The Cheviots.
As Wallace pursued his march along the once fertile and well-peopled
valleys of Clydesdale, their present appearance affected him like the
sight of a friend whom he had seen depart in all the graces of youth
and prosperity, but met again overcome with disease and wretchedness.
The pastures of Carstairs on the east of the river, which used at this
season to be whitened with sheep, and sending forth the lowings of
abundant cattle; and the vales, which had teemed with reapers rejoicing
in the harvest, were now laid waste and silent. The plain presented
one wide flat of desolation. Where once was the enameled meadow, a
dreary swamp extended its vapory surface; and the road which a happy
peasantry no longer trod, lay choked up with thistles and rank grass;
while birds and animals of chase would spring from its thickets, on the
lonely traveler, to tell him by their wild astonishment that he was
distant from even the haunts of men. The remains of villages were
visible; but the blackness of ashes marked the walls of the ruined
dwellings.
Wallace felt that he was passing through the country in which his
Marion had been rifled of her life; and as he moved along, nature all
around seemed to have partaken of her death. As he rode over the moors
which led toward the district of Crawford Lammington, those hills
amidst which the beloved of his soul first drew breath, he became
totally silent. Time rolled back; he was no longer the Regent of
Scotland, but the fond lover of Marion Braidfoot. His heart beat as it
was wont to do in turning his horse down the defile which led direct to
Lammington; but the scene was completely changed; the groves in which
he had so often wandered with her were gone; they had been cut down for
the very purpose of destroying that place, which had once been the
abode of beauty and innocence, and of all the tender charities.
One shattered tower alone remained of the house of Lammington. The
scathing of fire embrowned its sides, and the uprooted garden marked
where the ravager had been. While his army marched before him along
the heights of Crawford, Wallace slowly moved forward, musing on the
scene. In turning the angle of a shattered wall, his horse started;
and the next moment he perceived an aged figure, with a beard white as
snow, and wrapped in a dark plaid, emerging from the ground. At sight
of the apparition, Murray, who accompanied his friend, and had hitherto
kept silent, suddenly exclaimed, "I conjure you, honest Scot, ghost or
man, give us a subject for conversation! and, as a beginning, pray tell
me to whom this ruined tower belonged?"
The sight of two warriors in the Scottish garb encouraged the old man;
and stepping out on the ground, he drew near to Murray. "Ruined,
indeed, sir," replied he; "and its story is very sad. When the
Southrons, who hold Annandale, heard of the brave acts of Sir William
Wallace, they sent an army to destroy this castle and domains, which
are his, in right of the Lady Marion of Lammington. Sweet creature! I
hear they foully murdered her in Lanark."
Murray was smitten speechless at this information; for had he suspected
there was any private reason with Wallace for his silent lingering
about this desolate spot, he would rather have drawn him away than have
stopped to ask questions.
"And did you know Lady Marion, venerable old man?" inquired Wallace, in
a voice so descriptive of what was passing in his heart, that the old
man turned toward him; and struck with his noble mien, he pulled off
his bonnet, and bowing, answered, "Did I know her? She was nursed on
these knees. And my wife, who cherished her sweet infancy, is now
within yon brae. It is our only home, for the Southrons burnt us out
of the castle, where our young lady left us, when she went to be
married to the brave young Wallace. He was as handsome a youth as ever
the sun shone upon, and he loved my lady from a boy. I never shall
forget the day when she stood on the top of that rock, and let a
garland he had made for her fall into the Clyde. Without more ado,
never caring because it is the deepest here of any part of the river,
he jumps in after it, and I after him; and well I did, for when I
caught him by his bonny golden locks, he was insensible. His head had
struck against a stone in the plunge, and a great cut was over his
forehead. God bless him, a sorry scar it left! but many, I warrant,
have the Southrons now made on his comely countenance. I have never
seen him since he grew a man."
Gregory, the honest steward of Lammington, was now recognized in this
old man's narration; but time and hardship had so altered his
appearance, that Wallace could not have otherwise recollected the ruddy
face and active figure of his well-remembered companion, in the shaking
limbs and pallid visage of the hoary speaker. When he ended, the chief
threw himself from his horse. He approached the old man; with one hand
he took off his helmet, and with the other putting back the same golden
locks, he said, "Was the scar you speak of anything like this?" His
face was now close to the eye of Gregory, who in the action, the words,
and the mark, immediately recognizing the young playmate of his
happiest days, with an almost shriek of joy, threw himself on his neck
and wept; then looking up, with tears rolling over his cheeks, he
exclaimed, "O Power of Mercy, take me to thyself, since my eyes have
seen the deliverer of Scotland!"
