With many a stout thwack and many a bang,
Hard crab-tree and old iron rang.
Hudibras.
Cornet Richard Grahame descended the hill, bearing in his hand the
extempore flag of truce, and making his managed horse keep time by bounds
and curvets to the tune which he whistled. The trumpeter followed. Five
or six horsemen, having something the appearance of officers, detached
themselves from each flank of the Presbyterian army, and, meeting in the
centre, approached the ditch which divided the hollow as near as the
morass would permit. Towards this group, but keeping the opposite side of
the swamp, Cornet Grahame directed his horse, his motions being now the
conspicuous object of attention to both armies; and, without
disparagement to the courage of either, it is probable there was a
general wish on both sides that this embassy might save the risks and
bloodshed of the impending conflict.
When he had arrived right opposite to those, who, by their advancing to
receive his message, seemed to take upon themselves as the leaders of the
enemy, Cornet Grahame commanded his trumpeter to sound a parley. The
insurgents having no instrument of martial music wherewith to make the
appropriate reply, one of their number called out with a loud, strong
voice, demanding to know why he approached their leaguer.
“To summon you in the King’s name, and in that of Colonel John Grahame of
Claverhouse, specially commissioned by the right honourable Privy Council
of Scotland,” answered the Cornet, “to lay down your arms, and dismiss
the followers whom ye have led into rebellion, contrary to the laws of
God, of the King, and of the country.”
“Return to them that sent thee,” said the insurgent leader, “and tell
them that we are this day in arms for a broken Covenant and a persecuted
Kirk; tell them that we renounce the licentious and perjured Charles
Stewart, whom you call king, even as he renounced the Covenant, after
having once and again sworn to prosecute to the utmost of his power all
the ends thereof, really, constantly, and sincerely, all the days of his
life, having no enemies but the enemies of the Covenant, and no friends
but its friends. Whereas, far from keeping the oath he had called God and
angels to witness, his first step, after his incoming into these
kingdoms, was the fearful grasping at the prerogative of the Almighty, by
that hideous Act of Supremacy, together with his expulsing, without
summons, libel, or process of law, hundreds of famous faithful preachers,
thereby wringing the bread of life out of the mouth of hungry, poor
creatures, and forcibly cramming their throats with the lifeless,
saltless, foisonless, lukewarm drammock of the fourteen false prelates,
and their sycophantic, formal, carnal, scandalous creature-curates.”
“I did not come to hear you preach,” answered the officer, “but to know,
in one word, if you will disperse yourselves, on condition of a free
pardon to all but the murderers of the late Archbishop of St Andrews; or
whether you will abide the attack of his majesty’s forces, which will
instantly advance upon you.”
“In one word, then,” answered the spokesman, “we are here with our swords
on our thighs, as men that watch in the night. We will take one part and
portion together, as brethren in righteousness. Whosoever assails us in
our good cause, his blood be on his own head. So return to them that sent
thee, and God give them and thee a sight of the evil of your ways!”
“Is not your name,” said the Cornet, who began to recollect having seen
the person whom he was now speaking with, “John Balfour of Burley?”
“And if it be,” said the spokesman, “hast thou aught to say against it?”
“Only,” said the Cornet, “that, as you are excluded from pardon in the
name of the King and of my commanding officer, it is to these country
people, and not to you, that I offer it; and it is not with you, or such
as you, that I am sent to treat.”
“Thou art a young soldier, friend,” said Burley, “and scant well learned
in thy trade, or thou wouldst know that the bearer of a flag of truce
cannot treat with the army but through their officers; and that if he
presume to do otherwise, he forfeits his safe conduct.”
While speaking these words, Burley unslung his carabine, and held it in
readiness.
“I am not to be intimidated from the discharge of my duty by the menaces
of a murderer,” said Cornet Grahame.--“Hear me, good people; I proclaim,
in the name of the King and of my commanding officer, full and free
pardon to all, excepting”--
“I give thee fair warning,” said Burley, presenting his piece.
“A free pardon to all,” continued the young officer, still addressing the
body of the insurgents--“to all but”--
“Then the Lord grant grace to thy soul--amen!” said Burley.
With these words he fired, and Cornet Richard Grahame dropped from his
horse. The shot was mortal. The unfortunate young gentleman had only
strength to turn himself on the ground and mutter forth, “My poor
mother!” when life forsook him in the effort. His startled horse fled
back to the regiment at the gallop, as did his scarce less affrighted
attendant.
