There is no letter from Claverhouse in this year, 1679, later than that
reporting the defeat at Drumclog. There was, indeed, no occasion for him
to write. As soon as the news of his defeat and the attack on Glasgow
had reached the Council, orders were at once sent for the forces to
withdraw from the latter place and join Linlithgow at Stirling. After
Bothwell Bridge had been won he was sent again into the West on the
weary work that we have already seen him employed on. But during the
intervening time his independent command had ceased. At the same time
there is no reason to suppose that he was in any disgrace for the defeat
at Drumclog. He had committed the fault, not uncommon, as military
history teaches, with more experienced leaders than Claverhouse, of
holding his foe too cheaply: he had committed this fault, and he had
paid the penalty. There is some vague story of a sealed commission not
to be opened till in the presence of the enemy, and when opened on the
slope of Drumclog containing strict orders to give battle wherever and
whenever the chance might serve. But the story rests on too slight
authority to count for much. His own temperament would have made him
fight without any sealed orders; and, indeed, he had not long before
written to Linlithgow that he was determined to do so on the first
occasion, and had warned his men to that effect. The wisdom of his
resolve is clear. Disgusted with their work, discontented with the
hardness of their fare and the infrequency of their pay, in perpetual
danger of their lives from unseen enemies, his soldiers were getting out
of hand. Claverhouse was the sternest of disciplinarians; but the
discipline of those days was a very different thing from our
interpretation of the word. It was more a recognition by the soldier of
the superior strength and possibilities of his officer, than trained
obedience to an inevitable law. When they once had satisfied themselves
that their captain was unable to bring the enemy to book, was unable
even to provide them with proper rations and pay, no love for the flag
would have kept them together for another hour. It was essential for
Claverhouse to show them that he and they were more than a match for
their foes whenever and in whatever form the opportunity came.
Unfortunately for him it came in the form of Drumclog, and the proof had
still to be given.
But it is abundantly clear that no stain was considered to rest either
on his honour or his skill. The only ungenerous reference to his
discomfiture came a few years later in the shape of a growl from old
Dalziel against the folly of splitting the army up into small
detachments at the discretion of rash and incompetent leaders.
Claverhouse was removed from his independent command only because the
circumstances of the moment made it necessary. When it was found
necessary to despatch a regular army against the insurgents (as, for all
their provocation, they must after Drumclog be styled), he took his
proper place in that army as captain of a troop in the Royal Scottish
Life Guards. When the brief campaign had closed at Bothwell Bridge, and,
worst fortune for him, affairs had resumed their original complexion, he
went back to his old position.
It will be necessary, then, to supply this gap in Claverhouse's
correspondence by a brief review of the state of things from the battle
of Drumclog to the date of his new commission.
The garrison of Glasgow had, as we have seen, joined Linlithgow at
Stirling. There they lay for a day or two till orders were received from
the Council for the whole army, which only numbered about eighteen
hundred men in all, to fall back on Edinburgh. In the capital the
greatest consternation reigned. The first proceeding of the Council was
to proclaim the rising "an open, manifest, and horrid rebellion," and
all the insurgents were summoned to surrender at discretion as
"desperate and incorrigible traitors." Having thus satisfied their
diplomatic consciences they wisely proceeded to more practical measures.
The militia was called out, horse and foot, in all the Lowlands, save in
the disaffected shires. For those north of the Forth the rendezvous was
at Stirling, for those south on the links of Leith. Each man was to
bring provisions with him for ten days. The magistrates were ordered to
remove all the powder and other munitions of war they could find in the
city to the Castle. An armed guard was stationed night and day in the
Canongate, and another in the Abbey. Finally, a post was sent to London
on Linlithgow's advice to urge the instant despatch of more troops, and
two shillings and sixpence a day of extra pay was promised to every foot
soldier.
