CHAPTER XVIII.

THE REVOLT AT IPSWICH.

I scorn them both! I am too stout a Scotsman, To bear a Southron's rule an instant longer Than discipline obliges. SCOTT.

Unconscious of this bold abduction, a whisper of which would have driven him mad, on the very night it took place, Walter Fenton was seated with Douglas of Finland in the public room of a large hostel or tavern in the central street of Ipswich.

It was the sign of the "Bulloign Gate:" the house was curious and old-fashioned; and on entering, one descended several steps, in consequence of the soil having risen upon the walls. Its fantastic front presented a series of heavy projections, rising from grotesquely-carved oak beams, diagonally crossed with spars of the same wood; little latticed windows, and two deep gloomy galleries, and projecting oriels, over which the then leafless woodbine and honeysuckle clambered, and from thence to the curious stacks of brick chimneys, and broad Swiss-like roofs, with their carved and painted eaves.

The host, a bluff and burly Englishman, with the whole of his vast obesity encased in a spotless-white apron, and exhibiting a great, unmeaning, and bald-pated visage, every line of which receded from the point of his pug nose, sat within the outer bar, where countless jugs of pewter, mugs of Delft, and crystal goblets shone in the light of a sea-coal fire, that roared and blazed in the wide fire-place of the public room.

At a table in one corner of the latter, a ponderously fat Southern was engaged in discussing several pounds of broiled bacon and a small basket of eggs. Over the great pewter trencher his round flushed face beamed like a full moon, while he had the wide cuffs of his coat turned up, and a great napkin like a bib tucked under his chin to enable him to sup without spotting his glossy suit of drap-de-Berri.

Near him were several groups of saucy-like citizens, in short brown wigs and plain broadcloth suits, playing at tric-trac, knave-out-o'-doors, and drinking mulled beer or egg-flip; while from time to time they eyed the Scottish officers askance, and whispered such jokes as the prejudices of the lower English still inspire them to make upon aliens. These they did, however, very covertly and quietly, not caring to enter into a brawl with two such richly-clad and stout cavaliers, armed with sword and dagger, and whose comrades, fifteen hundred in number, were all in the adjoining street.

Our friends sat silent and thoughtful, drinking each a posset of wine. Walter's eyes were fixed on the glowing embers of the fire and the changing figures they exhibited; while Finland seemed wholly intent on reading two papers pasted over the mantel-piece. One was the sailing notice of "the good ship Restoration, _which_ was to sail from the Hermitage Bridge, London, for Leith, on the penult of next month, ye master to be spoke with on ye Scots Walk, where he would promise civility and good entertainment to passengers." The other was a proclamation, signed W.R., regarding the quarters of the Scottish forces in divisions. The cavalier's brow grew black as his eye fell on it; and he sighed, saying:

"Matters are now at a low ebb with the King. Religion and misfortune have fairly check-mated him, as we say at chess."

"Measter, say rather his curst Scottish pride and obstinacy," said a great burly fellow, whose striped apron and greasy doublet announced him to be a butcher. Finland gave him a scornful glance; but being unwilling to engage in a brawl, was about to address Walter again, when the corpulent citizen, having gorged himself to the throat, now felt inclined to be jocular; and looking at the long bowl-hilted rapiers and poignards of the Scots, said:

"Sword and dagger! by my feeth, thee art zo well vortified, that if well victualled, as thy coontryman, lousy King Jemmy, zaid to the swash-bookler, thee wouldst be impregnable. He was at Feversham by the last account," resumed the butcher, "with that long-nosed Jesuit, his confessor, about to embark vor France or Ireland--devil care which. Here is a long horn, lads, that King and confessor may gang to the bottom together."

"Silence, rascal!" said Walter. "Remember that we wear the King's uniform."

"Dom! and wot care I?" said the bumpkin, pushing forward with every disposition to annoy and insult, while a dozen of his townsmen crowded at his elbow. "Have ye not changed sides, like the rest of your canny coontrymen, and joined King William?"

