THE REVOLT AT IPSWICH.
I scorn them both! I am too stout a Scotsman,
To bear a Southron's rule an instant longer
Than discipline obliges.
SCOTT.
Unconscious of this bold abduction, a whisper of which would have
driven him mad, on the very night it took place, Walter Fenton was
seated with Douglas of Finland in the public room of a large hostel
or tavern in the central street of Ipswich.
It was the sign of the "Bulloign Gate:" the house was curious and
old-fashioned; and on entering, one descended several steps, in
consequence of the soil having risen upon the walls. Its fantastic
front presented a series of heavy projections, rising from
grotesquely-carved oak beams, diagonally crossed with spars of the
same wood; little latticed windows, and two deep gloomy galleries,
and projecting oriels, over which the then leafless woodbine and
honeysuckle clambered, and from thence to the curious stacks of brick
chimneys, and broad Swiss-like roofs, with their carved and painted
eaves.
The host, a bluff and burly Englishman, with the whole of his vast
obesity encased in a spotless-white apron, and exhibiting a great,
unmeaning, and bald-pated visage, every line of which receded from
the point of his pug nose, sat within the outer bar, where countless
jugs of pewter, mugs of Delft, and crystal goblets shone in the light
of a sea-coal fire, that roared and blazed in the wide fire-place of
the public room.
At a table in one corner of the latter, a ponderously fat Southern
was engaged in discussing several pounds of broiled bacon and a small
basket of eggs. Over the great pewter trencher his round flushed
face beamed like a full moon, while he had the wide cuffs of his coat
turned up, and a great napkin like a bib tucked under his chin to
enable him to sup without spotting his glossy suit of drap-de-Berri.
Near him were several groups of saucy-like citizens, in short brown
wigs and plain broadcloth suits, playing at tric-trac,
knave-out-o'-doors, and drinking mulled beer or egg-flip; while from
time to time they eyed the Scottish officers askance, and whispered
such jokes as the prejudices of the lower English still inspire them
to make upon aliens. These they did, however, very covertly and
quietly, not caring to enter into a brawl with two such richly-clad
and stout cavaliers, armed with sword and dagger, and whose comrades,
fifteen hundred in number, were all in the adjoining street.
Our friends sat silent and thoughtful, drinking each a posset of
wine. Walter's eyes were fixed on the glowing embers of the fire and
the changing figures they exhibited; while Finland seemed wholly
intent on reading two papers pasted over the mantel-piece. One was
the sailing notice of "the good ship Restoration, _which_ was to sail
from the Hermitage Bridge, London, for Leith, on the penult of next
month, ye master to be spoke with on ye Scots Walk, where he would
promise civility and good entertainment to passengers." The other
was a proclamation, signed W.R., regarding the quarters of the
Scottish forces in divisions. The cavalier's brow grew black as his
eye fell on it; and he sighed, saying:
"Matters are now at a low ebb with the King. Religion and misfortune
have fairly check-mated him, as we say at chess."
"Measter, say rather his curst Scottish pride and obstinacy," said a
great burly fellow, whose striped apron and greasy doublet announced
him to be a butcher. Finland gave him a scornful glance; but being
unwilling to engage in a brawl, was about to address Walter again,
when the corpulent citizen, having gorged himself to the throat, now
felt inclined to be jocular; and looking at the long bowl-hilted
rapiers and poignards of the Scots, said:
"Sword and dagger! by my feeth, thee art zo well vortified, that if
well victualled, as thy coontryman, lousy King Jemmy, zaid to the
swash-bookler, thee wouldst be impregnable. He was at Feversham by
the last account," resumed the butcher, "with that long-nosed Jesuit,
his confessor, about to embark vor France or Ireland--devil care
which. Here is a long horn, lads, that King and confessor may gang
to the bottom together."
"Silence, rascal!" said Walter. "Remember that we wear the King's
uniform."
"Dom! and wot care I?" said the bumpkin, pushing forward with every
disposition to annoy and insult, while a dozen of his townsmen
crowded at his elbow. "Have ye not changed sides, like the rest of
your canny coontrymen, and joined King William?"
