Randall Wallace - Braveheart

The English bowmen were about to fire again at the schiltrons when their captain saw the Scottish charge bearing down on them. He shouted for them to redirect their fire, and their hasty volley flew.

Longshanks and his generals were watching from the English command pavilion. They had exulted as the first volley had sliced through the schiltrons; they has seen Wallace lead the counterattack into their charging cavalry; they had looked on anxiously as he met and obliterated their horsemen; but now, as the bolts of the second volley cut into the Scots, and one bolt caught Wallace, the breath caught in their throats. Longshanks grabbed a general by the arm. “We have him!” The king cried out, the watched as far below them, Wallace wobbled on his horse, regained his balance, and kept up the charge. The corps of Scotsmen behind him had been riddled by the volley, but they ran on behind him, surging at the crossbowmen.

“My God, can nothing stop them?” the general said as he felt the king’s hand upon his arm become an angry claw. They watched as the crossbowmen, their weapons virtually useless once fighting became hand to hand, tried to flee as the Scots streamed in around them, led by Wallace, looking invincible, cutting huge vicious arcs with his broadsword.

“Full assault! Hold nothing back!” Longshanks ordered. “But take Wallace alive!”

The English infantry, several thousand strong, had already surged into the battle. The general signaled and Longshanks’s third wave — pike carriers, Welsh bowmen, fresh cavalry — began moving forward.

Wallace with blood flowing from the wound in his side, fought his way into the middle of field, where English infantry were now overrunning the schiltron. He hacked them down left and right, reached the Scottish center and found Hamish bent over another soldier. Wallace jumped for his saddle, bashed away the ax that an English footsoldier was swinging at Hamish’s back, and cut the soldier down.

“Hamish! Ham—“ William shouted. And then Wallace saw that Hamish was holding his father, fallen in battle. For a moment Wallace, like Hamish, was frozen at the sight. They had seen old Campbell fight on through all sorts of wounds, the loss of fingers, a hand, an arm, but now he had a gaping wound across his stomach. He was trying to push his son to make him leave him; he was finished.

Wallace’s arrival and stiffened the clansmen in the schiltron, and Stephen’s reinforcements were running up. The Scots were making a stand. Wallace had but a few seconds; he knelt beside Campbell. “Hamish, the horse!” Together Wallace and Hamish lifted old Campbell onto the saddle of his horse, and Wallace shouted at Hamish, “Get him away! Now. Now!”

Hamish obeyed, jumping onto the horse and galloping back toward the rear.

Wallace snatched up the broadsword from the ground where he had thrown it to help Campbell; he looked about him. All around were fallen Highlanders, men he had fought beside at Stirling, some who had joined him at Lanark. Dead now or dying.

Wallace screamed. No words, just a cry of fury. He held his sword high, and his men rallied.

The two infantries, Scottish and English, slammed together. For a few moments the momentum of battle wobbled like a giddy drunkard with one foot in the air having just stepped from a hot tavern into an icy wind. The English footmen were young, terrified and far from home; and even those who had served in the French campaigns had never seen fighting like this. The Scots had won at Stirling and at York; they were outnumbered now, but they had been outnumbered before; and they were fighting alongside William Wallace. They became the frozen wind, hurling the drunkard back in search of shelter.

“Damn them!” Longshanks screamed. And even as he saw his infantry beaten back, he saw the mists shifting again, drifting to mask the battle before him. This was awful; Longshanks still had the force of numbers; his other corps were still attacking. The last thing he wanted was a gray cloud to cloak the field. He turned to the knight behind him, a nobleman with light cavalry held as a last reserve. “Go,” he ordered.

“Wallace is their heart! Take him!” When the knight hesitated, the king shouted, “See, our reserves are attacking — our archers, fresh infantry! The battle is ours! But Wallace must not escape! All I have promised I will double, just bring him to me!”

The knight spurred his horse forward.

Wallace, through the broken banks of mist, saw them coming. “A charge! Form up! Form up!” he shouted to his men. The Scots pulled up spears and hastily formed another schiltron. The spears bristled out, ready. The English horsemen thundered in. But before the spears impaled the horses, another flight of crossbow bolts cut down half the Scots.

Still Wallace fought back, meeting the English charge. The Scots held their own. The knight who had led the English charge and had already cut his way through several Highlanders tried to override Wallace. Wallace knocked the knight’s lance aside, and though the horse slammed into him, Wallace grabbed the man’s leg and dragged him from the saddle.

The rider rolled to his feet. Wallace struggled up to meet him — and came face to face with Robert the Bruce.

The shock and recognition stunned Wallace. In that moment, when he looked at the Bruce’s guilt-ridden face, he understood everything: the betrayal, the hopelessness of Scotland.

Bruce stared back at Wallace and saw a look of shock and despair that he would never forget, no matter how many lifetimes he might live.

Bruce snatched his sword from the ground, where it had fallen. He feinted; Wallace didn’t respond. Bruce battered at Wallace’s sword as if its use would give him absolution. “Fight me! Fight me!” Robert shouted.

But Wallace could only stagger back. Bruce’s voice grew ragged as he screamed. “Fight me!”

All around, the battle had delayed; the Scots were being slaughtered. Men were streaming in; Wallace would be cut down at any second — but suddenly Stephen came through on Robert’s horse! He hit Robert from behind, knocked him onto his chest, and dragged Wallace onto the horse. He could not pull him onto the saddle without help, and Wallace gave him none. It was as if the knot of hope that held his strength in place had suddenly slipped and left him feeble. Stephen held his limp body with one hand and spurred the horse, half carrying, half dragging Wallace from the field.

Robert the Bruce lifted his face. He saw Wallace escaping. All around him were dying Scots. The Bruce lowered his eyes to the earth, muddy with the blood of his countrymen.

The rays of the dying sun soaked the leaden mists like blood upon tarnished armor as remnants of the defeated army straggled along the roads, moving north, away from Falkirk. William Wallace stumbled blindly forward, supported by Stephen on one side, and trying, in turn, to support Hamish, who carried his huge father like a child within his arms. No one knew how long it had been since the battle ended; it was as if the world had stopped turning then, with the dying doomed to stagger on forever, away from those already dead.

Old Campbell’s eyes came open and rolled up toward Hamish. “Son…..,” he said, “I want to die on the ground.”

They stopped, and William and Stephen tried to help Hamish lower his father to the earth. But as they tilted him to prop him against a fallen tree, old Campbell grabbed at something that started to fall from the wound in his stomach. For so long he had seemed oblivious to pain, but now it scorched his face. Then, s he has always done before, he willed it away. “Whew,” he said. “That’ll clear your head.”

His chin dropped upon his great chest, and he took a huge breath, finding strength from somewhere. His head came up again, and he looked around at each face. “Good-bye, boys,” he said.