Banks of the Eske.
A vague suspicion of the regent and his thanes, and yet a panic-struck
pusillanimity, which shrunk from supporting that Wallace whom those
thanes chose to abandon, carried the spirit of slavery from the
platform before the council tent, to the chieftains who thronged the
ranks of Ruthven, and even to the perversion of some few who had
followed the golden-haired standard of Bothwell. The brave troops of
Lanark (which the desperate battle of Dalkeith reduced to not more than
sixty men) alone remained unmoved; so catching is the quailing spirit
of doubt, abjectness, and fearful submission.
In the moment when the indignant Ruthven saw his Perthshire legions
rolling off toward the trumpet of Le de Spencer, Scrymgeour placed
himself at the head of the men of Lanark. Unfurling the banner of
Scotland, he marched with a steady step to the tent of Bothwell,
whither he did not doubt that Wallace had retired. He found him
assuaging the impassioned grief of Edwin, and striving to moderate the
vehement wrath of the faithful Murray, "Pour not out the energy of your
soul upon these worthless men!" said he; "leave them to the fates they
seek--the fates they have incurred by the innocent blood shed this day!
The few brave hearts who yet remain loyal to this country, are
insufficient to stem at this spot the torrent of corruption. Retire
beyond the Forth, my friend. Rally all true Scots around Huntingtower.
Let the royal inmate proclaim himself, and, at the foot of the
Grampians, lock the gates of the Highlands upon our enemies. From
those bulwarks he will issue in strength, and Scotland may again be
free!"
"Free, but never more honored!" cried Edwin; "never more beloved by me!
Ungrateful, treacherous, base land," added he, starting on his feet,
and raising his clasped hands with the vehement abjuration of an
indignant spirit; "oh, that the salt sea would ingulf thee at
once--that thy name and thy ingratitude could be no more remembered! I
will never wear a sword for her again."
"Edwin!" ejaculated Wallace, in a reproachful, yet tender tone.
"Exhort me not to forgive my country!" returned he; "tell me to take my
deadliest foe to my breast--to pardon the assassin who strikes his
steel into my heart, and I will obey you; but to pardon Scotland for
the injury she has done to you--for the disgrace with which her
self-debasement stains this cheek I never, never can! I abhor these
sons of Lucifer. Think not, noblest of masters, dearest of friends,"
cried he, throwing himself at Wallace's feet, "that I will ever shine
in the light of those envious stars which have displayed the sun! No
tibi soli shall henceforth be the impress on my shield; to thee alone
will I ever turn; and till your beams restore your country and revive
me, the springing laurels of Edwin Ruthven shall whither where they
grew!"
Wallace folded him to his heart; a tear stood in his eyes, while he
said in a low voice:
"If thou art mine, thou art Scotland's. Me, she rejects. Mysterious
Heaven wills that I should quit my post; but for thee, Edwin, as a
relic of the fond love I yet bear this wretched country, abide by her,
bear with her, cherish her, defend her for my sake; and if Bruce lives,
he will be to thee a second Wallace, a friend, a brother!"
Edwin listened, wept, and sobbed, but his heart was fixed; unable to
speak, he broke from his friend's arms, and hurried into an interior
apartment to subdue his emotions by pouring them forth to God.
Ruthven joined in determined opinion with Bothwell, that if ever a
civil war could be sanctified, this was the time; and in spite of all
that Wallace could urge against the madness of contending for his
supremacy over a nation which would not yield him obedience, still they
remained firm in their resolution. Bruce they hardly dared hope could
recover; and to relinquish the guiding hand of their best approved
leader at this crisis, was a sacrifice, they said, no earthly power
should compel them to make.
"So far from it," cried Lord Bothwell, dropping on his knees, and
grasping the cross hilt of his sword in both hands, "I swear by the
blood of the crucified Lord of this ungrateful world, that should Bruce
die, I will obey no other king of Scotland than William Wallace!"
Wallace turned ashy pale as he listened to this vow. At that moment
Scrymgeour entered, followed by the Lanark veterans, and all kneeling
down, repeated the oath of Bothwell; then starting up, called on the
outraged chief, by the unburied corpse of his murdered Ker, to lead
them forth and avenge them of his enemies.