"We have not!" replied Douglas, fiercely, making a tremendous effort
to keep down the storm of passion and national hostility that blazed
up within him. "Our solitary regiment alone remains yet true to
James VII., over whom (with all his faults) I pray Heaven to keep its
guard. I abhor his religion, and despise the bigots by whom he is
surrounded, as much as you may do, good fellow; but I cannot forget
that he is our rightful King; and for him, as such, I am ready to die
on the field or the scaffold, should such be my fate."
The fire of his expression, the dignity of his aspect, and the
splendour of his attire, completely awed the English boors, and for a
moment they drew back.
"You mistake, good people, if you think that, like too many of our
comrades, we have changed banners. No! we are still the faithful
subjects of that King who heirs his crown by that hereditary right
which comes direct from God. This Dutch usurper (whom the devil
confound!) hath made us splendid offers if we will take service with
him, and march to fight for his rascally Hollanders under Mareschal
Schomberg, instead of our good and gallant Dunbarton; and, to
intimidate us, is even now enclosing us in your town of Ipswich by
blocking up the roads with troops. But let him beware! we have stout
hearts and strong hands, and Dunbarton may show him a trick of the
Black Douglas days, that will cool the Dutchman's courage, despite
his black beer and Skiedam. Yes, Fenton; the arrival of Schomberg to
command us _bongré malgré_ will bring us to the tilt."
While Douglas spoke with animation and energy, the Ipswichers had
gazed upon him with open mouths and eyes, not in the least
comprehending him; but their champion, suddenly taking it into his
head that he was defied, threw his hat on the ground, and tucked up
his sleeves, saying:
"Dom, but I'll vicht thee for a vardin, an ye have zo much about
thee. Dom thee and all thy lousy coontrymen; they should be droomed
out o' the town, before they get fattened up among us. Come on, my
canny Scot, and if I doant lace thy boof coat for all its tags and
tassels, I aint Timothy Tesh of the Back Alley."
"Hoozah!" shouted the rabble in the room and at the doorway, where
they had collected in great numbers on hearing high words in the
tavern.
"Sawney, hast anything else than oats in thee pooch?" cried one.
"He hath some brimstone, I'll warrant," added another.
"Oot upon thee for a vile Scot that zold his king for a groat, to
zave his precious kirk."
"Come on, Measter Scot, and I drub thee in vurst rate style as old
Noll did thy psalm-sing countrymen at Dunbarfield. Rat thee! my
vather was killed there."
"Heyday, my canny Scot, wilt try a fall with me for a copper bawbee?
Dom thee and thy mass-moonging race of Stuarts to boot. May ye all
go to hell in the lump!"
"Ware your money, my masters, there are Scots thieves among us," said
the Host, entering into the spirit of his townsmen.
Walter and Douglas exchanged mutual glances expressive of the scorn
they felt.
"Silence, knaves!" cried Finland, kicking over the table, dashing all
the jugs to pieces, and drawing his sword. "This is but a poor
specimen of that southern spirit of generosity and hospitality of
which (among yourselves) we hear so much said. Bullying and grossly
insulting two unoffending strangers, who are guiltless of the
slightest provocation; and I tell thee, Butcher, that were it not
beneath a gentleman of name and coat-armour to lay hands on your
plebeian hide, I would break every bone it contains."
Flushed with ale and impudence, and encouraged by the presence of his
friends, the fellow came resolutely forward; he was immensely strong
and muscular, but rage had endued Douglas with double strength, and,
seizing him by the brawny throat, he dashed him twice against the
wall with such force, that the blood gushed from his nostrils in a
torrent, and he lay stunned without sense or motion.
His comrades were somewhat appalled for a moment; but gathering
courage from their numbers, and enraged at the rough treatment
experienced by Mr. Tesh, they snatched up the fire-irons, stools, and
chairs, and commenced a simultaneous assault upon the two cavaliers,
who, rapier in hand, endeavoured to break through them and gain the
doorway, where now a dense and hostile crowd had collected, who
poured upon them a thousand injurious taunts and invectives.
The affair was beginning to look serious. Fired by their insolence
and the old inherent spirit of national animosity Walter Fenton
lunged furiously before him, and shredding the ear off one fellow,
slashed the cheek of a second, ran a third through the
shoulder-blade, but was borne to the ground by a blow from behind.
Walter's sword-hand was completely mastered, and he struggled with
his heavy assailants, unable to free his dagger or obtain the least
assistance from Finland, who, with his back to the wall, was fighting
with rapier and poignard against the dense rabble that pressed around
him.
