THE BATTLE OFF FIFENESS.
"Were ye twentye shippes, and he but one,
I swear by kirke, and bower, and hall,
He wolde overcome them everye one,
If once his beames they doe downefall.
This is colde comfort, quoth my lorde,
To welcome a stranger thus to sea;
But I'll bring him and his ships to shore;
Or to Scotland he shall carry me."--SIR ANDREW BARTON
After nearly bringing to a successful issue his diplomatic mission
concerning the quarrel between the Scottish, Dutch, and Flemish
merchants,--though the latter remembered bitterly the various barrels
of pickled heads despatched by the unquhile Sir Andrew Barton to the
Privy Council of James III.,--Sir Andrew Wood had left the port of
Sluys, or Sluice, which is one of the best harbours and strongest
frontier towns in Dutch Flanders, and from the Bailiff and Echevins
of which he received a gold cup and silken banner. Sailing with a
fair wind, he soon lost sight of the low flat shores of Batavia, and
bore away for the Firth of Forth.
The voyage across the northern ocean was rough, and more than once
his Scottish caravels rolled their lower yard-arms in the water; but
their trip of five hundred miles was drawing to a close, and on the
morning mentioned in the preceding chapter, the crews of the _Flower_
and _Yellow Frigate_ hailed with satisfaction the black rugged scalp
of St. Abb, as it rose above the summer sea.
The _Flower_ was commanded by Sir Alexander Mathieson, "the Auld King
o' the Sea," whose former ship, the _Margaret_, had been given by the
young king to John, the younger brother of Robert Barton. John was
also a brave mariner, and well known in Scottish history.
The vessels were going under easy sail; morning prayers were over;
the crew were lying in groups between the guns on deck, resting
themselves after the recent gale. Willie Wad was playing on the
fiddle; Father Zuill was of course engaged in the further development
of his parabolic speculum; the admiral was writing in his cabin;
Falconer and Barton were on deck, talking no doubt over the chances
of good or evil tidings awaiting them from the fair daughters of Lord
Drummond, and of their aversion for the new Lord High Admiral of
Scotland--Hailes, now Earl of Bothwell; old Archy, the boatswain, was
"spinning a yarn" to some idlers who were clustered near the capstan,
and assuring them that in some parts of the Northern Sea, he knew
with certainty there was a fiend who was often seen astride the
bowsprit or the spritsail-yard on the eve of a hurricane, with blue
flames coming out of his hawseholes, and wearing a conical hat tipped
with fire; and there he rode, leading the vessel to destruction; for
if the storm was weathered, she would run into the down-hill at the
back of the world, where she might beat and tack in vain, for her
crew could never gather leeway until the day of doom. This, and much
more to the same purpose, was listened to, in the most perfect good
faith by the hearers, and was corroborated by some of them, who had
seen the identical demon referred to, when they were wrecked near the
English Castle of Barnborough in '72, in the great ship of James
Kennedy, Bishop of St. Andrew's, when all perished, save a few who
escaped in a jollyboat with the holy Abbot of Inchcolm, whose case of
reliques--but at that moment a voice was hailing the deck.
"Hollo," cried Barton, "who hails?"
"Captain of the maintop, sir--sail ho!"
"Sail ho!" was echoed from the deck.
"Why, thou gomeral, there is nothing wonderful in seeing a sail off
St. Abb's Head."
"But there are three o' them, Sir Captain," cried the sailor, looking
over the basket-work of the top; "war-ships to my eye."
"Oho--that alters the case entirely!"
Barton sprung into the main-rigging, and ran up aloft to take a view;
when he descended, the admiral, whom some rumour had reached, was on
deck.
"What dost make them out to be, Robert?"
"Three full-rigged ships, standing straight towards us; coming down
with a fine breeze, and everything set aloft that will catch it."
"Didst make out their colours?"
"They have none hoisted as yet; but by St. Andrew, they are
war-ships, or I have the eyes of a mole!"
"They may be English----"
"Or Portuguese caravels on some roving commission; but both are alike
dangerous. To be forewarned is to be forearmed."
"Right," said the admiral; "so beat the starboard watch to quarters;
Willie Wad, out with all lights, and open the magazine! To your
armour, gentlemen; Sir David Falconer, order your trumpeter to sound,
and line the poop with arquebussiers."
