THE BATTLE OF STEINKIRKE.
As torrents roll increased by numerous rills,
With rage impetuous down their echoing hills;
Rush to the vales and pour'd along the plain,
Roar through a thousand channels to the main;
The distant shepherd trembling hears the sound:
So mix both hosts, and so their cries rebound.
ILIAD, BOOK IV.
It was the night before the famous battle of Steinkirke, when the
confederates under William III. encountered the gallant and brilliant
army of the great François Henri Duc de Luxembourg.
In happy ignorance of what was being acted at home by those whose
memory lay so near their hearts, Walter Fenton and Douglas of Finland
were carousing with their brothers in war and misfortune around a
blazing fire, composed of rafters borrowed for the purpose from the
roof of a neighbouring Flemish house.
Intent on crushing the alarming confederation of the Protestant
powers against him, Louis XIV. had taken the field in person at the
head of 120,000 men. This sensual, selfish, and weak-minded monarch
was accompanied by all the effeminate pomp and tinsel splendour of an
eastern emperor; his women and paramours, numerous enough for a
seraglio; his dancers, players, musicians; his kitchen, opera,
household, and all the ministers of his luxury, his pleasures, and
his tyranny, in themselves a host, crowded and encumbered the great
camp of his splendid army, which, however, soon captured Namur, a
strong city on the Meuse, though strengthened by all the skill of the
great Coehorn, and defended by the valour of the Prince de Brabazon
and 9,000 chosen soldiers.
King William, whose duty it was to have raised the siege of this
important fortress, lay with 100,000 men within gunshot of Louis,
but, embued with all the stolid and phlegmatic stupidity of a
Hollander, permitted the place to be captured, by which his military
reputation was as much injured as that of Louis was increased. The
victor of Namur immediately returned to Versailles, surrounded by
triumph and adulation, worshipped undeservedly as a hero, and
extolled as a conqueror, while William, whose inertness had at last
given way to necessary activity, excited by shame and exasperation,
having reviewed on the plain of Genappe a fresh quota of ten
battalions of Scottish infantry, pushed forward against Mareschal
Luxembourg, intent on retrieving his honour.
After basely employing a spy named Millevoix, under pain of torture
and death, to mislead the French commander by false intelligence of
the confederates' movements, William advanced with his 100,000
bayonets to prevent him from taking up a position between the then
obscure villages of Steinkirke and Enghien, a royal barony of the
house of Bourbon. With his usual bad generalship William completely
failed, for Luxembourg outflanked him, gained the position, and
trusting to the communications of the perfidious (or unfortunate)
Millevoix, not anticipating any attack, confined himself to his tent,
as he laboured under severe indisposition.
Not expecting an _alerte_, the whole of his numerous and brilliant
army lay intrenched among the fertile fields and pastures of the
Flemings, whose thick hedges, solid walls, and comfortable houses,
were cut down, torn up and overthrown without ceremony to render the
position more secure.
The post occupied by the Scottish officers was near the Senne, a slow
and sluggish river. The sun had set, and far over the long
perspective of the level landscape, that in some parts withdrew to
the extreme horizon, shone the red departing flush of the last
evening many would behold on earth. In some places the river was
reddened by the gleam of the distant fires, whose flickering chain
marked out the camp of Luxembourg; the higher eminences were covered
by woods and orchards, from which the evening wind came laden with
the rich perfume of the summer blossom. Save the hum of the extended
camp all was still round Steinkirke, and where the exiled cavaliers
were bivouacked there was little more heard than the monotonous
ripple of the Senne, as it flowed past its willow shaded banks on its
way to the northern sea.
The Scottish exiles were always more merry than usual on the eve of a
battle, for it freed many from a life of humiliation and hardship, to
which they deemed an honourable death a thousand times preferable.
At times an expression of stern joy, of ghastly merriment, at others
of deep abstraction pervaded the little group, as they clustered
round the fire that blazed in a little alcove formed by an orchard on
the river side. There their arms were piled, and they rolled from
hand to hand a keg of Hollands, to which they had helped themselves
at the devastation of the Flandrian château de Senne. Afar off,
above the village spire of Steinkirke, the silver moon rose broadly
and resplendently to light the wide and fertile landscape with its
glory. The Senne and Tender brightened like two floods of flowing
crystal, and the willows that drooped over them seemed the work of
magic, as their dewy leaves glittered in the rays of the summer moon.
The stern hearts of that melancholy band were soothed by the beauty
of the scenery, the seclusion of their tentless bivouac, the softness
of the Flemish moonlight, and a song that Finland sang completed the
effect of the place and time. He reclined upon his knapsack, and his
fine features, which long privation and toil had sharpened and
attenuated, flushed and reddened as he sang of his love that was far
away, and felt his brave heart expand with the dear and long
cherished hopes and memories her image stirred within it.
