Here the king raised his gauntletted hands to heaven, and prayed that the holy saint would intercede with God and St. Andrew for Scotland and her people, vowing that, if they obtained a victory, he would increase the chapel by three lengths of his spear, and make the church of a bishoprick dedicated to Heaven and its service. Wheeling round at that moment, he found a third Danish captain close by him, and slew him by one thrust of his lance, and restored courage to the Scots.
"Victory! Victory!" cried Malcolm; "God and St. Andrew for Scotland!"
Like a torrent the Scots again rushed through the narrow vale, and again many a tartan plaid and many an eagle's wing was dyed in the reddest blood of Denmark. So furious was their new onset, that the Danes were swept along the valley like dry leaves before a stormy wind, and, over a field strewn with gashed corpses and bleeding men, were driven in headlong flight towards the sea. The slaughter was terrible!
Not a man of them saw the sun sink behind the great ridge of Benrinnes; and when daylight faded in the west, the king found himself breathless, weary, and alone in a silent and sequestered place, where a brawling stream, flowing from a deep copse-wooded glen, mingled its waters with those of the Fiddich, which roll from the mountains down to the Lowlands of Banftshire.
The gloomy pines were shaking their wiry cones in the soft evening wind; a deep blue, darkening into a dusky purple, tinted the distant hills; the evening star was glimmering amid the blush that lingered in the west; and the king sat down by a tree to think and to pray.
After the fury, the excitement, and slaughter of the past day, his neart felt oppressed by its own thoughts, and a glow of rapture struggled with his sorrow, for Heaven had that day accorded victory to his people; and kneeling on the grass, there, in solitude and unseen, he raised his aged eyes and hands in thanksgiving and in prayer to God and the patron saint of Mortlach.
While he was praying thus, there came a child with a pitcher to draw water at the stream—a little golden-haired girl of eight years, whose face was beautiful as that of an angel, and whose bare feet, as they brushed the heather-bells, seemed white as new-fallen snow. She did not perceive the king as she stooped over the water in a cool and shady spot, and sang while her vessel filled.
"What is this that stirs within me," sighed the king, who was troubled by the sight of this child, and whose heart yearned for for the fairness and the beauty of her face, with the brightness and softness of her eyes, reminded him of Cora, when she was a child; and, that nothing might be wanting to complete this dear illusion, the girl sang the soft, low song of "The Owl;" and as the poor old king, still remaining on his knees, listened breathlessly, he almost seemed to hear the voice of Cora mingling, as of old, with the notes of her harp; "but Cora," thought he, "is sleeping in her grave among the unblest waters of the Clyde, and her harp is in her silent chamber, far away beyond the mighty Grampians and the broad Firth of Tay, in the lonely Castle of Dunfermline."
The King now called the child to him, and though her first impulses were fear and flight, on hearing his voice, and beholding a stranger so brilliantly armed, the reverence of his aspect and the kindness of his manner soothed and delighted her, and she approached with timidity and curiosity mingled in her charming little face. The eyes of Malcolm filled, and his heart swelled as he gazed on her, and would fain have kissed, but feared to alarm her.
"Child," said he, "ken ye where I may find a bield wherein to rest me for the night; I am an auld man and a weary one, for I have fought in battle this lee-lang summer day."
"My mother bydes on Fiddich side," replied the child, "and though she dreads all strangers, she cannot fear you, for ye are auld and kind; and my father is a strong man whom none dare wrong, for he is the boldest archer on the Braes of Auchindoune."
"My name is Malcolm Mac Kenneth," said the King; "auld I trow I be—yea ten times your age, my bairn, but give me your hand in mine and lead on."
Leaning on his long sword, with his silver tresses floating over his mailed shoulders, the king walked along, led by the smiling child, who peeped upward at him timidly from time to time through her clustering curls, as they went through a daisied haugh, and among the sweetly scented hawthorn birks. She soon prattled and talked to theauld knycht, as if she had known him for all the years of her little life; and when the good king felt the warm glow of the evening on his cheek, and saw the bright flowers that spangled the banks of the stream, and when he heard the rustle of the summer leaves, and the merry brawl of the mountain burn mingling with the glad voices of children, he felt himself young again, and his heart grew light and joyous as he forgot the corpse-strewn field that lay near the old Tower of Balvenie and all along the shore of the rushing Fiddich.
"Little one," said the King, "who taught thee the song of 'The Owl'?"
"My mother," replied the child.
The King sighed heavily; then after a pause, he asked,—"And thy name, little one—what is it?"
"Cora——"
"Cora!" he reiterated, and bursting into tears, pressed her to his breast; "I might have guessed it—Cora! what other name could be borne by one so bright, so beautiful, and so innocent; but be not alarmed my poor little one, for I once had a Cora like thee."
"Oh, here we byde, and yonder is my mother!" said the child, who was terrified by the stranger's emotion; and now they found themselves before a hunter's cot, the walls and roof of which were formed of turf and clay; and over the door of which were the branching antlers of a stag. Around it was a thicket of dark hawthorns, with all their white blossoms in full and fragrant bloom,—for as the reader has no doubt long since surmised, this was the humble dwelling of Mac Ian Rua which the king approached, and the beautiful matron who stood at its lowly door, with two babies at her knee and one in her arms, was his daughter Cora; yet the king, whose mind was full of her, knew her not; for she no longer wore the rich attire, the garments of many-coloured silk, the jewels and golden armlets of old, with which he had last seen her; but a homespun kirtle and linen tunic with sleeves that reached only to her white elbows; and about her tresses, which once waved round her head like a golden halo, was plaited a plain linen fillet—theheafodes roegel, or headrail of the Lowland peasant woman—an adoption from the Saxons—who dwelt beyond the English border.
The King gazed upon her earnestly, yet he knew her not; and though he was older and his face was more wrinkled,—though his eyes were sad and haggard, and his hair, which had been grey, was now white as the snows of Ben Mhor, Cora knew her parent—that princely sire who had loved her so well of old—and all the daughter gushed up in her heart; yet not a word could she sajr, but gazed upon him trembling with sorrow and remorse, with fear, with love, and hope, while her children clung to her skirts, and she pressed to her bosom their youngest born—the child of Mac Ian Rua, the banished huntsman.
"Good woman, I seek but a night's shelter in your sheiling, till my train can join me," said the King; "be not alarmed, I am a Scottish soldier, and have been fighting all day down the waterside. The foes are vanquished, and the King is safe. Allow me to enter; and believe that kindness will not be unrewarded. My name is Malcolm Mac Kenneth."
The tongue of Cora was without words. Silently she led Malcolm into her humble hut, and silently placed a seat for him, spreading the softest deerskin under his feet,—for her gentle heart was full of old thoughts and loving memories that came crowding fast and remorselessly upon her—summoned back, as it were, by the sound of her father's voice; yet that voice was sadder in tone, and more tremulous than it was wont to be of old; and that conviction stirred her hoart of hearts, and crossing her hands upon her bosom, she thought,—"Oh, pardon me, God—for it is I who have caused this!"
"Hast thou no words to welcome me, good woman, or does this armour, even when on an auld man's back, so scare thee?" said the King, kindly, taking one of the children on his knee, as he perceived that she was gazing eagerly, mournfully, and with awe upon him, as he sat near the little window, with his silver tresses glittering in the light of the west, and his wrinkled hand resting on the flaxen head of his little conductress.
Cora could control her emotions no longer!
