"Now God be thanked, they fly!" said he, in a voice which showed how intense were the torments he endured; "you are a brave lad, Fenton—the dying hour of Claver'se is at hand, but he will not forget you. Meet me at the house of Urrard in an hour, if all goes well and I survive till then. Make my dutiful service to the noble Lord Dunbarton, and desire him to assume the command. Adieu;" and placing his hand on the orifice to staunch the blood, he rode over the field at a rapid trot.
In a mass of disorder, horse and foot, musqueteers, pikemen, and cavalry, the soldiers of Mackay were driven like a flock of frightened sheep down the narrow pass, while the fierce clansmen, swaying with both hands axe and claymore, "cut down," says an old author, many of Mackay's officers and soldiers, "through skull and neck to the very breast; others had their skulls cut off above their ears like nightcaps; some had their bodies and crossbelts cut through at one blow; pikes and swords were cut like willows, and whoever doubts this may consult the witnesses of the tragedy." Thanks to the skill of Dundee and the valour of the Highlanders, never was a more decisive victory won. Mackay lost his tents, baggage, artillery, provisions, and his standards; he had two thousand men slain and five hundred taken prisoners. Such was the battle of Killycrankie, or Rinn Ruaradh, as it is still named by the peasantry, who attribute the ultimately fatal effects of the victory to the circumstance of Dundee wearing green, a colour still esteemed ominous to his sirname. A rude obelisk of rough stone still marks the place where the death-shot struck him, and is pointed out by the mountaineers with respect and regret as the Tombh Claverse.
The grief and consternation that spread through the Highland ranks on the fall of their beloved leader becoming known, prevented the pursuit being followed with sufficient vigour, otherwise few would ever have reached the southern mouth of that terrible pass.
"Dundee hath assuredly been slain," said General Mackay, as he breathed his sinking charger at the other extremity of Killycrankie, two miles from the field. "I am convinced of it; otherwise we would not have been permitted to retreat thus far unmolested."
CHAPTER XI.
THE LAST HOUR OF DUNDEE.
Oh last and best of Scots! who did'st maintain
Thy country's freedom from a foreign reign;
New people fill the land, now thou art gone,
New gods the temples, and new kings the throne!
ARCHIBALD PITCAIRN.
Now the battle was over, and the fury of the conflict with the fierce energies it excited had passed away together. In that narrow gorge lay more than two thousand slain, and the broad round moon, as its shining circle rose above the dark ridge of the far-off mountains, poured its cold lustre on the distorted visages of the writhing wounded, and more ghastly linaments of the pallid dead. While the Highlanders were plundering the baggage and carousing on the provisions of Mackay (who was then retreating to Stirling), Walter Fenton rode to the house of Urrard, and repaired to the presence of his leader.
Within a little wainscotted apartment, lighted by four long candles, that flared in a brazen branch, stretched upon a low canopied bed lay the great and terrible Dundee. On his proud heart of fierce impulses and high aspirations, the hand of the grim monarch was now laid surely and heavily. His fine features were sharpened, pale and ghastly, by agony and approaching death. He breathed slowly. His Monmouth wig was laid aside, and his own raven hair, which formed a strong contrast with the whiteness of his skin, flowed over the pillow like the tresses of a woman.
"Can this be Claverhouse?" thought Walter.