“What have you done?” said one of Balfour’s brother officers.
“My duty,” said Balfour, firmly. “Is it not written, Thou shalt be
zealous even to slaying? Let those, who dare, now venture to speak of
truce or pardon!”
Claverhouse saw his nephew fall. He turned his eye on Evandale, while a
transitory glance of indescribable emotion disturbed, for a second’s
space, the serenity of his features, and briefly said, “You see the
event.”
“I will avenge him, or die!” exclaimed Evandale; and, putting his horse
into motion, rode furiously down the hill, followed by his own troop, and
that of the deceased Cornet, which broke down without orders; and, each
striving to be the foremost to revenge their young officer, their ranks
soon fell into confusion. These forces formed the first line of the
royalists. It was in vain that Claverhouse exclaimed, “Halt! halt! this
rashness will undo us.” It was all that he could accomplish, by galloping
along the second line, entreating, commanding, and even menacing the men
with his sword, that he could restrain them from following an example so
contagious.
“Allan,” he said, as soon as he had rendered the men in some degree more
steady, “lead them slowly down the hill to support Lord Evandale, who is
about to need it very much.--Bothwell, thou art a cool and a daring
fellow”--
“Ay,” muttered Bothwell, “you can remember that in a moment like this.”
“Lead ten file up the hollow to the right,” continued his commanding
officer, “and try every means to get through the bog; then form and
charge the rebels in flank and rear, while they are engaged with us in
front.”
Bothwell made a signal of intelligence and obedience, and moved off with
his party at a rapid pace.
Meantime, the disaster which Claverhouse had apprehended, did not fail to
take place. The troopers, who, with Lord Evandale, had rushed down upon
the enemy, soon found their disorderly career interrupted by the
impracticable character of the ground. Some stuck fast in the morass as
they attempted to struggle through, some recoiled from the attempt and
remained on the brink, others dispersed to seek a more favourable place
to pass the swamp. In the midst of this confusion, the first line of the
enemy, of which the foremost rank knelt, the second stooped, and the
third stood upright, poured in a close and destructive fire that emptied
at least a score of saddles, and increased tenfold the disorder into
which the horsemen had fallen. Lord Evandale, in the meantime, at the
head of a very few well-mounted men, had been able to clear the ditch,
but was no sooner across than he was charged by the left body of the
enemy’s cavalry, who, encouraged by the small number of opponents that
had made their way through the broken ground, set upon them with the
utmost fury, crying, “Woe, woe to the uncircumcised Philistines! down
with Dagon and all his adherents!”
The young nobleman fought like a lion; but most of his followers were
killed, and he himself could not have escaped the same fate but for a
heavy fire of carabines, which Claverhouse, who had now advanced with the
second line near to the ditch, poured so effectually upon the enemy, that
both horse and foot for a moment began to shrink, and Lord Evandale,
disengaged from his unequal combat, and finding himself nearly alone,
took the opportunity to effect his retreat through the morass. But
notwithstanding the loss they had sustained by Claverhouse’s first fire,
the insurgents became soon aware that the advantage of numbers and of
position were so decidedly theirs, that, if they could but persist in
making a brief but resolute defence, the Life-Guards must necessarily be
defeated. Their leaders flew through their ranks, exhorting them to stand
firm, and pointing out how efficacious their fire must be where both men
and horse were exposed to it; for the troopers, according to custom,
fired without having dismounted. Claverhouse, more than once, when he
perceived his best men dropping by a fire which they could not
effectually return, made desperate efforts to pass the bog at various
points, and renew the battle on firm ground and fiercer terms. But the
close fire of the insurgents, joined to the natural difficulties of the
pass, foiled his attempts in every point.
“We must retreat,” he said to Evandale, “unless Bothwell can effect a
diversion in our favour. In the meantime, draw the men out of fire, and
leave skirmishers behind these patches of alderbushes to keep the enemy
in check.”
These directions being accomplished, the appearance of Bothwell with his
party was earnestly expected. But Bothwell had his own disadvantages to
struggle with. His detour to the right had not escaped the penetrating
observation of Burley, who made a corresponding movement with the left
wing of the mounted insurgents, so that when Bothwell, after riding a
considerable way up the valley, found a place at which the bog could be
passed, though with some difficulty, he perceived he was still in front
of a superior enemy. His daring character was in no degree checked by
this unexpected opposition.
