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THE troops of King Edward,
lay overpowered with wine. Elated with victory, they had drunk largely.;
the royal pavilion setting them the example; for though Edward was
temperate, yet, to flatter his recovered friends, the inordinate Buchan
and Soulis, he had allowed a greater excess that night, than he was
accustomed to sanction. The banquet over, every knight retired to his
tent; every soldier, to his pallet; and a deep sleep lay upon every man.
The King himself, whose many thoughts had long kept waking, now fell into
a slumber.
Guards had been placed
around the camp, more from military ceremony than an idea of their
necessity. The strength of Wallace, they believed broken; and that they
should have nothing to do next morning, but to chase him into Stirling,
and take him there. But the spirit of the Regent, was not so easily
subdued. He ever thought it shameful to despair, while it was possible to
make a stand. And now, leading his determined followers through the lower
grounds of Cumbernauld; he detached half his force under Mar, to take the
Southron camp in the rear; while he should attack the front, and pierce
his way to the royal pavilion.
With soundless caution the
battalion of Mar wound round the banks of the Forth, to reach the point of
its destination;! and Wallace, proceeding with as noiseless a step, gained
the hill which overlooked his sleeping enemies. His front ranks, shrouded
by branches they had torn from the trees in Torwood, now stood still.—Without
this precaution, had any eye looked from the Southron line, they must have
been perceived; but now, should a hundred gaze on them, their
figures were so blended with the adjoining thickets, they might easily be
mistaken for a part of them. As the moon sunk in the horizon, they moved
gently down the hill; and scarcely drawing breath, were within a few paces
of the first out-post—when one of the sentinels starting from his
reclining position, suddenly exclaimed, "What sound is that?"—"Only
the wind amongst the trees," returned his comrade; "I see their
branches waving. Let me sleep? for Wallace yet lives, and we may have hot
work to-morrow." Wallace did live; and the man slept—to wake no
more; for the next instant, a Scottish brand was through every Southron
heart on the outpost. That done, Wallace threw away his bough, leaped the
narrow dyke which lay in front of the camp.; and, with Bruce and Graham at
the head of a chosen band of brave men, cautiously proceeded onward to
reach the pavilion. At the moment he should blow his bugle, the divisions
he had left with Lennox and Murray, and the Lord Mar, were to press
forward to the same point.
Still all lay in profound
repose ;—and guided by the lamps, which burnt around the royal quarters,
the dauntless Scots reached the tent. Wallace had already laid his hand
upon the curtain that was its entrance, when an armed man with a presented
pike, demanded, "Who comes here?" the Regent’s answer laid the
interrogator’s head at his feet; but the voice had awakened the
ever-watchful King. Perceiving his own danger, in the fall of the
sentinel, he snatched his sword; and calling aloud on his sleeping train,
sprang from his couch. He was immediately surrounded by half a score
knights, who started on their feet before Wallace could reach the spot.
Short, however, would have been their protection: they fell before his
arm, and that of Graham and left a vacant place; for Edward had
disappeared. Foreseeing, from the first prowess of these midnight
invaders, the fate of his guards, he had made a
timely escape, by cutting a passage for himself through the canvas of his
tent. Wallace perceived that his prize had eluded his grasp; but hoping to
at least drive him from the field, he blew the appointed signal to Mar and
Lennox; caught one of the lamps from the monarch’s table, and setting
fire to the adjoining drapery, rushed from its blazing volumes, to meet
his brave colleagues amongst the disordered lines. Graham and his
followers, with firebrands in their hands, threw conflagration into all
parts of the camp; and, with the fearful war-cries of their country,
seemed to assail the terrified enemy from every direction. Men, half
dressed and unarmed, rushed from their tents upon the pikes of their
enemies; hundreds fell without striking a blow; and they who were
stationed nearest the outposts, betook themselves to flight; scattering
themselves in scared throngs over the amazed plains of, Linlithgow.
