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Title: Shoulder to shoulder
A story of the stirring times of old
Author: Gordon Stables
Release date: May 8, 2025 [eBook #76046]
Language: English
Original publication: London: John F. Shaw and Co, 1896
Credits: Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHOULDER TO SHOULDER ***
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Frontispiece: "Hurrah, my lads; remember Egypt!" shouted Sir John
Moore. _p._ 310]
Shoulder
to Shoulder:
A
STORY OF THE STIRRING TIMES OF OLD.
BY
GORDON STABLES, M.D., C.M.
(_Surgeon Royal Navy_),
AUTHOR OF "ON TO THE RESCUE"; "HEARTS OF OAK";
"EXILES OF FORTUNE";
ETC. ETC.
"Be Britain still to Britain true,
Amang oursels united;
For never but by British hands
Maun British wrangs be righted."--BURNS.
NEW EDITION.
_LONDON:_
JOHN F. SHAW AND CO.,
48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.
_COPYRIGHT BOOKS UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME._
THE CRUISE OF THE ARCTIC FOX DR. GORDON STABLES.
CLEARED FOR ACTION W. B. ALLEN.
EXILES OF FORTUNE DR. GORDON STABLES.
A REAL HERO G. STEBBING.
A TANGLED WEB E. S. HOLT.
BEATING THE RECORD G. STEBBING.
THRO' UNKNOWN WAYS L. E. GUERNSEY.
IN SHIPS OF STEEL DR. GORDON STABLES.
IN CLOISTER AND COURT E. EVERETT-GREEN.
THE UGLY DUCKLING HANS ANDERSEN.
ODEYNE'S MARRIAGE E. EVERETT-GREEN.
ENGLAND'S HERO PRINCE DR. GORDON STABLES.
ANDERSEN'S FAIRY TALES H. C. ANDERSEN.
FACING FEARFUL ODDS DR. GORDON STABLES.
SHOULDER TO SHOULDER DR. GORDON STABLES.
EDGAR NELTHORPE ANDREW REED.
WINNING AN EMPIRE G. STEBBING.
HONOUR NOT HONOURS DR. GORDON STABLES.
IDA VANE ANDREW REED.
GRAHAM'S VICTORY G. STEBBING.
THE END CROWNS ALL EMMA MARSHALL.
HER HUSBAND'S HOME E. EVERETT-GREEN.
FOSTER SISTERS L. E. GUERNSEY.
DOROTHY'S STORY L. T. MEADE.
A TRUE GENTLEWOMAN EMMA MARSHALL.
BEL MARJORY L. T. MEADE.
WINNING GOLDEN SPURS H. M. MILLER.
ON TO THE RESCUE DR. GORDON STABLES.
DASHING DAYS OF OLD DR. GORDON STABLES.
TWO SAILOR LADS DR. GORDON STABLES.
IN SEARCH OF FORTUNE DR. GORDON STABLES.
ENGLAND, HOME, AND BEAUTY DR. GORDON STABLES.
HEARTS OF OAK DR. GORDON STABLES.
OLD ENGLAND ON THE SEA DR. GORDON STABLES.
LONDON: JOHN F. SHAW & CO.,
48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.
CONTENTS.
Book I
_IN THE HIGHLANDS A HUNDRED YEARS AGO._
CHAPTER
I. AULD-DA
II. MY HERO--BONNIE PRINCE CHARLIE
III. THE FIRST ACT IN A TRAGEDY--A WILD AND LAWLESS MAN--MUIRACHIE
THE DWARF
IV. THE DUKE AT FONTENOY--CULLODEN MOOR--THE CAVE--A BRAVE HIGHLAND
LASSIE--A RACE FOR LIFE--"TO HORSE! TO HORSE!"
V. ROYALS TO THE RESCUE--THAT FAITHFUL DWARF--HAND TO HAND WITH DIRK
AND CLAYMORE--"THE RED-COATS ARE COMING!"
VI. A HIGHLAND SCHOOL A HUNDRED YEARS AGO
VII. HARD TIMES FOR A TEACHER.--THE TAWSE--LITTLE RACHEL--A DROLL
ADVENTURE--MY GRANDFATHER STUCK FAST IN THE CHIMNEY
VIII. THE CONSPIRATORS--A DEED OF DARKNESS--A FEAST TO
FOLLOW--STRANGE SCHOOL-CUSTOMS--A FIGHT IN THE FOREST--LAST DAYS AT
SCHOOL
IX. LEAVING HOME--A HUMBLE TRADE--"I'LL NOT SERVE UNDER A FRASER OR
LOVAT: I AM A ROBERTSON AND A LOYALIST"
X. THE KING'S SHILLING--IN CORNEY'S CAVE--"SURRENDER IN THE KING'S
NAME!"--CAPTURE AND ESCAPE
XI. SWORN TO SHOOT AT SIGHT--AN ADVENTURE ON THE ROAD--"PLEASE, SIR,
ARE YOU THE COLONEL?"--"WE'LL CALL YOU JOHN"
Book II.
_OFF TO JOIN HIS REGIMENT._
I. FIRST MONTHS OF SOLDIER-LIFE--THE PLEASURE OF DRILL--A PASSAGE OF
ARMS--EN ROUTE FOR EDINBURGH CASTLE--AN OLD-TIME TROOPER
II. THE VOYAGE OF THE "VENGEFUL"--TERRIBLE SUFFERINGS AT SEA
III. LIFE AT THE CASTLE--A DANCE ON THE DINNER-TABLE--HOW A QUARREL
WAS SETTLED--A DROLL DUEL AND THE ENDING THEREOF
IV. WHAT A BATTLE SEEMS LIKE TO THE SOLDIER--TERRIBLE TIMES IN
PARIS--CIVIL WAR AND MURDER
V. FIGHTING AT TOULON--TERRIBLE SORTIES--EVACUATION--OFF TO
CORSICA--CAPTURED BY BRIGANDS--CAPTAIN DRAKE'S FIRST FIGHT
VI. MY GRANDFATHER IS PROMOTED--AN UNLUCKY ESCAPADE--SAVED BY A
RIBBON--MASSACRE OF FRENCH NOBLES--NAPOLEON BONAPARTE TO THE FORE
VII. POLICY AND AMBITION OF NAPOLEON--REBELLION IN IRELAND--ATTEMPTS
AT INVASION--THE WHOLE WORLD OF EUROPE IN A BLAZE
VIII. GRANDFATHER GOES ON FURLOUGH--A CHANGE AND MANY A CHANGE--POOR
LITTLE RACHEL--BATTLE OF ALEXANDRIA--THE GALLANT 42ND--NIGHTFALL ON
THE FIELD OF BATTLE
Book III.
_FROM WAR TO GENTLE PEACE._
I. THE DUKE OF KENT AS GRANDFATHER KNEW HIM--DISCIPLINE AND THE LASH
IN THE BRAVE DAYS OF OLD--TONAL'S DILEMMA, AND HOW HE GOT OUT OF IT
II. AWFUL CONDITION OF GIB--GRANDFATHER STABBED--A VENDETTA--THE DUKE
WAS THE BEST-HATED MAN ON THE ROCK
III. MYSTERY--A GRUESOME BOX--A MEETING OF CONSPIRATORS--TERRIBLE
THREATS--THE MUTINY
IV. WARNED BY A DYING SOLDIER--MORE MUTINY--HE FELL FORWARD DEAD--WAR
BREAKS OUT ONCE MORE--NAPOLEON'S PLANS AND MOVEMENTS--MURDER!
V. NAPOLEON'S SCHEME FOR INVADING BRITAIN--A BRIGHT
PROMISE--GRANDFATHER MEETS HIS FATE
VI. AN IRISH FAIR AT DUNDALK--GREAT FUN AND NO END OF FIGHTING--THE
BOMBARDMENT OF COPENHAGEN--GRANDFATHER GETS MARRIED
VII. THE FRENCH IN SPAIN AND PORTUGAL--BRITISH TO THE RESCUE--SIR
ARTHUR--SIR JOHN MOORE--SPLENDID GENERALSHIP OF NAPOLEON
VIII. TREACHERY AND FOOLERY--A RACE FOR LIFE AND A RUN FOR THE
SEA--TOM GRAHAME'S BABY--SORROW, SUFFERING, AND DANGER--IT MUST BE
DEATH OR VICTORY
IX. FIGHTING AGAINST FEARFUL ODDS--DEATH OF MOORE--THE EMBARKATION--A
WIFE AND A NEW SET OF BAGPIPES
X. "I'M A SOLDIER'S WIFE; I'LL SHARE A SOLDIER'S TOILS"--GIRL
HEROINES--STORMING OF BERGEN-OP-ZOOM--STRANGE ADVENTURES--BORN ON A
BATTLEFIELD
XI. ACROSS THE WIDE ATLANTIC--A STRANGE PARADE--THE BAREFOOT
SQUAD--SHIPWRECK--A FEARFUL FIGHT
XII. RED-EYE, THE INDIAN CHIEF--A TERRIBLE ADVENTURE WITH A BEAR--BAD
NEWS!--STOLEN OR KILLED BY INDIANS
XIII. "WHERE IS RED-EYE? I WILL KILL HIM!"--A SOLEMN SCENE--THE
MOONLIT FOREST
XIV. THE FIGHT WITH SAVAGES--A LONE GRAVE IN THE FOREST--RETURN OF
SPRING--NAPOLEON AT ST. HELENA
To
DR. JOHN ROBERTSON
THIS BOOK IS INSCRIBED,
WITH MANY A KINDLY WISH,
BY HIS COUSIN,
THE AUTHOR
Book I.
In the Highlands a Hundred Years Ago.
SHOULDER TO SHOULDER.
Book I.
_IN THE HIGHLANDS A HUNDRED YEARS AGO._
CHAPTER I.
AULD-DA.
Never for a moment--as we sat together in the twilight--could the
dear old man have imagined that, just thirty years after his death,
his grandson would be here, in a wigwam, writing the story of his
romantic life.
That story, let me tell you, is also the story of the old days, when
"Wild war's deadly blast was blowing";
the story of the times when Napoleon was still the world's hero, his
glory putting in the shade even that of Wellington himself, and many
another great and notable general.
Ah, me! how long ago it seems now since I used to lift the "sneck" of
Auld-da's door, and slip quietly in, just as the shades of evening
were deepening into night.
"Is that you, Williamie?" he would say, without turning his head.
"Yes, Auld-da"; and, next moment, I would be sitting on the
"creepie"* by his feet, with my arm leaning on his knee, waiting for
a story.
* Creepie: a low stool.
A little, little boy, they tell me I was then, with pale face and
dark-blue wondering eyes. Not over strong, you may guess, because I
lived in the realms of romance, and because fairy tales--stories of
water-kelpies, that lurk in the darkest pools of forest-shaded
rivers, and eat men's flesh at midnight; stories of brownies and
spunkies, that bob their lights before belated travellers to lure
them far across the moor to the bog, in which they sink and
perish--and all the legends of my native Scottish land were, to me,
as dear as the very air I breathed.
But, pale-faced though I was, and not likely, then, to grow up an
athlete, I was my grandfather's favourite.
In Scotland, far north, although in the sweet summer-time one can see
to read nearly all night long, yet in winter,
".... When the rain rains cauld,
And frost and snow on every hill,"
the days are very short indeed, and gloaming comes on at four in the
afternoon, or even earlier. But, then, there is all the long,
delightful forenights to spend by the cheerful low fires of peat and
wood; so, with games and music, one never does feel weary, and
bed-time comes far, far too soon.
* * * * *
A very humble cottage was Auld-da's--only a but and a ben, with
attics--but it was sufficient for all his needs; and his little
garden, where, in the soft, sweet summer time, old-fashioned flowers
grew in banks, where the honeysuckle twined over the hedge, and the
roses trailed above the porch, was pleasant indeed.
A better or a bigger house than this might have been his, had he
cared for it, but he dearly loved the children, as he called my
brothers and sisters, and liked to be near us all.
Very old he was, as I remember him. Probably bordering upon eighty.
But he bore his years well, though winter's snows had whitened his
hair and furrowed his war-bronzed face.
When not working in his garden, he was ever, ever reading, and,
strange to say, with the exception of the weekly paper, his books
were only two. One was the Bible, which, every year of his life, he
read from beginning to end, always, he used to tell us, discovering
some new truth or truths in it; the other, a very large, well-thumbed
volume, called _Looking unto Jesus_.
But at eventide, when
"The day was done, and the darkness
Fell from the wings of night,
As a feather is wafted downwards
From an eagle in its flight,"
then my aunt, who kept house for her father, took the books away, and
left him for a while to sit in his easy-chair and look at the fire.
And this was my hour--"the children's hour," as Longfellow so
prettily calls it.
It is pleasant to sit and look at a fire on a low hearth, just
between the dark and the daylight, and, child though I was, I knew,
as if by instinct, that scenes in his past life were rising up before
him in the peat fire's fitful glow.
"Tell me a story."
"Tell you a story, Williamie, laddie? Was that it?"
He bends down to move a log, and a merrier light bursts up through
the curling smoke, and throws the room behind us into darker gloom.
"Yes, auld-da, and mind it must be all true."
"Tell me," I would say if he paused to consider. "Did you ever kill
a man?"
This was a blood-thirsty query to put, but I think it comes natural
to all little boys to revel in thoughts of gore.
My question, however, was one that my grandfather could seldom be
prevailed upon to answer directly.
"O, Williamie!" he might begin. "War is a terrible, terrible
thing----"
But that was the very reason I wanted to hear about it.
The old man would often recite to me whole plays, from beginning to
end; for he was possessed of a marvellous memory. But ever my
thoughts would revert to fighting and slaughter by land and by sea;
so, _nolens volens_, he had to return to war.
It was thus, during these delightful twilight hours by the low hearth
in winter, or out in the woods when summer days were fine, that I
learned, bit by bit, the whole story of my grandfather's life, and
that, too, of many and many of his messmates.
"For a boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
* * * * *
Whatever my lot in life, I never could forget that kind Auld-da, who,
next to my parents themselves, was the dearest and best friend I ever
knew. But were I inclined to forget those old days I could not, just
for one reason which may seem strange to many. There grows, then, in
my orchard an old apple-tree--long may it flourish--which every year
is laden with fruit. The apples are a species of codlin, somewhat
pear-shaped but raised in ridges, very white on one side, very rosy
on the other, and the scent is like that of no other in all my place.
Well, I never pass that tree when autumn winds are bringing down the
nearly-ripe fruit, without my thoughts reverting to the days o' auld
lang syne.
That was the apple, laden with which, Auld-da used to return from the
city of Aberdeen, every quarter day.
These were red-letter days to my sister Leonora and me, for the old
Highland soldier, my grandfather, would be up betimes, and after an
early breakfast, would start alone for the distant city of Aberdeen,
to draw his half-pay, or retiring allowance. There were coaches
running on the road, grand old-fashioned four-in-hands, that could
take one into town very quickly. But these the sturdy veteran
despised. Many a weary march he had made in his soldier days; he was
not going to fail now.
So, wet day or dry day, in sunshine, sleet or snow, away he would
trudge. A stick he carried, but it was but to twirl in his hand, and
I never saw it touch the ground.
How eagerly Sissie and I used to watch for his home-returning--not,
mind you, reader, for the sake of the apples and nuts, not for the
sake of the prospective and certain half-crown each, that he always
gave us, but for sake of the dear old man himself. Sometimes we
would see him, in the winter-time, when a whole mile off, a little
black dot, which by-and-by became a man walking sturdily towards us,
between the great white banks left by the snow-plough. Then how
madly we would rush to meet him and lead him home and into my
mother's house, where dinner was waiting, and where he would spend
the evening up to nearly the midnight hour.
Auld-da preached me many a sermon in the long forenights. I think I
have never quite forgotten them. They were spoken so earnestly and
with such an air of truth and experience. And the burden of almost
every such discourse was love and trust and hope in the goodness of a
Heavenly Father, and in Him who died.
I must not give you the impression, however, that Auld-da was a
solemn man--by no means, only in his thinking, philosophising moods.
Out of doors he was always as merry as merry could be. He would
often visit the servants working in the fields, especially in the
harvest, and the droll old stories he told them kept all hands
laughing continuously.
In the hey-day of his manhood he had been--like all true soldiers of
those good old times--a splendid swordsman. His claymore and pike
were as sharp as razors. With that claymore he could have cut a
horse's head off with one blow, or broken the bayonet from the musket
of a charging enemy, and slain him where he stood.
One piece of clever swordsmanship in my grandfather's younger days,
unknown now, I believe, was as follows: The performer, who had to be
extra expert, stood facing the edge of an open door, and bringing his
face or nose within two inches--the sword's breadth--of the
door-edge, cause the claymore to describe circles without touching
either door or nose. The sword's edge being very keen, this was a
trick that required a steady hand, a steady head, courage, and a
supple wrist. If anyone who reads this would like to try the trick,
I advise him to practise with a paper-cutter in the first off-go.
We have heard of people being born with silver spoons in their
mouths: my grandfather was not, but Highlanders seemed in those days
to be born with swords between their lips. Their performances with
the claymore would have eclipsed those of the Arabs, and they are
perhaps the finest swordsmen in the world.
When out in the harvest-field, it used to give my grand-da great
pleasure to be allowed to put an edge on the men's scythes. The
servants declared that after this they cut like razors, and the
labour was lightened by one half.
But such was my grandfather in his green old age. No Pharisaical
Christian he, but a believer in the truest sense of the word, happy
and contented, ever looking forward with faith and joy to a brighter
world beyond the tomb.
* * * * *
He wore away at last in his 89th year, and I think the last words he
spoke were to me.
I stood by his bedside trying in vain to repress the tears.
I laid my hand gently on his, as it lay cold and white on the
coverlet.
"Do you know me, Auld-da?" I said.
"O, yes," came the answer, faint but clear. "Don't I know my own
laddie! Mercy! Mercy!"
Shortly after this he expired, and my parents led me heart-broken
from the room. Beside the Bass o' Ury--a strange green knoll in the
grave-yard, said by some to have been the burying-place of chiefs of
old--my dear Auld-da lies sleeping, and the river sings his lullaby.
Near him, alas! lie my father and mother too. Is it any wonder that
the place should be sacred to me, or that, slightly altering the
words of Thorn, the Inverurie poet, I should say:
"Move noiseless, gentle Ury, around his lonely bed,
And I'll love the gentle Ury, where'er my footsteps tread
For sooner shall thy fairy wave return from yonder sea,
Than I forget yon lowly grave and a' it hides from me."
CHAPTER II.
MY HERO--BONNIE PRINCE CHARLIE.
There was one subject, and one only, upon which, boy though I was, I
dared to differ from my grandfather. And that related to Bonnie
Prince Charlie and the so-called "rebellion" of 1745.
If it was rebellion for Prince Charles to attempt in fair and honest
fight to win back the throne that belonged of right to the ancient
Stuart line, then was I, at the age of seven, one of the rankest
little rebels that ever waved a wooden sword and cut off the heads of
tansies, imagining every one of them to be a fallen foe.
Nor could you have wondered at it, had you but heard the sweet and
plaintive songs my mother sang,
"As she rocked me in my cradle,
Or crooned* me on her knee--
And I would not sleep, she sang so sweet,
Those dear old songs to me."
* Crooned: sang low lullabies.
It has been said, dear boy and girl readers, that I, the author of
this book, have Jacobite tendencies. This is not the truth. I love
the Queen as only Scotsmen can love her; I have served her loyally,
and would to-morrow, or to-night, spill my last drop of blood
fighting for her and my native land. I love her all the better
because she has some of the old Stuart blood in her veins.
_But_--listen--had I been a man, or even a lad, in the --45, I would
have done as my ancestors, the Gordons, did, side by side with those
of Lord George Gordon Byron--I would have fought till the bitter end
for Bonnie Prince Charlie.
Yes, and I love the Queen as much as I hate and despise the atrocious
memory of ----, but stay! I will not even write his name in the same
sentence as that of her kind Majesty.
The memory, I was going to say, of the "bloody Duke of Cumberland,"
who stained our Highland heather with the blood of old, white-haired
men and helpless babies.
It is told of this fiend, that, while walking across the fatal field
of Culloden after the battle, and accompanied by one of his officers,
a poor Highland soldier sat in the agonies of death against a bank,
looking towards them.
"Shoot me that grinning Scot!" cried the Duke.
The reply of the officer was that of a brave Englishman and a true
soldier.
"Your Grace," he said, "I am your humble servant, but not your
executioner."
The inhuman coward--all cruel men are cowards--then seized a musket
from one of his attendants and, rushing forward, shot the man himself.
* * * * *
One hundred and fifty years have passed and gone since the battle in
which the once bright sun of the Royal Stuarts set behind the red
clouds of battle on Culloden Moor, but the memory of the terrible
atrocities committed by the Duke and his minions dwells in the hearts
of the Highlanders, as if they had been committed but yester e'en.
Tourists to the land of green heath and shaggy wood see or know
little, if anything, of this. The Scots are far too proud to speak
of what their forefathers suffered after the "rebellion," to
strangers or foreigners. But in many a humble cottage home, by
mountain, stream, or sea, those sweet old Jacobite songs are still
sung, and their pathetic music, and no less pathetic words, never
fail to bring the "saut,* saut tear" to the eye of the listener.
* Salt.
And the songs never fail to lead to a story of the terrible times,
told by the low fire of logs and peats that burns upon the hearth;
told, in all probability, by the head of the house to the big-eyed,
eager-faced bairnies that gather round his knee, and drink in every
word. But the ending of the true tale is invariably somewhat as
follows:
"And now, children, let us thank our Heavenly Father that we live in
times of peace, under the reign of a pious Queen, and shall never see
the babe torn from the young mother's arms to be tossed on bayonets,
while she is dragged to death and worse. Come, bring the Book, and
then for bed."
The Scots are of the poetic temperament. This, among those who dwell
amidst the wild mountains, is somewhat imbued with superstition, but
all are musical to the core and from the core. There is just this
difference between the Celt and the Saxon, or purely English--the
latter have no natural love for music until it is taught to them;
even then, seldom indeed it is a sacred fire burning on the heart as
its altar, but your Celt, be he Scotch or Irish, sings without
book-teaching, sings as naturally as does the mavis in the bonnie
woods, or the lintie on the golden furze.
Ah! me, but those old, old songs are plaintive and sorrowful even to
a degree, yet tender and sweet beyond compare. They seem to have
been written with the very heart's blood of the heroes who died for
their native land.
But the fate of Prince Charlie, instead of crushing the patriotism of
his countrymen, only intensified it, and around his memory are woven
many of the sweetest, saddest ballads we possess. Some South Britons
pretend to despise these--Germans or Italians do not--but bide a wee
till war comes, and this country has to bleed and to suffer, and then
even John Bull will know the power that song has, either to cheer the
soldier in his camp, or lead him on to death or victory.
On hearing the soldiers singing in their camp on the night before the
battle of Inkermann, someone feelingly wrote:
"'T was strange in that dark hovel drear,
With war's impending horrors near,
Those homely, doric tones to hear;
Or list the vocal flow
Of sad, but sacred, home-love, blent
With chivalrous and hold intent,
And thoughts on deadly conflict bent,
And battle's wildest throe.
"No recreant will that soldier prove
Within whose valiant breast
The gentle thoughts of woman's love,
With warlike ardour rest."
Well, I am not ashamed to confess that it was the songs sung by
mother, or "crooned," rather than sung, that made a little rebel of
me at seven years of age. But the stories of the awful tragedies and
sufferings of the clans, with many of which I count kinship, had much
to do with it. The story of our Prince and his deeds of valour took
strong hold of an imaginative child.
That sweet old song, "He's owre the hills that I lo'e weel," how well
do I recollect it of my father, as he sang it. Let me give but a
verse or so, it is so expressive of the feeling of those by-gone
warlike days.
[Illustration: HE'S OWRE THE HILLS THAT I LO'E WEEL.]
HE'S OWRE THE HILLS THAT I LO'E WEEL.
DUET.
1st VOICE. With animation.
He s owre the hills that I lo'e weel. He s owre the hills we
2nd VOICE.
daur na name; He's owre the hills a - yont Dumblane, Wha soon will
get his welcome hame. My Fa-ther's gane to fight for Him, My
brith-ers win - na bide at hame, My mith-er greets* and
prays for them, And 'deed she thinks they're no to blame.
He's owre the hills. &c
The whigs may scoff, and the whigs may jeer,
But ah! that love maun be sincere,
Which still keeps true whate'er betide,
And for his sake leaves a' beside.
* Greets--Weeps.
There is something so thoroughly expressive of true patriotism in
those last two lines:
"My mither greets and prays for them,
And 'deed she thinks they're no' to blame."
That Scottish mother is like a Spartan of old. The Spartan handed
her son his large shield before he went to battle. "Go, my son," she
would say, "to battle against the foe. You fight for the ashes of
your fathers, for the temples of your gods. Here is your shield.
Come back with it or on it."
And the Highland mother says, "Here is your sword, my own boy. Never
heed my foolish tears. Go fight for your Prince, and lawful King,
and I will stay at home to pray."
And even the young soldier's sister must speak with a dash of naiveté
and pluck:
"What lads ere did, our laddies will do,
Were I a laddie, I'd follow him too."
* * * * *
But the martial fire and spirit in that true soldier-song:
"Cam' ye by Athol, lad wi' the philabeg,*
Down by the Tummel and banks o' the Garry,
Saw ye the lads, wi' their bonnets and white cockades,
Leaving their mountains to follow Prince Charlie?"
so fired my young blood, as my father sang it, that it took a whole
hour in the field of tansies with my wooden sword to allay my
excitement.
* Kilt.
I followed all the story of our Prince, and the humour of Johnnie
Cope's defeat used to make me chuckle with glee. In my imagination I
could see the wild and impetuous rush of the Highlanders, dashing on
like a mountain torrent that nothing could withstand. Wedge-shaped
was their first formation, firing their pistols but once, then
dashing them at the heads of the foe, as they drew their claymores
and dirks, and charged, while slogan after slogan rent the morning
air. I could see the foe as they backward reeled, dazed and
astonished; I could see the Prince, with his bonnie yellow hair
floating on the breeze, as he led on his fiery soldiers. Then the
flight and the race.
Ah! it was in the race that Johnnie Cope, the general, showed his
skill. He won that, though he couldn't win the fight. He not only
outstripped his pursuers, but took the cake from his own followers.
They literally were his followers now. And the song makes Cope say
of the Highlanders:
"If I'd stayed any longer,
They'd have broken my legs,
So I bade them good-day
In the morning."
But then, my hero's story took the wrong turning. The clansmen
quarrelled among themselves, and many forsook his cause.
Thus--disaster.
A disaster that culminated at Culloden.* In his beautiful
song--wedded to music so charming--the Anglo-Scottish bard, Lord
Byron, speaks of the Gordons, his ancestors, thus:
"Shades of the dead, have I not heard your voices
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?
Surely the soul of some hero rejoices,
And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale.
Round Loch-na-garr, while the stormy mist gathers,
Winter presides in his cold, icy car;
Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers!
They dwell 'mid the tempests of dark Loch-na-garr.
"Ill-starred, though brave, did no vision foreboding
Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?
Ah! were ye then destined to die at Culloden,
Tho' victory crowned not your fall with applause?
Still were ye happy, in death's earthy slumbers;
You rest with your clan in the caves of Brae-mar,
The pibroch resounds to the piper's loud numbers,
Your deeds to the echoes of dark Loch-na-garr."
* To English readers: The "o" is long, as it is in Balmoral and Oban.
But the sorrows of my hero Prince made him all the dearer to me.
I used to cry when my mother sang that touching ballad, "O, wae 's
me!* for Prince Charlie."
* Woe is me!
I could in fancy see the little bird coming to the hall-door, and
singing my Prince's sorrow, and the old man, whose son was slain,
weeping as he listens to that "lilt o' dool and sorrow."
"O! when I heard the wee bird sing,
The tears came dripping rarely,
I took the bonnet aff my head,
For weel I lo'ed Prince Charlie."
And the birdie sings on:
"Dark night came on, the tempest howled
Got o'er the woods and valleys,
And where was't that our Prince lay doon,
Whose home should've been a palace?
"He rolled him in his Highland plaid
That covered him but sparely,
And slept beneath a bush o' broom,
O! wae 's me for Prince Charlie!"
But my mother consoled me when she told me of his wanderings through
the Highland wilds, and that although
"O'er hills that were by right his own,
He roamed a weary stranger;
On every side pressed hard by want,
On every side by danger,"
still he ever found a kindly welcome in the houses, or rather huts,
of the peasantry, who shielded him and bielded him, though thirty
thousand pounds was offered for his head. Then came his romantic
escape and "Flora Macdonald's Lament."
But one winter's evening--I mind it well--while I sat at Auld-da's
fireside, I broached the subject of Prince Charlie for the first
time---and for the last.
He kicked a burning log till the sparks flew up the chimney, and I
could see a red spot burning on his cheek.
But he soon cooled down.
"Ah! dear boy," he said, "never speak of the Pretender to me. Your
father's kin were rebels to a man, but your mother's forbears, the
Robertsons of the Braes of R----, were royalists all.
"It was for this very reason that, when compelled to become a
soldier, I joined the 1st Regiment or Royal Scots.
"So old is this regiment, Williamie, that it was called for fun,
'Pontius Pilate's Guards.'
"That regiment was at Culloden, on the right and royal side, and in
it fought your ancestors, boy, and mine. Robertsons even from Struan
itself.
"The Duke of Kent was my colonel. The Duke of Kent was our dear
Queen's father, a daughter of the regiment we well might call her."
* * * * *
I remembered then that once when the Queen was ailing, I had seen the
old man shed tears, and it occurred to me now to put the following
silly question:
"Auld-da, do you love the Queen--much?"
At this moment I think I can see the mild blue eyes he turned upon me.
"Love her, boy? Love my Queen? Don't I pray for her every night?
And I had the high honour of once talking to her when she was little
more than a baby. She a baby--I a simple soldier. Yes,
boy--I--love--the Queen.
"Her father was the means of saving my life," he said, after a pause.
"Tell me that story."
"Not to-night. Some other time.
"But as for your Prince Charlie," he added, giving that log of wood
another kick, "why, that much for him and his cause, which ended even
as that log will end, in smoke and sparks----"
"And in blood," I ventured to put in.
He paid no heed to that remark.
"There's a verse of an old Scotch song," he said, "that goes thus:
"'O, but you've been long o' coming,
Long, long, long o' coming;
O, but you've been long o' coming,
But you're welcome, Royal Charlie.'
"Well, we soldiers of the gallant 1st used to sing that, but we put
the 'royal' in the right place:
"'O, but you've been long in coming,
But you're _royal-welcome_, Charlie.'"
I was silent for a time, now. I was watching the sparks and the
rolling smoke.
But I was just as much a rebel as ever.
"So," I said at last, "my father's clan, the Gordons, fought at
Culloden, and my mother's, the Robertsons, also."
"True, boy, true, and both under a different banner."
"How funny!"
"Ah! laddie, war is a terrible thing, and there was little fun at
Culloden, and less after it.
"And our family on the Braes of R---- would have been killed, and
their houses laid in ashes by the Pretender's flying and vanquished
troops, had not a special Providence seemed to intervene.
"And thereby hangs a tale, dear child."
"A story, Auld-da? A story with fighting in it? O, tell us, tell
us."
"To-morrow, then, boy, to-morrow, if we are both spared."
So I said good-night, and left him dreaming over the fire, thinking
over the earthly past, and the future that, for him, was all beyond
the grave.
CHAPTER III.
THE FIRST ACT IN A TRAGEDY--A WILD AND LAWLESS
MAN--MUIRACHIE THE DWARF.
Next day seemed a long one to me. And school, with its tasks, its
books and its slates and its drawing, was very irksome. As soon,
however, as I got clear out and away, I started to run. For a whole
mile I went on at a jog-trot, and finally plunged into a wood. The
rest of the boys who came my way I had by this time left far behind.
I did not care much for them anyhow; I much preferred to be alone,
because the birds and the beasts, and all kinds of creatures, seemed
to speak to me, and even the wild flowers nodded as I passed; while
the feathery larch-trees and the pines whispered many a secret into
my listening ear.
Besides, these lads were but lowland farmers' sons, and their chief
conversation was about horses and cattle and crops. I rather
glorified in the fact that I hated and despised all such menial ties,
and that I could trace my descent through a long line of men who had
fought in many a blood-stained field, both in their own country and
far abroad.
These boys had not grandfathers who could tell them stories to make
their flesh creep, and their hair stir as if the wind were blowing
through it. Their grandfathers were old, feeble men, who hadn't a
soul among them above a turnip or a leek; who had never been ten
miles, in all their lives, beyond the fields that grew the corn for
their porridge; men who were not only old, but looked old, bent and
grizzled, and who, when you talked to them, put one hand behind an
ear and yelled, "Eh--h? what d' ye say? Canna hear a single wird,"
and then stumped off looking uglier and sourer than ever. But my
Auld-da was a hero and a warrior to boot.
As I trotted home that afternoon, with the stout saugh (willow) wand
I carried, I smote off the head of many a tansy, but I spared the
thistles.
I spared them because their pink or crimson blooms looked so bonnie
against the green of the ferns; because they scented the evening air
with their sweet perfume; because they made beds for the bumble-bees,
but most of all, I spared them because they were the emblems of my
native land--the land I had already learned to love.
I am sure Auld-da liked his "laddie," as he fondly called me, to come
in of an evening and listen to his stories, or even his soliloquies.
It is better even to speak to a boy than talk to a burning peat.
"Finished your dinner already, laddie?"
"Yes, Auld-da. It was only porridge and milk; that soon goes down,
you know.
"Weren't you going to tell me a story, Auld-da?" I said, after a
pause.
"A story! Well, boy, I have nothing but the truth to relate."
Though a Celt of Celts, Auld-da had no superstition. That had been
born in him, no doubt, but contact with a rough world had worn it
away long, long ago. But he had a genuine love for history and for
poetry, and could repeat many of the longest poems of Burns and of
Scott, ay, and even lengthy extracts from Ossian, but this, best in
the Gaelic language.
"Well, Williamie, you know," he began to-night, "when the Pretender
landed----"
"No, no," I cried, "you must begin your story quite like a story, you
know."
"Shall I begin," he said, as he stirred up the fire till our shadows
danced on the opposite wall, "shall I begin with the words, 'Once
upon a time'?"
"O, no, Auld-da! that is only fit for children. I'm nearly a man,
you know. I'm quite seven. But tell me, in the first place, where
our people lived in those old days."
Auld-da looked at me and said:
"I seem to be there now, laddie, high up among the wild hills; far
above are the dark woods, but far above these the mighty mass of bold
Ben Wyvis, that sternly stands with his snow-clad shoulder to the
west. Sailing round and round in the blue silence of the sky, is an
eagle--Jove's own bird, they say--and not a sound save his wild
scream pierces the stillness of the scene."
"A bit of poetry now, Auld-da? I beg."
"Well, well," he says, smiling.
"What lonely magnificence stretches around,
Each sight how sublime, how awful each sound,
All hushed and serene as a region of dreams,
The mountains repose 'midst the roar of the streams."
I am not sure that I can give my grandfather's exact words, but I can
follow the thread of his narrative as if told to me only the day
before yesterday.
"But," he continued, "that which I have tried to describe to you was
the wildest portion of the scenery, and lay far back and above the
bonnie Braes of R----. And what I am about to tell you of happened
many, many years before I was born. My people had not come from
Struan a very long time. The house they occupied then was rather a
pretentious sort of a building, and stood well up on a brae-land, and
not far from a lovely and well-wooded dingle, where in spring and
summer it was a treat to listen to the song of merle and thrush. At
the bottom of this dingle was a fishing-stream, that, as a rule, ran
singing over its pebbly bed to mingle its waters with the river that
should bear it onwards to the sea.
"This river is and was the _Beauly_,* and not far from the bonnie
banks, all among its woods and wilds, stood the castle of the Frasers
of Lovat--_Belladrum_.
* Beauly: pronounce Bewley.
"Simon Fraser, the Lord of Lovat, was a cousin of my father's father,
and it was on his account, I believe, that our people had come from
Struan to settle in his lovely district, on a farm under the rebel
lord.
"The town of Beauly, now so charming and pretty, was then but a
hamlet, and the road leading along the south bank of the bonnie bay
was little more than a bridle-path.
"My father's father, boy, was then a young and stalwart man. He
lived, I may tell you, to the patriarchal age of 101, and was found,
one day, sitting in the forest, his back against a pine-tree, his
snuff-box in his hand--dead."
"Dead, Auld-da?"
"Ay, dead, dear boy. God had taken him. Every forenoon, in summer,
he used to go for a walk into the cool, green depths of the wood, but
that day he was missing, and that is how they found him.
"But, as I say, some years before the war broke out, and the fiery
cross was sent through the glens to call the clans to arms, he was
living a very peaceful life indeed. My father and sisters were but
little tow-headed mites, my grandmother--Heaven rest her soul--was
not very old. But a younger sister lived with them, and it is around
her that this true story centres. Fiona* was her name. Fiona
Stuart, just turned eighteen, with dark-brown eyes and tresses like
the raven. They said she looked like some beautiful Italian girl,
and the blue-eyed maidens of the braes and glens called her Gipsy.
They were jealous of her beauty, as well they might be, for there was
not a lad, far away or near, who did feel happy for all the week, if
he got but a word or a smile from Fiona at the little church on
Sunday.
* Pronounce Feeona
"At this time there was living at the castle a wild young Highlander,
called Raoul McIvor, but usually known as Raoul Dhu, or Black Ronald.
He was a great musician, both on pipes and violin, and this is,
perhaps, the reason that he was so much and so often with Lord Lovat.
Those were the high-drinking days, which I trust will never come
again, and Raoul Dhu was nothing if not a bacchanalian and a
reveller. In this respect he was eminently suitable as a companion
for my grandfather's cousin, the arch-rebel Lovat.
"Raoul was a tall and handsome Highlander, who spent most of his time
on the hills or lakes, shooting or fishing.
"One day he crossed our people's farm, and entered to beg for a glass
of water. By his side was a splendid deerhound, which Fiona bent
down to caress, her beautiful hair flowing over the dog's shoulders
as she did so.
"'If you would care for that dog,' said Raoul, with an affectation of
gallantry, 'you shall have him.'
"The dignity of this Highland maiden was offended. With cheeks on
fire, she stood erect and angry. She looked at him just once,
thanked him with a word, then court'sied and withdrew.
"Just then her brother-in-law entered.
"'What!' he said, 'is it water you are drinking in the house of a
Robertson? Sit down, sir. You're a friend of my kinsman, Lord
Lovat, but were you an enemy, no one leaves my house without bite and
sup.'
"Raoul gladly took a seat, and so agreeable did he prove himself to
be, that when at last Robertson bade him good-bye, it was with an
invitation to return.
"So, laddie, Raoul Dhu came and came again; and, as he also took to
visiting the little church on Sunday, some said he was about to
become a Protestant.
"'Pooh!' said an old man, who was reputed to be gifted with the
second sight; 'Raoul Dhu worships but one saint, and that is St.
Fiona. Yet the sweet bit lassie will never wed a rake like Raoul
Dhu.'
"If she would not, it was no fault of his. But Fiona gave him little
encouragement, indeed.
"Raoul learned the meaning of her indifference one afternoon. The
girl was walking near the edge of the great forest, that stretched
away and away for many a mile towards the wild mountains. She was
alone, if one can be called alone who has a book and a faithful
collie dog.
"Perhaps Fiona did not know, so absorbed was she in her book, how far
she had come. But she was startled at last by the report of a gun
close by her.
"Next moment, a poor, bleeding hare rushed almost into her arms. The
creature was crying in a most human way, as wounded hares do. Fiona
bent over it, but its eyes were already glazing, and the beautiful
creature died in her arms.
"She was still bending over it, and, I believe, shedding tears--her
honest collie doing his best to comfort her--when she heard footsteps
behind her.