"Maxweltoun Braes are bonnie,
Where early fa's the dew;
And blue-eyed Annie Laurie
Gave me her promise true.
Gave me her promise true,
That never forgot shall be;
And for my bonnie Annie Laurie,
I would lay me down and dee.
"Her locks are like the sunshine,
Her breast is like the swan;
Her hand is like the snawdrift,
And mine her waist micht span.
But oh! that promise true!
Will ne'er be forgot by me,
And for my blue-eyed Annie Laurie,
I would lay me down and dee!"
This famous song, which, with its beautiful air, is so chaste and
pleasing, and still so much admired in Scotland, poor Finland in his
chivalric spirit had composed, to lighten the toil of many a long and
arduous march, and now, inspired by the love and the fond
recollections that trembled in his heart, he slowly sang the last
verse with great tenderness and pathos.
"Like dew on the gowan lying,
Is the fa' of her fairy feet;
And like wind in summer sighing,
Her voice is low and sweet.
But O that promise true!
Makes her all the world to me;
And for my bonnie Annie Laurie,
I'd lay me down and dee."
Every word seemed to come from his overcharged heart, and as he sang
the beautiful melody silence and sadness stole over the listening
group. Softened by the dialect and the music of their fatherland,
every heart was melted and every eye grew moist; the red camp fires
and the shining waters of the Senne, the white tents of Luxembourg,
the woodlands and orchards of Steinkirke passed away, and Scotland's
hoary hills and pathless vallies rose before them, for their eyes and
hearts were in the land from which they were expatriated for ever.
It was the morning of the 24th of July, and in unclouded splendour
the sun shone from the far horizon upon the tented camp of
Luxembourg, on the standards waving and arms glittering within the
rudely and hastily constructed entrenchments of the great and veteran
engineer the Chevalier Antoine de Ville. Like bright snowy clouds
the morning vapour curled upwards from the sedges of the Senne, and
the dewy foliage of the woods, and rolling lazily along the plain,
shrouded everything in a thick and gause-like veil of white
obscurity, which the rays of the sun edged with the hue of gold.
Under cover of this, although the French knew it not, the entire
force of the allied nations, led by William of England, were coming
rapidly on in two dense columns, intent on avenging the disgraces
they had endured at Namur. Luxembourg lay within his bannered
pavilion on a bed of sickness, and neither he nor his soldiers were
aware of the foe's approach until the Prince of Wirtemburg, at the
head of ten battalions of English, Dutch, and Danes, drove back his
outposts on the right, making a furious attack on the camp, which
instantly became a scene of greater confusion than King Agramont's.
The patter of the musquetry, the roll of the advancing drums, and the
bullets whistling through his tent, roused the brave Mareschal, who,
leaping from his camp-bed, forgot his illness in the ardour and
tumult of the moment. Hastily his pages attired and armed him, and
throwing his magnificent surcoat above his gilded corslet, he seized
his sword and baton, and rushed forth to repair what the artifices of
William, the treachery of Millevoix, and the bravery of Wirtemburg
had already achieved. To muster, to rally his immense force and
repel the Prince of Wirtemburg, were but the work of a few seconds,
and the great leader, who five minutes before had lain inert on a
couch of illness, was now spurring his caparisoned horse from column
to column, with his plumes waving, his accoutrements glittering, and
his baton brandished aloft; his features filled with animation, his
soul with energy.
The Dukes of Bourbon and Vendome, the Princes of Turenne and Conté,
the Duc de Chartres, a youth of fifteen, whose almost girlish beauty
made him the sport and the idol of the army, the Marquis de
Bellefonde, and several thousand chevaliers of noble birth and
matchless spirit, by their presence, their ardour, and example,
restored perfect order, and in admirable battle array they stood
prepared to encounter the host of the Protestant confederation.
As the sun rose higher the mist which shrouded the whole plain around
the village of Steinkirke was gradually exhaled upwards, and as it
rolled away the entire army of William III., a hundred thousand
strong, were seen in order of battle, advancing as rapidly as the
numerous thorn hedges, ditches, and dykes, which intersected the
yellow cornfields, would permit.
In defence of a place which it was expected William's brilliant
cavalry would assail, the Scottish officers were posted in an abbatis
of apple-trees that had been cut down by the pioneers, and made an
intricate breastwork all round; and within it, with their arms
loaded, they stood in close order, watching with lowering brows and
kindling eyes the scarlet ranks of their countrymen, to whom they
now--for the first time since their exile--found themselves opposed
in battle.