The King in vain sought to
rally his men; to remind them of their late victory. His English alone
hearkened to his call: superstition had laid her petrifying hand on all
the rest.—The Irish, saw a terrible judgment in this scene; believing it
had fallen upon them, for having taken arms against tbeir sister people:
the Welsh, as they descried the warlike Bishop of Dunkeld, issuing from
the mists of the river, and charging his foaming steed through their
flying defiles, could not persuade themselves that Merlin had not arisen,
to chastise their obedience to the ravager of their country. Every
superstitious, every panic fear, took possession of the half-intoxicated,
half-dreaming wretches; and falling in bloody and unresisting heaps all
around, it was rather a slaughter than a battle. Qpposition seemed
everywhere abandoned, excepting on the spot still maintained by the King
of England, and his brave countrymen. The faithless Scots, who had
followed the Cummins to the field, also stood there, and fought with
desperation. Wallace opposed the despair and valour of his adversaries,
with the steadiness of his men; and Graham, having seized some of the
war-engines, discharged a shower of blazing arrows upon the Southron
phalanx.
The camp was now on fire in every
direction; and putting all to the hazard of one decisive blow, Edward
ordered his men to make at once to the point, where, by the light of the
flaming tents, he could perceive the waving plumes of Wallace. With his
ponderous mace held terribly in the air, the king himself bore down to the
shock; and breaking through the intervening combatants, assaulted the
chief. The might of ten thousand souls was then in the arm of the Regent
of Scotland. The puissant Edward wondered at himself, as he shrank from
before his strokes; as he shuddered at the heroic fierceness of a
countenance which seemed more than mortal. Was it indeed the Scottish
chieftain? or some armed delegate from heaven, descended to fight the
battles of the oppressed ?—Edward trembled: his mace was struck from his
hand ;—but immediately a glittering falchion supplied its place, and
with recovering presence of mind he renewed the combat.
Meanwhile, the young Bruce, (who, in his
humble armour, might have been passed by as an enemy for meaner swords,)
checking the onward speed of March, pierced him at once through the heart:
"Die, thou disgrace to the name of Scot," cried he, "and
with thy blood expunge my stains!" His sword now laid all opposition
at his feet and while the tempest of death blew around; the groans of the
dying, the shrieks of the wounded, and the outcries of those who were
perishing in the flames, drove the King’s ranks to distraction; and
raised so great a fear in the minds of the Cummin clan, that breaking from
the royal line with yells of dismay, they fled in all directions after
their already fugitive allies.
Edward saw the Earl of March fall; and
finding himself wounded in many places, with a backward step he received
the blows of Wallace; but that determined chief, following his advantage,
made a stroke at the King, which threw him astounded into the arms of his
followers. At that moment Lincoln raised his arm, to strike his dagger
into the back of Wallace; but Graham arrested the blow, and sent the young
lord a motionless body to the earth. The Southron ranks, closed
immediately before their insensible monarch; and a contest more desperate
than any which had preceded it, took place. Hosts seemed to fall on both
sides; at last the Southrons (having stood their ground till Edward was
carried from further danger) suddenly wheeled about, and fled
precipitately towards the east. Wallace pursued them on full charge;
driving them across the lowlands of Linlithgow; where he learnt, from some
prisoners he took, that the Earl of Carrick was in the Lothians; having
retreated thither, on the first tidings that the Scots had attacked the
English camp.
"Now is your
time," said Wallace to Bruce, "to rejoin your father. Bring him
to Scotland; where a free crown awaits him. Your actions of this night,
must be a pledge to your country, of the virtues which will support his
throne !"
The younger warrior,
throwing off his rugged hauberk, in a retired glen, appeared again as a
prince; and embracing the Regent, "A messenger from myself or from my
father;" said he, "shall meet you at Stirling: meanwhile,
farewell !—and give my thanks to the young Gordon, whose sword armed me
for Scotland !"
Bruce mounted the horse
Wallace had prepared; and, spurring along the banks of the Almond, was
soon lost amidst its luxuriant shades.
