Thretty for thretty faucht in barreris,
At Sanct Johnstoun on a day besyde the black freris.
WYNTOUN.
Palm Sunday now dawned. At an earlier period of the Christian Church,
the use of any of the days of Passion Week for the purpose of combat
would have been accounted a profanity worthy of excommunication. The
Church of Rome, to her infinite honour, had decided that during the holy
season of Easter, when the redemption of man from his fallen state was
accomplished, the sword of war should be sheathed, and angry monarchs
should respect the season termed the Truce of God. The ferocious
violence of the latter wars betwixt Scotland and England had destroyed
all observance of this decent and religious Ordinance. Very often the
most solemn occasions were chosen by one party for an attack, because
they hoped to find the other engaged in religious duties and unprovided
for defence. Thus the truce, once considered as proper to the season,
had been discontinued; and it became not unusual even to select the
sacred festivals of the church for decision of the trial by combat, to
which this intended contest bore a considerable resemblance.
On the present occasion, however, the duties of the day were observed
with the usual solemnity, and the combatants themselves took share in
them. Bearing branches of yew in their hands, as the readiest substitute
for palm boughs, they marched respectively to the Dominican and
Carthusian convents, to hear High Mass, and, by a show at least of
devotion, to prepare themselves for the bloody strife of the day. Great
care had of course been taken that, during this march, they should not
even come within the sound of each other’s bagpipes; for it was certain
that, like game cocks exchanging mutual notes of defiance, they would
have sought out and attacked each other before they arrived at the place
of combat.
The citizens of Perth crowded to see the unusual procession on the
streets, and thronged the churches where the two clans attended their
devotions, to witness their behaviour, and to form a judgment from
their appearance which was most likely to obtain the advantage in
the approaching conflict. Their demeanour in the church, although not
habitual frequenters of places of devotion, was perfectly decorous; and,
notwithstanding their wild and untamed dispositions, there were few of
the mountaineers who seemed affected either with curiosity or wonder.
They appeared to think it beneath their dignity of character to testify
either curiosity or surprise at many things which were probably then
presented to them for the first time.
On the issue of the combat, few even of the most competent judges dared
venture a prediction; although the great size of Torquil and his eight
stalwart sons induced some who professed themselves judges of the thewes
and sinews of men to incline to ascribe the advantage to the party of
the Clan Quhele. The opinion of the female sex was much decided by
the handsome form, noble countenance, and gallant demeanour of Eachin
MacIan. There were more than one who imagined they had recollection
of his features, but his splendid military attire rendered the humble
glover’s apprentice unrecognisable in the young Highland chief, saving
by one person.
That person, as may well be supposed, was the Smith of the Wynd, who
had been the foremost in the crowd that thronged to see the gallant
champions of Clan Quhele. It was with mingled feelings of dislike,
jealousy, and something approaching to admiration that he saw the
glover’s apprentice stripped of his mean slough, and blazing forth as a
chieftain, who, by his quick eye and gallant demeanour, the noble shape
of his brow and throat, his splendid arms and well proportioned limbs,
seemed well worthy to hold the foremost rank among men selected to live
or die for the honour of their race. The smith could hardly think that
he looked upon the same passionate boy whom he had brushed off as
he might a wasp that stung him, and, in mere compassion, forebore to
despatch by treading on him.
“He looks it gallantly with my noble hauberk,” thus muttered Henry to
himself, “the best I ever wrought. Yet, if he and I stood together where
there was neither hand to help nor eye to see, by all that is blessed in
this holy church, the good harness should return to its owner! All that
I am worth would I give for three fair blows on his shoulders to undo my
own best work; but such happiness will never be mine. If he escape from
the conflict, it will be with so high a character for courage, that he
may well disdain to put his fortune, in its freshness, to the risk of
an encounter with a poor burgess like myself. He will fight by his
champion, and turn me over to my fellow craftsman the hammerer, when all
I can reap will be the pleasure of knocking a Highland bullock on the
head. If I could but see Simon Glover! I will to the other church in
quest of him, since for sure he must have come down from the Highlands.”
The congregation was moving from the church of the Dominicans when the
smith formed this determination, which he endeavoured to carry into
speedy execution, by thrusting through the crowd as hastily as the
solemnity of the place and occasion would permit. In making his way
through the press, he was at one instant carried so close to Eachin
that their eyes encountered. The smith’s hardy and embrowned countenance
coloured up like the heated iron on which he wrought, and retained
its dark red hue for several minutes. Eachin’s features glowed with a
brighter blush of indignation, and a glance of fiery hatred was shot
from his eyes. But the sudden flush died away in ashy paleness, and his
gaze instantly avoided the unfriendly but steady look with which it was
encountered.
Torquil, whose eye never quitted his foster son, saw his emotion, and
looked anxiously around to discover the cause. But Henry was already
at a distance, and hastening on his way to the Carthusian convent. Here
also the religious service of the day was ended; and those who had so
lately borne palms in honour of the great event which brought peace
on earth and goodwill to the children of men were now streaming to
the place of combat--some prepared to take the lives of their fellow
creatures or to lose their own, others to view the deadly strife with
the savage delight which the heathens took in the contests of their
gladiators.
