THE LAST MAN OF THE SQUARE

Waikato Argus, Volume III, Issue 221, 11 December 1897, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE LAST MAN OF THE SQUARE

Only one man in the square is standing, and that is Gordon, still drumming with his foot and still playing, as if a host of living men wero near him, able to obey his summon*, " Up an' waur them a', Willie. There is something so sublime about him, so much of courago and of grandeur in that loDely living creature standing high above his crowd of dead, that the foe is kept from giving him the final thrust of spear ; and somothing 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 pain to which as yet he has been a stranger. His hands, too, are of tu»t deep colour which comes to men in war from one thing only. Ho pauses and looks at his doublet. Then ho ecos that the snarlet is stained by a liquid which is trickling with a curious pumping motion from a stot above his heart. No need to tell him now that all is over, and that very soon ho must succumb and be as tho*e who are lying silently about him. A spear has struck him in the breast, and the vory lifeblood is streaming from him.

Tho pipes hang loosely in his nerveless hands, and the silence of the field is broken only by the flapping of the wings of tho encircling vultures. In that expressive lull the savage who stepped forward as spokesman before the fight began, and who is yet uninjured, forward for the second time to parley. Gordon hears what he has to He is told that his great bravery has been equal to the courago of oven their reuown6i and warlike tribo ; that by his own hand thoir chief has met his death, and that if ho will como and live amongst them in their loader's stead his lifo will bo spared. They make him understand that his valour has impressed then so much that they nro wishful that ho should dwell and ru.!o amongst them in the place of their late head. Ho waves the spokesman off, answering nothing, and refusing to hear him further, and awaits tho final onrush. But the enemy *are hesitating, wondering what ho will do, knowiag now that he lias got his death wound. He still retains his pipes and clasps them closely to him, and eileutly he stands, the last of the rearguard, heedless of his gaping wound, seeing not and heeding not tho dusky horde that gaze upon him spellbound in their savage admiration. Hero are soldiers lying dead about thom who in fight hive shown themselves the equal of their own most redoubtable warriors. Of those who have fought the fight of men but one is left, and he is as a wounded beast at bay, . . . For a wbilo thoy stare, and ho in silence looks at them, for ho is wondering what his last pibroch shall bo. He sjcs the cloud of vulturo3 near him, and in the distance sights their carrion reinforce ments. Then he calls to mind the tune to which the Highlanders were mustered for tho field of Waterloo. Its appalling significance occurs to him, and he lifts tho mouthpieco and puts it for the last time between his parched lips. There is a sort of sob as the pipes are filled ; the player's fingers tremble for a moment on the doubtful keys, and wild and tuneless notes came from the instrument. But the wildness passes gradually away as the notes settle into " Come to me and I wi'l givo you flesh." Mechanic illy, as in a dream, Gordon turns and throws his left foot forward ; his right follows, and, to the strain 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 mako another circuit. Already his dauntless spirit is departing, and he iH cjming to his meeting with the last great enemy of all. True to the traditions of his fathers and to tho honour of his cor, s, ho meets his end faco to the enemy defiant to the very la<t. He draws himsolf up to his full height, and the effort causes the blood to rain upon tho sodden tartan of the pipes. He takes a long, deep breath, aud for the last time plays tho music of that awful song, drumming with his foot in unison with its wailing.

It wus all over. Clasping the pipes to his reckiii" doublet, he pluses for just an instant more. Then, as his grandsire of the Greys had Fhouted it at Waterloo, he cried, ' Scotland for ever !" and falls pvone upan his face, the battlepipes beneath him.—From a powerfully written story, "The Rallied Square," by Walter Wjod, iu Pearson's Magazine.