"That puff of smoke," said Falconer, as he buckled on his splendid
baldrick, "is very like the discharge of a culverin."
And such it was, being the death-knell of Jamie Gair, the unfortunate
fisherman.
As the vessels neared each other, the two Scottish caravels were
cleared for action, and every man armed himself; the cannon was
served with shot and powder; the arquebussiers manned the tops and
taffrails; the cannoniers stood by their guns, with tackle, sponge,
and rammer; the lines were laid along the deck, and the ports were
triced up.
"By my soul, Robert Barton," said the admiral, as he scanned the
strangers; "I think I should know the hull of yonder craft and the
rake of her masts. Gadzooks! look at her now, as her sails lift in
the breeze."
"And the fashion of her topsails, too," said Barton, observing her
with kindling eyes, and a darkening brow.
"'Tis the _Unicorn_--as I am a living man!"
"Either thy father's spirit, or an English foe, is under sail on
these waters. It _is_ the _Unicorn_, Robert. But hah--what is this?
Up goeth her pennon and ensign. French, gadzooks! Now what may this
portend?"
"'Tis all a wile," said Barton, as Sir Stephen Bull, the further to
deceive them, as he hoped, hoisted the white flag with the
fleur-de-lis, a flag then as familiar to the Scottish people as their
own; and as the oriflamme swelled out in the breeze, Sir Stephen
fired a gun to leeward.
"Up with St. Andrew's cross," said the admiral; "if these are not
three English ships, may I skulk in the lee scuppers of fortune to
the end of my days. Up with our ancient, quartermaster; and Wad,
fire a gun to _windward_."
It is recorded, that immediately on the hostile signal being given,
the oriflamme went down, and up went the white flag with the red
cross of England, while the bright heraldic pennons of the many
gentlemen who served in the ships for glory and honour, or in sheer
hatred of the Scots, were displayed in the bright sunshine. The
adverse ships, now about half a mile apart, were nearing each other
fast, and every heart on board beat high.
In our account of this battle, we will follow briefly and strictly
the relation of Dalzel, Pitcairn, Buchanan, the Laird of Pitscottie,
and others. The quaint chronicler Lindesay gives us the
characteristic address of his contemporary, the Scottish admiral to
his crew, while every man received a stoup of wine at the
capstan-head.
"My lads, these are the men who would seek to convey us in fetters to
the foot of an English king as they did the shipmates of stout old
Andrew Barton; but, by the help of God and your bravery, they shall
fail! Shipmates, set yourselves in order; every man to his station;
the gunner to his lintstock, and the steersman to his helm! Charge
home, cannoniers--crossbowmen, to the tops--pikes and two-handed
swords to the forerooms. Down with the bulk-heads, up with the
screens, reeve tackle, and ram home. Be stout men and true, for the
love of your kindred, and the honour of old Scotland--hurrah!"
A loud cheer responded; the poops, tops, and forecastles were
bristling with cuirassed and helmeted men; the yeomen of the sheets
and braces stood by their stations, the gunners by their guns, and
all were armed to the teeth, with swords and daggers, pikes, axes,
ghisarmas, and hand-cannons.
The sun was clear and the sky brilliant; the waves rolled like
crystal in long glassy swells; the bellying canvas was white as snow,
and the gaudy pennons waved from mast-head and yard-arm, like long
ribands of many coloured silk on the gentle wind. The sides of all
the ships, but more especially their towering poops and ponderous
quarter-galleries, were gay with carving and gilding, and grim with
the flashing of sharp weapons and the brass-mouthed tiers of their
pointed artillery; and a thousand bright or gaily tinted objects were
thus reflected in the clear waves as they rolled past in slow heaving
ridges that glistened in the sun.
In a few minutes the guns of Bull commenced firing, and their balls
whistled through the rigging of the _Yellow Frigate_ as she closed
up, but without firing a shot, for, breathless and impatient, her
crew were waiting for the sound of the admiral's whistle.
One ball splintered the mizenmast near Sir Andrew, and another
stretched Cuddie Clewline, his coxswain, on the deck.
"My poor Cuddie," said he, rushing forward; "how art thou, old
shipmate?"
