyterians tell us so? But grateful—deeply grateful is the conviction to my passing spirit, that my friends will ever remember my name with honour, and my foes with fear. I feel more bitterness in dying after a victory than I could have endured by a defeat; foritwould have made life worthless, and death welcome. Oh, may this day's great achievement be an omen of future success, and a second Restoration! Go, my comrades; continue in that path of earthly glory which I must quit for ever; and let ye who survive to behold our beloved King fail not to tell him—that—that John Grahame of Claverhouse—with his last breath blessed him—and—died."
Falling back, he immediately expired, just as daylight (which at that season scarcely passed away) brightened in the east.
All started and bent over him; but the fierce spirit of that remorseless cavalier had fled for ever, and his magnificent features, as the rigidity and pallor of death overspread them, assumed the aspect of a beautiful marble statue. A groan that burst from the lips of his brother, as he knelt down and closed his eyes; the heavy sobs of a few aged Highlanders; and the low wail of a lament, as the pipers of Glengarry poured it to the mountain-wind and echoing woods of Urrard, were the only sounds heard within that gloomy chamber, where the terror of the Presbyterians—the idol of the cavaliers, and the last hope of James, lay prostrate, to rise no more. Though by one faction styled thelast and best of Scots—by the other, a murderer and outlaw; yet, by the cause for which he died, and the manner of his death, he closed in glory a life of singular ferocity and turbulence.
His remains were hurriedly interred in the rural kirk of Blair Athol; and the cause of King James was buried with him. His brother assumed his title; but died in great obscurity in France in 1700. The buff coat of Dundee, bearing the mark of the fatal ball, and stained with his blood, together with his helmet and other relics, are still preserved in the ducal castle of Blair.
Remembering the dying desire of their leader on the day after the battle, the Highland chiefs liberated all the prisoners on parole of honour not to serve against the King, Colonel Fergusson of Craigdarroch (notwithstanding all the exertions of his generous rival Finland) "being excepted," says Captain Crichton, in his Memoirs, "on account of his more than ordinary zeal for the new establishment."
In those days the uncertain means of communication between towns, and the great deficiency of certain information of public events, caused many strange and varying rumours of the Highland war to be circulated in the Lowlands, where the only newspaper was theCaledonius Mercurius, which had been published occasionally since the Restoration. But the astounding intelligence of the victory at Killycrankie, and the fall of Dundee, spread like wildfire through the low country, to which he had so long been a terror and scourge. The defeat of Cannon at the Haughs of Cromdale, and the utter prostration of James's banner in the north, was soon followed by his disaster at the Boyne, in Ireland, where the loss of a decisive battle compelled him again to seek refuge in France.
Poor Lilian, at home in the then secluded capital of Scotland, heard of those stirring events at long intervals; and to her they were a source of deep interest, and of many a sigh and hour of tears; but of Walter she heard no tidings. Whether he lay mouldering in the Pass of Killycrankie, among the haughs of Cromdale, or was wandering among the wildest fastnesses of the north, with the doom of proscription and treason hanging over him, she knew not; and time in no way soothed or alleviated the agonies of her suspense. On the return of Colonel Fergusson, whose apostacy had opened an easy path to preferment under the new order of affairs, she learned some faint rumours of his departure to France with the other officers of Dundee—for that horizon where the sun of the exiled Jacobites was setting—the lonely palace of St. Germain. Though the tidings fell like ice on the heart of the poor girl, any certainty was preferable to suspense; and with her good Aunt Grisel, she could only weep for the poor youth they loved so well, and pray and hope for happier times. To lighten the solitude his absence caused, she could not even hope for a letter; all intercourse with the court of the exiled King being proscribed under pain of banishment and death; and thus slowly the melancholy summer of 1690 passed on.
