A DISCLOSURE.
_'Tis night_;--and glittering o'er the trampled heath,
Pale gleams the moonlight on the field of death;
Lights up each well-known spot, where late in blood,
The vanquished yielded, and the victor stood;
When red in clouds the sun of battle rode,
And poured on Britain's front its favoring flood.
LORD GRENVILLE.
Again the summer moon rose brightly over the secluded village of
Steinkirke, and poured its cold and steady lustre on cornfields
drenched in blood, and trod to gory mire by the charge of the spurred
squadrons, the closer movements of the compact squares of infantry,
or the artillery's track; on the pale and upturned faces of the
dying, the distorted and ghastlier lineaments of the dead,--on a wide
battle-field strewn with all the trophies of war and
destruction,--misery and agony.
Save where illumined by the gleams of moonlight, by the red flashes
of a few distant fire-arms, and the redder glare from a convent
burned by the retreating British, the ruddy conflagration of which
mingled with the last faint glow of the departed sun, the field
seemed gloomy and dark. A narrow lurid streak at the distant horizon
shewed where the sun had set. The roar of that great battle had now
died away, but it had sent forth an echo over France and Britain
denoting joy to one and sorrow to the other. Where, then, was
William of Orange, and where his mighty host?
The contest was now over, and, save the distant popping of a few
skirmishers or plunderers, every sound of strife had ceased; but the
cool night wind was laden with a sad and wailing murmur, a sound
which it is seldom the lot of man to hear--the mingled moans of many
thousands of men enduring all the complicated torture of sabre and
gunshot wounds and the most excruciating thirst. Many a solemn
prayer and pious ejaculation of deep contrition, uttered in many a
varied tongue, were then ascending from that moonlit battlefield to
the throne of God, while others in their ravings called only on Death
to ease them of their torments; and long ere sunrise the stern king
of terrors attended the summons of many.
A great cannon royal, drawn by eight horses and escorted by the
artillerists of the Brigade de Dauphine, passed near the
corpse-heaped abbatis where Walter Fenton lay, and he implored them
to remove him from the field. They were passing him unheeded, when
one exclaimed,
"_Il est un officier Ecossais!_" upon which the drivers reined up:
the soldiers sprang from the tumbril, and placing him beside them,
galloped across the field of battle towards the redoubts on the left
of Luxembourg's position. The jolting occasioned Walter exquisite
agony, and he could not repress a shudder when the cannon wheels
passed over the crackling body of some dead or wounded soldier who
lay prostrate in their path.
After riding a mile or two he fell from his seat with violence, and
once more became insensible.
"_Il est morte_" said the Frenchmen, as they whipped up their horses
and thought no more about him.
After lying long in a dreamy state, tormented by a burning thirst and
feeling prickly and shooting pains over his whole body as the blood
flowed back into its old channels, Walter made an attempt to rise,
but the motion occasioned him exquisite pain, and the whole landscape
swam around him. He thought he was mortally wounded; a cold
perspiration burst over his temples; a stupor again stole upon his
senses, and, believing he was dying, he piously recommended himself
to God, closed his eyes, and lay down resigned to his fate.
But the mind was active though the frame remained inert, and he
thought of Lilian, of Finland and Annie, and how the hand of Death
had thrown a cold blight over all their fondest hopes and prospects,
and so weak had he become that audible sobs burst from him.
The heavy dew was falling fast, and its moisture refreshed him; he
raised his head, and near him saw the figure of a female in a sombre
and peculiar garb: she was completely attired in black; a thick veil
of the same colour with a little hood of white linen were drawn
closely round her face, which seemed pale and colourless as that of
death in the uncertain rays of a cruise which she carried; but though
aged, she was marked by a serenity and air of repose singularly
winning and prepossessing. She bent tenderly over him with a face
expressive of the deepest commiseration.
"'Tis a vision!" was Walter's first thought; "'tis an Ursuline nun,"
was his second.
"Poor youth--unhappy youth!" said the stranger tenderly, and burst
into tears.
"Heaven's blessing on you, gentle lady," said Walter, as he
endeavoured to rise; "no tears can be more precious in the sight of
Heaven than those shed by compassion. God save great Luxembourg! We
have this day gained a glorious victory; but at what a price to me!"
he continued in his own language. "Alake! my brave and noble
friends, the best blood of Scotland has mingled yonder with the
waters of the Senne."