They were not disturbed in their preparations. The Covenanters were too
busy with their own affairs to take much heed what their enemies might
be doing. They did, indeed, march into Glasgow, but beyond shooting a
poor wretch whom they vowed they recognised as having fought against
them on the 2nd, and possibly indulging in a little looting, they did
nothing. They did not stay long in the town. Plans they seem to have had
none, nor any settled organisation or discipline. Moving restlessly
about the neighbourhood from village to village and from moor to moor,
their preachers exhorted and harangued as much against each other as
against Pope or Prelate, and their leaders quarrelled as though there
were not a King's soldier in all Scotland, nor Claverhouse within a
dozen miles of them eager for the moment to strike. There was no lack of
arms among them, and their numbers seem at this time to have been not
far short of eight thousand. But no men of any position or influence in
the country had joined them with the exception of Hamilton; and his
authority, whether the story of his cowardice at Glasgow be true or not,
was not what it had been at Rutherglen and Drumclog. The preachers
seemed to have exercised the only control over the rabble; and such
control, as was natural, seems rarely to have lasted beyond the length
of their sermons, which, indeed, were not commonly short. As the
Covenanters (to keep to the distinguishing name I have chosen) were an
extreme section of the Presbyterians, so now the Covenanters themselves
were divided into a moderate and an extreme party. The chiefs of the
former, or Erastians as their opponents scornfully termed them, were
John Welsh and David Hume. Of Hume there is no particular account, but
Welsh we have met before. Though he had been under denunciation as a
rebel ever since the Pentland rising (in which he had, indeed, borne no
part), he had never given his voice for war; and, though assuredly
neither a coward nor a trimmer, had always kept from any active share in
the proceedings of his more tumultuous brethren. His plan, and the plan
of the few who at that time and place were on his side, was temperate
and reasonable. They asked for no more than they were willing to give.
Against the King, his government, and his bishops they had no quarrel,
if only they were suffered to worship God after their own fashion.
Though they themselves had not accepted the Indulgence, they were not
disposed to be unduly severe with those who had. In a word, they were
willing to extend to all men the liberty they demanded for themselves.
Had there been more of this wise mind among the Covenanters--among the
Presbyterians, one may indeed say--though it is hardly possible to
believe that Lauderdale and his crew would not still have found occasion
for oppression, it would be much easier to find sympathy for the
oppressed.
On the other side, Hamilton himself, Donald Cargill, and Thomas Douglas
were the most conspicuous in words, while Hackston, Burley, and the rest
of Sharp's murderers were, of course, with them. Hamilton and Douglas we
know. Cargill, like Douglas, was a minister: he had received a good
education at Aberdeen and Saint Andrews, but had soon fallen into
disgrace for the disloyalty and virulence of his language. In a sermon
on the anniversary of the Restoration he had declared from his pulpit
that the King's name should "stink while the world stands for treachery,
tyranny, and lechery."[30] In this party all was confused, extravagant,
fierce, unreasoning. What they wanted, what they were fighting to get,
from whom they expected to get it, even their own historians are unable
to explain, and probably they themselves had no very clear notions. They
talked of liberty, by which they seem to have meant no more than liberty
to kill all who on any point thought otherwise than they did: of
freedom, which meant freedom from all laws save their own passions: of
the God of their fathers, and every day they violated alike His precepts
and their practice. To slay and spare not was their watchword; but whom
they were to slay, or what was to be gained or done when the slaying was
accomplished, no two men among them were agreed. For the moment the
current of their fury seems to have set most strongly against the
Indulgence and those who had accepted its terms. A single instance will
show pretty clearly the state of insubordination into which those
unhappy men had fallen. It was announced that one Rae, a favourite
expounder on the moderate side, was about to preach on a certain day in
camp. Hamilton, who still retained the nominal command, sent him a
letter bidding him not spare the Indulgence. To this Rae, who does not
seem himself to have been in any position of authority, made answer that
Hamilton had better mind what belonged to him, and not go beyond his
sphere and station.[31] It would not be difficult to draw a parallel
between the condition of the Covenanting camp at that time and the
so-called Irish Party of our own time. Indeed, if any body will be at
the trouble to examine the contemporary accounts of Hamilton and his
followers, and particularly their language, much of which has been
faithfully chronicled by their admirers, they will be surprised to find
how closely the parallel may be pushed.
