Chapter 27
Falkirk - Friday January 17th, 1746
It was midday as the Clan Gregor regiment marched out of the Jacobite encampment at Plean, to the west of Falkirk. Rob, marching alongside Glengyle looked back at their regiment of two hundred men. Glengyle had his pipers playing and leading the march. Ahead was Cameron of Lochiel’s regiment. Beside Glengyle marched Ludovic Cameron of Torcastle, with his officers. They had marched together from Doune.
Rob was looking out for Glencarnaig’s regiment, so far without success. Glengyle’s men had been late arriving at the Plean camp last night. Rob knew that Glencarnaig’s were present in the line of March, but he knew not where. Glencarnaig had returned from England with his company only slightly diminished. However, Glengyle had more than doubled his force by fresh recruiting, despite the defeat in Cowal. He now had more men than Glencarnaig and he was, after all Colonel of the united regiment. It was Glencarnaig’s duty to report to him.
Ahead were the Light Horse of the Prince's army, mainly drawn from the minor lairds of Angus, the Mearns and Buchan. Somewhere, in the distance ahead, through the drizzle of rain, were the battalions of Clan Donald, Keppoch, Clan Ranald and Glengarry. Their massed pipers made a stirring sound even if they could not be seen. Other regiments of the Prince's army, some nine thousand strong, were behind. The sight, despite the bitter cold, inspired Rob.
The advance halted. After some time, Lord George Murray rode up, accompanied by members of the army staff on horseback. Rob listened as Lord George advised that the march would shortly re-commence. It was intended to surprise Hawley and quietness was required. No pipers should play. The staff officers moved off down the column. The advance resumed.
Glengyle reluctantly ordered his piper, James Campbell MacGregor not to play. With the pipes silenced, only the wind continued. It was rising, bringing with it dark thunderclouds. The rain was increasing in intensity.
They advanced through the Torwood, from where Bruce's camp followers had issued more than four centuries before, deciding the outcome of Bannockburn. The woods hid the army from sight by the enemy. Lord George led them west of the heights of Dunipace and still they had surprise on their side. Stealthily they crossed the water of Lairburn. It was waist deep and freezing cold. They crossed the little mound of the Antonine Wall that had once marked the northern-most frontier of Rome.
They mounted the slope steadily. The hillside became more broken and rugged as they climbed. Thick tangles of bramble, twisted gorse and whin, hidden gullies, all conspired to trip and confound the advancing force. Ever higher they climbed. The wind rose in intensity, driving rain from the west, at their backs. Struggling through bog and thicket, the army approached the summit of Falkirk moor.
Lord George Murray began to deploy his forces on the crest of the hill. Glengyle’s Gregarach halted to the left of the centre next to the Appin Stewarts with the Camerons beyond on the left wing. Only now would Hawley and his staff realise the advantage that the Jacobites had obtained. Rob observed movement of horsemen down the slope towards Falkirk. Somewhere down there Hawley’s army was being deployed with the utmost speed. Lord George had achieved a significant advantage, Rob thought, the Jacobites had the height and the enemy would be hampered by the driving storm full in their faces.
There was still no sign of Glencarnaig. “Rob,” his father urged. “Go along the line and find Glencarnaig. His place is here in the line, under my command.”
Rob and Calum Og ran quickly behind the front line of the Jacobite army. To their right, in the second line, were the Lowland battalions, of Angus and Buchan, and the Light Horse companies. On they trotted, splashing through the mud, identifying the different formations of the Highland army. Soon they reached the Clan Donald regiments on the right of the front line and there, with Keppoch’s, they found Glencarnaig.
“Glencarnaig,” Rob began. “I have a message from the Colonel, desiring your company to take up its proper place in the line, which was allocated to us by Lord George Murray.”
Glencarnaig answered. “Not so Rob, these men of Clan Gregor achieved the summit of the moor before any other unit. Colonel O’Sullivan agreed that we should remain here, with the honour of the right wing, accompanied by our friends of Keppoch. So here we remain and here you must remain for there is the enemy.”
Indeed through the curtains of driving rain could be seen the advancing mounted regiments of Hawley’s army. Rob realised that there was no time to return to Glengyle. He quickly took his place alongside Glencarnaig’s men. Rob stood with Calum Og on one side and Glencarnaig’s brother, Duncan, on the other. Ahead, he could clearly see the dragoons advancing at a trot towards them. The Clan had sheltered their muskets, nursing them like babies through the advance, so that the charges in their firing pans were protected against the rain.
Rob observed to Duncan, "They have let the dragoons advance well ahead of their infantry. They seek to ride us down and take the glory o't for themselves."
"Aye,” responded Duncan. "We shall drop when they fire, then up and shoot for the horses when they charge. If we reverse them, they will ride down upon their own infantry"
The dragoons continued to climb the hill. Almost 800 horsemen faced the regiments of Clan Donald with the Glencarnaig’s Gregarach.
