Before the sun rose, every brave Scot within a few hours’ march of Stirling, was on the Carse; and Lord Andrew Murray and his veteran Clydesdale men were already resting on their arms in view of the city walls. The messengers of Wallace had hastened with the speed of the winds, east and west; and the noon of the day saw him at the head of thirty thousand men determined to fight or to die for their country.
The surrounding landscape shone in the brightness of midsummer; for it was the eve of St. Magdalen; and sky and earth bore witness to the luxuriant month of July. The heavens were clear, the waters of the Forth danced in the sunbeams, and the flower-enameled green of the extended plain stretched its beautiful borders to the deepening woods. All nature smiled; all seemed in harmony and peace but the breast of man. He who was made lord of this paradise awoke to disturb its repose, to disfigure its loveliness! As the thronging legions poured upon the plain, the sheep which had been feeding there, fled scared to the hills; the plover and heath-fowl which nestled in the brakes, rose affrighted from their infant broods, and flew in screaming multitudes far over the receding valleys. The peace of Scotland was again broken, and its flocks and herds were to share its misery.
When the conspiring lords appeared on the Carse, and Mar communicated to them the lately discovered treason, they so well affected surprise at the contents of the scroll, that Wallace might not have suspected their connection with it, had not Lord Athol declared it altogether a forgery of some wanton persons, and then added with bitterness, “to gather an army on such authority is ridiculous.” While he spoke, Wallace regarded him with a look which pierced him to the center; and the blood rushing into his guilty heart, for once in his life he trembled before the eye of man. “Whoever be the degenerate Scot, to whom this writing is addressed,” said Wallace, “his baseness cannot betray us further. The troops of Scotland are ready to meet the enemy; and woe to the man who that day deserts his country!” “Amen!” cried Lord Mar. “Amen!” sounded from every lip; for when the conscience embraces treason against its earthly rulers, allegiance to its heavenly King is abandoned with ease; and the words and oaths of the traitor are equally unstable.
Badenoch’s eye followed that of Wallace, and his suspicions fixed where the regent’s fell. For the honor of his blood, he forbore to accuse the earl; but for the same reason he determined to watch his proceedings. However, the hypocrisy of Athol baffled even the penetration of his brother, and on his retiring from the ground to call forth his men for the expedition, in an affected chafe he complained to Badenoch of the stigma cast upon their house by the regent’s implied charge.
“But,” said he, “he shall see the honor of the Cummin, emblazoned in blood on the sands of the Forth! His towering pride heeds not where it strikes; and this comes of raising men of low estate to rule over princes!”
“His birth is noble if not royal,” replied Badenoch; “and before this, the posterity of kings have not disdained to recover their rights by the sword of a brave subject.”
“True,” answered Athol; “but is it customary for princes to allow that subject to sit on their throne? It is nonsense to talk of Wallace having refused a coronation. He laughs at the name; but see you not that he openly affects supreme power; that he rules the nobles of the land like a despot? His word, his nod is sufficient! — Go here! go there! — as if he were absolute, and there was no voice in Scotland but his own! Look at the brave Mack Callan-more, the lord of the west of Scotland from sea to sea; he stands unbonneted before this mighty Wallace with a more abject homage than ever he paid to the house of Alexander! Can you behold this, Lord Badenoch, and not find the royal blood of your descent boil in your veins? Does not every look of your wife, the sister of a king, and your own right stamped upon your soul, reproach you? He is greater by your strength. Humble him, my brother; be faithful to Scotland, but humble its proud dictator!”
Lord Badenoch replied to this rough exhortation with the tranquillity belonging to his nature —“I see not the least foundations for any of your charges against Sir William Wallace. He has delivered Scotland, and the people are grateful. The nation with one voice made him their regent; and he fulfills the duties of his office — but with a modesty, Lord Athol, which, I must affirm, I never saw equaled. I dissent from you in all that you have said — and I confess I did fear the blandishing arguments of the faithless Cospatrick had persuaded you to embrace his pernicious treason. You deny it — that is well. Prove your innocence at this juncture in the field against Scotland’s enemies; and John of Badenoch will then see no impending cloud to darken the honor of the name of Cummin!”
