Hunted and Harried, R. M. Ballantyne [the unexpected everything txt] 📗

of the persecuted many against the tyrannical few. In the confusions of a sin-stricken world, the conditions have been occasionally and partially reversed; but, for the most part, history’s record tells of the abuse of power on the part of the few who possess it, and the resulting consequence that:—

“Man’s inhumanity to man

Makes countless thousands mourn—”

Until the down-trodden have turned at bay, and, like the French in 1793, have taken fearful vengeance, or, as in the case of the Covenanters at the time of which we write, have reaped only disaster and profounder woe.

There were, however, two elements of weakness among the Covenanters in 1679 which rendered all their efforts vain, despite the righteousness of their cause. One was that they were an undisciplined body, without appointed and experienced officers; while their leader, Robert Hamilton, was utterly unfitted by nature as well as training for a military command. The other weakness was, that the unhappy differences of opinion among them as to lines of duty, to which we have before referred, became more and more embittered, instead of being subordinated to the stern necessities of the hour.

The earnest men of God amongst them could no doubt have brought things to a better state in this crisis if their counsels had prevailed, but the men whose powers of endurance had at last given way were too many and strong for these; so that, instead of preparing for united action, the turbulent among them continued their dissensions until too late.

After Drumclog, Hamilton led his men to Glasgow to attack the enemy’s headquarters there. He was repulsed, and then retired to Hamilton, where he formed a camp.

The Privy Council meanwhile called out the militia, and ordered all the heritors and freeholders to join with the Regulars in putting down the insurrection. A good many people from all quarters had joined the Covenanters after the success at Drumclog; but it is thought that their numbers never exceeded 4000. The army which prepared to meet them under the command of the Duke of Monmouth and Buccleuch was said to be 10,000 strong—among them were some of the best of the King’s troops.

The Duke was anxious to delay matters, apparently with some hope of reconciliation. Many of the Covenanters were like-minded; and it is said that Mr Welsh visited the royal camp in disguise, with a view to a peaceful solution; but the stern spirits in both camps rendered this impossible. Some from principle, others from prejudice, could not see their way to a compromise; while the unprincipled on either side “cried havoc, and let slip the dogs of war!”

It was on Sabbath the 22nd of June that the Duke’s army reached Bothwell Moor; the advanced guards entering Bothwell town within a quarter of a mile of the bridge which spans the Clyde. The Covenanters lay encamped on Hamilton Moor, on the southern side of the river.

That morning a company of stalwart young men, coming from the direction of Edinburgh, had crossed Bothwell Bridge before the arrival of the royal army and joined the Covenanters. They were preceded by two men on horseback.

“It seems a daft-like thing,” said one horseman to the other as they traversed the moor, “that the likes o’ me should be ridin’ to battle like a lord, insteed o’ trudgin’ wi’ the men on futt; but, man, it’s no’ easy to walk far efter wearin’ a ticht-fittin’ buit—though it was only for a wee while I had it on. It’s a’ verra weel for you, Wull, that’s oor eleckit captain, an’ can sit yer horse like a markis; but as for me, I’ll slip aff an’ fecht on my legs when it comes to that.”

“There’s no military law, Andrew, against fighting on foot,” returned the captain, who, we need scarcely say, was Will Wallace; “but if you are well advised you’ll stick to the saddle as long as you can. See, yonder seems to be the headquarters of the camp. We will report our arrival, and then see to breakfast.”

“Ay—I’ll be thankfu’ for a bite o’ somethin’, for I’m fair famished; an’ there’s a proverb, I think, that says it’s ill fechtin’ on an emp’y stammack. It seems to me there’s less order an’ mair noise yonder than befits a camp o’ serious men—specially on a Sabbath mornin’.”

“The same thought occurred to myself,” said Wallace. “Perhaps they have commenced the services, for you know there are several ministers among them.”

“Mair like disputation than services,” returned the farmer with a grave shake of his head.

Finding that Andrew was correct, and that the leaders of the little army were wasting the precious moments in irrelevant controversy, the Edinburgh contingent turned aside and set about preparing a hasty breakfast. This reinforcement included Quentin Dick, Jock Bruce, David Spence, and Ramblin’ Peter; also Tam Chanter, Edward Gordon, and Alexander McCubine, who had been picked up on the march.

Of course, while breaking their fast they discussed the pros and cons of the situation freely.

“If the King’s troops are as near as they are reported to be,” said Wallace, “our chances of victory are small.”

“I fear ye’re richt,” said Black. “It becomes Ignorance to haud its tongue in the presence o’ Knowledge, nae doot—an’ I confess to bein’ as ignorant as a bairn o’ the art o’ war; but common sense seems to say that haverin’ aboot theology on the eve o’ a fecht is no sae wise-like as disposin’ yer men to advantage. The very craws might be ashamed o’ sic a noise!”

