OF
THOSE WHO WOULD WATCH
The men on the Brig O’Dee fired their
muskets sporadically and half-heartedly at the men on the wide dry riverbank to
their west, and the standing men attacked returned fire. Neither side was in a position to hit the other. The shooting
merely reminded the opposition of what would come if either dared close
the gap between them. Alexander Leslie
considered admonishing his men for wasting valuable powder, but he decided
against it. The men were tired, hungry and bored. Hey had marched for days to
get to this point. The shooting at least gave them some release and reminded
them that this was a real battle. It kept them cautious. They knew that the men on the Bridge would
not come down, having such a strong vantage point, and the bridge being the
main road into Aberdeen itself, needed guarding. If either side were to move,
it would be the men approaching along the river.
The banks were wide and flat, with
slopes covered in trees starting several yards back. The bridge
building had cut back the forest and much of the rocky granite ground was the
spread of debris and rubble left over by the bridge-builders centuries
before. It made walking difficult. Two
men had been taken away with badly twisted ankles. Cavalry would find the ground impossible here. The cannons had
been drawn as close as possible by horse, and then manhandled over the pebbles
and rocks that lay strewn all around.
The Dee itself was in full flow, and
impossible to cross at present. The Bridge was the only way anyone could head
directly to and from the Granite City itself, and the Royalists, under
Archibald Johnstone of Waristone held the gatehouse that marked its Southern
approach.
The bridge was magnificent, perhaps
among the finest in Scotland. Its span was supported by seven wide arches of
hewn glacial stone three of which took
the river through its midst.
On the bridge, men moved little. A few
cavalry officers patrolled the bridge
from one end to the other and back again. Musketeers fired, and casually reloaded. There seemed no sense of urgency.
The scene gave an aura of feeling that no one really expected to have to fight
at all.
On the ground, the Covenant forces were
preparing for action, and on total
alert to any potential surprise attack. A sentry, sent to monitor the region, came rushing back, raising the
tension among men who saw him running.
He spoke urgently, but quietly to his
commanding officer. “Lord Montrose, there are people approaching through the
woods. Could they be trying to ambush us?”
Montrose, known to many simply as ‘The
Graham’ shook his head. “I doubt it, Robert. The paths there wind down from
Arlanside Village, where I rested last night. The people there are Covenanters
to the core, I can assure you. The
Royalist faction could not have gained access to such a route without arousing
suspicion. “
The sentry smiled. “Then they must be
coming to join us. We have reinforcements”
“Again with the presumptions, Rob. They
move too swiftly and merrily for
heavily laden soldiers of foot. I fear we are about to gain an audie….”
The 5th Earl Of Montrose’s
words were interrupted by the arrival of what he had been on the brink of
describing. A body of civilians appeared through the trees, laughing and smiling. Some waved cheerily to the
soldiers as their women-folk and servants laid down blankets on the ground. A
few had brought little wooden stools to sit on. They placed themselves down just clear of the tree-line, at the
top of a gentle slope above the even Deesside valley, and one man immediately broke into a modest
picnic box.
“My God, they’ve come to gawp at us,”
Robert MacCowan said.
Montrose tuttted in disgust. “They
bring their children to the spectacle too. What sort of people are they?”
Alexander Leslie came over joined in
the discussion. “The kind who have seen
too many witch-trials and public hangings that they get bored. I have seen
people seek such amusements at many of the battlefields of Europe.”
“Shall we tell them to leave?” Montrose
asked.
Leslie decided against the idea. “They
come at their own risk. Our attention
should be for the men who hold the bridge. The observers are of no consequence
to us.”
“The watchers have salmon, and
venison,” the sentry called Robert Carter said. “I have a ration of stale bread
and mouldy cheese. They waft salmon at us.”
“We must take no notice of such
distractions,” Leslie said, sternly.
Montrose smiled. “You’re council is
sound, Alex. I appreciate your support.
You have the experience I lack. This is my first battle.”
“I know that well, James Graham, though
you saw some of the European training schools on your Grand Tour, did you not?”
“I did, and I hope to apply some of the
methods of the Adolphus School today if possible. I will have my musketeers line
up in threes. The front man shall kneel. The middleman shall crouch and the
rear line shall stand. All three could
then give fire without harming the man in front. Such is the Adolphus way.”
Leslie grinned. “The Swedish Cavaliers
have made a good impression on you the clothes you wear even reflect their
fashion. You look more foppish than
half the King’s men. In fact, you even look like Charles in some ways. You
should be cautious in such an envious
look nowadays.”
“Why so, Sir?” Montrose asked, uncomfortable with such
criticism, no matter how well intentioned and honest it was.