"'Fiona!' said a voice she well knew.
"'Raoul Dhu,' she answered, 'was it you who killed this gentle
creature?'
"'Sport, Fiona! Sport, my fair one!'
"There was something in his voice that offended her.
"She stooped once more, just to touch the hare, as if in pity for its
fate, then bowing, was about to go.
"'One moment, Fiona. I would speak with you. I--I--I am a blunt,
outspoken man, Fiona, and, when dealing with men, more fond of giving
blows, I fear, than of making fine speeches. Fiona, I love you, and
there's an end to it. You must marry me.'
"'Ronald McIvor,' she answered, with dignity, 'maidens of my clan are
not accustomed to be dictated to, even by their kinsmen. As to
marrying you, that I would never think of, even if I were free; but I
am not. My heart is not my own to give. It is far, far away with my
soldier boy, with ma ghaol ma chree, my Ian* Robertson. He is now
fighting for his King and country in a foreign countrie.'
* Ian, pronounced Eean.
"Her heart was far away, as she said, and her eyes, also, at that
moment had a far-away look in them. She was gazing southwards and
eastwards, over the mountains, over the sea. But it was not the
landscape she was gazing on. She saw not that, she saw but her
soldier--an officer he was in the bold and gallant 1st. Saw him,
too, as he stood before her on that last sad day when she bade him
adieu.
"Raoul thought she never, looked more beautiful than she did then.
But the love of wild and lawless men like this is like that of the
wild beasts of the jungle, hardly, at times, to be distinguished from
anger and hate.
"'He is a traitor,' he cried; 'a traitor to his lawful King--not your
hateful, cow-lipped George, but a royal Stuart who will soon be here
to claim his own. I hate your Ian, and, if we meet, I will sheath my
dirk in his bosom.'
"'You dare not!'
"She was like a beautiful lioness at bay now.
"'I dare not! What is that, Raoul Dhu dare not?'
"He seized her arm in his passion and fury, so cruelly, too, that she
screamed aloud.
"But help was at hand.
"Neither Fiona nor Raoul Dhu had noticed some creature that had leapt
the green turf forest fence, and was creeping nearer and nearer
through the long strong heather.
"It was a boy, or young man--you scarcely could have told which. A
face wild and uncouth, though not unpleasant, a head all unkempt, a
broad chest and long, long arms, as wiry as the sapling oak.
"He was close behind Raoul when Fiona screamed.
"Next moment he had sprung like a tiger on the strong man's back, and
those sinewy arms of his tightened round his neck and held it as in a
vice. Raoul's face grew almost black. He writhed and strained, and
finally fell to the ground.
"The dwarf, for in height he was but little more, held a little
longer, then slowly relaxed his grip and rose from the ground.
"'O, Muirachie,' cried Fiona, 'you have killed him!'
"'She'll no pe deaded whatefer, Miss Fiona. No, no. When ta dew
falls ta rascal Raoul Dhu no pe deaded. O, no. Come, come!'
"I fear that poor Muirachie's English was not of the purest, but he
did his best, and none can do more.
"A quarter of an hour after this Fiona was safe at home.
"She did not tell the adventure quite as it happened. Well she knew,
that if she had done so, her stalwart brother-in-law would have
followed Raoul and dirked him, even in the drawing-room of his
kinsman, Simon Fraser, of Lovat.
"And now," said Auld-da, "the curtain drops, dear boy, on the first
act of this Highland tragedy. An interval of four-and-twenty hours,
Williamie, must elapse between the first and last acts."
Auld-da was a good disciplinarian, and I knew his word was law, and
so I said, "Good-night!" and went home to bed--to think and dream.
CHAPTER IV.
THE DUKE AT FONTENOY--CULLODEN MOOR--THE CAVE--A
BRAVE HIGHLAND LASSIE--A RACE FOR LIFE--"TO
HORSE! TO HORSE!"
"The wild and lawless times came soon after this, my laddie," said
Auld-da, next evening, when I was once more seated by his knee.
"Plenty of fighting I hope, Auld-da?"
"Alas! yes, fighting and trouble too. But let me tell you. Your
Prince Charlie landed, and the fiery cross was sent through the glens
to assemble the clans near Braemar. How quickly the clans answered
the summons is historical. Would it had only been in a better cause,
but, dear boy, I can see the finger of God in it now; ay, and in all
the trouble that followed."
I sat uneasy on my stool for a moment as Auld-da said this, for I
could not help thinking of all the Bloody Duke's atrocities after the
terrible fight of Culloden, but I did not dare to interrupt the dear
old man.
"With the rebellion itself, boy, I have nothing to do at present,
except in so far as it affected your mother's ancestors and mine.
"Just a word or two, however," he continued, after a thoughtful
pause, "about this Duke of Cumberland. I do not want to defend his
terrible conduct after the victory of Culloden. No Englishman that I
ever yet met has done that, but the Duke has been called a coward
because of his cruelty. He was a brave, dashing man and an able
leader nevertheless, and he was probably the only Saxon who could
have quelled the rebellion.
"Have you heard of the battle of Fontenoy, laddie?"
"Only at school, Auld-da; and at school everything is so dry, you
know."
"True, true, and to have the cane and the 'tawse'* over a poor boy's
head is not the best way to develop his mental powers, or brighten
his memory.
* A leather strap with which the boys were flogged on the hands.
"George II., then, was reigning in 1745, and the Duke of Cumberland
was his son. In the spring of this year Louis XV. collected a great
army of 76,000 in Flanders, under the command of Marshal Saxe, a man
of undoubted military genius. In the early part of May, Saxe laid
siege to Tournay. Now the British were then in alliance with the
Dutch and with the Austrians. But neither came up to the scratch at
the time their men were wanted most. Britain sent nearly 30,000 men
to Europe--fellows who could fight--and among these were the Royal
Scots. The Dutch had promised 50,000 men, and sent 23,000; while the
Austrians only mustered eight or nine squadrons of cavalry, under the
command of Marshal Konigsagg, who wanted everything his own way, and
looked upon our Duke of Cumberland as little more than a boy.
"Prince Waldeck commanded the Dutch, and at his earnest supplication,
Cumberland marched to relieve Tournay.
"The Allies, having made up their minds to do so, ought to have
struck at once, but instead of that they shilly-shallied and
dilly-dallied till Marshal Saxe was prepared and ready for battle.
For this clever general left 5,000 men to continue the blockade of
Tournay, and with 60,000 soldiers marched to near Fontenoy, where he
quietly chose his own battle-field, and as quietly entrenched it, on
the braes that slope upwards from the right banks of the Scheldt. It
was a splendid position. Fontenoy and a valley lay in their front.
Both Fontenoy and the village of Antoine were strongly garrisoned and
fortified, and there were redoubts between the two.
"On the 10th of May, nothing daunted at the terrible obstacles to be
overcome, Cumberland advanced and drove in the French outposts. Then
night fell, and his army lay on their arms till four next morning,
when the battle began in earnest.
"The Duke, in person, led the Hanoverians and British, advancing
against the French left. But now blundering began; for Ingoldsby was
sent to clear a wood, and, mistaking some sharp-shooters who occupied
it for a whole division, retreated.
"Meanwhile the Dutch, under Prince Waldeck, had been sent to attack
the French right, also Fontenoy itself, supported by one of our
Highland regiments. Those Dutch fight well at times. They did not
that day. They proved arrant cowards. The Highlanders positively
prodded them on to fight, but at last they fairly gave way, leaving
this single Scottish regiment to face a hail of shot from the
batteries and 5,000 French foot.
"This regiment had to retreat, or rather they were called upon to
support the Duke, who had dashed on with his brave troops.
"The fighting now, in battery and in redoubt as well as in the open,
was close and awful. The British and Hanoverians lay in heaps, and
the French suffered too.
"But victory seemed in the hands of the Duke, and even Marshal Saxe
thought he had lost the day; till suddenly an officer rode up to him
just as he was about to seek safety in flight.
"'Sir, sir,' he cried, 'the Dutch are not coming up; they are leaving
those brave English and Hanoverians to their fate.'
"'Good! send, then, all the troops from Fontenoy and Antoine to our
assistance, and sad shall the fate of the brave English be.'
"Saxe therefore endeavoured now, with all his troops--notable among
whom was an Irish regiment--who, as Walter Scott says,
"'Move to death with military glee.'
"Yes, to death, but would it not be to victory also? Ay, boy, for
the British and Hanoverians now got massed, and, in this condition,
were attacked by artillery and by foot, in front and on both
flanks--truly a terrible tulzie. How well we fought is a matter of
history, for when obliged to retire at last, the Duke left behind him
4000 British dead and wounded, and 2000 Hanoverians.
"But no prisoners save the wounded fell into the hands of the French,
and never a standard.
"The Duke, in this fearful battle, had been the first to advance, and
he was the last to retreat.
"So you see, boy, the Duke was no coward."
"But what cowards the Dutch were, Auld-da," I replied evasively.
"True, boy, true; and so terribly enraged at them were the British,
that had there not been an enemy coming up behind, they would have
fallen upon them in force, and the strangest battle in history would
have been fought.
"But now, lad, let us return to the Braes of R----, when the fiery
cross was carried through Strathglass and the glens around. Several
families made no response. Among these were our own Robertsons,
despite the fact that Lord Lovat was a cousin.
"Even before this, Raoul Dhu had shown his enmity to our family in
many ways. He had taunted my father's father.
"'Charlie our Prince,' he said one day, 'will soon be landed. Of
course, Robertson, you will be the first to join his standard?'
"'Indeed and indeed, Raoul,' was the bold reply. 'I'll be after
doing nothing of the sort.'
"'What, not follow the fiery cross!'
"'I'll follow no cross save that which our Saviour carried, Raoul.
If the Prince does land, it will only be to bring ruin and bloodshed
on our poor country; to give the eyes of our young men to the ravens,
our women and children to rapine and massacre. No, Raoul, I will not
follow that cross. And I'd tell Lord Lovat that to his face, and the
Chief Lochiel as well. Verily theirs is a losing cause----'
"'Is that why you will not fight, Robertson?'
"'No, Raoul Dhu, the Robertsons never were cowards, but would spend
the last drop of their blood in a cause that was just. If you dare
say the reverse----'
"Robertson drew himself up and fingered his dirk.
"'If I dared?' said Raoul, 'What then?'
"'I'd stretch you dead among the heather.'
"'Ah! my friend, Raoul Dhu takes a lot of frightening, but I speak
for your own sake when I tell you that, if you join not our standard
when it flutters on the Braes of Mar, Heaven help your wife, your
children, and the beautiful Fiona as well. Good-day.'
"One evening, about a month after this, Muirachie the dwarf came
rushing in panting and breathless.
"'O,' he cried in Gaelic, 'I have heard----I----'
"'What is it, Muirachie?'
"'O, the pretty lady, master, I have heard that Raoul Dhu means
mischief.'
"'Let him come, my lad; he'll find the Robertsons can hold their own.'
"But if Raoul meant mischief then, he had no chance to carry it out,
so quickly was he marched off from the glen with Lord Lovat's forces.
"Well, the summer passed away quietly enough, and there were few
young men left about even to till the land or gather in the scanty
harvest.
"Report and rumour reached our family, sometimes of victory to the
rebels, sometimes of defeat, but there was nothing reliable. News
came slowly in those days, boy, and oftentimes the glittering swords
or bayonets of a foe far outstripped the runner.*
* Runner: a message-bearer or postman.
"But although from first to last Robertson felt certain that
Charlie's cause would be defeated, he never attempted to minimise the
danger. Well he knew that a beaten rebel army would do all in their
power to destroy any of the loyalists they came across.
"Robertson would fight to the last, however. When peace returned he
would be safe.
"The farm he held in no way resembled a fort, but, nevertheless, if
strengthened on three sides by ramparts and palisades, a few resolute
men would--Robertson believed--be able to hold it for a day, if not
two, against stragglers from a beaten army.
"Winter came on, and a dreary one it was.
"Robertson determined now to strengthen his place, for rumours were
floating in the air that Prince Charlie was in full retreat back
through Scotland, pursued by the implacable Duke of Cumberland.
"All the men, Williamie, that your ancestor could muster were ten,
including Muirachie, the faithful dwarf.
"But trenches were thrown up, and a strong, loop-holed, wooden fence,
and, on the whole, the farm soon looked quite formidable.
"The men were principally shepherds, but strong, hardy fellows, and
all were accustomed to shoot, for many a hare, and many a deer even,
they had brought down on Lord Lovat's estate.
"No doubt the Prince would make one last stand at Inverness, or near
it, and the man most to be dreaded, if he were not already slain, was
Raoul Dhu. Even Fiona knew this, and shuddered when she thought of
the revenge he might take on her and hers.
"Then came the fearful battle at Culloden Moor, only a few miles from
Inverness.
"Ill news flies apace, and it was speedily known that the clans were
beaten and scattered.
"They ran in all directions, the Prince himself flying from the fatal
field on horseback.
"Then stragglers, war-worn and weary, began to come into Beauly.
"Some passed on up the glens; others stayed in the village to rant,
and revel, and drink.
"It was just a day after the fight that, in the midst of a posse of
these revellers, there appeared a tall, dark man, in tattered dress
which was all blood-stained.
"It was Raoul Dhu, and a dozen hands at least were held out to bid
him welcome.
"He tossed off a bumper of fiery whisky, and, throwing himself into a
chair, assumed a nonchalant air.
"'Yes, my lads,' he said, 'we are beaten, but I will not have it that
we are vanquished. Our cause is not lost. We shall rise again. I
swear it on my dirk.'
"As he spoke he drew the dagger from its scabbard, and kissed its
hilt.
"'Scotland ought to have risen to a man. Why did it not?'
"'Shame on all cowards!' cried the men. 'Where shall we find one?
We will fling him dead into the nearest loch.'
"'Pah!' said Raoul, 'they are too numerous. There is Robertson of
the Braes, not three miles distant.'
"'Ay, ay,' shouted the rebels. 'Robertson! Robertson! let us dig
the fox out, give his house to the flames, and his flesh to the
eagles!'
"'Stay, men, stay. We must not be rash. Rashness lost us many a
fight. Let us wait till night falls. Few of Prince Charlie's brave
fellows have come this way. No red-coats will follow. They will go
Badenoch way, after the main body. And, see here, at Robertson's
farm is one bonnie birdie that I wanted to cage before the --45. She
must be treated kindly, and put under my protection. But when night
falls I am with you.
"'Now, piper, play up, and we shall dance.'
"No one who had seen that Highland reel so mad, so merry, could have
believed that these very men were vanquished soldiers, who might soon
be surrounded by the Duke's troops, and cut to pieces.
"There was a spy among them, though, hidden in a corner--none other
than Muirachie himself. At a time when the revelry was at its
wildest he managed to escape unseen, and hurried away to the Braes.
"On hearing the news that the dwarf brought, Robertson immediately
called in his men, closed his ports, and prepared for action.
"Well he knew he had to play a dangerous and deadly game, for Raoul
Dhu's band of revenge-seeking rebels would doubtless be increased by
scores, when it commenced its march to the Braes.
"His difficulty was to know what to do with his children, his wife,
and sister-in-law. Rather, he told his men, than they should fall
into the power of those drunken and infuriated rebels, he would shoot
them with his own hand.
"'No, no, Mister McRobb'--it was faithful Muirachie who spoke--'it is
mysel' that knows ta place to hide ta poor leddies in whetefer.'
"'Place of concealment? Where? where?'
"'Ta whisky-still down ta glen.'
"'You can guide them there?'
"To pe surely, Mister McRobb. Muirachie can do it.'
"The shades of evening were already falling, and there was no time to
lose. In a few minutes, therefore, Robertson's family had commenced
a perilous descent towards the stream, and soon, guided by Muirachie,
found themselves within a cave. It was so concealed as to render
detection impossible.*
* In the same still, since those days, many and many a gallon of
whisky has been made and smuggled. It is only a few years since it
was discovered and raided by the Excise.
"Muirachie lit a big oil lamp which, at all events, rendered the
dungeon a little less dreadful. Then he hurried away.
"'I must help ta kill ta foe,' he said as he took his leave.
"'Can they possibly hold out till the Royalist soldiers arrive?'
This was the question that Mrs. Robertson anxiously asked her sister
as soon as they were left alone.
"'No,' answered Fiona; 'if we have to await assistance, all will be
lost and your husband slain.'
"'Sister, sister, what shall we do?'
"'Not wait for assistance,' was the calm response, 'but seek it.'
"'What mean you, Fiona?'
"Fiona had hastily proceeded to wrap herself in a Highland
shepherd-tartan plaid. She next put on her head a bonnet of the
shape now called Tam-o'-Shanter, and under this she soon tucked her
bonnie hair. Then she seized a crook that she found in a corner.
"'Sister Mary,' she said resolutely, 'the 1st regiment is with the
Duke. If not already dead, my Ian is there. I am going to seek the
Duke's assistance to save us.'
"'But, girl, girl--
"'Detain me not a moment,' she cried. 'Every minute is precious. A
minute lost may mean a life. Pray for me, Mary; that is all you can
do.'
"She was gone, and poor Mary threw herself on a rude bedstead to weep
and to pray, her children crowding round and trying to console her.
"There was a struggling moon shining through the rifts in the dark
and threatening clouds, and giving now and then a little light, and
the wind moaned drearily among the silver birchen trees hardly yet in
leaf.
"But a louder moan soon fell on Fiona's ear as she staggered down the
dangerous steep. It was the roar of the stream beneath. To her it
was a hopeful sound. Though falling oft, and bruising her tender
limbs, she kept steadily on, and the streamlet guided her to the
river, and in another hour she had passed Beauly on the left, and was
hurrying along the road that leads to Inverness.
"No braver deed was ever done by any girl, I think," continued
Auld-da, "whether Scotch or English. Indeed, I doubt whether an
English girl would have attempted it, or been possessed of the
strength to carry it out.
"Once clear of the town, and a mile or two on the road to Inverness,
a distance of about fourteen miles to the camp, near Culloden, lay
before her, and now the danger and horror began. The night seemed to
grow rather darker. Fiona had the eyes of an eagle as far as sight
was concerned, and she needed these to-night, and ears as well as
eyes. For a time all was silent, and she walked on briskly enough.
Down to the left she could hear the low sob of the sea on the beach,
and she even caught glimpses of it now and then, sleeping quietly
under the stars; to her right were birchen woods, and the night wind
soughed mournfully through their drooping branches, while the stems
of the trees could be seen against the heather, like spirits that
seemed to walk and move as she ran briskly on.
"Now and then an owl flew overhead, and its weird cry was startling
in the extreme.
"More than once she stumbled over guns and belts, and even claymores,
that had been thrown hastily away by the fugitives.
"A sudden thought seemed to strike her, and, bending down, she picked
one of these swords up. If attacked, this Highland maiden meant to
sell her life dearly.
"But what is that dark object by the wayside? She stops to gaze
fearfully towards it. A low groan is borne to her ears, and a voice
saying in piteous tones, 'Water, water, in Heaven's name!'
"There is the sound of a rippling rill near; she hesitates not a
moment, but, doffing her Highland bonnet, turns it outside in and
fills it.
"A ray of moonlight falls upon the form of the wounded soldier who
has crept off the wood to die. He blesses her as he drinks, and
whispers 'Farewell!' But now she hears voices, and, drawing her
plaid close round her, she crouches beneath a tree.
"They were not red-coats, she could see that at a glance, but kilted
rebels, and as soon as they passed, she hurried on once more.
"She sees many a sad sight in the darkling, and meets many men flying
onwards to the west. All these she avoids.
"But a very narrow escape she has from death or worse. She remembers
there is a near cut through a part of the wood that will save her
miles, and, knowing every inch of the country, determines to take it.
"Suddenly, on turning round the corner of a rock, a glare of light
from a camp-fire falls on her face and form. Around this sit or lie
half a score of reckless Highlanders, some with recent cuts upon
their faces that made them hideous to behold.
"'A spy! a spy!' cried one.
[Illustration: "A spy! A spy!" cried one.]
"'Spy or not spy, a right fair maid. By my soul I shall catch her
dead or alive.'
"A pistol shot or two rang out as Fiona dashed back into the darkness
of the wood, and a bullet whizzed closely past her ear.
"For the first time now since she had departed, the danger of her
situation rose up before her mind. What a fearful thing it would be
to fall into the clutches of these reckless and lawless men! Fear
lent speed to her feet, and she flew on, hardly knowing or caring
whither. Her pursuer, coming straight from the firelight, could at
first see but indistinctly; but he soon recovered sight, and ran like
a deer after the figure in front. The wood was now more open, and
this added to the chance of her being caught. It was, indeed, a race
for life.
"And now she sees the wood again but a little way ahead, and
increases her speed. If she can once get into the shade of the
trees, she thinks she will be safe.
"The increase in speed was but a last spurt, however, and now she
feels her strength fast failing her. She stops and presses a hand to
her brow.
"'God give me strength!" she mutters.
Next moment she has turned on her pursuer like a tigress at bay.
"'Stand!' he cries, 'or I'll dirk you.'
"'Come a yard nearer,' she shouts, 'and you are a dead man!'
"But dirk in hand he rushes in.
"The girl's claymore gleams for a moment in the uncertain light; then
comes a dull thud.
"The man falls heavily on his face.
"Killed or wounded she stops not to see, but goes hurrying on, and
next minute she is safe within the shadows of the friendly wood.
"On she walks now, but cautiously, and has the good luck soon to
reach the road once more, only two Scots miles from Inverness.
"But the town she must avoid. There is greater danger there than in
the darkling forest.
"The moon has sunk, but the stars are very bright, for the sky has
cleared. And far in the east and south she espies a glare in the sky.
"'That must be the Duke's camp!' she thinks.
"Joy now takes the place of fear, and she walks bravely on, her head
erect, as becomes a fearless Highland maiden, but her hand upon the
claymore.
"She is near the camp, but still in the darkness, though watch-fires
light the bush around her. Suddenly there is a rattle as of a musket
being brought to the shoulder.
"'Who goes there?"
"'Friend.'
"'The watchword. Speak quickly, or I fire.'
"'I'm a woman!' cried poor Fiona. 'You will not shoot a girl. I
have a message for the Duke."
"'Advance, girl.'
"She drew near to the sentry, who was one of the 1st, or Royal Scots.
Loyal Scots would have been a good name for them in those days as
well as ever since.
"The sentry held up a light.
"'I must do my duty,' he said. 'Hand over that claymore. Why it
drips with gore! Are you a rebel?'
"'I am not; I am a loyal and royal Scot.' But she added, 'I fear I
have slain a rebel.'
"Hearing voices, three figures muffled in cloaks, with swords that
clanked upon the ground, came from a tent and approached the spot.
"'Captain McDonald,' said the sentry, 'this is a young lady who
claims audience with the Duke."
"'The Duke cannot be seen, Miss Stranger,' said the officer, 'but
come to our tent. We would hear your story.'
"A young officer was sitting writing at a rude table in the tent as
the party entered. His back was towards her, but as soon as she
spoke he started to his feet and looked at her.
"'What, Fiona!'
"'It is I, Ian. O, thank Heaven you are safe!'
"The officer had taken the girl in his arms, and was gazing fondly in
her face.
"But now her eyes swam, and all became dark. When she again looked
up, Ian was bending over her as she lay on a plaid.
"'Have I been long ill?'
"'Only a few minutes, Fiona, ma chree.'
"'Then there may still be time to assist my dear brother-in-law, his
wife, and children. But see, Ian, day is already breaking. You must
to horse if precious lives would be saved.'
"And hurriedly now she told her lover and his comrades all the story.
"Not more hurriedly than Captain McDonald gave the orders that
followed.
"'To horse, to horse, immediately, sergeant!' he shouted. 'Thirty
men armed to the teeth. If not here within ten minutes, I will
cleave the last man with my sword!'
"And now, laddie," said Auld-da, pausing, "have you had enough for
to-night?"
"No, no, no," I cried. "Tell me how it ended."
CHAPTER V.
ROYALS TO THE RESCUE--THAT FAITHFUL DWARF--HAND
TO HAND WITH DIRK AND CLAYMORE--"THE
RED-COATS ARE COMING!"
A glimmer of coming daylight was spreading high up in the east, and
one by one the stars were paling before it, as that warlike band
galloped away from the camp: thirty-three in all were they. Good men
and true.
"The largest and strongest horse carried Ian, and behind him sat
Fiona herself, for she was the guide.
"And now, dear boy, we must go back a few hours in this true story,
to see what happened to sturdy Robertson and his faithful men.
"It was nearly twelve o'clock, and the honest farmer was beginning to
think that after all no attack would be made on his little
stronghold, when suddenly Muirachie grasped his master's arm.
"'Hist!' he said in Gaelic, 'they are coming, I can hear their
footsteps.'
"At the same moment the faithful dwarf's collie, Kooran, sprang up
with a growl, and would have given voice had not Muirachie seized her
by the muzzle.
"Next moment, the tramp of armed men could be heard by all.
"'This side, this side,' whispered Robertson. 'Each man to a
loop-hole, but do not fire till I give the order.'
"Raoul Dhu was the first to advance towards the farm.
"'Hullo! fortified, are you?' he muttered, and drew back
"Robertson could have shot him where he stood, but generously
permitted him to retreat.
"'Come forth, you traitor to your lawful King and country,' cried
Raoul now. 'Come forth, I say, and I'll fight you with dirk or
claymore.'
"There was no response from the darkened fort.
"'Shut up your women folks. We don't want to kill females and
children, and we're going to fire. But, Robertson, we'll hang you
and all the traitor hounds you have beside you, and Fiona shall be
mine.'
"Then came a lull for the space of five minutes at least.
"It was the stillness that precedes a storm. A long line of smoke
and fire followed it, but the bullets hardly pierced the palisade.
It was briskly replied to from the forts, and more than one man was
seen to fall.
"Raoul and his men sought shelter now, and for the next half hour an
intermittent fire was kept up from the bush.
"It was not even replied to, for, determined not to waste his
ammunition, Robertson had caused his little force to lie down, and
the bullets pattered harmlessly on the walls behind them.
"In their cave, half down the wooded ravine, Mrs. Robertson heard the
firing, and even the loud, threatening voices of the assailants, but,
woman-like, she could but weep. O, yes, she prayed also, as perhaps
she had never prayed before, and even caused her little ones to kneel
down and add their voices to hers in supplication.
"It seemed, for two long hours, or probably nearer three, that those
prayers had been heard, and that the attack on the farm was
relinquished.
"Then, in the distance, those in the fort heard a murmur of many
voices coming nearer and nearer up the brae.
"They carried torches, too, which they wildly waved aloft. By this
light Robertson noted that Raoul's attacking force was now full fifty
strong.
"The defenders did not wait for the onslaught this time, but poured a
withering fire into the advancing ranks. Volley after volley; but
though many were seen to reel and fall, the rest kept rushing on, the
commander shouting:
"'Ready, lads, with the axes; and failing that, we'll rout them out
with fire and smoke.'
"Soon the hatchets were thundering on the palisade, and those who
wielded them were comparatively safe from the port-hole fire.
"Something must be done, and that at once.
"'Follow me!' cried Robertson.
"The rebels, in the glare of the torchlight, could see nothing of the
raid that your ancestor and his men now made from a door to the east,
and the very closeness of their ranks made Robertson's fire most
deadly. Two volleys were poured in at short range. So short,
indeed, that one bullet probably killed or wounded two men.
"'Now for the claymores!' shouted Robertson.
"The attack followed close on the shout, and men fell before it as if
mowed down by the reaper's scythe.
"They fled now to the adjoining copse, and the defenders poured a
volley after them into the wood.
"But that copse was not to protect them, for somehow a fallen torch
set a light to the undergrowth, and the fire was speedily raging and
licking up everything before it.
"The attacking party was obliged to fly, but, lit up by the glare,
many became an easy prey to the defenders, who were once more behind
the palisade.
"But startling now was the voice that Robertson heard at his elbow.
"'O, mister, mister'--it was the dwarf who spoke-- 'ta leddies, ta
leddies and children!'
"'What! You think the fire will reach them?'
"'To pe surely, mister. They will pe smother in ta cave whatefer.
But Muirachie will save them.'
"He waited no word of command. He simply disappeared.
"But what had now become of the besiegers? Will Raoul was not the
man to be easily discouraged, though his men were worn out, and none
would return. He had, therefore, to lead them back to Beauly, and
there revelling and drinking were resumed. Such was the custom of
the period. Then sleep followed.
"Day had broken and morning well advanced before Raoul Dhu resumed
his attack. It was still more determined than that which had gone
before it, and to the horror of the defenders it was seen that the
rebels had armed themselves with a battering-ram. Moreover, they had
crept up the side of the ravine, and had their instrument planted
almost before Robertson could fire a shot.
"Nothing, it seemed, was able to save them now. Their destruction
was but a matter of time.
"Crash! crash! crash! went the ram, and the palisade flew into
flinders before that iron-shod beam.
"One volley more was fired, then the Robertsons retreated to their
last trench.
"They would die fighting, at all events.
"And the end speedily came, dear boy."
"What, Auld-da," I cried, excitedly, "did Raoul Dhu slay the poor
men?"
"The end came, dear boy, thus," said Auld-da, in his quiet way:
"Raoul Dhu, who seemed to possess a charmed life--for his mother,
they said, had been witched at the time of his birth--dashed though
the breach followed by his men. He seemed surprised to find an inner
trench that had still to be stormed. But with a wild shout the
rebels leapt at it.
"It would be hand to hand now with dirk and claymore, and,
overpowering them by numbers, the enemy would make short work of the
defenders. Even at this awful moment Robertson had time to think of
those he was about to leave behind him.
"'God help my wife and bairns!' he cried, as he drew his dirk.
"There was no more shouting, for, when hand to hand, laddie, men do
not shout. There were sounds, however, in that trench and above it,
that would have made your blood run cold. The clash of steel, the
dull thuds of dirks driven home, short cries and groans, gaspings and
oaths. Oh! war is a terrible thing, my boy.
"But hark! Just at this moment, when all seemed lost, high above the
din of the hand-to-hand conflict rose a soldiers' cheer.
"'The red-coats are coming!' shouted Raoul Dhu. 'Back, men, to the
opening! Quick!'
"The red-coats were coming. Ay, and they had come, and next minute
were pouring in through the opening in the palisade.
"But let us drop the curtain, laddie, over the scene. It is too
dreadful to describe.
"Suffice it to say that no quarter was given. Every rebel inside
that palisade was slain.
"Ian, Fiona's lover, and Raoul Dhu seemed to single each other out,
and fought for many minutes with all the beauty and coolness of
skilled swordsmen; but Ian's sword found flesh at last, and Raoul Dhu
fell to the ground, pierced through the chest.
"With one foot on his foe, and right arm drawn back, Ian was about to
give the _coup de grace_ which Raoul, too proud to sue for mercy,
calmly awaited, when Fiona herself rushed upon the scene, and threw
herself on her lover's breast.
"'No, no, no!' she cried. 'For my sake, kill him not! To slay a
fallen foe were murder. Spare him.'
"'I will,' said Ian, and he sheathed his sword."
"But, Auld-da," I persisted, "the sword was all dripping with blood
and gore, wasn't it?"
"Haven't you had enough of that, laddie?" said Auld-da, smiling.
"I'll tell you no more, because my story is ended. You see, my boy,
God had heard the children's prayers."
"But what became of--of--of everybody, Auld-da?"
"That is soon told. Raoul Dhu was taken prisoner, and, I believe,
afterwards suffered the extreme penalty of the law at Edinburgh.
"When peace was once again restored, Ian was married to Fiona in the
little church adown the glen, for the soldier was now on leave.
"The children grew up; my father was one of them, my Uncle Peter
another.
"The farm, however, was burned, and, sad to say, poor Muirachie lost
his life in attempting to save the cattle.
"Then the Robertsons went higher up, and nearer to the forest.
"It was there that I was born, boy. But I shall tell you no more
to-night. Old men like me tire soon."
And so I left him dozing over the fire.
CHAPTER VI.
A HIGHLAND SCHOOL A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.
I went home the other day.
Home to Scotland, I mean. For though I may be found all winter long
at work here in my wigwam, in one of the sweetest sylvan nooks of
bonnie Berks, "My heart's in the Highlands," as the old song says.
Well, I work here for my boys and my girls, that is, for the
thousands--I think I may say thousands at least--of lads and lasses
who do me the honour of reading my books and stories.
England has endeared itself to me by many a tie of friendship and of
love. But home is home, you know, and so in spring-time, when the
light green tassels droop from the larch-trees, with their tiny
crimson buds, when the mavis makes the woodlands ring with his glad
clear notes, and the linnet sings its own sweet wee love-song among
the banks of golden furze that hug the ground on our Scottish
moorlands--I go home. And I go home again in autumn, when the purple
and crimson of heather and heath cover mountain and brae, and the
whirr of the gorcock is heard on the hills. When streams roll wilder
as they dash onwards to the sea, and solemn pine forests nod dark in
the breeze.
Waxing poetical, I do believe! Well, I am taken that way sometimes.
Anyhow, I went home the other day, and as I sat on a rock high up in
the Deeside Highlands, and gazed around on scenery that, for wild and
lonesome grandeur, is hardly to be surpassed in all broad Scotland, I
do believe that the tears would have dropped from my eyes, had not
the Wizard of the North come to my aid, and bade me declaim as
follows:
I had to stand up to do it, mind you.
"This is my own, my native land.
* * * * *
"O Caledonia! stern and wild,
Meet nurse for a poetic child!
Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
Land of my sires! what mortal hand
Can e'er untie the filial band
That knits me to thy rugged strand?"
"Well," said a voice close behind me, "after that I think you had
better come home and take tea with me."
I was so taken aback, and so shy at being caught rhapsodizing, as one
might call it, that had there been a fox's burrow anywhere near, I
should have dived head first into it.
The speaker was the village minister, a good and clever little man,
who plays and sings, and does any number of nice things.
Of course, I would go and have tea; so down the mountain-side we went
together.
There was nobody else at the minister's house except an old maiden
lady, who spends most of her time in visiting the poor and--gossiping.
I soon found out that she and I were not on the same platform as
regards boys.
"O, I _hate_ boys," she said emphatically.
"Well, _I_ don't," I observed mildly.
"O, but _I do_," she snapped, "and I never see a boy without thinking
of a monkey. Boys are noisy, chattering, howling, whistling, teasing
brats, and never out of wickedness except when asleep. Gentle or
simple, they are all the same at heart, just as full of mischief as
this delicious new-laid egg is full of----"
She cut the top off, viciously too, as if the poor egg had been a boy.
There was a chicken in it!
Well, I couldn't stand it any longer. I just laughed and laughed,
and leant back and laughed, till the minister's chair began to crack.
Yes, and the minister joined me too, right heartily.
But Miss Steelyard pierced me through and through with those
indignant little grey eyes of hers, till I began to think I'd gone
too far.
"Ah! well, Miss Steelyard," I said winningly, "I suppose there are
boys and boys."
"No, I won't admit it," she snapped. "They are all boys, every one
of them--'deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked.'"
Well, I wasn't going to stand that.
"For my own part," I said, "I rather like a boy who has some spirit,
and who even plays tricks. There is never any saying what a bad boy
may turn out. He might stand at the head of a great republic, Miss
Steelyard."
"O, yes," said this lady, witheringly, "or dangle at the end of a
long rope."
As I saw there was no soothing the old maid, I sipped my tea in
silence till the parson changed the subject to trout-fishing.
But I maintain, nevertheless, dear readers, that there are boys and
boys.
To which of these catalogues my grandfather belonged when he was a
boy, it is not for me to say, but for you to judge.
* * * * *
It was about thirty-five years after the terrible events I have tried
to record in last chapter, before my grandfather--plain John
Robertson, but called Ian when his foot was on his native heath--saw
the light of day.
The day before his birth there had been several strange happenings,
all duly related by his mother's nurse, an ancient dame, called
Yonish MacPhee. Her name was not MacPhee--fa--fi--fum, though it
might have been, for Yonish wore a mob-cap, and dreamt dreams and saw
visions.
Come to think of it, I dare say the mob-cap had not much to do either
with the dreams or visions, but it was a weird looking head-dress of
bleached cotton, with flaps all round the front, that sometimes
almost hid her thin yellow face, and sometimes blew right back on her
neck, or stuck straight out like the lugs of an oar-eared rabbit. No
wonder people said she was a witch. Anyhow, the day before his
birth, Yonish saw four magpies sitting all in a row on the limb of a
dead tree. This was a bad omen!
Then about fifty red-deer came out of the forest and ate up about
half an acre of green springing oats. This was good for the deer,
but bad for the farmer. Yonish would have gone to "hush-oo" them
away, but they would have tossed the old lady on their horns, and
played skittles with her.
That day, too, a raven set upon the chimney and croaked, the cream
turned sour, and the nanny-goat let down no milk.
But in spite of all these omens, grandfather was declared to be the
finest child ever seen in the parish, with his father's nose, and the
very blue eyes of his mother. I myself won't take the nose in,
because I have been told that my great grandfather's nose was very
large. He snuffed, and there was no want of accommodation for the
snuff.
That is the mildest way of putting it.
Well, then, my grandfather began to grow up. I have no
authentication of this. I simply reason from analogy. Most boys do
grow, for they have not much else to do or think about.
From swaddling bands to kilts. And having arrived at the latter
stage, he began to take notice of things, putting this and that
together as it were, and drawing his own conclusions.
At seven years of age he was sent to school, and then his mind began
to expand as well as his body. It was a day-school, of course, and
stood about a mile and a half from his father's house.
I dare say it was a very humble sort of an edifice; it was pulled
down long ago. But this school was kept up by the Kirk, and the
curriculum was of no mean order.
It stood a little way off the road, I have been told, and was a long,
low, stone building, thatched with heather, and not unlike a tiny
church, for the door was in the eastern gable, and there were two
windows at each side with real glass in them, each pane being very
green and with a bull's eye in the centre.
Those windows did not draw up nor down; and when the dominie wanted
ventilation he simply opened the door "wide to the wall."
The scholars, as they were called, were about thirty or more, and
came from far and near. They were of both sexes, the girls occupying
one side of the school, the boys the other. Near the far gable, and
close to the fire, there was a kind of little pulpit, and here the
dominie reigned serene, monarch of all he surveyed.
Here too, in a drawer, was the tawse--terrible weapon of punishment,
especially on a cold day when one's hands are blue: flogging, in the
English sense, was never permitted in Scottish schools. The palms or
fingers were warmed with the brutal tawse, and oftentimes boys were
slashed around the bare feet and ankles, and their howls for mercy
would be heart-rending. But mercy was unknown to the souls of those
old-time dominies. My own knowledge of Latin was all flogged into me
with the tawse, and I used to believe the dominie had no soul, only
just a gizzard like a hen or a cock.
When young Ian first went to school, he thought he knew a thing or
two; for he had been taught at home, and could already read the New
Testament and make pot-hooks and figures on a slate. He thought he
knew as much as the teacher, but he was very soon undeceived.
Why, this dominie could not only read Virgil and Horace, but he could
even talk good English. So could the boy Ian.
But Gaelic was always spoken in the play-ground, and English and
Gaelic in school.
On Fridays not a word of Gaelic was allowed to be uttered.
The schoolmaster was said to be an angel out of doors, but a
perfect--well, not an angel--in the school-room.
There was a sturdy independence about Ian, that did not tend to make
the dominie love him. The first day he came, the teacher had him up,
and addressed him in English.
"How old are you?"
"Seven."
"Say seven, sir."
"Seven, sir."
"What is your name?"
"Ian."
"Ian, _Sir_."
"No, Ian Robertson."
"Say, John Robertson."
"Shan't! My name is Ian."
"Well, you'll have a touch of the tawse."
"Does she hurt?"
"'Deed, indeed she does. Now what's your name?"
"Sir John Robertson."
Then the boy's tongue went off at a tangent as it were, and he
rattled off the following gibberish:
"Sir John Robertson is my name
And Scotland is my nation,
Forest Farm's my happy home
And heaven my expectation."