The crowd was so great that any other person might well have despaired
of making way through it. But the general deference entertained for
Henry of the Wynd, as the champion of Perth, and the universal sense of
his ability to force a passage, induced all to unite in yielding room
for him, so that he was presently quite close to the warriors of the
Clan Chattan. Their pipers marched at the head of their column. Next
followed the well known banner, displaying a mountain cat rampant, with
the appropriate caution, “Touch not the cat, but (i.e. without) the
glove.” The chief followed with his two handed sword advanced, as if to
protect the emblem of the tribe. He was a man of middle stature, more
than fifty years old, but betraying neither in features nor form any
decay of strength or symptoms of age. His dark red close curled locks
were in part chequered by a few grizzled hairs, but his step and gesture
were as light in the dance, in the chase, or in the battle as if he had
not passed his thirtieth year. His grey eye gleamed with a wild light
expressive of valour and ferocity mingled; but wisdom and experience
dwelt on the expression of his forehead, eyebrows, and lips. The chosen
champions followed by two and two. There was a cast of anxiety on
several of their faces, for they had that morning discovered the absence
of one of their appointed number; and, in a contest so desperate as was
expected, the loss seemed a matter of importance to all save to their
high mettled chief, MacGillie Chattanach.
“Say nothing to the Saxons of his absence,” said this bold leader, when
the diminution of his force was reported to him. “The false Lowland
tongues might say that one of Clan Chattan was a coward, and perhaps
that the rest favoured his escape, in order to have a pretence to avoid
the battle. I am sure that Ferquhard Day will be found in the ranks ere
we are ready for battle; or, if he should not, am not I man enough for
two of the Clan Quhele? or would we not fight them fifteen to thirty,
rather than lose the renown that this day will bring us?”
The tribe received the brave speech of their leader with applause, yet
there were anxious looks thrown out in hopes of espying the return of
the deserter; and perhaps the chief himself was the only one of the
determined band who was totally indifferent on the subject.
They marched on through the streets without seeing anything of Ferquhard
Day, who, many a mile beyond the mountains, was busied in receiving such
indemnification as successful love could bestow for the loss of honour.
MacGillie Chattanach marched on without seeming to observe the absence
of the deserter, and entered upon the North Inch, a beautiful and level
plain, closely adjacent to the city, and appropriated to the martial
exercises of the inhabitants.
The plain is washed on one side by the deep and swelling Tay. There was
erected within it a strong palisade, inclosing on three sides a space of
one hundred and fifty yards in length and seventy-four yards in width.
The fourth side of the lists was considered as sufficiently fenced
by the river. An amphitheatre for the accommodation of spectators
surrounded the palisade, leaving a large space free to be occupied by
armed men on foot and horseback, and for the more ordinary class of
spectators. At the extremity of the lists which was nearest to the city,
there was a range of elevated galleries for the King and his courtiers,
so highly decorated with rustic treillage, intermingled with gilded
ornaments, that the spot retains to this day the name of the Golden, or
Gilded, Arbour.
The mountain minstrelsy, which sounded the appropriate pibrochs or
battle tunes of the rival confederacies, was silent when they entered on
the Inch, for such was the order which had been given. Two stately but
aged warriors, each bearing the banner of his tribe, advanced to the
opposite extremities of the lists, and, pitching their standards into
the earth, prepared to be spectators of a fight in which they were not
to join. The pipers, who were also to be neutral in the strife, took
their places by their respective brattachs.
The multitude received both bands with the same general shout with which
on similar occasions they welcome those from whose exertion they expect
amusement, or what they term sport. The destined combatants returned
no answer to this greeting, but each party advanced to the opposite
extremities of the lists, where were entrances by which they were to be
admitted to the interior. A strong body of men at arms guarded either
access; and the Earl Marshal at the one and the Lord High Constable at
the other carefully examined each individual, to see whether he had the
appropriate arms, being steel cap, mail shirt, two handed sword, and
dagger. They also examined the numbers of each party; and great was the
alarm among the multitude when the Earl of Errol held up his hand and
cried: “Ho! The combat cannot proceed, for the Clan Chattan lack one of
their number.”
“What reek of that?” said the young Earl of Crawford; “they should have
counted better ere they left home.”
The Earl Marshal, however, agreed with the Constable that the fight
could not proceed until the inequality should be removed; and a general
apprehension was excited in the assembled multitude that, after all the
preparation, there would be no battle.
Of all present there were only two perhaps who rejoiced at the prospect
of the combat being adjourned, and these were the captain of the Clan
Quhele and the tender hearted King Robert. Meanwhile the two chiefs,
each attended by a special friend and adviser, met in the midst of the
lists, having, to assist them in determining what was to be done, the
Earl Marshal, the Lord High Constable, the Earl of Crawford, and Sir
Patrick Charteris. The chief of the Clan Chattan declared himself
willing and desirous of fighting upon the spot, without regard to the
disparity of numbers.
“That,” said Torquil of the Oak, “Clan Quhele will never consent to.
You can never win honour from us with the sword, and you seek but a
subterfuge, that you may say when you are defeated, as you know you will
be, that it was for want of the number of your band fully counted out.
But I make a proposal: Ferquhard Day was the youngest of your band,
Eachin MacIan is the youngest of ours; we will set him aside in place of
the man who has fled from the combat.”
