THE LAST CHARGE AT AYRSMOSS.
The morning of the twenty-second of July dawned solemnly clear. It
promised to be a day of slumberous heat, for the haze lay long in the
hollows, hesitating to disappear, and there was the brooding of thunder
in the air. We that were of Cameron's little company found ourselves in
a wild place on the moors. Most of our Galloway men had betaken
themselves home, and they that had come out of Lanarkshire and Ayr were
the greater part of the scanty company. The name of the place where we
sojourned was Ayrsmoss. We had lain sleepless and anxious all night,
with watchers posted about among the moss-hags. Richard Cameron spoke
often to us, and told us that the matter had at last come to the narrow
and bitter pass.
"It is the day of the Lord's anger," he said, "and it is expedient that
some men should die for the people!"
We told him that we were ready, and that from the beginning we had
counted on nothing else. But within me I felt desperately ill-prepared:
yet, for the sake of the banner I carried, I tholed and said nothing.
It was about ten of the day, and because we heard not from our folk who
had been posted to give warning, we sent out other two to find them.
Then having taken a meal of meat for the better sustaining of our
bodies, we lay down to sleep for an hour on a pleasant green place,
which is all surrounded by morasses, for we had gotten no rest the night
before.
Now I think we were all fey at this time, for we laid us down on the
edge of the moss in a place that is open to all. And this when we might
have withdrawn ourselves deep into the bog, and so darned ourselves
among the "quakking quas"--dangerous and impassable flowes, so that no
dragoons in the world could have come at us. But this we did not, for
the word and doom were written. It was our enemies' day. As Cameron said
that morning as we passed the house of William Mitchell in Meadowhead,
and when they brought him out a basin and water to wash his hands, also
a towel wherewith to dry them:
"This is their last washing. My head and hands are now cleansed for the
offering!"
So we laid us down among a great swirling of whaups and crying of
peesweeps. For the season of their nesting was hardly over, and all the
moorland was astir with their plaintive notes.
After a long time I awoke, dreaming that Maisie Lennox stood by my
bedside and took my hand, saying, "The kye are in the corn!" I sat up,
and, lo, there within half a mile, and beating the moor in search of us,
were two companies of dragoons, of the number of about one hundred and
twenty, as near as at a glance I could reckon. My heart gave a stound,
and I said to myself, "This is surely thy death-day, William Gordon!"
And the word sounded strangely in my heart, for I had begun to think my
life worth living in these latter days, and was none so keen upon the
dying as were some others of our company.
But on the instant I awakened Cameron and his brother Michael, and also
David Hackstoun of Rathillet, that was a soldier most stern, but yet a
just man according to his lights. And they sat up and saw the soldiers
sweeping the moor. But, as I say, we were all fey. For even then it was
within our power to have escaped the violence of the men of war. Very
easily could we have left our horses, and betaken us into the deepest
parts of the bottomless shaking bogs, where no man could have followed
us. But the thought came not to us at the time. For God had so ordered
it, that Scotland was best to be served that day by the death of many of
His servants.
There were in our company twenty-three that had horses and forty that
had none. But we were all armed in some sort of fashion.
Now, this Richard Cameron had in him both the heart of a fighter and the
fearlessness of a man assured of his interest. He cried out to inquire
of us if we were firmly set in our minds to fight, and with one voice we
answered him, "Ay!" We were of one heart and one mind. Our company and
converse had been sweet in the darkness, and now we were set to die
together in the noonday, gladly as men that have made them ready for the
entering in of the bride-chamber.
So in that sullen morning, with the birds crying and the mist drawing
down into thunder-clouds, we rose to make our last stand. I had given up
all thought of escape, and was putting in hard steeks at the praying.
For the sins that were on my soul were many, and I had too recently
taken to that way of thinking to have the comfort and assurance of my
elders.
Now, the soldiers that came against us were the finest companies of
Airly's and Strachan's dragoons--gallant lads all--newly brought to that
country-side and not yet inured to the cruel riding and shooting, as
other companies were. I have not a word to say against the way they
fought, though as their duty was, they came against us with haste and
fury. Our quarrel was not with them, but with their master.
They rode gallantly enough this way and that through the morasses, and
came on bravely. Bruce of Earlshall was over them, but John Crichton was
their best fighter. A stark and cruel man he was, that would have hunted
us all down if he could. He fought that day with his blade swinging all
the time, damning and cursing between every blow. But, for all that, he
was sick and sorry ere he left this field. For if ever man did, he met
his match when he crossed swords with the Lion of the Covenant. It was
Rathillet who chose the place of strength for us to make our stand, and
as it seemed and mostly proved, to take our deaths upon. There was
little time for the Word and the Prayer. But, as was our custom, we sang
a cheerful psalm, and lifted up our bonnets while Cameron prayed:
"Lord, spare the green, and take the ripe!" That was the whole matter of
his supplication. "We may never be in better case to die. I see the
gates of heaven cast wide open to receive us."
