第 五十九 章 · A SKIRMISH

. A SKIRMISH

The reader need hardly be reminded that, after a council of war held at

Derby on the 5th of December, the Highlanders relinquished their

desperate attempt to penetrate farther into England, and, greatly to

the dissatisfaction of their young and daring leader, positively

determined to return northward. They commenced their retreat

accordingly, and, by the extreme celerity of their movements,

outstripped the motions of the Duke of Cumberland, who now pursued them

with a very large body of cavalry.

This retreat was a virtual resignation of their towering hopes. None

had been so sanguine as Fergus Mac-Ivor; none, consequently, was so

cruelly mortified at the change of measures. He argued, or rather

remonstrated, with the utmost vehemence at the council of war; and,

when his opinion was rejected, shed tears of grief and indignation.

From that moment his whole manner was so much altered that he could

scarcely have been recognised for the same soaring and ardent spirit,

for whom the whole earth seemed too narrow but a week before. The

retreat had continued for several days, when Edward, to his surprise,

early on the 12th of December, received a visit from the Chieftain in

his quarters, in a hamlet about half-way between Shap and Penrith.

Having had no intercourse with the Chieftain since their rupture,

Edward waited with some anxiety an explanation of this unexpected

visit; nor could he help being surprised, and somewhat shocked, with

the change in his appearance. His eye had lost much of its fire; his

cheek was hollow, his voice was languid, even his gait seemed less firm

and elastic than it was wont; and his dress, to which he used to be

particularly attentive, was now carelessly flung about him. He invited

Edward to walk out with him by the little river in the vicinity; and

smiled in a melancholy manner when he observed him take down and buckle

on his sword.

As soon as they were in a wild sequestered path by the side of the

stream, the Chief broke out—“Our fine adventure is now totally ruined,

Waverley, and I wish to know what you intend to do;—nay, never stare at

me, man. I tell you I received a packet from my sister yesterday, and,

had I got the information it contains sooner, it would have prevented a

quarrel which I am always vexed when I think of. In a letter written

after our dispute, I acquainted her with the cause of it; and she now

replies to me that she never had, nor could have, any purpose of giving

you encouragement; so that it seems I have acted like a madman. Poor

Flora! she writes in high spirits; what a change will the news of this

unhappy retreat make in her state of mind!”

[Illustration]

Waverley, who was really much affected by the deep tone of melancholy

with which Fergus spoke, affectionately entreated him to banish from

his remembrance any unkindness which had arisen between them, and they

once more shook hands, but now with sincere cordiality. Fergus again

inquired of Waverley what he intended to do. “Had you not better leave

this luckless army, and get down before us into Scotland, and embark

for the Continent from some of the eastern ports that are still in our

possession? When you are out of the kingdom, your friends will easily

negotiate your pardon; and, to tell you the truth, I wish you would

carry Rose Bradwardine with you as your wife, and take Flora also under

your joint protection.”—Edward looked surprised.—“She loves you, and I

believe you love her, though, perhaps, you have not found it out, for

you are not celebrated for knowing your own mind very pointedly.” He

said this with a sort of smile.

“How,” answered Edward, “can you advise me to desert the expedition in

which we are all embarked?”

“Embarked?” said Fergus; “the vessel is going to pieces, and it is full

time for all who can to get into the long-boat and leave her.”

“Why, what will other gentlemen do?” answered Waverley, “and why did

the Highland Chiefs consent to this retreat if it is so ruinous?”

“O,” replied Mac-Ivor, “they think that, as on former occasions, the

heading, hanging, and forfeiting will chiefly fall to the lot of the

Lowland gentry; that they will be left secure in their poverty and

their fastnesses, there, according to their proverb, “to listen to the

wind upon the hill till the waters abate.” But they will be

disappointed; they have been too often troublesome to be so repeatedly

passed over, and this time John Bull has been too heartily frightened

to recover his good-humour for some time. The Hanoverian ministers

always deserved to be hanged for rascals; but now, if they get the

power in their hands,—as, sooner or later, they must, since there is

neither rising in England nor assistance from France,—they will deserve

the gallows as fools if they leave a single clan in the Highlands in a

situation to be again troublesome to government. Ay, they will make

root-and-branch-work, I warrant them.”