When the agitation of his soul would allow him to speak to this
faithful group, Wallace stretched his hands over them, and with such
tears as a father would shed who looks on the children he is to behold
no more, he said, in a subdued and faltering voice, "God will avenge
our murdered friend; my sword is sheathed forever. May that holy
Being, who is the true and best King of the virtuous, always be present
with you! I feel your love, and I appreciate it. But Bothwell,
Ruthven, Lockhart, Scrymgeour, my faithful Lanark followers, leave me
awhile to compose my scattered thoughts. Let me pass this night alone,
and to-morrow you shall know the resolution of your grateful Wallace!"
The shades of evening were closing in, and the men of Lanark, first
obtaining his permission to keep guard before the wood which skirted
the tent, respectfully kissing his hand, withdrew. Ruthven called
Edwin from the recess, whither he had retired to unburden his grief:
but as soon as he heard that it was the resolution of his friends to
preserve the authority of Wallace or to perish in the contest, the
gloom passed from his fair brow, a smile of triumph parted his lips,
and he exclaimed:
"All will be well again. We shall force this deluded nation to
recognize her safety and her honor!"
While the determined chiefs held discourse so congenial with the wishes
of the youthful knight, Wallace sat almost silent. He seemed revolving
some momentous idea: he frequently turned his eyes on the speakers with
a fixed regard, which appeared rather full of a grave sorrow than
demonstrative of any sympathy on the subjects of their discussion. On
Edwin he at times looked with penetrating tenderness; and when the bell
from the neighboring convent sounded the hour of rest, he stretched out
his hand to him with a smile, which he wished should speak of comfort
as well as of affection; but the soul spoke more eloquently than he had
intended: his smile was mournful, and the attempt to render it
otherwise, like a transient light over a dark sepulcher, only the more
distinctly showed the gloom and melancholy within.
"And am I, too, to leave you?" said Edwin.
"Yes, my brother," replied Wallace; "I have much to do with my own
thoughts this night. We separate now to meet more gladly hereafter. I
must have solitude to arrange my plans. To-morrow you shall know them.
Meanwhile farewell!"
As he spoke he pressed the affectionate youth to his breast, and,
warmly grasping the hands of his three other friends, bade them an
earnest adieu.
Bothwell lingered a moment at the tent-door, and looking back, "Let
your first plan be, that to-morrow you lead us to Lord Soulis'
quarters, to teach the traitor what it is to be a Scot and a man!"
"My plans shall be deserving of my brave colleagues," replied Wallace;
"and whether they be executed on this or the other side of the Forth,
you shall find, my long-tried Bothwell, that Scotland's peace and the
honor of her best sons are the dearest considerations of your friend."
When the door closed, and Wallace was left alone, he stood for awhile
in the midst of the tent, listening to the departing steps of his
friends. When the last sound died on his ear, "I shall hear them no
more!" cried he; and throwing himself into a seat, he remained for an
hour in a trance of grievous thoughts. Melancholy remembrances and
prospects dire for Scotland pressed upon his surcharged heart. "It is
to God alone I must confide my country!" cried he; "His mercy will pity
its madness, and forgive its deep transgressions. My duty is to remove
the object of ruin far from the power of any longer exciting jealousy
or awakening zeal." With these words, he took a pen in his hand to
write to Bruce.