Finally the dragoons began their charge. They fired their horse pistols from too great a range. The rain caused many to misfire and most of the balls whistled harmlessly overhead. Rob had instinctively ducked, but just as quickly he rose up and levelled his musket. He quickly glanced along the line. None of his immediate neighbours appeared to have been hit. The dragoons were barely ten yards away. Their own volley began to crash out like thunder. Rob fired. Ahead, a dragoon, with his sword levelled, crashed to the ground. The trooper landed on his back, no more than a yard ahead. Rob slashed with his broadsword. That one would play no more part in the fight. The dragoon next to him had remained in his saddle. He crashed into the line between Rob and Duncan with his sword raised high. Rob, holding his dirk in his left hand and protruding nine clear inches clear of the target on his left arm, swung round and hamstrung the horse. The dragoon came down. Calum Og dirked him unceremoniously. Rob could see no more threat in front. All around were unhorsed dragoons being clubbed and stabbed. Downed horses struggled to rise. Duncan dealt with a thrashing charger, whose iron-shod feet had cleared a space around itself.
Rob looked to his front. The remaining dragoons, though still many in number, were milling around on the moor in front of the Jacobite army. They seemed unwilling to attack again. Dead and dying dragoons and their horses lay all across the front. Many of the survivors turned and galloped off down the slope, not a few coming to grief in pot holes and rabbit burrows. Others rode straight through the ranks of the advancing infantry, tearing huge gaps in the lines as they did so.
Within minutes it was all over. There was a clear view in front of Rob, limited only by the afternoon gloom and driving rain and mist. "Stand." the command rang out. They, reluctantly, stood their ground. Beside them the men of Clan Donald resumed their formation. They each retrieved their firearms and reloaded as best they could. Ahead they could vaguely see through the rain a battalion of infantry drawn up and on its left a militia formation.
Rob raised his sword and called out, "that is the Glasgow militia ahead. I see their standard." Sure enough, they could see the standard raised, horizontal in the stiff wind, despite the driving rain. Glencarnaig drew in his breath and raised himself to his full height. "This is intolerable. Why is there no command to charge. We suffered a great insult from that city and they compound it by standing here against us." He looked across his front and signalled to Keppoch on the right, pointing to the front. Keppoch waved in response.
"Ard Choille,” the long drawn out battle cry rang from his lips, chorused by the eager men alongside. Glencarnaig’s Gregarach broke into a mad dash forward. From the crest of the hill they raced down the slope. Keppoch and the remainder of Clan Donald follo
wed them. Rob had only eyes for his front.
"Ard Choille,” their slogan rang, as Rob dashed on with the Clan. Just a few yards now, they stopped to fire their pistols, throwing them into the wavering ranks ahead. Now, broadsword raised, Rob was on them. Slash and up, defend, cut, parry and thrust and the man was down. Up and slash to the left, back in a loop, the sword twisted in his hand as he slashed to the right. It bit into bone as it came down. Withdraw and thrust again. Rob met a determined assault from a militia lieutenant. Rob parried, again and again. The lieutenant slipped. Rob slashed and thrust. His opponent went down. Rob was through the enemy line. All around, the line had dissolved into knots of struggling men. The struggle was one-sided, for many of the militiamen were running away.
Rob, with Glencarnaig and his men ran on. Their pace outstripped the throng of fleeing artisans and traders of the Glasgow militia. Slash, cut, kill. Rob had a red film in front of his eyes. Man after man was hacked down in flight.
All around Rob, although he could not see the full picture, the Clan Donald regiments treated the battalions facing them in the same way. Wolfe's 8th regiment of foot and Cholmondeley's 34th regiment dissolved into a mass of fleeing men. In the second line of the left wing of Hawley’s army, Blakeney's 27th and Munro's 37th regiments, with their formations broken by the rout ahead, turned and ran.
Madly dashing down hill, Rob ran in the forefront of the Jacobite right wing. He reached Hawley’s camp at Falkirk. All around him, men of Clan Gregor and Clan Donald rushed in, screaming their slogans. Rear echelon troops and camp followers took to their heels. Tents, supply wagons and command headquarters were looted, smashed and set ablaze. Cannon and ammunition stores were captured.
Finally, Glencarnaig’s piper sounded the recall. They were stood panting and dishevelled in the wreck of the Hanoverian camp. Darkness was falling but there appeared to have been no losses and only minor injuries among Glencarnaig’s men. A messenger from Lord George commanded their immediate return to the army line. Rob told Glencarnaig that he would return to his father.
Rob reported back to Glengyle, who had suffered some casualties, against the Hanoverian right wing. Lochiel and Lovat’s in particular, had lost men in attempting to cross the shallow ravine in front of their positions and had been forced back towards the Jacobite second line. The Hanoverian regiments of Colonel Ligonier and Price opposite them had not broken. They had retreated in good order. Their musketry, though badly affected by the rain, had inflicted some losses on the Highland army.
Around the field the wounded were being tended. The dead were stripped and buried. Still the rain teemed down in the biting wind. Lord George and the Duke of Perth eventually succeeded in restoring the army to order.
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