"Father—sire!" she exclaimed wildly, as she threw herself upon the clay floor and embraced his knees; "oh, father! dost thou not know me? Have these few years so sorely changed me? I am Cora—thine own Cora, who was swept down the Lynn of Clyde. Beloved father and king—behold me at thy feet! Oh thou whom I have so cruelly and so wickedly forsaken in thine old age, pardon and forgive me, lest these younglings should forsake me in turn; forgive me and bless me, though I have sinned against God and thee!"
These words terrified the old king as if a spirit had spoken them. He held her from him at arm's length, and his eyes wandered over her face and person with an expression of fear and wonder.
"I am Cora, the little child that clambered at your knee, and nestled in your bosom, in old Dunfermline Tower," she exclaimed, passionately; "I am Cora whose cheek was once so dimpled—whose hair was so bright—whose little mouth you kissed so often and so kindly——"
"Cora was drowned! oh day of horror—horror—horror!" replied the troubled King; "she is dead and at rest."
"She is not, for I am she."
"Thou?" he exclaimed.
"I."
"Impossible!"
"I. Oh father, am I indeed so changed?"
A glare shot over the king's keen eyes; he trembled, and stretching out his hands, drew her towards him, but a cloud came over his brow, and pausing, he said,—
"And these children?"
"Are the offspring of Mac Ian Rua."
"Born of thee?"
"My father,—oh, my father!"
"Born of the daughter of Scotland?" he added, bitterly.
"My heart, long steeped in sorrow, will burst at last. In pity, father, have mercy on us."
"And where is the lawless traitor who stole thee from me, and hath concealed thee for these many long years, my daughter?"
"Say rather, where is he who saved me when the greatest and noblest in the land—yea, even Kenneth of the Isles and Dunbar of Lothian, hung back."
"Kenneth of the Isles and Dunbar of Lothian are both lying dead in their armour by the walls of Balvenie;—God rest them! they fought and fell for our dear Scotland. But Mac Ian; where is he?"
"Yonder he comes down the glade, with a stag on his back,—your favourite huntsman, so ready of hand and true of aim; the same Mac Ian Rua as of old," said Cora, in a trembling voice.
"Heaven be praised, my daughter, I have found thee; yet oh, to find thee thus!"
"Oh, embrace me, or I shall die; let me feel your cheek on mine once more, my father!"
"Come, then—come to my old heart," said the King, as he sobbed; for it was a rude old age, when even kings had human hearts, and nobles were not without them.
"Forgive me my sins against thee," said Cora, in a choking voice.
"They are forgiven."
"And my husband—Mac Ian Rua?"
"Even he, too, is forgiven," said the King, as the door of the hut was thrown open, and the tall huntsman, fresh from the pursuit, and still clad in his lurich—the same stalwart warrior who had that day slain Enrique and Enotus, and saved his monarch's life, and whose loud bugle blast had rallied the Scottish bands—stood before Cora and her father, with astonishment and fear in his eyes, while one hand grasped his axe, and the other the antlers of the stag, and his ruddy children clung joyously to his sturdy legs.
To dwell longer on this scene would mar its effect.
The huntsman was forgiven, and the old king spent the happiest night of his long life with his daughter on one side of him, and her husband on the other, while his grandchildren clambered about him, and in wild glee rolled about the floor the glittering helmet which was encircled by a diadem.
He told them how he had pined and sorrowed, and how deep his grief had been,—for Cora was ever the object around which all his affections had been entwined,—and how desolate his heart, his hearth, and home had been since her loss.
Then Cora related, that with the exception of bitter remorse at times, how happily they had dwelt in this green bower beside the Fiddich, far away from courts and kings, with their children budding round them, maintained by the fruit of her own industry and the skill of Mac Ian's hand.
They supped that night on venison broiled on a wooden spit, with cakes of Cora's baking, and nut-brown ale of her husband's brewing. When the old king was disencumbered of his armour, Mac Ian and he sat over their cans and fought the battle thrice again; and when he lay down to sleep on a soft bed of freshly-pulled heather and smooth skins—the spoils of fell and forest—Cora produced a clairshach, or harp cf humble form, and once more sang him to sleep, as of old, by the warlike lay of the king of bards; that soul-stirring lay he loved so well—"The Battle of Cattraeth;"—and often, as his eyes were closing, the old man raised himself with a flush of ardour, as she related the slaughter of the men of Dunedin in Anuerins' burning words, which told how, among the Pagan Saxons, "were three hundred warriors arrayed in gilded armour—three loricated bands, each with three commanders wearing torques of gold."
With early morning came the king's train. They had traced him to the hut, and all flushed with victory, pursuit, and slaughter, Duncan, Earl of Caithness, Nicholas, the secretary, Hugo of the Rutherford, Crinian, Thane of Dunbar, Gillemichael, Earl of Fife, and others, stood by his humble couch of skins, and after reporting the utter extermination of the Danes, heard him relate the joyous and wondrous discovery he had made overnight.
In Scotland there were great rejoicings for the restoration of the long lost Cora, and there could no longer be competition or discord about her hand; for Græme, Dunbar, and Kenneth lay dead on the field of Mortlach, and she was now a wedded woman. For his bravery in saving first the life of Cora from the waters of the Clyde, and secondly the life of the king in battle, the huntsman, Mac Ian, was made thane of a thanedom in the shire of Rhynfrew; and Malcolm gave him a coat of arms, which his descendants bear to the present time. Moreover, he nobly fulfilled the vow he had made to St. Molach, by adding to the chapel thrice the length of his long Scottish spear; thus it became, as we may still see it, a church, and he made it the cathedral of the diocese of Mortlach, of which St. Beyne was the first bishop, and Nechtan the last, when the see was translated by King David I. to Aberdeen, and enriched in all its revenues: and in memory of the bloody field so auspiciously won by the saint's intercession, he desired that the heads of Enrique, Enotus, and another valiant Dane, should be built into the wall, and thereto this hourwe may still see them, bare, white, and ghastly, with their teeth grinning from the stonework, and in the brow of each is the broken mark of the blow under which he died.
In that church is the shrine of St. Molach, whose festival was held on the 25th of June, and who became famous all over Scotland, but especially in Ross-shire and Argyle, where another church was built in his honour at Lismore.
Such was the story of the princess and the huntsman; and the moral of it is, that we should never despair, for the spokes in the wheel of fortune follow each other so fast that all are uppermost in their turn. Thus, the once despised Mac Ian Rua became the head of a great house, still named ERSKINE, in memory of his words at Mortlach; and Malcolm II. gave him for his cognizance a hand holding a dagger, with the motto, "Je pense plus," and a shieldargent, with a pale,sable; then as Mac Ian loved the Clyde—for there he had won the beautiful Cora—Malcolm gave him the lands, barony, and castle of Erskine, and from his marriage sprung a race that never failed their king or country—the loyal and noble Earls of Mar.*
Such was the story of the Admiral, an old legend, which, as before mentioned, I have given in my own words rather than his; for many parts of the narrative, ashetold it, would not have been over-intelligible to landsmen.
* The death of Cora, at Cora Lynn, is an ancient legend, still remembered in Clydesdale. The scene of the Battle of Mortlach is still marked by many sepulchral mounds, full of bones and broken armour. The bishopric is said to have originated in the king's vow, and it was confirmed by a bull of Pope Benedict VIII. The charter of erection by the king is still preserved in the chartulary of Aberdeen. It begins in the usual form "Malcolmus Rex Scottorum," and consists of only five or six lines, and ends with "Teste meipso apud Forfar, octavo die mensis Octobris, anno regni mei sexto."