With the accession of William, and total subversion of the old high church party, all the sourness and severity of Presbyterian discipline (which at times compelled the proudest peers to endure a rebuke on the ignominious repentance-stool, or at least before a congregation) was resumed by the overbearing clergy in full sway. From the innate cavalier sentiments of her family, and the wavering politics of Aunt Grisel, Lilian had never been a very rigid Presbyterian; and now, looking upon the triumph of "the Kirk" as having driven her lover into exile, she felt her heart further than ever removed from Presbytery. She had still to endure the persecution of Clermistonlee, who, having in a few months spent all the Revolution had enabled him to extort by fines from his old cavalier friends, was now more reduced and desperate than ever; and, as a last shift, was compelled to dispose of his tower of Clermiston for a trifling sum to his more cautious gossip Mersington; and though the gaming-table replenished his exchequer at times, gaunt starvation stared him hourly in the face.
Though the native kindness and exceeding gentleness of Lilian's manner had always given this indefatigable suitor some hope of ultimate success, he soon found that, besieging her whenever she went abroad, and keeping spies upon her when at home—pestering her with presents, and letters the most flattering and submissive his ingenuity and skill could indite, did not bring him nearer the summit of his wishes. As his funds waxed lower, his perseverance increased; and he brought a new ally into the field, in the person of our old friend Mr. Ichabod Bummel, whose zeal for the Revolution had procured him an incumbency in the city, where, every Sunday, he had the felicity of preaching in a pulpit of his own, quoting that immortal work theBombshell, railing at the exiled King, and all other "bloody-minded massmongers," and "dinging" many successive bibles to "blads" in the true Knox-like energy of his discourse. This meddling preacher, after the abduction of Lilian, and the scandalous reports the kirk party had so industriously circulated concerning it, had long deemed it, in his own phraseology, "a shameful and malapert fact, unseemly to men, and abominable in the sight of Heaven, that these twain should remain unwedded;" and by his influence, Clermistonlee was duly cited before the kirk session. Resistance was in vain, for now the clergy had succeeded to the Council's iron rod; and temporal proscription and spiritual excommunication invariably followed delay.
Clad in a sack of coarse white canvass, and on his knees before a staring congregation of stern Presbyterians, he "confessit his manifold sins and enormities," as the records of the kirk show, "and was rebukit by the godlie Mr. Bummel for the space of ane hour, being comparit to ane owle in ye desart;" and it appears that the minister, in his ire, made such direct reference to the abduction of Lilian, in language so pointed, so coarse, and unseemly, that, overwhelmed with shame and horror, the poor girl, unable to bear the scornful scrutiny and malevolent glances of her own sex, sank down in the gloomiest recesses of the old family pew, and swooned.
This event, together with the cruel inuendos industriously circulated by the gallants and gossips of the city, was her crowning misfortune; from that hour her peace was blighted, and her fair fame blotted for ever. Her friends pitied and acquaintance shunned her. She endured the most intense grief and bitterness of soul that a sensitive and delicate woman could feel; for even the very children of the Whig faction pelted her sedan when it entered the city, and called her "My Lord's leman," "Clermistonlee's minion," and the "Deil's dearie."
The united effects of grief, shame, mortification, and insulted pride, were soon visible on her health; her cheek grew blanched and thin, her eyes dim; and though she did not weep, her sorrows lay deeper, and the canker-worm preyed upon her suffering heart. And not the least offensive to her feelings were those offerings of friendship which were mingled with condolence, when Lady Drumsturdy and others advised her to think seriously of the long and assiduous attentions of Clermistonlee; in short, "after all that had taken place," to receive him as her husband; that being in their opinion the only way to restore her forfeited honour.
The inuendo concealed under this odious advice provoked the anger of Lilian, whose concern was increased by perceiving that Lady Grisel and her own bosom friend and gossip Annie, were beginning to be of the same opinion. Their countenance, and the hope of Walter's return, had alone sustained her so long; but now a sense of utter desolation sank upon her soul, and her brain reeled with the terrible thoughts that oppressed it.
And it was a' for our richtfu' king,We ere left Scotia's strand, my dear;And it was a' for our richtfu' king,We saw another land, my dear.OLD SONG.
Agitated by feelings such as few have experienced, on an evening in the summer of 1690, Walter Fenton found himself pursuing the dusty highway from Paris to St. Germains, the place where the hopes and the fears, the loyalty and the sorrows of the Jacobites were centred. He wore a plain suit of unlaced grey cloth, very much worn, a hat without a feather, and a plain walking-sword. He carried under his arm a small bundle, with particular care, for it contained a few necessaries and all he possessed in the world—his commission, the long-treasured letter of Dundee, and the Dutch standard he had taken at Killycrankie. These were now his whole fortune.