“A most unjust and unequal proposal,” exclaimed Toshach Beg, the second,
as he might be termed, of MacGillie Chattanach. “The life of the chief
is to the clan the breath of our nostrils, nor will we ever consent that
our chief shall be exposed to dangers which the captain of Clan Quhele
does not share.”
Torquil saw with deep anxiety that his plan was about to fail when the
objection was made to Hector’s being withdrawn from the battle, and
he was meditating how to support his proposal, when Eachin himself
interfered. His timidity, it must be observed, was not of that sordid
and selfish nature which induces those who are infected by it calmly
to submit to dishonour rather than risk danger. On the contrary, he was
morally brave, though constitutionally timid, and the shame of avoiding
the combat became at the moment more powerful than the fear of facing
it.
“I will not hear,” he said, “of a scheme which will leave my sword
sheathed during this day’s glorious combat. If I am young in arms, there
are enough of brave men around me whom I may imitate if I cannot equal.”
He spoke these words in a spirit which imposed on Torquil, and perhaps
on the young chief himself.
“Now, God bless his noble heart!” said the foster father to himself.
“I was sure the foul spell would be broken through, and that the tardy
spirit which besieged him would fly at the sound of the pipe and the
first flutter of the brattach!”
“Hear me, Lord Marshal,” said the Constable. “The hour of combat may not
be much longer postponed, for the day approaches to high noon. Let the
chief of Clan Chattan take the half hour which remains, to find, if he
can, a substitute for this deserter; if he cannot, let them fight as
they stand.”
“Content I am,” said the Marshal, “though, as none of his own clan are
nearer than fifty miles, I see not how MacGillis Chattanach is to find
an auxiliary.”
“That is his business,” said the High Constable; “but, if he offers a
high reward, there are enough of stout yeomen surrounding the lists,
who will be glad enough to stretch their limbs in such a game as is
expected. I myself, did my quality and charge permit, would blythely
take a turn of work amongst these wild fellows, and think it fame won.”
They communicated their decision to the Highlanders, and the chief of
the Clan Chattan replied: “You have judged unpartially and nobly, my
lords, and I deem myself obliged to follow your direction. So make
proclamation, heralds, that, if any one will take his share with Clan
Chattan of the honours and chances of this day, he shall have present
payment of a gold crown, and liberty to fight to the death in my ranks.”
“You are something chary of your treasure, chief,” said the Earl
Marshal: “a gold crown is poor payment for such a campaign as is before
you.”
“If there be any man willing to fight for honour,” replied MacGillis
Chattanach, “the price will be enough; and I want not the service of a
fellow who draws his sword for gold alone.”
The heralds had made their progress, moving half way round the lists,
stopping from time to time to make proclamation as they had been
directed, without the least apparent disposition on the part of any one
to accept of the proffered enlistment. Some sneered at the poverty of
the Highlanders, who set so mean a price upon such a desperate service.
Others affected resentment, that they should esteem the blood of
citizens so lightly. None showed the slightest intention to undertake
the task proposed, until the sound of the proclamation reached Henry of
the Wynd, as he stood without the barrier, speaking from time to time
with Baillie Craigdallie, or rather listening vaguely to what the
magistrate was saying to him.
“Ha! what proclaim they?” he cried out.
“A liberal offer on the part of MacGillie Chattanach,” said the host of
the Griffin, “who proposes a gold crown to any one who will turn wildcat
for the day, and be killed a little in his service! That’s all.”
“How!” exclaimed the smith, eagerly, “do they make proclamation for a
man to fight against the Clan Quhele?”
“Ay, marry do they,” said Griffin; “but I think they will find no such
fools in Perth.”
He had hardly said the word, when he beheld the smith clear the barriers
at a single bound and alight in the lists, saying: “Here am I, sir
herald, Henry of the Wynd, willing to battle on the part of the Clan
Chattan.”
A cry of admiration ran through the multitude, while the grave burghers,
not being able to conceive the slightest reason for Henry’s behaviour,
concluded that his head must be absolutely turned with the love of
fighting. The provost was especially shocked.
“Thou art mad,” he said, “Henry! Thou hast neither two handed sword nor
shirt of mail.”
“Truly no,” said Henry, “for I parted with a mail shirt, which I had
made for myself, to yonder gay chief of the Clan Quhele, who will soon
find on his shoulders with what sort of blows I clink my rivets! As for
two handed sword, why, this boy’s brand will serve my turn till I can
master a heavier one.”
“This must not be,” said Errol. “Hark thee, armourer, by St. Mary, thou
shalt have my Milan hauberk and good Spanish sword.”
“I thank your noble earlship, Sir Gilbert Hay, but the yoke with which
your brave ancestor turned the battle at Loncarty would serve my turn
well enough. I am little used to sword or harness that I have not
wrought myself, because I do not well know what blows the one will bear
out without being cracked or the other lay on without snapping.”
The cry had in the mean while run through the multitude and passed into
the town, that the dauntless smith was about to fight without armour,
when, just as the fated hour was approaching, the shrill voice of a
female was heard screaming for passage through the crowd. The multitude
gave place to her importunity, and she advanced, breathless with haste
under the burden of a mail hauberk and a large two handed sword. The
widow of Oliver Proudfute was soon recognised, and the arms which she
bore were those of the smith himself, which, occupied by her husband on
the fatal evening when he was murdered, had been naturally conveyed
to his house with the dead body, and were now, by the exertions of
his grateful widow, brought to the lists at a moment when such proved
weapons were of the last consequence to their owner. Henry joyfully
received the well known arms, and the widow with trembling haste
assisted in putting them on, and then took leave of him, saying: “God
for the champion of the widow and orphan, and ill luck to all who come
before him!”