Sir John, as the boys determined to call him, was now permitted to
take his slate and sit down.
But he was very sulky for a time.
Why had he been sent to school? he asked himself.
What was the good of school, anyhow? He would have but little time
now to catch humble-bumble bees, to chase young rabbits, to look for
birds' nests, to fish, and to climb trees.
How beautiful it was out of doors! How sweetly the sun shone in
through the green glass of the windows. He had half a mind to bolt
and run for it. He was sure enough the teacher couldn't catch him.
But--hillo! here was a boy going to get a thrashing. There was some
fun in that. Not for the culprit, however, for he spat in his hands
and pulled down his sleeves when the dominie went for the tawse. But
what a face he made, and how he kicked and jumped and cried when he
got the first tingling "pandé." My little boy grandfather had to
thrust his bonnet into his mouth to prevent himself from laughing
aloud.
But, just as "pandé" number six was descending, the culprit's courage
failed him, and he quickly drew in his hand. Down came the tawse on
the dominie's own leg. All the boys and girls tittered, and the boy
was whacked all the way back to his seat, where he cried the whole
afternoon.
Ian then took to drawing little men and women on his slate. He gave
each a long tail, and then held them up for the other boys to laugh
aloud at. He thus succeeded, beyond even his expectations, in
getting no less than three boys tawsed.
School was fine fun after all.
It was also a treat for young Ian to see how deftly the dominie threw
the tawse. He was a demon bowler. When he noticed a boy, say at the
other end of the school, talking or laughing, he rolled the tawse up
in a ball and sent it whirling towards the urchin with an astonishing
accuracy of aim, the result of long practice. The tawse would alight
in the culprit's lap, and he had to carry it up--it felt like
carrying a snake by the tail--and, presenting it to the pedagogue,
receive his "pandés" and go back to his seat a sadder and a wiser
loon.
These "pandés" reddened all the palms, and sometimes even blistered
the wrist. It was ten times worse for hours to come than the feeling
one experiences after a snow-ball fight.
But young Ian's first day at school came to an end at last.
"School's out!" cried the teacher.
This wasn't very elegant English, but it had a grand effect. Books
and slates and Bibles were bundled away; and a rush was made for the
door. Here a block occurred, of course, but finally all were free to
yelp and yell, and dance and scream, till the rocks re-echoed the
pandemoniacal noise.
But Ian stopped to speak to no one. He didn't like boys over much,
and he hated girls, because they were so silly and couldn't do
anything as it ought to be done.
So my little morsel of a grandfather flew off like a hare to the
hills, his bare legs brushing the heather, and his bonnet under his
arm, because a big boy made a grab at it before he left the
play-ground.
When the children had all gone, the dominie put away the "tawse,"
locked up the school, and retired to the bosom of his family.
CHAPTER VII.
HARD TIMES FOR A TEACHER--THE TAWSE--LITTLE RACHEL--A
DROLL ADVENTURE--MY GRANDFATHER STUCK FAST
IN THE CHIMNEY.
There wasn't much bosom about the dominie's family, for the matter of
that. Only his wife, a great kind-hearted woman, his little daughter
Rachel, and the collie dog.
Dominie Freeschal himself was not much of a man, "judged by points,"
as doggy people say. He lacked size and bone, and he was thin----and
quite out of show-form, so to speak.
He was supposed to be "powerfully learned," however, and powerful
with the tawse. In those good old times some of Solomon's _dicta_
were construed very literally indeed.
"Spare the rod and spoil the child" didn't mean that you were to lock
up the tawse in the desk, and make a pet of the boy.
Quite the reverse.
A "scholar" might consider himself very lucky indeed if he did not
have a sound whacking once in three days. And even the parents
expected that the dominie would do his duty towards his pupils in the
way of flagellation, and do it handsomely too.
"Now, Mister Freeschal," said a father one day, "I'm going to be
after sending my little son to your school, and it's a little
_nickem_ he is whatsoever, so you'll not be letting him over you at
all, for he is entirely over his mother."
"I'll see to it, Sandy," was the dominie's reply; and he did.
Another day, another father came to see the schoolmaster on business.
"I've a complaint to make, Mister Freeschal."
"Well," said Mister Freeschal, "it's myself that is sorry for that
same. What is it, Mister Young?"
"It's that you don't thrash Tonal enough. Now for more 'n two weeks
he hasn't been crying, for his face is as clean at night as in the
morning evermore. I'm indignant, sure, and if you'll not be doing
your duty by the boy, I'll not be after paying you."
And off he went.
That same afternoon, young Tonal was called up and told to spell the
words "believe," "deceive," and "relieve."
In each case poor little Tonal had the misfortune to misplace the "i."
A hush fell over the school as the dominie marched off to the desk
for the tawse, for every one could tell by the swing of his
coat-tails that he meant business.
Young Tonal licked his palms and prepared for the inevitable.
"You're wrong in your orthography" (the dominie put the emphasis on
the "graphy"). "Now I'm not going to _deceive_ your father, nor take
his money for nothing; but I _believe_ I'll _relieve_ my feelings by
whacking you well. Hold out your hand."
And Tonal went home with a dirty wet face that night anyhow. But as
will presently be seen, the dominie had succeeded in stirring the
boy's blood and making a conspirator of him.
There are exceptions to every rule, however, and one day a boy's
mother believed that the dominie had tawsed her lad too much, so she
went to the school to relieve her feelings.
She was no great beauty, certainly, but a plain-faced, fair-haired
woman, with sinews as tough as gun-tackle.
I think the dominie quailed as she entered the school-room.
"And it's you that'll be after beating my boy black and blue, is it,
you miserable oshach?"
She waited for no reply, but just went straight for Mister Freeschal
with a broom-handle, which she carried under her arm; and I'm really
afraid that the boys and girls grinned as the dominie fled round and
round the school, and finally took refuge in the pulpit, or desk.
Mrs. Nairn, for that was the good lady's name, had a visit from the
minister next day, and it is said she received a most severe
heckling, but, nevertheless, the teacher never dared touch that boy
again. Johnnie Nairn became quite a hero, and the other pupils used
to say:
"O, Johnnie, it's me that would like to have such a mother as you've
got."
Sometimes a boy would be "one licking to the good." This happened
when the dominie made a mistake and whacked the wrong youngster.
"Never mind, my lad," the schoolmaster would say; "you're one to the
good. Don't forget to remind me of it next time I'm going to tawse
you."
And the boy never did forget.
The teacher was no great favourite, you may be sure.
I suppose he ruled his wife by psychal force; it certainly could not
have been by physical, for she weighed at least two of him.
There was a long peat-stack that the boys had to pass on their way
from school, and near this Mrs. Freeschal would often be found, and
she had always a kind word and a smile, and sometimes a pea-meal
bannock for the urchins whose faces were all begrimed with tears.
In his daughter, Rachel, the dominie was quite bound up. She was a
little thing of eight, with long fair hair, blue eyes, and brown bare
legs and feet.
She ruled the boys as if she'd been a little queen, and even the
girls had to be sweet to her. Some boys were so much in love with
Rachel that if she gave one a smile and tossed her head defiantly and
imperiously at another, there was sure to be a fight between the
rivals on the way home that evening, resulting in torn kilts and
bleeding noses, and sometimes a black eye.
This black-eye business was serious, because, whenever the dominie
saw a boy so disfigured, he went for the tawse at once, and no
questions were asked or answered. So before two boys began to fight
it was no unusual thing to bargain that there should be "no hitting
in the face."
* * * * *
Now it came to pass that before my little sturdy mite of a
grandfather had been at this seminary quite six months, he had fought
himself half-way up the school, that is, he could thrash about
fifteen boys, and fifteen could thrash him. But he was conquering
one every week at least.
So as he was so brave, and because he used to take his tawsings
manfully and never cry, he began to be looked upon as a kind of hero
in Rachel's eyes.
Rachel's father, when he paid a visit to Beauly, always came back
with a pocketful of brandy-snaps and sugar-bools* for his wee
daughter. Of course she ate most herself, but had always a few to
expend on her boy favourites.
* Sugar-marbles.
The dominie didn't like boys not to cry when tawsed, and used to
devise other modes of punishing them.
One of these was "keeping them in." That is, locking them up for an
hour or two in the schoolroom after hours. There was an awful
legend, too firmly believed in by the boys, that once upon a time a
lad was locked up and forgotten, and how he fell asleep, and the rats
ate two of his toes clean off.
So this mode of punishment was no favourite with the pupils, you may
be sure.
One day Rachel slighted my grandfather--who thought he was madly in
love with her. She put the point of her little tongue out at him and
immediately after smiled most sweetly on a bigger boy, Kenneth McRae.
Of course my grandfather determined to fight Kenneth, but not content
with that, he was so incensed at his heroine that he called her
"little wretch," and she began to cry.
There was a drum-head court-martial at once. It was in vain that my
grandfather pleaded that he meant "little Rache"; he was convicted,
had six pandés on each hand, and was condemned to be kept in that
beautiful spring evening for a whole hour after it was dark.
Rachel cried all that afternoon, and nobody could tell why.
The punishment was more than the boy could bear with anything akin to
equanimity. It was bad enough while the sun still shone, but when
that luminary began to sink, encrimsoning the clouds, and making the
bull's eye in each pane of glass look like a little setting sun
itself, then he began to grow impatient, to say the very least of it.
If the dominie were to release him at once, then there might still be
time to go home by the hill and the forest, because there were many
birds' nests to visit.
I am not holding the prisoner up as a paragon of virtue in the way of
bird-nesting. He did not rob them, simply because it had never
occurred to him that there was any fun in making a collection of
eggs. He had seen one such collection, and also a lot of stuffed
birds at a barber's shop in Beauly, and being at heart a naturalist,
he was much disgusted; the eggs had lost colour, and seemed
dreadfully out of place, and the birds were dusty, their necks and
legs all awry, and a perfectly idiotic stare in their glass eyes.
But I must give my daft morsel of a grandfather his due, and say he
never robbed a nest. He would watch these nests from the very
foundation; watch the strange architecture day after day till they
were lined, and his pleasure at seeing the first bonnie egg was very
real indeed. The birds, he told me, seemed all to know him, and look
upon him as their champion. And so he was. If ever he met a much
bigger boy in the forest, he lured him away in a diplomatic kind of
way which was nearly always successful; if the boy was about his own
size, he ordered him off, or stripped and fought him. So even at
this early age I think my hero was an embryo soldier.
Well, on this particular evening he was sitting on a stool bemoaning
his sad fate, when something like the tapping of a woodpecker fell on
his ear.
He looked quickly up.
There was a face at the window, looking in at him through a hole
which a snow-ball had made last winter.
"Ian!"
"She has come to laugh at me, I suppose," he said to himself.
"Ian!"
It was a still small and pitying voice. Sorrow in it, but no anger.
He went quickly towards the broken pane.
"Ian, I'se sorry for you."
"O, don't say that! I don't mind a tawsing, but kind words would
make me cry. I wouldn't like to cry before you."
"No; you's a brave boy, and never cries. Ian! am I a little wretch?"
"No----o----; you're little Rachel!"
"Ian, put your mouf (mouth) up to the broken hole. Don't be sy
(shy); I'm not going to tiss you. Boys is always sy."
Ian put his mouth up to the hole anyhow, and Rachel popped a
sugar-bool in it, and watched him eat it with quite a womanly
interest. Then she fed him with brandy-snaps, and finished off with
two more bools.
"Now I'se off!" she cried. "I'se going to Beauly to fetch mammy and
daddy home, then you'll be free."
Away she went, and the schoolroom looked darker now and more lonesome
than ever. The sun had set too, leaving only a few red bars of cloud
athwart the forest horizon.
He began pacing up and down like a caged wild beast, But he wasn't
that quite. He felt a hero after the brandy-snaps and sugar-bools,
and Rachel's kindly words.
"I won't stop here," he cried aloud. "There might be ghosts, or
anything."
He gave the door a kick, and, as he did so, discovered that the key
was in it, though on the outside.
Even had he known this before Rachel came to feed him, he was too
manly to have asked her to rescue him. It would have brought trouble
on her.
He began to think.
Ha! what a happy thought! He would climb up the chimney, slide down
over the roof, and then turn the key and let himself out. It was a
funny idea, but the very humour of it commended itself to him.
There was still light enough to read a portion of the good Book by;
so this droll little grand-dad of mine sat down by the window, and
read aloud for some time. Then, jumping up, he prepared for action.
He stripped off his jacket, and vest, and kilt. He seldom wore a
cap, only a towzie head of yellow hair.
He had nothing on now but his shirt; that would get black enough, but
he could wash it in the burn.
He peeped fearfully up the chimney now, and could see the sky. He
shuddered a little, but went boldly up, head first.
Alas! and alack! I don't quite know what "alack" means, but it
doesn't matter. Anyhow, my grandfather stuck fast in the chimney.
Here was a plight, and he was half-choked, too, with the falling soot.
O! the agony of the next two hours! He gave himself up for lost; if
he didn't die in the chimney, of soot-suffocation, he would be
roasted alive next morning, when the fire was lit.
He said his prayers over and over again; then singular to say, he
fell asleep, sound and fast.
How long he slept he could not tell himself, but, when he awoke, he
made one more struggle for life and liberty, and succeeded. The rest
would be easy.
But now let me tell you what befell the dominie. His wife, and he,
and Rachel when she arrived, first stayed at a friend's house for
supper, and at eight o'clock he set out alone to walk home, the whole
of his family--that is, the whole lot of the two of them--remaining
in Beauly for the night.
He had not forgotten his prisoner. He would get home by nine, he
told himself, and, if the young rascal did get a scare, it would
serve him right. Ah! little did he know just then where the scare
was to come in. Now, those were the stupid old drinking days, when
people believed that spirits warmed them and did them good, and all
such silly nonsense. So when the dominie met a friend who invited
him into an inn, poor prisoner Ian was soon forgotten.
It was long past twelve, but almost as bright as day, owing to the
big, round moon that was shining, when the dominie rather unsteadily
approached the school.
At this very time my grandfather was about to slide down, and so he
saw the dominie advancing. Something must be done speedily. Like
most people in this wild land, the schoolmaster was superstitious,
and Ian seemed to know this.
First, then, he emitted the low, mournful cry of a barn owl. Next
moment, with an eldritch yell, he dropped from aloft, right in front
of the dominie. Such a sudden apparition, black from head to foot,
was enough to frighten anyone.
The dominie was more than frightened--he was appalled; his hat fell
off, his eyes bulged out, his arms were half-raised, and he looked
like a chicken trying to fly.
"Wha--wha--where d'ye co--co--come from?" stammered the dominie.
My tricky little grand-da shrieked again, and pointed aloft; then
down dropped the dominie, in a dwaum.*
* A dwaum: fainting brought on by fear.
Boy-like, Ian couldn't help giving the dominie's hat just one good
kick; then he turned the key, gathered up his clothes, and made off
towards the stream that ran through the ravine.
A bath at such a time of night was rather risky, but the occasion
demanded it.
Next day Ian went to school as usual. The dominie eyed him narrowly,
but said nothing. No doubt he thought that the adventure with the
black sprite, or imp of darkness, was all a dream.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE CONSPIRATORS--A DEED OF DARKNESS--A FEAST TO
FOLLOW--STRANGE SCHOOL-CUSTOMS--A FIGHT IN THE
FOREST--LAST DAYS AT SCHOOL.
My grandfather grew, and kept on growing.
But Ian grew not merely in height, as some lads, who never take
exercise nor the cold morning-tub, do, till they become lanky and
thin and lantern-jawed, or fat and pasty, with faces like half-cooked
dumplings, but in strength as well.
And though he was wild enough when free, he stuck to his books and
slates at school.
He continued, however, to fight his way to the top of the school.
But, though he was often tawsed, he was never kept in again.
This was very satisfactory, for that terrible adventure in the
chimney he never could forget. The tawsing, however, was far from
pleasant, and so when one day Tonal, the boy whom the teacher
thrashed so unmercifully as to make the lad bear malice, came up to
my grandfather in the play-ground, and said mysteriously that he
wanted him that evening to go with him to the dark forest, where he
would tell him something, a ready consent was given; for even at this
early age my grandfather was fond of adventure.
Tonal, who was a great friend of Ian's, led him that night into a
gloomy defile before he uttered a word. Then after looking around
him, as if he feared they had been followed, he whispered words in
grandfather's ears that made him start.
"You don't mean it surely?"
"I do," said Tonal, nodding.
"And the other boys are afraid?"
Tonal nodded again.
"You and I are friends, Tonal, aren't we?"
"Better than brothers."
"Then I will help you."
The two young rascals then shook hands in a most tragical way, as if
the deed they were about to commit were nothing less than arson at
the least.
Just three days after this, Tonal drew a caricature of the dominie,
with a bottle of whisky sticking out of his pocket. This he held up
for the inspection of the other boys, who tittered and laughed; then
down flew the tawse, and Tonal picked it up and marched boldly to the
front.
But the slate also had to be produced.
This was mutiny. Ten pandés on each hand, and to be kept in!
It was early spring, and night fell about eight o'clock, and a dark
night it was.
Tonal would have been very much afraid in the lonesome schoolroom,
had not the thoughts of what was to come buoyed him up.
At long last, the key turned softly in the door, and a mysterious
voice gave the watchword:
"Hist!"
"I've got it," said Tonal, touching Ian's hand with the cold, snaky
tawse.
"Well, come on then; I'll run and give the key back to little Rachel."
"Wasn't it in the door?"
"No."
Rachel was waiting at the peat-stack. She was trembling with fear.
"O, you good little Rachel," said my grandfather.
Then a sudden impulse caused him to take her in his arms and give her
a rough kind of a hug. He had never gone so far in his sweethearting
before, and now, though it was too dark to see it, his face was as
red as a Christmas turkey's.
Rachel hurried back to hang up the key, and the boys flew off to the
forest.
In a little glade a fire had already been laid, and soon its gleams
were illuminating the brown stems of the pine-trees, and sparks like
golden snow were carried high aloft in the rolling smoke.
With much pomp and ceremony, the conspirators laid the tawse on the
gleaming wood, and sat down in silence, like a couple of stoical
Indians, to see it consumed.
It had always felt like a snake; how like one it seemed now, and how
it twisted and writhed, and twined and turned. It settled down at
last into a fiery serpent, then it gradually crumbled away and
disappeared.
After this the boys gave three such wild cheers that the very birds
were scared, and some flew, screaming, away into the black darkness
beyond.
A little feast now followed. They had provided themselves with
bannocks and butter, with potatoes to roast, and a huge mountain
trout to grill over the clear embers.
There is no doubt about one thing, they were entirely happy around
this camp-fire, and, boy-like, must commence to talk about their
prospects. Tonal was two years older than grandfather, and he was
determined to be a soldier.
"I can beat the drum a little, you know, so they are sure to take me.
And I may be a drum-major yet, you know."
"Well, I'm going to be a farmer," said my grandfather, "and have as
many sheep as there are pine-trees in the forest. Then----"
"Then what?"
"Well then, you know, I'll marry Rachel."
Poor boys! Little did they know that
"There is a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough hew them as we will."
* * * * * *
The events that immediately succeeded their feast in the forest may
soon be told.
1st. Tonal had already told his father, a very humble and poor
cottar, that he would enlist.
"If it be the will of Heaven, go, my boy, and the Lord be ever with
you."
This was of course spoken in Gaelic.
So Tonal did not go back to school to face the dominie's wrath. He
would rather face the French.
2ndly. My grandfather did go back to school.
3rdly. The dominie went straight to Beauly and bought a bran-new
tawse. But O, the irony of fate, my grandfather was the very first
it was tried upon. And he didn't like it either.
Nevertheless, in spite of his frequent tawsings, this ancestor of
mine continued to grow. It is just possible I am showing the worst
side of his character. Perhaps I shouldn't. For he must always have
been good-hearted. The boy is the father of the man; the boy I might
say is the grandfather of the man.
I know one thing for certain, and that is this: he dearly loved his
father and mother, and brothers and sister. He had only one sister.
The farm on the Braes was a good one and prolific, and Ian's sturdy
father was revered and respected, an elder of the church, and one who
brought up his children in the fear and admonition of the Lord, as it
was termed. Every evening there were prayers, and morning prayers
also. But this was quite the reverse of making the children
restricted or sad.
Many a jovial dance was got up in the long winter evenings at
Robertson's house, and on such occasions the father was as merry as
the young people, and if he wasn't dancing among them he was beating
time to the music of fiddle or bagpipe.
In the Highlands of Scotland the winters are usually long and stormy,
but the peasantry and farmers have many pleasant ways of making it
pass; so that, when at length he went out into the world, my
grandfather had a very happy home to look back to.
School life, despite an occasional tawsing, was far indeed from
unbearable.
There were one or two strange customs connected with the little
Highland school that do not prevail nowadays. How would my reader
like, for instance, to carry a peat to school with him every winter's
morning? But this was what my grand-dad and all the other boys had
to do. The girls were exempt.
If a boy forgot to bring his peat, he had his hands well warmed with
the tawse, and he was not likely to forget next day.
These peats kept up not only the school fire but the dominie's family
fire also.
Well, there was no disgrace in bringing a peat to school. Even the
minister's son had to do it.
But the other custom I only mention to condemn.
It was a great cock-fight that took place before Christmas, or Old
Yule rather, every year.
Every boy on this great day brought a cock to school with him, and
the boy whose cock should be victor was proclaimed king of the school
for the whole year, and was exempt from tawsing, except for specially
aggravating conduct.
The cocks that were killed became the property of the dominie.
The fight, I am sorry to say, created considerable excitement in the
parish, and the boys' parents came from far and near to witness it.
I have been told, though I can scarcely believe it, that even the
minister himself came to see the fun.
Sad fun; yes, and cowardly, cruel fun!
Nevertheless, when, on the evening of a great fight, my grandfather
was duly crowned king, no prouder boy perhaps ever lived.
Even the cock that won him the honour and glory clapped his wings and
crew over and over again, and to complete my grand-dad's happiness,
little Rachel looked upon her hero as sweetly as an angel could have
looked, though it could only be an angel of darkness who would attend
a cock-fight.
As he sat next Rachel that evening, at a party which the dominie got
up for the occasion, Ian felt his cup of bliss was not only full but
overflowing. Rachel had on a lovely snow-white frock and scarf of
Fraser tartan, and Ian was dressed in his Sunday's kilt with an
eagle's feather in his bonnet.
As king he was asked to open the ball, and of course choose his
partner.
Now duty whispered to him, "Ask Mrs. Freeschal to dance."
But duty was left in the lurch for once. One glance at Rachel's
bonnie face, and next moment both were whirling through that very
mazy dance--the Reel of Tulloch.
Tom Grahame, a much bigger and older boy than Ian, looked on at the
dance with the green eye of jealousy.
When it was over, and the king was escorting his little queen back to
her seat, Tom stole up behind his majesty and whispered darkly in his
ear.
And these were the words he whispered:
"It's myself that will thrash you to-morrow within an inch of your
life."
"Sure, then, Tom Grahame," was young Ian Robertson's reply, "the
threat that you throw on me won't keep me awake, and when I sleep it
isn't dreaming about you I'll be. Good-night till the morning."
That was a happy evening anyhow, and when he went to school next day
my grandfather had almost forgotten all about the coming battle.
Boys will be boys, and they were just as combative in those days as
now. Perhaps more so.
At this school, when any pitched battle was to be fought, the
belligerents and their friends betook themselves to the forest.
There were no rules of the ring. A fall decided the end of a round;
but if the two fell together, they were allowed to fight it out on
the ground like a couple of bears.
"Is it to be hitting in the face or not?" said big Tom Grahame.
"As the fight is for a lady," replied my gallant grandfather, "I'm
going to hit wherever I can, and you may do the self-same."
That was really the most terrible school-combat that had taken place
for years.
Tom Grahame was a vengeful tyke, and fought with fearful fury. But
Ian was more skilful, and punished his adversary so well that the
fight would have ended in his favour, had not Tom used his foot in a
most unhandsome fashion.
Down rolled poor Ian, and while the other boys shouted "Unfair!" Tom
threw himself on top of my little progenitor, and mauled him terribly.
Then in desperation Ian pulled out his kilt pin, and popped it
straight into his big antagonist's chest.
This decided the fight. It nearly decided the fate of Tom Grahame
also. The big pin had done its work so well--or ill--that Tom was
confined to bed for a whole month.
Filled with remorse, my grandfather went every day to see him, and so
did the doctor, till he was out of danger.
But Ian became Tom's nurse, in a manner of speaking, all throughout
his illness, and, strange to say, between those two boys sprang up a
friendship that lasted for many and many a year, until deep seas
rolled between, and, as will be seen as we go on, years after this.
Ever after, however, as long as my grandfather remained at school, he
was known by the nickname of Preen Mhor.*
* Big pin.
* * * * *
One day, and well did my grandfather remember it Mr. Freeschal paid a
visit to the farm, and was kindly welcomed in.
"It's about your boy I've come to speak," said the dominie.
"Why, surely, he hasn't gotten into any more mischief, has he?"
"O, no, and if it was that same, it isn't complaining to you I'd be;
I'd tawse him well."
Robertson senior held out his snuff-box, and the dominie, after
tapping the lid in a sociable kind of way, took a hearty pinch, and
returned the mull.
Meanwhile Mrs. Robertson was bustling about getting ready the evening
meal, for Highlanders are nothing unless sociable.
"Your boy," said the dominie, "is about past my lore. He knows about
as much as his master."
"It's myself that is delighted, Mr. Freeschal!"
"Yes, I've done well for him, and there isn't a boy in all Great
Britain, France, or Ireland, who can beat him at figures or grammar,
and his writing is just copper-plate itself, only, if anything,
better. I could teach him Latin and Greek, you know, if it is a
parson you'd be making of him. If not, I tell you, as an honest man
should, that it would be taking your money for nothing to keep him
longer with me. And that's what I've come to tell you."
"Well, well, Mr. Freeschal, you have made us all happy, and of course
you'll stop to supper?"
There was some pretty play for nearly a minute after this, the
dominie expostulating, the farmer's wife beseeching. But it ended in
the dominie staying, which he had meant to do from the first.
By-and-by the minister himself dropped in and took a friendly chair
and a friendly bit of food.
During the evening, which was a very jovial one, young Ian's future
prospects were freely discussed, but nothing definite was arrived at,
except that to educate my grandfather any further would only tend to
weaken his brain.
Strange reasoning this was, only it contented those simple souls, and
that was enough. There is a good deal of truth in Pope's lines--
"From ignorance our comfort flows,
The only wretched are the wise."
This would be considered somewhat dangerous doctrine nowadays.
* * * * *
Grandfather's last days at school soon arrived, and both teacher and
his companions were better to him than ever; and Rachel, now a demure
little maiden of fourteen, told Ian in confidence that he was going
away out into the world now, and that it just felt to her like death
or growing old, neither of which she considered very desirable.
When the very, very last evening came, she bade him good-bye at the
corner of the old peat-stack, and though my grandfather did all he
could think of to comfort her, he had to part from her at last in
sorrow and tears.
CHAPTER IX.
LEAVING HOME--A HUMBLE TRADE--"I'LL NOT SERVE
UNDER A FRASER OF LOVAT: I AM A ROBERTSON AND
A LOYALIST."
It was with a heart filled to overflowing that Ian Robertson, my
fifteen-years-old grandfather, left his old home on the Braes and
started on his journey to the distant town of Inverness.
I purposely pass over the parting with his mother, father, brothers,
and sister, because I do not wish to have my pages blistered with
tears.
Sturdily did the boy march off, however, with all his chattels tied
up in a bundle swung over his shoulder on the end of a stick, and a
five-shilling-piece in his pocket.
Ah! well, many a brave boy has begun the world on less than five
shillings, and Ian was not the lad to be daunted.
He paused at the turn of the road to wave his bonnet back at the old
farm, and half a mile farther on he mounted a rock that placed him
within view of the old schoolhouse and school. And--why yonder was
Rachel her own little self standing right on top of the peat-stack
and waving him adieu!
His heart went right away back to her with every wave that he gave
his blue bonnet, and it was only with a considerable effort that he
plucked up courage at last to jump down and continue his journey.
Ah! those partings of youthful days, how sad they are, and brave is
the sensitive boy who can bear them.
Now, the reader, I hope, will think none the less of my hero when I
say that, having arrived at a little pine wood, he looked up and down
the road to make sure nobody saw him, then entered the plantation,
and knelt down to pray.
He prayed just then as he had never prayed before, and felt that in
that prayer he was giving himself all away to God.
I am not going to repeat a sentence of the prayer. Indeed, though I
know the soul and substance of it, I could not if I tried. "Out of
the fulness of the heart the mouth speaketh," you know. It was that
way with the boy now.
We are told that the prayer of a righteous man availeth much. Well,
I have not painted my grandfather as a saint; but I do most firmly
believe that the prayers of sinners are listened to as well as those
of better men.
Anyhow, I do know this--my grandfather, even in his boyhood, had
faith, and as he rose from his knees, he felt brighter and happier
and more hopeful than ever he remembered feeling before.
Whether or not his prayers for guidance for his every footstep in
life were heard, my story has yet to reveal.
* * * * *
Towards the evening of this eventful day, this tired and weary
boy-grandfather of mine, with his red bundle on his shoulder, drew
near to his destination.
He was about to learn a trade. There is no money to be made nowadays
out of business--at all events, few professional men make large
fortunes--and it was just the same in the good old times of which I
am writing.
And what was my respected grand-dad going to be? Why a staymaker, of
all trades in the world. A corset is the new name of stays, as I
need not tell you.
There was nothing romantic about the trade, and certainly not a
vestige of romance about the little old snuffy man he had come to act
as boy for. He lived above his shop and workshop, in a dingy house
in High Street, all alone with his wife and the cat.
Nevertheless they gave him a kindly welcome, and a hearty supper also.
After this he was lighted down to his bedroom, and as soon as he had
got into bed, Mr. Craig, the staymaker, came and blew out his
farthing dip.
His bed was a hard one, a mere shake-down on the floor under the
counter. As soon as the light was out the rats began to scamper
about and quarrel and fight and squeak. This wasn't pleasant at all,
but the boy soon fell fast asleep, and did not waken till it was
broad daylight.
Well, next day his work began, and very hard it was; and very few
were his holidays, for not even on the Sabbath day was he allowed to
go for a walk.
At the end of six months, so proficient was he that he could almost
make a pair of stays himself.
Perhaps it was a pity that this tow-haired little grandfather of nine
didn't stick to staymaking. Why, there were wonderful possibilities
connected with the business. He might have become a millionaire and
been thrice Lord Provost of Glasgow city.
But fate willed it otherwise.
One day he was sent with a parcel of finished work to the house of a
lady of some pretensions, who lived on the bonnie banks of Ness, in
quite a charming house, surrounded by beautiful grounds.
My grandfather was dressed very neatly, and looked extremely well.
So much taken with the lad was the lady, that she began to question
him as to his birth and parentage.
"Why," she said, "you are a third cousin of our own. For poor brave
Lord Lovat, who was martyred on Tower Hill, was a cousin of my
husband's father. How strange!"
"Can you write and read well, boy?"
She made him do both.
"Why," she cried in amazement, "it is shameful that a boy of your
abilities should be learning the trade of a staymaker. It is as bad
as being a tailor. Come back to-morrow; Mr. Fraser himself will be
at home, and I will speak to him about you."
My grandfather thanked her and retired.
That night, in his little bed among the rat-holes he dreamt
that--well, I almost forget what he did dream, but I think that there
were powdered footmen in it, and a coach-and-four, or something
equally stupid.
"So, boy, you'll be going to leave us," said Mr. Craig, next night,
when he came back from Falkirk Lodge, and told the staymaker and his
wife how kind his newly-found cousins had been to him.
"You'll be going to leave us. Well, it's no me that will stand in
your way. But come to see us sometimes. We like you, lad, and as
long as you live in Inverness you shan't want a friend."
He did need a friend very much ere long, as we shall see.
Mrs. Fraser was a very amiable lady indeed, and my grandfather liked
her from the very first. But Fraser himself was haughty and
affected, and soon gave the boy to understand that he was little
better than a menial, and taken, not really out of charity, but
because he and his lady would permit no cousin of theirs, in whose
veins flowed the Fraser-of-Lovat blood, to work in a shop like a
common "snob."
Ah! well, he might have been like one, but he was independent while
with Mr. Craig, even though as poor as one of his bed-fellows, the
rats.
I have ever failed to see that there was anything to be ashamed of in
poverty.
"Is there, for honest poverty,
That hangs his head, and a' that?
The coward-slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,
Our toils obscure, and a' that;
The rank is but the guinea-stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that!"
My grandfather then began life at Falkirk Lodge, by being clerk to
his Cousin Fraser, and amanuensis to his wife.
It was a pleasant enough sort of existence, and the work was not
hard. He had plenty of liberty also, and was even permitted to keep
a dog, called Dash, that poor old honest Craig had given him. And
Dash was a lovely collie.
I think Dash was about the best friend that the boy had even now.
For Mrs. Fraser went much into society, and Ian had to go with her as
a sort of poor relation.
His manliness resented this, but he never complained, for the lady
was most kind.
But something very strange happened about six months after my
boy-grandfather came to reside at the Lodge. For one evening Fraser
came home unusually elated.
"It is done," he cried, "done, my dear. All finished and done."
Here he embraced Mrs. Fraser.
Then he turned round to Ian.
"Leave the room," he said haughtily.
My grandfather bit his lip, and turned a trifle red in the face. But
he turned to go.
Just as the lad was leaving, this proud Fraser called him back.
"Here," he cried, "I don't want to be rough with you. Take this
shilling and spend it as you please."
"Donald," he added, addressing a servant, "you see I am not a
bad-hearted fellow, and I've had good news to-day, so I give my
little kinsman a shilling, and here is one for you."
Donald put the shilling in his pocket.
Ian, my plucky grand-dad, felt inclined at first to throw the
shilling in the grate, and run right away back to his old friend
Craig. But Mrs. Fraser looked so gentle and kind that he had not the
heart to vex her. So he followed Donald's example, and put the coin
in his pocket.
Then he walked out.
That same evening he happened to enter the great kitchen, that was
honoured by the title of servants' hall.
"Ha!" cried the butler, "here comes another young soldier..
"And he's going to fight the French,
For King George upon the throne."
Ian looked so puzzled that everybody laughed.
"I'm no soldier," said my grandfather, "and don't want to be."
"Och!" cried Donald, "that won't do at all. For sure you took the
King's shilling as well as myself did."
"Yes, you are enlisted," said the butler, "right enough. Haven't you
heard that master has been made Captain in the Black Watch, and wants
to take all the young Highlanders with him he can get?"
Then my grandfather's wrath was aroused. He brought his sturdy
little fist to the table with a bang.
"I will not serve under a Fraser of Lovat," he cried. "Cousins of
ours though the Frasers are, they were rebels. I am a Robertson and
a loyalist."
Then he dashed out, regardless of the platoon fire of laughing that
followed him.
Captain Fraser was away for a whole week, and when he returned he was
in uniform.
My grandfather met him respectfully in the hall.
"Salute your officer!" said Fraser haughtily.
"You are not my officer, sir."
"You are a soldier legally enlisted, young man, and to-morrow you
join your company at Fort Augustus. I am not going to make you a
private soldier, for my own sake. You will still be my clerk, and if
you behave well, your promotion will come."
My grandfather made no reply.
Had he tried to, the words would have been those of anger.
He simply bowed, and walked out.
It was a beautiful morning in spring. The sky was soft and blue, the
air was balmy, and the rippling of the river, not far off, soothed
his mind.
Far, indeed, was he from being happy, however, and as he stood on the
cool green walk of the old garden, gazing upwards at the sky, he felt
that he would have given a good deal for the luxury of a hearty cry.
But then we can't always cry when we wish to. Presently, a soft warm
muzzle was thrust into his hand, and looking down, lo! there were the
brown eyes of his favourite collie, Dash, turned upwards to
his--anxiously--enquiringly.
They said as plainly as dog's eyes could talk, "What mood are you in
this morning, master? for I am ready for anything. I shall remain
quiet and sympathise with you and love you, or we can go for a grand
old game of romps together."
Dash's appeal was irresistible, and next minute Sidney and he had
left the garden together, and side by side were scampering over the
fields and by the hedgerows, with the glad sun shining down on them,
shining into their very hearts, while the wild flowers, that grew
everywhere around them, seemed part and parcel of their young lives.
Yes, Dash, like Ian himself, was young. O, give youth a young dog, I
say; the natures of the two are in unison, their minds are _en
rapport_, and let your old dogs go pottering around with elderly
people. But little more than a year had yet passed over Dash's
smooth head and bonnie brow. Life to him as yet was all a bright and
beautiful show, in which every creature that moved was just as happy
and full of fun as he himself was. "What were the cocks crowing
for?" he would have asked you. "Why did the birds sing so sweetly
and so merrily?" Why? because they were all so brimful of happiness
and joy, that they would have died if unable to give vent to their
feelings. Even the trees sang softly to the passing winds, and the
dimpled ponds and purling brooklets laughed gladsomely upwards at the
blue sky and the fleecy, floating clouds. Everything was joyful like
the dog himself. He went scampering on in front of the boy, and
picked up a round stone that he found on the grass. "Why, Mr.
Stone," he seemed to say, "don't you join in the general jollity all
around you? Why should you lie there so still and quiet when Nature
all is gay? I'll teach you a lesson."
And he tosses the stone high in the air, catching it ere it fell,
though it makes his teeth bleed just a little. Then he rolls it in
front of him, ever so funnily; then he covers it with grass, and
rolls and tumbles over it; then pretends it is lost entirely, and
that there isn't a ghost of a chance of ever finding it again at all.
Then--"Wow!" he has found it again, and once more the fun grows fast
and furious, till my grandfather forgets his grief, and is fain to
laugh aloud and take a hand in the sport, and round and round they
"whish" and run, a madcap collie and a madcap boy.
Soldiers and all are forgotten for the time being; grief and sorrow
are no more real now than half-forgotten dreams, and that dreadful
old Cousin Fraser, who had arisen on the horizon of the lad's life,
vanishes like a darkling cloud when it meets the moon.
On and on they scampered, the madcap collie and the madcap boy. On
and on. They neither knew nor cared whither.
But they brought up at last in the midst of a wild, hobgoblin kind of
a heathy moor, where the sun shone very brightly; and here Dash threw
himself down to rest and pant, his pink ribbon of a tongue hanging
out at one side of his mouth across teeth whiter far than alabaster.
CHAPTER X.
THE KING'S SHILLING--IN CORNEY'S CAVE--"SURRENDER
IN THE KING'S NAME"--CAPTURE AND ESCAPE.
My grandfather found himself at long last among the birchen woods
that in those days lay not far off the bay that leads to Beauly. The
day was already far spent, and Dash and he were getting hungry.
Suddenly he sat down upon a stone close to the sea, and Dash laid his
beautiful muzzle on his knee and looked up sympathisingly in his face.
"Whatever is to be done now, doggie!" said my grandfather.
"Never mind, master, never mind."
That is about all the advice a dog can give one in times of trouble,
but the look of unquenchable affection that is conveyed by the eyes
is better far, and more soothing, than the set phrases of sympathy
vouchsafed to one from human lips.
"Here I am, Dash, in one of the prettiest of pickles. I've turned my
back on Inverness, on Falkirk Lodge at any rate, and now here I am
with nothing in the world except what I stand up in, just as poor as
you, Dash, and as hungry as a hawk. What a fool I was to leave the
Craigs. I wasn't so very unhappy there, Dash, even though I did
sleep under the counter; the rats daren't come near me when you were
there. Heigho! hungry and tired, and nothing to get food with.
"O yes, by the way, there is that shilling."
He took the coin from his pocket and looked at it.
"That shilling, Dash, would keep you and me alive and well for three
days. But I would not break it to save my life--no, nor your life,
Dash. The King's shilling! Well, if I had wanted it I would have
asked for it, and could have fought for my country as bravely as did
the Robertsons of old.