That day he had walked from Senlis without tasting food, and was quite exhausted. After spending his last sou on a glass of sour vin ordinaire at a small cottage near the Wood of Treason (where Ganelon in 780 formed his plot which betrayed the house of Ardennes, the peers of Charlemagne, and occasioned the defeat at Roncesvalles), he grasped his bundle, and pushed on with renewed energy. His handsome features were impressed by an air of sadness and deep abstraction, for the acute achings of present sorrow struggled with the gentler whisperings of hope, and though his feet traversed the hard flinty roadway from Paris, his thoughts were far away in the land of his childhood, and his wandering fancy luxuriated on the memory of many a much-loved scene he might be fated to behold no more, and many an episode of tenderness and love that would never be re-acted again.
How vividly he recalled every glance and graceful action of Lilian, as he had last beheld her. Nearest and dearest to his heart, she rendered the memory of his native land still more beloved, for she yet trod its soil and breathed its air, and he knew that daily she could gaze on those blue hills which are the first landmarks of the child in youth, and the last of the man in age, and to the recollection of which the emigrant and the exile cling with the tenacity of life.
The current of his thoughts was interrupted, and his cheek flushed. The great and striking brick façade of the old castle of St. Germains, with its turrets shining in the setting sun, arose before him. There dwelt he on whom the hopes of half a nation rested, and Walter drew breath more freely as he progressed; his eye sparkled, and his cheek flushed with animation, for now other and less painful thoughts were occurring to his fancy. With the buoyancy natural to youth, sorrow gave way as hope spread its rainbow before him: and bright visions of the King's triumphant return and restoration by the swords of the Cavaliers or Jacobites, mingled with his own dreams of love and honour. Fired with ardour, he often grasped his sword, and springing forward, longed to throw himself at the foot of James VII., and pour forth in transport that singularly deep and burning passion of loyalty which animated every member of his faction.
"And this is the palace of our King!" he exclaimed, with enthusiasm. "Heaven grant I may yet greet him in his old ancestral dome of Holyrood!" But the fever of his naturally excitable spirits subsided when approaching the edifice, for the air of silence and gloom that pervaded it struck a chill on his anxious heart.
"Ah," thought he, "if James should be dead!"
At the distance of twelve miles from Paris, this ancient brick chateau or palace is beautifully situated on the slope of a verdant hill, at the base of which flows the Seine, and opposite lies an immense forest. From the earliest ages, St. Germain-en-laye had been a hunting-seat of the French kings; but in compliment to his mistress, whose name was Diana, Francis I. (a monarch unequalled in gallantry, generosity, and magnificence) built the present palace in form of the letter D, with five towers, the vanes of which were gleaming like gold in the setting sun as Walter approached. A dry fosse crossed by drawbridges surrounded this noble chateau, which had on one side a range of beautiful arcades built by Henry IV. and Louis XIII., and a magnificent terrace 2,700 yards long and 50 broad, extending by the side of the dark-green forest, and from which, as our exile traversed it, he had a full view of the Seine winding through a beautiful country, bordered on each side by waving meadows, vineyards of the deepest green, and cornfields of the brightest yellow, villages of white cottages thatched with light-coloured straw, that clustered round the turreted chateaux or the ramparted châtelets of a noblesse that were then the most aristocratic in Europe.
But Walter saw only the home of the exiled Stuarts. On the ruddy brick-walls, the latticed casements, and gothic towers, the setting sun was pouring a flood of light as it set at the cloudless horizon. From the summit of the edifice, the royal standard of Britain hung down listlessly and still, and the same absence of life seemed to pervade all beneath it. The ditch was overgrown with luxuriant weeds, and long tufts of pendant grass waved in the joints of the masonry; great branches of vine and ivy had clambered up the walls of the palace, and flourished in masses on its terraced roofs and balconies. There was no one visible at any of the windows; the gateway, which was surmounted by a stone salamandre (the cognizance of Francis I.), was shut, and save two sentinels of the French guards, who stood motionless as statues on each side, and an old Jacobite gentleman or two, in full-bottomed wigs and laced coats, promenading slowly and thoughtfully on the terrace, the old chateau seemed lifeless and uninhabited.
