THE PASS OF KILLYCRANKIE.
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.
The _Revolution_ might 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 of
_green_, 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, or
_Rinn Ruaradh_, as it is still named by the peasantry, who attribute
the ultimately fatal effects of the victory to the circumstance of
Dundee wearing _green_, 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 the _Tombh 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."