Confident at feeling himself in his well proved armour, Henry shook
himself as if to settle the steel shirt around him, and, unsheathing
the two handed sword, made it flourish over his head, cutting the air
through which it whistled in the form of the figure eight with an ease
and sleight of hand that proved how powerfully and skilfully he could
wield the ponderous weapon. The champions were now ordered to march
in their turns around the lists, crossing so as to avoid meeting each
other, and making obeisance as they passed the Golden Arbour where the
King was seated.
While this course was performing, most of the spectators were again
curiously comparing the stature, limbs, and sinews of the two parties,
and endeavouring to form a conjecture an to the probable issue of the
combat. The feud of a hundred years, with all its acts of aggression
and retaliation, was concentrated in the bosom of each combatant. Their
countenances seemed fiercely writhen into the wildest expression of
pride, hate, and a desperate purpose of fighting to the very last.
The spectators murmured a joyful applause, in high wrought expectation
of the bloody game. Wagers were offered and accepted both on the general
issue of the conflict and on the feats of particular champions. The
clear, frank, and elated look of Henry Smith rendered him a general
favourite among the spectators, and odds, to use the modern expression,
were taken that he would kill three of his opponents before he himself
fell.
Scarcely was the smith equipped for the combat, when the commands of the
chiefs ordered the champions into their places; and at the same moment
Henry heard the voice of Simon Glover issuing from the crowd, who were
now silent with expectation, and calling on him: “Harry Smith--Harry
Smith, what madness hath possessed thee?”
“Ay, he wishes to save his hopeful son in law that is, or is to be, from
the smith’s handling,” was Henry’s first thought; his second was to turn
and speak with him; and his third, that he could on no pretext desert
the band which he had joined, or even seem desirous to delay the fight,
consistently with honour.
He turned himself, therefore, to the business of the hour. Both parties
were disposed by the respective chiefs in three lines, each containing
ten men. They were arranged with such intervals between each individual
as offered him scope to wield his sword, the blade of which was five
feet long, not including the handle. The second and third lines were
to come up as reserves, in case the first experienced disaster. On the
right of the array of Clan Quhele, the chief, Eachin MacIan, placed
himself in the second line betwixt two of his foster brothers. Four of
them occupied the right of the first line, whilst the father and
two others protected the rear of the beloved chieftain. Torquil, in
particular, kept close behind, for the purpose of covering him. Thus
Eachin stood in the centre of nine of the strongest men of his band,
having four especial defenders in front, one on each hand, and three in
his rear.
The line of the Clan Chattan was arranged in precisely the same order,
only that the chief occupied the centre of the middle rank, instead of
being on the extreme right. This induced Henry Smith, who saw in the
opposing bands only one enemy, and that was the unhappy Eachin, to
propose placing himself on the left of the front rank of the Clan
Chattan. But the leader disapproved of this arrangement; and having
reminded Henry that he owed him obedience, as having taken wages at his
hand, he commanded him to occupy the space in the third line immediately
behind himself--a post of honour, certainly, which Henry could not
decline, though he accepted of it with reluctance.
When the clans were thus drawn up opposed to each other, they intimated
their feudal animosity and their eagerness to engage by a wild scream,
which, uttered by the Clan Quhele, was answered and echoed back by
the Clan Chattan, the whole at the same time shaking their swords and
menacing each other, as if they meant to conquer the imagination of
their opponents ere they mingled in the actual strife.
At this trying moment, Torquil, who had never feared for himself, was
agitated with alarm on the part of his dault, yet consoled by observing
that he kept a determined posture, and that the few words which he spoke
to his clan were delivered boldly, and well calculated to animate them
to combat, as expressing his resolution to partake their fate in death
or victory. But there was no time for further observation. The trumpets
of the King sounded a charge, the bagpipes blew up their screaming and
maddening notes, and the combatants, starting forward in regular order,
and increasing their pace till they came to a smart run, met together
in the centre of the ground, as a furious land torrent encounters an
advancing tide.
For an instant or two the front lines, hewing at each other with their
long swords, seemed engaged in a succession of single combats; but the
second and third ranks soon came up on either side, actuated alike by
the eagerness of hatred and the thirst of honour, pressed through the
intervals, and rendered the scene a tumultuous chaos, over which the
huge swords rose and sunk, some still glittering, others streaming with
blood, appearing, from the wild rapidity with which they were swayed,
rather to be put in motion by some complicated machinery than to
be wielded by human hands. Some of the combatants, too much crowded
together to use those long weapons, had already betaken themselves to
their poniards, and endeavoured to get within the sword sweep of those
opposed to them. In the mean time, blood flowed fast, and the groans of
those who fell began to mingle with the cries of those who fought; for,
according to the manner of the Highlanders at all times, they could
hardly be said to shout, but to yell. Those of the spectators whose
eyes were best accustomed to such scenes of blood and confusion could
nevertheless discover no advantage yet acquired by either party. The
conflict swayed, indeed, at different intervals forwards or backwards,
but it was only in momentary superiority, which the party who acquired
it almost instantly lost by a corresponding exertion on the other side.
