THE SWART RÜYTERS!
With burnished brand and musketoon,
So gallantly you come;
I read you for a bold dragoon,
That lists the tuck of drum.
ROKEBY.
When Walter Fenton recovered, he found himself on horseback, and his
comrades on the march, beyond Crowland, and the setting sun was about
to dip below the far-off horizon. A throng of thoughts chased each
other through his mind, but sorrow was the prevailing one. The rage
he had felt against Napier for his taunts, the hatred for his
rivalry, and animosity for his politics had all passed away; he felt
now the keenest sorrow for his fate, and remorse that he had fallen
by his hand.
The thought did flash upon him, that by the fatal issue of the
encounter, Lilian was indisputably heiress of Bruntisfield and the
Wrytes, but shrinking from contemplation of it, he dismissed it from
his mind, as unworthy to be dwelt upon. By him, the warm
congratulations of his friends were unheeded and unheard; his whole
mind was absorbed in the idea that he had slain the only kinsman of
his beloved Lilian, and destroyed the last of a long and gallant
race, and already in anticipation he beheld her tears, and heard the
sorrowful reproaches of the proud Lady Grisel.
The appearance of the advanced party of Langstone's troopers, whom
the earl knew belonged to Sir John Lanier's brigade of English horse,
had considerably increased the dread of the retreating regiment.
There was now every prospect of being enclosed and cut off, for
independent of infantry pouring from twenty different roads upon
their route, there were 6000 horse following them on the spur from
the eastern and western counties. Actuated by loyalty, by dread of
capture and consequent disarmment, decimation, captivity, or
dispersion, they marched with great rapidity, and to cheer them on,
the earl and his officers constantly encouraged them by enthusiastic
addresses and encomiums, to which the brave Royals responded by
shouts and cheers.
Shrill blew the fifes, and the braced drums rang briskly, as they
entered upon a dreary wold to the northward of Crowland, a grassy and
heathy waste, or down, over which the fading light of the setting sun
shone in all its saffron splendour. On debouching from the road over
which the tall poles with the slender stems of the hops twining and
clambering, though leafless and faded, formed an archway through the
thick and dense hop gardens that bordered each side of the way, the
advanced guard uttered a shout of surprise and defiance, and halted
till the main body came up.
Goring his horse, Dunbarton dashed to the front, and beheld a dense
column of darkly-armed cavalry formed in line across the moor, about
a gunshot distant. They were motionless as statues, and the setting
sun shone full upon their serried files and glittering weapons; they
were soldierlike in aspect; their helmets and corslets were of
unpolished iron, as black as their long jackboots; their yellow
coats, heavily cuffed, and with looped skirts, proclaimed them Dutch,
Their horses were large, heavily jointed, and as phlegmatic in aspect
as their riders, for the whole brigade stood motionless and still as
a line of bronze statues. Even their blue standards, with, the white
_fess_, hung pendant and unmoven.
A little in advance of the line was an officer on horseback,
motionless, inert, and seemingly fast asleep; he was a man of vast
rotundity, and cased in a capacious cuirass of polished steel, which
gave him the aspect of a mighty tortoise, or some great bulb of which
the gilt helmet formed the apex. An enormous basket-hilted sword
swung on one side of him, and a brass blunderbuss on the other; while
a great tin speaking-trumpet, like that of a Dutch skipper (then
common in all armies, and last used by the brave Lord Heathfield),
was grasped in his right hand. So utterly lifeless seemed the whole
array, that if any other proof was wanting, it alone would have
proclaimed them Hollanders.
"Dutch, by all the devils!" cried Dunbarton, galloping back to the
Royals. "'Tis the Baron De Ginckel and his Swart Ruyters. Pikes
against cavalry! Gavin, throw your grenadiers into the centre.
Finland, Drumquhazel, brave gentlemen, march me your companies to the
front. Musqueteers, blow your matches, open your pans, and prepare
to give fire!"
"Shoulder to shoulder, my boys!" cried Dr. Joram; "though the number
of Gog be countless as the sand on the sea-shore, fear not!"
"God save King James! Hurrah!" cried the Royals, as the pikemen
rushed forward to form the outer faces of the square, in which
Dunbarton resolved to cut a passage through the Dutch, as there was
no time for a protracted fight by taking advantage of the localities;
for other troops were pressing forward on every hand. Like a vast
hedgehog with all its bristles erected, the band of Scots, in one
dense mass, debouched upon the wold, with their fifteen hundred
helmets and myriads of bright points gleaming in the last flush of
the set sun. The stout pikemen, with their long weapons charged (or
levelled) from the right haunch before them, formed the outer faces
of the square; and the musqueteers, with their smoking matches and
polished barrels, the rear-rank; in the centre were the grenadiers
with their open pouches and lighted grenades, clustered round the
Scottish standards, beneath which the old national march was beaten
by twenty drums, as the whole column moved, with admirable order and
invincible aspect, towards the centre of that long line of horse,
whose flanks, when thrown forward, would quite have encircled them.