Leslie shrugged. “Our Covenant
colleagues fear the King has swayed your heart away from total dedication to
the cause. You still talk of Charles with great affection, and send him letters
testifying to your loyalty.”
“I confess that I have had some doubts
and reservations. I am more wary of the Royal advisors, like Hamilton, than
Charles himself. He is merely naďve in his choice of administrators from among
our fellow Scots. The Covenant was a protest and a petition in sixteen
thirty-seven. Now, only two years later, it has all gone horribly wrong. . I
still respect my oath to the original draft message of the Covenant. We will
not have the English impose their Book of Common Prayer on Scotland, and they
will not make us have Bishops in the Kirk-Churches if we do not want that.
However, the changes made of late give too much power to Argyll and his allies
in the Highlands. The Campbell Clan is calling Argyll the true King Of Scotland
already, and I fear he will not rest until he has such status for real. There
is a clear difference between challenging the King on some political points of
order, and trying to undermine Royal authority altogether. I fear we may be
crossing that line now, as Caesar crossed the Rubicon. ”
“Your very talk could be taken as
seditious, Graham. I am a fully committed Covenanter. Please do not forget that
fact.“
Montrose frowned. “Then I will say no
more, for the present. I have much thinking to do in the days to come.”
Leslie patted his friend on the back.
“Graham, I know you are troubled by all this. I appreciate that. I mean,
look at the Royalists before us, holding the end of the bridge. They don’t
trouble their minds. They serve whoever first levied them. They do not question whether they make the right choice
of allegiance or not. Neither do I to some extent, but you do. You pray to God
to ask whether you do the right thing or not. You have a greater conscience
than any man I know. You are troubled. I only hope when the crunch comes, you
will maintain your support for the Committees of the Covenant. ”
“Thank you. You are right, as so often.
That’s why I value your expertise on this mission. Many of the Royalists are
old friends of mine. I see their point of view. I know what there cause means
to them. I betrayed Huntly… “
“James, Huntly was a Royalist
agitator. You knew we had to capture
him. You’re only mistake was telling him that he would be able to go under safe
escort. You lacked the authority to give such assurances. You’re name alone is
not enough to gain you such respect. Huntly believed you, and now he now feels
as if you personally betrayed him because we took him under armed escort.”
“I doubt if he will ever forgive me.”
“His own sons, Lord Gordon and Lord
Aboyne served his cause, and they
have forgiven you. Their father is
just a little more stubborn on such matters. You are equally stubborn and
obstinate. I fear such could be your undoing one day.”
Montrose seemed uncertain how to answer
the assertion, and more shooting was now coming from the bridge. The men there
were taunting the Royalists, by declaring themselves ready for bed. “Fight or
flea,” they shouted. Over and over again. Montrose made his mind up to fight.
“Prepare and fire the three cannons,” he ordered, and the men started priming
the guns.
Some of the spectators had only just
started drifting away, but their friends called them back to see what was going
on. The noise and pointing fingers was attracting attention from the bridge.
Leslie cursed. “The fools are giving away our strategy.”
Montrose agreed. “I could send men
to force them to leave, if you wish.”
Leslie shook his head. “The damage is
done now. They would have seen what we were doing soon enough anyway. It’s
unlikely that the public could affect the outcome of today’s events one way or
another.”
Montrose turned to the cannon-crew
commanders. Aim your first shots high as ordinance. We don’t want to damage the
bridge itself if we can help it. Get the men, not the granite.”
The cannons roared. Two went off
simultaneously. One a few seconds later. The roar made the children cry and
cover their ears. A pet dog ran off yelping in terror, and its owner fled after
it in concern.
On the bridge, the men laughed, and
snorted, making rude gestures. From the
audience, someone heckled the Covenanters. “That was pathetic,” a man’s voice
called out.
Montrose snapped. “I said aim high to
miss the bridge. I did not tell you to shoot down the clouds in the sky.”
“The shot ran far overhead,” Leslie
said. “The guns are set too close to the bridge. We have little choice but to
move the cannon back about eighty feet to have a chance of making them
effective.”
“The river bank is too fragmented to
pull the canon along,” Montrose observed. “We need to move them up the
Arlanside paths, past our gawkers and round past the woodland. And back down
into better position where the trees
end for a few yards back near the tributary flow.”
Leslie scowled. “So to move the guns
back, we have to move them forward. We’ll be within range of the muskets ahead
of us as we get to the Arlanside pathway. They’ll see us coming too easily.”
Montrose thought for a moment. “It’ll
be dark soon. We will move the guns by night and be ready to fire them at first
light.”