"His little hardy infant sonSits crowing on his lusty neck;His wife—a fair and tender one—Murmurs and weeps upon his cheek;The sail is set, she clears the shore,She feels the wind and scuds away,Heels on her little keel, and o'erThe jostling waves appears to play."
While all these events which have been narrated had taken place, Jamie Gair, the fisherman of Broughty-point, had been quietly fishing and selling, or selling and fishing, and while battles were won and a kingdom lost, he had nothing to agitate his mind of greater importance than an occasional foul wind, or an evil omen, such as meeting a cat, a pig, or an old woman, when about to embark, or seeing two crows flying together—an infallible sign of misfortune; or losing a net, and being unable to settle his twine bill—a serious matter for a poor fisherman.
During the last days of July, he had suffered so many omens to deter him from putting to sea, that the imperative necessity for braving all such absurd dangers and superstitious fears, and of departing for the fishing ground, made Jamie prepare his nets and floats, though advised by his companion and partner in the boat, John o' the Buddon-ness, that the weather, which had been squally for some days past, was likely to become more so.
"Toots, carle," said Jamie, as he knotted the last brown bladder to the net; "the Crail fisher that passed in here yestreen said the sea had been roaring at Kincraig, a sure sign o' fine weather; so let us trip our anchor, and hie awa', John, for the last cogfu' o' meal is in Mary's girnel, and I daurna' byde langer by the ingle cheek, like a lubberly land-louper."
"E'en as ye please," replied John, drawing on his long rough boots; "he that will to Cupar, maun to Cupar."
"But Mary, my doo, what is asteer, lass, and wherefore greet ye?" asked Gair, whom John's proverb annoyed.
"Oh, Jamie, look onthis, and then say whether you suld gang to the fishing this day!" replied Mary, showing her wedding ring, which by some fatal mischance had been broken in two; and in Scotland this is deemed an invariable sign of approaching separation. People lived in an atmosphere of omens in those days; thus Jamie was sorely staggered: but he had been inert so long, that to linger longer on shore was to ruin himself. He held his cottage from the castellan of the king's castle, and its rent had to be punctually paid when the time came. For many days his kain of fish had not been delivered at the barbican gate, and though the new governor, the Laird of Balgillo, was a man of a very different character from Sir Patrick Gray, yet he could be trifled with no longer! And now the herring droves were sweeping down from the Northern Ocean; and seaward Jamie Gair resolved to go, though John o' the Buddon-ness looked stern and gloomy, and Mary wept and held up their little son and heir for the last kiss of his father's rough and bearded cheek,—and alastkiss it proved indeed to be! But let us not anticipate.
"The ring will mend, Mary," said Jamie, as he kissed away the tears from her blooming cheek; "and bethink ye, lass, can an omen o' evil ever be shown by a ring that was blessed by the auld Monk o' Sanct John at the Sclaitheughs? I trow no."
After a breakfast of peasebannocks, cheese, and hot Lammas ale, thickened by eggs, the fishermen embarked, trimmed their boat, braced the yard sharp up to the north wind, and bore down the estuary.
There was a grey sky overhead, and a rolling sea below; the horizon looked dark where it met the line of ocean, and the waves lifted their white tops between.
The wind whistled drearily along the shores of the Firth; the breakers boomed on the low flat sands of the Buddon-ness; the gusts that came at times strained the braces of the brown lug-sail, and while they lifted the boat's sharp prow above the water, they tore the white spray off the dancing waves, and threw it far along the sea, like heavy rain or mist.
Mary's form in her mantle and lowland wyliecoat had faded to a speck on the sand, and now the square tower of Broughty and the Hill of Balgillo began to sink among the grey vapour that crept along the shore. The cottage on the beach was all the world to Jamie Gair, and the boat that was dwindling into a black spot in the grey and dusky offing, was all the world to Mary.
Jamie whistled and sang, as the waves rolled past.
"There will be a grand haul of herrings to nicht!" said he; but his partner, John o' the Buddon-ness, made no reply, for his keen eyes were fixed to windward. He had an uncomfortable feeling in his breast—for old seamen have secret instincts about the weather, instincts of which a landsman knows nothing, and in which he cannot share: but the evil foreboded by this old man's heart was different, perhaps, from what he anticipated.
"Tak' a pull o' the sheet, John," said Jamie; "though the weather looks grey, we are as safe as our neighbours—be a man—trust in God and St. Mary!"
"I do trust in them," said the old man, touching his bonnet with reverence as he looked upward; "but neither God nor St. Mary have said men shall no be drooned. I can face saut water and the northern scud, Jamie, as my faithers did before me—and face them like a man as ye say, and neither blench nor quail."
"Keep her away another point or sae," said Jamie, "for the glare o' the kelpfires and the saut pans have scared the droves frae this part o' the shore,—and mairower, thewaterburnhas been here for a week and mair."
This is a luminous appearance of the sea, which, like lightning, has the effect of scaring the herrings from the coast.
It is usually about this season—the end of June or middle of July—that the greatheer, or shoal of herrings from the north, appears at the extremity of the northern isles of Scotland.
Where they come from, no man knows; but a surface of many hundred square miles of water becomes literally alive, and teeming with this prodigious body of fish. All the ocean seems to ripple around them, while whales are tumbling and myriads of porpoises surging and plunging through them, and clouds of gulls and gannets accompany them, screaming and in full flight.
The Scottish fishermen aver that they can scent this mighty drove from afar off, by the strong oily smell with which the air becomes impregnated. This yearly invasion divides into two bodies, one of which seeks the Ebudoe and the Irish Channel; the other keeps along the eastern and western coast of Scotland till October, and then, from her countless creeks and harbours, she sends forth her clinker-built fleets to net the annual mine of wealth with which her waters teem.
By sunset Jamie Gair and his companion reached the herring ground, where the gulls were screaming and the porpoises dancing through the short foamy waves, but still the sky was cold and lowering, and the sea was inky black; yet though the breeze was freshening, they shot their net, with inward hopes and a half muttered prayer—for they are pious souls, those hardy Scottish fishers—that a night of success might reward a day of toil amid the drenching spray.
Their boat, theMary—for so she was fondly named—they denuded of her sail, and hooked on to the net, allowing her thus to drift before wind and tide. They were the farthest off shore, for more than a hundred boats were all drifting in the same fashion, between them and the land.
Night came on, and to prevent any chance of their being run down, each boat's crew lit their dim horn lantern; then a quaighful of whiskey went round; and still the darkness deepened on the silent sea; still the boats drifted by their heavy nets, and still the breeze was freshening from afar.
Midnight came.
Black, dense, and furious, a gust came with it—a fierce and heavy squall, sheer from the icy north, that scattered all the little fleet and nearly swamped the boat of Gair.
It was the turn of the tide now, and from their fishing ground a strong current runs from the north-north-east towards St. Andrew's stormy bay, and all along that bleak and iron shore.
"Awa' wi' the net, Jamie!" cried old John o' the Buddon-ness, furiously, through the roaring wind and hissing sea; and he held up a hand to the side of his mouth.
Jamie lingered, for the sacrifice was great.
"Awa' wi't!" cried John; "awa' wi't, or the boat is swamped in a minnit mair!"
Jamie sprang to the leeward gunnel, knife in hand, and a sore pang shot through his heart, as he thought of the unpaid twine bill—for he yet owed the price of the net to the rope-makers in Tindall's Wynd; but go it must. One slash of the knife, and net and floats, with all their scaly cargo, were swept away like a gossamer web. Half the boat-lanterns around them were tumbling hither and thither on the crests of the waves, or deep in the trough of the sea; the other half had vanished, for many a boat had gone down with all her hands on board!
