Bruce At Bannockburn

To Edward the Second, lying in luxurious idleness in his palace of

pleasure at London, came the startling word that he must strike a blow

or lose a kingdom. Scotland was slipping from his weak grasp. Of that

great realm, won by the iron hand of his father, only one stronghold was

left to England--Stirling Castle, and that was fiercely besieged by

Edward Bruce, brother of Robert Bruce, who some years before had been

cro ned King of Scotland and was now seeking to drive the English out of

his realm.



The tidings that came to Edward were these. Sir Philip Mowbray, governor

of Stirling, hotly pressed by Bruce, and seeing no hope of succor, had

agreed to deliver the town and castle to the Scotch, unless relief

reached him before midsummer. Bruce stopped not the messengers. He let

them speed to London with the tidings, willing, doubtless, in his bold

heart, to try it once for all with the English king, and win all or lose

all at a blow.



The news stirred feebly the weak heart of Edward,--lapped in delights,

and heedless of kingdoms. It stirred strongly the vigorous hearts of the

English nobility, men who had marched to victory under the banners of

the iron Edward, and who burned with impatience at the inglorious ease

of his silken son. The great deeds of Edward I. should not go for

naught, they declared. He had won Scotland; his son should not lose it.

Robert Bruce, the rebel chief, had been left alone until he had gathered

an army and nearly made Scotland his own. Only Stirling remained; it

would be to the endless disgrace of England should it be abandoned, and

the gallant Mowbray left without support. An army must be gathered,

Bruce must be beaten, Scotland must be won.



Like the cry of a pack of sleuth-hounds in the ear of the timid deer

came these stern demands to Edward the king. He dared not disregard

them. It might be as much as his crown were worth. England meant

business, and its king must take the lead or he might be asked to yield

the throne. Stirred alike by pride and fear, he roused from his

lethargy, gave orders that an army should be gathered, and vowed to

drive the beleaguering Scots from before Stirling's walls.



From every side they came, the marching troops. England, hot with

revengeful blood, mustered its quota in haste. Wales and Ireland, new

appendages of the English throne, supplied their share. From the French

provinces of the kingdom hosts of eager men-at-arms flocked across the

Channel. All the great nobles and the barons of the realm led their

followers, equipped for war, to the mustering-place, until a force of

one hundred thousand men was ready for the field, perhaps the largest

army which had ever marched under an English king. In this great array

were thirty thousand horsemen. It looked as if Scotland were doomed.

Surely that sterile land could raise no force to face this great array!



King Robert the Bruce did his utmost to prepare for the storm of war

which threatened to break upon his realm. In all haste he summoned his

barons and nobles from far and near. From the Highlands and the Lowlands

they came, from island and mainland flocked the kilted and tartaned

Scotch, but, when all were gathered, they numbered not a third the host

of their foes, and were much more poorly armed. But at their head was

the most expert military chief of that day, since the death of Edward I.

the greatest warrior that Europe knew. Once again was it to be proved

that the general is the soul of his army, and that skill and courage are

a full offset for lack of numbers.



Towards Stirling marched the great English array, confident in their

numbers, proud of their gallant show. Northward they streamed, filling

all the roads, the king, at their head, deeming doubtless that he was on

a holiday excursion, and that behind him came a wind of war that would

blow the Scotch forces into the sea. Around Stirling gathered the army

of the Bruce, marching in haste from hill and dale, coming in to the

stirring peal of the pipes and the old martial airs of the land, until

the plain around the beleaguered town seemed a living sea of men, and

the sunlight burned on endless points of steel.



But Bruce had no thought of awaiting the onset here. He well knew that

he must supply by skill what he lacked in numbers. The English army was

far superior to his, not only in men, but in its great host of cavalry,

which alone equalled his entire force, and in its multitude of archers,

the best bowmen in the world. What he lacked in men and arms he must

make up in brains. With this in view, he led his army from before the

town into a neighboring plain, called the Park, where nature had

provided means of defence of which he might avail himself.



The ground which his army here occupied was hard and dry. That in front

of it, through which Edward's host must pass, was wet and boggy, cut up

with frequent watercourses, and ill-fitted for cavalry. Should the

heavy-armed horsemen succeed in crossing this marshy and broken ground

and reach the firm soil in the Scottish front, they would find

themselves in a worse strait still. For Bruce had his men dig a great

number of holes as deep as a man's knee. These were covered with light

brush, and the turf spread evenly over them, so that the honeycombed

soil looked to the eye like an unbroken field. Elsewhere on the plain he

scattered calthrops--steel spikes--to lame the English horses. Smooth

and promising looked the field, but the English cavalry were likely to

find it a plain of pitfalls and steel points.



While thus defending his front, Bruce had given as skilful heed to the

defence of his flanks. On the left his line reached to the walls of

Stirling. On the right it touched the banks of Bannockburn, a brook that

ran between borders so rocky as to prevent attack from that quarter.