The brothers immediately separated; and Athol calling his cousin Buchan arranged a new device to counteract the vigilance of the regent. One of their means was to baffle his measures by stimulating the less treasonable but yet discontented chiefs to thwart him in every motion. At the head of this last class was John Stewart, Earl of Bute. During the whole of the preceding year he had been in Norway, and the first object he met on his return to Scotland was the triumphal entry of Wallace into Stirling. Aware of the consequence Stewart’s name would attach to any cause, Athol had gained his ear before he was introduced to the regent; and then so poisoned his mind against Wallace that all that was well in him he deemed ill, and ever spoke of his bravery with coldness, and of his patriotism with disgust. He believed him a hypocrite, and as such despised and abhorred him.
While Athol marshaled his rebellious ranks, some to follow his broad treason in the face of day, and others to lurk behind, and delude the intrusted council left in Stirling; Wallace led forth his loyal chiefs to take their stations at the heads of their different clans. Sir Alexander Scrymgeour, with the proudest expectations for Scotland, unfurled his golden standard to the sun. The Lords Loch-awe and Bothwell, with others, rode on the right of the regent. Lord Andrew Murray, with the brave Sir John Graham, and a bevy of young knights, kept the ground on his left. Wallace looked around; Edwin was far away, and he felt but half appointed when wanting his youthful swordbearer. That faithful friend did not even know of the threatened hostility; for to have intimated to Lord Ruthven a danger he could not assist to repel, would have inflamed his disorder by anxiety, and perhaps hurried him to dissolution.
As the regent moved forward with these private affections checkering his public cares, his heralds blew the trumpets of his approach, and a hundred embattled clans appeared in the midst of the plain, awaiting their valiant leaders. Each chief advanced to the head of his line, and stood to hear the charge of Wallace.
“Brave Scots!” cried he, “treachery has admitted the enemy whom resolute patriotism had driven from our borders. Be steady in your fidelity to Scotland, and He who hath hitherto protected the just cause, will nerve your arms to lay invasion and its base coadjutors again in the dust.”
The cheers of anticipated victory burst from the soldiers, mingled with the clangor of their striking shields at the inspiring voice of their leader. Wallace waved his truncheon (round which the plan of his array was wrapped) to the chiefs to fall back toward their legions; and while some appeared to linger, Athol, armed cap-a-pie, and spurring his roan into the area before the regent, demanded, in a haughty tone, “Which of the chiefs now in the field is to lead the vanguard?”
“The Regent of Scotland,” replied Wallace, for once asserting the majesty of his station, “and you, Lord Athol, with the Lord Buchan, are to defend your country under the command of the brave head of your house, the princely Badenoch.”
“I stir not from this spot,” returned Athol, fiercely striking his lance into its rest, “till I see the honor of my country established in the eye of the world by a leader worthy of her rank being placed in her vanguard.”
“What he says,” cried Buchan, “I second.” “And in the same spirit, chieftain of Ellerslie,” exclaimed Lord Bute, “do I offer to Scotland myself and my people. Another must lead the van, or I retire from her standard.”
“Speak on!” cried Wallace, more surprised than confounded by this extraordinary attack.
“What these illustrious chiefs have uttered, is the voice of us all!” was the general exclamation from a band of warriors who now thronged around the incendiary nobles.
“Your reign is over, proud chieftain,” rejoined Athol; “the Scottish ranks are no longer to be cajoled by your affected moderation. We see the tyrant in your insidious smile, we feel him in the despotism of your decrees. To be thus ridden by a man of vulgar blood; to present him as the head of our nation to the King of England, is beneath the dignity of our country, is an insult to our nobles; and therefore, in the power of her consequence, I speak, and again demand of you to yield the vanguard to one more worthy of the station. Before God and St. Magdalen I swear,” added he, holding up his sword to the heavens, “I will not stir an inch this day toward the enemy unless a Cummin or a Stewart lead our army.”
“And is this your resolution also, Lord Bute?” said Wallace, looking on Stewart. “It is,” was the reply; “a foe like Edward ought to be met as becomes a great and independent kingdom. We go in the array of an unanimous nation to repel him; not as a band of insurgents, headed by a general who, however brave, was yet drawn from the common ranks of the people. I therefore demand to follow a more illustrious leader to the field.”
“The eagles have long enough followed their owl in peacock’s feathers,” cried Buchan; “and being tired of the game, I, like the rest, soar upward again!”