Wallace still led the
pursuit of Edward; and meeting those auxiliaries from the adjoining
counties, which his Provident orders had prepared to turn out on the first
appearance of this martial chase; he poured his troops through Ettrick
forest, and drove the flying host of England far into Northumberland.—There,
checking his triumphant squadrons, he recalled his stragglers; and
returned; with abated speed, into his own country. Halting on the north
bank of the Tweed, he sent to their quarters those bands which belonged to
the border castles; and then marched leisurely forward; that his brave
soldiers, who had sustained the weight of the battle, might recover their
exhausted strength.
At Peebles, he was
agreeably surprised by the sight of Edwin. Though ignorant of the
recommenced hostilities of Edward, Lord Ruthven became so impatient to
resume his duties, that, as soon as he was able to move, he had set off on
his return to Perth. On arriving at Hunting-tower, he was told of the
treachery of March; also of his fate, and that the Regent had beaten the
enemy on the banks of the Carron, and was pursuing him into his own
dominions. Ruthven was inadequate to the exertion of following the
successful troops; but Edwin, rejoicing at this new victory, would not be
detained; and crossing the Forth into Mid-Lothian, had sped his eager way,
until the happy moment that brought him again to the side of his first and
dearest friend.
As they continued their
route together, Edwin inquired the events of the past time; and heard them
related, with wonder, horror, and gratitude. Grateful for the preservation
of Wallace; grateful for the rescue of his country, from the menaced
destruction; for some time he could only clasp his friend’s hand, with
strong emotion to his heart. The death of his uncle Bothwell, made that
heart tremble within him, at the thought of how much severer might have
been his deprivation :—at last, extricating his powers of speech, from
the spell of contradictory feelings which enchained them, he said—"
But if my uncle Mar, and our brave Graham, were in the last conflict,
where are they? that I do not see them share your victory !"—--"
I hope," returned Wallace, "that we shall rejoin them in safety,
at Stirling! Our troops parted in the pursuit; and after having sent back
the lowland chieftains, you see I have none with me now, but my own
particular followers."
The Regent’s
expectations, that he should soon fall in with some of the chasing
squadrons, were the next morning gratified. Crossing the Bathgate hills,
he met the returning battalions of Lennox, with Lord Mar’s, and also Sir
John Graham’s. Lord Lennox was thanked by Wallace, for his good
services; and immediately despatched, to reoccupy his station in Dumbarton.
But the captains of Mar and of Graham, could give no other account of
their leaders, than that they saw them last, fighting valiantly in the
Southron camp; and had since supposed, that during the pursuit they must
have joined the Regent’s squadron. A cold dew fell over the limbs of
Wallace, at these tidings; he looked on Murray, and on Edwin. The
expression of the former’s face, told him what were his fears; but
Edwin, ever sanguine, strove to encourage the hope that all might yet be
well.—"They may not have yet returned from the pursuit; or they may
be gone on to Stirling."
But these comfortings, were
soon dispelled by the appearance of Lord Ruthven; who (having been
apprised of the Regent’s approach) came forth to meet him. The pleasure
of seeing the Earl so far recovered, as to have been able to leave
Hunting-tower, was checked by the first glance of his face, on which was
deeply characterised some tale of grief. Edwin thought, it was the recent
disasters of Scotland, he mourned; and with a cheering voice he,
exclaimed, "Courage, my father! our Regent comes again a conqueror!
Edward has once more recrossed the plains of Northumberland !"
"Thanks be to God for
that" replied Ruthven; "but, what
have not these last conflicts, cost our country! Lord Mar is wounded unto
death; and lies in a chamber, next to the yet unburied comes of Lord Bute,
and the dauntless Graham."—.Wallace turned deadly pale; a mist past
over his eyes, and staggering, he breathlessly supported himself on the
arm of Edwin. Murray looked on him; but all was still in his heart: his
own beloved father, had fallen; and in that stroke, fate seemed to have
emptied all her quiver.