Here, on the 23d of June, 1314, was posted the Scottish army, awaiting

the coming of the foe, the camp-followers, cart-drivers, and other

useless material of the army being sent back behind a hill,--afterwards

known as the gillies' or servants' hill,--that they might be out of the

way. They were to play a part in the coming fray of which Bruce did not

dream.



Thus prepared, Bruce reviewed his force, and addressed them in stirring

words. The battle would be victory or death to him, he said. He hoped it

would be to all. If any among them did not propose to fight to the

bitter end and take victory or death, as God should decree, for his lot,

now was the time to withdraw; all such might leave the field before the

battle began. Not a man left.



Fearing that the English might try to throw a force into Stirling

Castle, the king posted his nephew Randolph with a body of men near St.

Ninian's church. Lord Douglas and Sir Robert Keith were sent to survey

and report upon the English force, which was marching from Falkirk. They

returned with tidings to make any but stout hearts quiver. Such an army

as was coming they had never seen before; it was a beautiful but a

terrible sight, the approach of that mighty host. The whole country, as

far as the eye could see, was crowded with men on horse or on foot.

Never had they beheld such a grand display of standards, banners, and

pennons. So gallant and fearful a show was it all, that the bravest host

in Christendom might well tremble to see King Edward's army marching

upon them. Such was the story told by Douglas, though his was not the

heart to tremble in the telling.



Bruce was soon to see this great array of horse and foot for himself. On

they came, filling the country far and near with their numbers. But

before they had come in view, another sight met the vigilant eyes of the

Scottish king. To the eastward there became visible a body of English

horse, riding at speed, and seeking to reach Stirling from that quarter.

Bruce turned to his nephew, who stood beside him.



"See, Randolph," he said, "there is a rose fallen from your chaplet."



The English had passed the post which Randolph had been set to guard. He

heard the rebuke in silence, rode hastily to the head of his men, and

rushed against the eight hundred English horse with half that number of

footmen. The English turned to charge this daring force. Randolph drew

up his men in close order to receive them. It looked as if the Scotch

would be overwhelmed, and trampled under foot by the powerful foe.



"Randolph is lost!" cried Douglas. "He must have help. Let me go to his

aid."



"Let Randolph redeem his own fault," answered the king, firmly. "I

cannot break the order of battle for his sake."



Douglas looked on, fuming with impatience. The danger seemed more

imminent. The small body of Scotch foot almost vanished from sight in

the cloud of English horsemen. The glittering lances appeared about to

annihilate them.



"So please you," said Douglas, "my heart will not suffer me to stand

idle and see Randolph perish, I must go to his assistance."



The king made no answer. Douglas spurred to the head of his troop, and

rode off at speed. He neared the scene of conflict. Suddenly a change

came. The horsemen appeared confused. Panic seemed to have stricken

their ranks. In a moment away they went, in full flight, many of the

horses with empty saddles, while the gallant troop of Scotch stood

unmoved.



"Halt!" cried Douglas. "Randolph has gained the day. Since we are not

soon enough to help him in the battle, do not let us lessen his glory by

approaching the field." And the noble knight pulled rein and galloped

back, unwilling to rob Randolph of any of the honor of his deed.



The English vanguard was now in sight. From it rode out a number of

knights, eager to see the Scotch array more nearly. King Robert did the

same. He was in armor, but was poorly mounted, riding only a little

pony, with which he moved up and down the front of his army, putting his

men in order. A golden crown worn over his helmet was his sole mark of

distinction. The only weapon he carried was a steel battle-axe. As the

English knights came nearer, he advanced a little to have a closer look

at them.






Here seemed an opportunity for a quick and decisive blow. The Scottish

king was at some distance in front of his men, his rank indicated by his

crown, his horse a poor one, his hand empty of a spear. He might be

ridden down by a sudden onset, victory to the English host be gained by

a single blow, and great glory come to the bold knight that dealt it.



So thought one of the English knights, Sir Henry de Bohun by name.

Putting spurs to his powerful horse, he galloped furiously upon the

king, thinking to bear him easily to the ground. Bruce saw him coming,

but made no movement of flight. He sat his pony warily, waiting the

onset, until Bohun was nearly upon him with his spear. Then a quick

touch to the rein, a sudden movement of the horse, and the lance-point

sped past, missing its mark.



The Scotch army stood in breathless alarm; the English host in equally

breathless expectation; it seemed for the moment as if Robert the Bruce

were lost. But as De Bohun passed him, borne onward by the career of his

steed, King Robert rose in his stirrups, swung his battle-axe in the

air, and brought it down on his adversary's head with so terrible a blow

that the iron helmet cracked as though it were a nutshell, and the

knight fell from his horse, dead before he reached the ground.



King Robert turned and rode back, where he was met by a storm of

reproaches from his nobles, who declared that he had done grave wrong

in exposing himself to such danger, when the safety of the army depended

on him. The king heard their reproaches in silence, his eyes fixed on

the fractured edge of his weapon.



