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Thirty
yards or so before the thicket woodland, Montrose had had his men
dig the first and principal trench, a very rough ditch and rampart
amongst tree-roots and stones, with the soil piled into a parapet
riverwards. This now proved to be an enormous asset, against which
the enemy flung wave after wave of men, between musket volleys,
without success, losing large numbers. But the royalists were now
running short of powder and although Madderty's bowmen on the right
supported them wonderfully, with a vicious hail of shafts in flank,
when the powder ran out the trench had to be abandoned, since it
then became a death-trap for men fighting only with sword and dirk.

With
the first of the attackers actually penetrating the skirts of
woodland, and the second wave leaving the waterside more or
less unmolested, Montrose recognised that drastic action was
necessary if all was not to be lost. He ordered O'Cahan and his
Irish and Islesmen to leave their position by the south wall, where
they had stood more or less inactive, with no real attack developing
from the village, to mount one of their terrifying Gaelic charges,
with cold steel, from the left flank. They were to be replaced at
the dyke by some of Sibbald's Athollmen. And Black Pate was sent
racing, to make a minor cavalry gesture on the right flank, with a
dozen or so horse, in the hope that it would be assumed that
considerably more would in fact be committed. He sent young Johnnie
to Airlie and Nathaniel Gordon sternly forbidding them and
their fifty mounted men to move from the ridge meantime.

O'Cahan's
charge was magnificent. One hundred and twenty strong, his company
leapt in sword-slashing, yelling fury, shouting their Celtic
slogans, bounding slantwise across the scrub-dotted slope above the
river, sweeping the advancing Covenant infantry aside like
chaff. Montrose had given Pate his trumpeter, and now, with much
blowing and to-do, horsemen dashed into action on the right,
supported by a lesser but noisy charge of about fifty of Madderty's
Drummonds. As the advancing enemy faltered, Montrose ordered a
general advance, ridiculous in fact as this might be.

It
turned the tide of this attack, at least. The already wavering ranks
broke and ran, pursued back into soft ground by the shouting if far
less numerous defenders. As ever when a front breaks and bolts back
through a supporting force, chaos ensued.

Montrose
did not rush forward with his centre. As commander, he knew
what he would do were he in Argyll's or the Marischal's position. A
flank attack at this moment, from the village, could change all.
Only some seventy Atholimen held the dyke - although the enemy could
not know that. He hurried to take charge of them.

He
was too late. He had been prepared for a fairly massive infantry
assault, under heavy covering musket-fire, on the narrow front; but
not for another full-scale cavalry attack over the killing-ground
already littered with most of two troops of dead dragoons and their
mounts. But this is what emerged from the cluster of houses,
tight-packed, rank upon rank of horse, pennons fluttering, trumpets
blowing, cheering, a daunting sight for seventy men behind a dyke.

Montrose,
while still running, began to shout, saying to hold their fire
almost until pistol-range. But the Athollmen were not trained
veterans like O'Cahan's kerns, however stalwart. Before their
commander's words were able to have any real effect, they had begun
to shoot, wildly, haphazardly, at long range. They emptied a few
saddles and brought down a few horses - but made no major impact.

Urgently
Montrose turned and waved to his impatient horsemen sitting up there
on the ridge. Nathaniel Gordon's raised hand and ringing cry
answered him, as he dug in his spurs.

Gathering
a few men round him to guard the vital gateway through the
wall, Montrose shouted to the remainder of the Athollmen to retire a
little way, back to the shelter of the tree-trunks, so as to keep
out of pistol-range. Shoot from there.

Then
came confrontation as the cavalry swept up to the very dyke. They
tended to bunch towards the gate, naturally — and it was the
leaders who reached it first. Montrose, using a hastily grabbed
musket now, saw the pale face of William Kerr, Earl of Lothian,
one-time colleague and shot his horse from under him. He saw also
George Keith, the Earl Marischal's brother, go down with a ball
smashing his forehead in bloody horror. Other leaders were crushed
against the shut gate itself by the weight of horseflesh behind. The
gate's Umbers splintered and crashed. But there was no pouring
through. The fallen men and horses piled up, to form their own
limb-lashing barrier. Some behind did manage to clamber over - and
were promptly shot. The gateway held.

All
along the wall horsemen were rearing up, ranging back and forth
unable to leap it, cursing, firing their pistols, being crushed
against the stones by the press coming on. But it was only a
drystone dyke, and already men dismounted, deliberately or
otherwise, were pulling, clawing, at the stones. By keeping below
the level of the wallhead, raising their arms to it, these could not
be shot - even though they might be trampled down by their own
colleagues. It was only a question of time, brief time, before
there would be gaps for a breakthrough.

Then,
with ringing cries, the royalist horse thundered down on the rear
flank of the Covenant cavalry. Fifty upon
500
is
poor odds; but a downward slope, impetus, an attack to the rear,
plus sheer desperation, make potent allies. They created major
havoc. Montrose caught just a glimpse of his son John charging down
just behind Nathaniel Gordon and Sir Thomas Ogilvy - and cursed
himself for failing to command the boy otherwise.

