THE CONFLICT
When Fergus Mac-Ivor and his friend had slept for a few hours, they were
awakened, and summoned to attend the Prince. The distant village-clock
was heard to toll three as they hastened to the place where he lay.
He was already surrounded by his principal officers and the chiefs of
clans. A bundle of peas-straw, which had been lately his couch, now
served for his seat. Just as Fergus reached the circle, the consultation
had broken up. 'Courage, my brave friends!' said the Chevalier, 'and
each one put himself instantly at the head of his command; a faithful
friend [See Note 26.] has offered to guide us by a practicable, though
narrow and circuitous route, which, sweeping to our right, traverses
the broken ground and morass, and enables us to gain the firm and open
plain, upon which the enemy are lying. This difficulty surmounted,
Heaven and your good swords must do the rest.'
The proposal spread unanimous joy, and each leader hastened to get his
men into order with as little noise as possible. The army, moving by
its right from off the ground on which they had rested, soon entered the
path through the morass, conducting their march with astonishing silence
and great rapidity. The mist had not risen to the higher grounds, so
that for some time they had the advantage of starlight. But this was
lost as the stars faded before approaching day, and the head of the
marching column, continuing its descent, plunged as it were into the
heavy ocean of fog, which rolled its white waves over the whole plain,
and over the sea by which it was bounded. Some difficulties were now to
be encountered, inseparable from darkness,--a narrow, broken, and
marshy path, and the necessity of preserving union in the march. These,
however, were less inconvenient to Highlanders, from their habits of
life, than they would have been to any other troops, and they continued
a steady and swift movement.
As the clan of Ivor approached the firm ground, following the track of
those who preceded them, the challenge of a patrol was heard through the
mist, though they could not see the dragoon by whom it was made--'Who
goes there?'
'Hush!' cried Fergus, 'hush!--Let none answer, as he values his
life.--Press forward!' and they continued their march with silence and
rapidity.
The patrol fired his carabine upon the body, and the report was
instantly followed by the clang of his horse's feet as he galloped off.
'HYLAX IN LIMINE LATRAT,' said the Baron of Bradwardine, who heard the
shot; 'that loon will give the alarm.'
The clan of Fergus had now gained the firm plain, which had lately borne
a large crop of corn. But the harvest was gathered in, and the expense
was unbroken by tree, bush, or interruption of any kind. The rest of the
army were following fast, when they heard the drums of the enemy beat
the general. Surprise, however, had made no part of their plan, so they
were not disconcerted by this intimation that the foe was upon his guard
and prepared to receive them. It only hastened their dispositions for
the combat, which were very simple.
The Highland army, which now occupied the eastern end of the wide plain,
or stubble field, so often referred to, was drawn up in two lines,
extending from the morass towards the sea. The first was destined to
charge the enemy, the second to act as a reserve. The few horse,
whom the Prince headed in person, remained between the two lines. The
Adventurer had intimated a resolution to charge in person at the head of
his first line; but his purpose was deprecated by all around him, and he
was with difficulty induced to abandon it.
Both lines were now moving forward, the first prepared for instant
combat. The clans of which it was composed, formed each a sort of
separate phalanx, narrow in front, and in depth ten, twelve, or fifteen
files, according to the strength of the following. The best armed and
best born, for the words were synonymous, were placed in front of each
of these irregular subdivisions. The others in the rear shouldered
forward the front, and by their pressure added both physical impulse,
and additional ardour and confidence, to those who were first to
encounter the danger.
'Down with your plaid, Waverley,' cried Fergus, throwing off his own;
'we'll win silks for our tartans before the sun is above the sea.'
The clansmen on every side stripped their plaids, prepared their arms,
and there was an awful pause of about three minutes, during which
the men, pulling off their bonnets, raised their faces to heaven, and
uttered a short prayer; then pulled their bonnets over their brows, and
began to move forward at first slowly. Waverley felt his heart at that
moment throb as it would have burst from his bosom. It was not fear, it
was not ardour,--it was a compound of both, a new and deeply energetic
impulse, that with its first emotion chilled and astounded, then fevered
and maddened his mind, The sounds around him combined to exalt his
enthusiasm; the pipes played, and the clans rushed forward, each in
its own dark column. As they advanced they mended their pace, and the
muttering sounds of the men to each other began to swell into a wild
cry.
At this moment, the sun, which was now risen above the horizon,
dispelled the mist. The vapours rose like a curtain, and showed the
two armies in the act of closing. The line of the regulars was formed
directly fronting the attack of the Highlanders; it glittered with
the appointments of a complete army, and was flanked by cavalry and
artillery. But the sight impressed no terror on the assailants.