"Dash, I _could_ be a soldier, but never, _never_ a slave!
"There goes the King's shilling."
He flung it far into the sea as he spoke.
"Some cod-fish may swallow it, Dash, and I hope it will agree better
with him than it has with me. Come, doggie, we'll gather some
dulse."*
* A kind of edible seaweed.
Dash didn't care for it, but he made pretence to eat some just to
please his master.
There was a fisherman's hut not far off, and near the door, sitting
at her knitting on an upturned coble, a buxom fisher-lass.
My grandfather drew near, and addressing her in Gaelic, begged for a
drop of water for his dog.
"My father and I are just going to have a bit of dinner; you and the
doggie must come in and take pot-luck." That was the lassie's reply.
"To be sure," cried her grey-bearded father from the doorway, "the
lad must come in and the beastie too. What says the Good Book? 'Be
ye careful to entertain strangers, for some have entertained angels
unawares.'"
My grandfather thanked them, and gladly entered the hut. "But," he
said, laughing, "Dash here may be an angel, but there isn't much
angel about me. Why, I'm a runaway. I'm not sure, indeed, that I'm
not a deserter."
Then he told the good people all the story.
And the old man's wrath was aroused.
"Is it," he cried, "is it that they would be making a soldier of you
by force? The villains! Let the French do that, but Britons will
never bow to it!"
My grandfather thought that meal the most delicious he had ever eaten
in his life. And it was only boiled haddock and potatoes after all.
Dash was of the same opinion.
"Now, boy," said the old man, as he bade him good-bye, "go home to
your people on the Braes, and defy your proud Cousin Fraser. Pride
always goes before a fall. The Lord Himself be with you, laddie.
Good-day, good-day."
* * * * *
It now occurred to my grandfather that the old fisherman's advice was
very good indeed, and that he had best go and see his people.
He walked briskly on now, with Dash galloping and barking around him.
Something would turn up.
In the bright lexicon of youth, there ought to be no such word as
"Fail."
"Dear boy, you're welcome home."
These were his father's first words.
"If nothing better happens, why, you can join your brothers at the
farm."
Ian had half expected a scolding, and the tears came to his eyes as
his mother embraced him. He spent three or four very happy days at
the farm, and visited many times and oft his old friends and his old
haunts.
Rachel had grown wonderfully, and was a trifle more reserved and shy,
pretending to take more interest in the dog than in his master.
"Love me, love my dog."
There is truth in that old saying.
But there was one friend he missed, and that was Tom Grahame, the boy
he had nearly slain with his big kilt pin.
The boy had gone south--nobody knew his destination--to seek his
fortune, as resolute young Scotch lads did in those days, and do
still.
Meanwhile, to return for a moment to Falkirk Lodge, the wrath of the
newly-fledged Captain Fraser knew no bounds.
He was deprived of the services of a good clerk, and his company of a
soldier.
He wrote at once to the commandant at Fort Augustus, describing poor
Ian, from head to foot, from his blue bonnet to his brogue sheen,*
and branding him as a deserter.
* Highland boots or shoes.
Now every soldier was valuable in those warlike days, so the
commandant lost no time in attempting to arrest my grand-dad. He was
just sitting down to dinner one day, when little Rachel rushed in.
"O Ian, Ian," she cried, the tears rolling over her cheeks, "the
soldiers are coming, three of them with guns and bayonets and all.
O, where can you hide? They will hang you and shoot you and all."
This was a time for action and coolness too. There was no fear about
Ian. But quite the reverse. He comforted and reassured poor Rachel.
"They can never take me," he said; "I am no deserter, but I want some
fun. I'll go to the forest, father; the soldiers will tire looking
for me in a week's time. Put some food for me now and then in
Corney's Cave. Don't cry, Rachel. This is quite a romance. Dash
and I will be playing at being outlaws. Good-bye."
He sprang out by the back door, just as the feather bonnets and
bayonets of a sergeant and a file of soldiers appeared on the brae.
Dash went with him.
Corney's Cave was the very place in which Ian's father and
grandmother and Fiona had been hidden during the terrible fight at
the old farm, after Culloden. Though used as a whisky-still, it was
at present out of employment. There was no fear of any smoke being
seen, as this found its way, by a kind of natural chimney in the
rocks, into a shepherd's hut.
Here my grandfather could lie quiet for a month or more, if he chose,
without the possibility of being captured.
He lit himself a fire, for there was plenty of dry peats and wood in
a corner; then making Dash lie down, he went out to pull heather for
a couch. He was very systematic with his work. The heather was tied
up in little bundles, and when about two score of these were placed
side by side, the green ends upwards, they formed a bed that many a
fugitive king, in olden times, would have reposed upon with delight.
Just before darkling, Dash emitted a low growl, and next moment a
tiny, bare-headed gillie crept into the cave.
He brought plenty of cakes and cheese and milk for Ian and Dash. He
also told my grandfather all about the soldiers. They had searched
all day in the forest, but had now returned to Beauly, as no one on
the Braes or near there would give them food.
Then the lad said good-night and slipped away as silently as a
heather newt.
It was certainly lonesome enough in that cave, and but for the
presence of Dash, I believe my grandfather would have dreaded a visit
from ghosts or water-kelpies.
As it was, after making up a good fire, which lit the whole cave up
in the most cheery way, Ian and Dash enjoyed a hearty supper.
Then he said his prayers and lay down to sleep, a Highland plaid his
only covering.
He had "backed" the fire and stowed away a kindling peat, so he had
no fear for the morrow.
For quite a long time he lay awake, thinking and wondering how all
this was going to end. The strangeness of the situation and his
surroundings, no doubt, helped to make him wakeful. The fire burned
lower and lower, the black roof at one moment enveloped in shadow and
darkness, and next, lit up with flickering gleams of light. Outside
was the low moan of the wind and the murmur of the stream over its
stony bed; but presently these sounds seemed to draw farther and
farther off, and soon were heard no more.
For Ian slept.
He strolled only a little way from the cave next forenoon, but as the
sun began to sink in the west, the irksomeness of cave-life became
unbearable, and he determined to risk all and treat himself and Dash
to a stroll in the forest. Among those grand old trees, with the
green, cool moss beneath his feet, he forgot his troubles, and
soldiers were soon banished from his thoughts away.
He had a rude awakening.
For while lying on his back listening to the sweet even-song of the
birds, and watching the crimson light of the westering sun,
flickering on the branches of the lofty pines, Dash suddenly sprang
up and barked. Ian was on his feet in a moment.
"Now we have you! Surrender in the King's name!"
[Illustration: "Surrender, in the King's name!"]
So near were the soldiers to him, that he seemed to look down the
muzzles of their muskets.
They fired as he darted off through the woods, and one bullet
whistled close past his head. Then the chase began.
As well might they have attempted to follow a red-deer on foot.
Ian soon left them far behind. Then patted Dash's faithful head, and
took matters very leisurely.
They made a long detour, however, and only Apache Indians could have
followed their trail back to the cave. Here was the wee gillie
waiting by the fire. He was very glad to see Ian, and told him all
the news. My grandfather kept him quite a long time chatting by the
fire and he promised to come again after dusk next evening.
The place looked gloomier when the gillie went, but Ian heaped more
wood on the fire, and the excellent supper sent by his mother made
him feel once more happy.
It wasn't such a disagreeable life, this, after all. Many a better
man than he had been an outlaw, he told himself. There was King
Bruce, for instance, and Sir William Wallace, and many a brave knight
besides on whose heads a price was set, and who lived in caves and
forests, just as he was living now.
Ah! brighter days would come.
For a whole week poor Ian stuck to his cave, only venturing out after
dusk.
The soldiers still hung around the woods, so the gillie told Ian, and
the sergeant had even declared that he would stop "till Doomsday in
the afternoon," rather than return without his prisoner.
Ian thought that cave-life till Doomsday in the afternoon would
become rather monotonous. However, he unluckily made up his mind,
one evening, to pay a visit to his old dominie's house.
The soldiers would hardly be in that neighbourhood.
So, as soon as gloaming, and the gillie had come and gone, and
darkness was creeping down and filling up the glens, he crept out of
his hiding, and made his way up the steep rocks, and on to the
brae-lands above. Although it must have been well on to nine
o'clock, much to his joy he noticed lights still glimmering in the
dominie's window.
He had left Dash tied up, and walked very cautiously, frequently
looking round when he heard the slightest sound. There was just one
little copse to pass through, then he should be safe.
Alas! he had no sooner entered, than he was seized and thrown down.
His captors were the soldiers.
They bound his hands behind his back, then told him to march.
The men chatted right merrily all the way to Beauly, but Ian spoke
hardly a word.
No, he had not let down his heart. Not a bit of it; he was only
meditating how best he could escape.
"Well," said the sergeant, as they neared a small inn--the landlord
and his daughter were well-known to Ian's father--"Well, lad, you
have led us a nice dance, but I bear no ill-will. Come in here with
us, and we'll wet your whistle."
Ian didn't want his whistle wetted, but he had to enter all the same.
They were kindly received, and shown into the best room.
"Poor boy," said the girl, aloud, "and have they caught you after
all?"
But she took the opportunity of whispering in his ear, "Pretend to
sleep, and fly when I put out the lights."
"Yes, we've caught the young rascal," said the sergeant, "and I've a
good mind to catch you also."
But Ellen glided off like an eel, and presently returned with cakes
and cheese, and a huge black bottle, and I need hardly say what that
contained.
They forced Ian to drink some, though he had never touched spirits
before.
After this, the men proceeded to make themselves merry. And right
merry they seemed to be. As Ian passed his glass as often as any of
them, though he managed to spill it, instead of drinking it, they
patted him on the shoulder, and told him he would make a splendid
soldier. The lad volunteered a song, and was rapturously encored.
Then he kept up the delusion by talking nonsense.
Presently he pretended to tumble off his chair.
My grandfather now began to snore aloud.
"He's safe enough, anyhow," said the sergeant. "So, lads, another
toast."
By one o'clock the fun grew fast and furious, and presently in came
Ellen.
"Now, soldiers, it's bed-time."
"No, no, no."
"Father will give you no more to-night. Pay, and go to bed."
"We'll sit here till morning dawns, my beautiful, winsome,
charming----"
Ellen cut short the oration in true Highland fashion, by a sounding
slap across the speaker's cheek.
"Ye'll sit in the dark, then," she cried, and out went the candle.
Now was Ian's chance. In the confusion that followed, he made his
way to the door, and by two o'clock was safe and sound once more in
the cave.
Dash was delighted, and, the fire being replenished, both had supper,
and then went to sleep together on the heather couch.
When he awoke next morning, Ian could hardly believe for a time that
his adventure had been aught else save a troubled dream.
CHAPTER XI.
SWORN TO SHOOT AT SIGHT--AN ADVENTURE ON THE
ROAD--"PLEASE, Sir, ARE YOU THE COLONEL?"--"WE'LL
CALL YOU JOHN."
When the faithful little gillie returned to the cave that night, he
brought with him a kindly letter of advice from the dominie. He had
seen the soldiers that very forenoon, and so incensed were they, that
they had sworn to shoot my grandfather on sight, without further
parley. And there was no doubt they meant to carry this awful threat
into execution.
"Now, dear boy," the latter continued, "I advise you to make an
attempt to leave the place as soon as possible. By day will be
safest, for then the soldiers are there in the forest. At night they
keep watch around the houses. If you get safely to Inverness, go to
see a man of law called John Chisholm. Take this letter with you,
and he'll receive you kindly, and tell you what is best for you to
do."
"My daughter Rachel encloses a little note for you. So sorry that
neither of us can see you, but it would not be safe. Good-bye, and
the Lord be with you."
Next day the gillie came at eleven o'clock.
"The soldiers," he said, "are scouring the forest. Now will be your
chance."
A short time after this Ian entered his father's house and took a
hurried farewell of all. A most affecting farewell it was, and many
were the tears that were shed.
Even poor Dash knew that the parting had come, and sadly woe-begone
he looked.
"Be kind to dear Dash, sister," were among the last words the lad
said.
Then he hurried away from the home which it would be many and many a
long year before he should see again--if ever.
Rachel's note was to my grandfather a very precious one, though
simple:
"DEAR IAN,--Fly quickly, O, fly. They will shoot you dead if you
don't. With fond love and prayers I send you a four-bladed clover.
"But, dear Ian, trust more in God than even the four-bladed
clover.--Your little RACHEL. Amen! so let it be."
My grandfather put the letter in his bosom and hurried on.
At Beauly he was well known, but not a soul would have thought of
giving him away.
He went in to thank Ellen for assisting him to escape, and stayed and
chatted quite a long time.
So safe did he feel, that he must even visit the little old fisherman
on the border of the bay, and bid him and his daughter a long
farewell.
A little farther on he overtook three Forty-second soldiers. He
would have darted into the woods, but he sighted them all at once on
rounding the bend of the road, and one happening to look round
sighted him.
With country courtesy, they waited till he came up, and his heart
beat high and uneasily as he joined them.
Would they recognise him and make him prisoner? That was the thought
uppermost in his mind. But his fears were for a time set to rest,
till one of them began to laugh.
"Can't help thinking how neatly Sergeant McGregor was done," he said
in Gaelic.
Then the others laughed, and one turning round to Ian said, "Do you
come from Beauly?"
"From far beyond," replied grandfather evasively. "But," he added,
"I didn't stop long enough to get any news."
"Ah, well, you know, the sergeant and a file were after a deserter,
not much older, maybe, than yourself."
My grandfather felt his colour come and go, while his heart thumped
wildly against his ribs.
"Why," cried another soldier, "by all descriptions, this young fellow
would pass for the deserter."
Then all laughed, and Ian laughed too, as if he enjoyed the joke
immensely. But he found courage to say--and he spoke the truth when
he said it--
"I've never been a soldier yet, but if I were I should stick to my
colours."
"Good, my boy, good, and it's a soldier you ought to be."
My grandfather knew now the crisis had passed, so he said to the
first speaker:
"Tell me the story, soldier."
"O, McGregor of ours and his men had been watching the woods for,
maybe, a month. But they collared their man at last and led him down
to the Charlie Stuart Inn, at Beauly, and so they all marched inside.
Well, the deserter was just rolling in money that his father had
given him, for they do say he is a near connection of the Lovat
family. So he ordered a splendid supper, and he made all the three
of them so full with one thing or another, that before two in the
morning they went comfortably to bed beneath the table.
"Then," continued the soldier, "the young rascal of a deserter coolly
blackened all their faces till you couldn't have told them from
negroes, rammed their muskets up the chimney, with their butt-ends
stuck in the fire."
"Didn't they go off?" said Ian.
"I tell you they were all asleep under the table."
"But the guns, I mean."
"Well, I suppose they did after a bit, but they didn't waken the men."
"And the deserter went off, of course?"
"Yes, and he's safe in the woods now."
"Is he, indeed?" said grandfather, hardly able to suppress a smile.
"It will never be let down on McGregor," added the soldier. "It was
the girl Ellen who waked them next morning, and when they looked at
each other and found they were all black men, I--I--ha, ha, ha, I
would have given worlds to have seen the fun."
And talking thus cheerfully they reached Inverness, but my
grandfather was not at all sorry when at last they bade him good-bye
and went off.
* * * * *
John Chisholm was a florid-faced, white-haired, very fat man.
But good-hearted, and reputed the cleverest lawyer in the capital of
the Highlands.
He bade my sixteen-year-old grandfather be seated.
Then he mounted a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles and quietly perused
the dominie's letter.
After this he looked at my grandfather over his glasses and said:
"Humph!"
Well, that expression "Humph!" isn't even here or there.
"I assure you, my boy, I'm a sort of sorry for you. You have been
completely sold, or rather bought, and there is only one thing I can
advise."
"Yes, sir?"
"Are you averse to becoming a soldier?"
"O, no, indeed, sir; I think I'd rather like going to the wars.
"But," he added manfully, "I'd rather be shot than fight under my
rebel-cousin, Fraser."
"Bravo! Well, go and be shot like a good boy."
"I'm afraid I don't quite understand, sir."
"Don't you? Why, go straight away to Fort George, where there is a
recruiting-squad of that grand old regiment, the 1st Royals,
stationed, and enlist. Nothing can be more simple."
My grandfather thanked him profusely, and took his leave.
That night he slept in his old bed beneath Mr. Craig's counter. Mr.
Craig, his wife, and the cat were all delighted to see him, and gave
him quite a hearty welcome, and when they parted next day, the old
lady took what she called an eternal leave of him.
"We'll never see you more, poor boy," she said.
And she never did.
The recruiting-sergeant of the 1st Royals was a most dignified and
dashing soldier, with a long powdered cue dangling over the upper
part of his spine, and covering his scarlet jacket with a layer of
snow-white dust. He was in the square when my grandfather entered
the gloomy portals of this renowned fort, and was pointed out to him
by a sentry.
"That is the sergeant with all the ribbons a-fluttering from his cap."
Ian approached somewhat timidly.
He saluted, and being the first military salute ever he had made, I
dare say it was rather an awkward one.
"Well, my man, what can I do for you?" said the gallant
non-commissioned officer, bending as far as his high stock would
permit him to do.
"Please, sir, are you the colonel?"
The sergeant laughed, and a smile rippled over the faces of a few men
near by.
"No, lad, I'm only a general. The colonel has had a shave, and gone
to bed for fear of catching cold after it. Perhaps I can do for the
time being. What is your business?"
"I've come to enlist, if you please."
"Enlist! Why you do the grand old regiment an honour which it will
not soon forget. But come along, lad; I must, have my little joke.
Follow me, and I'll make a man of you before you are five minutes
older."
He led the way in through a narrow passage, and my grandfather soon
found himself in a long narrow room, with a ceiling so low that he
could have touched it. There were a table, some forms, and a chair
in it, and at the former the smart sergeant sat down, and pulled
towards him some official-looking paper, an ink-bottle, and a huge
quill pen.
"Now, then, I want to know something about you."
"Well, sir, my father--
"O, come, come, I don't want you to go back to Noah altogether. Give
me your name, age, &c., place of birth, and everything else."
My grandfather did so. The sergeant wrote all down. Then he shoved
a shilling across the table.
"I beg your pardon, sir, but I don't think I should take that."
"Not take the King's money?"
"No, sir; I got the King's shilling before, and Dash and I threw it
into the sea."
The sergeant dropped his quill pen as suddenly as if he had been shot.
"What!" he cried, "you've enlisted before?"
"It was not enlistment, sir, it was fraud; my lawyer, Mr. Chisholm,
told me so."
"Come," said the sergeant, "this gets interesting. A boy who has a
lawyer should be an ensign to begin with, to say the least of it.
Tell me all about it, boy."
Then he got the whole story, and laughed heartily at it.
"You'll take this shilling, nevertheless, my boy, and I've no doubt
you'll pass the doctors all right. But," he added, "as you seem to
have some qualms of conscience--a very awkward possession for a
soldier to begin life on--here is another shilling out of my own
purse, to send back in a letter to your pretty cousin, whose nose I'd
dearly like to pull.
"You may write to him here, and I'll sign it.
"Tell him you return his coin, and that his kilted warriors needn't
knock about the damp woods any longer looking for you, as you now
belong to the oldest regiment in Britain, and the finest that ever
crossed bayonets with a warlike foe."
Ian did as he was told.
"How beautifully you write, boy!" the sergeant said, as he peeped
over his shoulder. "It's my opinion you'll soon be an orderly."
My grandfather smiled, though he had not the faintest notion what was
meant by an orderly.
"My mother always thought me very orderly, sir."
Again the facetious sergeant laughed.
"Well, now," he said, "I'll put you in charge of a soldier who will
see you all right, and put you up to getting your kit and everything
else.
"But one thing I must tell you, and I would tell you a good many if I
had time. You must always do your duty briskly, heartily, and
pleasantly, and be obedient to orders. We've all got to do that,
lad. You will only be a small cog in a mighty great wheel. That
wheel is the British Army, that rolls round the world and crushes
everything that dares to oppose it.
"Your name is Ian?"
"Yes, sir."
"And the English is 'John.' Keep the Ian till you go back home
again--if ever you do. We'll call you John. And now, my brave lad,
I shake hands with
"PRIVATE JOHN ROBERTSON, OF THE 1ST ROYALS."
Book II.
Off to Join his Regiment
Book II
_OFF TO JOIN HIS REGIMENT_
CHAPTER I.
FIRST MONTHS OF SOLDIER-LIFE--THE PLEASURE OF DRILL--A
PASSAGE OF ARMS--EN ROUTE FOR EDINBURGH CASTLE--AN
OLD-TIME TROOPER.
Private John Robertson had been for three whole months in Fort
George, and drilling every day. Yes, those were stirring times, and
soldiers were so valuable that they had, figuratively speaking, to be
made by machinery.
Nobody likes to be drilled for the first time, or to form part in the
awkward squad of "Jockie Raws" as they used to be called.
I think that from the very first my grandfather considered himself
better in every way than the lads he was drilled with. Well, there
is no harm, but quite the reverse, I think, in a young man having a
good opinion of himself. But these companions of his were young
fellows who had been shepherds, plough-boys, or mechanics, and few of
them had very much English to bless themselves with, although I
grieve to say they soon learned bad words.
"You would make good men when trained," the drill-sergeant said,
"but," he added, "you are far from a pretty picture just at present."
Well, they were of all shapes and sizes, and they wouldn't "dress."
They kept their thumbs to the seams of their trousers, and their
heads in the air, but when told to dress* they sidled about like
crabs, and their eyes went squinting right and left in the most
comical way imaginable.
* Dress: form in a straight line.
One would have pitied that smart sergeant.
At times his brows were lowered till you could hardly have seen an
eye in his head. At times he beat his legs with his cane.
"Oh! oh! oh! what _are_ you doing?" he would cry. "Take the time
from me. McLeod, you are out of step. Donaldson, you dunce, you
ought to be shot."
There was a captain here who used to watch Sergeant Brown drilling
his awkward squad, and much amused he seemed to be. But he was even
more irascible than Brown. For instance, there were times not a few
when, losing his patience altogether, the sergeant would advance a
few steps towards his "Jockie Raws," and switch one across the face
with his gloves.
Then forward Captain Drake would dash.
"Don't soil your gloves, Sergeant," he would shout. "Don't even lose
your temper; I never lose mine at all, at all."
But next moment he would dash his fist straight out at the man whom
the sergeant had flicked, and no matter how big he was, down he
rolled, and took up ground on his back in the square.
Yes, Captain Drake had a beautiful fist, and those were rough times
for recruits and soldiers generally.
* * * * *
The words I am now going to write are purposely put parenthetically,
so that if they look too like a little bit of preaching they can be
skipped. There is an old saying then: _poeta nascitur non fit_. The
poet is born not made. This is certainly true. But we hear often
enough the same thing said about the soldier. "Some men are soldiers
born." This is not so true. Anyhow, depend upon it that, given the
raw material, a good soldier or a bad can be made out of it. A
soldier can be made or marred. Some who read this book will
themselves become officers in the army. I pray them, therefore,
never to forget that _good soldiers are made by kindness and
encouragement, and marred by rough treatment_. Find out the good
that is in a man. Fan that.
Whether my dear Auld-da was a good soldier or an indifferent, his
story will tell; and tell, too, I have family pride enough to
believe, in his favour.
In those wild and warlike times it was most difficult, be assured,
for a young fellow to rise from the ranks, and having so risen, to
keep on and on through good report and ill report, and never be
broken.
But I am of opinion that it was the words of kindness and
encouragement he received that first helped this soldier-grandfather
of mine to step out of the ranks and prove himself worthy of the
trust and confidence of his superiors.
And just one last word: just as often as not those very superiors
were far indeed from being patterns themselves.
* * * * *
I am sure that my grandfather was very proud indeed when he first
handled a musket. I know this from experience, having myself been a
full private in the Volunteers when I was in my teens. But when one
gets one's rifle and learns how to handle it--unloaded I mean--the
very exactness and detail of the motions are delightful. Then comes
company-drill, which seems to a beginner as senseless as the first
steps we learn at a dancing-school. But battalion-drill stirs the
blood, methinks, especially if you have a few miles' march to the
field of parade, with plenty of room for manœuvres. And what can
be more jolly than skirmishing in an open country? Nothing in the
form of exercise is more exhilarating, whether it takes place when
the summer sun is glistening on the greenery of the woods, or in
winter when the crisp dry snow covers all the land as if with a white
cocoon. Why, the very trumpet or bugle calls inspire you, and if you
are blessed with a good imagination you can easily believe you are
engaged in actual warfare, instead of only playing at being soldiers.
But the prettiest exercise of all, in my opinion, is that with the
bayonet. It has to be seen or experienced to be believed in.
Well, my grand-dad, of course, went through all these; yes, and he
and his companions in arms were kept very hard at it too. It was no
child's play learning to be a soldier in the latter end of the
eighteenth century. Pretty early to bed and precious early to rise,
drill, drill, drill all day long in summer's sun or winter's snow,
and with about a score of masters--more or less--to serve, Tommy
Atkins's life was then no sinecure.
Although my grandfather often used to say in after-days that with his
good sword he could shiver spear or pike, and bend or break an
enemy's bayonet off his gun, still he took very much to
bayonet-exercise at first, and delighted the heart of his
drill-sergeant.
Even at this early age, in a passage of arms at the New Year's fete,
the lad quite distinguished himself by his skill and agility. And
his instructor was a proud man accordingly. But his pupil had the
high honour of being called to a box occupied by ladies of title and
rank, and literally caressed by them. I dare say he felt a trifle
shy, especially when such remarks as the following were made in his
presence, and while he was being turned round and round for
inspection.
"Doesn't he look a perfect picture, Lady Jane?"
"A love of a lad!"
"And a perfect angel with the bayonet!"
"Look at his dainty cue!" The lady lifted it on her closed fan as
she spoke.
"And cheeks like raspberries!"
"Heigho!" sighed a stout old lady, in a comfortable chair, "if I were
only a hundred years younger I'd be a soldier myself."
"I dare say you have a dainty little dear of a sweetheart, haven't
you?" asked a lady.
My sixteen-year-old grandfather dropped his eyes.
"Yes, did you say? And what is her pretty name?"
"Rachel."
"How sweet! And now we'll let you go."
He saluted and left.
"Bless the little innocent!" were the last words that he heard.
"Find it rather hot up there, Robertson?" said the captain who used
to knock the recruits down.
"Just a little, sir."
"Ha, ha, good thing ladies don't often mix with our soldiers. Blame
me if pretty Lady Jane yonder wouldn't spoil a whole battalion.
"By the way, young cockalorum," he added, "would you like to be a
mess servant or my servant. You'd have less to do. Speak out.
Nobody wants to force you."
"Then, sir, I'd rather stick to ordinary duty."
"Quite right, my lad. Quite right. Well, look here, you play so
prettily with the bayonet that I think it would do you good to learn
sword-exercise. I'll send for you sometimes, and give you a lesson.
So shall Sergeant-Major Rae after we get down to Edinburgh. He is
nearly as good as myself with the broadsword."
This on the whole had been a very happy day for grand-dad, and when
he turned in that night, he thought everyone had been so kind to him,
especially Captain Drake.* He made a firmer determination than ever,
therefore, to stick hard to drill, and just learn all he could, and,
as his sergeant said, look upon himself as still merely a schoolboy.
* For obvious reasons names of officers who figure in this story must
be fictitious.
Some of the recruits had got to be wild and reckless even already.
They were rather encouraged than otherwise by the older soldiers.
Swearing, I am sorry to say, or the use of very ugly language, was
all too prevalent in the British Army in those days. So was
drinking. But apart from the use of expletives, the privates were in
the habit of passing very rude remarks, indeed, about their officers
and superiors generally. It is conduct of this kind that often leads
to mutiny in regiments, but in the old war-times the officers were
often much to blame for such a state of affairs.
There were many happenings, too, that would scarcely be permitted in
our time.
One day, as my grandfather was doing sentry-go by a gate near the
square, he noticed Captain Drake coming from the direction of the
officers' mess, and a couple of unarmed privates, under the charge of
a sergeant, marching from the men's side of the square.
They took up a position within hearing distance of my grand-dad, and
Captain Drake, note-book in hand, confronted him.
"Been at it again, Sergeant?"
"Yes, sir, and I've warned them ever so many times, but they will
keep on argle-bargling."
"Any insubordination? They keep quiet when you speak to them?"
"Yes, sir, and 'no' to your first question. Only to-day McGruer
threw a spoon at Pope's head."
"Hit him?"
"Yes, Captain Drake; you can see the mark on the bridge of Pope's
nose now."
"The Pope's nose, eh? Ha, ha. Well, did Pope throw anything back?"
"The salt-cellar, sir. Missed McGruer and brought up on big
Playfair's head. Big Playfair went for Pope, and there was five
minutes of a rough room, sir."
"Well, Playfair can't be blamed. This isn't a case for the halberts,
Sergeant. The men shall punish each other."
"You shall fight, men, and fight fairly, and after this there must be
peace, and I'll flog the man who breaks it. Nine o'clock to-morrow,
Sergeant."
Captain Drake turned on his heel and marched off.
At nine o'clock next morning, sure enough, the two men, stripped to
the waist, stood confronting each other in fighting attitude.
All the junior officers, were present, and one or two of the seniors.
At a given signal the men commenced. It was an ugly scene, as all
such are. Many rounds were fought, and much blood was spilt, to the
delight of the spectators, but at last McGruer was knocked out of
time. Presently the men shook hands, and I am bound to record that
peace was maintained between them ever after.
* * * * *
The company got the route at last, and on a cold, blustering morning
in December were marched to Inverness, and embarked the same evening
on board the packet for Leith.
The packet was a full-rigged ship. She carried a few guns--more, I
think, for show than defence, for the vessel was a mere tub. She had
seen better days, no doubt, and though little over seven hundred
tons, was reputed to have fought more than one battle against the
French or Dutch--it does not matter which, for grandfather himself
did not know.
We live in comparatively comfortable times, for the voyage from
Edinburgh to the beautiful capital of the Highlands can be easily
accomplished by steamer in a day. And now we shall learn something
about this short voyage as accomplished in an old trooper.
About fifty soldiers in all, probably more, were crowded down below
forward, although they had the option of sleeping on deck near the
fo'c's'le, if they chose. The officers, including Captain Drake
himself, were, of course, aft in the saloon, and had state-rooms such
as they were.
But the upper-deck, all between the fore and mizen masts, was crowded
with sheep, cattle, and a few horses. A kind of rude bridge ran
athwart-ships just abaft the main-mast. It was little more, indeed,
than a plank, easily unshipped, from which the officer of the watch
could abuse the sailors who were working the ship.
"Hee--hoy--oy! Yo--yea--ea!"
It was the sing-song of the men setting or shifting sail, as the good
ship _Vengeful_ got stretching out into the Moray Firth, and began to
feel the force of the cold, wild wind that blew from north and east.
Note that I have said "good ship _Vengeful_." In many respects she
was far, indeed, from being a good or a safe ship, so it is out of
courtesy to the old craft that I call her so. I cannot help,
somehow, always looking upon a ship as a living thing. Well, many a
storm had this ship braved, many an adventure had she taken part in.
From her lofty sides she had poured a hail of fire and shot that
scattered death and destruction along the decks of our saucy foes.
She had done her duty, and should I despise her in her old age? No.
And once more I dare to call her good.
Well, she sailed away, and as the short winter's day drew near its
close, she was still staggering on up the Firth, but well to the
north, with Kinnaird's Head so far distant that there was little
probability of her rounding the point for a day or two to come.
My hero had never been to sea before, and had he lived for over a
hundred years, it is unlikely that he could have forgotten that first
rough night.
There was little pleasure aft even in the saloon. A few gathered
round the table, and pretended to enjoy dinner with the ship's
officers, but all save Captain Drake himself, who was an old sailor,
retired at the earliest opportunity.
The saloon was deserted now, save by the skipper himself and the
ship's cat. And the great lamp swung in its gimbals, the
rudder-chains creaked, the ship's timbers groaned, and every time a
big sea struck her on the bows, she shook for minutes after like some
creature in the agonies of death.
The mate came below in a sou'-wester and dripping oilskins, and stood
in the doorway for a moment with a smile on his rosy face.
"All alone, sir?"
"All alone, mate. Soldiers have turned in."
"Best thing they could do, sir."
"Think it's going to be a dirty night, then?"
"Sure of it. Later on, you know. Fact is, sir, it is a blowing half
a gale now, and increasing every hour."
As he spoke, the first officer opened a cupboard, and helped himself
and his superior to something in tumblers that looked like coffee,
but wasn't.
Then he sat down on the edge of a chair. Sitting on the edge of a
chair was looked upon as partaking of deference to a superior, in
those days.
"Bring yourself properly to anchor, mate," said the captain cheerily.
Then the first officer drew his chair up to the table, and both lit
their pipes.
"Second mate's watch, I think?"
"Yes, just relieved me. I'll go on again at midnight, sir, 'cause I
expect it'll be a case of batten down."
"And those Swedes (soldiers), sir. Why, I pity them more'n the cows.
Mostly all on deck at present, and wet to the skin. What they'll do
when I batten them down is more 'n I can tell."
The mate spoke nothing but the truth, and not all the truth.
Come with me, in imagination, along this old-time trooper's decks,
and we shall see a little of sea-life in the days of yore.
CHAPTER II.
THE VOYAGE OF THE "VENGEFUL"--TERRIBLE SUFFERINGS
AT SEA.
As we crawl up the companion steps that lead from the saloon door to
the upper-deck, and leave the companion, we are glad we are in the
possession of good sea-legs.
We stand by the bulwark here a few minutes, clinging to the stays,
until our eyes get more accustomed to the darkness. Yonder, high
overhead, is a morsel of a moon, and the dark, goblin-like clouds are
positively racing across its disc.
Look we seawards, and we find the horizon is almost close aboard of
us, only the waves between tossing their white manes as they madly
gallop past us.
Whew--ew--ew! How the wind whistles through the rigging, and across
the scanty canvas!
With uncertain steps we stagger forward. Here is a very narrow
gangway betwixt the weather bulwark and the lashed planks that hem or
pen the cattle in. They are slipping, and sliding, and moaning low
in their shivering misery. We hold our lantern up for a moment, but
their pleading eyes appal us, and we hurry on.
Now and then, a bigger wave than usual sends the drenching death-cold
spray high above us, and we are fain to cower beneath the bulwarks.
But we are past the cattle-pens at last, and, but for our lantern,
would stumble over not one man, but many. All young--several, among
whom is my grandfather, only boys. He is lying there near the
bowsprit, and quite exposed to the elements, his head pillowed on a
coil of ropes, but, like most of the others, fast asleep.
Why do they not go below, where they may at least be dry and warm?
Warm! Yes; but I doubt the dryness. Come below and see.
The broad steps are black and slippery, the forehold has a cook's
range in it. This is forward. Hammocks all filled, and a bobbing
lantern hung more aft. The deck is so low that we clutch the beams
overhead to balance ourselves as we examine this floating black hole.
All round underneath the hammocks, on lockers, on boxes, on the wet
and fulsome deck itself, lie soldiers in every attitude of
prostration. Only a few are sitting up. Of these, some are uttering
maudlin sentiments, or waving their arms and singing songs we should
not hear, while others are playing cards in the uncertain light. But
one or two--strange sight in such a place--are kneeling down in
prayer.
We cannot stay long down here. The odour would make us sick, sailors
though we be. We cannot wonder now that the other recruits prefer
the cold, the darkness, and spray on deck.
But listen! The storm rages now more wildly than ever, and we can
hear the bo's'n's pipe, "All hands shorten sail!"
This is the order, and men spring from their hammocks and, hardly
waiting to dress, rush roughly past us.
Now, all is noise and confusion.
As long as she can, the _Vengeful_ must continue tacking. To lie-to
might mean drifting on a lee shore, and no soul could be saved if the
good ship once beat her sides against the dark rocks.
An hour passes by. There is no abatement in the terrible gale.
The men are working at the pumps, cheering each other as they do so
with snatches of wild song and a merriment that seems sadly out of
place. Quite a mill-stream of dark water is rushing over the side,
and the jerk, jerk of the pumps can be heard high above the roar of
the storm, beating a kind of harsh accompaniment to the men's rough
music.
No leak is sprung, yet so fast does she make water that the men are
kept steadily at the pumps.
And now comes the order to batten down.
"Rouse up, you lads! Rouse up and tumble down below. Quick's the
word."
My poor grandfather feels a foot in his ribs, and, hardly knowing
where he is, staggers up, and is almost carried below in the rush.
Luckily we are not down there now. The hold of a slave-ship were
surely sweeter far. And there imprisoned they must remain. If
daylight brings a lull in this storm the hatches will be thrown open,
if the ship founders down they must go--drowned or smothered--like
rats in a hole.
And surely this is what it is coming to.
For, hark! again the bo's'n's pipe.
We strain our ears to catch the order.
"Hands lighten ship!"
Yes, the cattle and sheep are to be thrown overboard into the boiling
sea, else the ship will sink.
O, the pity of it! and O, the cruelty and terror!
The poor sheep mute, as they always are, in the agonies of death, are
speedily disposed of.
Then comes the worst and saddest sight of all, as the struggling,
maddened, and bellowing cattle are hoisted with block and tackle, and
dropped into the sea.
But this is slow work, and danger presses. A gangway is opened at
great risk in the bulwarks, and the remainder of the poor beasts
literally slide off the decks, and for minutes you may hear their
bellowing far astern, amidst the wash and the dash of the billows.
* * * * *
Then the ship plunges on, and the men resume their work at the pumps:
and resume their songs.
Daylight breaks at last. Very slowly, but as it spreads over the sea
from east to west, the terrible turmoil of that awful sea is
awe-striking. The waves indeed seem mountains high, and tower green
and threatening over the ship as if bent upon engulfing her.
The hatches are thrown open later on, and the poor, half-dead
soldiers permitted to breathe once more the breath of heaven, and see
the light of day.
Truly it has been a fearful night. Nor has it passed without loss of
life, for one poor sailor has "lost the number of his mess," as
seamen say. He got entangled among the cattle, and was literally
rushed overboard with the poor beasts that had been doomed to death.
The storm lulls in a few hours now, and though the darkling land is
seen miles to the south, and the wind is still unfavourable, all
danger is over for the time.
Five days after this, having encountered head winds, and gale upon
gale all the way, the _Vengeful_ sails up the Firth of Forth and
anchors off Leith.
Perhaps never were soldiers more glad to get on shore than those poor
sea-beaten "Jockie Raws" are, my grandfather included.
But soon, safe in Edinburgh Castle, their sorrows are all forgotten,
and they are once more the careless, happy-go-lucky young soldiers,
just the sort of boys that were needed to fight for their King and
country in the brave days of old.
CHAPTER III.
LIFE AT THE CASTLE--A DANCE ON THE DINNER-TABLE--HOW
A QUARREL WAS SETTLED--A DROLL DUEL AND
THE ENDING THEREOF.
If anything could inspire an enthusiastic young soldier like my
grandfather with warlike ardour, it was residence in such a romantic
and mighty castle as that of Edinburgh. Its history is one of the
greatest and grandest that has ever been penned, and its associations
full of romance.
His friend, Captain Drake, lent him books about it, and these,
boy-like, he gloated over. They did him good in more ways than one,
as books and papers invariably do the soldier who cares to read, for
they kept him away from the temptations that are inseparable from
every large town or city.
But even a private soldier can choose his companions, though, in
barracks or out of barracks, this is sometimes hard to do.
Grandfather John, however, was fond of walking about by himself. He
could not be called quite alone, however, if he had a book and his
own thoughts. So he would climb the lofty hills on the Salisbury
Crags, and when tired of gazing at the lovely scenery, set himself to
read or think. Oftentimes, even when reading, his thoughts would
wander home to the bonnie Braes of R---- and his old school life, and
his droll adventures would rise up before his mind's eye, as well as
that cosy fireside in his father's house, by which he used to spend
the long forenights of winter.