“Resign that baton!” cried Athol; “give peace to a more honorable leader!” repeated he, supposed that he had intimidated Wallace; but Wallace, raising the visor of his helmet, which he had closed on his last commands to his generals, looked on Athol with all the majesty of his truly royal soul in his eyes: “Earl,” said he, “the voices of the three estates of Scotland declared me their regent, and God ratified the election by the victories with which he crowned me. If in aught I have betrayed my trust, led the powers which raised me be my accusers. Four pitched battles have I fought and gained for this country. Twice I beat the representatives of King Edward on the plains of Scotland; and a few months ago I made him fly before me over the fields of Northumberland! What then has befallen me, that my arm is to be too short to meet this man? Has the oil of the Lord, with which the saint of Dunkeld anointed my brows, lost its virtue, that I should shrink before any king in Christendom? I neither tremble at the name of Edward, nor will I so disgrace my own (which never man who bore it ever degraded by swearing fealty to a foreign prince), as to abandon at such a crisis the power with which Scotland has invested me. Whoever chooses to leave the cause of their country, let them go; and so manifest themselves of noble blood! I remain, and I lead the vanguard! Scotsmen, to your duty.”
As he spoke with a voice of unanswerable command, several chiefs fell back into their ranks. But some made a retrograde motion toward the town. Lord Bute hardly knew what to think, so was he startled by the appeal of the accused regent, and the noble frankness with which he maintained his rights. He stood frowning as Wallace turned to him, and said, “Do you, my lord, adhere to these violent men? or am I to consider a chief who, though hostile to me, was generous in his ire, still faithful to Scotland, in spite of his prejudice against her leader? Will you fight her battles?”
“I shall never desert them,” replied Stewart; “’tis truth I seek; therefore be it to you. Wallace, this day according to your conscience!” Wallace bowed his head, and presented him the truncheon around which his line of battle was wrapped. On opening it he found that he was appointed to command the third division; Badenoch and Bothwell to the first and second; and Wallace himself to the vanguard.
When the scouts arrived, they informed the regent that the English army had advanced near to the boundary of Linlithgow, and from the rapidity of their march, must be on the Carron the same evening. On this intelligence, Wallace put his troops to their speed and before the sun had declined far toward the west, he was within view of Falkirk. But just as he had crossed the Carron, and the Southron banners appeared in sight, Lord Athol, at the head of his rebellious colleagues, rode up to him. Stewart kept his appointed station and Badenoch, doing the same, ashamed of his brother’s disorder, called after him to keep his line. Regardless of all check, the obstinate chief galloped on, and extending his bold accomplices across the path of the regent, demanded of him, on the penalty of his life, “that moment to relinquish his pretensions to the vanguard.”
“I am not come here,” replied Wallace indignantly, “to betray my country! I know you, Lord Athol: and your conduct and mine will this day prove who is most worthy the confidence of Scotland.”
“This day,” cried Athol, “shall see you lay down the power you have usurped.”
“It shall see me maintain it, to your confusion,” replied Wallace, “and were you not surrounded by Scots of too tried a worth for me to suspect their being influenced by your rebellious example, I would this moment make you feel the arm of justice. But the foe is in sight; do your duty now, sir earl, and for the sake of the house to which you belong, even this intemperate conduct shall be forgotten.”
At this instant, Sir John Graham, hastening forward, exclaimed:
“The Southrons are bearing down upon us!”
Athol glanced at their distant host and turning on Wallace with a sarcastic smile, “My actions,” cried he, “shall indeed decide the day!” and striking his spurs furiously into his horse, he rejoined Lord Badenoch’s legion.
Edward did indeed advance in a most terrible array. Above a hundred thousand men swelled his numerous ranks; and with these were united all from the Lothians and Teviotdale, whom the influence of the faithless March and the vindictive Soulis could bring into the field. With this augmented host, and a determination to conquer or to die, the Southrons marched rapidly forward.
Wallace had drawn himself up on the ascent of the hill of Falkirk, and advantageously planted his archers on a covering eminence flanked by the legions of Badenoch. Lord Athol, who knew the integrity of his brother, and who cared not in so great a cause (for such his ambition termed it) how he removed an adversary from Edward, and a censor from himself, gave a ridding order to one of his emissaries. Accordingly, in the moment when the trumpet of Wallace sounded the charge, and the arrows from the hill darkened the air, the virtuous Badenoch was stabbed through the back to the very heart. Athol had placed himself near, to watch his purpose; but in the instant the deed was done, he threw himself on the perpetrator, and wounding him in the same vital part, exclaimed, holding up his dagger, “Behold the weapon that has slain the assassin, hired by Sir William Wallace! Thus it is, that his ambition would rob Scotland of her native princes. Let us fly from his steel to the shield of a king and a hero.”