'Forward, sons of Ivor,' cried their Chief, 'or the Camerons will draw
the first blood!'--They rushed on with a tremendous yell.
The rest is well known. The horse, who were commanded to charge the
advancing Highlanders in the flank, received an irregular fire from
their fusees as they ran on, and, seized with a disgraceful panic,
wavered, halted, disbanded, and galloped from the field. The
artillerymen, deserted by the cavalry, fled after discharging their
pieces, and the Highlanders, who dropped their guns when fired, and drew
their broadswords, rushed with headlong fury against the infantry.
It was at this moment of confusion and terror, that Waverley remarked an
English officer, apparently of high rank, standing alone and unsupported
by a field-piece, which, after the flight of the men by whom it was
wrought, he had himself levelled and discharged against the clan of
Mac-Ivor, the nearest group of Highlanders within his aim. Struck
with his tall, martial figure, and eager to save him from inevitable
destruction, Waverley outstripped for an instant even the speediest of
the warriors, and, reaching the spot first, called to him to surrender.
The officer replied by a thrust with his sword, which Waverley received
in his target, and in turning it aside the Englishman's weapon broke.
At the same time the battle-axe of Dugald Mahony was in the act of
descending upon the officer's head. Waverley intercepted and prevented
the blow, and the officer, perceiving further resistance unavailing,
and struck with Edward's generous anxiety for his safety, resigned the
fragment of his sword, and was committed by Waverley to Dugald, with
strict charge to use him well, and not to pillage his person, promising
him, at the same time, full indemnification for the spoil.
On Edward's right, the battle for a few minutes raged fierce and thick.
The English infantry, trained in the wars in Flanders, stood their
ground with great courage. But their extended files were pierced and
broken in many places by the close masses of the clans; and in the
personal struggle which ensued, the nature of the Highlanders' weapons,
and their extraordinary fierceness and activity, gave them a decided
superiority over those who had been accustomed to trust much to their
array and discipline, and felt that the one was broken and the other
useless. Waverley, as he cast his eyes towards this scene of smoke and
slaughter, observed Colonel Gardiner, deserted by his own soldiers in
spite of all his attempts to rally them, yet spurring his horse through
the field to take the command of a small body of infantry, who, with
their backs arranged against the wall of his own park (for his house
was close by the field of battle), continued a desperate and unavailing
resistance. Waverley could perceive that he had already received many
wounds, his clothes and saddle being marked with blood. To save this
good and brave man, became the instant object of his most anxious
exertions. But he could only witness his fall. Ere Edward could make
his way among the Highlanders, who, furious and eager for spoil, now
thronged upon each other, he saw his former commander brought from his
horse by the blow of a scythe, and beheld him receive, while on the
ground, more wounds than would have let out twenty lives. When Waverley
came up, however, perception had not entirely fled. The dying warrior
seemed to recognize Edward, for he fixed his eye upon him with an
upbraiding, yet sorrowful look, and appeared to struggle for utterance.
But he felt that death was dealing closely with him, and resigning his
purpose, and folding his hands as if in devotion, he gave up his soul
to his Creator. The look with which he regarded Waverley in his dying
moments did not strike him so deeply at that crisis of hurry and
confusion, as when it recurred to his imagination at the distance of
some time. [See Note 27.]
Loud shouts of triumph now echoed over the whole field. The battle was
fought and won, and the whole baggage, artillery, and military stores
of the regular army remained in possession of the victors. Never was a
victory more complete. Scarce any escaped from the battle, excepting the
cavalry, who had left it at the very onset, and even these were broken
into different parties and scattered all over the country. So far as our
tale is concerned, we have only to relate the fate of Balmawhapple, who,
mounted on a horse as headstrong and stiff-necked as his rider, pursued
the flight of the dragoons above four miles from the field of battle,
when some dozen of the fugitives took heart of grace, turned round, and,
cleaving his skull with their broadswords, satisfied the world that
the unfortunate gentleman had actually brains, the end of his life thus
giving proof of a fact greatly doubted during its progress. His death
was lamented by few. Most of those who knew him agreed in the pithy
observation of Ensign Maccombich, that there 'was mair TINT (lost) at
Sheriff-Muir.' His friend, Lieutenant Jinker, bent his eloquence only
to exculpate his favourite mare from any share in contributing to the
catastrophe. 'He had tauld the laird a thousand times,' he said, 'that
it was a burning shame to put a martingale upon the puir thing, when he
would needs ride her wi' a curb of half a yard lang; and that he could
na but bring himsell (not to say her) to some mischief, by flinging her
down, or otherwise; whereas, if he had had a wee bit rinnin ring on the
snaffle, she wad ha' rein'd as cannily as a cadger's pownie.'
Such was the elegy of the Laird of Balmawhapple. [See Note 28.]