The golden bloom of the ripe and waving corn-fields, through which
the lines were advancing in triple ranks, with their serried arms and
embroidered standards glittering, threw forward the bright scarlet
costume in strong relief, and the hearts of the little band of exiles
beat with increased excitement as the moment of a general encounter
drew nigh.
"Behold yonder fellows in our uniform!" exclaimed one, as the
Scottish infantry debouched in heavy column on the French left, with
their twenty standards displayed, and their drums loading the air
with the old march of the Covenanters.
"God knoweth the sorrow, the bitterness, the hatred, and the fierce
exultation that swell my heart by turns in this auspicious hour!"
said Finland, striking his breast.
"You speak my very thoughts," responded Walter, with a deep sigh;
"yonder are the old Royals, but now another than Dunbarton wields his
baton over them; yonder are the standards we have carried--but others
bear them now. How hard to forget that these are our countrymen! Do
not ourselves seem to be marching against us?"
"Enough of this, gentlemen," said the veteran Laird of Dunlugais.
"In them I behold only the rebels of our king, and the sycophants of
an usurper. This day let us remember only that we are fighting under
the standard of the first captain of the age, and about to win fresh
glories for the most magnificent prince that ever occupied the throne
of France!"
The battle was begun by Hugh Mackay, of Scoury.
Led by that brave and veteran general, a dense column of British
cavalry, accoutred in voluminous red coats, great Dutch hats, looped
up, and vast boots of black leather, with slung musquets and
brandished swords, rushed at full gallop to the charge on one flank,
while the Prince of Wirtemburg assailed the other.
The abbatis lay full in front of Mackay, who held aloft his long gilt
baton, as he led on this heavy mass of troopers. On they came, horse
to horse, and boot to boot like a moving mountain; but the deadly and
deliberate volley poured upon them by the Scottish cavaliers threw
them into immediate confusion; the front squadrons by becoming
entangled among their falling horses and riders, recoiled suddenly on
the rear, who were still spurring forward; the furious shock produced
an immediate and irredeemable confusion, and the whole gave way ere
another volley of that leaden rain was poured upon their dense array.
The roar of forty thousand musquets now burst like thunder on the
ear, as the Prince de Conté and the brave De Chartres, the
boy-soldier, at the head of the superb household infantry, assailed
the British, and volleying in platoons, continued to press upon them
with increasing ardour until within pike's length of each other, when
Conté led the whole to the charge. The shock was irresistible!
Count Solmes failed to support the English and Scots, who immediately
gave way, and a tremendous slaughter was made, especially among the
latter.
"Les Ecossais, retreat!" exclaimed Conté. "'Tis a miracle. Tête
Dieu! 'tis surely a bad cause, when the hand of Heaven is against
them!"
The Scottish regiments of Coutts, Mackay, Angus, Grahame, and Leven,
were cut to pieces, and the English Guards nearly shared the same
fate. James Earl of Angus, a brave youth in his twenty-first year,
was shot dead at the head of his Cameronians, William Stuart Viscount
of Montjoy, Sir Robert Douglas, Lieutenant-General James Douglas, Sir
John Lanier, Colonel Lauder, and many other brave Scottish gentlemen
were slain, while the Prince de Conté bore all before him.
With the gallant Prince of Wirtemburg it fared otherwise. Pressing
onward at the head of his English, he carried off some of the French
artillery, and after immense slaughter, stormed the intrenchment
which covered their position, but finding himself in danger of being
overpowered, he twice sent his aide-de-camp to crave succour from the
phlegmatic William and from Count Solmes, a noble of the House of
Nassau. Twice over a field that was strewn with thousands of dead
and dying, and swept by the fire of so many thousand musquets,
cannon, and coehorns, the brave aide spurred his horse to beg succour
for the prince his master; but William neglected, and the Dutch noble
derided his request.
"Vivat Wirtemburg!" cried Solmes, laughing; "let us see what sport
his English bulldogs will make."
At length William shook off the inertness that seemed to possess his
faculties amid the storm of war that raged around him, and in person
ordered Solmes to sustain the advance of the left wing which
Wirtemburg had led on so successfully. Thus urged, the unwilling
Lord of Brunsveldt, made an unavailing movement with his cavalry, but
left a few English and Danes to sustain the whole brunt of the battle.
Amid the dense smoke that rolled in white clouds and concealed the
adverse lines, their carnage and its horrors, again and again the
brave old Laird of Scoury led his squadrons to the charge, resolved
to force the passage to turn the flank of Luxembourg or die, and
again they were repulsed from the abbatis by the courage of the
desperate Cavaliers. As yet, not one trooper had penetrated among
them, though hundreds and their horses lay groaning and rolling in
the agonies of death, entangled among the apple-laden branches of the
prostrate trees, grasping and rending them with their teeth in the
tortures of dissolution. As yet not one of the Scottish exiles had
fallen; but now Mackay ordered a body of his dragoons to dismount, to
unsling their short fusees, and from behind the piles of dead and
dying men and chargers, to fire upon the abbatis which could afford
no protection against bullets.