The wild notes of the pipers were still heard above the tumult, and
stimulated to farther exertions the fury of the combatants.
At once, however, and as if by mutual agreement, the instruments sounded
a retreat; it was expressed in wailing notes, which seemed to imply a
dirge for the fallen. The two parties disengaged themselves from each
other, to take breath for a few minutes. The eyes of the spectators
greedily surveyed the shattered array of the combatants as they drew
off from the contest, but found it still impossible to decide which had
sustained the greater loss. It seemed as if the Clan Chattan had lost
rather fewer men than their antagonists; but in compensation, the bloody
plaids and skirts of their party (for several on both sides had thrown
their mantles away) showed more wounded men than the Clan Quhele. About
twenty of both sides lay on the field dead or dying; and arms and legs
lopped off, heads cleft to the chin, slashes deep through the shoulder
into the breast, showed at once the fury of the combat, the ghastly
character of the weapons used, and the fatal strength of the arms which
wielded them. The chief of the Clan Chattan had behaved himself with
the most determined courage, and was slightly wounded. Eachin also had
fought with spirit, surrounded by his bodyguard. His sword was bloody,
his bearing bold and warlike; and he smiled when old Torquil, folding
him in his arms, loaded him with praises and with blessings.
The two chiefs, after allowing their followers to breathe for the space
of about ten minutes, again drew up in their files, diminished by nearly
one third of their original number. They now chose their ground nearer
to the river than that on which they had formerly encountered, which
was encumbered with the wounded and the slain. Some of the former were
observed, from time to time, to raise themselves to gain a glimpse of
the field, and sink back, most of them to die from the effusion of blood
which poured from the terrific gashes inflicted by the claymore.
Harry Smith was easily distinguished by his Lowland habit, as well as
his remaining on the spot where they had first encountered, where he
stood leaning on a sword beside a corpse, whose bonneted head, carried
to ten yards’ distance from the body by the force of the blow which had
swept it off, exhibited the oak leaf, the appropriate ornament of the
bodyguard of Eachin MacIan. Since he slew this man, Henry had not struck
a blow, but had contented himself with warding off many that were dealt
at himself, and some which were aimed at the chief. MacGillie Chattanach
became alarmed, when, having given the signal that his men should again
draw together, he observed that his powerful recruit remained at a
distance from the ranks, and showed little disposition to join them.
“What ails thee, man?” said the chief. “Can so strong a body have a mean
and cowardly spirit? Come, and make in to the combat.”
“You as good as called me hireling but now,” replied Henry. “If I am
such,” pointing to the headless corpse, “I have done enough for my day’s
wage.”
“He that serves me without counting his hours,” replied the chief, “I
reward him without reckoning wages.”
“Then,” said the smith, “I fight as a volunteer, and in the post which
best likes me.”
“All that is at your own discretion,” replied MacGillis Chattanach, who
saw the prudence of humouring an auxiliary of such promise.
“It is enough,” said Henry; and, shouldering his heavy weapon, he joined
the rest of the combatants with alacrity, and placed himself opposite to
the chief of the Clan Quhele.
It was then, for the first time, that Eachin showed some uncertainty.
He had long looked up to Henry as the best combatant which Perth and its
neighbourhood could bring into the lists. His hatred to him as a rival
was mingled with recollection of the ease with which he had once, though
unarmed, foiled his own sudden and desperate attack; and when he beheld
him with his eyes fixed in his direction, the dripping sword in his
hand, and obviously meditating an attack on him individually, his
courage fell, and he gave symptoms of wavering, which did not escape his
foster father.
It was lucky for Eachin that Torquil was incapable, from the formation
of his own temper, and that of those with whom he had lived, to conceive
the idea of one of his own tribe, much less of his chief and foster
son, being deficient in animal courage. Could he have imagined this, his
grief and rage might have driven him to the fierce extremity of taking
Eachin’s life, to save him from staining his honour. But his mind
rejected the idea that his dault was a personal coward, as something
which was monstrous and unnatural. That he was under the influence of
enchantment was a solution which superstition had suggested, and he now
anxiously, but in a whisper, demanded of Hector: “Does the spell now
darken thy spirit, Eachin?”
“Yes, wretch that I am,” answered the unhappy youth; “and yonder stands
the fell enchanter!”
“What!” exclaimed Torquil, “and you wear harness of his making? Norman,
miserable boy, why brought you that accursed mail?”
“If my arrow has flown astray, I can but shoot my life after it,”
answered Norman nan Ord. “Stand firm, you shall see me break the spell.”
“Yes, stand firm,” said Torquil. “He may be a fell enchanter; but my own
ear has heard, and my own tongue has told, that Eachin shall leave the
battle whole, free, and unwounded; let us see the Saxon wizard who can
gainsay that. He may be a strong man, but the fair forest of the oak
shall fall, stock and bough, ere he lay a finger on my dault. Ring
around him, my sons; bas air son Eachin!”
The sons of Torquil shouted back the words, which signify, “Death for
Hector.”
Encouraged by their devotion, Eachin renewed his spirit, and called
boldly to the minstrels of his clan, “Seid suas” that is, “Strike up.”
The wild pibroch again sounded the onset; but the two parties approached
each other more slowly than at first, as men who knew and respected
each other’s valour. Henry Wynd, in his impatience to begin the contest,
advanced before the Clan Chattan and signed to Eachin to come on.