“Follow me, my lads!” he called to his men; “never let it be said that we
turned our backs before these canting roundheads!”
With that, as if inspired by the spirit of his ancestors, he shouted,
“Bothwell! Bothwell!” and throwing himself into the morass, he struggled
through it at the head of his party, and attacked that of Burley with
such fury, that he drove them back above a pistol-shot, killing three men
with his own hand. Burley, perceiving the consequences of a defeat on
this point, and that his men, though more numerous, were unequal to the
regulars in using their arms and managing their horses, threw himself
across Bothwell’s way, and attacked him hand to hand. Each of the
combatants was considered as the champion of his respective party, and a
result ensued more usual in romance than in real story. Their followers,
on either side, instantly paused, and looked on as if the fate of the day
were to be decided by the event of the combat between these two redoubted
swordsmen. The combatants themselves seemed of the same opinion; for,
after two or three eager cuts and pushes had been exchanged, they paused,
as if by joint consent, to recover the breath which preceding exertions
had exhausted, and to prepare for a duel in which each seemed conscious
he had met his match.
[Illustration: The Duel--230]
“You are the murdering villain, Burley,” said Bothwell, griping his sword
firmly, and setting his teeth close--“you escaped me once, but”--(he
swore an oath too tremendous to be written down)--“thy head is worth its
weight of silver, and it shall go home at my saddle-bow, or my saddle
shall go home empty for me.”
“Yes,” replied Burley, with stern and gloomy deliberation, “I am that
John Balfour, who promised to lay thy head where thou shouldst never lift
it again; and God do so unto me, and more also, if I do not redeem my
word!”
“Then a bed of heather, or a thousand merks!” said Bothwell, striking at
Burley with his full force.
“The sword of the Lord and of Gideon!” answered Balfour, as he parried
and returned the blow.
There have seldom met two combatants more equally matched in strength of
body, skill in the management of their weapons and horses, determined
courage, and unrelenting hostility. After exchanging many desperate
blows, each receiving and inflicting several wounds, though of no great
consequence, they grappled together as if with the desperate impatience
of mortal hate, and Bothwell, seizing his enemy by the shoulder-belt,
while the grasp of Balfour was upon his own collar, they came headlong to
the ground. The companions of Burley hastened to his assistance, but were
repelled by the dragoons, and the battle became again general. But
nothing could withdraw the attention of the combatants from each other,
or induce them to unclose the deadly clasp in which they rolled together
on the ground, tearing, struggling, and foaming, with the inveteracy of
thorough-bred bull-dogs.
Several horses passed over them in the melee without their quitting hold
of each other, until the sword-arm of Bothwell was broken by the kick of
a charger. He then relinquished his grasp with a deep and suppressed
groan, and both combatants started to their feet. Bothwell’s right hand
dropped helpless by his side, but his left griped to the place where his
dagger hung; it had escaped from the sheath in the struggle,--and, with a
look of mingled rage and despair, he stood totally defenceless, as
Balfour, with a laugh of savage joy, flourished his sword aloft, and then
passed it through his adversary’s body. Bothwell received the thrust
without falling--it had only grazed on his ribs. He attempted no farther
defence, but, looking at Burley with a grin of deadly hatred,
exclaimed--“Base peasant churl, thou hast spilt the blood of a line
of kings!”
“Die, wretch!--die!” said Balfour, redoubling the thrust with better aim;
and, setting his foot on Bothwell’s body as he fell, he a third time
transfixed him with his sword.--“Die, bloodthirsty dog! die as thou hast
lived!--die, like the beasts that perish--hoping nothing--believing
nothing--”
“And fearing nothing!” said Bothwell, collecting the last effort of
respiration to utter these desperate words, and expiring as soon as they
were spoken.
To catch a stray horse by the bridle, throw himself upon it, and rush to
the assistance of his followers, was, with Burley, the affair of a
moment. And as the fall of Bothwell had given to the insurgents all the
courage of which it had deprived his comrades, the issue of this partial
contest did not remain long undecided. Several soldiers were slain, the
rest driven back over the morass and dispersed, and the victorious
Burley, with his party, crossed it in their turn, to direct against
Claverhouse the very manoeuvre which he had instructed Bothwell to
execute. He now put his troop in order, with the view of attacking the
right wing of the royalists; and, sending news of his success to the main
body, exhorted them, in the name of Heaven, to cross the marsh, and work
out the glorious work of the Lord by a general attack upon the enemy.