And now nothing can save their frail shallop but running before the wind, and the close-reefed foresail strains on the mast of tough Scottish larch as it lifts the boat of the bold fisherman over each hoarse wave of that black and gurly sea.
Nor kith nor kin has poor John o' the Buddon-ness to weep for him, if his corpslicht dances on the waves to-morrow night; for his father and seven brethren had all perished at sea.
Jamie thought of Mary and of their babe—of the broken ring—of the lost nets, and of his older friend's foreboding, and their present danger; and, while his strong heart swelled with agony, his iron hands grasped the wet tiller, and kept the lug-sail full.
On, on flew the sharp boat before that furious wind; and now faint lights were seen to twinkle amid the darkness and the flying scud to starboard; then the poor Scottish fishermen, while tears of hope and reliance mingled with the bitter spray that drenched their faces, put their trust in God and St. Andrew, and a hope arose that all might yet go well; for those lights were twinkling in the aisles of that glorious cathedral church upon the promontory—the work of a hundred and fifty years; and their prayers were heard; for morning came, and still their boat was sea-worthy, and as the dawn brightened, both sea and wind went down; the water was covered with foam—but not a trace was seen of that little fleet, among which they had shot their nets over-night.
As the sun rose through a hazy veil of vapour, Jamie found the Isle of May lying right a-head, and discovered that he had been blown far past Fife-ness, for now the distant spire of Crail and the faint blue Craig of Kilmeinie were gilded by the rising beams; and, now that all danger of being drowned was past, Jamie thought bitterly of his losses over-night.
Toil-worn and disappointed, the two fishermen were about to haul up for the shore and run into Crail Harbour, when the sudden apparition of three large vessels, under easy sail, bearing straight towards them, from under the lee of the Isle of May, where doubtless they had lain secure all night at anchor, arrested their attention; for at a glance Gair and John o' Buddon-ness perceived they were English ships, heavily armed and full of men.
These vessels were little more than a mile distant, and the fishermen knew that a run of four miles would bring them into the nearest harbour, where their boat—their little all—would be safe. The time was one of truce between the two countries; but recent events had proved that the warlike skippers of King Henry were not over-particular in respecting strangers at sea.
The breeze was still fresh and keen; the fishers stepped their mast, hoisted so much of their lug-sail as they dared, and, favoured by a side wind, bore away for Crail; but one of the English caravels followed them, and only a short time elapsed before a puff of smoke curled from her bows, and a cannon-shot boomed over the water close by, and plunging into the slope of a wave, raised it like a spout ahead of the boat.
"Ablins, they lack a pilot, Jamie," said John o' the Buddon-ness; "let us lie-to; they canna' hae the hearts to harm twa puir dyvour shields like you and me."
"May my een melt in their sockets when I undertake to pilot an Englishman!" said Jamie; "but by my certie, here comes another shot—douk doon, John, douk doon!"
This time it was the ball of an arquebuse, levelled through an iron sling attached to the ratlins.
The warning words had scarcely left Jamie's lips before the boat yawed round furiously, and his poor old companion fell dead across the thwart, for the same bullet that cut the halyard had pierced his heart, and in another minute the startled Gair found the English ship cleaving the billows close by him, and her hull towering from the sea as her mainyard was backed, and she lay to.
"Come on hoard, thou rascally Scot," cried a voice; "and marry! come quickly, lest we fire again!"
"Fling me owre a rope, then," replied Jamie, who, but for the sake of Mary, would have jumped overboard rather than obeyed.
A rope was thrown to him, and in another moment he found himself standing on the deck of the stately ship commanded by Sir Stephen Bull, and he was roughly dragged before that portly commander, who appeared in half armour at the door of the poop, which contained the principal cabins.
"Thou hast given us trouble enough, in all conscience, fellow!" said he, angrily; "why laid ye not to?"
"Because Sir Andrew Wood is not in these waters; the ships of Sir William Merrimonth and John Barton are all in the western seas, and we have none to protect us now," said Gair, with a sigh of bitterness as he looked after his boat, now cut adrift and tossing on the sea with the dead body of his companion in it.
"Ah! and so Sir Andrew Wood is not in the seas?"
"No, sir; but is daily expected," said Gair, spitefully.
"Good," said Sir Stephen, with a smile of gratification on his broad and bearded face; "that is the reason, Scot, which brings us here."
"I pray you to release me, gude sir," implored Jamie, as he stood, bonnet in hand, amid a circle of armed Londoners, who stared at the "rough-footed Scot" as if he had been a wild animal; "I am but a puir fisher carle, wi' a wife and a wean to support in these hard times of civil war and trouble; I lost my nets yesternicht in the squall, and ye have cut my boat adrift this morning—I am a ruined man!" he added, as he almost wept in the agony of his spirit.
"A ruined man, indeed! so much the better for our purpose, perhaps," said Sir Stephen Bull, with an icy smile; "wouldst know the ships of Sir Andrew Wood if you saw them now?"
"Yes, sir, as well as my ain cottage lum."
"Cottage what, sirrah?"
"Lum, sir; lum."
"'Tis well," said Bull, turning to Captain Edmund Howard, who had recognised the poor fisherman of Broughty-point, and who had been standing somewhat aloof; "let this man be well watched, and call me the moment a sail appears in sight; for Scot though he be, his eyes may serve us here better than our own."
"But he may escape," suggested Howard, who half hoped he would.
"Escape! nay, nay; let his legs be secured in fetterlocks, then he'll not drag his anchor, I warrant."
Strictly guarded, Jamie was kept for three days on board of theUnicorn, the ship of Bull; and though he knew not exactly for what purpose, he feared it would prove of no good ultimately to himself. In these three days which succeeded the midnight storm, what would be the thoughts, the surmises of poor Mary, and how great would be her terror at his disappearance; how much greater, too, if his boat was picked up, or cast ashore, with the body of his slaughtered friend in it! The poor man covered his brown visage with his rough hands, and endeavoured to shut out sight, sound, and reflection, but such thoughts would come again and again.
Edmund Howard treated him with the greatest kindness, and endeavoured to raise his drooping spirits by promises that he would soon be set on shore, with gold sufficient to buy ten such boats and nets as those he had lost; but Jamie ever replied,—
"Na—na, sir; I want nane o' your siller, for English gold works Scotland ever dule and wae; and may my fingers be blistered if I touch it!"
Then Howard questioned him about the family of Lord Drummond; but Jamie could only say that "it was commonly bruited abroad that his daughter, the Lady Margaret, the king's gude cousin, was to be Queen of Scotland, and that a winsome young pair they would be."
Had honest Jamie Gair been less occupied by his own thoughts than he was, he could not have failed to observe how these tidings—though expected, sank into poor Howard's brave and noble heart.
Meanwhile the English ships never molested the coast, for it was not the purpose of Sir Stephen Bull to create an alarm, so he continued to cruise off the mouth of the Firth, within a space of twenty miles or so, running southward as far as Dunbar, and northward as far as the Carr Rock; but generally hovering about the Isle of May, to the great anxiety and discomposure of the secluded priests of Pittenweem, who dwelt thereon, and traded by shipping with France and the Baltic.