"Lead me to their chambers
!" cried Wallace! "show me where my friends lie: let me hear the
last prayer for Scotland, from the lips of the bravest of her veterans
!"
Ruthven turned the head of
his home; and, as he rode along, he informed the Regent, that Edwin had
not left Hunting-tower, for the Forth, half an hour, when an express
arrived there from Falkirk. By it he learnt, that as soon as the
inhabitants of Stirling saw the fire of the Soutliron camp, they had
hastened thither to enjoy the spectacle. Some, bolder than the rest,
entered its deserted confines; (for the retreating squadrons, were then
flying over the plain;) and amidst the slaughtered, near the royal tent,
one of these visitors, thought he distinguished groans. Whether friend or
foe, he stooped, to render assistance to the sufferer; and soon found it
to be Lord Mar. The Earl begged to be carried to some shelter, that he
might see his wife and daughter before he died. The people drew him out
from under his horse, and many a mangled corse; and wrapping him in their
plaids, conveyed him to Falkirk; where they lodged him in the convent.
"A messenger was instantly despatched to me," continued Ruthven;
"and indifferent to all personal considerations, I set out
immediately. I saw my dying brother-in-law. At his request, that others
might not be left to suffer what he had endured under the pressure of the
slain, the field had been sought, for the wounded. Many
were conveyed into the neighbouring houses; while the dead were consigned
to the earth. Deep has been dug the graves of mingled Scot and English, on
the banks of the Carron! Many of our fallen nobles, amongst whom was the
princely Badenoch, have been conveyed to the cemetery of their ancestors;
others are entombed in the church of Falkirk; but the bodies of Sir John
Graham, and my brother Bothwell," said he, in a lower tone, "I
have retained till your return."—"You have done right:"
replied the till then silent Wallace; and spurring forward, he saw not the
ground he trod, till ascending the hill of Falkirk, the venerable walls of
its monastery presented themselves to his view. He threw himself off his
horse, and entered, preceded by Lord Ruthven.
He stopped before the cell
which contained the dying chief, and desired the abbot to apprise the Earl
of his arrival. The sound of that voice, whose heart-consoling tones could
be matched by none on earth, penetrated to the ear of his almost
insensible friend. Mar started from his pillow; and Wallace, through the
half-open door, heard him say—"Let him come in, Joanna! All my
mortal hopes now hang on him."
Wallace instantly stepped forward,
and beheld the veteran stretched on a couch, the image of that death to
which he was so rapidly approaching. He hastened towards him; and the
dying man, stretching forth his arms, exclaimed, —"Come to me,
Wallace, my Son; the only hope of Scotland, the only human trust of this
anxious paternal heart!"
Wallace threw himself on
his knees beside him, and taking his hand, pressed it in speechless
anguish to his lips; every present grief, was then weighing on his soul,
and denied him the power of utterance. Lady Mar sat by the pillow of her
husband; but she bore no marks of the sorrow, which convulsed the frame of
Wallace. She looked serious; but her cheek wore its freshest bloom. She
spoke not; and the veteran allowed the tears of enfeebled nature to fall
on the bent head of his friend. "Mourn not for me!" cried he,
"nor think that these are regretful drops. I die, as I have wished,
in the field for Scotland. Time must have soon laid my grey hairs, ignobly
in the grave; and to enter it thus, covered with honourable wounds, is
glory ;—and has long been my prayer! But, dearest, most unwearied of
friends! still the tears of mortality will flow; for I leave my children,
fatherless in this faithless world.—And my Helen! —Oh, Wallace! the
angel who exposed her precious self, through the dangers of that midnight
walk, to save Scotland, her father, and his friends! is—lost to us !—Joanna,
tell the rest;" said he, gasping, "for I cannot."
