Chapter XXI: 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!'