About dawn, on the fourth day after Jamie's misadventure, two large vessels were descried at the horizon, like black specks, for the clear streak of the coming day was astern of them, and their outline was darkly and strongly defined. They loomed large; and from the lofty poop of theUnicornSir Stephen Bull reconnoitred them with some anxiety, for the Scottish admiral was said to have but two ships with him; and so he despatched a boat to the vessel of Miles le Furnival, to bring on board the Scottish spy he had brought with him from London.
"Is itthee, thou hell-begotten wretch?" exclaimed Howard, as Hew Borthwick, gaily attired, stepped confidently along the deck of the very ship which had been captured by his treachery; "by St. Paul, I would give something handsome to see thee rove up to the foreyard-arm!"
Borthwick gave the speaker a dark and furtive glance, but made no reply.
"Thou art sure, sirrah, that Andrew Wood hath but two ships with him?" asked Stephen Bull, imperiously, contempt and scorn curling his full, ruddy lip as he spoke.
"Sure as I have now the honour of addressing you."
"Wouldst know them if ye saw them?"
"Not unless within half-a-mile or so."
"That were somewhat too close for my purpose," said Bull; "remove this shabby lubber, this skulking lurdane, from the quarterdeck, and bring aft the fisherman."
Borthwick, who had repeatedly begged to be placed ashore, but in vain, was now roughly removed, and poor Jamie Gair, with his legs stiff by four days' and nights' retention in fetter-locks, was brought before Sir Stephen Bull, around whom all his officers and gentlemen volunteers were crowding, with kindling eyes and open ears.
"Wouldst thou know the ships of Sir Andrew Wood, sirrah?" asked Sir Stephen, whose pages were arming him in a brilliant coat of mail.
"Weel as I wad ken the dear face o' my ain wife!" replied the prisoner, with ardour and sadness.
"Never mind thy wife's face, Scot; but answer me."
"So far an honest man may, I will, sir."
"Then, are these his vessels—away there to windward?"
Gair looked there for a moment; his eyes flashed and his cheek reddened; but he hung his head with an emotion which did not escape the keen and penetrating eyes of the English captain.
"Speak, sirrah!" said he, imperiously, as he grasped his poniard.
"They are hull down, sir."
"Well, but ye may know the trim of his sails, and the fashion of his gear aloft."
"I—I dinna ken, sir."
"Answer me, fellow, at once; are these, or are theynot, the caravels of Sir Andrew of Largo?"
"I am no free to say."
"Trifle not; answer me at once, or, by the head of King Henry, I will lash you at the gunner's daughter, and fling you overboard after!"
"I daurna trifle, noble sir, I who am but a pair fisherman, with you an armed knight; but I too can swear, and by the head of King James, I sall rather dee than tell ye."
"Then die, fellow!" said the knight, furiously; "Dick Selby, tie a ball to his heels, and trice him by the armpits up to the yard-arm; while there, he will have a better view of these coming craft. Knot the rope round in a fisherman's bend—he may like it the better."
It was all done in the time we have taken to write it; the ball of a carthoun—about thirty-six pounds in weight—was attached to his ankles, which were tied together; a rope was passed round his body, and he was run up to the arm of the maintopsail-yard, where he hung with outspread hands. A shudder, but partly subdued by anger at his obstinacy, passed over all on deck. A culverin was prepared, and the seamen in the waist, who had "triced" the poor fisherman up, held in their hands the line on which his life depended.
"Answer me now, Scot—are yonder craft the ships of Sir Andrew Wood?" cried Stephen Bull, who was a stern and uncompromising, as well as a cunning and reckless man; "answer!"
"Never," cried Gair, "though ye should wrench me bone frae bone!"
"You may as well tell the truth," said Howard, "and save your life, for it will be all the same for your admiral in the end."
"I ne'er say aucht but truth," replied Gair; "but ye sall get nae information frae me."
"Then take thy last look of yonder rising sun, my brave fellow," said Howard, with deep commiseration; "for in one minute more thou'lt be lying at the bottom of thy native sea."
"Oh, my sakeless wife and bairn!" cried the poor fisherman: "but in life and death, I commit you to the care of God!"
These words struck a chill on all who heard them, and the brave English gentlemen and mariners of Bull grew pale as they looked on each other.
Twice Sir Stephen repeated the question, and on receiving, for the last time, the same reply, he cried, furiously,—
"Thy blood be on thine own head, fellow!—fire the gun!"
The white smoke gushed from the gunport through the black rigging; the sharp report pealed over the morning sea, and ere it died away the rope had whistled through the block, as the sailors cast it from them like an instrument of murder, and poor Jamie Gair had vanished from the yard-arm of theUnicorn.
"Oh, Sir Stephen Bull," cried Howard, as he rushed to the vessel's side; "what is this thou hast done?"
"Drowned a pitiful Scot, whose obstinacy may mar our morning's work," was the dogged reply, as a few bubbles that rose to the surface, were all that remained to show where the fisherman had sunk. Sir Stephen walked aft hastily, but was evidently dissatisfied with himself, for he returned, and said,—
"Why this regret, Edmund Howard; was not the man only a Scot?"
"For that reason I commiserate his fate the more," said Howard, who was no doubt thinking of Lady Margaret Drummond.
"Tush! display the signal to clear away for battle, and hoist the French ancient, for I have no doubt these are the ships of him we are in search of. If they were not, our defunct fisherman would soon have said so."
"God will not bless the course we thus begin," said Howard; "and if yonder ships are indeed those of Sir Andrew Wood, the weepers of Saint John, by London Wall, will be singing dirges for some of us ere long."
"I care little whether or not God blesses it, if Henry our king is pleased," said Sir Stephen, with a glance of pride and anger; "but peace with this croaking, Sir Captain of mine—'tis a new thing in thee. To your arms and to your quarters, fore and aft—sound trumpets, and load culverins and arquebusses! Dick Selby, open the magazine; John o'Lynne, see the fire's out; beat to quarters, and get abroach three runlets of canary. Fight to the death, my merry men all, for if you fall into the hands of the Scots they will chain you to work on their castles and highways, and feed you worse than Charterhouse monks—so every man to quarters, and St. George for Merry England!"
"Were ye twentye shippes, and he but one,I swear by kirke, and bower, and hall,He wolde overcome them everye one,If once his beames they doe downefall.This is colde comfort, quoth my lorde,To welcome a stranger thus to sea;But I'll bring him and his ships to shore;Or to Scotland he shall carry me."—SIR ANDREW BARTON
After nearly bringing to a successful issue his diplomatic mission concerning the quarrel between the Scottish, Dutch, and Flemish merchants,—though the latter remembered bitterly the various barrels of pickled heads despatched by the unquhile Sir Andrew Barton to the Privy Council of James III.,—Sir Andrew Wood had left the port of Sluys, or Sluice, which is one of the best harbours and strongest frontier towns in Dutch Flanders, and from the Bailiff and Echevins of which he received a gold cup and silken banner. Sailing with a fair wind, he soon lost sight of the low flat shores of Batavia, and bore away for the Firth of Forth.
The voyage across the northern ocean was rough, and more than once his Scottish caravels rolled their lower yard-arms in the water; but their trip of five hundred miles was drawing to a close, and on the morning mentioned in the preceding chapter, the crews of theFlowerandYellow Frigatehailed with satisfaction the black rugged scalp of St. Abb, as it rose above the summer sea.
TheFlowerwas commanded by Sir Alexander Mathieson, "the Auld King o' the Sea," whose former ship, theMargaret, had been given by the young king to John, the younger brother of Robert Barton. John was also a brave mariner, and well known in Scottish history.