And I noted that all the time of our singing, David Hackstoun of
Rathillet was looking to the priming of his pistols, and drawing the
edge of his sword-blade along the back of his hand, as one that tries a
razor ere he sets it to his chin. Then the companies of the enemy halted
on the edge of the moss where the ground was yet firm. They seemed not
disinclined for a parley.
"Do you own the King's authority?" cried one among them. It was Bruce of
Earlshall, a buirdly[7] chiel and one not greatly cruel; but rather like
Monmouth, anxious to let the poor remnant have its due.
[Footnote 7: Sturdy.]
"Ay!" cried Cameron, "we own the King's authority."
"Wherefore, then, stand ye there in arms against his forces?" came the
answer back. "Yield, and ye shall have quarter and fair conduct to
Edinburgh!"
The man spake none so evilly for a persecutor, and in my heart I liked
him.
"I thank you, Captain Bruce, for your fair speech," said Cameron, "but I
wot well you mean fair passage to the Grassmarket. The King we own is
not King Charles Stuart, and it liketh us to go to our King's court
through the crash of battle, rather than through the hank of the
hangman's twine."
"This preacher is no man of straw--fight he will," I heard them say one
to the other, for they were near to us, even at the foot of the opposite
knoll.
Then our horsemen, of whom I was one, closed in order without further
word, and our foot drew out over the moss in readiness to fire. David
Hackstoun was with us on the left, and Captain Fowler on the right. But
Richard Cameron was always a little ahead of us all, with his brother
Michael with him on one side, and I, riding my Galloway nag, close upon
his right flank--which was an honourable post for one so young as I, and
served withal to keep my spirits up.
Just before he gave the word to charge, he cried out to us, pointing to
the enemy with his sword:
"Yonder is the way to the good soldier's crown!"
The day had been clouding over, the heat growing almost intolerable. It
was now about two in the afternoon. It was easy to see, had we had the
eyes to observe it, that a thunderstorm was brewing, and even as Richard
Cameron stretched out his sword over his horse's head, and cried on to
us to charge in the name of the Lord, the first levin-bolt shot down,
glittering into the moor like a forked silver arrow. And over our head
the whole firmament raired and crashed.
"The Captain of our Salvation calls for us!" cried Cameron. "Who follows
after, when the Son of God rides forth to war!"
So with that we lowered our sword-points and drave at them. I think I
must have ridden with my eyes shut, down that little green knowe with
the short grass underfoot. I know that, even as we rode, the thunder
began to roar about us, girding us in a continuous ring of
lightning-flashes.
Yet, at the time, I seemed to ride through a world of empty silence,
even when I struck the red broil of battle. I could see Cameron crying
out and waving his sword before us as our horses gathered way, but I
remember no more till the shock came and we found ourselves threshing
headlong among them. I fired my pistols right and left, and set them in
my belt again, though the habit was to throw them away. I had my sword
dangling by a lingel or tag at my right wrist, for I had learned from
Wat Gordon how to fight it upon horseback when it came to the charge.
The first man that I came against was a great dragoon on a grey horse.
He shouted an oath of contempt, seeing me so slender and puny. Yet, for
all his bulk, I had him on the wrong side, so that he could not use his
sword-arm with advantage. And as I passed on my stout little nag, I got
my sword well home under his armpit and tumbled him off into the mire.
The stoutness of our charge took the enemy entirely by surprise. Indeed,
afterwards they gave us all the testimony of being brave, resolute men;
and, like soldiers and gentlemen as they were, they used them that were
taken very civilly. I could see Cameron before me smiting and slaying,
slaying and smiting, rising in his stirrup at every blow and calling on
his men. It was a wild, fierce time, all too short--a happy turmoil of
blows wherein I drank for the first time the heady delight of battle.
All over the wild moss of Ayr that great day the swords flickered like
lightning-flashes, and the lightnings darted like sword-blades. Oh, how
many quiet times would I not give for such another glorious wager of
battle!
Overhead all the universe roared as we fought, and I had no thought save
of the need to keep my point up--thrusting, parrying, and striking as
God gave me ability.
Right in the midst of the press there came two at me from opposite
sides; and I saw very well that, if I got no help, there was no more of
life for me. "Richard!" I cried, and the shout must have gone to our
leader's ear, though I myself could not hear it, so great was the
clangour and the din.
Cameron had been smiting with the strength of ten immediately on my
front. In a moment more he cleared his point, pierced his man, and
turned. The man on my left swerved his horse out of his way, for Cameron
came with a surge. But the other, whom I took to be Crichton, met him
fair, blade to blade. The first clash of the swords was mighty. These
two lowering black men met and knew each other, soon as they looked one
another in the eyes.