With his half-pike in his hand, Walter marched in front of the first
face, and he felt a glow of ardour burn within him as they neared the
Swart Ruyters--for so these horsemen were named, from their black
armour.
The moment the Royals advanced, De Ginckel placed his great trumpet
to his mouth, and puffing out his cheeks, in a voice of thunder
bellowed an order to break and form squadrons, for the purpose of
attacking the Scots on every side. Hoarsely and deeply, in guttural
Dutch, rang the words of command, as each successive captain gave the
order to his troop; and the whole line became instinct with life and
action. Swords and helmets flashed, and standards waved, as the
heavy iron squadrons, galloping obliquely to the right and left,
formed in two dense columns, preparatory to charging.
"We will be assailed on every hand," exclaimed the Earl; "but be
firm, my brave hearts, and quail not, for our lives and liberties
depend upon the issue of this conflict. Halt! pikemen, keep shoulder
to shoulder like a wall."
"Vivat!" cried the Dutch dragoons; "gluck! gluck! vivat Wilhelm!"
On they came in heavy masses, but ere their goring spurs had urged
their ponderous chargers to the gallop, the voice of Dunbarton was
again heard--
"Musqueteers, open your pans--give fire!"
"Hurrah; down with the Stadtholder, and death to his hirelings!"
cried the Scots; and the roar of six hundred muskets seemed to rend
the very air, and reverberated like thunder over the echoing heath.
From each face of the square, above the stands of pikes, six ranks
poured at once their vollies, three kneeling and three firing over
their heads, according to the old Swedish custom of the Scots when
formed in squares. Two hundred grenades soared hissing into the air,
sank and burst, and the effect was tremendous on the advancing Dutch.
More than a hundred and fifty troopers and horses fell prone on the
frozen heath, dead or rolling in the agonies of death, and were
fearfully trampled and kicked as the rearward squadrons, instead of
dashing onward, reined up simultaneously, and appalled by the
slaughter, and aware of the inutility of attacking a square of
resolute infantry, began to recoil.
A shout of fierce derision burst from the retreating Scots, as de
Ginckel, like a vast Triton blowing on a conch, galloped from troop
to troop, bellowing in furious Dutch the order to advance,
accompanied by a storm of hoarse abuse; but his Ruyters were
immoveable, and he beat both officers and men with the bell of his
trumpet in vain. While reloading and blowing their matches the
musketeers continued retiring with all expedition towards a thick
coppice that grew on the margin of the moor about a mile distant.
The Dutch cavalry re-formed, for pursuit. The roadway on the
snow-covered moorland was scarcely visible in the grey twilight; on
the right it branched off towards Boston, and on the left towards
Folkingham.
Dunbarton knew not the exact route, but his whole aim for the present
moment was to reach the copse wood, where he would be less assailable
by horse.
When but a quarter of a mile from this friendly bourne, a drum was
heard to beat within its recesses, a long line of bright arms flashed
under its dark shadows, and as if by magic the fugitive band beheld
Maitland's brigade of the Scots Guards two thousand strong, drawn up
in firm array, with the red matches of their shouldered muskets
gleaming like a wavy line of wildfire in the twilight of the evening.
The shout of wrath and dismay that burst from the soldiers of
Dunbarton, was immediately succeeded by another--for lo! a dense body
of cavalry debouched from the Boston road, forming line at full
gallop as they spread over the wold, while another in dark and close
array, came leisurely up at a trot from the ancient town of
Folkingham, and all their trumpets sounded at once in martial and
varying cadence, as they came in sight of the fugitives, and reined
up for further orders.
"Lanier's troopers on the right!" said Finland.
"Marmaduke Langstone on the left!" added Dr. Joram; "hemmed
in--lost--there is nothing for it now but surrender to the
Philistines."
"Or die in our ranks!" said Walter Fenton.
"Right, my young gallant!" replied the Earl. "All is indeed lost
now--but discretion is oft the better part of valour, and by yielding
for the present we may the better serve King James at a future
period, than by being shot on the instant, and thus ending our lives
and our loyalty together. What say ye, cavaliers and comrades?"
Though the Earl spoke thus lightly, his heart was throbbing with
smothered passion, and the murmur that broke from his soldiers was
expressive rather of wrath and fury than acquiescence to his advice.
Then a dead silence followed, and not a sound was heard throughout
the different bands arrayed on the level waste, but the clank of
accoutrements as two Dutch officers, dispatched by the Baron de
Ginckel rode up to Langstone and to Lanier, to communicate the orders
of their leader, who was rapidly advancing with his strong column of
Ruyters, so disposed as completely to cut off all hope of flight in
any direction.