He briefly narrated the events which compelled him, if he would avoid
the grief of having occasioned a civil war, to quit his country
forever. The general hostility of the nobles, the unresisting
acquiescence of the people in measures which menaced his life and
sacrificed the freedom for which he had so long fought, convinced him,
he said, that his warlike commission was now closed. He was summoned
by Heaven to exchange the field for the cloister; and to the monastery
at Chartres he was now hastening, to dedicate the remainder of his days
to the peace of a future world. He then exhorted Bruce to confide in
the Lords Ruthven and Bothwell, as his soul would commune with his
spirit, for he would find them true unto death. He counseled him, as
the leading measure to circumvent the treason of Scotland's enemies, to
go immediately to Kilchurn Castle, where he knew resources would be;
for Loch-awe, who retired thither on the last approach of De Warenne,
meaning to call out his vassals for that emergency, needed it not then;
for the battle of Dalkeith was fought and gained before they could
leave their heights, and the victor did not want them afterward. To
use those brave and simple-hearted men for his establishment on the
throne of his kingdom, Wallace advised Bruce. And so, amidst the
natural fortresses of the Highlands, he might recover his health,
collect his friends, and openly proclaim himself. "Then," added he,
"when Scotland is your oqn, let its bulwarks be its mountains and its
people's arms. Dismantle and raze to the ground the castles of those
base chiefs who have only embattled them to betray and enslave their
country." Though intent on these political suggestions, he ceased not
to remember his own brave engines of war; and he earnestly conjured his
prince that he would wear the valiant Kirkpatrick as a buckler on his
heart; that he would place Scrymgeour with his Lanark veterans, and the
faithful Grimsby next him as his body-guard; and that he would love and
cherish the brave and tender Edwin for his sake. "When my prince and
friend receives this," added he, "Wallace shall have bidden an eternal
farewell to Scotland; but his heart will be amidst its hills. My king,
and the friends most dear to me will still be there! The earthly part
of my beloved wife rests within its bosom! But I go to rejoin her
soul; to meet it in the vigils of days consecrated wholly to the
blessed Being in whose presence she rejoices forever. This is no sad
destiny, my dear Bruce. Our Almighty Captain recalls me from dividing
with you the glory of maintaining the liberty of Scotland, but he
brings me closer to himself: I leave the plains of Gilgal to tread with
his angel the courts of my God. Mourn not, then, my absence; for my
prayers will be with you till we are again united in the only place
where you can fully know me as I am--thine and Scotland's never-dying
friend! Start not at the bold epithet. My body may sink into the
grave, but the affections of my immortal spirit are eternal as its
essence, and, in earth or in heaven, I am ever yours.
"Should the endearing Helen--my heart's sister--be near your couch when
you read this, tell her that Wallace, in idea, presses her virgin cheek
with a brother's farewell; and from his inmost soul he blesses her."
Messages of respectful adieus he sent to Isabella, Lady Ruthven, and
the sage of Ercildown; and then kneeling down in that posture, he wrote
his last invocations for the prosperity and happiness of Bruce.
This letter finished, with a more tranquil mind he addressed Lord
Ruthven; detailing to him his reasons for leaving such faithful friends
so clandestinely; and after mentioning his purpose of proceeding to
France, he ended with those expressions of gratitude which the worthy
chief so well deserved; and exhorting him to transfer his public zeal
for him to the maguanimous and royal Bruce, closed the letter with
begging him, for the sake of his friend, his king, and his country, to
return immediately with all his followers to Huntingtower, and there to
rally round their prince. His letter to Scrymgeour spoke nearly the
same language. But when he began to write to Bothwell, to bid him that
farewell which his heart foreboded would be forever in this world--to
part from this, his steady companion in arms, his dauntless champion!
he lost some of his composure; and his handwriting testified the
emotion of his mind. How, then, was he shaken when he addressed the
young and devoted Edwin, the brother of his soul? He dropped the pen
from his hand. At that moment he felt all he was going to relinquish,
and he exclaimed, "Oh, Scotland! my ungrateful country; what is it you
do? Is it thus that you repay your most faithful servants? Is it not
enough that the wife of my bosom, the companion of my youth, should be
torn from me by your enemies; but your hand must wrest from my bereaved
heart its every other solace? You snatch from me my friends; you would
deprive me of my life. To preserve you from that crime, I imbitter the
cup of death; I go far from the tombs of my fathers--from the grave of
my Marion, where I have fondly hoped to rest!" His head sunk on his
arm; his heart gave way under the pressure of accumulated regrets, and
floods of tears poured from his eyes. Deep and frequent were his
sighs--but none answered him. Friendship was far distant; and where
was that gentle being who would have soothed his sorrow on her bosom?
She it was he lamented. "Dreary, dreary solitude!" cried he, looking
around him with an aghast perception of all that he had lost! "how have
I been mocked for these three long years! What is renown? what the
loud acclaim of admiring throngs? what the loud acclaim of admiring
throngs? what the bended knees of worshiping gratefulness but breath
and vapor! It seems to shelter the mountain's top; the blast comes; it
rolls from its sides; and the lonely hill is left to all the storm! So
stand I, my Marion, when bereft of thee. In weal or woe, thy smiles,
thy warm embrace, were mine; my head reclined on that faithful breast,
and still I found my home, my heaven. But now, desolate and alone,
ruin is around me. Destruction waits on all who would steal one pang
from the racked heart of William Wallace!--even pity is no more for me.
