"Ninety-second! Prepare to charge!" cried Cameron, animated to fury by this deadly slaughter of his regiment. "Gordon Highlanders! prepare to charge," he repeated, as he galloped along the broken line with eyes flashing fire, while he waved his bonnet aloft. "Close up,—keep together; shoulder to shoulder, Highland men,—charge!" Ronald alone heard him, and repeated the rash order; but their voices were unheard amidst the din of the conflict. At that moment the smoke cleared a little away, and in front Ronald perceived a French grenadier sling his musquet, and advancing a few paces before his friends, stoop down to rifle an officer of the 71st regiment, who was lying dead between the lines.
"Iverach, mark that plundering rascal," said Stuart; "aim steadily."
Evan fired and missed.
"That was not like a man from the braes of Strathonan!" said his master angrily. "Fire, Ian Macdonald; you are one of the best shots in the company."
"My father shot the Damh mhor a Vonalia toon in Padenoch,[*] and I was aye thouchten to pe a petterer marksman than him," replied the young Highlander coolly, as he levelled his piece and fired. The Frenchman fell forward, beat the earth with his heels for a moment, and then lay motionless.
[*] A famous white stag, shot in Badenoch in 1807. It was believed by the Highlanders to be more than 200 years old.
"He's toon, sir: I have pitten a flea in his lug," replied the marksman, as he bit another cartridge.
For two hours this desperate and unequal conflict was maintained. The other regiments had given way in disorder, and the Highlanders began to waver, after the loss of their gallant colonel, who had retired severely wounded. Nearly all the officers were dead or dying on the ground, while others were endeavouring to find their way to some place where they could get their wounds dressed. Two alone were left with the regiment,—Ronald and another lieutenant, who, being senior, had the command, and finding that the battalion was reduced to less than a company, ordered it to retire towards the pass of Maya, having lost in two hours five-and-twenty officers, and three hundred rank and file. The other regiments were cut up in nearly the same manner, but none had lost so many officers. Stuart carried the king's colour, and a serjeant the regimental—all the ensigns being killed or wounded. Poor Alister Macdonald was left on the field among the former. A shot had passed through his head, and he died without a groan. His friend Ronald was considerably startled when he saw him lying dead. The prediction of Dugald Mhor flashed upon his mind, and he looked round for that singular old Highlander; but he was away with Fassifern, on the road for the village of Irun.
The whole of the British forces were now in retreat before the overwhelming power of the enemy, column after column of whom continued to press forward. The defenders of the pass retired on the rock of Maya, abandoning their camp and baggage to the French. On retreating through the pass, Major Campbell, whose horse had been as usual shot under him, and who had first left the field owing to a severe wound, headed a few Highlanders, who scrambled like squirrels up the face of a precipitous crag, from the summit of which they kept up a hot fire upon the French troops, not only holding them decidedly in check and giving their friends time to retire, but revenging the previous slaughter in front of the pass. Here it may be worth mentioning that Major Campbell lost his celebrated cudgel, which, in the enthusiasm of the moment he sent flying among the foe, and unhorsed a mounted officer. He gave them also much weightier proofs of his good-will. Just as the flank of a column of French grenadiers reached the base of the crag occupied by the Highlanders, a tremendous fragment of rock, urged forward by the powerful hands of the major, came thundering down among them,—rolling through the dense mass of men with irresistible force and fury, making a perfect but terrible lane, and doing as much mischief as a dozen bomb-shells. Every man below held his breath for a moment, and then cries of rage and fury burst from the whole division of Drouet; while the Scots, pouring upon them a parting salute of shot and stones, descended from the other side of the rock, and rejoined their comrades in double-quick time. Under the orders of General Stuart the whole retired to the rock of Maya, those in the rear maintaining an irregular skirmish with the French; who, on perceiving this rearward movement, filled the air with cries of "Long live the great Emperor! Long live beautiful France!" mingled with shouts,—absolute yells of triumph and exultation.
Thoroughly enraged and disheartened, the British continued to retire, yet anxiously expecting that succours from Lord Wellington would arrive in time to enable them to face about, and beat Soult before nightfall. As the little band of Highlanders descended straggling from the hills, Stuart saw a lady (the wife of an officer of the 50th) on horseback, and in a miserable situation. Her horse had stuck fast above the saddle-girths in a deep morass, and she was too much terrified and bewildered to leave it. The balls of the sharp-shooters were whistling past her every second, and she cried imploringly on the retreating Highlanders to yield her some assistance; but it was impossible, and she fell into the hands of the French. Her husband was lying dead, with his sword in his hand, in the gorge of the fatal pass. On the brigade of Sir Edward Barnes coming up from the rear, a new and sanguinary conflict took place; but the enemy were defeated, and the pass regained.