Meanwhile, on the other side preparations went briskly forward. A strong
detachment of regular troops was at once despatched from London, with
the young Duke of Monmouth himself in command. Great pains have been
taken both by contemporary and later writers to explain the reason of
this appointment. It was designed, they have said, to render him
unpopular in Scotland. It is certainly possible that he might have been
sent to Scotland to get him out of the way of his admirers in England,
who just at that time were somewhat inconveniently noisy in their
admiration. But the appointment does not seem to need any very subtle
explanation. Monmouth was the King's favourite son. He had served his
apprenticeship to the trade of war in the Low Countries, and under such
captains as Turenne and William of Orange. He was popular with the
people for his personal courage, his good looks, his pleasant manners,
and above all for his Protestantism--a matter with him possibly more of
policy than principle, but which served among the common people to gain
him the affectionate nickname of The Protestant Duke, and to
distinguish him in their eyes as the natural antagonist to the unpopular
and Popish James. With all his faults Monmouth was no tyrant, and
Charles himself was rather careless than cruel. This appointment,
therefore, was taken in Scotland to signify a disposition on the King's
part to employ gentle means if possible with the insurgents, and as such
was not altogether approved of. Gentle means were not much to the taste
of the presiding spirits of the Council-Board at Edinburgh, whose native
ferocity had certainly not been softened by the fright and confusion of
the last few days. It was particularly requested, therefore, that
Dalziel might be named second in command, who might well be trusted to
counteract any unseasonable leniency on Monmouth's part. Fortunately for
the insurgents the old savage did not receive his commission till the
day after the battle.
Monmouth left London on June 15th and reached Edinburgh on the 18th. He
at once took the field. Montrose commanded the cavalry, Linlithgow the
foot: Claverhouse rode at the head of his troop under his kinsman, and
the Earls of Home and Airlie were there in charge of their respective
troops: Mar held a command of foot. Many other Scotch noblemen and
gentlemen of position followed the army as volunteers. Some Highlanders
and a considerable body of militia made up a force which has been put as
high as fifteen thousand men, but probably did not exceed half that
number.
The near approach of the royal troops only increased the quarrelling and
confusion in the insurgent camp, which was pitched now at Hamilton. Some
friends at Edinburgh had sent word to them that Monmouth might be found
not indisposed to treat; and that it would be best for them to stand off
for a while, and not on any account be drawn into fighting. But the idea
of treating only inflamed the more violent. On the 21st a council was
called which began in mutual recrimination and abuse, and ended in a
furious quarrel. Hamilton drew his sword, vociferating that it was drawn
as much against the King's curates and the minions of the Indulgence as
against the English dragoons, and left the meeting followed by Cargill,
Douglas and the more violent of his party. Disgusted with the scene, and
convinced of the hopelessness of a cause supported by such men, many
left the camp and returned to their own homes. Welsh and the moderate
leaders resolved to take matters into their own hands. On the morning of
the 22nd Monmouth had reached Bothwell. His advance guard held the
little town about a quarter of a mile distant from the river: his main
body was encamped on the moor. Shortly after daybreak he was surprised
by a visit from Welsh, Hume and another of their party, Fergusson of
Caitloch. Monmouth received them courteously, and heard them with
patience while they read to him a paper (known in Covenanting annals as
the Hamilton Declaration) they had drawn up detailing their grievances
and their demands. The first were indisputable: the second were, as has
been said, moderate. Monmouth was, however, forced to answer that he
could not treat with armed rebels. If they would lay down their arms and
surrender at discretion, he promised to do all he could to gain them not
only present pardon but tolerance in the future. Meanwhile, he said,
they had best return to their camp, report his message, and bring him
back an answer within half an hour's time. They returned, only to find
confusion worse confounded, and their own lives even in some danger from
the furious Hamilton.
The half-hour passed, and no further sign of submission was made.
Monmouth bid the advance be sounded, and the Foot Guards, commanded by
young Livingstone, Linlithgow's eldest son, moved down to the bridge.
Just at that spot the Clyde is deep and narrow, running swiftly between
steep banks fringed on the western side with bushes of alder and hazel.