In spite of his natural courage, Walter felt his heart now become a
prey to intense sadness, if not apprehension. Jaded and wearied by
excessive fatigue, his comrades were dispirited and little inclined
for new strife, to engage in which, so far from their native land,
and when hemmed in by forces so much more numerous, would have been
madness. He contemplated with horror being a prisoner to the Dutch
or English, to be banished perhaps to the West Indies or some far
foreign station, or to endure a protracted captivity, and a shameful
death--in either case perhaps never again to behold his Lilian and
his loved native land, for to a Scotsman the love of home is a second
being--a part of his existence. So much was he occupied with these
sad thoughts that he was not aware a flag of truce was approaching,
until he saw an English cavalier rein up his horse within a few yards
of him. The stranger bowed gracefully, saying,
"Sir Marmaduke Langstone would speak with the Earl of Dunbarton--he
is bearer of a message from Goderdt de Ginckel, Earl of Athlone."
"Say forth, Sir Marmaduke," replied the noble Douglas; "if it be such
as a Scottish Earl may hear without dishonour. What says Mynheer of
Athlone?"
The Englishman laughed and replied,
"He desires me to acquaint your Lordship and those gallant Scots who
have so rashly revolted from King William----"
"You mistake, Sir; we never joined the banner of the statholder, and
cannot be termed revolters."
"Then ye are rebels by the laws of the land."
"Not of England, as we owe it neither suit nor service."
"Then ye have broken the laws of your own country."
"Under favor, Sir Marmaduke! We hold our commissions from the
Scottish Parliament, from whom we have received no orders, since we
marched south among you here; and you sadly mistake in naming those
rebels, who still wear the king's uniform."
"My Lord," rejoined the English knight haughtily, "I have no time to
argue these niceties with you. De Ginckel desires me to inform you,
that he will grant such terms as might be expected by any other
foreign foe who hath marched on English ground, with drums beating
and standards displayed--and these are, life and kindness, on an
unconditional surrender of arms and all martial insignia, yielding
yourselves prisoners at discretion."
The swarthy cheek of the Earl grew gradually crimson with passion as
Langstone spoke; but an expression of shame and mortification
succeeded.
"Alas, alas!" said he, looking sadly on the silk standards that
rustled in the evening wind. "Are those old banners that were
wrought for us by the noble demoiselles of Versailles to be thus
dishonoured at last? Often have they been pierced by the bullets,
but never sullied by the touch of a foe!"
"We will yield to our ain kindly folk," cried Sergeant Wemyss and
several soldiers; "we will yield us to Major Maitland and the Scots
Guards."
"You must surrender to the Swart Ruyters alone, my brave hearts!"
cried Langstone.
"And what if we do not?" asked Dunbarton.
"Good my Lord, the consequences will be frightful--unconditional
surrender, or utter extermination, Dutch terms. On every hand you
are hemmed in, and every road to your native land is blocked up by
enemies. My noble Lord," and here with generous confidence the brave
Englishman rode close to the levelled pikes, "be advised by one who
wishes well to Scot as to Southern. If one cannot fight prudently
to-day, better be fighting a year hence, than have the sod growing
green over us. Shall I ride back to the Baron, and promise your
surrender?"
"Be it so; but deeply do I grieve that Sir Marmaduke Langstone, whose
family has ever been distinguished for valour and loyalty, is the
propounder of such bitter terms to George of Dunbarton."
"The times are changed, my Lord; live and let live is my motto; had
such been the maxim of James II., this sword, which _my_ father drew
for _his_ at Marston, had not this day been drawn against him.
Liberty of conscience is dear to us all, and I respect the high
principles of those soldiers who rushed to the standard of our
deliverer."
"Then learn still more to respect the chivalry and generosity of the
few whose principles of loyalty bound them to their unhappy king in
the darkest hour of his distress and misfortune."
"Decide, my Lord, decide--for the Swart Ruyters are closing up troop
upon troop."
"We will yield our national standards to the Scottish Guards--our
arms and persons to de Ginckel."
"It is enough," replied Sir Marmaduke, as he wheeled round his horse,
and rode towards the immense Dutch commander, whose Ruyters with the
brigades of Scots and English, had now hemmed in the fugitives, as it
were in a large hollow square.
Far off, at the horizon of the frozen heath, the winter moon shining,
red and luminous rose slowly into the blue sky, eclipsing the light
of the diamond-like stars as it ascended; and its pale splendour fell
brightly and steadily on the fitful weapons and the dark masses of
half mailed men, among whom they gleamed--on the white and
powder-like frost that glittered silvery and clearly on every blade
of grass, and on the dark spots that dotted the plain to the
southward.
There many a rider and horse were lying stiff and cold.
END OF VOL. II.
LONDON:
HARRISON AND SON, PRINTERS,
ST. MARTIN'S LANE.