The men had seen their leader fall; they doubted not the words of his brother; and with a shout exclaiming, “Whither you lead we follow!” all at once turned toward him. “Seize the traitor’s artillery!” At this command they mounted the hill and the archers, little expecting an assault from their countrymen, were either instantly cut down, or hurried away prisoners by Athol and Buchan; who now, at the head of the whole division of the Cummins, galloped toward the Southrons; and with loud cries of “Long live King Edward!” threw themselves en masse into their arms. The squadrons which followed Stewart not knowing but they might be hurried into similar desertion, hesitated in the charge he had commanded them to make; and, while thus undecisive, some obeyed in broken ranks; and others lingered. The enemy advanced briskly up, surrounded the division, and on their first onset slew its leader. His faithful Brandanes,41 seeing their beloved commander trampled to the earth by an overwhelming foe, fell into confusion, and communicating their dismay to their comrades, the whole division sunk under the shock of the Southrons, as if touched by a spell.
41 Brandanes was the distinguished appellation of the military followers of the chiefs of Bute.
Meanwhile Bothwell and his legions were fiercely engaged with the Earl of Lincoln amid the swamps of a deep morass; but being involved by reciprocal impetuousity, equal peril engulfed them both. The firm battalion of the vanguard; alone remaining unbroken, stood before the pressing and now victorious thousands of Edward without receding a step. The archers being lost by the treachery of the Cummins, all hope lay on the strength of the spear and sword; and Wallace, standing immovable as the rock of Stirling, saw rank after rank of his dauntless infantry mowed down by the Southron arrows; while, fast as they fell, their comrades closed over them, and still presented the same impenetrable front of steady valor against the heavy charges of the enemy’s horse. The King of England, indignant at this pause in his conquering onset, accompanied by his natural brother, the valiant Frere de Briagny, and a squadron of resolute knights, in fury threw themselves toward the Scottish pikesmen. Wallace descried the jeweled crest of Edward amidst the cloud of battle there, and rushing forward, hand to hand engaged the king. Edward knew his adversary, not so much by his snow white plume as by the prowess of his arm. Twice did the heavy claymore of Wallace strike fire from the steely helmet of the monarch; but at the third stroke the glittering diadem fell in shivers to the ground; and the royal blood of Edward followed the blow. He reeled; and another stroke would have settled the freedom of Scotland forever, had not the strong arm of Frere de Briagny passed between Wallace and the king. The combat thickened; blow followed blow; blood gushed at each fall of the sword; and the hacked armor showed in every aperture a grisly wound. A hundred weapons seemed directed against the breast of the Regent of Scotland, when, raising his sword with a determined stroke, it cleft the visor and vest of De Briagny, who fell lifeless to the ground. The cry that issued from the Southron troops at this sight again nerved the vengeful Edward, and ordering the signal for his reserve to advance, he renewed the attack; and assaulting Wallace, with all the fury of his heart in his eyes and arms, he tore the earth with the trampling of disappointed vengeance, when he found the invincible phalanx still stood firm.
“I will reach him yet!” cried he; and turning to De Valence, he commanded that the new artillery should be called into action.
On this order, a blast of trumpets in the Southron army blew; and the answering war-wolves it had summoned sent forth showers of red-hot stones into the midst of the Scottish battalions. At the same moment the English reserve, charging round the hill, attacked them in the flank, and accomplished what the fiery torrent had begun. The field was heaped with dead; the brooks which flowed down the heights ran with blood; but no confusion was there-no, not even in the mind of Wallace; though, with amazement and horror, he beheld the saltire of Annandale, the banner of Bruce, leading onward the last exterminating division! Scot now contended with Scot, brother with brother. Those valiant spirits, who had left their country twenty years before to accompany their chief to the Holy Land, now re-entered Scotland to wound her in her vital part; to wrest from her her liberties; to make her mourn in ashes, that she had been the mother of such matricides. A horrid mingling of tartans with tartans, in the direful grasp of reciprocal death; a tremendous rus............