CHAPTER XVIII

THE BATTLE OF ARBROATH, AND OTHER WARLIKE MATTERS

“It was in the year 1445—­that’s not far short o’ four hundred years ago—­ah! tempus fugit, which is a Latin quotation, my girl, from Horace Walpole, I believe, an’ signifies time and tide waits for no man; that’s what they calls a free translation, you must know; well, it was in the winter o’ 1445 that a certain Alexander Ogilvy of Inverquharity was chosen to act as Chief Justiciar in these parts—­I suppose that means a kind of upper bailiff, a sort o’ bo’s’n’s mate, to compare great things with small.  He was set up in place of one o’ the Lindsay family, who, it seems, was rather extravagant, though whether his extravagance lay in wearin’ a beard (for he was called Earl Beardie), or in spendin’ too much cash, I can’t take upon me for to say.  Anyhow, Beardie refused to haul down his colours, so the Ogilvys mustered their men and friends, and the Lindsays did the same, and they went at it, hammer and tongs, and fowt what ye may call the Battle of Arbroath, for it was close to the old town where they fell to.

“It was a most bloody affair.  The two families were connected with many o’ the richest and greatest people in the land, and these went to lend a hand when they beat to quarters, and there was no end o’ barbed horses, as they call them—­which means critters with steel spikes in their noses, I’m told—­and lots of embroidered banners and flags, though I never heard that anyone hoisted the Union Jack; but, however that may be, they fowt like bluejackets, for five hundred men were left dead on the field, an’ among them a lot o’ the great folk.

“But I’m sorry to say that the Ogilvys were licked, though I say it that shouldn’t,” continued the captain, with a sigh, as he relighted his pipe.  “Howsever,

                ‘Never ventur’, never win,
                Blaze away an’ don’t give in,”

as Milton remarks in his preface to the Pilgrim’s Progress.”

“True, captain,” said the lieutenant, “and you know that ’he who fights and runs away, shall live to fight another day’.”  “Leftenant,” said the captain gravely, “your quotation, besides bein’ a kind o’ desecration, is not applicable; ’cause the Ogilvys did not run away.  They fowt on that occasion like born imps, an’ they would ha’ certainly won the day, if they hadn’t been, every man jack of ’em, cut to pieces before the battle was finished.”

“Well said, uncle,” exclaimed Ruby, with a laugh.  “No doubt the Ogilvys would lick the Lindsays now if they had a chance.”

“I believe they would,” said the lieutenant, “for they have become a race of heroes since the great day of the Battle of Arbroath.  No doubt, Miss Gray,” continued the lieutenant, turning to Minnie with an arch smile, “no doubt you have heard of that more recent event, the threatened attack on Arbroath by the French fire-eater, Captain Fall, and the heroic part played on that occasion by an Ogilvy—­an uncle, I am told, of my good friend here?”