Meanwhile, Claverhouse, who had in some degree remedied the confusion
occasioned by the first irregular and unsuccessful attack, and reduced
the combat in front to a distant skirmish with firearms, chiefly
maintained by some dismounted troopers whom he had posted behind the
cover of the shrub-by copses of alders, which in some places covered the
edge of the morass, and whose close, cool, and well-aimed fire
greatly annoyed the enemy, and concealed their own deficiency of
numbers,--Claverhouse, while he maintained the contest in this manner,
still expecting that a diversion by Bothwell and his party might
facilitate a general attack, was accosted by one of the dragoons, whose
bloody face and jaded horse bore witness he was come from hard service.
“What is the matter, Halliday?” said Claverhouse, for he knew every man
in his regiment by name--“Where is Bothwell?”
“Bothwell is down,” replied Halliday, “and many a pretty fellow with
him.”
“Then the king,” said Claverhouse, with his usual composure, “has lost a
stout soldier.--The enemy have passed the marsh, I suppose?”
“With a strong body of horse, commanded by the devil incarnate that
killed Bothwell,” answered the terrified soldier.
“Hush! hush!” said Claverhouse, putting his finger on his lips, “not a
word to any one but me.--Lord Evandale, we must retreat. The fates will
have it so. Draw together the men that are dispersed in the skirmishing
work. Let Allan form the regiment, and do you two retreat up the hill in
two bodies, each halting alternately as the other falls back. I’ll keep
the rogues in check with the rear-guard, making a stand and facing from
time to time. They will be over the ditch presently, for I see their
whole line in motion and preparing to cross; therefore lose no time.”
“Where is Bothwell with his party?” said Lord Evandale, astonished at the
coolness of his commander.
“Fairly disposed of,” said Claverhouse, in his ear--“the king has lost a
servant, and the devil has got one. But away to business, Evandale--ply
your spurs and get the men together. Allan and you must keep them steady.
This retreating is new work for us all; but our turn will come round
another day.”
Evandale and Allan betook themselves to their task; but ere they had
arranged the regiment for the purpose of retreating in two alternate
bodies, a considerable number of the enemy had crossed the marsh.
Claverhouse, who had retained immediately around his person a few of his
most active and tried men, charged those who had crossed in person, while
they were yet disordered by the broken ground. Some they killed, others
they repulsed into the morass, and checked the whole so as to enable the
main body, now greatly diminished, as well as disheartened by the loss
they had sustained, to commence their retreat up the hill.
But the enemy’s van being soon reinforced and supported, compelled
Claverhouse to follow his troops. Never did man, however, better maintain
the character of a soldier than he did that day. Conspicuous by his black
horse and white feather, he was first in the repeated charges which he
made at every favourable opportunity, to arrest the progress of the
pursuers, and to cover the retreat of his regiment. The object of aim to
every one, he seemed as if he were impassive to their shot. The
superstitious fanatics, who looked upon him as a man gifted by the Evil
Spirit with supernatural means of defence, averred that they saw the
bullets recoil from his jack-boots and buff-coat like hailstones from a
rock of granite, as he galloped to and fro amid the storm of the battle.
Many a whig that day loaded his musket with a dollar cut into slugs, in
order that a silver bullet (such was their belief) might bring down the
persecutor of the holy kirk, on whom lead had no power.
“Try him with the cold steel,” was the cry at every renewed
charge--“powder is wasted on him. Ye might as weel shoot at the Auld
Enemy himsell.”
[Note: Proof against Shot given by Satan. The belief of the
Covenanters that their principal enemies, and Claverhouse in
particular, had obtained from the Devil a charm which rendered them
proof against leaden bullets, led them to pervert even the
circumstances of his death. Howie of Lochgoin, after giving some
account of the battle of Killicrankie, adds:
“The battle was very bloody, and by Mackay’s third fire, Claverhouse
fell, of whom historians give little account; but it has been said
for certain, that his own waiting-servant, taking a resolution to
rid the world of this truculent bloody monster, and knowing he had
proof of lead, shot him with a silver button he had before taken off
his own coat for that purpose. However, he fell, and with him
Popery, and King James’s interest in Scotland.”--God’s Judgment on
Persecutors, p. xxxix.