“They’ll still be able to see us if the
Moon is out brightly enough,” Leslie said. “It’s a very dangerous move you are
contemplating.”
“And I must make it more dangerous
still,” Montrose said. “I know they
have men watching us from across the river. I’m creating a diversion by moving
some men downstream. Hopefully the men opposite will follow us along rather than watching the cannon.
They’ll think I’m planning on going a mile down to the ford. I’m not. I’m going
to double back on them and head back here for dawn. They’ll find the ground
harder going on their side. We’ll leave them behind, wondering what we’ve
done.”
Leslie pondered the strategy. “It could
work. Colonel William Gunn. Is in charge of their cavalry. He is impetuous
enough to fall for such a ruse. He has a reputation for following his instincts
and for his instincts letting him down
badly.”
“That gladdens my heart,” Montrose said
with a grin. “We shall proceed.”
“Shall I go with you?” Leslie asked.
Montrose thought for a moment. “Leave
the bulk of the army here, under Lord Erskine. You lead the cannon crew, and I shall spearhead the diversion
division. I shall arrive with the
rising Sun itself.”
“A very romantic cavalier gesture,
Graham,” Leslie said, grinning. “It’s the sort of thing you’d write into one of
your poems.”
Montrose smiled at the compliment and
moved off to draw a unit of men together.
As the light began to fade, Leslie
moved the cannon crew forward. It took ten men to drag each cannon. A few had
gone to find the horses and detach them from the baggage train in order to
bring them round through the woods to help haul the cast iron field pieces.
Two guns proved a heavy but capable drag
while the third ran quickly into difficulties. It snagged as its wheel twisted
on the uneven rocks, and fell onto a man’s foot. His cries of pain and alarm
alerted the musketeers on the bridge who started firing wildly towards the
noise. Erskine sent some of his men forward to help lift the cannon, and moved
forward himself too, only to take shot between the eyes. He immediately fell
down dead in his tracks.
To Leslie’s surprise, a body of
spectators had not yet gone home despite the twilight. Some of them were
cheering and applauding the first true action of the day. Men rushed to draw their fallen comrade to his feet and
only now discovered the apparently obvious instantly fatal nature of the wound. Others helped to free the cannon from its
distress despite the ongoing gunfire that could easily have done for them as it
had for Erskine.
Just as Leslie was learning of the tragic
consequences to his man, a spectator, witnessing a cannon being drawn past,
called to hum. ”I say, Sir. Is that it? Will there be more fighting tonight, or
should we return tomorrow? If so, what time might be best?”
Leslie stormed over to the man,
grabbing the hilt of his sword and half sliding it from the scabbard as he
went.
“We are not here for your
entertainment, you sad, sick buffoon.
We have a job to do. Please remove yourself from this place and do not
return.”
“Sir, I am a civilian, not a soldier.
You have no right to order me around. Without my farm, none of the good folk of
Aberdeen would enjoy cow’s milk or fresh eggs.”
Leslie swore and grabbed the man by the
lapels of his shirt. “How old are you, Sir?”
He asked.
“Twenty-seven, Sir,” the man said, with
his deep voiced defiant arrogance giving way to a squeaking note of terror.
Leslie grinned in a way that told the
man something bad was coming. “Old enough to have at least one son. Does your
son run your farm for you? |”
“My boy is eleven. He works the farm
with my wife. Yes. Why?”
“Then they have little need for you at present, Sir. I, on
the other hand, lost a good man today. I must promote another soldier to take
his place. That means you should now consider yourself levied and pressed to
the service of the Covenant army of Lord Montrose. You are a private. Get to
the river, and ask them to find you a uniform. You’re in the army now.”
The man spluttered and gasped in
horror. Leslie snapped at him, as the canons were wheeled by and coupled to
carts pulled by the horses. “That’s an order, soldier. If you don’t obey me,
I’ll have you shot as a deserter.”
The man started to cry. His wife wept
by his side, but moved away from him in revulsion as his trousers began to
steam and moisten before her eyes. “Oh, Matthew,” she shrieked.
Leslie laughed. “Clean soldier’s trews
will soon replace those. Just don’t make a habit of it.” Leslie ordered two men
to escort the recruit to his new place in life, and he was not given time to
kiss his wife goodbye. The weeping lady was told by Leslie to come back in the
morning if she wished to see her husband in action. She fled in tears towards
the village.
Leslie laughed.
Once clear of the riverbank and drawn
by horse, the cannons proved relatively easy to draw along. Within an hour,
they were in their new places, and ready to reload. From a distance, sporadic
gunfire told Leslie that Montrose was seeing some action now. The shooting was
negligible and limited, so Leslie suspected that the enemy had little chance to
seriously threaten Montrose’s men.