"Not so, my venerable friend," returned Wallace; "you must make these
desolated regions bloom anew! Decorate them, Gregory, as you would do
the tomb of your mistress. I give them to you and yours. Marion and I
have no posterity! Let her foster-brother, if he still live--let him be
now the Laird of Lammington."
"He does live," replied the old man, "but the shadow of what he was.
In attempting, with a few resolute lads, to defend these domains, he
was severely wounded. His companions were slain, and I found him on
the other side of my lady's garden left for dead. We fled with him to
the woods, and there remained till all about here was laid in ashes.
Finding the cruel Southrons had made a general waste, yet fearful of
fresh incursions, we and others who had been driven from their homes,
dug us subterraneous dwellings, and ever since have lived like fairies
in the green hillside. My son and his young wife and babes are now in
our cavern, but reduced by sickness and want, for famine is here.
Alas, the Southrons, in conquering Scotland, have not gained a kingdom,
but made a desert!"
"And there is a God who marks," returned Wallace; "I go to reap the
harvests of Northumberland. What our enemies have ravished hence in
part they shall refund; a few days, and your granaries shall overflow.
Meanwhile, I leave you with my friend," said he, pointing to Murray,
"at the head of five hundred men. To-morrow he may commence the
reduction of every English fortress that yet casts a shade on the
stream of our native Clyde; for when the sun next rises, the Southrons
will have passed the Scottish borders and then the truce expires."
Gregory fell at his feet, and begged that he be allowed to bring his
Nannie to see the husband of her once dear child.
"Not now," replied Wallace, "I could not bear the interview--she shall
see me when I return."
He then spoke apart to Murray, who cheerfully acquiesced in a
commission that promised him not only the glory of being a conqueror,
but the private satisfaction, he hoped, of driving the Southron
garrison out of his own paternal castle. To send such news to his
noble father at Stirling, would indeed be a wreath of honor to his aged
and yet warlike brow. It was then arranged between the young chief and
his commander that watchtowers should be thrown up on every conspicuous
eminence which skirted the Scottish borders; whence concerted signals
of victories, or other information, might be severally interchanged.
These preliminaries adjusted, the regent's bugle brought Ker and Sir
John Graham to his side. The appointed number of men was left with
Murray; and Wallace, joining his other chieftains, bade his friend and
honest servant adieu.
He now awakened to a sense of the present scene, and speeded his
legions over his and dale, till they entered on the once luxuriant
banks of the Annan--this territory of some of the noblest in Scotland,
till Bruce, their chief, deserted them. It lay in more terrific ruin
than even the tracts he had left. There reigned the silence of the
tomb; there existed the expiring agonies of men left to perish. Recent
marks of devastation smoked from the blood-stained earth; and in the
midst of a barren waste, a few houseless wretches rushed forward at the
sight of the regent, threw themselves before his horse, and begged a
morsel of food for their famishing selves and dying infants. "Look,"
cried an almost frantic mother, holding toward him the living skeleton
of a child; "my husband was slain by the Southrons, who hold Lochmaben
Castle; my subsistence was carried away, and myself turned forth, to
give birth to this child on the rocks. We have fed till this hour on
the wild berries; but I die, and my child expires before me!" A second
group, with shrieks of despair, cried aloud, "Here are our young ones
exposed to equal miseries. Give us bread, Regent of Scotland, or we
perish!"
Wallace turned to his troops: "Fast for a day, my brave friends," cried
he; "lay the provisions you have brought with you before these hapless
people. To-morrow you shall feed largely on Southron tables."
He was instantly obeyed. As his men marched on, they threw their
loaded wallets amongst the famishing groups; and, followed by their
blessings, descended with augmented speed the ravaged hills of
Annandale. Dawn was brightening the dark head of Brunswark, as they
advanced toward the Scottish boundary. At a distance, like a wreath of
white vapors, lay the English camp, along the southern bank of the Esk.
At this sight, Wallace ordered his bugles to sound. They were
immediately answered by those of the opposite host. The heralds of
both armies advanced, and the sun rising from behind the eastern hills,
shone full upon the legions of Scotland, winding down the romantic
precipices of Wauchope.
Two hours arranged every preliminary to the exchange of prisoners; and
when the clarion of the trumpet announced that each party was to pass
over the river to the side of its respective country, Wallace stood in
the midst of his chieftains to receive the last adieus of his
illustrious captives. When De Warenne approached, the regent took off
his helmet; the Southron had already his in his hand. "Farewell,
gallant Scot," said he, "if aught could imbitter this moment of
recovered freedom, it is that I leave a man I so revere, still
confident in a finally hopeless cause!"