Wallace turned to Lady Mar,
with an inquiring look of such wild horror, that she found her tongue
cleave, to the roof of her mouth, and her complexion faded into the
pallidness of his. "Surely," exclaimed he, "there is not to
be a wreck of all that is estimable on earth! The Lady Helen is not
dead?"—" No;" rejoined the Earl; "but—" He
could proceed no further, and Lady Mar forced herself to speak.—"She
has fallen into the hands of the enemy. On my Lord’s being brought to
this place, he sent for myself and Lady Helen; but in passing by Dunipacis,
an armed squadron issued from behind the mound, and putting our attendants
to flight, carried her off. I escaped hither. The reason of this attack,
was explained afterwards by one of the Southrons, who, having been wounded
by our escort, was taken and brought to Falkirk. He said, that Lord Aymer
de Valence, having been sent by his beset monarch to call Lord Carrick to
his assistance, found the Bruce’s camp deserted; but, by accident,
learning that Lady Helen Mar was to be brought to Falkirk, he stationed
himself behind Dunipacis; and springing out as soon as our cavalcade, was
in view, seized her. She obtained, the rest were allowed to escape. But as
Lord De Valence loves Helen, I cannot doubt he will have sufficient honour,
not to insult the fame of her family; and so will make her his wife."
"God forbid!"
ejaculated Mar; holding up his trembling hands; "God forbid, that my
blood should ever mingle with that of any one of the people who have
wrought such woe to Scotland! Swear to me, valiant Wallace, by the virtues
of her virgin heart, by your own immaculate honour, that you will move
heaven and earth, to rescue my Helen from the power of this Southron
lord!"
"So help me
Heaven!" answered Wallace, looking steadfastly upwards. A groan burst
from the lips of Lady Mar, and her head sunk on the side of the couch.—
"What ?—Who is that?" exclaimed Mar; raising his head in alarm
from his pillow. "Believe it your country, Donald !" replied
she; "to what, do you bind its only defender? Are you not throwing
him into the very centre of his enemies, by making him swear to rescue
Helen? Think you, that De Valence will not foresee a pursuit, and take her
into the heart of England? And thither, must our Regent follow him! Oh, my
Lord, retract your demand! Release Sir William Wallace, from a vow, that
must destroy him ! "—"Wallace !" cried the now
soul-struck Earl, "what have I done! Has a father’s anxiety, asked
of you amiss? If so, pardon me !—But if my daughter also, must perish
for Scotland, take her, O God! uncontaminated, and let us meet in Heaven !—Wallace,
I dare not accept your vow."—"But I will fulfil it,"
cried he. "Let thy paternal heart rest in peace; and by Jesu’s
help, Lady Helen shall again be in her own country, as free from Southron
taint, as she is from all mortal sins! De Valence dare not approach her
heavenly innocence, with violence; and her Scottish heart, will never
consent to give him a lawful claim to her precious self. Edward’s
legions are far beyond
the borders; but wherever this Earl may be, yet I will reach him !—For,
there is a guiding Hand above! and the demands of the morning at Falkirk,
are now to be answered in the halls of Stirling."
Lord Ruthven, followed by Edwin and
Murray, entered the room.—And the two nephews were holding each a hand
of their dying uncle in theirs, when Lady Ruthven, (who, exhausted with
fatigue and anxiety, had retired an hour before,) reappeared at the door
of the apartment. She had been informed of the arrival of the Regent, and
her son; and now hastened to give them a sorrowful welcome.—"Ah, my
Lord!" cried she, as Wallace pressed her matron cheek to his:
"this is not as your triumphs are wont to be greeted! You are still a
conqueror; and yet death, dreadful death, lies all around us! And our
Helen too ! "—"Shall be restored to you, by the blessed aid of
Heaven!" returned he. "What is yet left for me to do, must be
done; and then—" he paused, and added, "The time is not far
distant, Lady Ruthven, when we shall all meet in the realms, to which so
many of our bravest, and dearest, have just hastened."
With swimming eyes, Edwin drew
towards his master.— "My uncle would sleep," said he,—"he
is exhausted; and will recall us when he awakes from rest." The eyes
of the veteran, were at that moment closed with heavy slumber. Lady
Ruthven remained with the Countess, to watch by him; and Wallace, gently
withdrawing, was followed by Ruthven, and the two young men, out of the
apartment.
