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 pease-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 [Footnote:
See Note 7.] 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 star-light. 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 expanse 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 stript 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 artillery men, 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 fieldpiece, 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. [Footnote: See
Note 8.]
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. [Footnote: See
Note 9.]