Original note.--“Perhaps some may think this anent proof of a shot a
paradox, and be ready to object here, as formerly, concerning Bishop
Sharpe and Dalziel--‘How can the Devil have or give a power to save
life?’ Without entering upon the thing in its reality, I shall only
observe, 1st, That it is neither in his power, or of his nature, to
be a saviour of men’s lives; he is called Apollyon the destroyer.
2d, That even in this case he is said only to give enchantment
against one kind of metal, and this does not save life: for the lead
would not take Sharpe or Claverhouse’s lives, yet steel and silver
would do it; and for Dalziel, though he died not on the field, he
did not escape the arrows of the Almighty.”--Ibidem.]
But though this was loudly shouted, yet the awe on the insurgents’ minds
was such, that they gave way before Claverhouse as before a supernatural
being, and few men ventured to cross swords with him. Still, however, he
was fighting in retreat, and with all the disadvantages attending that
movement. The soldiers behind him, as they beheld the increasing number
of enemies who poured over the morass, became unsteady; and, at every
successive movement, Major Allan and Lord Evandale found it more and more
difficult to bring them to halt and form line regularly, while, on the
other hand, their motions in the act of retreating became, by degrees,
much more rapid than was consistent with good order. As the retiring
soldiers approached nearer to the top of the ridge, from which in so
luckless an hour they had descended, the panic began to increase. Every
one became impatient to place the brow of the hill between him and the
continued fire of the pursuers; nor could any individual think it
reasonable that he should be the last in the retreat, and thus sacrifice
his own safety for that of others. In this mood, several troopers set
spurs to their horses and fled outright, and the others became so
unsteady in their movements and formations, that their officers every
moment feared they would follow the same example.
Amid this scene of blood and confusion, the trampling of the horses, the
groans of the wounded, the continued fire of the enemy, which fell in a
succession of unintermitted musketry, while loud shouts accompanied each
bullet which the fall of a trooper showed to have been successfully
aimed--amid all the terrors and disorders of such a scene, and when it
was dubious how soon they might be totally deserted by their dispirited
soldiery, Evandale could not forbear remarking the composure of his
commanding officer. Not at Lady Margaret’s breakfast-table that morning
did his eye appear more lively, or his demeanour more composed. He had
closed up to Evandale for the purpose of giving some orders, and picking
out a few men to reinforce his rear-guard.
“If this bout lasts five minutes longer,” he said, in a whisper, “our
rogues will leave you, my lord, old Allan, and myself, the honour of
fighting this battle with our own hands. I must do something to disperse
the musketeers who annoy them so hard, or we shall be all shamed. Don’t
attempt to succour me if you see me go down, but keep at the head of your
men; get off as you can, in God’s name, and tell the king and the council
I died in my duty!”
So saying, and commanding about twenty stout men to follow him, he gave,
with this small body, a charge so desperate and unexpected, that he drove
the foremost of the pursuers back to some distance. In the confusion of
the assault he singled out Burley, and, desirous to strike terror into
his followers, he dealt him so severe a blow on the head, as cut through
his steel head-piece, and threw him from his horse, stunned for the
moment, though unwounded. A wonderful thing it was afterwards thought,
that one so powerful as Balfour should have sunk under the blow of a man,
to appearance so slightly made as Claverhouse; and the vulgar, of course,
set down to supernatural aid the effect of that energy, which a
determined spirit can give to a feebler arm. Claverhouse had, in this
last charge, however, involved himself too deeply among the insurgents,
and was fairly surrounded.
Lord Evandale saw the danger of his commander, his body of dragoons being
then halted, while that commanded by Allan was in the act of retreating.
Regardless of Claverhouse’s disinterested command to the contrary, he
ordered the party which he headed to charge down hill and extricate their
Colonel. Some advanced with him--most halted and stood uncertain--many
ran away. With those who followed Evandale, he disengaged Claverhouse.
His assistance just came in time, for a rustic had wounded his horse in a
most ghastly manner by the blow of a scythe, and was about to repeat the
stroke when Lord Evandale cut him down. As they got out of the press,
they looked round them. Allan’s division had ridden clear over the hill,
that officer’s authority having proved altogether unequal to halt them.
Evandale’s troop was scattered and in total confusion.
“What is to be done, Colonel?” said Lord Evandale.