"Scotland!" replied the venerable Ursuline, and her mild eyes became
filled with animation and sadness. "I acknowledge with sorrow and
pride that your country is also mine; but, alas! I can only remember
it with horror and humiliation. Your voice takes me back to the
pleasant days of other and happier years, and stirs an echo in the
deepest recesses of my heart. Oh, my God! what is this that I feel
within me? Intercede for me blessed Ursula, and save me from my own
thoughts! Oh, let not the contentment in which I have dwelt these
many years be disturbed by worldly regrets and old unhappiness!"
There was a deep pathos in her voice, an air of subdued sorrow,
mildness, and melancholy in her features, and a soft expression in
her eye that was very winning, and Walter kissed her hand with a
sentiment of affection and respect, and, strange to say, she did not
withdraw it.
"I belonged to the convent of Ursulines at Steinkirke. At
vesper-time the Count Solmes sacked it with his troopers; (God
forgive him and them the sacrilege!) they expelled us with savage
violence, and I found shelter in a cottage close by. Your groans
drew me forth. Permit me to lead you, my poor son, for indeed you
seem very weak. There is one poor fugitive there already, a
countrywoman of our own, to whom I hope you will bring pleasant
tidings; let us go."
They entered the humble Flemish cottage, the wide kitchen of which
was brilliantly illuminated by a blazing fire of turf, that lit the
furthest recesses of the great but rude apartment, that strongly
resembled those represented by Rembrandt and Teniers, where every
imaginable implement and article, garden and household utensil, hang
from the beams of the open roof, load the walls, or encumber every
available nook and corner; a heavy Flemish boor, in voluminous brown
breeches, arose and doffed his fur cap, and with his wife made way
for the sister of St. Ursula, who led Walter to a seat.
Thankfully he drained to the last drop a pewter flaggon of water that
the housewife gave him, and was about to speak, when his attention
was arrested by the sudden appearance of a young lady. She was very
beautiful, and had an exquisitely fair complexion, the natural
paleness of which grief and fear had very much increased; her blue
eyes sparkled with animation, and her half dishevelled hair was of
the brightest and glossiest but palest flaxen. Running to Walter
Fenton she took both his hands in hers, and said, with a touching
earnestness of manner,
"Ah, Sir! come you from the field of battle?"
"This moment, madam."
"Oh, you are Scottish by your voice, but alas! you wear the garb of
Louis."
"My dear madam, it is the garb of loyalty and exile; of great
suffering, and of much endurance."
"Unhappy Sir, you are----"
"One of the cavaliers of Dundee."
"Oh, tell me if you know aught of the fate of General Mackay in this
day's carnage; Mackay, the Laird of Scoury?" she added a little
proudly.
"Lady," faltered Walter, quite overcome by the question and the
aspect of the speaker, "the brave champion of Presbyterianism is no
more. I--I saw him slain."
"My father! oh, my father!" cried Margaret Mackay, in a voice that
pierced the conscience-stricken Fenton to the heart; "I shall never
see thee more--never behold thy kind old face and silver hair. Oh,
my God! I am quite alone in the world, and what will become of me
now? Oh, Lady Clermistonlee!" she exclaimed, and pressing against
her heart the hand of the nun, sank into a chair and swooned.
"_Clermistonlee!_" reiterated Walter, starting; but the helpless
condition of his young countrywoman demanded immediate attention, and
he was compelled to smother his curiosity for a time, until she had
partially recovered, and then the good Ursuline, after attending her
with the most motherly care, left her engaged in prayer in another
apartment, and turned all her attention to the wound on Walter's head.
With an adroit neatness of hand, a soft insinuating manner which drew
the heart of Walter towards her as to a mother, the compassionate
nun, assisted by the silent Flemish housewife, bathed the wound, cut
away the long clotted locks, and bound it up, while the round visaged
boor, whose mind was wholly absorbed by the loss of a field of corn,
which had been cut down by Boufflers' foraging dragoons, sat with his
eyes intently fixed on the smoke that curled from his pipe.
Walter had been so little accustomed to kindness, that all the strong
feelings of his warm heart now gushed forth.
"A thousand thanks, dear madam!" he exclaimed. "I know not whether
it is your kindness, the mere ardour of my heart, or some mysterious
influence that Heaven alone can see, which calls forth all my fondest
and most reverential sentiments towards you."
The Ursuline smiled sadly, and retired a pace.