Walter struggled furiously. The moment was critical, but he was
saved by the timely arrival of an officer with a few of the Royal
Scots, who burst among them sword in hand.
"Place, villains--make way," he exclaimed, with the voice and bearing
of one in high authority. "I am George Earl of Dunbarton!"
They fell back awed not less by his demeanour than by the weapons of
his followers.
"Chastise these scoundrels, Wemyss," said he to a serjeant who
followed him. "Lay on well with your hilts and bandoliers; strike,
Halbert Elshender, for it is beneath a gentleman to lay hands on
clod-poles such as these."
Thus urged, the soldiers who required little or no incentive to make
use of their hands against their southern neighbours, laid on with
might and main, and, clearing the house in a twinkling, drove the
clamorous host out with his guests; after which they overhauled the
premises, and set a few of his best runlets abroach.
"A thousand thanks, my Lord Earl, for this timely rescue," exclaimed
Finland. "But for your intervention I must indubitably have hurried
some of those rogues into a better world."
"And I had been worried like an otter by a pack of terriers," said
Walter; "however, I have had blood for blood."
"The old Moss Trooper's justice, Master Fenton," said Serjeant
Wemyss, drinking a flagon of wine. "God bless the good cause, and
all true Scottish hearts."
"Here is to thee, Wemyss, my noble Halberdier," said the frank Earl,
drinking from the same cup; "and I would to the Powers above, that
this night King James had under his standard ten thousand hearts like
thine. But time presses--away, lads, to the muster-place, for hark,
our drums are beating."
"The _générale_!" exclaimed Fenton and Finland, as the passing drums
rang loudly in the adjacent streets.
"Yes, gentlemen, the crisis has come," said the Earl; "an hour ago,
De Schomberg arrived to deprive me of my command."
"By whose orders?"
"The Stadtholder's."
"We know him not, save as an usurper," said Walter Fenton; "and
rather than obey his Mareschal, we will die with our swords in our
hands."
Wemyss flourished his halbert, the soldiers uttered a shout, and
poured forth to the muster-place.
It was a clear frosty night; the whole sky was of the most beautiful
and unclouded blue. Seven tolled from the bells of St. Peter's
church. The winter moon, broad, vast, and saffron-coloured, rising
above a steep eminence called the Bishops' Hill, poured its flaky
lustre through the narrow and irregular streets of Ipswich, which in
1688 differed very much from those of the present day. There terror
and confusion reigned on every hand for, on the drums beating to
arms, the mayor and inhabitants feared that the Scots would burn and
sack the town, which assuredly they would have done, had Dunbarton
expressed a wish to that effect.
Save where the bright moonlight shot through the crooked
thoroughfares, the whole town was involved in gloom and obscurity;
but every window was crowded with anxious faces, watching the Scots
hurrying to their alarm-post, while the flashing of their helmets and
the clank of their accoutrements impressed with no ordinary terror
the timid and the disloyal.
By this time King James had fled from Whitehall, and under an escort
of Dutch troops, was--nobody knew where. William was in possession
of his palace, from whence he issued orders to the troops, and
proclamations to the people, with all the air of a conqueror and
authority of a king. The entire forces of Britain had joined him,
save sixty gentlemen of the Scottish Life Guards, and a few of the
Scots' Greys (who were on their way home, under Viscount Dundee), and
the Royals, whom, from their number, discipline, and known faith to
James, the Stadtholder was very desirous of sending abroad forthwith,
under command of the Marshal-Duke of Schomberg, a venerable soldier
of fortune, whose arrival at Ipswich on the night in question had
brought matters to a sudden issue.
Clad in a plain buff coat, with a black iron helmet and breastplate,
Dunbarton galloped into the market-place of Ipswich, where the two
battalions of his musqueteers were arrayed, three deep, in one firm
and motionless line, with the moon shining brightly on their steel
caps, their glittering bandoliers, and the gleaming barrels of their
shouldered arms. As he dashed up, the four standards--two of white
silk, with the azure cross, and two with the old red lion and
fleurs-de-lys--were unfurled, and a crash of prolonged music rang
through the echoing street, and many a bright point flashed in the
moonlight as the arms were presented, and the hoarse drums rolled the
Point of War, while the handsome Earl bowed to his holsters, as he
reined up his fiery horse before his gallant comrades. The music
died away, again the harness rang, and then all became still, save
the hum of the fearful crowd, and the rustle of the embroidered
banners.