“And while you recommend flight to me,” said Edward,—“a counsel which I

would rather die than embrace,—what are your own views?”

“O,” answered Fergus, with a melancholy air, “my fate is settled. Dead

or captive I must be before tomorrow.”

“What do you mean by that, my friend?” said Edward. “The enemy is still

a day’s march in our rear, and if he comes up, we are still strong

enough to keep him in check. Remember Gladsmuir.”

“What I tell you is true notwithstanding, so far as I am individually

concerned.”

“Upon what authority can you found so melancholy a prediction?” asked

Waverley.

“On one which never failed a person of my house. I have seen,” he said,

lowering his voice, “I have seen the Bodach Glas.”

“Bodach Glas?”

“Yes; have you been so long at Glennaquoich, and never heard of the

Grey Spectre? though indeed there is a certain reluctance among us to

mention him.”

“No, never.”

“Ah! it would have been a tale for poor Flora to have told you. Or, if

that hill were Benmore, and that long blue lake, which you see just

winding towards yon mountainous country, were Loch Tay, or my own Loch

an Ri, the tale would be better suited with scenery. However, let us

sit down on this knoll; even Saddleback and Ulswater will suit what I

have to say better than the English hedgerows, enclosures, and

farmhouses. You must know, then, that when my ancestor, Ian nan

Chaistel, wasted Northumberland, there was associated with him in the

expedition a sort of Southland Chief, or captain of a band of

Lowlanders, called Halbert Hall. In their return through the Cheviots

they quarrelled about the division of the great booty they had

acquired, and came from words to blows. The Lowlanders were cut off to

a man, and their chief fell the last, covered with wounds by the sword

of my ancestor. Since that time his spirit has crossed the Vich Ian

Vohr of the day when any great disaster was impending, but especially

before approaching death. My father saw him twice, once before he was

made prisoner at Sheriff-Muir, another time on the morning of the day

on which he died.”

“How can you, my dear Fergus, tell such nonsense with a grave face?”

“I do not ask you to believe it; but I tell you the truth, ascertained

by three hundred years’ experience at least, and last night by my own

eyes.”

“The particulars, for heaven’s sake!” said Waverley, with eagerness.

“I will, on condition you will not attempt a jest on the subject. Since

this unhappy retreat commenced I have scarce ever been able to sleep

for thinking of my clan, and of this poor Prince, whom they are leading

back like a dog in a string, whether he will or no, and of the downfall

of my family. Last night I felt so feverish that I left my quarters and

walked out, in hopes the keen frosty air would brace my nerves—I cannot

tell how much I dislike going on, for I know you will hardly believe

me. However—I crossed a small footbridge, and kept walking backwards

and forwards, when I observed with surprise by the clear moonlight a

tall figure in a grey plaid, such as shepherds wear in the south of

Scotland, which, move at what pace I would, kept regularly about four

yards before me.”

“You saw a Cumberland peasant in his ordinary dress, probably.”

“No; I thought so at first, and was astonished at the man’s audacity in

daring to dog me. I called to him, but received no answer. I felt an

anxious throbbing at my heart, and to ascertain what I dreaded, I stood

still and turned myself on the same spot successively to the four

points of the compass. By Heaven, Edward, turn where I would, the

figure was instantly before my eyes, at precisely the same distance! I

was then convinced it was the Bodach Glas. My hair bristled and my

knees shook. I manned myself, however, and determined to return to my

quarters. My ghastly visitant glided before me (for I cannot say he

walked) until he reached the footbridge; there he stopped and turned

full round. I must either wade the river or pass him as close as I am

to you. A desperate courage, founded on the belief that my death was

near, made me resolve to make my way in despite of him. I made the sign

of the cross, drew my sword, and uttered, ‘In the name of God, Evil

Spirit, give place!’ ‘Vich Ian Vohr,’ it said, in a voice that made my

very blood curdle, ‘beware of to-morrow!’ It seemed at that moment not

half a yard from my sword’s point; but the words were no sooner spoken

than it was gone, and nothing appeared further to obstruct my passage.

I got home and threw myself on my bed, where I spent a few hours

heavily enough; and this morning, as no enemy was reported to be near

us, I took my horse and rode forward to make up matters with you. I

would not willingly fall until I am in charity with a wronged friend.”