The vessels were going under easy sail; morning prayers were over; the crew were lying in groups between the guns on deck, resting themselves after the recent gale. Willie Wad was playing on the fiddle; Father Zuill was of course engaged in the further development of his parabolic speculum; the admiral was writing in his cabin; Falconer and Barton were on deck, talking no doubt over the chances of good or evil tidings awaiting them from the fair daughters of Lord Drummond, and of their aversion for the new Lord High Admiral of Scotland—Hailes, now Earl of Bothwell; old Archy, the boatswain, was "spinning a yarn" to some idlers who were clustered near the capstan, and assuring them that in some parts of the Northern Sea, he knew with certainty there was a fiend who was often seen astride the bowsprit or the spritsail-yard on the eve of a hurricane, with blue flames coming out of his hawseholes, and wearing a conical hat tipped with fire; and there he rode, leading the vessel to destruction; for if the storm was weathered, she would run into the down-hill at the back of the world, where she might beat and tack in vain, for her crew could never gather leeway until the day of doom. This, and much more to the same purpose, was listened to, in the most perfect good faith by the hearers, and was corroborated by some of them, who had seen the identical demon referred to, when they were wrecked near the English Castle of Barnborough in '72, in the great ship of James Kennedy, Bishop of St. Andrew's, when all perished, save a few who escaped in a jollyboat with the holy Abbot of Inchcolm, whose case of reliques—but at that moment a voice was hailing the deck.
"Hollo," cried Barton, "who hails?"
"Captain of the maintop, sir—sail ho!"
"Sail ho!" was echoed from the deck.
"Why, thou gomeral, there is nothing wonderful in seeing a sail off St. Abb's Head."
"But there are three o' them, Sir Captain," cried the sailor, looking over the basket-work of the top; "war-ships to my eye."
"Oho—that alters the case entirely!"
Barton sprung into the main-rigging, and ran up aloft to take a view; when he descended, the admiral, whom some rumour had reached, was on deck.
"What dost make them out to be, Robert?"
"Three full-rigged ships, standing straight towards us; coming down with a fine breeze, and everything set aloft that will catch it."
"Didst make out their colours?"
"They have none hoisted as yet; but by St. Andrew, they are war-ships, or I have the eyes of a mole!"
"They may be English——"
"Or Portuguese caravels on some roving commission; but both are alike dangerous. To be forewarned is to be forearmed."
"Right," said the admiral; "so beat the starboard watch to quarters; Willie Wad, out with all lights, and open the magazine! To your armour, gentlemen; Sir David Falconer, order your trumpeter to sound, and line the poop with arquebussiers."
"That puff of smoke," said Falconer, as he buckled on his splendid baldrick, "is very like the discharge of a culverin."
And such it was, being the death-knell of Jamie Gair, the unfortunate fisherman.
As the vessels neared each other, the two Scottish caravels were cleared for action, and every man armed himself; the cannon was served with shot and powder; the arquebussiers manned the tops and taffrails; the cannoniers stood by their guns, with tackle, sponge, and rammer; the lines were laid along the deck, and the ports were triced up.
"By my soul, Robert Barton," said the admiral, as he scanned the strangers; "I think I should know the hull of yonder craft and the rake of her masts. Gadzooks! look at her now, as her sails lift in the breeze."
"And the fashion of her topsails, too," said Barton, observing her with kindling eyes, and a darkening brow.
"'Tis theUnicorn—as I am a living man!"
"Either thy father's spirit, or an English foe, is under sail on these waters. ItistheUnicorn, Robert. But hah—what is this? Up goeth her pennon and ensign. French, gadzooks! Now what may this portend?"
"'Tis all a wile," said Barton, as Sir Stephen Bull, the further to deceive them, as he hoped, hoisted the white flag with the fleur-de-lis, a flag then as familiar to the Scottish people as their own; and as the oriflamme swelled out in the breeze, Sir Stephen fired a gun to leeward.
"Up with St. Andrew's cross," said the admiral; "if these are not three English ships, may I skulk in the lee scuppers of fortune to the end of my days. Up with our ancient, quartermaster; and Wad, fire a gun towindward."
It is recorded, that immediately on the hostile signal being given, the oriflamme went down, and up went the white flag with the red cross of England, while the bright heraldic pennons of the many gentlemen who served in the ships for glory and honour, or in sheer hatred of the Scots, were displayed in the bright sunshine. The adverse ships, now about half a mile apart, were nearing each other fast, and every heart on board beat high.
In our account of this battle, we will follow briefly and strictly the relation of Dalzel, Pitcairn, Buchanan, the Laird of Pitscottie, and others. The quaint chronicler Lindesay gives us the characteristic address of his contemporary, the Scottish admiral to his crew, while every man received a stoup of wine at the capstan-head.
"My lads, these are the men who would seek to convey us in fetters to the foot of an English king as they did the shipmates of stout old Andrew Barton; but, by the help of God and your bravery, they shall fail! Shipmates, set yourselves in order; every man to his station; the gunner to his lintstock, and the steersman to his helm! Charge home, cannoniers—crossbowmen, to the tops—pikes and two-handed swords to the forerooms. Down with the bulk-heads, up with the screens, reeve tackle, and ram home. Be stout men and true, for the love of your kindred, and the honour of old Scotland—hurrah!"
A loud cheer responded; the poops, tops, and forecastles were bristling with cuirassed and helmeted men; the yeomen of the sheets and braces stood by their stations, the gunners by their guns, and all were armed to the teeth, with swords and daggers, pikes, axes, ghisarmas, and hand-cannons.
The sun was clear and the sky brilliant; the waves rolled like crystal in long glassy swells; the bellying canvas was white as snow, and the gaudy pennons waved from mast-head and yard-arm, like long ribands of many coloured silk on the gentle wind. The sides of all the ships, but more especially their towering poops and ponderous quarter-galleries, were gay with carving and gilding, and grim with the flashing of sharp weapons and the brass-mouthed tiers of their pointed artillery; and a thousand bright or gaily tinted objects were thus reflected in the clear waves as they rolled past in slow heaving ridges that glistened in the sun.
In a few minutes the guns of Bull commenced firing, and their balls whistled through the rigging of theYellow Frigateas she closed up, but without firing a shot, for, breathless and impatient, her crew were waiting for the sound of the admiral's whistle.
One ball splintered the mizenmast near Sir Andrew, and another stretched Cuddie Clewline, his coxswain, on the deck.
"My poor Cuddie," said he, rushing forward; "how art thou, old shipmate?"
"Ill enough, Sir Andrew," groaned the seaman, from the sleeve of whose doublet the blood was gushing; "my best spar is knocked away."
"Poor carle—thy right arm?" said Barton.
"Never fear ye for me, sirs, I'll weather the gale yet," he answered, as he crawled along the deck, leaving a long trail of blood, till he reached the main hatchway, where Father Zuill, relinquishing an immense parabolic speculum, received him in his arms, and conveyed him below.
"Hollo! Saints and angels, what clattering is that?" he asked, as a heavy shot tore its way between decks.
"An English bullet through the magazine," said some one.
"Damnation," cried Wad, plunging down the ladder to ascertain the damage.
"Peace," said the chaplain; "swear not, friend gunner; it is forbidden."
"The shot is through thy laboratory, Father Zuill," said the boatswain, ascending; "and if it hasna smashed your hurdy-gurdy to flinders, may I never mair see Anster kirk!"
"Hell's fury! sayst thou so?" cried the chaplain, losing all patience, as another of King Henry's pills came crashing through the timbers, killing and wounding all in its way.