As Walter crossed the bridge, and approached the gate with a beating heart, one of the sentinels, after giving a haughty glance at his faded and travel-stained attire, his weary aspect, and bundle, ported his musquet across, and said politely, but firmly—
"Pardonnez, monsieur."
Walter's heart swelled: had he travelled thus far, and reached the palace of his King, only to be repulsed from its gates? His colour came and went, as, with a painful mixture of pride and humility, he replied—
"Mon camarade, I am a poor Scots officer, exiled from his native country, and who has come here to take service in France." The face of the Frenchman flushed, and his eye glistened, as he drew himself up, and presented arms.
"Behold my commission," continued Walter; "I would speak with my noble Lord and Colonel the Earl of Dunbarton."
"Aha," replied the sentinel, "il est bon soldat, Monsieur Dunbartong. Passez, Monsieur officier; un gentilhomme est toujours un gentilhomme, et les braves officiers Eccossais sonts l'admiration de la France!"
Walter bowed at this compliment, the gate was opened by the porters, and, with a heart full of thoughts too deep for words, he found himself within the gloomy quadrangle of the palace of St. Germain-en-laye.
Left for some minutes to himself, he stood, bundle in hand, irresolutely surveying, with a dejected and crest-fallen air, the great and silent court. A gentleman in very plain attire, with a short wig, a well-worn beaver, and steel-hilted sword, who was slowly promenading under the arcade, suddenly turned, and the wanderer was greeted by his old friend Finland.
"Welcome to the poor cheer of St. Germain-en-laye!" cried this merry soldier (whom no fall of fortune could daunt), grasping Walter's hand. "My bon camarade, welcome to France. By all the devils, I was often grieved for thee, poor lad, and deemed thou wert doing penance in some rascally Tolbooth for our brave camisade in the north."
Walter was so much oppressed in spirit, and so weak in mind and body, that the tears rushed into his eyes, and he could only press his hand in silence.
"What the devil——my poor lad, thou seemest very faint and exhausted!"
"I have travelled on foot from Boulogne-sur-mer. I spent my last franc at St. Juste, my last sou an hour ago for a glass of vin ordinaire, and for three days no food has passed my lips."
"My God!" exclaimed Finland, striking his flushed forehead, "and my last tester went for dinner today! how shall I assist you? Travelling for three days without food! Surely the fortunes of the cavaliers are now at the lowest ebb."
"Then the tide must flow again."
"I now begin to fear it will flow no more for us. What says the player?
'There is a tide in the affairs of men,Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.'
Once at least in life, every man's fortune will be at the flood, and if he misses the tide his bark is stranded on the shore for ever. But thee, poor lad! how shall I get thee food?—we are all as poor as kirk rats here. There are not less than two hundred officers of Dundee's army, and other loyal gentlemen of the Life Guards and Scottish Brigade, subsisting here on the small bounty of our gracious king, (whom Heaven in its mercy bless!) until some turn of fortune again draws forth their swords. We have each but fourpence a day, and are in great misery from lack of the most common necessaries of life. Yet we never forget that we are Scottish gentlemen, and daily attend the king's levée, with as gallant an air as if we trod the long gallery of Holyrood in our feathers and lace as of old. His grace of Gordon, my Lords of Maitland, Dunbarton, Abercorn, and others dine daily at a poor Restaurateur's, on plain stew and cabbage broth, while I have to content myself with bread and onions, and a keen appetite for sauce; while it affords me no consolation to reflect that my old ancestral tower of Finland—the gift of the Black Douglas to his favourite son—and all the fertile lands that spread around it, are now possessed by some vile, canting, crop-ear. The Earl of Dunbarton——"
"Whilom our gallant colonel—how I long for an interview!"
