A CHARGE OF THE SCOTTISH GUARD.
We came in sight of Bitche on the morning of the 25th March, which
was still in that year (1634), _New Year's-day_ in England; though
the governments of Scotland and of France altered that festival to
the 1st of January in 1599, during the reigns of James VI. and
Charles IX.
We were with the advanced guard of cavalry, which consisted of the
dragoons of Marshal Brissac and the light horse of the Guard, two
hundred Navarrese chevaliers, the pride of Henry the Great; and as
the Marquis de Gordon, who commanded the whole, understood that a
strong force lay in Bitche, he halted, reconnoitred, and bivouacked
as the night had set in and our main body had not yet come up.
We slept overnight in our cloaks, under a chill dew, at the heads of
our horses, which remained fully accoutred, unbitted, and ready for
action at a moment's notice--a fortunate precaution; for with the
first pale streak of dawn, when all were weary, cold, and shivering,
I was roused by the bracing cry of--
'Aux armes! à cheval!' and _to horse!_ blew all our trumpets, while
the long roll of the 'Scottish march,' beaten sharply on the drum,
rang along the far-extended lines of Hepburn, Lesly, and Ramsay. And
now a body of imperial cavalry, the old-whiskered reitres, and German
lanzknechts of the Empire, accoutred in black iron and buff leather,
with lance, arquebuse, and espadone, appeared in dark masses and in
solid squadron, about a thousand strong, on the narrow road that lay
direct to Bitche.
The latter, a little town on the Alsatian frontier, which gave the
title of count to a gentleman of the house of Lorraine, stands upon a
rock, and was deemed impregnable. Beyond it rose the sombre masses
of the Vosges mountains, around the peaks of which the morning mist
was wreathing and curling upward--golden, white, and purple in the
rising sun; and on the highest towers of the old and dun-coloured
citadel waved the white flag, bearing the black eagle of the Empire,
and the yellow banner with the three blue wings of Lorraine.
As the artillery had not yet come up, the cavalry were to open a
passage for the infantry through these Imperialists; and to us was
reserved the honour of attacking the enemy's cavalry if our comrades
failed, for it has been a maxim in war since the days of Julius Cæsar
to keep the best troops in reserve.
With loud shouts of 'Navarre! Navarre!' the glittering light horse
of the Guard swept forward to the attack, in two heavy squadrons of
fifty chevaliers abreast, with the royal standard, three fleur-de-lis
or in a field _azure_, advanced above their bright helmets, their
swords uplifted, and their white ostrich plumes streaming behind
them. There was a lowering of lances along the German line; a
flashing of pistols; a fierce shock, and rolling of men and horses
upon the green turf or dusty road; and, with a shout of rage and
defiance, the chevaliers of Navarre recoiled before the enemy,
leaving thirty of their number dead or writhing on the ground, while
the heavy dragoons of Brissac, led by Roger de St. Lacy, the gallant
Duc de Bellegarde, advanced by double troops in dense order from a
trot to full speed, and with the old _cri de guerre_--
'Montjoie and St. Denis for France!' as all their brandished
sword-blades flashed against the morning sun.
A dreadful conflict took place, for Brissac's dragoons were heavy
men, accustomed to fight on foot or on horseback; and in the melée we
beheld with fierce impatience how helmets were cloven, buff coats
pierced and shred, while heads and weapons, men, standards, and
horses swayed or went down into that armed and living sea which
struggled in the mountain gorge--went down to rise no more!
Bellegarde was wounded by a splendidly-accoutred young imperial
colonel, who wore a coat of steel lined with scarlet velvet, with
crimson hose, a black plume in his helmet, and the eagle on his
breast; and who, throughout this conflict, on which the morning sun
shone with unclouded brilliance, was conspicuous alike by the glitter
of his equipment and the rashness of his courage. Yells, shrieks,
groans, the clashing of swords and the sharp ringing report of
pistols echoed between the hills. Men were crawling out from the
press covered with bruises, blood, and dust; wounded horses were
hopping about on three legs, and others, in the throes of death,
rolled madly from side to side, kicking furiously all who came near
them. This roused all our fire; and, with something like a shout of
fierce joy and anger mingled, we saw the dark dragoons of Marshal
Brissac give way at last before the solid German ranks.