"Oho! may I drink bilge but a friar can swear as well as a poor gunner, though it is forbidden," said Willie Wad, as he hoisted up case after case of shot; but the unhappy chaplain, rendered furious by the destruction of his lifelong labours, flung off his frock, under which he wore a jazarine jacket, seized a sword, and rushed on deck intent on vengeance.
TheYellow Frigateand theUnicornwere now less than a musket shot apart, when Sir Andrew blew his silver whistle; and then the former poured her broadside of "pestilent" carthouns, sakers, and serpentines, into the latter, exchanging fire with her on opposite tacks, while the arquebussiers and crossbowmen aloft and below volleyed at each other as fast as they could cast their weapons about.
"By the soul of King James, that broadside will cost ye a few bolts of canvas, my friends!" said Wood, with a smile; and bearing on, by his great seamanship he continued to keep the weather-gage of Bull; while Sir Alexander Mathieson, with theFlower, followed close in his wake, they each exchanged broadsides with the three English ships, whose triple fire cut up their rigging, battered their gay bulwarks, and wounded a vast number of their men; but few were killed, though all the scuppers ran with blood and water.
These brave adversaries foresaw not the days that were to come, when "Duncan, Nelson, Keppel, Howe, and Jervis," under aunitedflag, would lead their descendants side by side to sweep Scotland's ancient ally from the ocean.
"Tack," cried the admiral to Barton, again, as the cannon were charged for the fourth time; "tack again, and range up on the weather quarter of the sternmost ship."
By this manoeuvre he almost blew to pieces the poop of Miles Furnival's caravel; he then gave the order to "close in and grapple."
"A narrow escape, David," said Barton, as an English bullet tore the crest off Falconer's headpiece.
"A little lower, and it would have ended all my cares to-day," replied Sir David, with a sad smile; "and believe me, Barton, I would rather die here than land to-morrow, and learn that Sybilla has become the countess of the high-admiral."
The five vessels now simultaneously shortened sail, and, according to the tactics of the day, grappled with each other; and there was a frightful rasping as they closed-in muzzle to muzzle with their yard-arms tearing each other's canvas to rags and ribbons.
Alas! we need scarcely advert to thedesperationof the conflict which ensued—a conflict from which we recoil; for it was Englishmen and Scotsmen who then fought against each other, and fought as they alone can fight.
The yetlan guns soon became so hot that Wad reported to the admiral, "that they were bouncing off their stocks, and tearing their breechings like pack-thread."
We are told that, fearless of the numerical force and superiority of the enemy, old Andrew Wood led the way to the "Inglish deckis with his twa-handed quhinger," and that for twelve hours, with sword and pike, crossbow and battle-axe, a deadly conflict was maintained; and that they had often to retire from sheer exhaustion, and to free their blood-stained decks from the dead and wounded; "and there they fought," saith Pitscottie, who knew the admiral well, "frae the rising of the sun till the going down of the same, in the long summer's day, while all the men and women that dwelt near the coast-side stood and beheld the fighting, which was terrible to see."
The sun sank behind the hills of Fife, and those persons who crowded on the steeple of Crail and the summit of Kincraig, saw the five grappled ships abandoned to the wind and current, drifting off towards the north. They saw the blue flag of Scotland and the white English ensign floating side by side; they could see the incessant gleaming of steel, and the pale smoke that broke upward in white curls from time to time, but they knew not how the tide of battle turned, or to whom red Victory held out her bloody wreath.
Night came down on the echoing deep, and when morning dawned the good folk of the East Neuk, pale with watching, and fired by expectation, could see no trace of the hostile ships; for by that time they had drifted like a huge and gory raft, or a floating hecatomb, to the mouth of the Tay. There, after casting off to refit and reeve anew their cut and torn rigging, again the trumpets sounded, and again they grappled at sunrise; and Wood ordered that the English ships should be lashed "with cables" to his own—that they should all go down together rather than any one should escape.
The Scots and English were repeatedly in possession of each other's decks, and incredible valour was exhibited in the many hand-to-hand conflicts that ensued amid the generalmêlée; many a Scottish mariner was "spritsail yarded," as they termed it, by being pinned in the head or breast by the clothyard shafts of Sir Stephen's archers, who shot from the tops and poops; and many an Englishman wasscotched(i.e., cut or slashed by the sword or Jedwood axe), a phrase we first find in Shakespeare, but which had long previously been common in England, for a wound received in the Scottish wars.
Tall Dick Selby, with his poleaxe, displayed to advantage the agility and prowess which made him the lion of the Moorfields and Finsbury; and strong in the belief of a blessed Paternoster, bought in the Row beside St. Paul's, and bound about his better wrist, he had hewed a way almost to the poop of theYellow Frigate, when he was killed by Sir David Falconer, who there recognised Edmund Howard fighting bravely against great odds, and keeping his back to the mizenmast; and there, after doing all in his power by voice and deed to save him, he had the mortification of seeing him hewn almost to pieces by the crew of theFlower.
Sir Fulke of Fulkeshall was also slain, and there was scarcely a noble or wealthy family in London that did not lose a relative in this desperate conflict.
Sir Stephen Bull, tall, powerful, and brave as a Hector, sought everywhere for old Sir Andrew Wood, reserving his sword and strength for him alone; and they encountered each other no less than six times, but were always separated by the furious pressure of those around them; for Miles le Furnival, John of Lynne, and others, on one side, Sir Alexander Mathieson, Robert Barton, and Falconer, on the other, were always rushing on, and taking part in the bloody game, though all of them were severely wounded, and covered with blood and bandages.
"Had we no better cast off the grapples," cried Archy of Anster, rushing to the admiral, who was leaning, breathless, against the taffrail of theUnicorn, with his sword in his hand.
"Wherefore?" he asked.
"We are close on the Buddon-ness—in shoal water," exclaimed the boatswain; "and will strike in three minutes or less."
"Let us take our chance," answered Wood, grimly; "I will rather knock the old ship to pieces than see her an English prize; but, alas! honest Archy—art thou wounded?"
"My mainyard is shot in the slings," groaned the old boatswain, as a ball struck him near the shoulder, and he fell heavily on the deck, with his right arm broken.
At that moment, there was a tremendous shock; the masts nodded like willow wands, and several topmasts with all their yards, sails, rigging, and hamper, came thundering down on the still contested decks; and then a hoarse shout of rage and despair arose from the English ships, for their crews were aware that they were all ashore, or wedged on the shoaly sands together.
To shorten this account, which, as it may be found in many old histories of Scotland, need not be longer dwelt on here, the English trumpets sounded a parley, and the brave Sir Stephen Bull, now thoroughly crestfallen and dejected, surrendered his sword to Sir Andrew Wood; but without shame or dishonour, for he and his crews had done all that brave men might do.
The ships were all floated off by the flood tide; the grapplings cut, jury masts were rigged, and sails set on them, and before midnight they were all safely anchored in the harbour of Dundee, within the protection of the cannon of Broughty.
"Sir Stephen, who was prisoner madeWith ships and sailors all,Unto King James Sir Andrew took,Before his feet to fall."SIR ANDREW WOOD.—Old Ballad.
The tidings of this victory, notwithstanding the slaughter by which it was gained, caused the greatest rejoicings over all Scotland, for her people were proud of their country, and were then sensitively jealous of her honour; thus, the excitement in Dundee, on the day after the battle, was tremendous.