"He is gone to Versailles to visit le Mareschal Noailles, anent the unfortunate gentlemen who are starving here around us. He will be back tomorrow. Oh, Walter, when I see how might can triumph over right, and wickedness over more than Spartan virtue, I am almost tempted to believe there is no governing power in this wretched world; that all is the effect of chance or fate."
"Chance and fate are the reverse of each other, and this sentiment agrees not with your previous idea of 'the tide in the affairs of men.'"
"Tush! I am in a dozen minds in an hour. Let us leave these topics to such men as Mr. Ichabod Bummel. You remember that apostle of the covenant? ha, ha! A word in your ear. You saw our fair ones ere you left Scotland, I doubt not?"
"Alas, no."
"The deuce! how came that to pass? But you must dine, and where? for I have not a brass bodle, as we say at home in poor old Scotland, (God bless her, with all her errors!) I have it! the officer of the guard will lend me—or give—'tis all one; they are fine fellows, these French, and share their poor pay with us, in a spirit of charity that the apostles could not have surpassed. The gentleman and the soldier seldom seek a boon from each other in vain."
Finland calculated rightly; the French chevalier commanding the guard, on learning the cause of his present necessity, at once divided the contents of his purse, and enabled the happy borrower to lead his wearied friend to a tavern, where dinner was ordered and discussed with wonderful celerity.
"Now, Walter, I shall be glad to hear thy adventures," said Finland, when the waiting girl had cleared the dinner board and laid a decanter of wine, from which he filled their glasses. "Frontiniac dashed with brandy—you remember how often we have drank a bottle of it at Hughie Blair's, and the White Horse Hostel. How the times are changed since then! I was not at the Haughs o' Cromdale, being en route for Ireland to crave succour from James——"
"After the dispersion consequent to that ill-managed affair, I wandered from place to place, enduring such miseries as few can conceive, and was a thousand times in danger of being captured by Mackay's dragoons, who were riding down the country in every direction. Assisted by the kind and beautiful Countess of Dunbarton (who is yet intriguing in England), I procured some money, and, disguised as a Norlan drover, reached the western borders, for escape by sea from Scotland was impossible, the whole coast being watched by the English and Dutch fleet. In England my money was soon spent, and I despaired of ever reaching the port of Colchester, where I heard there lay a ship that in secret frequently transported our persecuted people to France. My bonnet and grey plaid, though they ensured my safety in the Lowlands, caused me to be viewed with hatred, jealousy, and mistrust, as soon as the Cheviot hills were left behind me, and I had not money wherewith to procure a change of costume. I travelled principally by night, and slept in ditches or thickets by day, for the villagers assailed me with stones and abuse whenever they saw me, using every bitter epithet that national animosity could inspire, while every country boor that had a couple of beagles at hand, uncoupled them to track and hunt me."
"Would to heaven I had been with thee, lad! Well."
"I remember with what bitterness I changed my last penny for a poor roll at Rippon, and eat it by the side of a ditch, near the princely castle of one who had gained a coronet by his political apostacy. I had still many miles before me, but trusting to Providence, continued my journey. Travelling by night and lyingperduby day, I found myself in a waste moorland near Cawood, in the West Riding of Yorkshire. The moon was rising; but I found that hunger, fatigue, and humiliation, had done their worst upon me, and that I could achieve no more. Despair entered my heart, and I threw myself down in that bleak spot to die, cursing the rebellion of our countrymen, the inhospitality of the English, and my own bad fortune. From a stupor that for some time weighed down every sense, I was roused by the trampling of a horse, and a deep bass voice crying,
"'Hollo Gaffer, art dead, or dead drunk only! Get up with a murrain, for my nag will neither stand or pass; steady—so-so—gently, zounds! gently!"
"I started, and instinctively grasped my staff, on perceiving a tall stout fellow muffled in a dark rocquelaure, with his face masked, and a hat flapped over his eyes. He rode a strong, fleet, and active horse, and carried long holsters.
"'Crush me, if it isn't a Scotch Jockey—a pedlar, I warrant!' said he, drawing a pistol from his saddlebow; 'they never travel without the ready; so hand over the bright Jacobuses or William's guilders, or else I may pop this bullet through your brain.'
