Confounded by this unexpected charge from an enemy whom they expected to find asleep in their tents, the English army was driven back in considerable dismay. Then might Harry Piersie and his brother Sir Rafe have been seen flying from standard to standard vainly endeavouring to rally their men; but it was not until they had been driven into the open ground that they could succeed in stopping what almost amounted to a flight.
“What, Englishmen—is this your mettle?” cried Hotspur with vehemence. “Fly, then, cowards, and leave Harry Piersie to die. He may not outlive this disgrace on the standards of St. George.”
These upbraiding words had the effect of checking their panic, and gave them time to observe the comparatively small body to whom they were so basely yielding. The two brothers quickly restored the battle by their daring example. Deafening cheers arose, shouts of “Piersie” and “St. George” being loudly mingled with them; and a fresh and very impetuous onset was made, that drove the Scottish troops entirely through their entrenchments. The struggle was now tremendous, and the clash of the Scottish axes was terrific; but, although the success of the English wavered a little now and then, yet the weight of their mass was so very superior, that the Scottish army lost ground inch by inch, till, after a long contest, the Piersie found himself almost at the Scottish tents.
“Piersie!—Piersie!—The pennon of the Piersie!” cried he, shrieking with the wildest joy, and sanguine with the hope of [[450]]success; while backed by a band of his choicest warriors, he made a bold dash towards the standard of Scotland, that stood before the pavilion of Douglas, with the pennon beside it. The Douglas was at that time fighting in another part of the field, where the press against his men was greatest. The Earls of Moray and Dunbar were bravely striving to withstand the numbers that came against the respective wings they commanded, supported by Montgomery, Keith, Fraser, and many others. Assueton, though but half recovered from the bruise he had received at Newcastle, and Halyburton, Lindsay, and some others were doing their best to resist the tide of the English in those parts of the battle where fortune had thrown them. Sir William de Dalzel had been carried to his tent grievously wounded to the loss of an eye; and already had the brave Sir Malcolm Drummond, and the gallant Sir John de Gordon, Lord of Strathbolgy, fallen, covered by glorious wounds. Yet was not the standard of Scotland, nor the Piersie’s captive pennon, left altogether undefended; for before them stood the dauntless Sir Patrick Hepborne of Hailes the elder, with his son by his side, backed by a small but resolute band of their own immediate dependents.
“My brave boy,” cried the elder knight, “trust me there is nowhere in the field a more honourable spot of earth to die on than that where we do now stand.”
“Then we quit it not with life, my father, save to drive the Piersie before us,” cried his son.
“Piersie—Piersie!—Piersie’s pennon!—Hotspur’s pennon!” cried those who came furiously on to attack them.
The father and the son, with their little phalanx, remained immovable, and, receiving them on the point of their lances, an obstinate and bloody contest took place. Harry Piersie and his brother fought for the fame of their proud house, and their eager shouts were heard over all the other battle cries, as well as above the clashing of the weapons and the shrieking of the agonized wounded, as they were trodden under foot and crushed to death by the press; but the bulwark of lion hearts that defended the standard was too impregnable to be broken through. Piersie’s men already began to slacken in their attack, and to present a looser and wider circle to the Scottish band; and now the elder Sir Patrick Hepborne, seeing his time, and eager to catch his advantage, brandished a battle-axe, and his son following his example, they joined in the cry of “A Hepborne, a Hepborne!” and charged the enemy so furiously at the head of their men, that Piersie and his followers were driven down the [[451]]slope with immense slaughter. The axes of the bold knight and his son never fell without the sacrifice of an English life. “A Hepborne, a Hepborne!” they cried from time to time, and “A Hepborne, a Hepborne!” was returned to them from those who ran together to their banner; and yet more and more of the English line gave way before the accumulating aid that crowded after Sir Patrick and his son, who went on gradually recovering the lost ground, by working prodigies of valour.
Whilst the Hepbornes were so manfully exerting their prowess in one part of the field, the Douglas was toiling to support the battle where it was most hopeless. The great force of the enemy had been accidentally directed to the point where he fought, although they knew not against whom they were moving. The dense body opposed to him so encumbered him, that his men were unable to stand before it, and defeat seemed to be inevitable. Finding himself hampered on horseback, he retired a little back, and leaping from his horse, and summoning up his gigantic strength, he seized an iron mace, so ponderous, that even to have lifted it would have been a toil for almost any other individual in the field, and, swinging it round his head, he threw himself amidst the thickest of the foe, bearing ruin and death along with him. At every stroke of the tremendous engine he whirled whole ranks of the English were levelled before him, like grass by the scythe of the mower; and he strode over the dead and dying, down a broad lane cleared through the densest battalions that were opposed to him. Terror seized upon the English, and they began to give back before him. On he rushed after their receding steps, reaping a wide and terrible harvest of death, and strewing the plain with the victims of his matchless courage and Herculean strength. From time to time he was hardily opposed for a few minutes by small bodies of the enemy, that closed together to meet the coming storm, unconscious of its tremendous nature. But his resistless arm bore away all before it, until, encountering a column of great depth and impenetrability, the hero was transfixed by no less than three spears at once.
One entered his shoulder between the plates of his epaulière; another, striking on his breast-plate, glanced downwards, and pierced his belly; and the third easily penetrated his thigh, which in his haste had been left without the cuisse. For a moment did the wounded Douglas writhe desperately on the lance shafts, to rid himself of their iron heads, which had so suddenly arrested his destructive progress. But fate had decreed that his glorious career should be terminated. He received [[452]]a severe blow on the head; his muscles, so lately full of strength and energy of volition, now refused to obey his will, and he sank to the ground borne down by those who had wounded him, and who knew not how noble and how precious that life’s blood was, to which they had opened so many yawning passages of escape.