'Now, gentlemen, _it is our turn_!' exclaimed (he handsome young
Marquis--the heir of Huntly--as he brandished his sword, and his dark
eyes flashed with the fire of his nature, while he spurred to the
front with a glove in his helmet--the gift of Lady Anne Campbell, of
Argyle, whom he afterwards married. 'Montjoie and Saint Denis!
France--France and Scotland, for ever! trot--gallop--comrades--les
Gardes Ecossais, follow me--CHARGE!'
Every lip was set; every cheek was flushed; every eye was sparkling
as I gazed along the ranks of the chosen hundred cuirassiers, when
the voice of our leader and the shrill twang of the trumpet bade us
move, and when the contagious ardour ran from man to man and heart to
heart along that Scottish line--Scottish in name and blood, and heart
and soul--second to none in pride of race and chivalry.
On, on we progressed from a trot to a gallop, and the ranks grew
denser, holster to holster and boot to boot, as the horses closed
upon each other; and like a stream of lightning, the hundred
guardsmen poured forward in all their brilliant trappings, with
uplifted swords and St. Andrew's cross waving on the wind, as Sir
Archibald Douglas, of Heriotmuir, held it aloft in his stirrup. On,
on we went, and though they were eight to one, the dark ranks of the
reitres and lancers quailed and wavered before us!
Headlong we rode at them, and plunged into the vapour made by the
smoke of firearms mingled with the morning mist. This murky cloud
seemed full of helmeted heads, of gauntleted hands, the bright points
of levelled pikes, of brandished swords, and waving standards; while
the air was laden with cries, tumultuous sounds, and the heavy odour
of gunpowder.
Now--now we are within arm's length of them--
There was a mighty shock as rearing horses and shrieking men went
down on all sides of us, but we burst right through the heart of the
foe, breaking their close array of horses' heads and cuirassed
breasts; the dead and the dying marking our track as on right and
left we hewed them down.
Raynold Cheyne, Scott of Tushielaw, Dundrennan, and the Chevalier,
were all fighting like the peers of Charlemagne, and each performed
many acts of heroism. The Master of St. Monance, son of James
Sandilands, Lord Abercrombie of Abercrombie, was struck on the breast
by a shell, while riding next me. It was thrown from the citadel,
and in exploding, blew his jaw off, but, singular to say, injured no
one else. He gave a strange, half-smothered cry as his horse turned
and fled; he was dragged by the stirrup down a steep ravine, and we
never saw him more.
Dagobert bore me bravely; but, bewildered by the fury of our advance
and the concussion of the encounter, I knew not for a moment where I
was, whether on earth on in upper air, so great was the din around
me, until a sharp ringing blow on my helmet recalled my energies with
all the instinct of self-preservation, and I found myself thrust
somewhat out of the press, and opposed hand to hand to the young
colonel--he in steel and scarlet velvet--whose valour we had observed
for some time, and in whom I now recognised my Parisian acquaintance
of the Place de la Grève, of the Château d'Amtoise, and latterly the
abbé of the tavern at Sezanne--Monseigneur the Prince of
Vaudemont--the son and heir of Lorraine!
For a moment my confusion nearly destroyed me.
'Ha!' he exclaimed, thrusting at me furiously; 'welcome to this
meeting, M. Blane. Mordieu! you have kept your appointment well; now
I am no longer M. l'Abbé of the tavern, but a reitre who will skewer
you on his sword like a pigeon on a spit.'
'Your present guise becomes you better than the garb of a spy,' said
I, dealing him a blow which cleft a gilded passguard off his cuirass.