Letters were dear to send in those days; they were dear indeed when
received--dear to the heart, I mean. The boy used to save up for the
postage, and this would take him, as a rule, a fortnight at the very
least.
He still kept Rachel's little letter and four-bladed clover. Indeed,
he had invested in a little case for it, and wore it around his neck
as an amulet on a ribbon of blue.
Sentimental was he? Well, perhaps; but I for one like a lad none the
less for that.
Captain Drake and the drill-sergeant continued to be very good
friends to John.
Under pretence of giving him some writing to do, such as copying
letters, the captain frequently took the lad to his rooms, and after
the work was done he would talk to him, and tell him strange, wild
stories of the life he had led, and of the countries in which he had
served.
I have no means of knowing whether these stories were true or merely
fiction, or part of both; however, they served their turn, and amused
the reciter as well as the listener.
I do not think that my grandfather's musical abilities were ever of a
very high order. In fact, like the illustrious Duke of Wellington,
he pretended to despise music. I think it was His Grace who used to
say that of all sounds music was the least disagreeable.
But when I was a bit of a boy, Auld-da often used to get me to sing
for him.
He was an adept at dancing, however, not only Highland reels and
flings, but hornpipes, and it soon was admitted that no lad in the
whole castle was more nimble among the feet than he.
Hornpipes are hardly known nowadays, but they were in great repute,
both on sea and land, in those old war times.
Captain Drake saw the lad dancing one day, and was rather taken aback.
Now although I do not think that betting, or wagering as it was
called, had grown up into a national sin and science during the
Napoleonic wars, still many a strange bet was made.
One evening, for example, at mess, someone said something about
dancing. I rather think it was Dr. McLeod--a stalwart junior surgeon
who stood six feet in his stocking-soles, and was well built besides.
In those same stocking-soles McLeod often treated his messmates to
the Highland fling or sword-dance after dinner.
On the evening in question the swords he danced across, to the music
of the bagpipes, were almost as sharp as razors.
"Well, McLeod," said Drake, "that is very clever, but I am willing to
wager a week's pay I can find a private in my company who can beat
your performance, and not cut his feet either."
The wager was taken at once by Major Lloyd. "But what is the dance
to be?" he asked.
"Well, he shall dance a ranting hornpipe on the dinner-table, without
breaking either a plate or a bottle."
There was a chorus of laughter. The thing was deemed an
impossibility.
The wager was accepted after this by three or four officers.
Next afternoon Captain Drake had an interview with my grand-dad, and
told him what had happened.
"Now, lad," he said, "my honour is in your hands, or rather feet.
Can you do it?"
My bold young progenitor's face glowed with excitement, and his eyes
sparkled merrily.
"Yes, Captain Drake. Yes," he cried, "and be so happy to please you."
The music was to be the fife, then a great favourite in the service,
and after dinner the performers came in.
The cloth was not even removed, and the long, strong table was
crowded with plates, dishes, and bottles.
My brave little grand-dad was not daunted by this fragile array. He
had been provided with a pair of dancing-pumps. He bowed to the
company, as the fifer struck up, and at the end of the first measure
sprang from floor to table as lightly as an indiarubber ball.
Not a step that he did not dance, and there were eleven, and not a
portion of the table that he did not traverse to the mad, merry lilt
of the fife. Yet never an article was broken or even touched.
The continued laughter ended, just as the hornpipe was finished, in
one wild burst of applause, which seemed to shake the very castle
walls.
Big McLeod was a droll fellow, and a very great favourite with the
officers.
"I'm beaten, and we're all beaten. Bravo! little man. If you can
fight as well as you can dance, what a rare soldier you'll make.
Hurrah! Play up again, fifer!"
And this bold, gay surgeon flung my ancestor on his brawny shoulders,
and went capering round the room with him, singing an old Irish ditty
to the old Irish music:
"'T was then, my boys, the merry pipes
Struck up a lilt so gaily O!
Och! 't was rare to see old Father Phipps
Beat time with his shill-ail-ee O!
Fill-a-lill-laie,
Liltie-laie,
Beat time with his shil-ail-ee O!"
* * * * *
Next morning Captain Drake gave my youthful progenitor five
shillings, but told him not to say a word to anybody.
The boy's eyes filled so suddenly with tears that the captain was
surprised.
"What! boy, you're not going to cry!"
"Oh, no, sir--at least--only tears of joy, sir. I'll be able to
write home now."
The officers' mess at the castle was a large and somewhat mixed one.
The officers and men of various regiments lay here, and would for
some months to come.
It was a mixed one, and it was a merry one, but I cannot say that
peace always reigned in the castle.
The officers had many ways of amusing themselves, both at home and in
the city. The play was a favourite resort, but balls and parties
were frequent enough.
Now, whether or not in those olden times men were braver than they
are now, I am unable to say. But one thing is pretty certain, life
was less valued, and among officers, and even civilians, quarrels
that in our day would be disposed of by a few words of explanation
were apt to lead to duels, that might or might not be fought to the
bitter end, either with pistols or broadswords.
I think that the worst kind of cowardice of any is that displayed by
the man who is afraid of being thought afraid. And an individual of
this small moral calibre is apt to be touchy, and apt to take offence
where none is meant. I have met such people often enough. I have
one in my mind's eye at this moment who belonged to the
flagship--well, let me call her the _Dockemshort_. A little fellow,
and no great favourite in our mess. He seemed to carry his eyes upon
stalks, like the lobsters, and was always on the outlook for someone
who might attempt to hurt his dignity.
In our times we settle disputes by arbitration; in our grandfathers',
or great-grandfathers' times, what was called honour was a far more
tender article.
Walter Scott makes two of his heroes who are about to fight address
each other thus:
"'Can nought but blood our feud atone?
Are there no means?'
'No, stranger, none.'"
There were two officers in this mess who seemed directly antithetic.
One was honest, gigantic McLeod, the surgeon. He was good-natured
and lovable, and hated duelling, or fire-eating, as he termed it.
The other was Lieutenant Blood--well-named, by the way. A little
fellow, and fiery. He was, when in his cups, somewhat of a braggart,
and would even boast of the number of times he had been out--not only
with his own countrymen, but with Frenchmen, Prussians, or Russians,
or anyone who would oblige him.
Well, at a ball, given in honour of something or of somebody, Blood
became greatly incensed at McLeod for having danced too often with a
beautiful young lady that he--Blood--had cast eyes upon.
McLeod and she were talking together, in a green, quiet corner, when
Lieutenant Blood strutted boldly up. He took no notice of McLeod,
who looked kingly in his uniform, and on whose arm the lady was at
that moment leaning.
"Pardon me, Miss Niven, but I believe the next dance is mine, and
with your fair hand."
"Not this time, Captain. I have my partner here."
McLeod looked down; there was a smile in his eye. Blood looked up;
there was mischief in his.
Nothing was said till next evening, when dessert was about half
through.
"O, by the way, McLeod," cried the fire-eater suddenly, "I consider
your conduct last night as simply abominable."
"Hullo! Hullo! Hullo!"
This from his messmates.
"You absorbed the whole of Miss Niven's attention, and you did me out
of several dances."
"But the lady liked it," said the surgeon, with a smile.
"I don't believe the statement, and I don't believe you."
Blood snapped his fingers in the air.
"Pass the salt, Jones," said the surgeon quietly. "I'm going to
catch it."
Jones made some remark about putting salt on sparrows' tails, and
Blood's eyes looked daggers.
"I--I--I--" he began.
"Toot! toot!" cried the doctor. "Don't get nervous, Blood, or I
shall have to put you on the sick-list."
"Now, to tell you the truth," he continued calmly, "Miss Annie----"
"Miss Niven, sir!"
"Well, she's Miss Niven to you, she's Annie to me. But she said in
my ear, with her face very close to mine, that she did not care to
dance with you, because you barely reached to her waist."
"For that _insult_, sir, you shall give me _sa-tis-faction_. You
understand?"
"Sa-tis-faction!" repeated McLeod provokingly. "You mean you want to
fight me with pistols. I'm not going to fight. Excuse me for
calling the attention of my messmates to the insignificance of your
person compared with mine. Figuratively speaking, Blood, you're only
one target, and I'm three. And unless your hand shook much more than
it usually does of a morning, you'd hit me. No, I'm not going to
fight you, Blood. Annie wouldn't like it."
"McLeod, you're a coward!"
Every officer sprang to his feet in a moment.
"That settles it," shouted the surgeon. "Waiter, throw up that
window. Quick!"
With an agility that no one would have given him credit for, McLeod
sprang on to the table and over it. There was the crashing of
bottles and plates, but next moment the giant had seized the pigmy by
an arm and a leg, and thrown him like a curling-stone right through
the open window.
There was no duel next morning. Blood was on the sick-list for a
week; but he never said "Duel" to the doctor again.
* * * * *
Even Captain Drake himself, kind-hearted though he was, found himself
one evening involved in a dispute with a friend at dessert.
Captain O'Reilly was an Irishman, but one of the merriest and
best-natured men in the Service.
I suppose wine was to blame on this occasion, as on many others.
O'Reilly had been away over the hills fishing all day, and feeling
tired, had exceeded somewhat. Like most of his countrymen, he was
most patriotic. Ireland has many grievances even now. She had far
more then. But the quarrel commenced with a slight O'Reilly threw at
the English, just after someone had sung a charming and patriotic old
Irish song.
Blood was the first to take the battle up.
"English music," he alleged, was "as good as Irish"; and Captain
Drake sided with him.
The argument grew so warm that O'Reilly called the English a nation
of musicless louts and shopkeepers. Then Drake retired.
"He means challenging me," said O'Reilly heatedly, as the door closed.
Now Drake meant nothing of the sort.
"He means to challenge me. But, by this and by that, I'll be first
with it. Doctor McLeod, will you be my second?"
"I'd rather not, O'Reilly."
"Certainly you can't," said the president, "because you see, doctor,
you'll have to be on the ground with your instruments, to extract the
bullets after the gentlemen shoot."
"The better plan," said big McLeod, laughing, "would be to extract
the bullets before the shooting begins."
"I won't be laughed down," shouted O'Reilly.
"Then," retorted the doctor, "do as the sparrows do: dicht your neb
and flee up."*
* Wipe your bill and fly up.
"I shall second Captain Drake," cried Blood.
"And I shall second O'Reilly," said Major Jones, a quiet little
Welshman.
Things were speedily arranged, although Captain Drake would far
rather have had them arranged in quite a different way.
The morning broke bright, and clear, and balmy. The blackbirds were
singing on bushes that clung to the cliffs, as Captain Drake opened
his window and gazed eastwards, where the sunshine was glittering on
the sea.
"Heigho!" he said half aloud, "what a pity that men should thirst for
each other's blood on a day like this. I can't make out what was the
matter with O'Reilly last night. I dare say I must shoot him,
however; but I'm very sorry."
"Come in."
This was shouted aloud, and next moment his servant entered his room
with a cup of hot milk, and told him that young John Robertson wanted
to speak with him.
"O, yes, of course. He is coming to the park with us to carry my
extra garments. Send him in."
"Well, lad, you're early."
"Because I was told to see you alone, sir."
"Leave the room, Spence."
"Now, John, what is it?"
"Lieutenant O'Reilly's servant gave me this note for you, sir. I was
to let no one see me deliver it."
As soon as Drake read it, he flung himself into a chair, stretched
out his legs, and laughed right heartily for fully fifteen seconds.
"Go now, John," he said, as soon as he could speak, "Come back in
half an hour, and we'll be ready for the march."
The note was from O'Reilly, and ran thus:
"DEAR DRAKE,--My morning reflections embitter my soul. Sorra a bit
of spite have I at you at all, at all. But listen, my boy: When the
word is given, just you fire at my second, and I'll fire at yours.
That'll settle it, and maybe settle the seconds too.
"Thine to the spine,
"PATRICK O'REILLY."
The only one on the field of battle who was really frightened was my
grandfather. So he told me. He had never believed it possible that
two friends could stand up in this cool-blooded way to take each
other's lives. However, the duel proceeded.
Drake, when he shook hands with O'Reilly, gave that officer's hand a
squeeze which he fully understood. The word was given.
Bang--bang, went the pistols; Drake deliberately firing at Jones,
O'Reilly letting off on Blood. Next moment little Blood sprang two
feet in the air, and fell sprawling to the ground.
"By this and by that," cried O'Reilly, "I'm feared that I've kilt the
little man entirely."
"Hurry, Doctor, hurry," gasped Blood, "I'm shot clean through the
heart. Extract the bullet if you can."
"With pleasure!" said the doctor.
The coat was taken off. There was a hole in that, and a hole in the
shirt, but no hole in the heart; no hole in the skin. The bullet had
hit the busk of the little man's stays, glanced off and gone
goodness--or badness--only knows whither.
The principal and the other second, Jones, past whose ear Drake's
bullet had whizzed, declared that honour was satisfied, and O'Reilly
shook hands with his friend once more, and all left the field about
as merry a party as ever drew pistols with deadly intent. No, not
quite all, for little Blood appeared considerably crestfallen.
But why? Well, it had been discovered that he wore stays, and I do
believe he would have preferred a flesh-wound to that discovery by
his messmates.
Nor did he get leave to forget it. That evening, at dinner, quite a
ripple of chaff ran round the table at this dapper little officer's
expense, and I fear that big McLeod began it.
"I think, Blood, you had a wonderful escape. But for the steel busk
in your stays, you would now be an ensanguined corpse."
"I move," said Jones, "that we all wear stays. Couldn't we petition
the Horse Guards?"
The president, Colonel ----, thought it time to hold up his hand,
though he smiled as he did so.
But Lieutenant Blood had done with duelling for a time at all events.
CHAPTER IV.
WHAT A BATTLE SEEMS LIKE TO THE SOLDIER--TERRIBLE
TIMES IN PARIS--CIVIL WAR AND MURDER.
"And so," said Drake one evening, to my grandfather, shortly after
the memorable duel in the park, "so you were really frightened?"
"I was sir, and I'm----"
He said no more, but hung his head.
"You are ashamed of being afraid. Eh?"
"I think so, sir. I'm afraid, too, that I'll never make a soldier."
"Nonsense, lad, nonsense. Right well do I remember my own first
fight. It was my first real fight, too. It is some years ago now,
and I was still an ensign, when clouds of war began in the East. I
knew nothing at all about fighting then, and I didn't know the least
little bit about politics.
"Indeed," he added laughing, "I don't know much about politics yet,
and don't want to. I know we have a King and a Parliament, and that
when most of them say one way, then they poke up the British lion,
then come busier times in the dockyard and busier times in barracks,
war is declared and we soldiers go away to fight, but to each of us,
individually, a battle is all a muddle. It is just marching and
counter-marching, shooting and fighting, advancing and retreating,
and so on and so forth--a most puzzling complication. Sometimes,
when you feel sure that you have beaten the enemy pretty nearly off
the face of the earth, you find that it is your side that has been
beaten, and that you have to retreat. At other times when you lie
down exhausted after a hard day's fearful fighting, not caring
whether you ever awake again after you get to sleep on the hard, cold
ground, because you think that your side has sustained defeat, you
are gloriously surprised to find out next morning that victory is
crowning you with glory, that the enemy is in full retreat, and your
regiment has received orders to follow them up."
"Along with other regiments, I suppose," my grand-daddy ventured to
remark.
"Yes, yes, of course with other regiments. But perhaps it is a
foggy, muggy, miserable morning, and you can't see any other
regiments, only a mounted officer or orderly galloping here and there
in the mist, looking more like a ghost than a man. That is war, lad,
but that isn't the worst of it.
"But let me see. What was I going to tell you about?"
"Your first fight, and your first fright, sir."
"O, yes, so it was. Well, there had been a terrible Reign of Terror
in France. Some day you may read an account of those massacres,
treason, treachery, and all combined. I know all about it by heart,
but it isn't wholesome reading for young fellows like you, so I shall
say little about it.
"But, briefly, boy--for I can see by your eyes that you want to know
a little--in 1792 war broke out between France and Austria, and
fighting began on the Flemish frontier.
"The French had little honour and glory in their first battles
anyhow. The Austrians walked through them, or would have done, had
they waited, but, instead of that, they not only bolted like so many
rabbits, but even murdered their own officers.
"Revolution was smouldering then in Paris. The armies of France lay
idle in front of the foe, afraid to attack, ashamed to retire.
"Then, as the time flew past--by weeks and months--and nothing was
done against the foe, the people of Paris became madly incensed
against the King and his profligate court, whom they accused of
treason against the people's rights.
"King Louis behaved like a fool, if he was not one out-and-out. He
could not recognise that the people had a mind and a will of its
own--that his subjects were not slaves. His Parliament, or Assembly,
desired to banish the priests that resisted its will. The King would
not submit. The people feared invasion, hardly knowing the day or
hour when the enemy should conquer and drive in their armies, and
appear before their gates; the Assembly, therefore, called for
volunteers to drill and make ready, and even encamp outside the city.
The King saw no necessity. He even dismissed the Minister whom the
populace delighted to honour and obey.
"This enraged the people beyond measure, and the streets of Paris
were filled with a yelling, haranguing, and, I fear, blood-thirsty
mob.
"This mob, at midsummer, actually forced its way into the Tuileries.
"Even this had not the effect of arousing the King to a sense of
impending danger. He was surrounded by his priests, his profligates,
and worse.
"But now the Austrians got allies. The Prussians joined them, and
France was invaded in earnest. Here was an army of fifty thousand
Prussians, commanded by the brave Duke of Brunswick, marching along
the banks of the Moselle, with an army of Austrians, or two rather,
pouring in from Belgium and the Upper Rhine.
"And now the end began to draw near, for in the name of the Emperor
of Austria, and the King of the Prussians, a proclamation was issued
to the people of France.
"This manifesto declared that the allied armies were marching on
Paris to take the part of the injured King--so they called him, or
thought him.
"'The city of Paris,' it went on, 'and its inhabitants, without class
distinction, are hereby warned that they must submit immediately to
their King, Louis XVI.; set that Prince at entire liberty, and show
him, and all the Royal Family, that inviolability of respect which
the law of Nature and of nations imposes on subjects towards their
sovereigns. Their Imperial and Royal Highnesses will hold all the
members of the Assembly, the Municipality, and National Guard of
Paris responsible before military tribunals for all events, and _with
their heads_, without hope of pardon.'
"They--the allies--further declared that if the Château of the
Tuileries were forced or insulted, or the least violence offered to
the King or Queen, or any of the Royal Family, and provision not at
once made for their preservation, safety, and liberty, they--the said
allied armies--would deliver the city of Paris to military execution
and total overthrow.
"This proclamation was issued on the 25th of July."
"O dear! said my innocent grandfather, that was nearly as bad as
Culloden, and the massacres that followed."
Captain Drake laughed.
"Wait a moment, lad, and make sure.
"That proclamation decided the fate of the King. The awful Bastille,
which had been so long the city's terror, had already been destroyed,
and, as soon as word was brought that the Duke, with his Prussians,
had crossed the north-east frontier, Danton, who was leader of the
demon democrats of Paris, assembled his ragged but desperate army, to
destroy for ever the monarchy that the invaders seemed bent on
supporting.
"The Republic was won* in a single day by the populace of Paris,
amidst the roar of cannon and the flash of bayonets.
* _Vide_ FYFFE'S _Modern Europe_, vol. i.
"On the 10th of August Danton let loose the armed mob upon the
Tuileries. Louis quitted the palace, without giving orders to the
guard either to fight or to retire.
"There was nothing to defend, for the monarch no longer hoped for
anything beyond his life; but the guard were ignorant that their
master desired them to offer no resistance, and one hundred and sixty
of the mob were shot down by them before an order reached the troops
to abandon the palace.
"The cruelties which followed the victory of the people indicated the
fate in store for those whom the invaders came to protect.
"It is doubtful whether the foreign Courts would have made any
serious attempt to undo the social changes effected by the Revolution
in France; but no one supposed that those thousands of self-exiled
nobles who now returned behind the guns of Brunswick had returned in
order to take their places peacefully in the new social order.
"In their own imagination, as much as in that of the people, they
returned with fire and sword to repossess themselves of rights of
which they had been despoiled, and to take vengeance on the men who
were responsible for the changes made in France since 1789.
"In the midst of a panic .... Danton inflamed the nation with his own
passionate courage and resolution; he unhappily also thought it
necessary, to a successful national defence, that the reactionary
party at Paris should be paralysed by a terrible example.
"The prisons were filled with persons suspected of hostility to the
national cause, and in the first days of September many hundreds of
these unfortunate persons were massacred by gangs of assassins, paid
by a committee of the Municipality. Danton had made up his mind that
the liberty of France could not be saved without striking terror into
the hearts of its enemies .... and the sword, once drawn, was not
sheathed until the best voices of France were silent, and the
exercise of power had become but another name for the commission of
crime.
"The Republic was then proclaimed, and the war became a crusade of
Democracy.
"You see, my lad, France, not content with having banished Monarchy,
and turned herself into a Republic, would fain have murdered every
king and queen in the world, and set up puppet--puppy, if you like
the word--presidents in their place.
"The leader of the French army was Dumourier, who, after checking
Brunswick, carried the war into Germany itself, which was then in a
poor condition to defend itself.
"But I see you are getting tired, lad, and want me to come to my
first fight."
"No," said my grandfather. "I like to hear you speak, sir."
"I only want to tell you what drew Britain into the turmoil.
"Well, the French, after crossing the frontier, won the battle of
Jenappes, and the Austrians abandoned the Netherlands.
"After this victory the French became excited by the fever of
conquest. Savoy and Nice were annexed. Corsica had already been
reconciled.
"And now, elated by their luck, there was no saying into what country
they might not carry fire and sword. And not only fire and sword,
but Revolution in its blackest and bloodiest garments.
"For it was decreed that in every country which should be occupied by
the armies of the French Republic, the generals thereof should
announce the abolition of all existing authorities; of nobility and
every feudal right and monopoly; proclaim the sovereignty of the
people; form provisional Governments therefrom to which no officer of
a former Government should be eligible.
"Well, as the agents of the French were fostering sedition in every
state, and stirring up bad blood even in Britain itself by the
preaching of the Rights of Man, and as the people of this country
could not forget the fearful massacres of September, we began to get
impatient and to thirst for war.
"When a country thirsts for war, lad, an excuse soon comes.
"There was a peace party in Britain, but as soon as news came to
London that the French King had been executed, war became inevitable,
and was declared on the 3rd of February by the French, just to be
beforehand with the British.
"Pitt, our Prime Minister, spared no pains now to isolate France, and
to crush her by raising a great coalition against her. Holland at
once joined us, then, later on, Naples, Tuscany, Spain, Portugal, and
the Papal States.
"But there were two parties in France itself--the Girondins, who
would have saved the King, if they could have at the same time kept
up their own influence in Paris. But the populace and Mountain party
saw through their falseness.
"And next came defeat and disaster, and even treason.
"The French General Dumourier opened the ball against Holland, but as
the Austrians had beaten the French at Maestricht, and they were in
full retreat before the foe, he had to return and fight the Austrians
near Brussels.
"He was defeated, and Flanders was opened up to Austria. Then came
the treason of this scoundrel Dumourier, for he coolly proposed
uniting his beaten army with the Austrians, and to attack the Paris
Convention, and restore Monarchy. He did not succeed, however, with
his army, and was obliged to fly to the Austrian side, and was shot
at, while he fled, by his own men.
"This treasonable coward brought ill-luck to the French, and they
soon lost all they had won in the autumn before, except Mainz, which
was garrisoned by a brave Republican army of 17,000.
"Castine, a French general, had to fall back upon Weissenburg.
"But worse than this happened to France, for civil war broke out.
The large province of Vendée, a peasant people, were ordered to raise
300,000 men. They refused. They had not been pleased at the
expulsion of the priests from Paris. They would rather fight the
Parisians, and in this they were encouraged by their Church, and the
Royalists still among them. So a civil war was inaugurated.
"The Government of Paris had only raw levies to send against them,
composed for the most part of gutter-grubbers and cut-throats, and
these the Vendéans soon put out of existence.
"Hitherto the Gironde party had held sway, but now, with Britain and
Austria thundering at the northern gates of France, laying siege to
Condé and Valenciennes, and driving the French army back before it,
the Girondes lost the confidence of the people, and were openly
charged with causing all the terrible troubles, even down to the
civil war of La Vendée. The Convention was surrounded by armed men
calling themselves a Commune, and the Mountain party arrested and
crushed the Girondes.
"They escaped, however, and now civil war commenced in terrible
earnest, Lyons, Marseilles, Normandy, and other departments rushing
to arms to attack Paris. The Royalists, of course, thought they saw
their opportunity, and joined these against the Mountain party.
"After the Lyons revolt, Robespierre the Bloody stepped upon the
stage, and the Reign of Terror--far too awful even to think
of--commenced.
"Well, my lad, it was early in the year 1793 that I first saw real
service, and this was at Toulon."
"Tell me," said my grandfather eagerly.
And Captain Drake continued his story.
CHAPTER V.
FIGHTING AT TOULON--TERRIBLE SORTIES--EVACUATION--OFF
TO CORSICA--CAPTURED BY BRIGANDS--CAPTAIN
DRAKE'S FIRST FIGHT.
"Well, John, lad," Captain Drake went on, "when I embarked for the
fair land of France, soon after the declaration of war, though many
years older than you are now, I had never seen a shot fired in anger
in all my life.
"With the 2nd battalion of our Royal Scots I embarked at Toulon.
"This great seaport was then held by the Royalists of France. Held
against the army of the French Republic I mean, and held, I fear, in
a somewhat shaky way.
"These Royalists had gone so far as to proclaim a successor to their
murdered prince, and they prayed the British to come to their
assistance.
"This we speedily did, Lord Hood taking possession of the place, to
have and to hold in behalf of 'Louis XVII.'
"But, not long after this, it was entirely invested by the Republican
forces. A stern and obstinate resistance was made, and for a time we
were, as a rule successful.
"Sortie after sortie was made, and successfully too, and the
Royalists behaved with the greatest gallantry, as they have always
done, my boy, and ever will."
"Were you in those sorties?" asked John.
"No, lad; I was kept engaged behind the ramparts, for my first fight
had not yet come.
"But the Republicans got so numerous, and our forces were so small
compared to the great extent of fortification we had to protect, that
it was at last deemed expedient to evacuate the place.
"If the whole truth must be told, as it always should be, even at the
expense of one's _amour propre_, the loss of Toulon was mainly caused
by the terrible artillery-fire conducted by a young officer called
Napoleon Bonaparte."
"_The_ Napoleon Bonaparte?"
"No other, lad. No other."
"Then we were beaten at Toulon?"
"Certainly; that is plain English.
"Hood was obliged to evacuate. Discretion is the best part of
valour, and, had he not done so, the Republicans would soon have
seized the place, and not a French Royalist or a Royal Scot would
have been left alive.
"But we embarked the Royalists on board our ships. We fired the
Trench shipping, and blew up the magazines and arsenals.
"Ay, boy, and that was a sight I am not likely to forget till my
dying day.
"But all were got safely on board at last, my own company, or rather
the company to which I belonged, being the very last to leave the
dockyard gates.
"It was about a year after this that an expedition was fitted out to
go to Corsica. The Corsicans, as I have already told you, assented
in a half-hearted kind of way to be under the dominion of the French
Republic, but some of them now saw the error of their ways, and would
rather hand the island over to Britain. These were in the minority,
however, so we prepared to fight.
"In addition to the 1st Royals, we had six good regiments along with
us.
"Well, I wasn't much of a sailor just then, and the first part of the
voyage, anyhow, was far from agreeable. We were in troopers, guarded
by ships of war, which kept a good look-out, I can assure you. The
French had still some craft afloat, and I, for one, had no great wish
to take part in a naval engagement. I hardly know, indeed, what part
we would have taken; I dare say it would have been the part of 'cut
and run.'
"However, we saw no foe except the elements. Crossing the Bay of
Biscay was a fearful experience. The Bay has a bad name, anyhow, and
this time it appeared determined to maintain it. It was not that the
wind was terribly boisterous, but the waves were hills high--a
seething, boiling, foaming mass. I dare say that if I were a sailor
I could describe it in more nautically romantic language. It seemed
to me, however, that when we got between two seas we would wallow
there for a time, and then founder. Then, when we got on top of a
billow, and could see about us a bit, that billow behaved in the most
heartless manner, shook itself, in fact, and shook us too, then
kicked us down once more into the trough of the ocean to wallow once
more. Our ship rolled at times till her yard-arms stirred up the
water as a Highland bull tosses a bundle of hay; then she would
pretend she was going down, head first, like a sea-unicorn, scaring
me out of my wits; after this, by way of a change, she would cock
herself up on one end--the stern, I think seamen call it--like a
poodle begging with a bit of bread on its nose.
"You may smile, John, lad, but it was no smiling matter to us. If
that be the way Britannia rules the waves, I'd rather stay at home, I
thought, and keep a farm. But we got into beautiful water after we
passed Gibraltar. Beautiful weather, too. The poet calls the
Mediterranean the Blue Levant, and no sky was ever bluer than the
ocean around us was now. The worst of it was that it fell dead calm.
For my part, I thought that was the best of it--I wasn't in any great
hurry to fight the Corsicans.
"We got there at last all the same, and on the 22nd of May our guns
shook the town of Bastia like a select assortment of juvenile
earthquakes, and there was some fighting. They told me after the
battle that we had taken the town in fine style, though, for the life
of me, I couldn't see where the fine style came in.
"But there was more to be done yet. As for the Bastians, they were
like a parcel of well-whipped schoolboys, and ready to promise
anything. They gave over not only the city, but all the island, to
the British. A rough lot they were, but they gave us fairly good
dinners and dances. Then there was very beautiful and wild scenery
further inland, and we got up shooting parties, though--bar rats, and
rabbits, and half-wild pigs--there wasn't much to shoot.
"One day I got separated from my companions, and lost myself in a
wood. I wandered on and on till nightfall, when I found myself in a
kind of rocky glen, and close to a rude sort of a cottage without a
chimney. Smoke was curling up through the roof, though, and some
goats and a cow were near by.
"I was very hungry, and here I thought was a chance of getting a bite
and sup, so I went boldly up and knocked.
"The door was opened after a time, but only just a little way, and
one of the most awful-looking faces I have ever seen peeped round the
edge. It was that of a blear-eyed hag, with dark, dishevelled rags
of hair, a nose that had been smashed, and a huge cavern of a mouth,
studded, apparently, with rusty nails instead of teeth.
"I suppose I didn't look very terrible; anyhow, seeing it was 'only
me,' she threw the door quickly open, seized my rifle with one hand,
and clapped a pistol to my brow with the other.
[Illustration: "A bleared-eyed hag clapped a pistol to my brow."]
"She speedily disarmed me, and then dragged me in and pointed to a
stone in a corner near the fire. Of course I sat down, and as I
didn't understand a word she said, I made signs that this Corsican
lady understood, for she handed me a huge bowl of milk and some fruit.
"After this I made up my mind that it was time to go. My rifle stood
near the door, and I made for that. But I never reached it. The hag
seized me by the coat-tails and seated me again so roughly on the
stone that I believed a bone was broken. I was a prisoner,
evidently, and guarded by a woman. What a humiliating position for
an officer of the 1st Royal Scots!
"But the worst was to come.
"I could see that she expected company. She stuck an extra pistol in
her leathern cingle, and gave me a nod, as much as to say, 'That's
for you, my pretty boy, unless you're good.' Then she set about
cooking a savoury stew.
"In about a couple of hours' time I heard voices singing in the
distance. They had lit two huge lamps, and immediately after the
door was opened, and in walked three brigands, armed with knives and
shooting-irons.
"I thought they would despatch me at once, but instead of that they
stuck their hands to their sides and laughed till the shanty shook
again.
"They ate like ogres, but every now and then they looked at me and
laughed again. Well, there was no laughing in my heart, especially
when they took to drinking next.
"But my time soon came. One fellow advanced and pulled my hat off
and placed it on his own dirty head, another took my necktie, and the
third my boots. Thus by degrees they stripped me naked, and that old
hag looking on and enjoying the fun.
"I was afraid they would now turn me out of doors, and had made up my
mind to struggle and die first. But this was not to be my fate.
"For, still laughing as if it were the best joke on earth, they
rigged me out as a brigand, though a very ragged one, and stuck a
huge broad-brimmed hat jauntily on my head.
"I was next led to the door, and a fellow beckoned me to follow him.
"It was a lovely star-lit and moon-lit night, with never a breath of
air, a night that under other circumstances I would have enjoyed to
the full.
"My guide led me on and on for nearly an hour, till at last, coming
to the brow of a hill, I saw the lights of Bastia and our ships far
down beneath. Then the guide disappeared.
"I had to make the best of a bad job now. So I hurried off down
towards the town. Luckily our temporary barracks lay on the
outskirts, for if I had been obliged to walk through the town, my
adventures might have ended by someone shooting me.
"The windows of our mess-place were all open wide, and two figures
were walking on the grass, Dr. McLeod and Lieutenant O'Reilly, both
smoking.
"I ran towards them.
"The doctor clubbed his big fist to knock me down.
"'It's only me,' I cried; 'for goodness' sake go and tell my servant
I want him at once.'
"Instead of doing anything of the sort, the doctor seized me by the
shoulder, while O'Reilly caught me by the hand, and thus they ran me
right into the mess-room.
"Everybody, including the colonel, was on foot in a moment; and when
they saw it was only me, why the laughter of those brigands was
nothing to be compared to the chorus that rang out now on all sides
of me.
"When they had nearly finished, I told my dismal story, and glad
enough I was to get away at last, throw off my brigand rags, and have
a bath.
"But my strange story ran all through our little army--a dozen
different editions of it--and it was months before I heard the last
of it.
"But to return to our Corsican war, John, and my first real fight.
Though the Bastians there were agreeable to give over the island to
Britain, a town called Calvi still held out. It stands at the head
of one of the best of Corsican harbours, and commands it.
"Calvi was going to fight. Calvi did fight, and as it could not be
taken from the sea front, General Stuart determined to storm it from
one side.
"A battalion of picked men was therefore formed, and embarked on
board our ships with artillery and war material of every kind.
"Our Royal Scots were among the chosen, and hard indeed was the work
before us.
"We were landed quite three miles from Calvi, which was as well
fortified by Nature as by art.
"The road to the town and its outworks, which we had to make, led
along the mountain-sides. These ended in precipices. But over these
hills, and along the edge of fearful chasms, our guns had to be
dragged, and batteries constructed on the very top.
"Then our fire began, and continued until at last we effected a
breach in the walls of the biggest and strongest outwork, called the
Morello.
"The storming of this tower and wall was entrusted to the Royals.
"The Corsicans could fight well behind walls, and the evening before
the attack nothing was spoken of in our mess except the coming
battle, and engagements of a similar kind that older officers than I
had taken part in.
"'Ah!' said a grey-haired major, 'your work to-morrow will be mere
child's play to some of the experiences I had when a youngster out in
America. Driven back pell-mell again and again, sometimes under a
_feu d'enfer_ that decimated our brave lads, and tore whole regiments
almost to pieces.'
"This didn't tend to raise my spirits, anyhow, and I did not sleep a
very great deal. When I did doze off, it was to dream I was storming
terrible heights and facing fearful odds, with guns roaring around
me, and men falling dead or wounded on every side. The guns in my
dreams, however, were real enough, for our artillery were firing at
the breach--though with uncertain aim--to prevent the enemy from
repairing it.
"Next day was one of trial for me. That is for a time, and so it may
be with you, lad, when you first come under fire.
"I told you I was scared, and now I'll tell you where and when the
fright and nervousness came in. It was before we rushed on to the
storming, and while we stood to arms, waiting for a whole hour before
the signal to engage came.
"I pretended to laugh and chaff lightly with my fellow-officers. I
dare say older heads saw through this mean pretence of courage and
_sang-froid_. Perhaps I was a bit white about the gills. Well,
there were several men in the ranks, probably, whiter than I was.
"But the signal came at last.
"'On, lads!' shouted the officer in command, drawing his sword, and
pointing to the breach.
"There was a wild cheer, and our fellows rushed forwards with
bayonets fixed. But the climb took the wind out of us, and silence
succeeded the cheering.
"As our men began to fall here and there, and the guns roared loud in
front of us, I think my heart made several attempts to jump out of my
mouth.
"Then came the main charge--in the deadly breach. Our fellows did
not cheer now. It was a slogan, a wild yell, that we uttered as we
ran in and on.
"Now all fear had vanished. I only saw the foe in front of me. I
heeded not the volleys, the blood, the clash of steel; I had no
thought but that of getting hand-to-hand with the fierce defenders.
"They were borne backwards at last by the fury of our attack. Then,
all at once, the cheering was renewed, and I knew we were victorious.
When I looked up I saw our flag fluttering in the breeze, and, though
very much out of breath, I felt not only exceedingly happy, but proud
as well.
"Perhaps my pride was excusable, for I had done my share, despite the
restless night I had passed, and my absurd state of 'funk' while
waiting for the order to advance.
"But I had no more fighting for two years, during which time our
Royals held the stronghold.
"And now, lad, off you trot, for there goes the first bugle for
dinner."
CHAPTER VI.
MY GRANDFATHER IS PROMOTED--AN UNLUCKY ESCAPADE--SAVED
BY A RIBBON--MASSACRE OF FRENCH NOBLES--NAPOLEON
BONAPARTE TO THE FORE.
Promotion was quick in those days; that is, if a young soldier were
really deserving.
I have always thought my grandfather one of the smartest men for his
years that I ever knew. He was smart in appearance, soldierly in
bearing, and most particular as to his toilet, and this without any
signs of pride.
It was these very traits in his character that first brought him into
notice with his officers. They could trust the young fellow, and if
he was commissioned to do anything, or to carry a message, he did his
duty most thoroughly. Well, if a thing is worth doing at all, it is
worth doing well.
He was soon so perfect in his drill that he was made corporal.
That was a proud day for him, when he was told off to drill a squad
of Jockie-raws in the barrack-square, in Dublin. His foot was now on
the first step of the ladder of fame, and he was determined that it
should not slip.
But now, as a corporal, he had more temptations to battle against
than before. He was taken more out, and even the sergeants, who, as
a rule, have more pride of place than their superiors, did not
hesitate to make a companion of him, and a confidant as well.
"Robertson will soon be one of ourselves." That was what they said,
or prophesied.
Another thing in honest John's favour was the education that had been
drilled or driven into him by Dominie Freeschal. His correct English
and his penmanship were specially in his favour, and he was often
employed by the senior officers to write from dictation.
He was by no means loth to do this, not because it excused him from
duty--which he dearly loved--but because it brought him into contact
with men from whom he could not help learning much. Moreover, the
work was not unremunerative from a pecuniary point of view. The
officers of the Royals were too proud to accept the services of a
writer for nothing.
* * * * *
When but little over twenty years of age, this progenitor of mine, to
his intense delight, found himself the proud owner of a sergeant's
sash and pike; and now, as I do not wish to hold him up to the
reader's notice as a paragon of virtue or a plaster saint, I must
record an adventure that he had, not long after his promotion, which
was very nearly being his ruin, and, but for a lucky chance, would
have broken him, and reduced a really able non-commissioned officer
to the ranks.
Had it ended thus, he assured me himself, he would never again have
returned to the Highland home where his father and mother and people
dwelt.
Sergeant John Robertson had been for some time a Freemason. I am not
a Freemason myself, so cannot tell you what a Royal Arch is, or
whether it requires but one stone to compose it, or a thousand of
bricks. Anyhow, that was the rank the young soldier held in the
lodge to which he belonged, and I dare say there was nothing in it to
be otherwise than proud of.
The regiment, or a portion of it, had been sent to the south of
Ireland, for the French had threatened an invasion, and it was our
purpose to give them a warm reception, and to prevent anything like a
rising of the Irish malcontents to meet them.