"Oh, what is this new feeling that stirs within me?" continued
Walter, in a half musing voice. "It seems as if your face bore the
long remembered features of some kind friend or dear relative. Like
a gleam of sunshine through a mist, they come back to me from the
obscurity of the past like those of one whom--but, ah! whither is my
enthusiasm carrying me? Dear madam, once more a thousand thanks, for
now I must leave, and shall never see you more, but your kindness
will ever be remembered by Walter Fenton with gratitude and love."
"Fenton!" said the Ursuline, putting back his hair, and tenderly
surveying his emaciated features, "I once had a dear though humble
friend of that name, and my heart yearns to thee for her sake. But
wherefore this hurry to depart? Your wound?--"
"I know not where I am, lady, and should any of the Statholder's
people come this way I should assuredly be shot."
"Then, in the name of all that is blessed, away! The fires of the
French camp are still visible, and you may gain it ere daybreak."
This passed in French, but the boor understood it; his eyes twinkled,
and knocking the ashes from his pipe he slowly stuck it in his
leathern cap and stole out unperceived.
"And what will be the fate of this poor daughter of the brave Mackay,
for everywhere the French are swarming around us?"
"Through a lady of the house of Nassau, who belongs to our now, alas!
ruined convent, I will see her consigned to the care of her father's
best friend, William of Orange."
"'Tis fortunate. It reminds me of what I scarcely dare to ask. She
called you by the name of my bitterest enemy--Clermistonlee," said
Walter, biting his lip; "Clermistonlee, who has been my rival and the
bane of my existence. Oh, madam, what terrible mystery is concealed
under this Ursuline habit!"
As Walter spoke the blood came and went in the faded face of the
trembling recluse. One moment, when fired by animation, her features
seemed almost beautiful, and the next they were withered, rigid, and
aged.
"Mr. Fenton," faltered the nun--"Mr. Fenton, for so I presume you are
named?"
"I am Sir Walter Fenton, lady, by the King's grace."
The nun bowed slightly.
"My heart warms, Sir Walter, to that dear native land which I shall
never behold again, and in a moment of such weakness I revealed
myself to that poor fugitive girl, whom fate so happily threw under
my protection, when the confederates were defeated and dispersed----.
You know him then, this wicked man, to whom fate in an evil hour gave
me as a wife. Oh, Randal! Randal! --------. Let me not recall in
bitterness the burning thoughts of years long passed and
gone--thoughts which I have long since learned to suppress, or endure
with calmness and resignation."
"Enough, dear madam, I am animated by no vulgar curiosity, and time
presses. Oh, learn rather to forget your earlier griefs than to
remember them. Too well do I know the Lord Clermistonlee, and can
easily conceive a long and painful history of domestic woe and
suffering. You are the unfortunate Alison Gilford?"
"Of the house of Gilford of that ilk in Lothian," continued the
recluse with tearless composure. "In his earlier days, when young,
gallant, and winsome, with an honoured name and spotless scutcheon,
Randal Clermont became my lover and my husband. Oh, how happy I was
for a time; how loving and beloved! But a change came over the
unstable heart of my husband. His political intrigues and private
excesses soon ruined our fortune, deprived me of his love and him of
my esteem. We were driven into exile, and retired to Paris. There
he plunged madly into a vortex of the lowest dissipation, and spent
the last of my dowry, my jewels, and everything. He became a
drunkard, a bully, and a gamester, if not worse. Long, long I
endured without a murmur or reproach his pitiless cruelty and cutting
contempt, until he eloped with one who in better days had been my
companion and attendant, an artful wretch named Beatrix Gilruth. He
joined the army of Mareschal Crecquy as a volunteer, and I saw him no
more. Hearing afterwards that he was in Scotland fighting under the
standard of the Covenant, and being driven to despair by the miseries
into which he had plunged me, by leaving me a prey to destitution in
a foreign land, I resolved to quit the world for ever; I have come of
an old Catholic family, and a convent was my first thought.
"Our child, for we had one, our child was alternately a source of
torment and delight," continued the poor nun, weeping bitterly--"my
torment from the resemblance it bore to its perfidious father, and my
delight as the only tie that bound me to earth; I resolved to see it
no more, and sent the poor infant to Scotland in charge of a faithful
female servitor, to whom I gave a letter for my husband, purporting
to be written on my deathbed, and a ring he had given me in happier
days. In an agony of grief I saw the woman depart, and gave her all
I possessed, a few louis-d'ors I had acquired at Paris, where I had
supported myself as a fleuriste, and was patronized by the Scottish
Archers, who were ever very kind to me. I considered myself as dead
to the world from that hour, and immediately commenced my noviciate
in the licensed convent of St. Ursula in French Flanders.