"Ill enough, Sir Andrew," groaned the seaman, from the sleeve of
whose doublet the blood was gushing; "my best spar is knocked away."
"Poor carle--thy right arm?" said Barton.
"Never fear ye for me, sirs, I'll weather the gale yet," he answered,
as he crawled along the deck, leaving a long trail of blood, till he
reached the main hatchway, where Father Zuill, relinquishing an
immense parabolic speculum, received him in his arms, and conveyed
him below.
"Hollo! Saints and angels, what clattering is that?" he asked, as a
heavy shot tore its way between decks.
"An English bullet through the magazine," said some one.
"Damnation," cried Wad, plunging down the ladder to ascertain the
damage.
"Peace," said the chaplain; "swear not, friend gunner; it is
forbidden."
"The shot is through thy laboratory, Father Zuill," said the
boatswain, ascending; "and if it hasna smashed your hurdy-gurdy to
flinders, may I never mair see Anster kirk!"
"Hell's fury! sayst thou so?" cried the chaplain, losing all
patience, as another of King Henry's pills came crashing through the
timbers, killing and wounding all in its way.
"Oho! may I drink bilge but a friar can swear as well as a poor
gunner, though it is forbidden," said Willie Wad, as he hoisted up
case after case of shot; but the unhappy chaplain, rendered furious
by the destruction of his lifelong labours, flung off his frock,
under which he wore a jazarine jacket, seized a sword, and rushed on
deck intent on vengeance.
The _Yellow Frigate_ and the _Unicorn_ were now less than a musket
shot apart, when Sir Andrew blew his silver whistle; and then the
former poured her broadside of "pestilent" carthouns, sakers, and
serpentines, into the latter, exchanging fire with her on opposite
tacks, while the arquebussiers and crossbowmen aloft and below
volleyed at each other as fast as they could cast their weapons about.
"By the soul of King James, that broadside will cost ye a few bolts
of canvas, my friends!" said Wood, with a smile; and bearing on, by
his great seamanship he continued to keep the weather-gage of Bull;
while Sir Alexander Mathieson, with the _Flower_, followed close in
his wake, they each exchanged broadsides with the three English
ships, whose triple fire cut up their rigging, battered their gay
bulwarks, and wounded a vast number of their men; but few were
killed, though all the scuppers ran with blood and water.
These brave adversaries foresaw not the days that were to come, when
"Duncan, Nelson, Keppel, Howe, and Jervis," under a _united_ flag,
would lead their descendants side by side to sweep Scotland's ancient
ally from the ocean.
"Tack," cried the admiral to Barton, again, as the cannon were
charged for the fourth time; "tack again, and range up on the weather
quarter of the sternmost ship."
By this manoeuvre he almost blew to pieces the poop of Miles
Furnival's caravel; he then gave the order to "close in and grapple."
"A narrow escape, David," said Barton, as an English bullet tore the
crest off Falconer's headpiece.
"A little lower, and it would have ended all my cares to-day,"
replied Sir David, with a sad smile; "and believe me, Barton, I would
rather die here than land to-morrow, and learn that Sybilla has
become the countess of the high-admiral."
The five vessels now simultaneously shortened sail, and, according to
the tactics of the day, grappled with each other; and there was a
frightful rasping as they closed-in muzzle to muzzle with their
yard-arms tearing each other's canvas to rags and ribbons.
Alas! we need scarcely advert to the _desperation_ of the conflict
which ensued--a conflict from which we recoil; for it was Englishmen
and Scotsmen who then fought against each other, and fought as they
alone can fight.
The yetlan guns soon became so hot that Wad reported to the admiral,
"that they were bouncing off their stocks, and tearing their
breechings like pack-thread."
We are told that, fearless of the numerical force and superiority of
the enemy, old Andrew Wood led the way to the "Inglish deckis with
his twa-handed quhinger," and that for twelve hours, with sword and
pike, crossbow and battle-axe, a deadly conflict was maintained; and
that they had often to retire from sheer exhaustion, and to free
their blood-stained decks from the dead and wounded; "and there they
fought," saith Pitscottie, who knew the admiral well, "frae the
rising of the sun till the going down of the same, in the long
summer's day, while all the men and women that dwelt near the
coast-side stood and beheld the fighting, which was terrible to see."