Norman, however, sprang forward to cover his foster brother, and there
was a general, though momentary, pause, as if both parties were willing
to obtain an omen of the fate of the day from the event of this duel.
The Highlander advanced, with his large sword uplifted, as in act to
strike; but, just as he came within sword’s length, he dropt the long
and cumbrous weapon, leapt lightly over the smith’s sword, as he fetched
a cut at him, drew his dagger, and, being thus within Henry’s guard,
struck him with the weapon (his own gift) on the side of the throat,
directing the blow downwards into the chest, and calling aloud, at the
same time, “You taught me the stab!”
But Henry Wynd wore his own good hauberk, doubly defended with a lining
of tempered steel. Had he been less surely armed, his combats had been
ended for ever. Even as it was, he was slightly wounded.
“Fool!” he replied, striking Norman a blow with the pommel of his long
sword, which made him stagger backwards, “you were taught the thrust,
but not the parry”; and, fetching a blow at his antagonist, which cleft
his skull through the steel cap, he strode over the lifeless body to
engage the young chief, who now stood open before him.
But the sonorous voice of Torquil thundered out, “Far eil air son
Eachin!” (Another for Hector!) and the two brethren who flanked their
chief on each side thrust forward upon Henry, and, striking both at
once, compelled him to keep the defensive.
“Forward, race of the tiger cat!” cried MacGillie Chattanach. “Save the
brave Saxon; let these kites feel your talons!”
Already much wounded, the chief dragged himself up to the smith’s
assistance, and cut down one of the leichtach, by whom he was assailed.
Henry’s own good sword rid him of the other.
“Reist air son Eachin!” (Again for Hector!) shouted the faithful foster
father.
“Bas air son Eachin!” (Death for Hector!) answered two more of his
devoted sons, and opposed themselves to the fury of the smith and those
who had come to his aid; while Eachin, moving towards the left wing of
the battle, sought less formidable adversaries, and again, by some show
of valour, revived the sinking hopes of his followers. The two children
of the oak, who had covered, this movement, shared the fate of their
brethren; for the cry of the Clan Chattan chief had drawn to that part
of the field some of his bravest warriors. The sons of Torquil did not
fall unavenged, but left dreadful marks of their swords on the persons
of the dead and living. But the necessity of keeping their most
distinguished soldiers around the person of their chief told to
disadvantage on the general event of the combat; and so few were now
the number who remained fighting, that it was easy to see that the Clan
Chattan had fifteen of their number left, though most of them wounded,
and that of the Clan Quhele only about ten remained, of whom there were
four of the chief’s bodyguard, including Torquil himself.
They fought and struggled on, however, and as their strength decayed,
their fury seemed to increase. Henry Wynd, now wounded in many places,
was still bent on breaking through, or exterminating, the band of bold
hearts who continued to fight around the object of his animosity.
But still the father’s shout of “Another for Hector!” was cheerfully
answered by the fatal countersign, “Death for Hector!” and though the
Clan Quhele were now outnumbered, the combat seemed still dubious. It
was bodily lassitude alone that again compelled them to another pause.
The Clan Chattan were then observed to be twelve in number, but two or
three were scarce able to stand without leaning on their swords. Five
were left of the Clan Quhele; Torquil and his youngest son were of the
number, both slightly wounded. Eachin alone had, from the vigilance
used to intercept all blows levelled against his person, escaped without
injury. The rage of both parties had sunk, through exhaustion, into
sullen desperation. They walked staggering, as if in their sleep,
through the carcasses of the slain, and gazed on them, as if again to
animate their hatred towards their surviving enemies by viewing the
friends they had lost.
The multitude soon after beheld the survivors of the desperate conflict
drawing together to renew the exterminating feud on the banks of the
river, as the spot least slippery with blood, and less encumbered with
the bodies of the slain.
“For God’s sake--for the sake of the mercy which we daily pray for,”
said the kind hearted old King to the Duke of Albany, “let this be
ended! Wherefore should these wretched rags and remnants of humanity be
suffered to complete their butchery? Surely they will now be ruled, and
accept of peace on moderate terms?”
“Compose yourself, my liege,” said his brother. “These men are the pest
of the Lowlands. Both chiefs are still living; if they go back unharmed,
the whole day’s work is cast away. Remember your promise to the council,
that you would not cry ‘hold.’”
“You compel me to a great crime, Albany, both as a king, who should
protect his subjects, and as a Christian man, who respects the brother
of his faith.”
“You judge wrong, my lord,” said the Duke: “these are not loving
subjects, but disobedient rebels, as my Lord of Crawford can bear
witness; and they are still less Christian men, for the prior of the
Dominicans will vouch for me that they are more than half heathen.”
The King sighed deeply. “You must work your pleasure, and are too wise
for me to contend with. I can but turn away and shut my eyes from the
sights and sounds of a carnage which makes me sicken. But well I know
that God will punish me even for witnessing this waste of human life.”
“Sound, trumpets,” said Albany; “their wounds will stiffen if they dally
longer.”
While this was passing, Torquil was embracing and encouraging his young
chief.
“Resist the witchcraft but a few minutes longer! Be of good cheer, you
will come off without either scar or scratch, wem or wound. Be of good
cheer!”