"Here again all the wounds of my heart were torn open by tidings that
the ship in which my loved little boy and his nurse embarked had
perished at sea; whether they perished too God alone knoweth, for I
heard of them no more. And now the fierce stings of remorse
increased the sadness of my sorrow, and I upbraided myself with
cruelty, with lack of fortitude and such resignation as became a
Christian. I accused myself of infanticide, and in my thoughts by
day and my dreams by night I had ever before me the sunny eyes and
golden hair of my little child, and its lisping accents in my
dreaming ear awoke me to tears and unavailing sorrow."
Here the poor nun again paused and wept bitterly.
"Time never fails to soften the memory of the most acute sorrow, and
in the convent to which I had fled for refuge from my own thoughts,
the soothing consolations of the sisterhood, the calm, the pious and
blameless tenor of their way, charmed me as much as their holy
meekness of spirit subdued my bitter regrets. After a time I tasted
the sweets of the most perfect contentment, if not of happiness. In
the duties of religion, of industry and charity, I soon learned to
forget Clermistonlee, or to remember him only in my prayers--to
forget that I had been a wife, to forget that I had been--oh, no! not
a mother--never could I forget that."
"Villain that he is! and with the consciousness of your Ladyship's
existence, he has, since he was ennobled, wooed many another to be
his bride; but Heaven's hand or his own vices have always foiled him."
The eyes of the recluse sparkled beneath her veil; but folding her
white hands meekly on her bosom, she said with exceeding gentleness--
"What have I to do with it now?--besides, youth, I am sure he
believes me dead, for some of the Scottish Archers told him so--and
dead I am to him and to the world."
"It is a very sad history, madam,"
"But God has comforted me." Her tears fell fast nevertheless, and a
long pause ensued. Walter felt himself moved to tears, and he often
sighed deeply, yet knew not why.
The sound of a trumpet roused him; it seemed close bye, and came in
varying cadence on the passing wind.
"'Tis the trumpet of a Dutch patrole. I must begone, lady, or remain
only to die. Farewell; a thousand blessings on you and a thousand
more--for we shall never meet again;" and half kneeling he kissed her
hand, and, slipping from the cottage, favoured by the darkened moon,
hurried away towards the fires of Luxembourg's camp, just as a party
of Dutch Ruyters led by the boor halted at the cottage door.
* * * * *
With fifty thousand men the Mareschal Duke of Luxembourg was posted
at Courtray on the Lys; while William, with twice that number, lay at
Grammont, inactive, phlegmatic, and afraid to attack him; an
inertness which increased the growing ill-humour of Britain against
him. Without a dinner and without a sou, abandoned to solitude and
dejection, Walter Fenton one evening paced slowly to and fro on the
ramparts of Courtray, watching the bright sunset as it lingered long
on the level scenery. A page approached, who acquainted him that
Monseigneur le Mareschal required his presence in the citadel,
whither he immediately repaired, and found the great Henri of
Luxembourg, the youthful Dukes of Chartres and Vendome, with other
chevaliers of distinction, carousing after a sumptuous repast.
As he entered, De Chartres was singing the merry old ditty of _Jean
de Nivelle_, while the rest chorused.
"Jean de Nivelle has three flails;
Three palfrays with long manes and tails;
Three blades of a terrible brand,
Which he never takes into his hand.
_Ah! ouivraiment!
Jean de Nivelle est bon enfant!_"
The magnificence of their attire, the happy nonchalance and graceful
ease of their manner, contrasted with his own tattered and humble
uniform, fallen fortune, and jaded spirit, made Walter's heart sick
as he entered; but, assuming somewhat of the old air of a cavalier
officer, he bowed to the noble company, and awaited in silence the
commands of the Mareschal.
"Approach, Monsieur," said the handsome young Duc de Chartres. "Tête
Dieu! but you look very pale! You were wounded I believe?"
"It is nearly healed Monseigneur,"
"Ah, it is deuced unpleasant work this fighting and beleaguering."
"De Chartres would rather be at Chantilly," said the Duc de Vendome,
laughing.
"Or at Versailles," said a Chevalier of St. Louis. "He is thinking
of little Mariette Gondalaurier."