The sun sank behind the hills of Fife, and those persons who crowded
on the steeple of Crail and the summit of Kincraig, saw the five
grappled ships abandoned to the wind and current, drifting off
towards the north. They saw the blue flag of Scotland and the white
English ensign floating side by side; they could see the incessant
gleaming of steel, and the pale smoke that broke upward in white
curls from time to time, but they knew not how the tide of battle
turned, or to whom red Victory held out her bloody wreath.
Night came down on the echoing deep, and when morning dawned the good
folk of the East Neuk, pale with watching, and fired by expectation,
could see no trace of the hostile ships; for by that time they had
drifted like a huge and gory raft, or a floating hecatomb, to the
mouth of the Tay. There, after casting off to refit and reeve anew
their cut and torn rigging, again the trumpets sounded, and again
they grappled at sunrise; and Wood ordered that the English ships
should be lashed "with cables" to his own--that they should all go
down together rather than any one should escape.
The Scots and English were repeatedly in possession of each other's
decks, and incredible valour was exhibited in the many hand-to-hand
conflicts that ensued amid the general _mêlée_; many a Scottish
mariner was "spritsail yarded," as they termed it, by being pinned in
the head or breast by the clothyard shafts of Sir Stephen's archers,
who shot from the tops and poops; and many an Englishman was
_scotched_ (i.e., cut or slashed by the sword or Jedwood axe), a
phrase we first find in Shakespeare, but which had long previously
been common in England, for a wound received in the Scottish wars.
Tall Dick Selby, with his poleaxe, displayed to advantage the agility
and prowess which made him the lion of the Moorfields and Finsbury;
and strong in the belief of a blessed Paternoster, bought in the Row
beside St. Paul's, and bound about his better wrist, he had hewed a
way almost to the poop of the _Yellow Frigate_, when he was killed by
Sir David Falconer, who there recognised Edmund Howard fighting
bravely against great odds, and keeping his back to the mizenmast;
and there, after doing all in his power by voice and deed to save
him, he had the mortification of seeing him hewn almost to pieces by
the crew of the _Flower_.
Sir Fulke of Fulkeshall was also slain, and there was scarcely a
noble or wealthy family in London that did not lose a relative in
this desperate conflict.
Sir Stephen Bull, tall, powerful, and brave as a Hector, sought
everywhere for old Sir Andrew Wood, reserving his sword and strength
for him alone; and they encountered each other no less than six
times, but were always separated by the furious pressure of those
around them; for Miles le Furnival, John of Lynne, and others, on one
side, Sir Alexander Mathieson, Robert Barton, and Falconer, on the
other, were always rushing on, and taking part in the bloody game,
though all of them were severely wounded, and covered with blood and
bandages.
"Had we no better cast off the grapples," cried Archy of Anster,
rushing to the admiral, who was leaning, breathless, against the
taffrail of the _Unicorn_, with his sword in his hand.
"Wherefore?" he asked.
"We are close on the Buddon-ness--in shoal water," exclaimed the
boatswain; "and will strike in three minutes or less."
"Let us take our chance," answered Wood, grimly; "I will rather knock
the old ship to pieces than see her an English prize; but, alas!
honest Archy--art thou wounded?"
"My mainyard is shot in the slings," groaned the old boatswain, as a
ball struck him near the shoulder, and he fell heavily on the deck,
with his right arm broken.
At that moment, there was a tremendous shock; the masts nodded like
willow wands, and several topmasts with all their yards, sails,
rigging, and hamper, came thundering down on the still contested
decks; and then a hoarse shout of rage and despair arose from the
English ships, for their crews were aware that they were all ashore,
or wedged on the shoaly sands together.
To shorten this account, which, as it may be found in many old
histories of Scotland, need not be longer dwelt on here, the English
trumpets sounded a parley, and the brave Sir Stephen Bull, now
thoroughly crestfallen and dejected, surrendered his sword to Sir
Andrew Wood; but without shame or dishonour, for he and his crews had
done all that brave men might do.
The ships were all floated off by the flood tide; the grapplings cut,
jury masts were rigged, and sails set on them, and before midnight
they were all safely anchored in the harbour of Dundee, within the
protection of the cannon of Broughty.