Now
there was complete confusion on both fronts, men fighting everywhere
at close quarters, with little that even the best leadership could
do to regulate affairs. Another squadron of Covenant dragoons thrown
in at this juncture could have changed the entire scene - but
strangely enough was not forthcoming. What did happen was that
Magnus O'Cahan and his wild men came storming back, warned by the
trumpeting with which the enemy horse had heralded their charge.
Just as portions of the wall fell his Gaels with their dripping
swords hurled themselves upon the first through the gaps, crouching,
to slit the horses' bellies with their dirks, blocking the entries
again, even clambering over to launch themselves from the wall top,
crazed with the blood-lust.

It
was just too much for the now leaderless dragoons. They broke right
and left, and streamed off, pursued by the yelling Irish and
Islesmen. Both Covenant attacks had failed.

Montrose
shouted for his trumpeter to sound the recall.

He
was stooping over the fallen George Keith when Johnnie rode up,
flushed, eyes alight, sword in slender hand - but, his father was
thankful to see, unblooded sword. He gabbled excited words, and
Montrose forbore criticism. Then the boy looked down at Keith, and
his flush faded. He put his hand to his mouth.

'What
now?' Airlie demanded. "Will they attack again? They have the
men ...'

'I
think not,' the Graham answered. 'The sun has set. It is near dusk
already. Dark within the hour. They could not mount another attack
in time. No, they will wait until morning, I believe And by
morning, God willing, we shall not be here!'

'Ha
...
!'

'Colonel
Sibbald - the trumpeter, under a white flag. To the Earl Marischal -
not to Argyll. I will not have dealings with the Campbell. Tell the
Marischal that he may remove his wounded. Tell him also, with my
regrets, that his brother is dead. Pate - see you to the wounded -
all wounded. And put those screaming horses out of their pain . ..'

'Permission,
my lord Marquis, for my men to collect powder from the dead enemy,'
Colonel O'Cahan came to enquire, panting. 'We have scarce a
snuffboxful left between us.'

To
be sure, my friend. I think you can do so unassailed, now. And -
Colonel, you and yours played a hero's part this day. I shall see
that the King hears of it. And recommend that His Grace bestows the
accolade of knighthood upon a most valiant soldier.'

The
dark Irishman smiled, and bowed. 'A man does what comes naturally,
in such pass,' he said lightly. 'But - my thanks. Did I hear your
lordship say that we are to be out of this? With the dark?'

'You
did. Six hundred cannot fight six thousand for over-long. And when
Argyll's artillery comes up, we are lost. On this island in the
marsh. We shall slip away under cover of night, secretly. The old
man in the castle, Seton, says that there is a way through the bog.
To the north-east. A causeway of a sort, between the loch-head
and the Tifty Burn. Just passable for horses, in single-file. He
will lead us. I trust him - for he desires only to be quit of us. We
shall leave camp-fires burning here, where they may be seen. And
steal out when the men have rested and eaten, horses led. Now -go
gather your powder...'

Four
hours later, after replenishing the fires, the royalist army snaked
away in utter silence from Fyvie, its castle and its ridge - and
found none to interfere with this quiet going, although all the
slopes to south and west blazed with the lights of the Covenant
host.

The
clash at Fyvie would not rank in any annals as a great battle, nor
yet a victory; but as a military exploit it was one of the most
extraordinary of the troubled century.

27

I
n
the Great Hall of the laroe and ancient castle of
Balvenie,
in Banffshire's Glen Fiddich, a lofty thirty miles west of Fyvie,
Montrose was reluctantly holding a council of war. At least, that is
what he called it, though in fact it was nothing of the sort - for
he himself knew what he intended to do. It was, rather, an adding-up
of accounts, an opportunity for heart-baring - though scarcely
his own - and a test, a test of loyalties, of staying-power, of
determination. And James Graham had put off making it, almost afraid
to do so, until that morning's courier from the South had forced his
hand. His was a sensitive nature not difficult to make afraid -
however little his fears were allowed to show or to dictate his
actions.

In
the flickering light of two great log-fires beneath the pointed
vaulted ceiling, which but emphasised the grey, wet gloom of the
mid-November afternoon, he looked round at the faces of his officers
and companions - so pitifully few of them round that long table
which could have seated five times their number. He was even glad of
his young son's presence there, to help swell the company - to such
ebb had they sunk. Besides Johnnie, Pate of Inchbrakie was there,
and Graham of Gorthie; the Earl of Airlie and his sons Sir Thomas
and Sir David Ogilvy; Colonel Magnus O'Cahan and the Master of
Madderty. That was all, all above the rank of captain, in the King's
army of Scotland. These, and their host, Sir Robert Innes of
Innermarkie and Balvenie, with his son - looking doubtful, as well
they might.

Montrose
cleared his throat. Thin, worn, he still carried his head high, and
his courtesy was consistent. 'So, my friends there you have it,' he
declared, into the argument which had developed. 'Argyll is content
to fight, for this winter season at least, with other weapons than
sword and musket. Weapons more to his own taste, I think! But sharp,
see you sharp.'

The
man is a dastard!' old Airlie growled. 'We all know that. But that
sound men should heed his lying, deceitful words, play his foul game
- this is the crowning shame. Betrayal - it is nothing less! The man
Sibbald I could believe it of - a mercenary, has sword for sale to
the highest bidder. But gentlemen, like Hay and Drummond and Nat
Gordon! To buy their skins at the price of their honour!
Treachery...'