“How can I be of good cheer,” said Eachin, “while my brave kinsmen have
one by one died at my feet--died all for me, who could never deserve the
least of their kindness?”
“And for what were they born, save to die for their chief?” said
Torquil, composedly. “Why lament that the arrow returns not to the
quiver, providing it hit the mark? Cheer up yet. Here are Tormot and I
but little hurt, while the wildcats drag themselves through the plain
as if they were half throttled by the terriers. Yet one brave stand, and
the day shall be your own, though it may well be that you alone remain
alive. Minstrels, sound the gathering.”
The pipers on both sides blew their charge, and the combatants again
mingled in battle, not indeed with the same strength, but with unabated
inveteracy. They were joined by those whose duty it was to have remained
neuter, but who now found themselves unable to do so. The two old
champions who bore the standards had gradually advanced from the
extremity of the lists, and now approached close to the immediate scene
of action. When they beheld the carnage more nearly, they were mutually
impelled by the desire to revenge their brethren, or not to survive
them. They attacked each other furiously with the lances to which the
standards were attached, closed after exchanging several deadly thrusts,
then grappled in close strife, still holding their banners, until at
length, in the eagerness of their conflict, they fell together into the
Tay, and were found drowned after the combat, closely locked in each
other’s arms. The fury of battle, the frenzy of rage and despair,
infected next the minstrels. The two pipers, who, during the conflict,
had done their utmost to keep up the spirits of their brethren, now saw
the dispute well nigh terminated for want of men to support it. They
threw down their instruments, rushed desperately upon each other with
their daggers, and each being more intent on despatching his opponent
than in defending himself, the piper of Clan Quhele was almost instantly
slain and he of Clan Chattan mortally wounded. The last, nevertheless,
again grasped his instrument, and the pibroch of the clan yet poured
its expiring notes over the Clan Chattan, while the dying minstrel had
breath to inspire it. The instrument which he used, or at least that
part of it called the chanter, is preserved in the family of a Highland
chief to this day, and is much honoured under the name of the federan
dhu, or, “black chanter.”’
Meanwhile, in the final charge, young Tormot, devoted, like his
brethren, by his father Torquil to the protection of his chief, had
been mortally wounded by the unsparing sword of the smith. The other
two remaining of the Clan Quhele had also fallen, and Torquil, with his
foster son and the wounded Tormot, forced to retreat before eight or ten
of the Clan Chattan, made a stand on the bank of the river, while their
enemies were making such exertions as their wounds would permit to come
up with them. Torquil had just reached the spot where he had resolved
to make the stand, when the young Tormot dropped and expired. His death
drew from his father the first and only sigh which he had breathed
throughout the eventful day.
“My son Tormot!” he said, “my youngest and dearest! But if I save
Hector, I save all. Now, my darling dault, I have done for thee all that
man may, excepting the last. Let me undo the clasps of that ill omened
armour, and do thou put on that of Tormot; it is light, and will fit
thee well. While you do so, I will rush on these crippled men, and make
what play with them I can. I trust I shall have but little to do, for
they are following each other like disabled steers. At least, darling of
my soul, if I am unable to save thee, I can show thee how a man should
die.”
While Torquil thus spoke, he unloosed the clasps of the young chief’s
hauberk, in the simple belief that he could thus break the meshes which
fear and necromancy had twined about his heart.
“My father--my father--my more than parent,” said the unhappy Eachin,
“stay with me! With you by my side, I feel I can fight to the last.”
“It is impossible,” said Torquil. “I will stop them coming up, while you
put on the hauberk. God eternally bless thee, beloved of my soul!”
And then, brandishing his sword, Torquil of the Oak rushed forward
with the same fatal war cry which had so often sounded over that bloody
field, “Bas air son Eachin!” The words rung three times in a voice of
thunder; and each time that he cried his war shout he struck down one of
the Clan Chattan as he met them successively straggling towards him.
“Brave battle, hawk--well flown, falcon!” exclaimed the multitude,
as they witnessed exertions which seemed, even at this last hour, to
threaten a change of the fortunes of the day. Suddenly these cries were
hushed into silence, and succeeded by a clashing of swords so dreadful,
as if the whole conflict had recommenced in the person of Henry Wynd and
Torquil of the Oak. They cut, foined, hewed, and thrust as if they had
drawn their blades for the first time that day; and their inveteracy was
mutual, for Torquil recognised the foul wizard who, as he supposed, had
cast a spell over his child; and Henry saw before him the giant who,
during the whole conflict, had interrupted the purpose for which alone
he had joined the combatants--that of engaging in single combat with
Hector. They fought with an equality which, perhaps, would not have
existed, had not Henry, more wounded than his antagonist, been somewhat
deprived of his usual agility.
Meanwhile Eachin, finding himself alone, after a disorderly and vain
attempt to put on his foster brother’s harness, became animated by an
emotion of shame and despair, and hurried forward to support his foster
father in the terrible struggle, ere some other of the Clan Chattan
should come up. When he was within five yards, and sternly determined
to take his share in the death fight, his foster father fell, cleft
from the collarbone well nigh to the heart, and murmuring with his last
breath, “Bas air son Eachin!” The unfortunate youth saw the fall of
his last friend, and at the same moment beheld the deadly enemy who had
hunted him through the whole field standing within sword’s point of
him, and brandishing the huge weapon which had hewed its way to his
life through so many obstacles. Perhaps this was enough to bring his
constitutional timidity to its highest point; or perhaps he recollected
at the same moment that he was without defensive armour, and that a
line of enemies, halting indeed and crippled, but eager for revenge and
blood, were closely approaching. It is enough to say, that his heart
sickened, his eyes darkened, his ears tingled, his brain turned giddy,
all other considerations were lost in the apprehension of instant death;
and, drawing one ineffectual blow at the smith, he avoided that which
was aimed at him in return by bounding backward; and, ere the former
could recover his weapon, Eachin had plunged into the stream of the Tay.