But I could see that Cameron was ever the stronger and swifter, though
Crichton had somewhat the more skill. Crichton tried to pass him a
little, that he might get arm-play for his famous back-strokes,
wherewith he was renowned to have cut off a man's head at a blow; but
Cameron measured his guard and the blow whistled harmless past his ear.
Then came the return. The preacher's sword streaked it out straight and
level, and for a moment seemed to stand full mid-blade in the dragoon's
side.
The next moment we too found ourselves outside their first line. We had
broken our way through, and the enemy were in confusion behind us. I saw
many single combats going forward, and in especial a most noble fight
between David Hackstoun of Rathillet and one of his own acquaintances,
by name David Ramsay, a gentleman of his country. As they fought I could
hear Hackstoun, whom nothing could daunt or disturb, asking Ramsay all
the news of the country-side, and how such a one did, what wife had
gotten another child and whether it were a lad or a lass. Which is a
thing I should never have believed if any man had told me. And when I
set it down here I expect not to be believed of any, save by those who
have been in the thick of a civil war themselves. But all that knew
David Hackstoun of Rathillet will believe that this thing is true of
him.
So he fought, clashing swords and talking at his ease, without change of
countenance, till he was stricken down with three coming on him at once
from behind.
Then, seeing our horsemen scattered, Cameron cried them to him, and we
galloped towards their second line that came riding unbroken towards us.
Now it was our misfortune that the dragoons were stark fellows and had
seen service, so that they gave not back as others might have done,
seeing us come on so determinedly. Rather they reserved their powder
till we were almost at the sword's length. Then they fired, and I saw
our men falling over in twos and threes. But Richard Cameron still rode
steadily with Michael and myself behind him. His horse had once been
white, but now was mostly dripping red--a fearsome sight to see. I heard
afterwards from old soldiers that had been in the fights of the ancient
days, that no such terrifying figure had they ever seen in the wars,
since Noll led on the Ironsides at Marston Moor.
But Cameron's case was far more desperate than had ever been that of
Oliver.
"Smite! Smite!" he cried, "The sword of the Lord and of Gideon!"
Over all the field there was only the whinnying of swords as they
whistled through the air, and at the edges of the fray the dropping
rattle of the musketry. As we touched their second line we seemed to
ride in upon a breast-high wave of flame, which might have been
Earlshall's flashing muskets or God's own level lightnings. I rode as
best I could behind Cameron, striking when I had opportunity and warding
as I had need. But, though I was here in the forefront of the battle, I
was in the safest place. For Richard Cameron ploughed a lane through
their company, sending them to right and left before him as the foam is
ploughed by a swift vessel.
But our desperate riders were now wearing few. I looked behind us, and
only two seemed to be in the saddle--James Gray of Chryston and Michael
Cameron, who had both promised to ding the stoor that day out of his
Majesty's red-clouts. I could see Chryston striking, and grunting as he
struck, exactly like a man hagging hard wood with a blunt axe.
So I found myself out at the side of the fight. But, just when I thought
myself clear, there came a blow on my steel cap that nearly dang me out
of the saddle, and I drew out further again. Cameron also had won clear;
but, seeing his brother Michael hard beset, he turned rein and drave in
among the smother again, raging like the lion he was. How his horse kept
his feet on the moss I know not, for Cameron seemed constantly to be
standing up in his stirrups, leaning forward to give his blade more
play. So he rode into the midst of them, till he was brought to a stand
in what seemed a ring of foes. Even there I could see his arm rise and
fall, as steadily as a man that flails corn in a barn. And wherever he
struck was a gap, for there a man went down. But more and more of them
gathered about, threshing at him with their swords, some on horse and
some on foot, like boys killing wasps at the taking of a byke.
Then when Richard Cameron saw that he could do no more, and that all the
men were down that had followed him, his brother Michael also dying at
his feet, he swept his sword every way about him to clear a space for a
moment. Then he swung the brand over his head high in the air, casting
it from him into the sky, till it seemed to enter into the dark cloud
where the thunder brooded and the smoke of powder hung.
"God of battles, receive my sinful soul!" he cried.
And with that he joined his hands like a man that dives for swimming;
and, unwounded, unhurt, yet fighting to the last, Richard Cameron sprang
upon a hundred sword-points. Thus died the bravest man in broad
Scotland, whom men called, and called well, the Lion of the Covenant.
And, even as he passed, the heavens opened, and the whole firmament
seemed but one lightning-flash, so that all stood aghast at the
marvellous brightness. Which occasioned the saying that God sent a
chariot of fire with horses of whiteness to bring home to Him the soul
of Richard Cameron. Whereof some men bear testimony that they saw; but
indeed I saw nothing but a wondrous lightning-flash over the whole
heaven. Then, a moment after, the thunder crashed like the breaking up
of the world, and there was an end.