The shooting stopped. About thirty
minutes later, Montrose’s men appeared, marching at the double behind the
colours in triumph. Montrose grinned, and called to Leslie. “It worked like a
charm. They have to pick themselves over some serious rockfalls on their side.
We kept them back nicely. I see the guns have a new home, so I suspect your own
maneuvers worked too.
Leslie’s look of despair told Montrose that all had not gone well and he
quickly told the Graham what had befallen Lord Erskine, who now lay buried
under a Cairn of rocks just a little further down the beach.
Montrose said a modest prayer over the
grave, and then introduced himself to the new soldier, who was being shown how
to aim and fire a musket.
“Use shot for practice,” Montrose
advised the trainers. “”Point to the men on the bridge. Who knows, you might
even hit someone.”
Other than those sentries set to watch,
the men got a few hours sleep before rising in preparation for the dawn. As the Sun came up, the cannons roared, and
the musketeers moved forward, firing
at will. The men on the Bridge reacted in sheer terror now. A man in their
midst, on horseback had been cut clean in two. His legs were still on the
horse. His upper body had simply vanished, possibly into the river, or into
smithereens. Many soldiers who had been
close to him simply threw down pikes and muskets and fled.
Rousing cheers from the woods told
Montrose that the watchers had arrived early too, and with the second blast a
second Royalist fell dead, possibly to a musket shot. The earthwork defenses
that had blocked the Southern approaches to the bridge collapsed with the impact of the cannon shot.
Several men were half buried by the
debris. Most started to get up but one man lay screaming under the rubble in
agony. Seeing him from the other end of the bridge, a rider was shouting in
urgency bordering on panic. As he did
so, several men on the bridge dropped
their guns and turned to run.
A lady cried out from the tree line that she
thought her man had taken one down. Leslie saw the farmer’s wife and son,
grinning with pride. Matthew simply stood looking troubled at the thought of
what he was doing now. Then a howl of
anguish went up, as a man fell bleeding amidst the trees, with a gaping hole in
his chest. The spectators screamed and ran, just as desertions were taking
place on the bridge too. A flag of truce rose, and Montrose knew that the men
were requesting the right to surrender. The Colonel, Sir William Johnstone,
came offer under truce to formally
cease hostilities. He was lying on a makeshift litter, made of wood. His
leg was clearly broken. Montrose listened to his lament. “You didn’t win,
Graham. We lost. The cannon strike dropped the bridge barricade on me and Gunn
panicked, declaring me dead. The men
believed him and dropped their guns. Even the ghouls watching from the
banks down here could see that I was only injured. As far as I’m concerned, Gunn will never serve in the army
again.”
“Where is he?” Montrose asked.
“Hiding, sulking. I have no idea, but I expect
you’ll catch up with him soon enough,” Johnstone said. “He’ll be luckier if he
falls into your hands than if I get hold of him.”
“Who was the man sliced in two?” Montrose
asked, with a note of compassion.
“Setton from Pitmeddon,” Johnstone said, almost tearfully. One of my finest. I fear he won’t be the
last before this sorry business is over.
What will be come of myself and the others you have captured?”
Montrose
shook his head. “You are soldiers. You will probably be granted the right to
stand down from your service and you will be asked to sign the Covenant. You
may face fines, but I doubt if any of you will face imprisonment, unless you
choose not to be co-operative.”
Johnstone
nodded his head. The terms of his capture seemed fair.
Montrose noticed that the watchers had melted away
as the final shots had fired. His first victory had been won, and the witnesses
had turned their backs just before that fact was made apparent for them. The politics of the war, and who fought who
and why was irrelevant to them. Only the new recruit’s wife stood to watch her
husband, who was now on his knees torn between weeping and praying, shocked by
the knowledge that he had killed a man, and had his own life turned upside
down.
Montrose felt embittered. Somehow the moment of
victory lacked any sense of triumph for him. He thought only of the little
grave marker for Lord Erskine nearby.
About half way home, Montrose was startled when
a herald suddenly rushed forward with a message. The King had surrendered to the Scots at Berwick, on the Border the
day before. Montrose recoiled in horror. His
fight had taken place after the cease-fire had been declared. The First
Bishop’s War was over. He could have had no way of knowing.
As the victors took occupancy of Aberdeen
itself, Montrose retired to his family home, and started to compose up his
latest letter to Charles The First. It would be a while yet, but when he fought
again, it would be for the Royalists against the Covenant. His soldiering
adventure had begun. He would know few days of true happiness ever again.
© Copyright. Arthur Chappell
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