Lord Loch-awe, with the Bishop of
Dunkeld, and other chiefs, lay in different chambers, pierced with many
wounds; but none so grievous, as those of Lord Mar. Wallace visited them
all. And having gone through the numerous places in the neighbourhood,
then made quarters for his wounded men, at the gloom of evening he
returned to Falkirk. He sent Edwin forward, to inquire after the repose of
his uncle; but on himself re-entering the monastery, he requested the
abbot to conduct him to the apartment in which the remains of Sir John
Graham were deposited. The father obeyed: leading him along a dark
passage, he opened a door, and discovered the slain hero lying on a bier.
Two monks sat at its head, with tapers in their hands. Wallace waved them
to withdraw; they set down the lights, and departed. He was then alone.
For some time, he stood with clasped
hands, looking intently on the body as it lay extended before him.
"Graham! Graham !" cried he, at last, in a voice of unutterable
grief,—"dost thou not rise at thy general’s voice?—Oh! is this
to be the tidings I am to send to the brave father, who intrusted to me
his son? Lost in the prime of youth, in the opening of thy renown, is it
thus, that all which is good, is to be martyrised by the enemies of
Scotland?" He sunk, gradually, on his knees beside him.— "And
shall I not look, once more on that face," said he, "which ever
turned towards mine, with looks of faith and love?" The shroud was
drawn down by his hand. He started on his feet at the sight. The changing
touch of death, had altered every feature; had deepened the paleness of
the bloodless corse, into any ashy hue. "Where is the countenance of
my friend!" cried he; "where the spirit, which once moved, in
beauty, and animating light, over this face ?—Gone; and all I see before
me, is a mass of moulded clay !—Graham! Graham !" cried he, looking
upwards, "thou art not here. No more can I recognise my friend, in
this deserted habitation of thy soul. Thine own proper self, thine
immortal spirit, is ascended up above; and there my fond remembrance shall
ever seek thee!" Again he knelt; but it was in devotion,—a
devotion, which drew the sting from death, and opened to his view, the
victory of the Lord of Life over the king of terrors.
Edwin, having learnt from his
father, that Lord Mar still slept; and being told by the abbot, where the
Regent was, followed him to the consecrated chamber. On entering, he
perceived him kneeling by the body of his friend. The youth drew near. He
loved the brave Graham, and he almost adored Wallace. The scene,
therefore, smote upon his heart. He dropped down by the side of the
Regent, and throwing his arms around his neck, in a convulsive voice
exclaimed, "Our friend is gone—but I yet live,— and only in your
smiles, my friend and brother!" Wallace strained him to his breast:
he was silent for some minutes; and then said, "To every dispensation
of God, I am resigned, my Edwin. While I bow to this stroke, I acknowledge
the blessing I still hold in you and Murray. But did we not feel these
visitations from our Maker, they would not be decreed to us. To behold the
dead, is the penalty of man for sin; for it is more pain, to witness and
to occasion death, than for ourselves to die. It is also a lesson, which
God teaches his sons: and in the moment that he shows us death, he
convinces us of immortality. Look on that face, Edwin !" continued
he, turning his eyes on the breathless clay. His youthful auditor, awe
struck, and his tears checked by the solemnity of this address, looked as
he directed him.—"Doth not that inanimate mould of earth, testify,
that nothing less than an immortal spirit, could have lit up its marble
substance, with the life, and god-like actions we have seen it
perform?" Edwin shuddered; and Wallace, letting the shroud fall over
the. face, added, "Never more will I look at it; for it no longer
wears the characters of my friend; they are pictured on my soul. And
himself, my Edwin, still effulgent in beauty, and glowing with
imperishable life, looks down on us, from heaven!" He rose as he
spoke; and opening the door, the monks re-entered: and placing themselves
at the head of the bier, chanted the
vesper requiem. When it was ended, Wallace kissed the crucifix they laid
on his friend’s breast, and left the cell.
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