"We have not!" replied Douglas, fiercely, making a tremendous effort to keep down the storm of passion and national hostility that blazed up within him. "Our solitary regiment alone remains yet true to James VII., over whom (with all his faults) I pray Heaven to keep its guard. I abhor his religion, and despise the bigots by whom he is surrounded, as much as you may do, good fellow; but I cannot forget that he is our rightful King; and for him, as such, I am ready to die on the field or the scaffold, should such be my fate."

The fire of his expression, the dignity of his aspect, and the splendour of his attire, completely awed the English boors, and for a moment they drew back.

"You mistake, good people, if you think that, like too many of our comrades, we have changed banners. No! we are still the faithful subjects of that King who heirs his crown by that hereditary right which comes direct from God. This Dutch usurper (whom the devil confound!) hath made us splendid offers if we will take service with him, and march to fight for his rascally Hollanders under Mareschal Schomberg, instead of our good and gallant Dunbarton; and, to intimidate us, is even now enclosing us in your town of Ipswich by blocking up the roads with troops. But let him beware! we have stout hearts and strong hands, and Dunbarton may show him a trick of the Black Douglas days, that will cool the Dutchman's courage, despite his black beer and Skiedam. Yes, Fenton; the arrival of Schomberg to command us _bongré malgré_ will bring us to the tilt."

While Douglas spoke with animation and energy, the Ipswichers had gazed upon him with open mouths and eyes, not in the least comprehending him; but their champion, suddenly taking it into his head that he was defied, threw his hat on the ground, and tucked up his sleeves, saying:

"Dom, but I'll vicht thee for a vardin, an ye have zo much about thee. Dom thee and all thy lousy coontrymen; they should be droomed out o' the town, before they get fattened up among us. Come on, my canny Scot, and if I doant lace thy boof coat for all its tags and tassels, I aint Timothy Tesh of the Back Alley."

"Hoozah!" shouted the rabble in the room and at the doorway, where they had collected in great numbers on hearing high words in the tavern.

"Sawney, hast anything else than oats in thee pooch?" cried one.

"He hath some brimstone, I'll warrant," added another.

"Oot upon thee for a vile Scot that zold his king for a groat, to zave his precious kirk."

"Come on, Measter Scot, and I drub thee in vurst rate style as old Noll did thy psalm-sing countrymen at Dunbarfield. Rat thee! my vather was killed there."

"Heyday, my canny Scot, wilt try a fall with me for a copper bawbee? Dom thee and thy mass-moonging race of Stuarts to boot. May ye all go to hell in the lump!"

"Ware your money, my masters, there are Scots thieves among us," said the Host, entering into the spirit of his townsmen.

Walter and Douglas exchanged mutual glances expressive of the scorn they felt.

"Silence, knaves!" cried Finland, kicking over the table, dashing all the jugs to pieces, and drawing his sword. "This is but a poor specimen of that southern spirit of generosity and hospitality of which (among yourselves) we hear so much said. Bullying and grossly insulting two unoffending strangers, who are guiltless of the slightest provocation; and I tell thee, Butcher, that were it not beneath a gentleman of name and coat-armour to lay hands on your plebeian hide, I would break every bone it contains."

Flushed with ale and impudence, and encouraged by the presence of his friends, the fellow came resolutely forward; he was immensely strong and muscular, but rage had endued Douglas with double strength, and, seizing him by the brawny throat, he dashed him twice against the wall with such force, that the blood gushed from his nostrils in a torrent, and he lay stunned without sense or motion.

His comrades were somewhat appalled for a moment; but gathering courage from their numbers, and enraged at the rough treatment experienced by Mr. Tesh, they snatched up the fire-irons, stools, and chairs, and commenced a simultaneous assault upon the two cavaliers, who, rapier in hand, endeavoured to break through them and gain the doorway, where now a dense and hostile crowd had collected, who poured upon them a thousand injurious taunts and invectives.

The affair was beginning to look serious. Fired by their insolence and the old inherent spirit of national animosity Walter Fenton lunged furiously before him, and shredding the ear off one fellow, slashed the cheek of a second, ran a third through the shoulder-blade, but was borne to the ground by a blow from behind. Walter's sword-hand was completely mastered, and he struggled with his heavy assailants, unable to free his dagger or obtain the least assistance from Finland, who, with his back to the wall, was fighting with rapier and poignard against the dense rabble that pressed around him.