Take me, then, O Power of Mercy!" cried he, stretching forth his
hands, "take me to Thyself!"
At these words, a peal of thunder burst on his ear, and seemed to roll
over his tent, till, passing off toward the west, it died away in long
and solemn reverberation. Wallace rose from his knee, on which he had
sunk at this awful response to his Heaven-directed adjuration. "Thou
callest me, my Father!" cried he, with a holy confidence dilating his
soul. "I go from the world to Thee! I come, and before Thy altars
know no human weakness."
In a paroxysm of sacred enthusiasm he rushed from the tent, and,
reckless whither he went, struck into the depths of Roslyn woods. With
the steps of the wind he pierced their remotest thickets. He reached
their boundary--it was traversed by a rapid stream, but that did not
stop his course; he sprung over it, and, ascending its moonlight bank,
was startled by the sound of his name. Grimsby, attended by a youth,
stood before him. The veteran expressed amazement at meeting his
master alone at this hour, unhelmeted and unarmed, and in so dangerous
a direction. "The road," said he, "between this and Stirling is beset
with your enemies." Instead of noticing this information, Wallace
inquired what news he brought from Huntingtower. "The worst," said he.
"By this time the royal Bruce is no more!" Wallace gasped
convulsively, and fell against a tree. Grimsby paused. In a few
minutes the heart-struck chief was able to speak. "Listen not to my
groans for unhappy Scotland!" cried he; "show me all that is in this
last vial of wrath."
Grimsby informed him that Bruce being so far recovered as to have left
his sick chamber for the family apartment, while he was sitting with
the ladies, a letter was brought to Lady Helen. She opened it, read a
few lines, and fell senseless into the arms of her sister. Bruce
snatched the packet, but not a word did he speak till he had perused it
to the end. It was from the Countess Strathearn, written in the
triumph of revenge, cruelly exulting in what she termed the
demonstration of Wallace's guilt; congratulating herself on having been
the primary means of discovering it, and boasting that his once adored
Scotland now held him in such detestation as to have doomed him to die.
It was this denunciation which had struck to the soul of Helen; and
while the anxious Lady Ruthven removed her inanimate form into another
room, Bruce read the barbarous triumphs of this disappointed woman.
"No power on earth can save him now," continued she; "your doting heart
must yield him, Helen, to another rest than your bridal chamber. His
iron breast has met with others as adamantine as his own. A hypcrite!
he feels not pity; he knows no beat of human sympathies; and like a
rock, he falls, unpitied, undeplored--undeplored by all but you, lost,
self-deluded girl! My noble lord, the princely De Warenne, informs me
that William Wallace would be burned as a double traitor in England,
and a price is now set upon his head in Scotland! hence, there is
safety for him no more. Those his base-born heart has outraged shall
be avenged; and his cries for mercy, who will answer? No voice on
earth! None dare support the man whom friends and enemies abandon to
destruction!"
"Yes," cried Bruce, starting from his seat, "I will support him, thou
damned traitress! Bruce will declare himself! Bruce will throw
himself before his friend, and in his breast receive every arrow meant
for that godlike heart! Yes," cried he, glancing on the terrified
looks of Isabella, who believed that his delirium was returned. "I
would snatch him in these arms, from their murderous flames, did all
the fiends of hell guard their infernal fire!" Not a word more did he
utter, but darting from the apartment, was soon seen before the
barbican-gate, armed from head to foot. Grimsby stood there, to whom
he called to bring him a horse, "for that the Light of Scotland was in
danger." Grimsby, who understood by that term, his beloved master was
in peril, instantly obeyed; and Bruce, as instantly mourning, struck
his rowels into the horse, and was out of sight ere Grimsby could reach
his stirrup to follow.