“We are the last men in the field, I think,” said Claverhouse; “and when
men fight as long as they can, there is no shame in flying. Hector
himself would say, ‘Devil take the hindmost,’ when there are but twenty
against a thousand.--Save yourselves, my lads, and rally as soon as you
can.--Come, my lord, we must e’en ride for it.”
So saying, he put spurs to his wounded horse; and the generous animal, as
if conscious that the life of his rider depended on his exertions,
pressed forward with speed, unabated either by pain or loss of blood.
[Note: Claverhouse’s Charger. It appears, from the letter of
Claverhouse afterwards quoted, that the horse on which he rode at
Drumclog was not black, but sorrel. The author has been misled as to
the colour by the many extraordinary traditions current in Scotland
concerning Claverhouse’s famous black charger, which was generally
believed to have been a gift to its rider from the Author of Evil,
who is said to have performed the Caesarean operation upon its dam.
This horse was so fleet, and its rider so expert, that they are said
to have outstripped and coted, or turned, a hare upon the Bran-Law,
near the head of Moffat Water, where the descent is so precipitous,
that no merely earthly horse could keep its feet, or merely mortal
rider could keep the saddle.
There is a curious passage in the testimony of John Dick, one of the
suffering Presbyterians, in which the author, by describing each of
the persecutors by their predominant qualities or passions, shows
how little their best-loved attributes would avail them in the great
day of judgment. When he introduces Claverhouse, it is to reproach
him with his passion for horses in general, and for that steed in
particular, which was killed at Drumclog, in the manner described in
the text:
“As for that bloodthirsty wretch, Claverhouse, how thinks he to
shelter himself that day? Is it possible the pitiful thing can be so
mad as to think to secure himself by the fleetness of his horse, (a
creature he has so much respect for, that he regarded more the loss
of his horse at Drumclog, than all the men that fell there, and sure
there fell prettier men on either side than himself?) No,
sure--could he fall upon a chemist that could extract the spirit
out of all the horses in the world, and infuse them into his one,
though he were on that horse never so well mounted, he need not
dream of escaping.”--The Testimony to the Doctrine, Worship,
Discipline, and Government of the Church of Scotland, as it was
left in write by that truly pious and eminently faithful, and now
glorified Martyr, Mr John Dick. To which is added, his last Speech
and Behaviour on the Scaffold, on 5th March, 1684, which day he
sealed this testimony. 57 pp. 4to. No year or place of publication.
The reader may perhaps receive some farther information on the
subject of Cornet Grahame’s death and the flight of Claverhouse,
from the following Latin lines, a part of a poem entitled, Bellum
Bothuellianum, by Andrew Guild, which exists in manuscript in the
Advocates’ Library:--
Mons est occiduus, surgit qui celsus in oris,
(Nomine Loudunum) fossis puteisque profundis
Quot scatet hic tellus, et aprico gramine tectus:
Huc collecta (ait), numeroso milite cincta,
Turba ferox, matres, pueri, innuptæque puellæ,
Quam parat egregia Græmus dispersere turma.
Venit et primo campo discedere cogit;
Post hos et alios, cœno provolvit inerti;
At numerosa cohors, campum dispersa per omnem,
Circumfusa, ruit; turmasque, indagine captas,
Aggreditur; virtus non hic, nec profuit ensis;
Corripuere fugam, viridi sed gramine tectis,
Precipitata perit, fossis, pars ultima, quorum
Cornipedes hæsere luto, sessore rejecto:
Tum rabiosa cohors, misereri nescia, stratos
Invadit laceratque viros: hic signifer, eheu!
Trajectus globulo, Græmus, quo fortior alter,
Inter Scotigenas fuerat, nece justior ullus:
Hunc manibus rapuere feris, faciemque virilem
Fœdarunt, lingua, auriculis, manibusque resectis,
Aspera diffuso spargentes saxa cerebro:
Vix dux ipse fuga salvo, namque exta trahebat
Vulnere tardatus sonipes generosus hiante:
Insequitur clamore cohors fanatica, namque
Crudelis semper timidus, si vicerit unquam.
M.S. Bellum Bothuellianum.]
A few officers and soldiers followed him, but in a very irregular and
tumultuary manner. The flight of Claverhouse was the signal for all the
stragglers, who yet offered desultory resistance, to fly as fast as they
could, and yield up the field of battle to the victorious insurgents.