The bridge itself was only twelve feet wide, and guarded in the centre
with a gate-house. The post was a strong one for defence, and had there
been any military skill, or even unity of purpose, among the defendants,
Monmouth would have had to buy his passage dear. Hackston of Rathillet
had thrown himself with a small body of determined men into the
gate-house, while Burley, with a few who could hold their muskets
straight, took up his post among the alder-bushes. The rest stood idly
by while their comrades fought. For about an hour Hackston held the gate
till his powder was spent. He sent to Hamilton for more, or for fresh
troops, but the only answer he received was an order to retire. He had
no choice but to fall back on the main body, which he found at that
supreme moment busily engaged in cashiering their officers, and
quarrelling over the choice of new ones. The English foot then crossed
the bridge: Monmouth followed leisurely at the head of the horse, while
his cannon played from the eastern bank on the disordered masses of the
Covenanters. A few Galloway men, better mounted and officered than the
rest of their fellows, spurred out against the Life Guards as they were
filing off the narrow bridge, but were at once ordered back by Hamilton.
The rest of the horse in taking up fresh ground to avoid the English
cannon completed the disorder of the foot--if, indeed, anything were
wanted to complete the disorder of a rabble which had never known the
meaning of the word order; and a general forward movement of the royal
troops, who had now all passed the bridge, gave the signal for flight.
Hamilton was the first to obey it, thus, in the words of an eye-witness,
"leaving the world to debate whether he acted most like a traitor, a
coward, or a fool."[32] Twelve hundred of the poor wretches surrendered
at discretion: the rest fled in all directions. Monmouth ordered quarter
to be given to all who asked it, and there is no doubt that he was able
considerably to diminish the slaughter. Comparatively few fell at the
bridge, but four or five hundred are said to have fallen, "murdered up
and down the fields," says Wodrow, "wherever the soldiers met them,
without mercy." Mercy was not a conspicuous quality of the soldiery of
those days; and the discovery of a huge gallows in the insurgents' camp,
with a cartload of new ropes at the foot, was not likely to stay the
hands of men who knew well enough that had the fortune of war been
different those ropes would have been round their necks without any
mercy. But it is clear that Monmouth was able to save many. When Dalziel
arrived next day in camp and learned how things had gone, he rebuked
the Duke to his face for betraying his command. "Had I come a day
sooner," he said, "these rogues should never have troubled his majesty
or the kingdom any more."[33]
There is no authority for attributing to Claverhouse himself any
particular ferocity. We may be pretty sure that the Covenanting
chroniclers would not have refrained from another fling at their
favourite scapegoat could they have found a stone to their hand; but as
a matter of fact, in no account of the battle is he mentioned, save by
name only, as having been present with his troop in Monmouth's army. The
fiery and vindictive part assigned to him by Scott rests on the
authority of the most amazing tissue of absurdities ever woven out of
the inventive fancy of a ballad-monger.[34] He had no kinsman's death to
avenge, and he was too good a soldier to directly disobey his chief's
orders, however little they may have been to his taste.
There is, moreover, positive evidence to the contrary. Six years after
the battle one Robert Smith, of Dunscore, who had been among the rebel
horsemen at Bothwell, deposed that as they, some sixteen hundred in
number, were in retreat towards Carrick, he saw the royal cavalry halted
within less than a mile from the field, and this was considered by the
fugitives to have been done to favour their escape. "For," he went on,
"if they had followed us they had certainly killed or taken us all." It
is clear, therefore, that whatever Claverhouse might have done had he
been left to himself, or whatever he may have wished to do--what he did
do was, in common with the rest of the army, to obey his superior's
orders.
FOOTNOTES:
[30] "Lives of the Scots Worthies," p. 383.
[31] Wodrow, iii. 93.
[32] Wodrow, iii. 107.
[33] Creichton, pp. 37-8.
[34] See some doggrel verses on the battle in "The Minstrelsy of the
Scottish Border," in which Claverhouse is represented as posting off to
London from the field of battle and, by means of false witnesses,
bringing Monmouth to the scaffold as a traitor who had given quarter to
the King's enemies. Sir Walter, of course, knew very well what he was
about; but it did not seem to him necessary to write fiction with the
nice exactness of the historian; nor was he, happily for us, of that
scrupulous order of minds which conceives that a cruel wrong has been
done to the reputation of a man who has been in his grave for nearly a
century and a half by employing the colours of tradition to heighten the
pictures of fancy.