'Tudieu, my fine fellow! I find that I must kill you, then--here is
cold steel for a hot heart! Lorraine, Lorraine, and down with the
Fleur-de-lis!' he exclaimed, pressing fiercely on me; but the war-cry
brought so many other horsemen and swords into the melée, that we
almost immediately, and perhaps fortunately, separated.
Our veteran Marechal de Logis was fighting valiantly in the front
rank to capture a standard, the bearer of which, a richly accoutred
cavalier, struck the sword from his hand, and was about to slay the
fine old man, when I drove up his blade, and dashed Dagobert almost
on his hind legs between them. The Imperialist was a finished
swordsman; but perceiving that he was weary, I resolved to force his
guard. He could barely cover himself on the side opposed to me, so
pressing forward I struck the fort of my sword furiously on his
blade, and thus succeeded in giving him a cut on the right shoulder;
and while taking care to receive his sword, as it came forward, on
the cross-bar of my hilt, I ran him through the body, and wrenched
away the standard. The blood poured over my glove and pommel as he
fell from his saddle, and there was an end of my poor Lorrainer, for
the time at least.
He was the Count de Bitche, colonel of petardiers under Duke
Charles--the same infamous Count who had abducted and strangled the
beautiful Countess of Lutzelstein, so I have no reason to deplore
very much, that my lunge through his Lordship's ribs proved so
successful.
The standard I had taken bore the three wings of Lorraine, and was
borne by the Prince of Vaudemont's horse.
'Arthur Blane,' said the old Marechal de Logis, 'I thank you for that
timely succour and good service. I am getting old now; a man, like a
drum-head, cannot last for ever--both wear out in time; but I have
seen a day when no man in Europe could have stricken a sword from
Patrick Gordon's hand.'
The veteran had provided himself with another weapon, and was
spurring on once more; but now, the rout of the enemy's cavalry was
general, and they fled at full speed, goading and goring their
horses' flanks, as they retired past Bitche, towards the stronger
citadel of La Mothe, which lay some miles distant.
For two miles we--the cuirassiers of the Scottish Guard--together
with the Navarrese light horse, and the dragoons of Brissac, followed
them, killing and capturing at every step of the way, though the
valiant young Prince of Vaudemont made no less than nine attempts to
rally them and to repulse us.
'Well, my Lord Dundrennan,' said the Marquis, as they galloped side
by side; 'how felt you in your first charge to-day?'
'A glorious disregard alike of death and fear!' was the proud reply;
'and I am sure that such was the feeling of us all.'
The rout of so superior a body of horse was entirely attributed, by
the Duc de Lavalette, to the skill and fury with which we advanced;
for cavalry when charging, should always trot gently for about a
hundred paces, and thereafter increase their speed until they attain
a full and furious gallop, closing to the croup when within twenty
paces of the enemy; but such was the celerity with which our hundred
cuirassiers advanced, that we charged fully two thousand paces, boot
to boot, without breaking; and it may fairly be admitted, that when
horsemen have achieved this point of perfection they would ride
through a stone rampart--they are fit for anything.
The field, or rather the roadway where this skirmish took place, was
strewed with dead and wounded. After the former were stripped and
the baggage plundered, one could get any article of attire for a
twentieth part of its value.
A Parmese dagger, for a franc.
A velvet coat laced with gold, for five francs.
A sword, a hat and feathers, for a pot of stroh wine.
Our petardiers blew up the barrier gates of Bitche, which were feebly
defended by the town guard and a few old soldiers armed with
partizans. The castle was stormed by the light horse, who were
dismounted for that service; and who, in their anxiety to wipe out
the disgrace of their late repulse, acted with great cruelty,
'sparing,' as the Marquis de Toneins told us, 'none but the ugly and
the poor.' We blew up the magazines, spiked the guns, and set the
town on fire; and as the old song says,
'When churches and houses blazed all in a flame,
With _tan-ta-ra-ra_, away we all came!'