Walter struggled furiously. The moment was critical, but he was saved by the timely arrival of an officer with a few of the Royal Scots, who burst among them sword in hand.

"Place, villains--make way," he exclaimed, with the voice and bearing of one in high authority. "I am George Earl of Dunbarton!"

They fell back awed not less by his demeanour than by the weapons of his followers.

"Chastise these scoundrels, Wemyss," said he to a serjeant who followed him. "Lay on well with your hilts and bandoliers; strike, Halbert Elshender, for it is beneath a gentleman to lay hands on clod-poles such as these."

Thus urged, the soldiers who required little or no incentive to make use of their hands against their southern neighbours, laid on with might and main, and, clearing the house in a twinkling, drove the clamorous host out with his guests; after which they overhauled the premises, and set a few of his best runlets abroach.

"A thousand thanks, my Lord Earl, for this timely rescue," exclaimed Finland. "But for your intervention I must indubitably have hurried some of those rogues into a better world."

"And I had been worried like an otter by a pack of terriers," said Walter; "however, I have had blood for blood."

"The old Moss Trooper's justice, Master Fenton," said Serjeant Wemyss, drinking a flagon of wine. "God bless the good cause, and all true Scottish hearts."

"Here is to thee, Wemyss, my noble Halberdier," said the frank Earl, drinking from the same cup; "and I would to the Powers above, that this night King James had under his standard ten thousand hearts like thine. But time presses--away, lads, to the muster-place, for hark, our drums are beating."

"The _générale_!" exclaimed Fenton and Finland, as the passing drums rang loudly in the adjacent streets.

"Yes, gentlemen, the crisis has come," said the Earl; "an hour ago, De Schomberg arrived to deprive me of my command."

"By whose orders?"

"The Stadtholder's."

"We know him not, save as an usurper," said Walter Fenton; "and rather than obey his Mareschal, we will die with our swords in our hands."

Wemyss flourished his halbert, the soldiers uttered a shout, and poured forth to the muster-place.

It was a clear frosty night; the whole sky was of the most beautiful and unclouded blue. Seven tolled from the bells of St. Peter's church. The winter moon, broad, vast, and saffron-coloured, rising above a steep eminence called the Bishops' Hill, poured its flaky lustre through the narrow and irregular streets of Ipswich, which in 1688 differed very much from those of the present day. There terror and confusion reigned on every hand for, on the drums beating to arms, the mayor and inhabitants feared that the Scots would burn and sack the town, which assuredly they would have done, had Dunbarton expressed a wish to that effect.

Save where the bright moonlight shot through the crooked thoroughfares, the whole town was involved in gloom and obscurity; but every window was crowded with anxious faces, watching the Scots hurrying to their alarm-post, while the flashing of their helmets and the clank of their accoutrements impressed with no ordinary terror the timid and the disloyal.

By this time King James had fled from Whitehall, and under an escort of Dutch troops, was--nobody knew where. William was in possession of his palace, from whence he issued orders to the troops, and proclamations to the people, with all the air of a conqueror and authority of a king. The entire forces of Britain had joined him, save sixty gentlemen of the Scottish Life Guards, and a few of the Scots' Greys (who were on their way home, under Viscount Dundee), and the Royals, whom, from their number, discipline, and known faith to James, the Stadtholder was very desirous of sending abroad forthwith, under command of the Marshal-Duke of Schomberg, a venerable soldier of fortune, whose arrival at Ipswich on the night in question had brought matters to a sudden issue.

Clad in a plain buff coat, with a black iron helmet and breastplate, Dunbarton galloped into the market-place of Ipswich, where the two battalions of his musqueteers were arrayed, three deep, in one firm and motionless line, with the moon shining brightly on their steel caps, their glittering bandoliers, and the gleaming barrels of their shouldered arms. As he dashed up, the four standards--two of white silk, with the azure cross, and two with the old red lion and fleurs-de-lys--were unfurled, and a crash of prolonged music rang through the echoing street, and many a bright point flashed in the moonlight as the arms were presented, and the hoarse drums rolled the Point of War, while the handsome Earl bowed to his holsters, as he reined up his fiery horse before his gallant comrades. The music died away, again the harness rang, and then all became still, save the hum of the fearful crowd, and the rustle of the embroidered banners.