A roar of contumely pursued him as he swam across the river, although,
perhaps, not a dozen of those who joined in it would have behaved
otherwise in the like circumstances. Henry looked after the fugitive in
silence and surprise, but could not speculate on the consequences of
his flight, on account of the faintness which seemed to overpower him
as soon as the animation of the contest had subsided. He sat down on
the grassy bank, and endeavoured to stanch such of his wounds as were
pouring fastest.
The victors had the general meed of gratulation. The Duke of Albany and
others went down to survey the field; and Henry Wynd was honoured with
particular notice.
“If thou wilt follow me, good fellow,” said the Black Douglas, “I
will change thy leathern apron for a knight’s girdle, and thy burgage
tenement for an hundred pound land to maintain thy rank withal.”
“I thank you humbly, my lord,” said the smith, dejectedly, “but I have
shed blood enough already, and Heaven has punished me by foiling the
only purpose for which I entered the combat.”
“How, friend?” said Douglas. “Didst thou not fight for the Clan Chattan,
and have they not gained a glorious conquest?”
“I fought for my own hand,” [meaning, I did such a thing for my own
pleasure, not for your profit] said the smith, indifferently; and the
expression is still proverbial in Scotland.
The good King Robert now came up on an ambling palfrey, having entered
the barriers for the purpose of causing the wounded to be looked after.
“My lord of Douglas,” he said, “you vex the poor man with temporal
matters when it seems he may have short timer to consider those that
are spiritual. Has he no friends here who will bear him where his bodily
wounds and the health of his soul may be both cared for?”
“He hath as many friends as there are good men in Perth,” said Sir
Patrick Charteris, “and I esteem myself one of the closest.”
“A churl will savour of churl’s kind,” said the haughty Douglas, turning
his horse aside; “the proffer of knighthood from the sword of Douglas
had recalled him from death’s door, had there been a drop of gentle
blood in his body.”
Disregarding the taunt of the mighty earl, the Knight of Kinfauns
dismounted to take Henry in his arms, as he now sunk back from very
faintness. But he was prevented by Simon Glover, who, with other
burgesses of consideration, had now entered the barrace.
“Henry, my beloved son Henry!” said the old man. “Oh, what tempted you
to this fatal affray? Dying--speechless?”
“No--not speechless,” said Henry. “Catharine--” He could utter no more.
“Catharine is well, I trust, and shall be thine--that is, if--”
“If she be safe, thou wouldst say, old man,” said the Douglas, who,
though something affronted at Henry’s rejection of his offer, was too
magnanimous not to interest himself in what was passing. “She is safe,
if Douglas’s banner can protect her--safe, and shall be rich. Douglas
can give wealth to those who value it more than honour.”
“For her safety, my lord, let the heartfelt thanks and blessings of a
father go with the noble Douglas. For wealth, we are rich enough. Gold
cannot restore my beloved son.”
“A marvel!” said the Earl: “a churl refuses nobility, a citizen despises
gold!”
“Under your lordship’s favour,” said Sir Patrick, “I, who am knight
and noble, take license to say, that such a brave man as Henry Wynd may
reject honourable titles, such an honest man as this reverend citizen
may dispense with gold.”
“You do well, Sir Patrick, to speak for your town, and I take no
offence,” said the Douglas. “I force my bounty on no one. But,” he
added, in a whisper to Albany, “your Grace must withdraw the King from
this bloody sight, for he must know that tonight which will ring over
broad Scotland when tomorrow dawns. This feud is ended. Yet even I
grieve that so many brave Scottishmen lie here slain, whose brands might
have decided a pitched field in their country’s cause.”
With dignity King Robert was withdrawn from the field, the tears running
down his aged cheeks and white beard, as he conjured all around him,
nobles and priests, that care should be taken for the bodies and souls
of the few wounded survivors, and honourable burial rendered to
the slain. The priests who were present answered zealously for both
services, and redeemed their pledge faithfully and piously.
Thus ended this celebrated conflict of the North Inch of Perth. Of
sixty-four brave men (the minstrels and standard bearers included)
who strode manfully to the fatal field, seven alone survived, who were
conveyed from thence in litters, in a case little different from the
dead and dying around them, and mingled with them in the sad procession
which conveyed them from the scene of their strife. Eachin alone had
left it void of wounds and void of honour.
It remains but to say, that not a man of the Clan Quhele survived the
bloody combat except the fugitive chief; and the consequence of the
defeat was the dissolution of their confederacy. The clans of which it
consisted are now only matter of conjecture to the antiquary, for, after
this eventful contest, they never assembled under the same banner. The
Clan Chattan, on the other hand, continued to increase and flourish; and
the best families of the Northern Highlands boast their descent from the
race of the Cat a Mountain.