One day, grandfather was sent from the camp to march a squad of
Royals to a neighbouring town, a distance of about twelve miles. He
was early astir, and he, with his men, accomplished the journey in a
little over three hours. He was to come back alone, after delivering
the squad at the barracks.
This, having dined, he prepared to do, but as ill-luck would have it,
he forgathered with a squad of another sort, some Highland sergeants,
one of whom, to his great surprise and delight, was none other than
Tom Grahame, the boy--boy now no longer--with whom he fought for
Rachel Freeschal, and whom he had stabbed with his kilt-pin.
My grandfather did not know this tall kilted warrior, who came up to
him in the street and held out a hand to shake.
"Preen Mhor, and is it really yourself I see before me? Why, Ian,
don't you remember the lad you stuck the big pin into and nearly
killed, all for the love of sweet little Rachel?"
"Tom Grahame, is it you?"
The delight was mutual, and naturally enough the two linked arm in
arm and marched off to a neighbouring inn, to talk about those dear
old times that seemed so far away now, and the people they might
never see again. This was indeed a happy meeting.
Ah! dear me, though, I'm sure it would have been happier had they
taken nothing stronger than water.
But other sergeants dropped in, and now the company numbered five
withal, and a merry afternoon they spent.
My grandfather was not used to strong drink, and it is no wonder,
therefore, that the fiery stuff he swallowed should have flown to his
head.
He had put an enemy in his mouth, and it had stolen away his brains.
The Highland sergeants gave him what is called a Scotch convoy. They
walked with him to the third mile-stone, then they all walked back
half a mile to an inn. Here a bottle of usquebaugh was bought, and
at the fourth mile-stone the contents were discussed and the bottle
smashed. Taking a hearty leave of poor Tom and his companions, my
very naughty grandfather went on by himself. Presently, as the sun
began to wester, he thought he would treat himself to a little song,
and did. And now he heard the sound of horses' hoofs clattering up
behind him, and next minute a gentleman's servant pulled up alongside.
"Soldier," he said, "you look tired; will you have a ride? This
horse can carry you and me both, and never turn a hair."
"Thank you very much. How far are you going?"
"Within two miles of your camp. Leastways I take it to be yours. My
master is Colonel W----, of the 42nd, stationed in the town you've
been to, but he lives out this way for the present.
"Are you too unsteady," he added, "to get up behind?"
"Not a bit of it," said my grandfather.
So he mounted, and on they rode, chatting cheerily.
By-and-by they came to an inn, and naturally, let me say
hypothetically, my grandfather asked the man to drink, and I suppose
had some himself.
Inns must have been plentiful enough along that road, for they had
not ridden a mile farther before they came to another little hostelry.
This time the man ordered the "noggin," but as soon as this was
disposed of, he said rather gruffly to my grandfather, "Pay for that."
"Pay yourself--you called for it. I paid the last, and I'll pay the
next."
"What! You won't pay it?"
"No."
"Then get off my horse."
This was too much for Highland blood, especially Highland blood fired
with Irish whisky. Sergeant John seized the man by the neck and a
leg, and in two seconds threw him off the horse. He managed to
wrench the reins from him as he fell.
He just stopped long enough to toss a coin to the gaping landlord,
then struck his heels in the horse's ribs, and, uttering a yell like
a Mexican cow-boy, dashed madly off.
He felt more inclined to sing now than ever, though what he did sing
I cannot say. Something madly Bacchanalian, I have little doubt.
And as he sang he waved his pike and slew imaginary foes.
Now, not far from the house where lived Colonel W----, was a narrow
bridge over a stream, a high old Gothic sort of structure from which
quite half a mile of the road could be seen.
Some men working here, noticing what they thought was a mad soldier
on horseback, quickly formed across the road, and, at considerable
risk, succeeded in stopping my grandfather's gallop.
His career was stopped for one night, and he was made prisoner.
Before this, however, the servant himself was seen in the distance,
and honest John at once rushed to meet him. He merely meant to
frighten the man, but this he succeeded in doing entirely to his own
satisfaction, if not to that of the unfortunate servant.
The rest was all a blank to my soldier grand-dad, till he awoke next
morning in a strange room, and found a sentry standing beside the
window with fixed bayonet.
"Am I a prisoner, then?"
"You are, indade, sorr. Don't ye moind what ye did at all?"
"Nothing terrible, I hope?"
"Well, as near as a toucher, Sergeant. Sure, if you hadn't been
caught, it's a big hole you would have drilled in the colonel's
servant, and kilt him entoirely."
The prisoner's agony of mind for the next two hours may be better
conceived than described.
He was then brought to the colonel's own room, and, much to his
astonishment, received with kind words and a smile.
"But now give an account of this sad affair," he said. "My servant
gives me his version, I would like to hear yours."
"I will tell you all I remember, sir, and you will then see that the
fault was altogether mine, and your servant not at all to blame."
He then told the story as we know it.
"And that is the truth, Sergeant; the whole truth?"
"O, no, sir, not the whole truth."
"And what have you kept back?"
"Why, nothing that I can think of. I have brought myself as far as
the bridge; after that it is all a blank."
The colonel smiled.
"Well," he said, "if I report you to your regiment, you are fully
aware what the consequences will be."
My grandfather hung his head.
"I will not report you. There is a morsel of ribbon in your jacket.
I well know what that denotes. I am myself a Mason, as--as you know.
I will forgive you."
"O, sir, what can I do to show my gratitude? Anything, sir, in the
world----"
"Stay, don't be too profuse. But there is one thing I wish you to
do. Promise me, on your honour, that you will not let temptation
overcome you again."
"On my honour as a soldier, sir, I promise you, but----"
"But what?"
"I had already made the same promise to myself, and I have prayed for
help."
"Good. Go back now to your camp. You shall hear no more of this.
Good morning."
"Good morning, sir, and a thousand thanks."
I have only to add that the promise he made to Colonel W---- he stuck
to, not only for a time, but throughout his whole career. He may,
and doubtless did, take his "ration of grog," but never again did he
exceed.
I cannot say the same for many of the other sergeants, however, for
those were hard, wild times. His own colonel said to my grandfather
one day long after this:
"I have never seen you even once the worse of liquor, Sergeant
Robertson. And I verily believe if I set you astride a wine-cask,
like Bacchus, I would find you all right in the morning."
My grandfather's thoughts reverted to that wild night when returning
from K----, but he answered never a word.
* * * * *
To hark back a little way, or rather a few years, and that is indeed
but a short time in a war that lasted for twenty twelve-months.
Captain Drake told us then how Hood had to leave Toulon after burning
the French fleet. He said nothing, however, about the horrors of
bloodshed and massacre that followed the entry of the French
Republican forces. Such stories are perhaps best left untold.
The burning of the fleet, however, gave us full power in the
Mediterranean. But the Vendéans, though promised help from the
British, were soon overpowered, then Lyons fell.
After Robespierre himself had met his deserts in 1794, a new
Government reigned in Paris.
In June, 1795, the British fleet landed the old nobles of France and
an army in the Bay of Quiberon, in South Brittany. The people here
were loyal to the backbone, and the expedition would be supported not
only by British ships, but by British money.
But, alas! those nobles spent time quibbling and quarrelling as to
who should command their forces. Then General Hoche swept down on
them like an eagle, captured their fort, and hurled them back towards
the sea.
In their fright the fugitives threw themselves into the waves, and
many of these were saved by our boats, but all the others who were
not killed in battle were made prisoners, and, horrible to relate,
six hundred of these were massacred in cold blood.
* * * * *
In the early part of 1796, that bright particular star, Napoleon
Bonaparte, whom we last heard of at Toulon as a young artillery
officer, began to blaze on high, for we found him in command of the
Italians--Italy at that time was not of much importance, and sadly
priestridden. He had advised the Directory, as the French Government
was now called, to make a threefold attack on Austria. Peace had
been concluded with Spain, while Holland and the Lower Rhine were at
peace, owing to the Treaty of Basle.
It will do the reader no harm to know that the French General Jourdan
was to enter Germany by Frankfort; Moreau to cross the Rhine at
Strasburg; and Napoleon himself to face the Austrians and Sardinians
on the mountain slopes forty miles to the westward of Genoa.
Napoleon had 40,000 men on the hills above the coast 'twixt Nice and
Genoa. The Austrians had an army of equal strength to face this
force, and the Sardinian army besides.
To sever these two armies Napoleon fought for four days, then getting
betwixt them he left a force to watch the Austrians, while he swooped
down on the Piedmontese, driving them back towards Turin with
terrible slaughter. The Government was terrorised, and glad to make
peace with the young and artful general, giving up to him the
fortresses of Coni, Ceva, and Tortona, most important strongholds,
because they commanded the entrance to Italy itself.
But Napoleon got also the town of Valenza, at which place, or near
it, General Beaulieu was led to understand the French would cross the
Po. Here he concentrated his forces and waited to give Napoleon
battle. But the latter was cleverly playing his own game. He
crossed fifty miles lower down.
There were no telegraphs in those days, so Beaulieu got no inkling of
the awful truth until he heard the roar of Napoleon's guns in his
rear. It was a grand fight, that at Lodi.
Sword in hand at the head of his grenadiers, the future Emperor of
the French crossed the Bridge of Lodi, and the Austrians were
fearfully beaten.
Then into Milan itself marched Napoleon in triumph. And the Milanese
had to purchase their freedom, not only with vast sums of money, but
even with the spoils of their beautiful churches. Napoleon next
marched into Central Italy, being determined to drive the armies of
Austria completely out of the field. He advanced upon Mincio. In
the battle fought by the Austrians and French at Borghetto, Beaulieu
was again badly thrashed, and forced to fly into the Tyrol, leaving
the French to invest Mantua.
CHAPTER VII.
POLICY AND AMBITION OF NAPOLEON--REBELLION IN
IRELAND--ATTEMPTS AT INVASION--THE WHOLE WORLD
OF EUROPE IN A BLAZE.
By the genius and strategy of Napoleon, coupled with a certain dash
and _élan_ that never forsook him till the very last, Austria was
driven from Italy. By the end of March he had even carried the
mountain passes that guard Carinthia, and pursued the enemy to within
eighty miles of Vienna. The Emperor sued for peace, and the kind of
peace made was one dictated by Napoleon himself, and to his own
advantage as much as that of France.
In fact, Napoleon Bonaparte was a capital map-maker. What was Italy
one day, would be Austria the next, and French territory soon after.
Treaties, in those days, were as often abrogated as not. They were
all very well so long as they suited the convenience of those who had
made them. When they failed to do so, nations tore them up and made
war; then the victor made another treaty, and the self-same fate
probably awaited that.
Napoleon was probably one of the most graspingly ambitious men that
ever lived, and one of the cleverest. Like a shepherd's collie, he
seemed to sleep--if ever that great brain of his did sleep--with one
eye open, ready to come down like a wolf on the fold, whenever he saw
an opening. He played at the great game of war. He played for high
stakes, too; he cared nothing how many crowns or sovereigns he threw
down, or how many kings, queens, and knaves opposed him. Talking of
kings and queens, by the way, there were a good many about in those
days, and some were hardly distinguishable from knaves.
"A prince can mak' a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that,
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Guid faith he mauna fa' that!"
Well, I don't suppose the great Napoleon himself ever attempted to
make an honest man. An honest man might have stood in his way. He
preferred fools. As to Marquises and that kind of folks, he could
turn them out by the score, and he could make kings too--or mar them.
It was all the same to Napoleon. He dreamt that, like Alexander the
Great, he had conquered the world, and he was going to do his best to
make that dream come true. But he didn't mean to imitate Alexander
any further; he wouldn't sit down and cry because there were no more
worlds to conquer. No, those he had conquered and trampled under
foot, might do the weeping, he should sit on high and play at being a
god.
On second thought, I beg to retract that wee word "sit."
No ambitious man ever did or could sit. Sitting only belongs to the
happy and contented. The brain of ambition is always in a turmoil
and a whirl.
Ambition is the tower of Babel, which a man builds for himself, and
the higher he builds it, the farther from the heaven and the haven of
contentment does he place himself. Because contentment rests on
earth, and happiness is its twin brother.
However, it was Napoleon's very successes that made him popular with
the French. Some people are driven "daft" by good luck, and some
nations are of the same temperament. Our Gallic neighbours are, for
example. They possess but little of the bull-dog courage, the
steadiness and staying power, of the British. So long as luck
favours them, then "Pah!" they cry, "We vill fight till all is blue."
But when reverses come, their hearts cool down. They are like the
steam that rises, from a burning house as the firemen play on it, on
a hard-frosty night in winter. It rises high in air, as steam, but
it soon gets chilled and descends as snow.
But the ovation that General Napoleon received in December, 1797,
from, this excited people in the great Hall of Legislature, would
have turned many a modest head. Perhaps no young conqueror, ever
before, faced so great and enthusiastic an audience. We are told
that the flags and trophies of all the battles of the Republic were
displayed in the Audience Hall that evening.
The "glories" were set forth in inscriptions such as the following:
"A hundred and seventy captured flags.
"A hundred and fifty thousand prisoners taken in battle.
"Six hundred field guns.
"Five hundred and fifty siege guns.
"Five pontoon bridges.
"Nine 64-gun ships, twelve frigates, and twelve corvettes.
"Armistice with the King of Sardinia.
"Convention with Genoa.
"Armistice with the King of Naples and the Pope of Rome.
"Preliminaries of Leoben.
"Liberty granted to the peoples of Bologna, Ferrara, Modena, Massa,
Carrara, and Lombardy, and to the peoples of the Ægean Sea, Ithaca,
and Corcyra."
Then there were the grand works of art and spoils of the churches.
And was the man on whom every eye was turned in this great assembly,
proud? Well, he looked so young, so modest, and yet so gallant
withal, that ladies got a little off their head about him.
But in the brief extracts of the speech he made, he did not show a
very overwhelming amount of modesty.
"We, the people of France, must be free, and to be so we must conquer
kings. We must overthrow the prejudices of eighteen hundred years,
to gain a constitution founded on reason. We have triumphed over
many obstacles, as the trophies around you prove. Though feudalism,
royalty, and religion have hitherto governed Europe, from the peace
now concluded a Representative Government shall date. The territory
of this mighty nation is bounded but by natural limits. France and
Italy now see arising, from the graves of their ancestors, immortal
liberty. I hand to you the treaty of peace signed at Campo Formio,
and ratified by the Emperor, a peace that shall ensure liberty,
prosperity, and glory to the Republic. France is free, and the whole
of Europe must be free also."
This speech, though not remarkably eloquent, was a torch that bid
fair to set the whole of Europe in a blaze.
Austria having made peace with France, Britain was left to fight her
single-handed. The bombastic doctrines preached by France and put
into practice--successfully, too--by so great a war-genius as
Napoleon, stirred up the worst blood and the lowest classes in many
European cities. Men who would never work for themselves could talk.
Why should not every nation follow the example of France, and be
free? Why should kings and queens and nobles wallow in wealth, while
the poor were left to die for hunger?
There were insurrections soon at Rome itself, and even the Pope was
deposed. We Britons were autocratically ordered to restore to France
all the spoils we had taken in the war, and all the lands.
Of course, we didn't.
No nation, or combination of nations, is ever going to put a foot on
Britain's neck, or rob her of a single possession, so long as we
retain that greatest possession of all--possession of the sea.
In 1798 the Irish rebelled. They too would be free. O reader, we
cannot blame them. They were a conquered nation, and held down by
bloodshed, murder, and rapine.
Ireland was, indeed, a thorn in the flesh of Great Britain at that
time, and it was a thorn that the French would gladly assist in
extracting, and afterwards keep for itself.
A certain Dr. McNiven repaired to Paris on the sly, and arranged with
the Directory all the preliminaries of an invasion, which it was
believed would entirely dismember Ireland from England and Scotland.
The United Irishmen meanwhile rose in arms. It was their purpose to
seize in one night the Castle of Dublin, the camp, and all the
artillery. But the conspirator let the cat out of the bag, and this
was disastrous to the cause.
Battles, however, were fought here and there all over Ireland, but in
every instance the Irish lost, and so the rebellion was put down,
with, as usual, much needless slaughter and terrible cruelty.
The mission of Dr. McNiven to Paris bore fruit, and was productive of
sad results to France itself, as well as to poor bleeding Ireland.
An invasion was actually effected, for the French landed in Kallala
Bay with 1200 men, under General Humbert, and with uniforms for 3000
men. They were quite certain that the Irish would rise to meet and
assist them.
Humbert drove in the Fencibles, as they were called, who were really
akin to the Volunteers of the present day. Then he advanced to
Castle Bar, and thrashed Lake and his army, although nearly double
that of his own in numbers.
The British were in a fix now, but prepared to meet it by strategy
and force. Lord Cornwallis was made Viceroy of Ireland, and arrived
at Dublin in June. He flattered, he threatened, he cajoled and
blarneyed, and finally succeeded in raising an army so big that the
French threw away their guns and ran.
They were all captured, and, I fear, received but scant grace or
mercy.
There was still another expedition from France at the same time. But
this was detected and followed. The French were overhauled at sea,
and as pretty a pitched battle on a small scale fought as any English
tar would wish to be engaged in.
We won. But, indeed, the weather had severely damaged the French
fleet before our war-ships took them in hand.
May the wind and weather always fight for brave Britons hereafter, as
it has done in days gone by.
But the French were not content with invading Ireland, for, to tell
the truth, Bonaparte had not much faith to place in the fighting
powers of the Irish while their feet were placed on Irish bog,
although he knew they were splendid soldiers when well commanded.
But the French Directory set about planning an invasion of England,
or some part of Britain, in a fleet of flat-bottomed boats.
There lies between Cherbourg and Havre a group of small islands that
Sir Sidney Smith had captured, and garrisoned with marines and
sailors, in 1795. With thirty well-armed flat-bottoms the French
tried to regain these, but two of our ships treated them to such a
hailstorm that they, having just sense enough to get in out of a
shore, ran into Sallenelle, and stopped for three weeks to repair.
Then they determined to try again.
Says General Cust: "The enemy remained here for three weeks, during
which time he received a great accession of troops and forty more
flat boats, which enabled him again to put to sea and reach
unobserved the roadstead of La Hague."
On the 6th of May, availing themselves of a calm, which gave them
some advantage over sailing vessels, they stood across to attack the
islands.
At daybreak next morning the boats, fifty-two in number, rowed up
with great resolution to within musket-shot of the batteries, while
our brigs with their heavy cannon kept up a fire upon them from a
distance of 300 or 400 yards.
The British ships _Adamant_, _Eurydice_, and _Orestes_ were all this
time in the offing, but unable, owing to the calm, to get nearer than
six miles. But our lieutenant, Papps Price, who commanded the
garrison, loaded to the muzzle with round shot, grape, and canister,
poured such an iron storm upon the boats that several of them, cut
into chips, went down bodily, and those that could float began to
seek safety in flight.
The pity was, reader, that the wind wouldn't blow, and let the ships
up to sink or capture the whole flotilla.
Of course our sailors whistled for the wind, until they nearly
whistled the whites of their eyes out, but all in vain.
Another attempt was to have been made, but at length the whole of the
gun-boat fleet returned to Cherbourg.
Just as our ministers did this year in which we live,
1896--ninety-eight years after the flotilla action--when menaced by
foreign powers, so did the British minister then. He adopted and
increased every means for the defence and security of the British
shores. The Alien Bill was also renewed, and a suspension of the
Habeas Corpus Act carried. The greatest alacrity was shown among all
classes of the British people to confront the menaced assault on
their country.
Party differences were suspended, and the whole kingdom, united in
heart and hand, rested in firm confidence, that
"Nought shall make us rue,
If Britain to herself do rest but true."
* * * * *
I feel inclined, being a naval sailor myself, to tell you here how a
French fleet sailed under sealed orders, and under Bonaparte for the
Mediterranean, and how they captured Malta: and how Nelson was sent
after them; how Napoleon, landed his army in Egypt and captured
Alexandria, and fought the battle of the Pyramids, near Cairo.
I say I feel inclined to let loose all this history on you, but must
pull myself up with a round turn.
In one of my other books, I think, I have described Nelson's great
victory of the Nile, and so I must refer you to that.
But, my dear boy-readers, a knowledge of history may well do us much
good, and help us to fight for our country in the days to come.
Our Navy is our first defence. Long may it float supreme! If so, we
can sleep quietly and calmly in our beds at night, and never fear
invasion.
The
"Flag that braved a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze,"
shall guard the front gates of our castles and homes, but our forts
must not be forgotten. They are the guards to the back gates, and
our brave Volunteers are behind them.
The year 1799 was no less bloody than its predecessor.
The French and Napoleon became more and more ambitious, France
forming a cordon of republics on all sides of her, that bade fair to
put an end for ever to kings and kingdoms, and place in their stead
republics, mob law, and murder.
Russia saw the danger, so did Prussia and Austria, and against the
latter, now preparing a great army to recapture, if possible, all it
had lost, the French Republic declared war.
A second coalition now threatened France.
The whole world of Europe was soon in a blaze. These were, indeed,
the dashing days of old, and yet we do not want them to return. For,
as my dear old grandfather used to say:
"War is a terrible, terrible thing!"
CHAPTER VIII.
GRANDFATHER GOES ON FURLOUGH--A CHANGE AND MANY
A CHANGE--POOR LITTLE RACHEL--BATTLE OF
ALEXANDRIA--THE GALLANT 42ND--NIGHTFALL ON THE
FIELD OF BATTLE.
Late in the year 1800, or early in January, 1801, my grandfather's
company were doing duty in Dublin.
He had behaved so entirely to the satisfaction of his officers and
colonel, that when a longing came over him to behold once more the
scenes of his boyhood, a furlough was at once granted to him, and, in
a sailing packet, stormy and cold though the weather was, he left
Dublin for Glasgow. The wind was favourable, though high, and in
little more than two days he landed at his destination.
The coach road to Edinburgh was clear, and he was lucky enough to
find a ship just starting for Inverness. He stopped for nothing, but
hurried on board. He was a good sailor now, but, moreover, he was
lucky in getting a good ship; and so, on the 10th of January, he
found himself again in Inverness. Every street, almost every house,
brought back to his mind recollections of his former life, and days
of his boyhood. 'T was but a short time ago, after all, for he was
now but twenty-one. But there were changes, and some were sad enough.
Naturally he bent his steps towards the house of his old friend,
Craig, the staymaker.
He found it deserted, and the windows boarded up.
He entered a shop close by, to make enquiries.
The people had only recently arrived from the south.
But a woman was there shopping.
"I knew the Craigs well," she said. "Indeed, indeed, the pair of
stays I'm wearing at this very moment was made by the old man
himself."
"And where have they gone?"
"O, dead and buried years and years ago. Old folks, you know. A
pound of sugar, Mr. McDonald."
My grandfather thanked her, and walked away, somewhat saddened by the
brief interview.
He walked out now towards the river, and down along its bonnie banks,
that were green even now, though away on the mountains the snow lay
thick and white.
Yes, there was the Lodge. The house itself was looking much the
same, but the gardens were ill-kept, and it was evident, from the
drawn blinds, that the Frasers had left.
He had had no intention, at any rate, to call, but the deaf old
gardener was leaning over the gate, and him he addressed.
"You don't remember me?"
"No, no, not at all. You're a bonnie man yoursel', but she doesna
like a red-coat."
"And where have the Frasers gone?"
"Eh? What? O, ay, the Frasers. Well, ochone! the bonnie leddie is
dead and away. And the captain is gone to the wars. They tell me he
has gone to fight for Charlie. Heigho! it will be bonnie days when
the old Stuarts get their own."
My grandfather smiled. This, then, was all that this poor dottled
gardener knew about the wars that were then shaking the world to its
social foundation.
He knew what a shilling was, though.
Now this old man was seventy if a day, but when my grandfather held
out that shilling he drew back with a start.
"She'll no' touch it," he cried. "You'll be wanting me to enlist to
fight for George. Na, na, she'd maype fight for Sharlie Stuart, but
not for George, no, no, no."
"He would have taken half a crown, though,
But had to be content with 'saxpence.'"
Grandfather started off now to walk to Beauly.
There were no leaves upon the birchen trees. The heather was brown,
the brachens withered, the voice of song-birds was no longer heard in
the woods, only, across the dark waters of the Firth, the white gulls
skimmed and screamed. Yet, desolate though the scene was, it cast
not a shade of gloom on the young soldier's heart. It was _home_.
And
"Hame is hame, howe'er sae hamely."
* * * * *
He remembered, now, the fisherman's little cottage. Ah! that must be
visited. So down he went towards the beach. Yes, yonder stood the
little cot. But it was roofless and still. Only the sea winds
moaned around its deserted walls.
Before he reached Beauly he passed the very spot where, years ago, he
had knelt in prayer. Someone unseen seemed to beckon him there to
pray again, and willingly he obeyed.
He had much to be thankful for, and thankful he was, just pouring out
his heart silently before the Unseen God, and praying that, as he had
hitherto been mercifully preserved, the same kind Father would
thenceforth keep his eyes from tears, and his feet from falling.
Well, poor young fellow, he needed some consolation; for, on calling
at the little inn at Beauly, where he had been a prisoner, he found
Ellen, but little changed.
They talked away right merrily for a time, till at last she asked:
"Does your people know you are coming?"
"No, Ellen; I want to give them a happy surprise."
"I suppose you know your old dominie has left and gone to Glasgow?"
"No--o--o; that is news indeed. And Rachel, she----"
"Ah! yes; your little sweetheart, she is dead and gone."
Grandfather felt as if a shot had struck him. He reeled and
staggered backward into a chair. Ellen was shocked at her own
rashness. She put her arms around his neck as if he were still a boy.
"Poor Ian, poor Ian. Oh, I didn't know you loved her so much."
He dashed away the tears, and rose slowly from his seat. The sudden
news was, indeed, a shock to him, and one from which he did not
recover for weeks.
* * * * *
Should I apologise, my dear boy and girl readers, for thus letting
our little heroine Rachel die? I think not. Because you must
remember that the story I am writing is not mere fiction. You will,
doubtless, believe me when I say that I am more sorry than anyone
else could be. An author ever loves his heroines as well as his
heroes.
Sorrow for the dead is a grief--a chastening grief--for which there
is no antidote in life, save time, that levels all things.
John Robertson went sorrowfully, sadly up the hill. He took out
Rachel's little letter from its case, and read it over again once
more. The sight of that little four-bladed clover, that his
child-sweetheart had given him, brought tears to his eyes once more.
He replaced it in his bosom.
"Yes," he told himself, "I will always keep it there."
At a distance he saw the little school and schoolhouse, ay, and even
the peat-stack from which little Rachel had waved him adieu.
But a new dominie taught and tawsed the boys there now, and he
wouldn't have gone near it for the world.
He went on and up the brae.
A collie dog came running down to accost the strange soldier. It was
Dash, somewhat hoarse and stiff with age.
Would the dog know him?
He did. His barking was changed to cries of joy as he jumped and
played around our hero. In fact, Dash, for the time being, hardly
knew what to do with himself, or how to behave.
But a happy thought seemed suddenly to occur to him, and off he went
trotting into the house, and, in his own way, conveyed to the young
soldier's parents the news that Ian, his master, had returned.
Both ran out to meet him.
No--I shall skip the description. Suffice it to say that Ian's
mother wept for joy.
"Ah! but they were not to have me long," said my grandfather, as he
told me of this joyful meeting, "for in three days' time the runner
from Beauly brought me a letter, laddie, on the King's service. I
was told thereby that I must join my regiment at once, for it was
ordered on foreign service."
So away went my soldier grandfather.
Would he ever see his parents again? That was a question none could
answer.
It is well at times we are not permitted to look into the future.
The present alone is ours. The past is no more. Our futures are
with God.
My grandfather joined his company. His company joined his regiment;
and by the 1st of March, 1801, they landed with others, under Sir
Ralph Abercromby, at Aboukir Bay, or, rather, they reached the bay.
It was a pity for Britain, and a pity and even disgrace for the
British Navy, that Napoleon was ever allowed to leave Egypt. But he
had escaped, and had been lucky enough not to meet a British ship on
his way to Corsica.
When we landed at Aboukir Bay, it had been arranged that we were to
be supported by Turkish troops from Syria, as well as by a division
of British and Indian troops. But both were late, and Sir Ralph,
with his army of seventeen thousand, began the fun, as our soldiers
termed it, all alone.
Now, the French general had no less than twenty-seven thousand troops
at Cairo. He lacked courage and dash, however, and only sent
detachments, which were speedily placed _hors de combat_ before our
gallant fellows.
One cannot help feeling a little sorry at the mistakes of even one's
enemies. Why, we cannot help asking, did not the French general
concentrate?
Had he done so, he would have had some chance of victory, but he
would have been defeated just the same, and there would have been all
the more honour and glory for our country.
I remember, boys, right well, how my dear Auld-da's description of
this glorious fight stirred my young blood as I sat by his knee one
winter's evening, and watched his face.
"I recollect," he said, "that 7th day of March as if it were but
yesterday.
"We were all in fine fighting form, so Captain, now Major, Drake told
me, as I stood beside him, gazing landwards over the bulwarks, while
the sun sank slowly towards the blue sea.
"'Ah, Sergeant, my boy,' he said, laughing, and rubbing his hands,
'we're going to have a touch of the real thing to-morrow.'
"'Sure and we are,' put in O'Reilly, 'and it is myself that wishes it
were only to-night. What an Irishman can't stand is the waiting for
it.'
"Big Dr. McLeod was there also, towering like a giant in his might
above them all. Near him stood little Blood and dashing Jones--quite
a muster of officers, and all as merry as May bees.
"'Yes, it's going to be to-morrow morning, Sergeant,' said the
surgeon, 'and I hope your cheese-knife is ready and sharp enough to
cut a head off. I'm going to sharpen my sword, and my gum-lancet
too, and do my duty among you to the end of the chapter.'
"'I wonder,' said little Blood, drawing himself up to his full
height, which wasn't much, 'if there is a man in our gallant regiment
whose blood does not thrill as he looks around him here this night,
and remembers that we are anchored in the very bay where Nelson
fought the battle of the Nile?'
"'Go it, Blood,' cried O'Reilly, 'I like to hear you talk. It sort
o' strengthens one's nerves.'
"'I'll go bound for it,' said Drake, 'that Blood will fight to-morrow
as well as he talks to-night. Sergeant Robertson,' he continued,
'I'll keep my eye on you to-morrow too, if I can open it, just to see
how well a young Highlander can fight.'"
"And were you afraid, Auld-da?" I asked.
"Well, no, laddie, I can't say I was, and I remember thinking to
myself it was odd that I wasn't. I slept soundly enough, for I had
turned in early.
"We had a hurried breakfast, boy, and the boats were called away
before it was light. We embarked with as little noise as possible.
Not that this mattered much. But the sun had not even risen, though
his beams were reddening the long low clouds that lay along the
eastern horizon.
"What a dash that was for the shore! Five thousand strong we were.
That was all, but we were called the flower of Sir Ralph Abercromby's
little army.
"I remember the even-down and regular plash with which our oars took
the water, and how the boats, almost without hitch, darted shorewards.
"I remember the wild cheer with which we started, and something else
as well, for among the first five thousand troops landed were the
42nd Highlanders. I was in flank a boat, and coming from one near
me, I heard a voice I knew right well.
"'Hurro! Preen Mhor, here we are again. See you later on, when we
lick the Froggies.'
"And this, as you will guess, was none else than brave Tom Grahame.
I could not help lifting my cap, and waving it over my head, for the
dear fellow's voice quite cheered me.
"'Shoulder to shoulder, Tom,' I cried, in Gaelic, and more than Tom
raised a cheer at these words, which, you must know, dear laddie,
form one of the mottoes of our fighting Scottish soldiers all the
wide world over.
"If I had felt fear before, boy, Tom's brave Highland voice would
have banished it all.
"But presently every thought was concentrated on the shore, for
suddenly puffs of white smoke, balloon-shaped, and with wicked
tongues of fire, rolled up from Aboukir Castle, and from the French
artillery posted on the hill.
"Not a shot was returned, although the cannon-balls tore up the
water, and the grape pattered like hailstones around us. I saw a
shot alight close to Tom's boat and envelop it in white spray. I
felt my heart leap with anxiety, but next moment I saw my friend's
red face once more, and I thanked God.
"No, laddie, I never feared for myself that day. I was but a humble
sergeant, but I think I did my duty beside my men.
"Our leader was General (afterwards Sir John) Moore, and bravely
indeed did he lead us on.
"It was a tough climb up that sandy hill, and almost too much for
some of our younger English lads.
"On and on we pushed, keeping well in line. I saw Drake with his
sword drawn in front, cheering, as he pointed to the heights.
"Next moment a round shot tore up the ground in front, and he fell.
I was the first on the spot, my laddie, and glad I was to help my
friend to his feet. He was unwounded, and we climbed the hill
together.
"The French general had brought ten or maybe twelve thousand men to
meet us. But so irresistible was our dash that we mowed them down
before us, and they fled like chaff before the wind. I think I hear
our slogans yet. I think I see the darting bayonets, the clash of
sword and sabre, and the round sun looking down on the carnage, lurid
and red in the rolling smoke of battle."
"And the French ran away, Auld-da?"
"It was more than a mere retreat, laddie; they fled helter-skelter,
with the fear of death at their hearts, blocking the narrow roads
that led to Alexandria.
"There were many dead and wounded among our ranks, however. It is
always thus. In war, my boy, victory has ever to be paid for in
blood.
"Among the numerous daring deeds done that day I must mention one,
for it came under my own observation.
"Dr. McLeod, our splendid and spirited surgeon, had followed his
company closely, and did his duty well. But in the very heat of the
battle he had spied brave little Blood hurled beneath a carriage with
the ram-rod of the huge gun. Next moment the wounded officer would
have been sabred, had not the giant--bare-headed, and with blood
streaming from his brow, that is how I can see him even at this
moment in the peat-fire there, laddie--rushed to his rescue. Man
after man went down before the fury of this giant's attack. Next
minute he was bearing the insensible form of the tiny officer
triumphantly to the rear.
"He had hoisted him on his shoulder just as he had hoisted me as a
boy, on the night I danced the hornpipe on the dinner-table.
"Blood looked dead enough. But I may tell you he survived, and the
surgeon's wound, though it looked bad enough, did not keep him from
duty.
"I saw the doctor that night, as I passed through the battle-field to
visit Tom Grahame, and asked for Blood.
"'He'll live, Sergeant, he'll live, and the Lord be praised, for, if
you'll remember, I pitched him through a window once in Edinburgh
Castle, and now we're square, for I think I've saved his life.'
"Tom Grahame and I had a long talk together about olden times, my
boy, but I went back early, and slept soundly on the battle-field
among the falling dew.
"One of the events of that battle morning had been a charge of French
cavalry, but this we had staved off by forming a rallying-square, and
we soon emptied their saddles for them.
"I often think," continued Auld-da, "that we might have followed up
our victory even on the 8th. But then the gallant Moore, no doubt,
knew better. We were but a small force, and in warfare, although
much may be done by dash and daring, the true general will always use
precaution.
"We kept the ground we had taken until the 12th, when all the rest of
our men and stores being now landed, we were ordered to march.
"'March to the battle-field,
The foe is on before you.'
You mind that old song, laddie? Well the foe really was on before us
that day."
"Ah, yes, Auld-da, because you'd driven him on."
"That's it, laddie, that's it. But then, you know," he added with a
smile, "they were only Frenchmen; and frogs are not much to fight
upon.
"We were off for Alexandria itself.
"On the 13th I heard firing, and was told by O'Reilly that we might
be wanted at any moment.
"But we were not. The 90th and 92nd (Highlanders) had had a tough
brush with the enemy, and driven him in, that was all.
"The real battle had to come. I think, laddie, we were eighteen or
nineteen regiments strong.* But for seven weary days, boy, we lay
inactive. The French position was terribly strong, and they were
being reinforced.
* General Cust speaks thus concerning the disposition of our
forces:--"The army took up a position on the skirt of a sandy
plain--within sight of the great Egyptian city, the lake of Aboukir
on the left, and the sea on the right. The 42nd occupied an eminence
close to the sea-shore. From right to left the regiments ranked
thus--In the first line 58th, 42nd, 40th, Guards, Royals, 92nd, 54th,
8th, 18th, 90th, and 13th. In the second line, Minorca regiment, De
Rolle's, Dillon's, the Queen's, 44th, 89th, 130th, 22nd, and 29th
Dragoons, the 27th, 50th, and 79th. The French occupied a parallel
position on a ridge of hills, their centre protected by Fort Cretin,
their right extending to Pompey's Pillar, and their left to
Cleopatra's Needle."
"But early on the morning of the 21st, dear laddie, much to the joy
of O'Reilly, at all events, the silence was broken on the French side
by the roar of cannon. It was so early, that when we got the order
to advance, darkness still prevailed, lit up, every now and then, by
the brilliant flashes of the enemy's guns.
"It is said that the 42nd were first to the front, and that their
steady fire checked, for a time, the fury of the advancing French. I
only know my own part, and that I was far too busy to think of
anything but my own men, many of whom went down before the storm of
iron hail.
"The most awful charge of the day was that by the French Invincibles.
It was furious in the extreme, laddie. But bravely did we receive
it, and fearful indeed was the carnage.
"Indeed this French Legion was all but annihilated.
"Nothing, I think, but the individual coolness of our regiments
enabled us to hold our own and defeat the foe.
"But while the Invincibles littered the ground with their dead and
their bleeding wounded, and finally laid down their arms and
surrendered, fresh French troops were being hurled against us, and
for a time victory wavered in the balance.
"The charge and charges of the 42nd were grand in the extreme. They
were led on by brave Moore, and their wild slogan could be heard from
end to end of the battle-field, high above the rattle of musketry and
shouting of other combatants.
"And, laddie, there was the skirl of the bagpipes as well: that
martial music, that never fails to steel the hearts of our Scottish
soldiers on the day of battle.
"But the 42nd suffered terribly. As theirs was the first charge,
laddie, so theirs, aided by the brigade brought up by Stewart, was
the last.
"The sons of Caledonia had won a glorious fight, and no prouder name
is attached to their standard than 'Alexandria.'
"In this battle, boy, fell the gallant Sir Ralph, and much indeed was
his loss deplored.
"One more strange adventure did I myself have on this day, and this I
must tell you, laddie, ere you go.
"I was looking for our wounded in company with brave Surgeon McLeod.
Looking for the wounded we were, and sometimes bending down to close
the eyes of the dead."
The old man paused a moment.
"O, such ghastly sights, boy," he said, "may you never, never
witness! Even the dead sat or lay in such strange positions that
often one could scarcely believe that life was extinct.
"Then the pitiable condition of the dying and the wounded, the
moaning, the groaning, the maudlin cries, and the mournful appeals
for water.
"But of this last there was, alas! scarcely enough to wet the throats
of those who needed it most.
"Every now and then the flapping of hideous wings overhead would be
heard, and we could tell that the birds of prey had already commenced
their ghastly work.
"I had left the doctor for a few minutes, and was among the hillocks
where the French dead lay side-to-side with the kilted warriors of
the north, as some poet called them.
"Morning was already beginning to break, and things were, dimly seen.
Across the eastern horizon were spread the first rose-tints of dawn.
I had my hand to my eyes to hide some ghastly sight, when I could
distinctly hear my name called, but in tones so faint and low that at
first I could not tell whence the sound proceeded.
"'Ian Robertson. Ian, Ian.'
"My heart beat tumultuously. The voice, I thought, must be that of
Tom Grahame.
"'Ian, it is I. Come.'
"A figure half-raised itself from a hole in the sand.
"I saw at a glance, now, it was none other than my cousin, Captain
Fraser.
"He was dying, that was evident.
"'Have you--water?' he gasped.
"I knelt down, and he drank from my canteen, and seemed to revive
just a little.
"'Ian, I--I--used you badly--unfairly. You can pardon a dying man?'
"'Don't name it, dear cousin. Nor are you dying. I will get
assistance at once.'
