CLAVERHOUSE TO THE RESCUE.
The winter cold is past and gone,
And now comes on the spring;
And I am one of the Scots Life Guards,
And I must fight for the King.
My dear!
And I must fight for him!
OLD SONG.
By orders from William of Orange, who had taken possession of James's
palace, and issued from thence his sounding declarations and imperial
mandates, Goderdt de Ginckel, with the utmost expedition, marched the
captured Scots towards London, where the Statholder (though he had
not yet been crowned) was intent on revenging, by the lash and
bullet, this signal instance of resistance to his authority. In
consequence of this event; he had the first "Mutiny Act" framed, but
being an edict of the English Parliament it could in no way apply to
Scottish troops.
Aware of the esprit du corps and indomitable valour of the old
musqueteers, and fearful of revolt or rescue, de Ginckel sent
Lieutenant Gavin twenty other officers and five hundred privates, in
charge of Sir Marmaduke Langstone, direct to London, towards which
place he marched the remainder by another route; keeping near his
person and under sure escort, Lord Dunbarton, Walter Fenton, Finland,
and other officers, whose hostility of spirit was more undisguised
than their comrades, de Ginckel advanced some miles in rear of the
main body of his Black Horsemen. The Earl was destined for the Tower
of London; Walter and his brothers in misfortune for the cells of
Newgate.
In every town and village through which they were marched, dense mobs
of "the rascal multitude" attended and loaded them with every insult
and opprobrium, such as the vulgar, the cruel, and the wicked are
ever ready to hurl upon the fallen or the unfortunate. Marrowbones
and cleavers were clattered around them; effigies of King James, and
a figure meant to represent a Scotchman, were carried or kicked along
the streets before them, and amid yells and hootings, warming-pans
were everywhere displayed from the windows at their approach; at that
time a famous mode of insulting the Jacobites, being a palpable hit
against the legitimacy of the young Prince of Wales.
"Fie upon the Scots! Out upon thee, Mon! No warming-pan King!
William for ever, and down to hell with all Scots, Papists, and
Mass-mongers! hurrah!" yelled the rabble on every hand, while vollies
of mud, stones, dead cats, &c., were showered on them from every
hand. Meanwhile their Dutch escort rode on each side with the most
phlegmatic indifference, every man seeming as if fast asleep in his
voluminous breeches and wide jack-boots.
"Down with the race of Gog--the soldiers of the priests of Baal!"
cried an old puritan; "down with Scots Jemmy and his cursed Jesuits!"
Weak and exhausted by constant marching, lack of food and sleep;
dispirited by misfortune, and disfigured by mud and their torn and
soiled attire; in the captives no one could have recognized the
dashing cavaliers who passed northward a day or two before. They had
all been deprived of their horses and arms, and been robbed of
everything of value--their cuirasses, purses, rings, &c.--by their
guard. De Ginckel was as brutal and merciless as a Carrib Indian,
and repeatedly struck the unfortunate cavaliers with his
speaking-trumpet.
"Ach Gott!" he often cried to his Ruyters; "if von ob de brisoners
escape, ye shall answer for him, body for body, by cast ob dice on de
kettle-trum-head!"
"My good comrades, and gallant gentlemen," said the Earl of Dunbarton
to the little group that marched around him, "were it not that I feel
in my heart assured that an hour of vengeance and retribution will
come, I would die of sheer spleen and mortification, for the insults
we are compelled to put up with."
"I pity these bluff-headed Saxon boors, because they know no better,"
replied Walter, staggering, as a stone struck him on the temple; "but
De Ginckel----"
"My dear fellow," said Finland, bitterly, "'tis a sample of the good
old southern hospitality and kindness of which we hear so much in
romance, and so little in history."
"But," continued Walter, "I despise these poppy-headed Dutch
poltroons in their black iron doublets, and would risk my share of
Heaven to have De Ginckel under my hands on Scottish ground, with
none to interfere, and no weapons but our rapiers and a case of good
pistols."
"You speak my thoughts," said the Earl, through his clenched teeth.
"My malediction on Langstone and his Red Dragoons. Had they and such
as they been good men and true, we had not been reduced to this
misfortune; and our misguided King, instead of being a houseless
fugitive, had dwelt in Windsor still, where now the usurping
Stadtholder keeps Court and Council. Sirs, of a verity we live in
strange times!"
As they had now crossed the Nen, had left behind old Peterborough
(with the hoary fane where St. Oswald's bony arm worked miracles of
old), and were marching through the open country, being free from the
yells and missiles of the mob, they could converse with tolerable
freedom, though at times De Ginckel thundered silence through his
trumpet, or a Swart Ruyter, more waggish or wickedly inclined than
his soporific comrades, pushed his horse sidelong to tumble one of
the captives among the half-frozen mud that encumbered the roadways.
Their mortification and dejection increased at every step of their
retrograde march, and even the lively sallies of Dr. Joram failed to
enliven them.