"It would not be the less just were it indeed desparate," replied
Wallace; "but had not Heaven shown on which side it fought, I should
not now have the honor of thus bidding the brave De Warenne farewell."
The earl passed on, and the other lords, with grateful and respectful
looks, paid their obeisance. The litter of Montgomery drew near--the
curtains were thrown open-Wallace stretched out his hand to him: "The
prayers of sainted innocence are thine!"
"Never more shall her angel spirit behold me here, as you now behold
me," returned Montgomery; "I must be a traitor to virtue, before I ever
again bear arms against Sir William Wallace!"
Wallace pressed his hand, and they parted.
The escort which guarded De Valence advanced; and the proud earl,
seeing where his enemy stood, took off his gauntlet, and throwing it
fiercely toward him, exclaimed, "Carry that to your minion Ruthven, and
tell him the hand that wore it will yet be tremendously revenged!"
As the Southron ranks filed off toward Carlisle, those of the returning
Scottish prisoners approached their deliverer. Now it was that the
full clangor of joy burst from every breast and triumph-breathing
instrument in the Scottish legions; now it was that the echoes rung
with loud huzzas of "Long live the valiant Wallace, who brings our
nobles out of captivity! Long live our matchless regent!"
As these shouts rent the air, the Lords Badenoch and Athol drew near.
The princely head of the former bent with proud acknowledgement to the
mild dignity of Wallace. Badenoch's penetrating eye saw that it was
indeed the patriotic guardian of his country to whom he bowed, and not
the vain affector of regal power. At his approach, Wallace alighted
form his horse, and received his offered hand and thanks with every
grace inherent in his noble nature. "I am happy," returned he, "to have
been the instrument of recalling to my country one of the princes of
her royal blood." "And while one drop of it exists in Scotland,"
replied Badenoch, "its possessors must acknowledge the bravest of our
defenders in Sir William Wallace."
Athol next advanced, but his gloomy countenance contradicted his words
when he attempted to utter a similar sense of obligation. Sir John
Monteith was eloquent in his thanks. And Sir William Maitland was not
less sincere in his gratitude, than Wallace was in joy, at having given
liberty to so near a relation of Helen Mar. The rest of the captive
Scots, to the number of several hundred, were ready to kiss the feet of
the man who thus restored them to their honors, their country, and
their friends, and Wallace bowed his happy head under a shower of
blessings which poured on him from a thousand grateful hearts.
In pity to the wearied travelers, he ordered tents to be pitched; and
for the sake of their distant friends, he dispatched a detachment to
the top of Langholm Hill, to send forth a smoke in token to the
Clydesdale watch, of the armistice being ended. He had hardly seen it
ascend the mountain, when Graham arrived from reconnoitering, and told
him that an English army of great strength was approaching by the foot
of the more southern hills, to take the reposing Scots by surprise.
"They shall find us ready to receive them," was the prompt reply of
Wallace; and his actions were ever the companions of his words.
Leaving the new-arrived Scots to rest on the banks of the Esk, he put
himself at the head of five thousand men; and dispatching a thousand
more, with Sir John Graham, to pass the Cheviots, and be in ambush to
attack the Southrons when he should give the signal, he marched swiftly
forward, and soon fell in with some advanced squadrons of the enemy,
amongst the recesses of those hills. Little expecting such a
rencounter, they were marching in defiles upon the lower ridgy craigs,
to avoid the swamps which occupied the broader way.
At sight of the Scots, Lord Percy, the Southron commander, ordered a
party of his archers to discharge their arrows. The artillery of war
being thus opened afresh, Wallace drew his bright sword, and waving it
before him, just as the sun set, called aloud to his followers. His
inspiring voice echoed from hill to hill; and the higher detachments of
the Scots, pouring downward with the resistless impetuosity of their
own mountain streams, precipitated their enemies into the valley; while
Wallace, with his pikemen, charging the horses in those slippery paths,
drove the terrified animals into the morasses, where some sunk at once,
and others, plunging, threw their riders, to perish in the swamp.
Desperate at the confusion which now ensued, as his archers fell
headlong from the rocks, and his cavalry lay drowning before him, Lord
Percy called up his infantry; they appeared, but though ten thousand
strong, the determined Scots met their first ranks breast to breast;
and leveling them with their companions, rushed on the rest with the
force of a thunder-storm. It was at this period, that the signal was
given from the horn of Wallace; and the division of Graham, meeting the
retreating Southrons as they attempted to form behind the hill,
completed their defeat. The slaughter became dreadful, the victory
decisive. Sir Ralph Lattimer, the second in command, was killed in the
first onset; and Lord Percy himself, after fighting as became his brave
house, fled, covered with wounds, toward Alnwick.