"'Too late--listen. Have me carried away--when all is over. Give
the letter to--my little daughter, Ailie. How dark it is--how
dark--God bless you--dark, dark!'
"Ay, it was the darkness of death, laddie.
"I closed his eyes, and stretched his limbs.
"Poor Fraser, my kinsman. He had his faults, but he meant well,
laddie, and he died a hero's death."
* * * * *
"When wild war's deadly blast was blawn,
And gentle peace returning,
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless,
And mony a widow mourning;
I left the lines and tented field,
Where lang I'd been a lodger,
My humble knapsack a' my wealth,
A poor and honest sodger."
We had re-conquered Egypt then, reader, and the French. Right
bravely had our soldiers done their work, and Britain borne the brunt
in the terrible struggle that convulsed Europe.
Negotiations for peace were then entered into at London and were
signed early in the year 1802.
Napoleon was now First Consul of France and President of Italy.
It was about this time, and for his gallantry in action, that my
grandfather was made colour-sergeant. It is a question whether he
was not as proud of his promotion as Napoleon was of his. I am
certain of one thing: he had more right to be.
Well, peace had come.
Query: How long would it last?
Book III.
From War to Gentle Peace.
Book III.
_FROM WAR TO GENTLE PEACE._
CHAPTER I.
THE DUKE OF KENT AS GRANDFATHER KNEW HIM--DISCIPLINE
AND THE LASH IN THE BRAVE DAYS OF OLD--TONAL'S
DILEMMA, AND HOW HE GOT OUT OF IT.
A beautiful village on the eastern shores of Kent, a village that
partly and chiefly went straggling up a little cosy dingle or dell,
and partly rested on two high cliffs that--one especially--descended
sheer down towards the dark and heaving ocean, which in stormy
weather spent its fury against its sides: such was Ramsgate in the
early part of this century.
There were churches on the cliffs and in the hollow; there was also a
naval outlook or coastguard station; and there were barracks for
soldiers. A bracing town then as now. Perhaps even more so, for it
was hardly in those days a sea-side watering-place. There were no
noisy trains, no factories worth the name, few vessels in the harbour
save those of fisher-folks, and far less bustle and stir. In fact a
kind of Sabbath-calm rested here eternally. To be sure, the coming
and going of the soldiers occasioned a little excitement, so did the
arrival of a man-o'-war, especially if she stayed long enough to give
the sailors a spell on shore. Then, indeed, the peace was broken in
more ways than one. For Jack and Tommy Atkins might be seen linking
arm in arm along the street, or streets, singing together, drinking
together, and, alas! often fighting together. In this latter upshot
the Jacks generally, if not invariably, had the best of it.
I do not mean to say that a sailor is, on the whole, braver than a
soldier, but in times of peace he probably is, for then Tommy Atkins
rests at home--languishes in barracks, let us say--while Jack is ever
facing danger and death afloat on the ocean wave.
It was in the autumn of 1801 that my grandfather, with his regiment,
or a portion of it, lay here, and just about this time his Royal
Highness the Duke of Kent took the command of the Royals, _vice_ Lord
Adam Gordon, D.D.*
* "D.D." in this case does not mean Doctor of Divinity, but
Discharged Dead.
The Duke was, it must be remembered, the father of our good and
illustrious Queen Victoria.
It was here at Ramsgate that my grand-dad first had the honour of
coming under his Royal Highness's notice, and was taken on his staff.
In those days the pay of a company passed through the captain
thereof, but this had fallen into my grandfather's hands in the
following way: He was possessed of a little money, and this, or a
portion of it, he had lent to his captain. He never got it back, for
the officer was impecunious, but he had the pay of the company turned
over to him, and in those days in foreign lands the men were paid in
the coin of the country in which they served. A captain therefore,
in paying his men, had usually some pickings left for himself, as
English coin was more valuable than foreign.
It was--I may say it. I trust, without appearing boastful--my
grandfather's smartness, sobriety, strict attention to duty and
discipline, and his love of order and cleanliness, that first
attracted the notice of the Duke, and that his Grace was pleased with
him goes without saying.
From my grand-dad's account of him, the Duke was a noble-looking man,
a capital soldier, and a most rigid disciplinarian, but withal most
humane and kindly, not only to every officer and man under him, but
to every animal as well.
The Duke was never known to tread upon a worm; this is not
figurative, but simply the truth.
Drake and O'Reilly used to go shooting sea-birds, and brought home
the spoils of sport--as they facetiously called the beautiful dead.
"How came it here? Who so cruel as shoot it?" The speaker was the
Duke. He had picked up a lovely gull, its feathers dyed in blood,
its breast still warm.
"I'm afraid I did, sorr," said O'Reilly, walking up and saluting his
Royal Highness.
"Sir, this is not sport--it is murder!"
The Duke turned on his heel and walked away.
There were no more gulls killed on the cliffs by the officers of the
Royals.
* * * * *
The following anecdote of the Duke's kind-heartedness was believed in
the sergeants' mess. It is possibly true; I cannot say farther.
However, as the story goes, the Duke of Kent one day called a
sergeant towards him, while walking on the square or parade.
"Sergeant," he said, "I have several times noticed lights in the
men's quarters, even at midnight. What is the meaning of it?"
"I beg your pardon, your Royal Highness, but the men occasionally
light a clip to hunt for fleas."
"What are they, Sergeant?"
"Little animals, sir, that haunt the rooms, and bite."
"Not--eh--bats, Sergeant?"
"No, sir."
"Bring me one to look at."
Unfortunately a _pulex irritans_ was not difficult to find, for the
little blood-sucker was a plague in the barracks.
The sergeant rolled the specimen with a wetted finger to make it lie
still for the Duke's inspection.
His Royal Highness turned it over once or twice with his finger,
then--
"Poor little fellow! poor little fellow!" he said; "he is still
alive. Put him up; put him up."
And the sergeant, accustomed to obey carefully, returned the flea to
the soldier's bed.
* * * * *
Well, the Duke was a very strict disciplinarian, but I doubt if he
was ever really cruel.
Discipline had to be strict in those old days, in the army as well as
in the navy. The men were, as a rule, a rough and careless lot, and
as they took almost every opportunity of drinking that they could
find, it is no wonder that they needed careful handling at times.
But when it is remembered that in drinking they were only taking
example from the officers who led them, it will be admitted that the
punishment for intoxication was sometimes cruel in the extreme.
An officer before whom a man might be brought up of a morning,
charged with drunkenness, might not himself be sober. Yet he would
order that man to the halberts to be flogged, then wend his way
unsteadily to his mess.
The punishment was a fearful one. Three hundred lashes were
sometimes given for insubordination, after which the unfortunate
fellow would be handed over to the surgeon, more dead than alive. An
offender would sometimes faint under the punishment. If the doctor
advanced, the officer might say, "Stand back, Doctor, please. We'll
flog the faint out of him."
It was not uncommon for a man to die after such brutal
punishment--sometimes, I am sorry to add, by his own hand.
Even sergeants, at certain times, had power to order a man to be
flogged.
Malingering, that is, pretending to be sick in order to procure a
discharge from the service, was rife at this time.
Some strange stories could be told concerning this. A man, for
example, pretended to be paralysed. The surgeon pronounced him a
malingerer. The captain doubted the doctor's diagnosis.
"And I'll prove it to you, McLeod," said the officer.
"How, sir?"
"Well, that man is one of the finest swimmers in the regiment. We
shall take him out to sea and drop him into deep water. He'll
quickly strike out to save himself."
This was really done. The man perhaps preferred death to the
punishment he knew he would receive if he moved a limb, which he did
not. He sank like a stone, and it was with some difficulty that his
life was saved.
He was discharged, and that same evening recovered the use of his
limbs sufficiently to walk, or rather stagger about the streets, for
he was not sober.
* * * * *
A man was brought before O'Reilly, charged with being a malingerer.
He was apparently as deaf as a post, and Dr. McLeod only suspected,
but could not swear he was shamming.
O'Reilly cleverly made assurance doubly sure. "How long have you
been like this, my poor fellow?" he whispered by his ear.
"More than a fortnight, sir," said the man, completely taken off his
guard.
"Then I'm glad you're better, poor fellow. Twelve dozen at the
halberts and a week in the black-hole will complete the cure.
Sergeant Robertson, see to this."
Just one other case. This was feigned paralysis of the right arm.
Incredible as it may seem, the man was hoisted off his feet by the
left hand, and flogged in this position, without even moving the
right arm.
"That will stimulate the system," said O'Reilly, who was convinced
the fellow was shamming. "Bring him up in ten days' time, Sergeant,
if not better, and we will give him three hundred."
Next day this man came to my grandfather.
"See what I can do, Sergeant," he said, lifting the "paralysed arm"
about a foot from his side.
He was sent to duty next day.
There was in another regiment, the 54th, if I remember rightly, a man
flogged terribly for being intoxicated and riotous, although his
character for ten years was all that could be desired. He was a
strong, robust man, and bore his punishment well, though his back was
slashed and bleeding.
The colonel* was considered by the men--and with some just cause,
perhaps--to be tyrannical.
* Hay was, I think, the officer's name.
Anyhow, no sooner had this man been released, than he snatched up a
large cannon-ball from a pyramid near by, and hurled it with fearful
force at the colonel's head.
The escape was a narrow one, for the missile grazed his cheek.
"Your musket! Your musket!" cried the colonel, springing towards the
sentry.
The sentry, out of humanity, dared to disobey. But without doubt,
had he given the musket up, the colonel would have shot the culprit
on the spot.
He cooled down almost immediately.
But, addressing the man as calmly as he could, "I'll send you where
you'll never see England again," he said.
The man was banished to India, sent to what the soldiers called the
Rogues' Regiment.
He was married and had two children, and the parting from those dear
ones, whom he ne'er should see again, was said to be sad in the
extreme.
Flogging, on a very extensive scale indeed, was to have been carried
out once upon a time. The weather was very hot, the regiment abroad.
The company who disobeyed orders had been ordered to parade in heavy
marching order. But they had cut their blankets, retaining only a
small portion to protrude during inspection. The fraud was
discovered at night, and so incensed was the colonel that he
threatened to flog the whole company next morning.
But far too early for the punishment to be carried out the French
attacked them.
At a most critical moment the company stopped and refused to advance.
"Three cheers for the colonel and the blankets," cried a voice in
their midst.
The colonel rode back. He was pale as death.
"For Heaven's sake, my brave fellows, come on. You shall never hear
about the blankets again."
Then there was a shout and a cheer of a different sort, and on they
dashed with a vim and vigour that turned the scale of victory.
I think this proves that officers may easily be merciful as well as
just.
* * * * *
Poor Dominie Freeschal, of the school on the Braes, might, if he were
living in our time, set up a college for preparing young officers for
the army. At least three of his pupils did well as soldiers, my dear
grand-dad, honest Tom Grahame, and Touvil, the boy who assisted at
that dark orgie in the Highland forest, when the dominie's tawse was
committed to the flames.
He rose as he had hoped, and as he said he was determined to do, to
the leadership of his regiment's band.
He was transferred into the Royals, on a vacancy occurring in the
brigade to which my grandfather belonged, and glad indeed were the
two old schoolfellows to meet again once more.
"Indeed, Ian," he said--"or is it John I must be calling you now?--I
managed my own transferment. I'll tell you more about that same
again, but it was all through my love and regard for my old
schoolfellow, Ian Robertson."
From that day forward Tonal and John continued to be fast friends and
companions.
It was about this time that the event occurred that led my
grandfather ever after to say, and with truthfulness too, that the
Queen's father had saved his life.
A detachment of the Royals was ordered abroad for foreign
service--out west, to America, I think. The names of the officers
and non-commissioned officers had to be previously submitted to the
Duke of Kent, for his sanction.
As soon as his eye caught sight of my grand-dad's name, he drew his
pen through it.
"No!" he said; "he is much too good a man to lose."
The vessel grandfather ought to have sailed in had not gone far
before she encountered a terrible gale off the coast. She was driven
on the rocks on a lee shore, stove, and sunk in a few minutes.
_Not a soldier or sailor was saved._
Tonal became a great favourite with all the officers, especially with
those of the company to which my grandfather belonged.
He was an excellent piper, and though it was not his duty to play at
all, he often did so at the mess, and this greatly delighted the
Scottish element, especially the honest giant, Dr. McLeod.
Now Tonal was a strict "Auld Kirk," and if he did deign at times to
enter the portals of an English church, it was only because he was
obliged to.
One day a dignitary of the Church sent to beg assistance. The organ
was out of order, and there would be no music for some weeks unless
the band of the Royals could kindly condescend to conduct it.
Tonal was thunderstruck. He would have to rehearse for the occasion,
and he would have to obey orders. He was in despair.
"Och!" he told McLeod mournfully, "it is only half-papists they are
anyhow, and sure if my poor mother, rest her soul, knew I'd be
playing to them, it's her ghost that would rise and come all the way
from the old kirkyard of R---- to haunt me."
McLeod himself was a member of the Church of Scotland, so he felt
sorry for Tonal.
He pondered over it, and he consulted some other members of the mess,
and at last they got up a conspiracy.
I have no desire to defend the conspirators, reader; I but record
_facts_.
Tonal was delighted when the plan was laid before him.
There were more people that first Sunday than usual. The band was a
great attraction. Perhaps some of them would have stayed away had
they known what was to transpire.
However, everything went well till the time of departure, when
something soft and low ought to have been played as the people rose
to leave the church.
Now I do not myself know a more emphatic, more merry, or
blood-stirring strathspey to dance to than the old air called "The
Miller o' Drone," if given with a good bass and a touch of the drum.
In its very gleefulness you can hear in every bar the thud, thud, of
the jolly old mill as the air runs merrily on.
My readers may judge of the consternation of the parson and people
when the band struck up the grand old tune as they rose to go.
It was played with vim, and vigour too, to the very last note. For
Tonal was on his mettle.
I need hardly tell you that the band was never again requested to
officiate.
But Tonal was more a hero in the mess than ever.
CHAPTER II.
AWFUL CONDITION OF GIB--GRANDFATHER STABBED--A
VENDETTA--THE DUKE WAS THE BEST-HATED MAN ON
THE ROCK.
The scene of our story shifts away now to a far-off land.
In imagination I walk or wander with my gallant grandfather from
point to point of the most famous rock that history can boast of. It
is almost the first name that a child learns to lisp at school, when
commencing to learn geography, and has been so for the last hundred
years.
Personally speaking, when I myself first visited it, many years ago,
I was astonished at everything I saw around me and above me. I had
been taught to believe that it was but a lonesome rock, like a lion
couchant, almost isolated from everything worth beholding; a rock
that, though armed, was of no use to us, but only held in a spirit of
bravado, a kind of clenched fist held up as a menace before the face
of any or every other nation in the world, a John Bull fist, a
British fist, saying as well as words could express it:
"Here I am, and I've come to stay, and the fate of the foe that would
dare to face me is a foregone conclusion."
But I did not quite understand this. We Britons are proud of our
great history, it is true, proud of our associations with an almost
forgotten past, and with these may, and doubtless does, mingle a
little romance. We bear no great goodwill for the iconoclast, the
snivelling, snarling, unpatriotic idiot who would smash the people's
idols, and trample them in the dust, who would hardly leave us a
museum of antiquities, or relics that fathers may point to with
pride, as he tells his children the story of the half-forgotten past.
These relics may sometimes be but symbols, as, for instance, says the
great Carlyle, "the clouted shoe that the peasants bore aloft as
ensign in their Bauernkrieg, or Peasant's War. Or the wallet and
staff, round which the Netherland Gueux, glorying in that nickname of
beggars, heroically rallied, and prevailed, though against King
Philip himself. _In_trinsic, significance these had, not only
_ex_trinsic, as the accidental standard of multitudes, more or less
sacredly uniting together, in which union itself there is ever
something mystical, and borrowing of the god-like. Under a like
category, too, stand or stood the stupidest heraldic coats of arms;
military banners everywhere. Nevertheless, through all there
glimmers something of a divine idea; as, through military banners
themselves, the divine idea of duty, of heroic daring, in some
instances of freedom, of right."
But these iconoclasts would tear the shot-rent standards or flags,
around which so many heroes bled and fell, from the very walls of
Windsor Castle itself; but a few years ago they would have deprived
us of that nation's pride, the grand old ship _Victory_, on whose
blood-slippery deck the hero Nelson fell. And they would deprive us
of Gibraltar also.
Yet, though we Britons are thus proud of our blood-stained symbols
and relics, we are also just, and would retain no portion of any
nation's territory it has a legal right to, and would not use against
ourselves, or hand over to our enemies.
If you disarm a burglar, are you to give him back the pistol with
which he tried to blow your brains out? Or are you to hand it over
to the burglar's friend, who must be your foe?
No, and so we shall stick to Gibraltar.
What we have we mean to hold,
Though pretended friends at home may scowl:
Though blood be shed,
And men fall dead,
And savage foes around us howl,
Still, what we have we'll stick to,
As in the dashing days of old.
I am not at all proud of my composition, reader. The verse may be
doggerel, but there is truth in it.
Well, I had not been a day in Gibraltar, or Gib as we call it for
short, before I found out it was by no means so barren a rock as had
been represented.
There is a great town there now, though the streets be narrow, and
here you may meet people of all nationalities, and in almost every
garb, from the felt-hatted cute and clever Yankee to the Arab
himself, or even the dastardly Turk. Vegetables of almost all sorts
grow here. It is the paradise of fruit, and on the mountain-slopes,
as well as in the cultivated gardens, grow flowers of every hue and
shape.
Both the Horse Guards and the Duke of York placed unbounded
confidence in the Duke of Kent. His former good conduct as a
soldier, his hatred of intoxicants, and his skill as a
disciplinarian, all told in his favour, and unlimited powers were
placed in his hands. He was expected to reduce the Rock to a
condition of greater sobriety, and to restore discipline. Nay, more,
he was commanded to do so.
Hard indeed and thankless was the task he had before him.
Put not your trust in princes, nor in those in high places, either.
Fine clothes never make the man. As true and loyal a heart may beat
beneath a jacket of fustian as beneath the ermine-trimmed robes of a
peer.
Kings and queens, or their ministers, make many "nobles." Nature
makes a few, but she takes infinitely more pains with them than does
royalty, and I know to which category I would rather belong. It may
be treason to speak thus, but it is also the truth. And having said
so boldly, I shall be all the more readily believed when I say also
that I consider the Duke of Kent to have been one of the grand men of
the early part of this century.
"Much exertion"--thus spoke the Horse Guards, or the
Commander-in-Chief, the Duke of York--"will be necessary on your
part, in order to restore a due degree of discipline among the
troops."
And the Duke of Kent left England on the 27th of April, 1802, to take
command of the historic fort, determined to do his duty, and relying
on the promise that he would be supported by the high authorities at
home.
Put not your trust in princes!
Arrived at Gib, the Duke commenced work at once.
There were all kinds of reforms to make among the rock scorpions, as
soldiers who had been here a long time were called. Even the
officers, as well as the men, were simply giving themselves up
entirely to having what the Americans call a real good time of it.
If drunkenness and every vice that follows in its train could be
called happiness, then these men were happy.
It was then considered no crime to be intoxicated while _off_ duty.
But officers were too unsteady sometimes to walk straight or talk
plainly, even on parade. This state of things led to much illness
among all hands, in addition to extreme slovenliness.
It has been said that, even in the public streets, the men, and
sometimes their superiors, might be seen at any hour of the day so
clothed as to resemble a roving horde of lawless plunderers, rather
than drilled and organised soldiers.
I can believe that.
It is, however, stated that the Duke laboured cheerfully seventeen
hours a day.
This is an exaggeration.
My grand-dad, however, has assured me that, what with office work and
other duties, he himself was never harder worked even while
campaigning.
It is sad to have to add that the Duke came to Gib with the character
of a martinet and a man who carried discipline, even over his
officers, to the extent of positive tyranny. This is not true. I
have what _I_ consider good authority for stating that he was a man
of mild mien, though bold and brave as a lion when occasion demanded
it.
Swearing and the use of terribly vulgar expressions were considered
quite the thing in those days. A bad word was never heard on the
Duke's lips. He would reason with his officers rather than lose his
temper and scold them for what he considered conduct--in private
life--that did not accord with the grand old title of "gentleman."
He was as fair also in his dealings with the sergeants or men, or
between officers and men, as any judge could have been.
I will give but one instance of this. My grandfather, who now in a
great measure took his ideas of strict discipline from the Duke
himself, one day when on duty did a daring thing. He found two
friends--not males--of an officer of pretty high rank quarrelling and
fighting near the door of the officers' mess. I am sorry to say that
neither was sober, but glad to add they did not belong to my gallant
progenitor's company. He, however, had them both arrested and
confined to separate rooms, placing a sentry at the door of each
compartment. The wrath of the officer, when this was reported to
him, knew no bounds.
"I'll do for your career," he cried.
My grand-dad answered never a word, but he was reported to the Duke
as having been guilty of insubordinate, almost mutinous conduct.
Some men would have taken that officer's word, and a really
painstaking sergeant would have been lost to the company. Not so the
kindly Duke. He investigated the case, with the result that the
officer was quietly but sternly reprimanded.
Returning from town about a week after this with letters for
headquarters, just in the dusk of the evening, two men rushed
suddenly out from a drinking-booth, and attacked my grandfather might
and main. The sergeant, however, had not forgotten the use of his
fists, and one of the would-be assassins speedily found himself in
the filthy gutter. He would have settled the other fellow just as
quickly, but a third Spaniard appeared upon the scene.
The _mêlée_ now became general--a kind of civil and military riot.
It might have been bad indeed for the sergeant, had not Drake himself
appeared on the scene, and with a few of his men speedily cleared the
decks. But grandfather had been wounded with a stiletto, and,
although he insisted on carrying the letters to headquarters, he lost
so much blood that it was weeks before he was able to resume duty.
"That looked like a vendetta,* Sergeant, did it not?" said the Duke
quietly when he resumed work.
* Act of revenge.
"I'm afraid, your Royal Highness," was the reply, "I'm afraid I dare
not say so."
"Humph!" said the Duke. "You see, Sergeant, one may do what is
right, and yet receive no reward in this world."
As the Duke therefore was no favourite, even the officers did as much
as they could to thwart all his endeavours to curb vice and
drunkenness.
His Royal Highness, however, was not to be curbed, and many of his
reforms were excellent indeed. He diminished the number of
wine-shops by one-half--humanely, however. It is not said, even by
his enemies, that he turned the families of wine-shopkeepers adrift
to starve. In fact it was quite the reverse, for he often supported
some of them out of his own pocket. He weeded out the worst of those
dens, especially those that were down narrow lanes, and in which foul
murder itself was often committed. Nor would he have wine-shops near
to the barracks or guardrooms.
Idleness is oftentimes the parent of vice, just as sorrow may be the
parent of genius, hard work, and fame. The Duke was a man of the
world, and knew this. He therefore instituted extra drills and dress
parades, and even confinement to barracks after the second evening
gun-fire.
He also established regimental canteens, and made many other reforms
that soon began to work for the good not only of the soldiers, but of
the civilians themselves.
All these reforms took time and very hard work, and though the Duke
got himself well hated by the Rock scorpions--both officers and
men--he persevered and did his duty right honourably and according to
his light.
It is no wonder, therefore, that he became about the best-hated man
on the Rock.
All this could have but one ending.
_The men mutinied at last._
CHAPTER III.
MYSTERY--A GRUESOME BOX--A MEETING OF
CONSPIRATORS--TERRIBLE THREATS--THE MUTINY.
There are slums in Gibraltar to this day. But they are nothing to
the lanes and courts that used to exist at the time the Duke of Kent
commanded here. Narrow were most of these; dark even in daylight;
reeking with filth and all abomination. Reeking with vice also, and
filled with wine-shops.
No well-dressed man could have entered one of these after sunset with
any certainty of ever coming out alive again.
Men who had been missing for weeks were often found in the water with
ugly wounds in them. They had been enticed into some den of
iniquity, robbed, and murdered. Sailors often suffered thus after
landing from a long voyage and coming on shore to see the sights.
The victim's body had to be disposed of in some way, and some methods
of disposal were as original as they were ghastly.
I will give but one instance.
Mr. Myers was first mate of a ship called _The Bonito_, outward bound
for the Mauritius. His sailors all liked him, and called him a real
jolly gentleman and full of fun. It seems, however, that on shore he
was sometimes full of something else, quite the reverse of fun when
it overpowers a man.
Myers busied himself getting cargo on board and on shore--the ship
was only touching at Gib on her way out--and everything was nearly
ready. On the third day, however, the mate went on shore. He would
be off by midnight, he told the captain. But he did not come. For
two days an unavailing search was made for the poor fellow, then he
was given up for lost. He might have fallen over a cliff, or been
drowned. Nobody could tell or guess. It was one of the mysteries of
the Rock, and his ship must sail without him.
The last morning on board a vessel all but ready for sea is always a
busy one, and _The Bonito_ had still many cases and packages to hoist
in. A man, about ten o'clock, might have been seen with a heavy box
on a kind of trolley, coming down one of the steep streets towards
the harbour. It was almost all the fellow could do to keep the
trolley from taking charge, but when half-way down a waggon overtook
him. This was half loaded with cases for _The Bonito_. The waggoner
was hailed and bargained with to take the other box also, which was
duly lettered and labelled, and it was soon after hoisted on board
and stowed below with others.
The ship had been at sea a whole week before the hold was overhauled,
owing to sickly odours that emanated therefrom. I need go no
farther, for every reader will guess that the mysterious box
contained the corpse of the unfortunate Mr. Myers.
In slums like these, then, it may easily be credited that it is just
as easy to foster a mutiny as to commit murder.
It was within about a fortnight of Christmas that, in a back
upstairs-room in one of these streets or slums, a party of soldiers
were assembled. These men, I am sorry to say, belonged for the most
part to the Royals. I am just as proud to say that not a man there
belonged to my grandfather's company. At this meeting there were
present delegates from several other regiments, notably the 25th.
The company here did not stand by privates. Indeed there were but
few of these here; they were, for the most part, non-commissioned
officers and--will it be believed?--officers in mufti of the highest
grades.
The supper was of the best quality that the Rock could afford, and
the wines of the choicest. But it was noticeable that few partook of
much wine. They but tasted. There was an ominous quiet brooding
over the whole company, and until the table was cleared and relaid
with fruit and wine the conversation was limited to a painful degree.
I can give but the briefest account of the transactions of this
meeting of grim-visaged mutineers.
The first to speak was a gentleman in mufti.
"Gentlemen," he said, "fill your glasses and drink to the health of
Mr. Milan, who has invited us here at his own expense, and set before
us a most excellent meal. Mr. Milan, gentlemen, is a wine merchant,
and one who with many others has been thrown into the street,
figuratively speaking, by the uncalled-for interference of the tyrant
K. (Muttered growls and oaths.) We all feel sorry for Mr. Milan,
and wish him health and hopes of better times to come, when----"
This officer, for officer he was, drew his finger significantly
across his throat and sat quietly down.
"The whole history of the world," said Mr. Milan in reply, "proves
that the throne of a tyrant is but an insecure one at the best; that
it is ever surrounded by enemies, even in the guise of friends; and
that sooner or later it is bound to fall and bury the tyrant himself
in its ruins. I can say, gentlemen, that you have done me much
honour in coming here to-night. And I can say for myself and my
numerous friends, many of whom have been ruined by this tyrannical
Pharisee, that if we did not know that, in trying to redress our
grievances, you were also redressing your own, we would rise and
raise the people, who would respond to our appeal as one man, and
come to your assistance, even if it should terminate in dragging the
tyrant from his bed at midnight, and hurling his body over the Rock."
Boom! It was like the sound of a far-off gun, though in reality it
came from a gong.
But it was followed by
"A silence deep as death,
And the boldest held his breath."
And every eye was turned to a door in the end of the room, which was
now quickly opened and reclosed.
A masked and hooded figure, draped in black, carrying a Book, a
cross, and a dagger, advanced slowly and took a place at the head of
the table.
Further than to tell you that the Book was solemnly put down and
flanked by the cross and the dagger, the latter darkly marked with
what appeared to be blood, I need not describe the fearful ceremony
of "swearing in." It was too dreadful, too sacrilegious and
awe-inspiring, to mention here.
Boom! Once more that mournful sound--once more the door was opened,
and the masked figure glided silently out and away.
The mutineers seemed relieved, but they applied themselves to the
wine now, and as their tongues were let loose their courage rose.
Pitiful indeed is the courage that is born of the wine-cup.
Grievances caused by the Duke were now most freely talked
over--grievances of men and officers, and those of civilians to boot.
The grievances of men and officers were much the same. They were
treated no longer as soldiers, but simply as slaves. There was no
rest for either night or day--thus spoke the head mutineer, an
officer _of very high rank_ on the Rock, but burned up with a hatred
of the Duke which from the first was fostered by jealousy. The
officers could not engage in the most harmless game of either cards,
billiards, or dice with the certainty that they would not be called
away in the midst of it by command of this "cow-lipped, goggle-eyed
tyrant, who was undoubtedly mad--mad over his plans of reform, his
shabby canteen, his reforms, his stupid general orders, and cursed
parades."
The men were treated even worse than the officers; were denied all
fun and pleasure; were locked up at night like a parcel of
schoolboys; were black-holed for the slightest offence, and flogged
almost to the death for frolics that would have been laughed at in
days gone by, when soldiers were soldiers and not Sunday-school
children, as K. had made them now.
Were war proclaimed, they said, they would fight like Britons, fight
like heroes for their country and their King, but not under such a
humbugging, sycophantic, Father Mathew Rock-scorpion as he who now
held the sceptre in one hand and the cat-o'-nine-tails in the other.
There was but little of the Demosthenic about this speech, but such
as it was it roused the men to fury, and without doubt, could they
have laid hands at that moment on the Duke, they would have torn him
limb from limb. When quietness was restored, a proposal was made and
carried unanimously, somewhat to the following effect: The Duke, some
time soon--the date was not agreed upon that night--was to be seized
and conveyed on board one of his Majesty's ships of war, with orders
not to return on pain of death, and that his Royal Highness the Duke
and Governor was to be sent off from the Ragged Staff.
"Sent off from the Ragged Staff," asked one mutineer, "but dead or
alive?"
"I do not counsel violence," said the head mutineer, "but----"
He was interrupted.
"Kill him!"
"Twist his neck!"
"Drown him in his own canteen!"
"Help him over the Rock!"
"Hush, friends, and hear me. I do not counsel violence, I say, but
if an accident should happen to the tyrant, his blood be on his own
head."
"Amen!" from many of the conspirators.
* * * * *
The Duke's enemies in town, among the civilians that is, spoiled
their own plans.
They had an idea that to stir up mutiny, or to bring it to a head,
drink was necessary. No greater mistake could they have made in
their own vile cause. Conspiracies are only successfully hatched in
the dark. The mutineers must be clear-brained and as silent as the
grave. A drunken mob is a headless one; an intoxicated regiment has
neither power to act, nor will to govern.
It was the evening of the 24th December, and it was or had been
pay-day, a busy day with my grandfather, as well as with other
pay-sergeants, and he noticed nothing unusual.
Drake, who was still my grand-dad's best friend, was that day acting
as adjutant. Some suspicion that everything was not right had
entered his mind, and rightly or wrongly, I cannot say which, he had
given orders that the soldiers should not be allowed to go into the
town.
This order was disobeyed, however, and in the low drinking-places
they proceeded to squander their pay just as soldiers did in those
days. But louder than ever now, and on all sides, rose expressions
of discontent against some of their officers, but especially against
the Duke himself.
It was evident that mischief was brewing, and that the time had come
when the mutiny should break out.
That day the civilian enemies of his Grace plied the men of the
Royals with wine until they were more like maniacs than soldiers.
They overdid it.
It was quite dusk, yet my grandfather was still busy writing, when a
sentry brought him a note which had been thrown into the passage.
The words were meant as a warning, and a warning they proved.
"_Your Major Drake and the Adjutant will lie duly murdered to-night.
Beware!_--A FRIEND."
Grand-dad lost no time in finding out his friend and showing him the
note.
"Done for a lark, I suppose, Sergeant," he said.
However, he looked grave.
The time flew by. Grandfather heard the second evening gun fired,
but the corps had not returned, or only a few. This looked ominous,
and the gates were closed.
The officers were still at dinner--and more than one of these seemed
unusually quiet and subdued to-night, and were evidently ill-at-ease,
nervous, and expectant--when shouting was heard.
It emanated from the drunken mutineers, who were encouraging each
other as they dashed on and up to the barrack gate.
These they smashed in.
"To arms! To arms!" was now the wild cry, and speedily indeed did
they seize their muskets and bayonets.
"To death with the adjutant! let us begin with him, who would stop
our leave! Hurrah! lads. Hurrah!"
The 25th were in barracks.
The 54th were in barracks, and though the former regiment could not
be trusted--thanks to the warning received--the grenadier company
there were under arms and prepared.
The adjutant would certainly have been killed if found. So too Drake
and Blood. The former had gone to the barracks of the 54th. Blood
was not to be found.
O'Reilly rushed out to meet the infuriated soldiers, after him went
Dr. McLeod, followed by my grandfather.
O'Reilly had a narrow escape. He was mistaken for the Duke.
"It's the Duke. It's the Duke. Down with him! Kill him!"
O'Reilly was speedily thrown down, but next moment the doctor was
knocking the men about right and left, with those brawny fists of his.
"Would you kill your own O'Reilly? Back, you drunken squabs! I tell
you it's not the Duke."
"Follow me, men," cried a ringleader next, "on to the barracks of the
jolly 25th. Then for the tyrant Duke!"
On they sped or staggered, but to their intense surprise, the 25th
refused to come and join them.
A move was next made towards the barracks of the 54th. They at all
events would join the mutiny.
About half of the Royals were left, trying to persuade the 25th to
turn out. The grenadiers gave the others so warm a reception, that
their Dutch courage* began rapidly to evaporate, as courage of this
sort always does, and when met with a galling fire from the barracks
of the 54th, with men in their midst falling here and there--dead,
wounded, or drunk, they knew not which--these mutineers speedily
retreated.
But the worst had yet to come.
* Dutch courage is, I believe, not so called out of disrespect for
the Dutch themselves, who are as brave as any soldiers need be, and
in olden times as good sailors as the British themselves. Dutch
courage is simply Hollands gin, which on some stations, notably the
East African, can be bought for 6d. a bottle, and has been the means
of killing many a man-o'-war's-man and invaliding many an officer.
CHAPTER IV.
WARNED BY A DYING SOLDIER--MORE MUTINY--HE FELL
FORWARD DEAD--WAR BREAKS OUT ONCE MORE--NAPOLEON'S
PLANS AND MOVEMENTS--MURDER!
In a couple of hours at most the first mutiny was quelled.
So quiet and apparently contrite were the men of the Royals, that the
kind-hearted Duke addressed them, and in a short speech, after
commenting strongly upon the heinousness of their crime, told them
that as this was Christmas, a holy and forgiving time, he freely
forgave them, and hoped they would be as good men and true in the
future as they had been in the past.
The soldiers raised a cheer, though I am afraid it was not altogether
a hearty one, and were then allowed to return to duty.
But there was anger at the hearts of the Royals against the men of
the 25th, among whom, by the way, were a great many foreigners. The
Royals hissed them as they passed, and roundly rated them for being
cowards and traitors to their cause.
Several stand-up fights were the result, and more than one man was
removed bleeding to the guardroom. It was probably this disaffection
betwixt the Royals and the 25th that after all saved the Duke's life.
But he had been warned in a strange way of the fate that was
impending over him, and it would really thus appear that it was the
very disinterestedness and kindness to those under him that resulted
in his life being saved. The Duke was a man of such activity and
spirit that he in person would often visit rooms in the barracks to
inspect their sanitary condition, for well he knew that health and
cleanliness go hand-in-hand. He was also a constant visitor to the
hospital. One day, some time before the mutiny, the Duke was walking
through the hospital, attended by Dr. McLeod himself, who was
pointing out to him with honest pride many little improvements he had
made. He was telling him also the story of every important case, and
the Duke had many a kindly word to say to the suffering patients.
"I think, sir," said McLeod presently, "that man," pointing to a bed
in a distant corner, "would like to speak with your Royal Highness."
"But," he added, "let me first tell you that he is dying, and dying
from the effects of drunkenness and evil living."
"Poor, unhappy man! Is there no hope, Surgeon?"
"None, I fear."
The dying soldier's voice was little more than a whisper, but the
Duke bent over him to listen.
"What can I do for you, soldier?"
"Ah! Governor, sir," replied the man, speaking with nervousness and
difficulty, "you can do nothing for me. I'm in the clutches of
death, but I can do much for you, if you'll take warning and hear the
truth from a dying mar's lips."
He paused for a moment.
"Go on, my good fellow, I am listening."
"I have been one of the worst and most reckless of men in your
regiment, and I have done the most I could to excite my comrades to
mutiny. I was, till laid down here with sickness, one of the
committee sworn to seize you on parade and eject you from the Rock,
or throw you headlong from it. Can you forgive me? I can die in
peace if you do."
"I forgive you, my poor fellow, as I myself hope to be forgiven,"
said the Duke solemnly.
"God bless you. God bless you. I can now go before the great
court-martial, but I'll say the Duke forgave me, and may God forgive
me too."
His Royal Highness just patted the dying man's hand, and silently
left the ward.
But to return to the would-be mutineers. It was usual for each man
to receive a shilling on Christmas Day in addition to his pay.
On the 26th, having spent their money, or "wetted Christmas," as they
called it, the 25th, being still taunted and even assaulted by the
men of the Royals, determined to stand it no longer. They would kill
the Duke, and they would kill a few of the Royals also.
As night drew in, therefore, they could no longer be restrained.
A third of the whole regiment flew to arms, and with terrible yells
and imprecations rushed to attack the barracks of the Royals.
There was much more bloodshed that night, but, to their honour be it
credited, the Royals showed their contrition by nobly defending the
person of his Royal Highness.
The artillery, too, did the same, and so also the King's and the
54th, so that before morning the mutiny was quelled. Many were
wounded, and some were killed.
But although the Duke could be as forgiving as any general that ever
lived, he felt now that the time had come to make an example of some
of the ringleaders of this horrible mutiny. Ten of these were
therefore tried by court-martial and condemned to die.
The sentences on all but three, however, were commuted to banishment
from the Rock--perhaps to India, I do not know.
But the other three, two foreigners and an Irishman called Reilly, as
reckless a young fellow, we are told, as ever presented arms or drew
a trigger, expiated their crimes at the musket's mouth.
All three, I was given to understand, refused to have their eyes
bandaged.
Reilly bared his chest and stood as firm as a rock.
"Aim here, comrades," he cried, "Reilly forgives you. He fears not
death----"
The muskets rang out clear and sharp in the morning air, and he fell
forward dead. Just one or two slight quivering or convulsive
motions, and all was over.
So ended the mutiny at Gibraltar, a mutiny from which the youngest
reader may learn, methinks, a lesson. For hard it is to reform a
people, an army, or even oneself, if evil habits have once been
formed.
* * * * *
In the year eighteen hundred and three, and in the spring of that
year, war once more broke out between Britain and France, and was
continued with many a desperate and bloody encounter onwards to the
bitter end. Those were stirring days again at home, as well as
abroad. Throughout every town and city, ay, and even village, the
recruiting-sergeant was busy indeed, and not only was the usual
shilling given, but free kit, bounty and all.
The country would sink more deeply into debt than ever. But what
signified it? Soldiers would have asked you, Aren't we going to
thrash the French? The French were our hereditary enemies. We hated
them--there is no other name for it--and they hated us. Happily, we
nowadays bear none of that hatred to, and mistrust of, our Gallic
neighbours. And did we not fight shoulder to shoulder with them in
the war against Russia?
I was but a boy when this Crimean war commenced, but well do I
remember the anger of my grand-dad when we formed an alliance with
France. Sooner far, he told me, would he have joined hands with
Russia itself. The thoughts of such an alliance seemed to embitter
his old age.