"I have broken my good battle-axe," was his only reply.



This incident ended the day. Night was at hand. Both armies rested on

the field. But at an early hour of the next day, the 24th of June, the

battle began, one of the critical battles of history.



Through the Scottish ranks walked barefooted the abbot of Inchaffray,

exhorting the men to fight their best for freedom. The soldiers kneeled

as he passed.



"They kneel down!" cried King Edward, who saw this. "They are asking

forgiveness!"



"Yes," said a baron beside him, "but they ask it from God, not from us.

These men will conquer, or die upon the field."



The battle began with a flight of English arrows. The archers, drawn up

in close ranks, bent their bows, and poured their steel shafts as

thickly as snow-flakes on the Scotch, many of whom were slain. Something

must be done, and that speedily, or those notable bowmen would end the

battle of themselves. Flesh and blood could not long bear that rain of

cloth-yard shafts, with their points of piercing steel.



But Bruce had prepared for this danger. A body of well-mounted

men-at-arms stood ready, and at the word of command rushed at full

gallop upon the archers, cutting them down to right and left. Having no

weapons but their bows and arrows, the archers broke and fled in utter

confusion, hundreds of them being slain.



This charge of the Scotch cavalry was followed by an advance in force of

the English horsemen, who came forward in such close and serried ranks

and with so vast an array that it looked as if they would overwhelm the

narrow lines before them. But suddenly trouble came upon this mighty

mass of knights and men-at-arms. The seemingly solid earth gave way

under their horses' feet, and down they went into the hidden pits, the

horses hurled headlong, the riders flung helplessly upon the ground,

from which the weight of their armor prevented their rising.



In an instant the Scotch footmen were among them, killing the

defenceless knights, cutting and slashing among the confused mass of

horsemen, breaking their fine display into irretrievable disorder. Bruce

brought up his men in crowding multitudes. Through the English ranks

they glided, stabbing horses, slaying their iron-clad riders, doubly

increasing the confusion of that wild whirl of horsemen, whose trim and

gallant ranks had been thrown into utter disarray.



The English fought as they could, though at serious disadvantage. But

their numbers were so great that they might have crushed the Scotch

under their mere weight but for one of these strange chances on which

the fate of so many battles have depended. As has been said, the Scotch

camp-followers had been sent back behind a hill. But on seeing that

their side seemed likely to win the day, this rabble came suddenly

crowding over the hill, eager for a share in the spoil.



It was a disorderly mob, but to the sorely-pressed English cavalry it

seemed a new army which the Bruce had held in reserve. Suddenly stricken

with panic, the horsemen turned and fled, each man for himself, as fast

as their horses could carry them, the whole army breaking rank and

rushing back in terror over the ground which they had lately traversed

in such splendor of appearance and confidence of soul.



After them came the Scotch, cutting, slashing, killing, paving the earth

with English slain. King Edward put spurs to his horse and fled in all

haste from the fatal field. A gallant knight, Sir Giles de Argentine,

who had won glory in Palestine, kept by him till he was out of the

press. Then he drew rein.



"It is not my custom to fly," he said.



Turning his horse and shouting his war-cry of "Argentine! Argentine!" he

rushed into the densest ranks of the Scotch, and was quickly killed.



Many others of high rank fell, valiantly fighting, men who knew not the

meaning of flight. But the bulk of the army was in hopeless panic,

flying for life, red lines constantly falling before the crimsoned

claymores of the Scotch, until the very streams ran red with blood.



King Edward found war less than ever to his royal taste. He fled to

Stirling Castle and begged admittance.



"I cannot grant it, my liege," answered Mowbray. "My compact with the

Bruce obliges me to surrender the castle to-morrow. If you enter here it

will be to become prisoner to the Scotch."



Edward turned and continued his flight, his route lying through the

Torwood. After him came Lord Douglas, with a body of cavalry, pressing

forward in hot haste. On his way he met a Scotch knight, Sir Lawrence

Abernethy, with twenty horsemen, riding to join Edward's army.



"Edward's army? He has no army," cried Douglas. "The army is a rout.

Edward himself is in flight. I am hot on his track."



"I am with you, then," cried Abernethy, changing sides on the instant,

and joining in pursuit of the king whom he had just before been eager to

serve.



Away went the frightened king. On came the furious pursuers. Not a

moment was given Edward to draw rein or alight. The chase was continued

as far as Dunbar, whose governor, the earl of March, opened his gates to

the flying king, and shut them against his foes. Giving the forlorn

monarch a small fishing-vessel, he set him on the seas for England, a

few distressed attendants alone remaining to him of the splendid army

with which he had marched to the conquest of Scotland.



Thus ended the battle which wrested Scotland from English hands, and

made Robert Bruce king of the whole country. From the state of an exile,

hunted with hounds, he had made himself a monarch, and one who soon gave

the English no little trouble to protect their own borders.