"I was desperate, and replied, 'Fire! and rid me of an existence that is worthless. I have nothing to give but my life, and it is no longer of value to me.'
"'A gentleman, by this light!' replied the other, withdrawing his pistol, 'some cavalier in disguise, I warrant.'
"'You have guessed rightly; so now lead me to the nearest justice of the peace for a reward, if you will.'
"'For what do you take me?' said he, angrily. 'God bless King James, and may the great devil choak his son-in-law! Ah, had the good Dundee (a Scot though he was) survived that brave day's work, in your infernal pass of what d'ye call it? 'twould have been another case with us both today, perhaps. So thou art a Scottish cavalier?'
"'Once I was so—to-night I am a beggar, perishing by want, and without a roof to shelter me.'
"'Hast thou no money, lad?'
"'Not a penny, and have two hundred miles to travel.'
"'Hast thou no friends among the English here?'
"'Have I not said that I am poor?'
"'Right! I have learned in my time that the poor have no friends.'
"'Save God and their own hands.'
"'Right again, say I; though a highwayman, I love thee lad, for we have suffered in common from this accursed usurper, who sits in the throne of of our king. Here are thirty guineas; 'tis the half of all I have in the world, but to-morrow night may bring me better luck; take them with welcome, and spend them without scruple; but two hours ago, they were in the purse of that rascally whig, Marmaduke Langstone, of Langstone Hall. Keep to the right, and an hour's brisk walking will bring you to a hedge alehouse. Whisper my name to the wench at the bar (kiss her for me), and she will put thee on the right road for Colchester; the girl is true as steel to the good old cause.'
"'Whom shall I thank—whom remember?'
"'They call me "Highflying Tom" now, eastward of Temple Bar,' said he in a tone of bitterness; 'but when King James sat in his own chair, I was Thomas Butler,Esquire, of a long pedigree and an empty purse—devil else—but a gentleman every inch, sir; one that has shot his man, played at Cavagnole with King Charles, and Ombre with the Queen; drank many a bout with Rochester, ruffled it with Buckingham, and handed the fair Castlemaine and fairer Cleveland through a crowded cotillon. But it's all over now; and, d—n me! I am plain Bully Butler the highwayman.—So, sir, your servant;' and dashing spurs into his horse, he galloped away over the heath."
"Thomas Butler, of the princely house of Ormond—and 'twas he!" said Finland; "a braver spark old Ireland never sent forth to glory or disgrace. His father was a stout old Royalist, and shed his blood for King James on the banks of the Boyne. And so he hath taken to the road, the madcap! That is riding at the gallows full tilt with a vengeance!"
"But for that rencontre, I must have expired. The meeting gave me renewed energy; and (to be brief) I reached—not Colchester, but the sea-port of Saltfleet, where, in the disguise of a poor Scottish mariner, I embarked on board a smuggling craft, which landed me at Boulogne; and so—I am here."
In the cause of right engaged,Wrongs injurious to redress;Honour's war we strongly waged,But the heavens denied success.Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us,Not a hope that dare attend;The world wide is all before us,But a world—without a friend.STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT.
The magnanimity of those unfortunate officers of the Scottish army who remained loyal to James VII., and had shared his misfortunes and exile, was equally worthy of ancient Caledonia and of the most glorious ages of Athens and of Sparta. They were about one hundred and fifty in number, all men of noble spirit, unblemished honour, and high birth; for they were the representatives of some of the first families in Scotland. Enthusiastically attached to the King, they gloried in the sufferings their principles had brought upon them.
On their first arrival in France, small pensions were assigned them by Louis XIV.; but these were shortly afterwards withdrawn, on the paltry pretext of public expedience; and the whole of those unfortunate gentlemen, who by their incorruptible loyalty and indomitable patriotism had forfeited their commissions, when they might have purchased new honours in the ranks of the invader, and many of whom had lost titles and estates by their expatriation, were thus thrown destitute in a foreign land.