"Or St. Denis and adorable Isabeau Lagrange."
"Say Paris at once, Messieurs," said the boyish roué, smiling. "I
have beauties everywhere."
"The Scottish officer will drink with us--here, boy, assist our
friend to wine," said Luxembourg to his page. "'Tis only Frontiniac,
Monsieur; but an hour ago it was Dutch William's, and we drink it out
of pure spite."
Walter drank the fragrant wine from a massively embossed cup, and his
head swam as he imbibed it, and waited to hear for what desperate
duty these noble peers designed him.
"Chevalier," said Luxembourg with his most bland smile, "it is
pleasant to reward the brave. Aware that the repulse of the
confederate cavalry on my right flank, and consequently the whole
success of that glorious day at Steinkirke was mainly owing to the
valour of the Scottish cavaliers animated by your example, King Louis
sends you this." And taking from his own neck the sparkling cross of
the recently created order of St. Louis, the Duke placed it around
the neck of Walter Fenton, who bowed his thanks in silence.
"Go, Chevalier--you are a gallant soldier! The Scots were ever
brave, and the friends of France. Wear that cross with honour to the
Most Christian King, to your native country--"
"And to the most sublime Madame Maintenon," said the young Duke, and
his gay companions laughed.
"Monseigneur!" said Luxembourg warningly.
"Tête Dieu, Mareschal! dost think I fear her? Faith Madame, 'tis
known, never gives a favour without a most usurious per centage. She
is quite a Jewess in the intrigues of love and politics, ha! ha!"
"Attached to this cross, Chevalier, is a pension of four hundred
livres yearly, which I doubt not will be acceptable in your present
reduced circumstances."
"Oh, believe me, Monseigneur le Mareschal, and you most noble Dukes,
it is indeed most acceptable; for with it I may in some sort
alleviate the miseries of those gallant gentlemen, my comrades, who
share your fortunes in the field."
"By St. Denis, you are a gallant fellow!" cried Luxembourg with
kindling eyes, "Your generosity equals your courage. But this must
not be. Messieurs your comrades must take the will for the deed.
This night you must depart for the Court of St. Germain-en-laye,
where King James requires your immediate attendance. My Secretary
will supply you with money, and my Master of the Horse with a
charger--adieu, Sir, and God be with you!"
Walter retired.
That night he bade a sad adieu to his comrades, and, mounted on one
of the Mareschal's horses, departed from Courtray.
His brave companions in glory and exile he saw no more. After all
their services and their sufferings, their achievements and their
chivalry, the few survivors of the war, sixteen in number, were, by a
striking example of French ingratitude, disbanded at the peace of
Ryswick, on the upper part of the Rhine, far from their native
land--without money or any provision to save them from starvation and
death. Of these sixteen only _four_ survived to return to Scotland
in extreme old age, when all fears of the Jacobites had passed away
for ever.
Again the unclouded moon was shining over Steinkirke when Walter
passed it, and vividly on his mind came back the fierce memories of
that impetuous hour. The great plain was deserted, the full eared
corn was waving heavily, and not a sound disturbed the silence of the
moonlit scenery save the deep bay of a household dog or the croak of
a passing stork.
Thickly on every hand lay the graves of the faithful dead. In some
instances he saw great burial mounds; in others there was but one
solitary grave secluded among the long grass and reeds, and his horse
started instinctively as he passed them.
Fragments of clothing, accoutrements, and other relics, lay among the
rank weeds by the side of the fields, under the green hedge-rows, in
the wet ditches; and even fleshless bones, bare scalps, fingers and
toes, protruded from the soil, imparting an aspect of horror to the
moonlighted plain where the battle had been fought.
The abbatis still lay there, but the foliage of the trees that formed
it had long since faded and decayed. A great tumulus, on which the
young grass was sprouting, lay within it.
"Poor Finland!" muttered Walter, and with a moistened eye and heavy
heart he plunged his horse into the Senne and swam to the opposite
bank. The cottage where he had found shelter had now disappeared;
its foundations, scorched and blackened by fire, alone marked the
place where it stood. He thought of the poor Ursuline and her story,
and sighed that he could learn nothing more of her fate; he sighed,
too, at the memory of the beautiful Margaret Mackay, and felt the
keenest remorse for having slain her father.
Of the recluse he never heard more; but the daughter of Mackay
reached the camp of William in safety, and in after years became the
wife of her kinsman and chief, George, third Lord Reay of Farre.