But they were not suffered to cross Bothwell Bridge with impunity. Some of the bolder spirits, leaving the disputants to fight with tongue and eye, drew their swords and advanced to confront the foe.
“It’s every man for himsel’ here,” remarked Andrew Black indignantly, wiping his mouth with his cuff, as he rose from the meal which he was well aware might be his last. “The Lord hae mercy on the puir Covenanters, for they’re in sair straits this day. Come awa’, Wull Wallace—lead us on to battle.”
Our hero, who was busily forming up his men, needed no such exhortation. Seeing that there was no one in authority to direct his movements, he resolved to act “for his own hand.” He gave the word to march, and set off at a quick step for the river, where the fight had already begun. Soon he and his small band were among those who held the bridge. Here they found Hackston, Hall, Turnbull, and the lion-like John Nisbet, each with a small band of devoted followers sternly and steadily defending what they knew to be the key to their position. Distributing his men in such a way among the coppices on the river’s bank that they could assail the foe to the greatest advantage without unnecessarily exposing themselves, Wallace commenced a steady fusillade on the King’s foot-guards, who were attempting to storm the bridge. The Covenanters had only one cannon and about 300 men with which to meet the assault; but the gun was effectively handled, and the men were staunch.
On the central arch of the old bridge—which was long and narrow—there stood a gate. This had been closed and barricaded with beams and trees, and the parapets on the farther side had been thrown down to prevent the enemy finding shelter behind them. These arrangements aided the defenders greatly, so that for three hours the gallant 300 held the position in spite of all that superior discipline and numerous guns could do. At last, however, the ammunition of the defenders began to fail.
“Where did ye tether my horse?” asked Will Wallace, addressing Peter, who acted the part of aide-de-camp and servant to his commander.
“Ayont the hoose there,” replied Peter, who was crouching behind a tree-stump.
“Jump on its back, lad, and ride to the rear at full speed. Tell them we’re running short of powder and ball. We want more men, too, at once. Haste ye!”
“Ay, an’ tell them frae me, that if we lose the brig we lose the day,” growled Andrew Black, who, begrimed with powder, was busily loading and firing his musket from behind a thick bush, which, though an admirable screen from vision, was a poor protection from bullets, as the passage of several leaden messengers had already proved. But our farmer was too much engrossed with present duty to notice trifles!
Without a word, except his usual “Ay,” Ramblin’ Peter jumped up and ran to where his commander’s steed was picketed. In doing so he had to pass an open space, and a ball striking his cap sent it spinning into the air; but Peter, like Black, was not easily affected by trifles. Next moment he was on the back of Will’s horse—a great long-legged chestnut—and flying towards the main body of Covenanters in rear.
The bullets were whistling thickly past him. One of these, grazing some tender part of his steed’s body, acted as a powerful spur, so that the alarmed creature flew over the ground at racing speed, much to its rider’s satisfaction. When they reached the lines, however, and he attempted to pull up, Peter found that the great tough-mouthed animal had taken the bit in its teeth and bolted. No effort that his puny arm could make availed to check it. Through the ranks of the Covenanters he sped wildly, and in a short time was many miles from the battlefield. How long he might have continued his involuntary retreat is uncertain, but the branch of a tree brought it to a close by sweeping him off the saddle. A quarter of an hour later an old woman found him lying on the ground insensible, and with much difficulty succeeded in dragging him to her cottage.