It is related that, with a noble spirit of generosity, they shared their little funds for the benefit of those who were in greater destitution; and those who had raised money by the sale of their gilt corslets, jewels, laced uniforms, rings, &c., readily shared it with others who were penniless. But these occasional funds soon became exhausted; the King soon found it impossible, from the pittance allowed him, to maintain the numerous exiles and ruined dependants who made his court of St. Germain their rallying point. The poor Scottish officers finding the horrors of starvation before them, petitioned James for leave to form themselves into a company of private soldiers for the service of the French king, asking no other favour than permission to choose their own leaders: their former general, Dunbarton, to be their captain; their Serjeants to be lieutenant-colonels; and so forth. The King reluctantly consented.
Those high-spirited cavaliers were immediately furnished with the clothing and arms of French soldiers; and previously to their incorporation with the army of Mareschal Noailles, repaired to St. Germain, to be reviewed by the King, and to take a long—to many a last—adieu of him.
It was the day after Walter's arrival; and the summer morning rose beautifully on the Gothic towers of St. Germain, the crystal windings of the Seine, and on the dense dark woodlands that, interspersed with blooming vineyards and waving fields, imparted such charms to the landscape.
James VII. had become passionately fond of the chase since the loss of his kingdom; for his brave and restless spirit always sought excitement when not absorbed in the austere duties of religion, in the course of which he often subjected himself to the most severe penances. Kind, affable, and easy to all around him, religion improved the virtues of his heart, subdued the fire of his spirit, and by imparting a monk-like gentleness to his demeanour, endeared him to his enthusiastic followers. The butcheries of Kirke and Claverhouse, and the tyrannies of Jefferies and Rosehaugh, were forgotten. Though his uncompromising bigotry remained, all his arbitrary spirit had vanished; and when he laid aside his visions of worldly grandeur and kingly power, nothing could be more blameless and amiable than the life he led.
He frequently visited the poor monks of La Trappe, whom he surprised by the piety and humility of his deportment; but there were times when the sparkling eye, the flushed cheek, the forward stride, and the clanked sword, shewed how regal a spirit and bold a heart misfortune had crushed and fanaticism clouded. He was an enthusiast in the pleasures of the chase, which he enjoyed after the good old English fashion; and on the morning in question, the baying of dogs, the neighing of horses, and the merry ringing of the clear bugle-horn, awoke the echoes of the woods, the gloomy arcades, and quadrangle of St. Germain.
On each side of the archway were drawn up a guard of honour of les Gardes Françaises, in their white hoquetons laced with gold, powdered wigs, little hats looped on three sides and surmounted with plumes of feathers, and having the white banner of Bourbon displayed. The porters unclosed the heavy folding-doors, and a merry troop of huntsmen in green galloped forth, with their dogs barking and straining in the leashes, as the blasts of the shrill horns were poured to the morning wind, and roused their English blood. The heavy drawbridge clanked into its place across the grass-grown moat—the planks resounded to iron hoofs—the French guard presented arms—the oriflamme of St. Denis was lowered—the drums beat a march—and James VII., raising his plumed hat, sallied forth at the head of his train, and advanced along the spacious and magnificent terrace. The Earl of Dunbarton rode by his side; and as they caracoled along the level terrace, by the margin of the beautiful Seine, a body of soldiers in French uniform was seen in front, drawn up in steady array, with their fixed bayonets shining in the morning sun. They presented arms as the King approached, upon which he immediately reined up, and raised his hat.
"My Lord Dunbarton," said he, "what troops are these?"
"They are your Majesty's most faithful subjects and devoted followers," replied Dunbarton in a faltering voice. "Yesterday they were Scottish gentlemen of coat-armour and bearers of your Majesty's commission—to-day they are but poor privates in the army of Louis of France."
"My God!" said the King; "and, in the levity of the chase, am I so oblivious of the misfortunes of those unhappy gentlemen?"
Instantly leaping from his horse with a heart that swelled by its emotions, he approached them and raised his hat.
Every heart was full in that silent line before him, and every eye glistened. Walter Fenton, who now for the first time beheld that King for whom he had suffered so much, felt his bosom glow with the most intense loyalty and ardour,—a gush of sentiment that would have enabled him to hail with joy the terrors of a scaffold or the dangers of a battle-field.