But that faithful soldier speeded after him like the win, and came in
view of Bruce just as he was leaping a chasm in the mountain path. The
horse struck his heel against a loose stone, and it giving way, he fell
headlong into the deep ravine. At the moment of his disappearance,
Grimsby rushed toward the spot, and saw the animal struggling in the
agonies of death at the bottom. Bruce lay insensible, amongst some
bushes which grew nearer the top. With difficulty the honest
Englishman got him dragged to the surface of the hill; and finding all
attempts to recover him ineffectual, he laid him on his own beast, and
so carried him slowly back to the castle. The assiduities of the sage
of Ercildown restored him to life, but not to recollection. "The fever
returned on him, with a delirium, so hopeless of recovery," continued
Grimsby, "that the Lady Helen, who again seems like an inspired angel
amongst us, has sent me with this youth to implore you to come to
Huntingtower, and there embattle yourself against your own and your
prince's enemies."
"Send me," cried Walter Hay, grasping Wallace's hand, "send me back to
Lady Helen, and let me tell her that our benefactor, the best guardian
of our country, will not abandon us! Should you depart, Scotland's
genius will go with you! again she must sink, again she will be in
ruins. De Valence will regain possession of my dear lady, and you will
not be near to save her."
"Grimsby, Walter, my friends!" cried Wallace, in an agitated voice, "I
do not abandon Scotland; she drives me from her. Would she have
allowed me, I would have borne her in my arms until my latest gasp; but
it must not be so. I resign her into the Almighty hands, to which I
commit myself; they will also preserve the Lady Helen from violence. I
cannot forego my trust, for the Bruce also! If he live, he will
protect her for my sake; and should he died, Bothwell and Ruthven will
cherish her for their own."
"But you will return with us to Huntingtower," cried Grimsby.
"Disguised in these peasant's garments, which we have brought for the
purpose, you may pass through the legions of the regent with perfect
security."
"Let me implore you, if not for your own sake, for ours! Pity our
desolation, and save yourself for them who can know no safety when you
are gone!"
Walter clung to his arm while uttering this supplication. Wallace
looked tenderly upon him.
"I would save myself; and I will, please God," said he; "but by no
means unworthy of myself. I go, but not under any disguise. Openly
have I defended Scotland, and openly will I pass through her lands.
The chalice of Heaven consecrated me the champion of my country, and no
Scot dare lift a hostile hand against this anointed head."
The soul of Wallace swelled high, but devoutly, while uttering this.
"Whither you go," cried Grimsby, "let me follow you, in joy or in
sorrow!"
"And me, too, my benefactor!" rejoined Walter, "and when you look on
us, think not that Scotland is altogether ungrateful!"
"My faithful friend," returned he, "whither I go, I must go alone. And
as a proof of your love, grant me your obedience this once. Rest
amongst these thickets till morning. At sunrise, repair to our camp;
there you will know my destination. But till Bruce proclaims himself
at the head of the country's armies, for my sake never reveal to mortal
man, that he who lies debilitated by sickness at Huntingtower, is other
than Sir Thomas de Longueville."
"Rest we cannot," replied Grimsby; "but still we will obey our master.
You command me to adhere to Bruce; to serve him till the hour of his
death! I will--but should he die, then I may seek you, and be again
your faithful servant?"
"You will find me before the cross of Christ," returned Wallace, "with
saints my fellow-soldiers, and God my only King! Till then, Grimsby,
farewell. Walter, carry my fidelity to your mistress. She will share
my thoughts, with the Blessed Virgin of Heaven, for in all my prayers
shall her name be remembered."
Grimsby and Walter, struck by the holy solemnity of his manner, fell on
their knees before him. Wallace raised his hands:
"Bless, O Father of Light!" cried he, "bless this unhappy land, when
Wallace is no more; let his memory be lost in the virtues and
prosperity of Robert Bruce!"
Grimsby sunk on the earth, and gave way to a burst of manly sorrow.
Walter hid his weeping face in the folds of his master's mantle, which
had fallen from his shoulders to the ground. Lost in grief, no thought
seemed to exist in the young man's heart but the resolution to live
only for his persecuted benefactor; and to express this vow with all
the energy of determined devotedness, he looked up to seek the face of
Wallace--but Wallace had disappeared; and all that remained, to the
breaking hearts of his faithful servants, was the tartan plaid which
they had clasped in their arms.