A furious fusilade now ensued, and Fenton soon missed Finland from
his side; he turned, and his hot blood cooled for a moment to behold
him lying on the bloody turf in the last agonies of death. A ball
had pierced his breast; his eyes were glazing, and he was beating the
earth with his heels, as he blew from his quivering lips the bells of
blood and foam.
Unfortunate Douglas!
Something was clenched in his hand and pressed to his lips; but as
his dying energies relaxed, and his brave spirit fled to heaven, the
relic fell on the turf;--it was Annie Laurie's braid of bright brown
hair.
"Farewell, dear Finland," exclaimed Walter, kissing the dead man's
hand. "Here end thy love and misfortunes together!" Sorrow, rage,
and ardour roused the fury of Fenton to the utmost, and with his
clubbed weapon he sprang over the trees of the abbatis, exclaiming,
"to the charge, gentlemen Scots!--to the charge! Never let it be
said that the Cavaliers of Dundee played at long bowles with those
false English churls. Victory and revenge!"
Fired by his example, and animated by national and political hatred
against those who had deserted James VII., and wrought so many
miseries to his few adherents, the little band sprang from the
abbatis and threw themselves with incredible fury and determination
on the dismounted troopers. Onward they pressed over piles of dead
and wounded, while every instant the balls that flew thick as
drifting rain, thinned their narrow ranks, and added many another
item to the vast amount of that day's carnage.
None can be so brave as those for whom life has lost every charm; and
none so reckless as those who have a thousand real or imaginary
wrongs to avenge. Thus, heedless alike of the number of their
antagonists, who were again pressing up to the attack, the Scottish
Cavaliers came on pell mell, and a desperate conflict ensued with
firelocks and fusils clubbed.
As Walter, forgetful of everything else but to glut a fierce spirit
of revenge, pressed onward, he encountered a tall and powerful
officer. The nobility of his aspect and the richness of his attire
(for his scarlet coat was so richly interlaced with bars of gold as
to be almost sword-proof) not less than the vigour with which he kept
his soldiers to their duty, made him a marked man; but Walter struck
him from his horse and flourished the butt of his musket over him.
"Take these, you tattered villain," said the officer, offering a
splendid watch and ring; "take these and spare my life."
"Insult me not, Sir," exclaimed Walter Fenton with undisguised scorn.
"I am one of the officers of Viscount Dundee--of Dundee the brave and
loyal."
"The vilest minion of hell and tyranny that ever disgraced his
country--then doubly are you traitor!" said the other starting from
the ground and flashing a pistol in Walter's face. Blinded by fury
and the smoke of the discharge, he drove his bayonet through the
breast of the officer and fairly pinned him to the turf.
"Curse on the hour that I die by the hand of a base and renegade
clown like thee!" exclaimed the dying man, half choked in his welling
blood.
"Traitor!" cried his destroyer furiously; "you die by the hand of Sir
Walter Fenton, Knight Banneret of Scotland!"
"So falls Hugh Mackay, of Scoury!" moaned the other as he sank
backward and expired.
"Scoury!" reiterated Walter; "hah! then this hour avenges Dundee the
slaughter of Killycrankie and of Cromdale."
At that moment he was hurled to the earth by a wounded charger as it
rushed madly from the conflict. He fell against a tree and lay
stunned and insensible to all that passed around him.
The sun was setting, and still the doubtful battle continued to be
waged with undiminished ardour, until Mareschal Boufflers, at the
head of a powerful body of cavalry, the French and Scottish
gendarmerie, and the royal regiment, De Rousillon, swept like a
torrent over the corpse-strewn plains with the oriflamme, displayed
and decided the fortune of the war just as the sun's broad disc
dipped behind the far horizon. William, instead of restoring his
tarnished honour, was compelled to retreat in renewed disgrace,
leaving many officers of valour and distinction and 3,000 soldiers
slain; while the French, though they had to regret the fall of an
equal number, with the Prince de Turenne, the Marquis de Bellefonde,
Tilladete, Fernaçon, and many other chevaliers of noble blood,
remained masters of the field, over which they suspended from a lofty
gibbet King William's luckless confidant, the spy and intriguer
Millevoix.
Paris resounded with joy and acclamation on tidings of this great
victory arriving; the princes and soldiers who had served there were
idolized as superior beings by the ladies and women of every rank,
whose transports amounted to a species of frenzy, and from that hour
for many a year every ornament and piece of dress was known by the
name of _Steinkirke_.