The sombre evening was closing, when De Ginckel, with his Ruyters and
their captives, after traversing the fenny district between Cambridge
and Lincoln, came in sight of Huntingdon, where, as Dr. Joram
remarked, "the devil's god-son, that prime rascal, old Noll, first
drew breath." The dying light of the winter sun tipped the spires of
the ancient town-hall and the church of All Saints, and glimmered on
the sluggish windings of the Ouse. The prisoners were pursuing a
lonely road; on one side lay a thick copsewood, and on the other one
of those wide and desolate fens then subject to the inundations of
the Ouse, whose waters in many places formed deep and solitary meres
or tarns. Within the recesses of the wood, the quick eye of Walter
had soon detected the glitter of arms, to which he drew the attention
of the Earl.
"It matters not," replied the dejected noble, "no arms now glitter
under James's standard; we are lost men, my dear lad. It will be
black tidings for my little Lætitia, when the accursed Tower of
London holds the last Lord of Dunbarton."
"And what thinkest thou, Walter, our dear lassies will say when they
hear we are in Newgate?" asked Finland.
"'Twill be rare news for the Lord Clermistonlee," replied Walter, in
a fierce whisper. "But look, gentlemen!--behold! In Heaven's name,
are these friends or foes?"
As he spoke, a troop of horse, clad in brilliant armour, with their
white plumes waving in the evening wind, and their long uplifted
rapiers flashing in the setting sun, and all gallantly mounted on
matchless black horses, filed forth from the coppice, and drew up
like magic on the roadway, about a hundred yards in advance of the
Swart Ruyters, who instantly reined-up. One cavalier, splendidly
accoutred, rode to the front, wheeled round his snorting horse that
pawed the air, and issued his orders with stern rapidity--
"Gentlemen of the Scottish Guard, prepare to charge! Uncase the
standards! Sound trumpets!"
The banneroles were unfurled, the trumpets sounded, the kettle-drums
ruffled, and each brave cavalier pressed forward in the saddle, as if
impatient for the order to rush to the charge.
"Ach tuyfel!" shouted De Ginckel through his trumpet; "Scots'
Horse--der tuyfel! Sabre de brisoners--cut dem into de towsand
becies! Fall on, you Schelms!" But there was no time.
"'Tis Claverhouse, and the remains of his regiment. I would know his
black steed among a thousand horse!" exclaimed the Earl. "Now God be
with thee, thou gallant Grahame, for at last our hour of vengeance is
come! Oh for a sword! How gallantly they formed line! Now, now!
forward, my Scottish hearts!"
The dark eyes of the proud Douglas gleamed with fire, as the deep and
distinct order, "Cavaliers of the Life Guard--forward! _charge!_"
burst from the lips of Dundee; and with the force of a whirlwind, the
sixty Scottish Guardsmen, bridle to bridle and boot to boot, rushed
with their uplifted swords to the onset.
"Unsling carbines--blow matches--fire!--tousand tuyfels!--no!--traw
sworts!" bellowed De Ginckel through his trumpet, as the front rank
of his Ruyters recoiled in confusion on the rear.
"Gentlemen, prepare to save yourselves!" exclaimed the Earl of
Dunbarton, as the Dutch troopers cast off the cords that bound the
prisoners to their waist-belts.
"Heaven save us!" ejaculated Dr. Joram; "'tis a perilous case this,
truly!"
"To the rescue, Claverhouse! A Grahame! A Grahame! God for
Scotland and James VII.! To the devil with the Stadtholder! hurrah!"
cried the Life Guards.
It was a critical moment for the dismounted prisoners, who were
hemmed in among the hostile horsemen, and each felt his heart beat
like lightning, and his breath come thick and fast, for death or
deliverance were at hand.
Between the close files of the Swart Ruyters, Walter Fenton saw the
full rush of the advancing troop, in their shining harness, and chief
of all, the lordly Viscount of Dundee, a lance-length in front, with
his sword brandished aloft, and his white ostrich-feathers streaming
behind him, his cheek glowing, and his wild dark eyes flashing with
that supernatural brightness which was the true index of his fierce
and heroic spirit. Though the Dutch were as four to one, the
Scottish cavaliers were fearless.
There was a tremendous shock--a flashing of swords, as their keen
edges rang on the tempered helmets and corslets of proof--a furious
spurring of horses--and Walter felt himself beaten to the earth, as
if by the force of a thunderbolt; the light left his eyes, and he
heard the voice of Claverhouse exclaiming enthusiastically--
"Well done, my Scots' Life Guard! Well done, my berry-brown blades!"
"Come on, De Ginckel!" cried Holsterlee.
"Hand to hand, old gorbelly. Come on! for here are the hand and
sword that shall punch a hole in thine Earl's patent!"
A heavy hoof struck the head of Walter, as a horse plunged over him,
and the Dutch recoiled in utter confusion.
He remembered no more.
Hewn down by the long swords of the Ruyters, poor old Wemyss and
Halbert Elshender lay dead beside him.