"Fellow-soldiers of the Old Royals!" exclaimed the Earl, "at last the hour has come which must prove to the uttermost if that faith and honour which have ever been our guiding-stars, our watchword and parole, still exist among us--when we must strike, or be for ever lost! Through many a day of blood and danger we have upborne our banners in the wars of Luxembourg, of the great Condé, and the gallant Turenne; and shall we desert them now? I trow not! Oh! remember the glories of France and Flanders, of Brabant and Alsace. Remember the brave comrades who there fell by your side, and are now perhaps looking down on us from amid these sparkling stars. O, my friends, remember the brave and faithful dead!

"Shall it be said that the ancient Royals, les gardes Ecossais of the princely Louis, so faithful and true to the race of Bourbon, deserted their native monarch in this sad hour of his fallen fortune, and at most extremity? No! I know ye will serve him as he must be served, till treason and rebellion are crushed beneath our feet like vipers--I know you will fight to the last gasp, and fall like true Scottish men--I know ye are prepared to dare and to do, and to die when the hour comes!"

A deep murmur of applause rang along the triple ranks.

"That hour is come! Even now, Frederick De Schomberg, the tool and minion of the Dutch usurper and his parricidal wife, is within the walls of Ipswich, empowered to deprive me of my baton, which I hold from the Parliament of Scotland, and to lead you--where? To the foggy flats and pestilential fens of Holland, the land of agues and hypocrisy, to fight for his beggarly boors and pampered burgomasters, and to encounter our ancient comrades of France--the bold and beautiful France, whose glories we and our predecessors have shared on a thousand immortal fields. Between us and our home lie many hundred miles. De Ginckel, with three thousand Swart Ruyters, hovers on the Lincoln road to intercept us; Sir John Lanier, with two squadrons of English cavalry, awaits us on another; while that false villain Maitland, with a foot brigade of our Scottish guards, is pushing on from London to assail our rear. But fear not, my good and gallant comrades, for by the blessing of God, by the holy consecration of these standards, by the strength of our hands, by the valour of our hearts, and the justice of our cause, we will cut our way through ten thousand obstacles, and reach the far-off hills of the Scottish highlands, where the loyal clans are all in arms, and wait but the appearance of Dundee and myself to sweep like a whirlwind down on the Lowlander!"

A loud shout from fifteen hundred men rang through the market-place, and the brave heart of Dunbarton swelled with exultation at the devotion of his loyal soldiers, and anger at the desertion of their false comrades. He was not, however, without considerable anxiety as to the issue of this decided revolt, or rather appeal to arms, at such a distance from their native land, and in a place where they were so utterly without sympathy, succour, or friends--where to be a Scotsman was to be an enemy. But the very desperation of the attempt endued him with fresh energy. Ere he marched his devoted band, he addressed Gavin of that ilk, a tall gigantic officer, with a rapier nearly five feet long--

"Go to the house of the town treasurer, and tell him instantly to hand you over 10,000_l._ for the service of King James, under pain of immediate military execution. If the villain demur----"

"I'll twist his neck like a cock-patrick!" said Gavin.

"You will rejoin us at the bridge of the Orwell."

"And how if these rascally burghers make me prisoner?"

"Then, by the blood of the Black Douglas!" said the Earl, passionately, "I will not leave one stone of Ipswich standing upon another."

Gavin strode away, and his tall feathers were seen floating above the heads of the shrinking crowd that occupied the lower end of the marketplace.

"And harkee, Finland!" continued the Earl, "take young Walter Fenton and fifty tall musqueteers, break open the English government arsenal, and bring off four pieces of cannon which I understand are there; press horses wherever you can get them; blow up the magazine; and join us at the bridge--forgetting not, if you are invaded, to handle the citizens at discretion, in our old Flemish fashion. By Heaven, they may be thankful that I have not treated their town of Ipswich as old John of Tsercla, the Count Tilly, did Magdeburg. Away, then!"