THE LAST MAN OF THE SQUARE

West Coast Times, Issue 10670, 24 December 1897, Page 4

THE LAST MAN OF THE SQUARE

Pearson's Magazine,

Only one man in the square is standing, and that is Gordon, still drumming with his foot and still placing, as if a host oi' living men were near him, able to oboy his Kuinnions, "Up an' waur them a. Willie." There is something so sublime about him, so much of courage and of grandeur in that lonely living creature standing high above his crowd of dead, that the foe is kept from giving him the final thrust of spear ; and something in that screaming of the pipes which makes them, lusting as they are for still more blood, withdraw for many paces, so that they may watch him.

Gordon feels a dimness in his eyes, and is conscious of a faintness and a pain to which as yet ha has bten a stranger. Hi> hands, too, ai eof that deep color which comes to men in war from one thing only. He pauses and looks at his doublet. Then he sees that the scarlet is stained by a liquid which is trickling with a cuiiou* pumping motion from a sjiot above his heart. No need to tell him now that all is over, and that very soon he must succumb and be as those are who are lyin^ silently about him. A spear has struck him in the breast, and the very life-blood is streaming from him.

The pipes hang loosely in his nerveless hands, and the silence of the 'field is bro ken only by the flapping of the wings ot the encircling vultures. In that expressive lull the savage who stepped out as spokesman before the fight began, and who is yet uninjured, comes forward foi the second time to parley. Gordon hears what he has to say. He is told that his* great bravery has been equal to the courage of even their renowned and warlike tribe, that by his own hand their chief ha;met his death, and that if he will coim and live amongst them in their leader's stead his life will be spared. They make him understand that his valor has impressed them so much that they are wishful that he should dwell and rule amongst them in the place of their late head. Ht waves the spokesman off, answering noth ing, and refusing to hear him further, and awaits the final onrush. But the enem^ are hesitating, wondering what he will do. knowing now that he has got his death wound.

He still retains his pipes and clasps them closely to him, and silently hestands, the last of the rearguard, heedles> of his gaping wound, seeing not and heed ing not the dusky horde that gaze upon him spsllbouud in their savage admiration. Here are soldiers lying dead about them who in fight have shown themselves the equals of their own mo3t seasoned warriors. Of those who have fought the fight of men but one is left, and he is a wounded beast at bay.

For awhile they stare, and he in silence looks at them, for he i 3i 3 wondering what his lasi pilbroch shall be. He sees the cloud of vultures near him, and in the distance sights their carrion reinforcements. Then he calls to mind the tune to which the Highlanders were mustered for the field of Waterloo. Its appalling significance occurs to him, and he lifts tlie mouthpiece and puts it, for the last time, between hid parched lips. There is a cort of sob as the pipes are filled ; the player's fingers tremble for a moment on the doubtful keys, and wild and tuneless notes come from the instrument. But the wildness passes gradually away as the notes settle into " Come to me, and I will give you flesh."

Mechanically, as in a dream, Gordon turns and throws his left foot forward ; his right follows, and, to the strains of the pibroch, he is marching round the silent square that he has rallied. At last, still fronting the foe, he totters in his march. His wound has conquered, and he knows that he is overcome and cannot make another circuit. Already his dauntless spirit is departing, and he is coming to his meeting with the last great enemy of all. True to the traditions of his (fathers and the honor of his corps ho meets his end face to the enemy, defiant to the very last. Redraws hnuself.up to hia full height, and the effort causes the blood to rain upon tue sodden tartan of the pipes. He takes a long, deep breath, and for the last time plays the music of that awful song, drumming with this foot in union with its wailing.

It is all over. Clasping the pipes to his reeking doublet, he pauses for just an instant more. Then, as his grandsire of the Greys had shouted it at Waterloo, he cries: " Scotland for ever;" and falls prone upon his face, the battle-pipes be neath him.