"Gentlemen," said the King, "bitter though my own misfortunes be, yours lie nearer my heart, which is grieved, beyond what language can express, to behold so many men of valour and worth, from being the officers of my Scottish army, reduced by their loyalty to the station of private soldiers. Nothing but this more than Spartan devotion on the part of the few, but gallant and leal, makes my life worth preserving. Deeply, deeply indeed is my heart impressed with the sense of all you have undergone for my sake; and if it should ever please the blessed God"—(removing his hat)—"to restore me to the throne of my fathers, your sufferings, your services, and your devotion shall not be forgotten—never, oh, never! The prince my son, he shares your northern blood. Oh, may he likewise inherit your spirit of bravery and truth!
"At your own desire, gentlemen, you are now going on a long and perilous march, far distant from me, to encounter privation, danger, and death. To the utmost of my small means, I have provided you with money, shoes, and stockings. Heaven knoweth how great are my own necessities. I can no more.....
"Fear God—love one another, and you will ever find me your parent, if I cannot be your King."
The eyes of James VII. were full of tears, and a long pause ensued.
"There is a gentleman here who arrived only yesterday," said Lord Dunbarton, who had also dismounted. "He is the bearer of two relics to your Majesty: the first is the despatch of the expiring Dundee; the second will bear witness of his own zeal and courage in your cause at the victory of Killycrankie."
"Let him approach," said the king, covering his face to hide his emotion.
"Mr. Fenton," said the Earl, "His Majesty would speak with you," and Walter, whose heart trembled from the depth of his emotions, grounded his musquet, and, kneeling before James, placed in his hands the long-treasured despatch of Dundee, and the Dutch standard of Mackay's regiment.
"My brave Dundee!" exclaimed James, in a low voice, as he kissed and perused the brief letter which had been hurriedly penned amid the agonies of death; "'tis stained with his loyal and noble blood! Oh! never had a king a subject more devoted, more loyal, or more true! Accept my thanks, young gentleman, for the services you have performed, the valour you have displayed, and the fidelity you evince; accept my thanks, for misfortune has left me nothing else wherewith to reward the faithful and the brave, who have followed me to exile and obscurity. This standard I will retain; one day, perhaps, in Holyrood or Windsor, I may replace it in your hands with such rewards as a king alone can give."
Walter strove to speak, but his voice failed him, on which Lord Dunbarton said,—
"Like his brothers in misfortune, my young friend seeks no other reward than the honour of serving your Majesty, and the satisfaction of doing that which is right."
The King drew his sword.
"What is your name, Sir!" he asked.
"Fenton—Walter Fenton, of Dunbarton's Foot."
"No kinsman, I hope, of Fenton of that ilk, who is so active in his treason against us?"
"Alas, no!" replied Walter, colouring in painful humility; "may it please your Majesty I am but a poor protegée of the noble Dunbarton. I know not my family, my name, or my origin."
"It matters not—I shall render honour to all who deserve it; ariseSirWalter Fenton, Knight Banneret—of this power, at least, my son William cannot deprive me."
Startled by the suddenness of the action, Walter, whose heart leaped within him at the words of the King, could only kiss his hand and resume his place in the ranks of his cavalier comrades, who with difficulty repressed a shout of applause. Walter felt giddy and confused; the King still seemed to be addressing him.
The temporary excitement which had led James through this painful interview, now passed away, and his features became overclouded with a sad and bitter expression, as he went slowly along the line asking each officer his name, inserting it in his note book, and returning him personal thanks. Meanwhile the troop of huntsmen, equerries, and whippers-in, with their packs of panting-hounds, were grouped about the terrace, and quite forgotten in the excitement of this sorrowful review.
"Your name, Sir—yesterday you were at my levée in a garb more suitable to your rank," said James, to a tall and very handsome man, whose fashionably curled wig consorted ill with the coarse looped hat and plain blue coat of a French musqueteer; "your name, Sir, if you please?"
"John Ogilvie, of the house of Airly—late a captain in your Majesty's Life Guard."
"Sir, I thank you—the day may come when you shall command that Life Guard," replied James, writing down his name; "and yours, Sir?" he asked of the next.
"Grant of Dunlugais—a captain of Mar's Fusiliers."