"You'll soon find that out, my boy," cried Stuart, brandishing his sword. "Forward! Gordon Highlanders. Hurrah!"
"Demeurez là!" cried the Gaul in dismay, while he fired his piece in concert with three or four others. A Highlander fell in the stream wounded, and was sucked into the linn, where he perished instantly. His comrades let fly a rattling volley, and pressed boldly forward. The water rose nearly to their waists, but the Celts had an advantage over their comrades in trowsers. Raising the thick tartan folds of their kilts, they crossed the river, keeping all their clothing, the hose excepted, perfectly dry.
The Nive, at the place where they crossed, was several yards wide, and the current, on the surface of which some pieces of thin ice floated, was intensely cold; but the hardy Highlanders pressed onward, grasping each other by the hand, and crossed safely, but not without several unlooked-for delays. The bed of the river was pebbly, slippery as glass, and full of holes, which caused them to stumble every moment, and a scaling-ladder was nearly carried away by the stream. The rocks were steep and precipitous, rising to the height of several yards abruptly from the water. The ladders were planted among the pebbles, and when one point of the rock was gained, they had to draw them up before they could reach another, and so arrive at the foot of the sloping bastion which was now bristling with bayonets. By the time the escalade approached the outworks, every soldier in the château was at his post, and the cannon had begun to belch their iron contents, which, however, passed harmlessly over the heads of the assailants. The fierce northern blood of the latter was now roused in good earnest, and their natural courage seemed only to receive a fresh stimulus from the din of war around them.
Accustomed from infancy to climb like squirrels, the Scotsmen clambered up the rocks, grasping weeds and tufts of grass,—finding assistance and support where other men would have found none; and in less space of time than I take to record it, they were all at the base of the bastion.
"Up and on! Forward, my brave Highland hearts!" cried Ronald Stuart, springing recklessly up the perilous ladder, waving his sword and feeling in his mind the wild—almost mad, sensations of chivalry and desperation, which no man can imagine save one who has led a forlorn hope. "Death or glory! Hurrah! the place is our own!" At that moment a twenty-four pounder was run through the embrasure and discharged above his head. It was so close, that the air of the passing ball almost stunned him; he felt the hot glow of the red fire on his cheek, and the deadly missile whistled over his bonnet, and boomed away into the darkness. Several fire-balls were tossed over the works by the French. These burned with astonishing brilliancy and splendour wherever they alighted,—even in the middle of water, where they roared, sputtered and hissed like devils, but would not be quenched until they burned completely away.
Those which fell upon the rocks, served to reveal the storming-party to the deadly aim of the defenders, and at the same time added to the singularity, the picturesque horror of the scene, by the alternate glares of red, blue, and green light which they shed upon the castled rock, the bristling bastions, the rushing river, the gleaming arms, and the bronzed features of men, whose hearts the excitement of the moment had turned to iron. Unluckily, the first ladder planted against the breast-work broke, and the men fell heavily down.
Enraged at this discomfiture, Stuart leaped up the rocks again, though drenched with water,—but blows had been already interchanged. A second ladder had been planted by Macpherson, who leaped into an embrasure at the very moment a cannon was discharged through it, and he narrowly escaped being blown to pieces. With charged bayonets the resolute Highlanders poured in after him in that headlong manner which was never yet withstood, and a fierce conflict ensued, foot to foot, and hand to hand. From their lack of muscular power, the French are ever at disadvantage in such strife; and although many of the assailants were forced over the parapet and slain, the outworks were entirely captured in a few minutes. The Germans under old Blacier, who led them on with his sabre in one hand and his meerschaum in the other, effected an entrance at one angle, while the Spanish officer commanding the reserve bravely carried another, finding it impossible to restrain his soldiers, whose triumphant shout of "Santiago y España! Viva!" struck the French with dismay. Finding themselves attacked successfully on three points, they became distracted, and were driven tumultuously from bastion and palisade; after which their own cannon were wheeled round on them. Nevertheless they fought with the chivalrous courage of old France. The top of the keep was lined with chasseurs, who madly continued to pour down an indiscriminate fire of musquetry on friends and foes, and the barbican was full of blood and corpses in five minutes. Brilliant fire-balls were also cast over, and the glare thrown by them on the bloody earth, the flashing weapons and powder-blackened visages of the combatants, produced an effect never to be forgotten by a beholder.
Poor Blacier, who had been shot through the lungs at the moment he entered the court, hurled his sabre among the enemy and crawled away into a corner, where he smoked composedly as he bled to death,—or at least appeared to smoke. The Gascon major of the 105th was encountered by Alfonso de Castronuno, who at the second blow laid him dead at his feet, but almost at the same moment the Spaniard himself expired: a shot had passed through his heart. Remembering Louis Lisle, and animated by a bitter hatred against all who wore the same garb, the duke, with his cloak rolled round his left arm and accoutred with sword and dagger, leaped among the Highlanders, calling on the French to follow; but no man obeyed. He would have been instantly bayoneted but for Ronald, who was the first man he encountered, and who ordered the soldiers to leave them hand to hand. In avoiding the duke's stiletto, Stuart stumbled over the corse of Castronuno, and would have been instantly dispatched, but for the crossed bayonets of a dozen soldiers.
"Save him!" cried Stuart. "Macpherson! Evan Bean! take him alive."
"Haud!" cried Iverach sternly. "Stand, ye black son o' the devil! Back—back; or my bayonet's through ye in a twinkling." But the furious Spaniard spat upon him in the bitterness of his fury, and the next moment his blood was reeking on Evan's weapon. He fell prone to the earth, and even while he lay choking in blood he continued to curse and spit at the conquerors, until the Spaniards destroyed him by trampling him to death. The moment he fell the French surrendered, after being hemmed into a corner, and finding it impossible to maintain the conflict longer. On both sides the slaughter was very great, and upwards of two hundred lay killed in the court or barbican. The chasseurs on the top of the keep did not yield, until threatened that the place would be blown up; on which they laid down their arms, and joined the other prisoners, who formed a sullen band, ranked in a corner and guarded by the Spaniards, for whom they showed their scorn and contempt so openly, that three or four were killed.