Even while he spoke a cry was raised that the enemy was in sight; and the confusion that prevailed before became redoubled as the necessity for instant action arose. In the midst of it, however, a few among the more sedate and cool-headed leaders did their best to reduce the little army to something like order, and put it in battle array. There was no lack of personal courage. Men who had, for the sake of righteousness, suffered the loss of all things, and had carried their lives in their hands for so many years, were not likely to present a timid front in the hour of battle. And leaders such as John Nisbet of Hardhill, one of the most interesting sufferers in the twenty-eight years’ persecution; Clelland, who had fought with distinguished courage at Drumclog; Henry Hall of Haughhead; David Hackston of Rathillet; John Balfour of Burley; Turnbull of Bewlie; with Major Learmont and Captain John Paton of Meadowhead—two veterans who had led the Westland Covenanters in their first battle at the Pentland Hills—such men were well able to have led a band of even half-disciplined men to victory if united under a capable general. But such was not to be. The laws of God, whether relating to physics or morals, are inexorable. A divided army cannot conquer. They had assembled to fight; instead of fighting they disputed, and that so fiercely that two opposing parties were formed in the camp, and their councils of war became arenas of strife. The drilling of men had been neglected, officers were not appointed, stores of ammunition and other supplies were not provided, and no plan of battle was concerted. All this, with incapacity at the helm, resulted in overwhelming disaster and the sacrifice of a body of brave, devoted men. It afterwards intensified persecution, and postponed constitutional liberty for many years.

In this state of disorganisation the Covenanters were found by the royal troops. The latter were allowed quietly to plant their guns and make arrangements for the attack.

But they were not suffered to cross Bothwell Bridge with impunity. Some of the bolder spirits, leaving the disputants to fight with tongue and eye, drew their swords and advanced to confront the foe.

“It’s every man for himsel’ here,” remarked Andrew Black indignantly, wiping his mouth with his cuff, as he rose from the meal which he was well aware might be his last. “The Lord hae mercy on the puir Covenanters, for they’re in sair straits this day. Come awa’, Wull Wallace—lead us on to battle.”

Our hero, who was busily forming up his men, needed no such exhortation. Seeing that there was no one in authority to direct his movements, he resolved to act “for his own hand.” He gave the word to march, and set off at a quick step for the river, where the fight had already begun. Soon he and his small band were among those who held the bridge. Here they found Hackston, Hall, Turnbull, and the lion-like John Nisbet, each with a small band of devoted followers sternly and steadily defending what they knew to be the key to their position. Distributing his men in such a way among the coppices on the river’s bank that they could assail the foe to the greatest advantage without unnecessarily exposing themselves, Wallace commenced a steady fusillade on the King’s foot-guards, who were attempting to storm the bridge. The Covenanters had only one cannon and about 300 men with which to meet the assault; but the gun was effectively handled, and the men were staunch.

On the central arch of the old bridge—which was long and narrow—there stood a gate. This had been closed and barricaded with beams and trees, and the parapets on the farther side had been thrown down to prevent the enemy finding shelter behind them. These arrangements aided the defenders greatly, so that for three hours the gallant 300 held the position in spite of all that superior discipline and numerous guns could do. At last, however, the ammunition of the defenders began to fail.

“Where did ye tether my horse?” asked Will Wallace, addressing Peter, who acted the part of aide-de-camp and servant to his commander.

“Ayont the hoose there,” replied Peter, who was crouching behind a tree-stump.

“Jump on its back, lad, and ride to the rear at full speed. Tell them we’re running short of powder and ball. We want more men, too, at once. Haste ye!”

“Ay, an’ tell them frae me, that if we lose the brig we lose the day,” growled Andrew Black, who, begrimed with powder, was busily loading and firing his musket from behind a thick bush, which, though an admirable screen from vision, was a poor protection from bullets, as the passage of several leaden messengers had already proved. But our farmer was too much engrossed with present duty to notice trifles!

Without a word, except his usual “Ay,” Ramblin’ Peter jumped up and ran to where his commander’s steed was picketed. In doing so he had to pass an open space, and a ball striking his cap sent it spinning into the air; but Peter, like Black, was not easily affected by trifles. Next moment he was on the back of Will’s horse—a great long-legged chestnut—and flying towards the main body of Covenanters in rear.

The bullets were whistling thickly past him. One of these, grazing some tender part of his steed’s body, acted as a powerful spur, so that the alarmed creature flew over the ground at racing speed, much to its rider’s satisfaction. When they reached the lines, however, and he attempted to pull up, Peter found that the great tough-mouthed animal had taken the bit in its teeth and bolted. No effort that his puny arm could make availed to check it. Through the ranks of the Covenanters he sped wildly, and in a short time was many miles from the battlefield. How long he might have continued his involuntary retreat is uncertain, but the branch of a tree brought it to a close by sweeping him off the saddle. A quarter of an hour later an old woman found him lying on the ground insensible, and with much difficulty succeeded in dragging him to her cottage.

Meanwhile the tide of war had gone against the Covenanters. Whatever may be said of Hamilton, unquestionably he did not manage the fight well. No ammunition or reinforcements were sent to the front. The stout defenders of the bridge were forced to give way in such an unequal conflict. Yet