Edward had little doubt that this phantom was the operation of an

exhausted frame and depressed spirits, working on the belief common to

all Highlanders in such superstitions. He did not the less pity Fergus,

for whom, in his present distress, he felt all his former regard

revive. With the view of diverting his mind from these gloomy images,

he offered, with the Baron’s permission, which he knew he could readily

obtain, to remain in his quarters till Fergus’s corps should come up,

and then to march with them as usual. The Chief seemed much pleased,

yet hesitated to accept the offer.

“We are, you know, in the rear, the post of danger in a retreat.”

“And therefore the post of honour.”

“Well,” replied the Chieftain, “let Alick have your horse in readiness,

in case we should be overmatched, and I shall be delighted to have your

company once more.”

The rear-guard were late in making their appearance, having been

delayed by various accidents and by the badness of the roads. At length

they entered the hamlet. When Waverley joined the clan Mac-Ivor,

arm-in-arm with their Chieftain, all the resentment they had

entertained against him seemed blown off at once. Evan Dhu received him

with a grin of congratulation; and even Callum, who was running about

as active as ever, pale indeed, and with a great patch on his head,

appeared delighted to see him.

“That gallows-bird’s skull,” said Fergus, “must be harder than marble;

the lock of the pistol was actually broken.”

“How could you strike so young a lad so hard?” said Waverley, with some

interest.

“Why, if I did not strike hard sometimes, the rascals would forget

themselves.”

They were now in full march, every caution being taken to prevent

surprise. Fergus’s people, and a fine clan regiment from Badenoch,

commanded by Cluny Mac-Pherson, had the rear. They had passed a large

open moor, and were entering into the enclosures which surround a small

village called Clifton. The winter sun had set, and Edward began to

rally Fergus upon the false predictions of the Grey Spirit. “The ides

of March are not past,” said Mac-Ivor, with a smile; when, suddenly

casting his eyes back on the moor, a large body of cavalry was

indistinctly seen to hover upon its brown and dark surface. To line the

enclosures facing the open ground and the road by which the enemy must

move from it upon the village was the work of a short time. While these

manœuvres were accomplishing, night sunk down, dark and gloomy, though

the moon was at full. Sometimes, however, she gleamed forth a dubious

light upon the scene of action.

The Highlanders did not long remain undisturbed in the defensive

position they had adopted. Favoured by the night, one large body of

dismounted dragoons attempted to force the enclosures, while another,

equally strong, strove to penetrate by the highroad. Both were received

by such a heavy fire as disconcerted their ranks and effectually

checked their progress. Unsatisfied with the advantage thus gained,

Fergus, to whose ardent spirit the approach of danger seemed to restore

all its elasticity, drawing his sword and calling out “Claymore!”

encouraged his men, by voice and example, to break through the hedge

which divided them and rush down upon the enemy. Mingling with the

dismounted dragoons, they forced them, at the sword-point, to fly to

the open moor, where a considerable number were cut to pieces. But the

moon, which suddenly shone out, showed to the English the small number

of assailants, disordered by their own success. Two squadrons of horse

moving to the support of their companions, the Highlanders endeavoured

to recover the enclosures. But several of them, amongst others their

brave Chieftain, were cut off and surrounded before they could effect

their purpose. Waverley, looking eagerly for Fergus, from whom, as well

as from the retreating body of his followers, he had been separated in

the darkness and tumult, saw him, with Evan Dhu and Callum, defending

themselves desperately against a dozen of horsemen, who were hewing at

them with their long broadswords. The moon was again at that moment

totally overclouded, and Edward, in the obscurity, could neither bring

aid to his friends nor discover which way lay his own road to rejoin

the rear-guard. After once or twice narrowly escaping being slain or

made prisoner by parties of the cavalry whom he encountered in the

darkness, he at length reached an enclosure, and, clambering over it,

concluded himself in safety and on the way to the Highland forces,

whose pipes he heard at some distance. For Fergus hardly a hope

remained, unless that he might be made prisoner. Revolving his fate

with sorrow and anxiety, the superstition of the Bodach Glas recurred

to Edward’s recollection, and he said to himself, with internal

surprise “What, can the devil speak truth?”[38]