"Fellow-soldiers of the Old Royals!" exclaimed the Earl, "at last the
hour has come which must prove to the uttermost if that faith and
honour which have ever been our guiding-stars, our watchword and
parole, still exist among us--when we must strike, or be for ever
lost! Through many a day of blood and danger we have upborne our
banners in the wars of Luxembourg, of the great Condé, and the
gallant Turenne; and shall we desert them now? I trow not! Oh!
remember the glories of France and Flanders, of Brabant and Alsace.
Remember the brave comrades who there fell by your side, and are now
perhaps looking down on us from amid these sparkling stars. O, my
friends, remember the brave and faithful dead!
"Shall it be said that the ancient Royals, les gardes Ecossais of the
princely Louis, so faithful and true to the race of Bourbon, deserted
their native monarch in this sad hour of his fallen fortune, and at
most extremity? No! I know ye will serve him as he must be served,
till treason and rebellion are crushed beneath our feet like
vipers--I know you will fight to the last gasp, and fall like true
Scottish men--I know ye are prepared to dare and to do, and to die
when the hour comes!"
A deep murmur of applause rang along the triple ranks.
"That hour is come! Even now, Frederick De Schomberg, the tool and
minion of the Dutch usurper and his parricidal wife, is within the
walls of Ipswich, empowered to deprive me of my baton, which I hold
from the Parliament of Scotland, and to lead you--where? To the
foggy flats and pestilential fens of Holland, the land of agues and
hypocrisy, to fight for his beggarly boors and pampered burgomasters,
and to encounter our ancient comrades of France--the bold and
beautiful France, whose glories we and our predecessors have shared
on a thousand immortal fields. Between us and our home lie many
hundred miles. De Ginckel, with three thousand Swart Ruyters, hovers
on the Lincoln road to intercept us; Sir John Lanier, with two
squadrons of English cavalry, awaits us on another; while that false
villain Maitland, with a foot brigade of our Scottish guards, is
pushing on from London to assail our rear. But fear not, my good and
gallant comrades, for by the blessing of God, by the holy
consecration of these standards, by the strength of our hands, by the
valour of our hearts, and the justice of our cause, we will cut our
way through ten thousand obstacles, and reach the far-off hills of
the Scottish highlands, where the loyal clans are all in arms, and
wait but the appearance of Dundee and myself to sweep like a
whirlwind down on the Lowlander!"
A loud shout from fifteen hundred men rang through the market-place,
and the brave heart of Dunbarton swelled with exultation at the
devotion of his loyal soldiers, and anger at the desertion of their
false comrades. He was not, however, without considerable anxiety as
to the issue of this decided revolt, or rather appeal to arms, at
such a distance from their native land, and in a place where they
were so utterly without sympathy, succour, or friends--where to be a
Scotsman was to be an enemy. But the very desperation of the attempt
endued him with fresh energy. Ere he marched his devoted band, he
addressed Gavin of that ilk, a tall gigantic officer, with a rapier
nearly five feet long--
"Go to the house of the town treasurer, and tell him instantly to
hand you over 10,000_l._ for the service of King James, under pain of
immediate military execution. If the villain demur----"
"I'll twist his neck like a cock-patrick!" said Gavin.
"You will rejoin us at the bridge of the Orwell."
"And how if these rascally burghers make me prisoner?"
"Then, by the blood of the Black Douglas!" said the Earl,
passionately, "I will not leave one stone of Ipswich standing upon
another."
Gavin strode away, and his tall feathers were seen floating above the
heads of the shrinking crowd that occupied the lower end of the
marketplace.
"And harkee, Finland!" continued the Earl, "take young Walter Fenton
and fifty tall musqueteers, break open the English government
arsenal, and bring off four pieces of cannon which I understand are
there; press horses wherever you can get them; blow up the magazine;
and join us at the bridge--forgetting not, if you are invaded, to
handle the citizens at discretion, in our old Flemish fashion. By
Heaven, they may be thankful that I have not treated their town of
Ipswich as old John of Tsercla, the Count Tilly, did Magdeburg.
Away, then!"