Sir Andrew Wood took Sir Stephen Bull, and all the officers and English gentlemen volunteers ashore, to present them to King James IV. When the barge of this fine old Scottish mariner left the ships, the seamen of theYellow FrigateandFlowerswarmed up the rigging, manned the yards, and gave him three hearty cheers.
"God bless ye, my brave callants," said the good admiral, as he stood up in the boat, bowed his silvery head, and waved his blue bonnet.
A similar greeting awaited him at the rock of St. Nicholas, and in the streets of Dundee, where, giving his arm in token of amity to his late adversary, the haughty and resentful Stephen Bull, and followed by the principal prisoners, and surrounded by Falconer's arquebussiers, to guard them from insult, he went straight to the little palace of St. Margaret, where the young king, who had been apprised of his coming, awaited him. Vast crowds followed the vanquished and the victors; the lances of the Provost guarded them, and in front rode the Laird of Blackness, bearing the banner of the Burgh, argent, with a pot of lilies, or—the emblem of the Virgin—supported by two green dragons, with enormous twisted tails; and many an unsophisticated Englishman, who had never seen a Scot before, gazed about him with emotions of wonder and hostility; for the towns and dresses of the Lowlanders were very different from those of the English, to whom the architecture of the Scottish streets and houses has still a strange and foreign aspect. In those days, the peasantry of the Lowlands all wore rough brogues of deerskin, with the hair outwards; hence they were named rough-footed Scots by the people of England, where the peasantry were all barefooted, and even bare-legged, as some writers of the time of James IV. say.
Accompanied by the venerable Duke of Montrose-Crawford, the young Lord Lindesay, in his scarlet mantle, and his tall mother, the Duchess, by Robert Lord Lyle, and many other friends of his unhappy father, mingled with a few of the Angus faction, James IV., with his half-acknowledged queen by his side, received the victorious admiral and his bold prisoners in one of the finest chambers of this old country palace.
The walls were hung with green and gold arras; the oak ceiling was divided into square compartments, and in the centre of each was a royal or heraldic device, the arms of the house of Stuart, of their alliances with foreign reigning families, and their many ennobled descendants. Above the carved stone fireplace hung that celebrated picture of the murdered James III., with his queen, in which he is represented in a lilac-coloured robe, trimmed with ermine, and wearing a vest of cloth of gold; Margaret of Oldenburg is attired in a blue robe, with a Scottish kirtle of cloth of gold, and a head-dress blazing with jewels. This picture, which now hangs in Kensington, is probably one of the many valuable portraits of which the avaricious James VI. stripped the Scottish palaces, on his succession to the English crown in 1603.
Crestfallen and silent, the proud and brave English captain stood within this noble apartment.
James frankly and kindly shook the hand of the vanquished mariner, and complimented him on his bravery, in terms similar to those with which he favoured Wood.
"Sir Stephen," he added, "I will restore to you and to your followers your swords, arms, and armour, your ships, and liberty, because I ever love brave men who fight—not for gain—but for glory. Go, sirs, you are free; but I trust that never again you will trouble the Scottish seas with your presence or your piracies, else another fate may await you."
Before presenting his own officers and shipmates to their young sovereign, Sir Andrew courteously introduced Miles de Furnival, John o'Lynne, and all those Englishmen who had distinguished themselves most in the recent battle; he also deplored the death of Captain Edmund Howard; "for," said he, "he was a brave man, and a true English seaman, whom I respected, though his brother, the admiral, slew my old shipmate, Barton, on that day of sorrow in the Downs—but woe is for women, and masses are for monks—the gunner to his lintstock, and the steersman to his helm, say I."
Margaret Drummond heard these tidings with a pang, for the noble and gentle Howard had won her whole esteem, though he could win nothing more.
"Thou art so rich in honour, and, men say, in money too, Robert Barton," said the king, "that I am sorely puzzled how to reward thy bright career of faithful service; but thou shalt be the captain of myGreat Michael, as soon as that stately ship is launched and fit for sea. And as for thee, my honest Davie Falconer, the gentle and the brave," he added, taking both Sir David's hands in his, "what shall I say to thee? As an earliest of better things, let me hang this gold medal, the gift of our Holy Father Innocent VIII., to the golden chain my father gave thee, when last we were all under this old rooftree together. May the good God bless thee, Davie Falconer; for, on the last day of that poor father's life, thou didst fight nobly by his side, where I too should have been, but for evil fortune and most accursed counsel!"
Falconer's heart swelled with mingled joy and sadness as the young king attached the medal to his chain, and he gazed imploringly at Margaret Drummond, with an expression that seemed to say, "Oh, speak for us—for Sybilla and for me—you know our secret well;" but terror of her father, on whose face there was a scornful smile, repressed any such thought in her mind.
"I have ever done my duty as a subject and a leal Scotsman," said Falconer; "but in this presence I dare not say all I think, or all I feel, lest the Lord Drummond and others deem me bold; for other inheritance than my sword and an honest name, have I none."
"Nay, by my soul, David Falconer, Drummond will never deem thee over-bold," said the old lord, with a sudden emotion of generosity, "for the sword is ever the Scotsman's best, and often hislastinheritance, as many a foreign field can show; and well I know, that it was not when treading on a silken carpet you won the spurs you wear."
These were the first kind words the father of Sybilla had ever addressed to him, and they raised in his warm heart a glow of hope and gratitude.
That evening there was a grand banquet served up amid a flourish of trumpets; Sir Stephen Bull sat on the king's right hand, the Laird of Largo on his left; and the English and Scots, oblivious of yesterday's strife and slaughter, pushed the stoups of Malmsey and Rochelle, Canary and Bordeaux, as busily as of late they had plied cannon and arquebuss, eghisarma and hand-gun. Sir John Carmichael of Netherton and Hyndford—the same who, with Swinton of Dalswinton, slew the Duke of Clarence at the Battle of Verneuil—was chief carver; the Laird of Southesk was cup-bearer, and the kirk bells of "the Blessed Virgin Mary-in-the-fields" rang their matin-chime before the carousers drank the voidée, or parting-cup—the signal for retiring.
The dead were buried in two large graves, within the old cemetery of St. Paul's Church, between the Sea Gate and the Murray Gate of Dundee. Sir Fulke of Fulkeshall was interred alone; and his remains, with a large sword with the blade full of notches, and several silver coins (which the Scots always interred with the dead—a strange remnant of paganry) were found in a large stone coffin, when the foundations of the East Church of Dundee were being dug in 1842; but poor Howard had found a grave among the waves that dash upon the shoals of the Buddon-ness.
In less than a week the English ships were refitted, and began to drop down the Tay, to sail for London.
On Blue Peter being displayed at the masthead by Sir Stephen Bull, and the fore-topsails being cast loose—announcing that they were about to depart—the crews of all the Scottish war-ships, about fifteen or twenty of which had now mustered near Dundee—manned the yards, and gave them a parting cheer, while the Laird of Balgillo saluted St. George's cross by a salvo of guns from the battlements of Broughty; and thus they separated—those hostile ships—with farewell compliments and mutual expressions of amity and good-will.
Bull had on board the Montrose Herald and Garioch Pursuivant, who were the bearers of a letter to King Henry.
This document demanded the immediate release of the Bishop of Dunblane, and begged Henry to accept of his own ships back again as presents, and enjoined him to reward nobly the brave men who had fought them so skilfully and well; and also recommended him to remember for the future, "that Scotland could boast of warlike sons by sea as well as land, and that he—King James—trusted the piratical shipmen of England would disturb his coasts no more, for it micht be, they would not be so weel entertained, nor loup hame so dryshod."