It was a very considerable army which gathered about the devoted Cameronians—not less than five thousand victorious clansmen—under a leader of experience, if not of well-proven parts.
Wat was still with Lochiell, and Scarlett, in deep disgust at Keppoch's miscellaneous plunderings, drew his sword also with the same chief.
By early morning the town was completely surrounded and the attack began. But the brave band of Wild Whigs of the West stuck dourly to their outposts, and for an hour or more their little handfuls defied behind the walls of town-yards and ruinous petty enclosures, all the assaults of the clansmen. At last these inconsiderable outer defences were driven in, the whole regiment was shut up in the cathedral and in an adjoining house of many unglazed windows, which was standing roofed but unfinished close at hand.
Here the grim men of the South, doggedly saying their prayers behind their clinched teeth, met and turned every assault, taking aim at their assailants with the utmost composure and certainty.
"HE FELL INWARD AMONG THE WOUNDED"
Clan after clan charged down upon those crumbling walls. Rush after rush of plaided men melted before that deadly storm of bullets. Thrice Wat, in the thick of Lochiell's men, dashed at the defences. Thrice was he carried back by the wave of tartan which recoiled from the reeking muskets of the men of the Covenant.
Glengarry fell wounded. The McDonalds broke. Then, in the nick of time, the McLeans dashed into the thick of the fight and had almost won the wall when young Cleland, rushing across the court to meet them in person, was struck by two bullets—one through his head, the other in his side. In spite of his agony, he set his hand to his brow and staggered towards the interior of the church, crying, "Have at them, lads! all is well with me!" This he said in order to conceal his wound from his men. But he fell dead or ever he reached the door.
The lead for the muskets began to give out. But in a moment there were men on the roof of the new building stripping off the metal, while others beneath were melting it and thrusting the bullets, yet warm from the "cams," into their hotter barrels, or cutting the sheets of lead into rough slugs to fire at the enemy.
So, relentlessly, hour by hour the struggle went on. Ever, as the attacks failed, fresh clans tried their fierce courage in emulous assault, firing once, throwing away their guns, and then charging home with the claymore.