"Depend upon it, boy," he said to me, "it is an alliance that never
will work us any good."
Malta was, as far as my reading goes, the first bone of contention
between the French and ourselves in the renewed struggle, or rather
let me call it the first cause of that struggle.
Malta was considered to be the key to Egypt, and the French were once
more casting eagle-glances towards that much-coveted country.
The First Consul, Napoleon, in spite of the remonstrances of Prussia,
whose political status had at this time sunk to a very low ebb,
occupied Hanover, and despatched a fleet to blockade the Elbe at
Cuxhaven, to stop the trade between this country and Prussia. As a
reprisal, we told the Prussians that unless the French withdrew we
should blockade, not only the Elbe, but the Weser as well. But
Prussia's remonstrances with Napoleon were all in vain.
For two long years the Hanoverians suffered all the penalties and
indignities inseparable from the usurpation of their country by a
domineering nation like the French.
In the end, however, their sufferings bore fruit, for they and the
whole of Germany north were at length aroused from the lethargy into
which they had sunk, and compelled to take up arms against the
oppressor.
But Russia now became displeased at this French occupation of
Hanover. What might it not end in? Hitherto Russia had been little
better than a tool in Napoleon's hand. So the Great Bear of the
North began to growl.
The outbreak of war betwixt this country and France made the
ambitious Napoleon, or First Consul, a greater hero than ever in the
eyes of the French. It needed but the occurrence of some plot
against his life, and in favour of the old royal family, to ensure
his being placed upon the throne. Such a conspiracy had actually
existed for some time. Then quickly followed the execution or murder
of the chief conspirators, some of whom were actually strangled at
night in prison, so horrible were the times. This dreadful fate
happened to Pichegru, a general.
Hardly less terrible was the murder of the Duke of Enghien. Exiled
from his country, this man--although he had fought for his own in the
first coalition against France--was now living peacefully in Baden;
but him the First Consul determined to sacrifice. He was surrounded
with spies of the low-caste or Communistic order, who regard neither
God nor man, and having no consciences are prepared to swear anything
if it serves their turn. On the 10th of March, 1804, while sitting
quietly reading in his home at Ettenheim, a troop of soldiers who had
crossed the Rhine from France suddenly surrounded the house.
Resistance, or even remonstrance, was in vain. He was hurried away
without being able to bid farewell to his weeping relatives. His
poor dog, who would have followed his master, was bludgeoned before
his eyes.
In five days' time he arrived at the fortification of Vincennes, and
hardly allowed rest or refreshment ere he was hurried--at night it
was--before a mock tribunal of six officers. The trial lasted but a
few minutes. He was beckoned away, his arms pinioned, and shot
beside his already-dug grave.
Through rivers of blood, on stepping-stones of murders like these,
Napoleon crossed to the site of his further ambitions and glories,
and was proclaimed Emperor of the French.
Alas! we are too prone even now to associate civilization with
urbanity of manners, with regal pomp and state, with riches, with
gaiety, and with dresses loaded with gems rich and rare. This is
human nature. But Paris, even at this time, when such fearful
murders as those I have described were taking place in her very
midst, was as gay and careless as is our London of to-day.
* * * * *
To follow the undoubtedly great but heartless Emperor of France
through all his series of victories and defeats, even in epitome,
would be a task for which my readers, I fear, would scarcely thank
me, especially as history is making itself every day around us with a
speed we scarce can follow. But even as I write these lines in early
January, our fleets are re-forming, our armies are being re-massed,
and there is the terrible possibility hovering around us of an
invasion of our shores by a powerful foreign foe, it is well we
should remember something of Napoleon's pet scheme to carry the war
into our native land. This, indeed, was his greatest ambition.
Could he have dictated his terms of peace with Britain from the Tower
of London or Windsor Palace, with his foot upon the British lion, he
would, I believe, have died contented.
He concentrated an army at Boulogne that was powerful enough to have
overwhelmed all the forces of fencibles and regulars we could have
opposed to it on English ground. The only difficulty was how to land
them.
But the very thought that he might be able to do so cast a cloud of
gloom and fear over all our land, from England's southermost shores
far north to the Scottish Highlands themselves.
In Scotland north at this time things were about as bad as they could
be. There was poverty as well as doubt; the crops failed in many
places, the oats were blighted, starvation stared the people in the
face, and grim death seemed to stalk about the streets of hamlets and
villages. From the far-off Braes of R----, where the effects of
cruel war were felt, as in other places, many a prayer rose up morn
and even from Robertson's hearth for the preservation of the boy whom
fate had made a soldier.
All Napoleon needed, so he believed, was the possession of the
Channel for a few days. At the present time, reader, the possession
of the silver streak of sea that guards us--for even a few
hours--would suffice to land an enemy upon our coast. And a fog
might at any time favour one.
Napoleon's plan was clever. He would endeavour to lure our great
commander, Nelson, away across the ocean, by means of a fleet which
should pretend to sail for the purpose of making war against our
possessions in the West Indies.
Admiral Villeneuve was, therefore, ordered off to Martinique. He was
there to join with other ships, and return with all haste to free the
French fleet, blockaded at Brest and other parts of the coast.
Villeneuve did succeed in luring Nelson after him, and the French
admiral had a sixteen days' start homeward, before Nelson had an
inkling of his designs. Now came the extreme danger. It was
impossible for Nelson to overtake and smash Villeneuve, for fleets
cannot rush across the ocean with the speed of a single ship. They
are bound to keep together.
Knowing this, Nelson at once chose the fastest, fleetest brig in his
squadron, and sent her off in all haste with despatches for England.
Only think of it, reader. The whole fate of this mighty nation
depended, for the time being, on the quickness with which one little
British ship could cross the ocean.
A single accident; the carrying away of a spar while cracking on; a
white squall; the shot of the enemy; the springing of a leak, would
have meant the triumphant ending of Napoleon's schemes and the
conquest of Merrie England.
Was not this indeed a race for life, a race for the life of our own
dear fatherland?
Would the brave little brig win?
CHAPTER V.
NAPOLEON'S SCHEME FOR INVADING BRITAIN--A BRIGHT
PROMISE--GRANDFATHER MEETS HIS FATE.
By God's blessing, the brig did win. The very winds seemed to favour
her, and, in a few hours after receiving the message of our hero Lord
Nelson, orders were sent to Sir Robert Calder, who was at that time
blockading the French in the harbours of Ferrol and Rochefort, to
raise the blockade and hasten to meet Villeneuve, or lay wait for him
off Cape Finisterre.
On July the 22nd, 1805, to his astonishment, the French admiral met
the British fleet.
What a hearty welcome they gave him!
What a hearty hiding!
This would have been worse had Villeneuve stayed, but he ran, and
managed in a crippled condition to make an entrance into Ferrol.
But even yet Napoleon must play another card, his last, and the
French admiral received orders to attempt a movement on Brest and
Rochefort. He tried to obey, but our strength was beyond his power
and courage, so he fled to Cadiz, without attempting to fight us.
Britain was saved!
Napoleon was furious!
But the great army with which he had designed to pay us so unwelcome
a visit, he now let loose upon Austria.
The capitulation of the Austrians at Ulm, a bloodless capitulation of
twenty-five thousand men, put the people of Paris mad with rejoicing.
Their Emperor was ten times a hero! What had they to fear now, even
if the whole world were in arms against them?
The French always were an ebullient nation, but their ebulliency
received a sad check only two days after the victory of Ulm and the
bombastic despatch of forty Austrian standards to Paris.
Trafalgar was fought.
That great naval victory of ours, in which the fleets of France and
Spain were smashed, and Britannia crowned once more Queen and
Mistress of the Seas, was decided on the 21st of October.
Alas! that in the hour of triumph our hero should have fallen on the
blood-slippery, fiery deck of the far-famed flagship, _Victory_.
The news of this wonderful battle spread like wildfire over Britain,
ay, and over Europe itself.
"Trafalgar," says Fyffe, "was not only the greatest naval victory, it
was the greatest and most momentous victory won either by land or by
sea, during the whole of the Revolutionary War. No victory, and no
series of victories, of Napoleon produced the same effect upon
Europe. Austria was in arms within five years of Marengo, and within
four years of Austerlitz. Prussia was ready to retrieve the losses
of Jena in 1813, but a whole generation passed before France could
again seriously threaten Britain at sea.
"The prospect of crushing the British Navy, so long as we had the
means to equip a navy, vanished. Napoleon henceforth set his hopes
on exhausting our resources by compelling every State on the
Continent to exclude our commerce.
"Trafalgar forced him, therefore, to enforce his yoke on all Europe,
or to abandon the hope of conquering Great Britain."
* * * * *
Have you ever looked down into the crater of a great volcano, reader
mine? I dare say not. It is a pleasure of a somewhat awesome
nature, that you still have before you. The volcano must not be in
an active state when you peer fearfully over its brink. But if it be
but semi-quiescent, the sight that meets your eyes is indeed a
wonderful one, especially if the crater be one of considerable
extent, like that of Kalakahui, in the Fiji Islands. It is a sight
that will be photographed, as it were, on the tablets of your memory,
indelible for ever and a day--a sight you may dream of many a night
in bed, and yet if you were asked to describe it, or picture it in
words to any of your friends, you would probably remain silent. No
language could bring before the mind's eye of another person that
seething, bubbling, ever-changing lake of fire; its mysterious chasms
opening up for a moment or two, to vomit forth flames and steam, and
then closing as suddenly as if swallowed up in the waves of liquid
lava; the strange, bright colours of the flames, or the streaks of
bright crimson, blue, or green fire that creep hither and thither,
and turn, and twist, and coil like hissing snakes; the clouds of
smoke and steam that settle here and there, but vanish as you look at
them; little conical hills that rise in this place or that, higher
and higher, and higher, till they burst at last and spue forth their
boiling contents, then collapse as quickly and change into lakes!
No wonder that the ancients looked upon such a place as this with
fear and trembling, and considered it the gates of the evil place,
that led downwards into the bottomless pit.
But, in reading the history of Europe that for the next ten years
succeeded Trafalgar, anyone who has ever looked into such a crater as
I have tried, though in vain, to describe, cannot help comparing the
condition of the Continent and the great Powers--its battles, its
sieges, its bloodshed, fire, thunder, and strife--with the volcano's
molten, seething sea.
It is a relief to turn for a time from this turmoil of war, of
intrigue, and murder, to more peaceful scenes at home.
Battalions, companies, and draughts of our regiments were, in those
days, beings lifted about here, there, and everywhere, like men and
knights on a chess-board. In the summer of 1807 my grandfather was
not at all surprised or displeased to find himself back once more in
Dublin barracks. Both he and his company.
Some changes, however, had taken place among the officers. Drake was
still here, so was O'Reilly, and Dr. McLeod also.
There was never wanting plenty of work for McLeod to do, and, if he
was not labouring in hospital, or among his own men, his services
were in request in some other corps lying at the same barracks.
But Blood died in battle, fighting against fearful odds, sword in
hand, on a parapet. In the same action fell Captain Jones, the brave
Welshman. A round shot carried his leg away above the knee.
Only the Royals and one or two other regiments were engaged in this
skirmish with the French, and they were victorious.
I have observed that my grandfather, like many other old heroes who
have fought in great battles, talked of lesser engagements as mere
"skirmishes." This seems odd, when you find out that the so-called
skirmish lasted perhaps three or four hours, with much loss on either
side.
Again, old heroes are in the habit of referring to a wound that has
not actually severed a limb, or cut a man in two, as "only a scratch."
My grand-dad had a terrible scar on the left shoulder that must have
cut far into the deltoid muscle. I remember well that when I first
saw it, while the old warrior, stripped to the waist, was enjoying
his morning ablution, I cried out in childish terror, "O, Auld-da,
look at your shoulder. What a terrible cut! Didn't you cry awfully?"
He smiled, but went on towelling.
"Only a scratch, dear boy. Only a scratch!"
Well, during this spell in Dublin, my hero undertook recruiting
duties. The fact is that smart, handsome men were usually picked out
for work of this kind, and were proud of it. I dare say that they
received pickings and perquisites more than enough to buy the ribbons
of red, white, and blue, that fluttered so gaily from their caps. On
a market-day it was nothing unusual for a dashing young sergeant to
enlist half a dozen or more.
Major Drake drew my grandfather aside one day, and had a quiet talk
with him about several things.
"Now, Sergeant," he said at last, "our regiment, they tell me"--here
he read a portion of a letter he had received from
headquarters--"needs filling up to its full strength, and you are the
man to help to do it. You generally bring in three recruits to any
other sergeant's one. Well, there is a great fair to take place near
Dundalk, and I'm going to send you round, and I expect you to return
here with quite a haul of young fellows. I believe in a mixture of
blood myself, and that is why we are recruiting here, but at that
fair at Dundalk you'll find plenty of good honest Irish and Scots,
and you're to do your best to bring at least a round dozen. And you
needn't spare expense."
My grand-dad saluted, and said, "Certainly not, sir."
"But," added Drake, "if I have a fault to find with you, it is
this----" He paused and looked comically for a few seconds at my
worthy progenitor, as if not sure how he would take it.
"Well, sir?"
"You're a pleasant sight too _honest_, Sergeant."
"But I draw them all the same."
"You would draw more if you told a white lie now and then. And,
Sergeant----"
"And what, Major Drake?"
"All lies told for the benefit of your King and country are white
lies."
"The regiment is soon to go abroad again, I suppose, sir?"
"That's so, I think."
"I'm glad to hear it."
"And why?"
"Because I think cutting throats for your King and country is far
more honest and honourable than telling lies, however white they may
be."
Drake laughed heartily.
"O, Robertson, Robertson, you'd make a capital captain of a company,
but you'd never do for a general."
"By the way," he added, "there is something I ought to have told you
years ago. Although we have been separated often enough, you having
been so ubiquitous, I had plenty of opportunities. Before he left
the Rock, the Duke informed me in conversation that he never had an
orderly or staff-sergeant under him that pleased him better than you."
"Did he really?"
Grand-dad's eyes were sparkling with pleasure.
"Yes, but he told me more. There is to be a Highland battalion of
the Royal Scots,* if his Royal Highness can manage it."
* This was on the tapis before Waterloo.
"So he has hinted to me himself, sir."
"Did he tell you anything else?"
"No."
"Well, he assured me that you would be one of the first appointed to
it as ensign, and I'll be happy, Sergeant Robertson, when that day
comes, to welcome you as a brother officer."
He extended his hand, and my grandfather shook it warmly.
Now although, innocently enough, I asked him if he had cried when he
received that awful slash across the shoulder, and although not even
the "pandés" of Dominie Freeschal could make my grandfather cry,
there had been tears in his eyes when his officer spoke thus kindly.
They came up with a gush and a rush, and it was a wonder they didn't
overflow.
"Major Drake," he said, "you've been always a friend to me on sea and
land, and we have fought shoulder to shoulder many a time, and I
declare to you honestly, I've always felt happy when I saw your sword
waving through the smoke of battle. But now you've made me the
happiest man in all the regiment. I've always tried to do my duty,
and henceforward, wherever I am, be the danger what it may, I shall
ever remember what the dear Duke said, and that ensign's sword will
seem to guide me on."
"Bravely spoken, Robertson. Now off you go and get ready for
Dundalk."
"I'm off, sir. O, by the way," he said, turning back, "my old friend
Tonal is on furlough, and will be here to-morrow. He'll have his
bagpipes. Shall I take him with me?"
"Most certainly."
* * * * *
It was not "to-morrow," however, but that very afternoon that Tonal
and my grand-dad met. The latter was walking across the bridge with
the ribbons fluttering gaily from his hat, as he swung his dainty
cane, and looked as gay as a goldfinch, when a voice said behind him,
"I want to enlist," at the same time he received a slap on the back
that made him jump.
"Take that, you spalpeen," roared grandfather, rounding briskly on
his assailant with uplifted cane.
But the blow never fell.
For there was Tonal himself as large as life, and laughing all down
both sides, apparently.
"Well, I am glad."
"And so am I."
"But, Tonal, man, what a terribly hard fist you have!"
They adjourned together to a quiet inn at which my grandfather was
wont to treat the men whom he hoped to enlist.
There was no recruiting in his head now, however, and it was two
whole hours before those two friends and cronies made their exit, so
much had they to speak about and tell each other.
A day or two after this happy meeting, both were off and _en voyage_
for Dundalk.
And now I have to tell you how my grandfather won his wife.
How my hero won my grandmother. Is that a better way of putting it?
I'm sure I don't know. You see she couldn't have been my grandmother
then, because I wasn't born. I was dead then, as the children say.
Besides, a girl of seventeen isn't very often a grandmother, is she?
Heigho! I always did get ravelled in reckoning or counting kith and
kin.
But one day, a week or two before this momentous visit to Dundalk, he
was returning to Dublin from Booterstown. He was admiring the quiet
villas, that even at that distant date were springing up, here and
there, not far from the water's edge.
The bay was very blue and beautiful, and afar off were the bonnie
green hills and the rocks that, together, seemed to float in the
gloaming haze.
Somehow or other, grandfather's thoughts, just then, were reverting
to the braes where his father and mother lived, and to his old
schooldays, when little innocent Rachel Freeschal was his boyhood's
idol. He had sunk into a kind of reverie, which, though just tinged
with a little sadness, was far indeed from being unpleasant, when he
heard the rattle of wheels some distance behind him.
He looked quickly round, and noticed a pony and trap rapidly
advancing, the occupants of which--an elderly lady and a young--had
evidently lost all control over the steed.
This was a moment for action, and grand-dad was ready for it. Though
not tall, he was very powerfully built, an athlete to all intents and
purposes.
This catching of a runaway horse is by no means so easy as it seems.
And it is, moreover, attended with considerable danger.
In pictures we sometimes see the action represented as if the hero
thereof had caught the nag, and forced him on his haunches. It never
was like this. Donald Dinnie himself could not do it.
The man is invariably dragged some little way unless he can keep his
feet.
On the present occasion my gallant grandfather was most successful,
and Mrs. Stapleton and her daughter were most grateful.
The frightened pony had taken them some distance past their cottage,
and grandfather led him back.
He would have taken his leave then.
"Sergeant," said the elder lady, "we are presently going to dine; you
must come and join us."
"Ladies," was the reply, "I am but a simple soldier."
"And we're but simple people. Peter, take the pony. Scold him a
little, but don't beat him. This is the gate, Sergeant. Come."
And as the girl's eyes said "Come" also, what could he do?
But those eyes, ay, and the beautiful face as well, reminded him so
of Rachel that non-compliance was out of the question.
"Obedience to orders," he said, smiling, "is the first duty of a
soldier. I follow."
He unpinned the ribbons from his hat, however, and placed them in his
pocket.
The ladies lived here all alone, with a single servant ind the boy
Peter.
Mrs. Stapleton* was the widow of a doctor once well known in Dublin,
and although comfortably off, they were by no means wealthy. She was
by no means averse to talking about her past life, nor Eleanor about
her dead-and-gone father, but all in such a quiet way that my
grandfather felt perfectly at home. He was a simple-minded and
truthful man, and although those were the days of effusive
compliments, strange to say, he never paid even a lady one.
* Mrs. Stapleton and Eleanor are real, not fictitious names.
But he told them much of his strange, romantic life, and especially
his early adventures, which made both ladies laugh.
Eleanor played prettily on the harp, and sang sweetly too.
Grandfather, in the course of the evening, blurted out the following
remark:
"How like your daughter's eyes and looks are to--to one I knew."
"Aha! a sweetheart. O, you soldiers!" said Mrs. Stapleton.
"Yes, a--sweetheart. It is long, long ago. She is dead. I was
thirteen, she was twelve."
Some impulse made him show the ladies his amulet, Rachel's letter,
and the sadly-faded four-bladed clover.
Eleanor smiled when she read it. But her bonnie blue eyes were
swimming in tears.
* * * * *
"If ever I marry," said my grandfather to himself as he walked
homewards, "that sweet girl shall be my bride. But, heigho! I'm
only a soldier, and--they did not even say, 'Come back and see us.'"
CHAPTER VI.
AN IRISH FAIR AT DUNDALK--GREAT FUN AND NO END
OF FIGHTING--THE BOMBARDMENT OF
COPENHAGEN--GRANDFATHER GETS MARRIED.
That little cruise round to Dundalk and back was to be big with my
grandfather's fate, though he did not know this at the time he
started.
He voyaged, with his friend Tonal, in a small but comfortable trading
schooner, the _St. Patrick_. She was well decked, and though her
cabin or cuddy was small, it and everything else were beautifully
clean.
The skipper was likewise the owner of the craft, and as soon as the
vessel had cleared the bay, and established a good offing--for the
wind, though light, was dead on to the rocky shore, a shore on which
many a good ship has left her ribs--all three got talking.
The skipper told his passengers that he made many a journey to
Liverpool, and even Glasgow, and that being his own master he could
go wherever he pleased.
"My little ship is almost like a yacht, you see," he said, looking
round the deck with pardonable pride. "If she weren't my own,
perhaps I wouldn't take so much pains with her."
"I don't know who it can be," said my grandfather presently, "but you
are very like someone I know."
"I am said to be very like my elder sister at Booterstown, Sergeant;
but you would hardly know Mrs. Stapleton. She and her daughter have
a cottage there, and, as I always tell them, are buried alive among
the trees."
"But, sir, I do know them. What a strange meeting, to be sure!"
Then he told the skipper the story of the runaway pony, and the
pleasant evening he had spent at the cottage.
"The first and the last," he added with half a sigh.
"Don't be too sure, young Sergeant," said the skipper; "for troth,
then, I took Eleanor to Dundalk with me only a week ago, to see
another uncle, and it is back with me she'll be coming same time as
yourself.
"If you've no objection, Sergeant."
This was said with a sly and merry twinkle of the eyes.
"Ah!" he added, "you needn't be looking at the seagulls, Sergeant.
Sure it is myself that can see as far into a stone as a mason
himself. Or _free_-mason."
He held out his hand.
"Shake, brother, shake."
* * * * * *
That was a merry fair indeed. And when Tonal blew up the
bagpipes--he was dressed in full Highland costume--the two of them
had a very pretty following, I assure you.
I really cannot say whether my grandfather was guilty of overpraising
his Majesty's service or not. Perhaps he was.
He and Tonal were very lordly, however, and tossed coins upon the
counters in a way that struck awe into the hearts of the simple lads
they treated.
"Faix!" said one fellow. "Faix, Sergeant agra, you must know where
them things is dug."
Grand-dad took him aside for a few moments, and talked to him. In
that brief time he had gained a recruit.
A fine, strapping, fair-haired lad he was, and when he had got a few
ribbons attached to his cap he was proud indeed, and, marching off
behind Tonal, became a kind of nucleus to draw other recruits. That
first day the haul was seven.
More ribbons were bought, and more recruits were got next forenoon.
Why, Tonal really seemed the "pied piper," whom the rats all followed.
Anyhow, it was recruits, not rats, that were wanted, and by the end
of the third day they had scored nineteen good men and true.
There was great fun at the fair, and no end of fighting.
His recruits begged my grandfather, late on the last day, just to let
them have a little scrimmage, and he hadn't the heart to refuse.
And, with their shillalahs, those nineteen recruits quickly cleared
the market-place. There were many constables there, and they alleged
that, "on their honour, they couldn't have done it more nately
themselves."
On the evening of the fourth day, my grandfather marched proudly down
to the harbour at the head of his men, Tonal on the other side,
playing a right lively pibroch.
Here there was much sad leave-taking, sisters, sweethearts, and aged
mothers crying and wringing their hands, as if broken-hearted,
because their boys were going off to the wars.
But they were all safely shipped at last, and then the schooner set
sail.
My grandfather felt strangely sad, for he saw no signs of Eleanor
there. She could not have come, then; but his sadness disappeared
like dark clouds at daybreak when the skipper went down below, and
presently returned leading Ellen by the hand.
"Is this the young lady?" said that sly and wicked old skipper. "She
was baptized Eleanor as certain as sunrise, but she's called
Eleanora, Leonora, Ellen, or Nora, according to taste, and answers to
any or all of them together. I'll leave the two of you together till
dinner time. Sure, sodgers never need prompting to talk."
* * * * *
I'm sorry, for my reader's sake, that no wild storm arose during the
voyage of the St. Patrick back to Dublin, or that the ship didn't
founder, leaving them all to escape in the boats, or float for days
on a stormy sea, or that they weren't attacked by a French
brig--sorry, in a word, that nothing happened to give my grand-dad
and Tonal a chance of showing off their gallantry and bravery.
But nothing did. That is the worst of writing a true story. Had
this been fiction, I should easily have known how to dispose of the
Sergeant and Nora, if I had had to sink the ship and drown everybody
else.
Well, nothing did happen _just then_, but I'll tell you what did
happen a few months after this, if you'll wait a few minutes.
We are in the officers' mess again, then, and listening to the
conversation of an animated little group who are sitting by
themselves near a window, through which are peeping the red rays of
the setting sun.
"You may say what you like, Drake, but I don't think it's altogether
a fair action on the part of the British Government."
"I can't say it is, either," said big McLeod, "but it serves Boney
(Bonaparte) right, though I pity the poor Danes that were killed.
The women and the bairns. Yet how! Seems to me that Boney is the
devil incarnate, and that he is not only unscrupulous and sinful
himself, but manages to stir up evil in every nation he enters or
places his black foot upon."
"Well, perhaps you're right, Doctor."
"O, I'm sure I am."
"Just like a medico. Anyhow, I'd believe any evil you like to tell
me about Boney. Why he has been let loose on earth, goodness only
knows."
"When taken to be well shaken."
"Yes, till the life is out of him. But here is, or was, Doctor, the
state of the case. Russia has proved about as much a rogue as
France. For we find the Bear and the Eagle hugging each other for
their mutual benefit.
"Says the Eagle: 'If you'll be on my side, we'll play fair. You
shall have the rich and splendid provinces of Finland and the Danube.'
"'Yes, yes,' says the Bear, 'and what am I to do for all these fine
things?'
"'O, hardly anything, only in case of Britain refusing the terms of
peace that I offer, you, Mr. Bruin, and I, Mr. Eagle, will bring
matters to a head. It will be fine fun. Denmark and Portugal are
neutral, but we'll force them to join us against England. See?'
"'Yes,' grunted the Bear; 'but suppose the Sultan cuts up rusty and
says----'
"'O, bother! what does the Sultan signify? I can take him by the
nose and force him to give up every bit of European territory he
holds, bar Roumelia and Constantinople, and this we would divide
between us.'
"Says the Bear: 'Couldn't I have Constantinople? It would----'
"'No, no, no; that is, not at present. But won't we laugh to see the
fall of prideful, boasting, blessed Britain?'
"'Ha, ha, ha!' roared Bruin.
"'And I can then have a castle in Spain,' says the Eagle.
"'And I, you said (didn't you?), would have the city of Constanti----'
"'No. You're joking, Bruin.'
"Well, this was the secret arrangement between the two nations that
were pretending to wish for peace with us. Were we going to permit
them to walk away with that splendid fleet of Denmark's, that should
help them to come thundering to our gates? Perish the thought! We
should have it, and not they."
"And yet," said O'Reilly, "you say England isn't a grasping nation.
Faith, it's myself that differs from you entirely. I say that
England would rather smash an egg than let any other old hen sit on
it."
"Anyhow, the thing's done," said Drake. "We sent a fine fleet and a
fine army out, and it got there in the middle of August.
"'Hand over these ships,' said the British Lion, 'else the Eagle will
float them.'
"'We won't,' was the reply.
"'They'll only be in pawn till peace is proclaimed, you know, and we
can protect you from the wrath of France----'"
"Yes, indeed," sneered O'Reilly, "and what did brave Denmark reply?
She told them (didn't she?) that she wasn't sure the wrath of the
Eagle wasn't less to be dreaded than the friendship of England.
'Why,' says the Dane, 'there is more honour to be expected from the
pirates of Barbary than from you British.'"
"And a very insolent remark it was," said Drake, "and I don't wonder
that the Lion growled."
"'If you don't shut up, and hand over your ships,' cried the Lion,
'I'll blow you sky-high off the face of the earth.'
"'Then I shan't,' cried Denmark.
"So, men, the bombardment of Copenhagen commenced."
"Ay," said Dr. McLeod, "and a terrible one it must have been. A _feu
d'infer_ that lasted three days and nights. Eighteen hundred houses
levelled to the ground. The city on fire, here, there, and
everywhere; even the women and children perishing in the flames, and
not knowing where to turn or run to. Awful!"
"But," said Drake, "not only was the fleet then handed over to us,
but all the stores in the arsenal as well."
"To be kept in pawn? Eh?"
"No, no, not now. What we've got we mean to hold."
O'Reilly jumped up, and walked away laughing, but ha turned in the
doorway, and said--
"English fair-play? Eh? O, sure, it's a beautiful thing entirely.
English fair----ha, ha, ha!"
And off went O'Reilly.
"I beg your pardon, Sergeant Robertson," he said, as he nearly
tumbled over my grandfather in the passage.
"It was to see Major Drake I came," said my grand-dad.
"Knock and go right in, my boy; you'll find him by the window,
talking--nonsense."
My grandfather told me he felt very shy. But he broke the ice at
last.
He wanted to get married, and wanted the commanding officer's leave;
and would Major Drake----
Of course he would.
"Of course he will," added McLeod also. "We'll be proud to have your
wife join the Royals."
* * * * *
So grandfather got married.
Or, in more poetical language, grandfather made this sweet young
girl--my grandmother--his bride, which was very good of him.
The marriage was a very quiet one--Presbyterian, of course, my
gallant grand-dad being a Scot as well as a Royal Scot.
Honeymoons were not in those days considered an indispensable
appendix to a wedding. Nevertheless, my grand-dad got a fortnight's
furlough, to say nothing of a lot of old shoes and handfuls of rice
as he drove off in a carriage and pair, _en route_ for the Lakes of
Killarney.
By the way, I am not much of an antiquarian, else I would pause here
to wonder what is the reason annexed to throwing old shoes--not
hob-nailed ones--after a happy pair, plus handfuls of rice.
I suppose--but I don't know--that the old shoes mean: "May you never
go barefooted."
And the rice: "May you never go hungry!"
I think that fortnight's furlough must have been spent most
blissfully, because one of the few snatches of song that ever I heard
the old man sing, was this:
"Did e'er you hear tell of Kate Kearney?
She lives by the banks of Killarney.
From the glance of her eye
Shun danger, and fly,
For fatal's the glance of Kate Kearney."
CHAPTER VII.
THE FRENCH IN SPAIN AND PORTUGAL--BRITISH TO THE
RESCUE--SIR ARTHUR--SIR JOHN MOORE--SPLENDID
GENERALSHIP OF NAPOLEON.
Bold Bonaparte--for bold as well as wicked he was--commanded Portugal
to declare war against England, and to confiscate all British
property she could lay her hands on. The first part of this order
Portugal did not mind obeying, but the last she would not comply
with. Perhaps she feared reprisals.
Now this refusal was just what Napoleon had wished for. Fact is, he
wanted to add Portugal to his own territory.
So now he recalled his ambassador from Lisbon, and marched Junot
right away down at the head of a large army.
The Royal Family fled when this army drew near, all their valuables
being already on board ship. This was what the Scourge of Europe
called a reprisal for our having taken the Danish fleet.
If Bonaparte's real aims were not at first suspected by Spain, they
very soon became apparent enough. He had established himself at the
head of the Portuguese Government, but Spain, after all, was the big
target he was aiming at.
The Queen of Spain and her head minister expected that Napoleon would
clear out of Spain, having taken Portugal. Napoleon had no such
intention. Now the Queen had a husband, King Charles IV., but he was
a mere noodle, and did not count. She also had a son, Ferdinand, who
was, for various reasons, at enmity with her. It was put into this
noodle-king's head that his son wanted to usurp his throne, and he
wrote a simple letter to Bonaparte, telling him that Ferdinand and
his accomplices had been put under arrest, and would be tried and
excluded from the succession.
This was really playing into Napoleon's hand, who seized the pretext
of throwing a great army on the border, nominally to protect the
royal rights of Ferdinand, the Crown Prince. This army entered Spain
in the end of December, 1807, and the Spaniards welcomed it with joy.
At last they would be delivered from the thraldom of the hated
minister and the Queen.
Meanwhile Ferdinand and his father became friendly.
The French army continued to march south and south, and one way or
another got hold of the frontier fortresses. Then they marched
towards Madrid itself, and the terrified King abdicated in favour of
his son Ferdinand.
To make a long story short, the Spaniards at length discovered--when
too late--what sort of a man they had to deal with. Riots broke out
in Madrid, and Frenchmen to the number of about a hundred were killed.
Murat, who commanded the army of occupation, exacted a terrible
vengeance on the unfortunate insurgents. They were driven into the
square, and, while they tried to defend themselves as brave men will,
they were slain by repeated charges of Murat's horse. When they laid
down their arms they were shot in cold blood.
The wolf Napoleon now threw off the sheepskin, and it ended in both
the King and his son being exiled.
But the wolf had still to deal with the patriotic and brave
people--patriotic to a degree. This people rose _en masse_, and a
war of independence was proclaimed by the Spaniards against the
invader, from end to end of their ancient and heroic land.
* * * * *
The noble struggle of Spain and Portugal for freedom forms one of the
romantic dramas in the history of this nineteenth century.
I wish it were mine to tell my readers the whole sad and glorious
story, not in the ponderous English that historians deem it the
correct thing to use, but in language---simple, terse, and plain, yet
pleasant--that even a boy might read.
I do not wonder at my grandfather saying to me so often, "O laddie,
war is a terrible, terrible thing." I was but a child then, and
could only see the glory-side of war.
What a fiend in human form the French General Loison must have been!
At Evora, we are told,* "he acted like the lowest bandit. He robbed
the convents with his own hands. He ransacked the bishop's library,
with some of his officers, to discover concealed valuables behind the
books, tore off the gold and silver clasps, and, on finding but
little treasure, destroyed piles of valuable manuscripts. They took
away gold and silver coins out of the cabinet of medals, and the
jewels that adorned statues and relics, and Loison even filched the
archbishop's ring from his table.
* CASSELL'S _History of England_.
"Never was there a nation, calling itself civilized, which so
universally carried robbery and licentiousness into the countries
which they wantonly invaded."
But while Loison was carrying on thus at Evora, another officer,
called Margaron, was butchering the inhabitants of Leiria.
There they not only killed all they could find--men, women, and
children--but even tore open the graves in search of pillage.
In fact, wherever the French appeared, they appeared as agents of
lust, rapine, and destruction; and the peasantry, roused by their
conduct to a fury of vengeance, fell on them wherever they could find
them, and massacred them without mercy.
But the hour of retribution was at hand.
Probably, reader, being more used to fighting, the people of these
islands were more courageous then than they are now.
In these days, we can hear the screams and wails of men, women, and
children, as they are murdered wholesale in Christian Armenia,
without even dreaming of going to assist them. Their heart-rending
appeals arouse in us not half the sympathy that the pitiful squeals
of a pig being slaughtered do.
But in those sad days the people of these islands responded to the
cry of Spaniards and Portuguese at once.
They would make no more war in either country, but do their best by
sea and land to extinguish the terrible fire-brand Napoleon, who had
set the whole of Europe in a blaze.
Sir Arthur Wellesley, who became afterwards the great and famous Duke
of Wellington, arrived at Corunna, and concerning his doings and
successes there against the French I must refer you to history.
But Sir Arthur was a soldier born, if ever there was one. It was not
simply that he was brave, which he was. A savage may be brave, and
generally is. This general possessed tact and the genius of
painstaking. Had we been as careful with our commissariat during the
Crimean war as Wellesley was with his, our poor troops would not have
died like rotten sheep, succumbing to cold and hunger and disease.
* * * * *
The happy life that my grandfather had led for many months had all
too soon to come to an end. Leonora and he must bid each other
farewell--a long and eternal farewell, it might be. He was going to
take part in the great Peninsular war, and do his duty as no one
doubted for a moment that he would.
So Leonora once more took up her abode with her mother in the cosy
little cottage at Booterstown, and John, her hero, went away to fight
the French.
From his great intimacy with Wellesley's private as From his great
intimacy with Wellesley's private as well as public character, I
think my grandfather must have served for a time under him. Never
could there have been a stricter officer than this general. Yet for
all that he was trusted and beloved by his men, whom he so often led
to battle and to victory.
It is with Sir John Moore's expedition, however, we have at present
most to do.
This brave general had been ordered to advance with his 20,000 men
into Spain as far as Burgos, and there assist the armies to expel the
French. They were, he was given to understand, to receive, later on,
a reinforcement of 10,000 men, then sailing from England to take part
in this unhappy war.
This was in October, 1808.
In the following mouth Napoleon himself crossed the Pyrenees. The
Spaniards had been so far victorious during the previous summer that
they had compelled the enemy to fall back upon and cross the river
Ebro.
Napoleon considered that he himself alone was equal to a whole army,
and there is no doubt this was true enough.
The beaten forces that he would now join lay between the Pyrenees and
the Ebro. He would soon change the tune of the haughty Spaniards,
penetrate the centre of their army and defences, hurl it to right and
to left of him, then advance in a bee-line to Burgos and Madrid
itself.
As an example of what the great game of war is, I may instance
Napoleon's advance upon Burgos. No doubt he had spies everywhere,
and knew where the Spanish armies lay as well as they did themselves.
As in the simple game of draughts, so in the game of war, you must
think ahead. You must think, as it were, with your opponent's mind.
"If I move there," you will say, "what will my opponent do, and what
will be the consequence?"
Napoleon said to himself, "As soon as I reach Vittoria, General
Blake, with the left wing of the Spanish army, will move from the
Ebro, and try to outflank me and cut me off from the Pyrenees. I
hope he will."
Blake did, and marched eastwards.
Had he gone far enough, or so far as to lose his line of retreat, he
would have been surrounded by the French, and his army massacred to a
man.
Luckily for him, the French themselves attacked too soon, and
although Blake was badly beaten at Espinosa, on the upper waters of
the Ebro, he was able to retreat with his sadly beaten forces into
the mountains of Asturias.
Marshal Soult, the great French general, now charged the centre of
the Spanish lines. The battle was bloody while it lasted, but
victory fell to Soult, and Burgos was captured.
General Ney was next despatched to attack the remainder of the
Spanish forces that, like a new broom, were to have swept the enemy
clean out of Spain.
On the 4th of December Napoleon captured Madrid itself.
The Emperor of the French had therefore carried out his little
programme with beautiful tact and precision and completely destroyed
the great Spanish line of defence long before it could be reinforced
by British troops.
Having read so far, you will easily understand the why and the
wherefore of Sir John Moore's unfortunate campaign.
To begin with, this expedition of Moore's was at least a month too
late in starting, and it had difficulties to contend with from the
very first, that were almost insurmountable.
Probably Sir Arthur Wellesley might have made a quicker and more
dashing march, and a better-conducted one. As it was, when Sir John
started from Lisbon he found that he could not procure sufficient
conveyances for his baggage and impedimenta, so that these had to be
cut down to the lowest figure.
Many of the women and children were left behind. It was the custom
in those days to permit the most deserving soldiers' wives to
accompany their husbands, a custom that we nowadays cannot but marvel
at. Women on the war-path make the worst of all species of baggage.
The army was ordered to pay the utmost respect to the people, and to
treat none of their ways and customs with anything like disdain.
The next difficulty was that of provisions. This caused much trouble
and delay, because the French had harried the country through which
they must pass.
The army then had to advance in divisions and by different routes.
The weather was rainy--wet and bad. The roads were in a fearful
condition to drag artillery over, or even for men to march through.
It was not until the 11th of November that Sir John managed to drag
his army across the frontier and reach Ciudad Rodrigo. Two days
after this he entered Salamanca.
At Salamanca Sir John Moore had to make a halt, for two reasons.
First, owing to the abominable condition of the roads, he had been
obliged to send the most of his artillery round by Elvas, and he must
here wait till they joined. Secondly, he had to wait for the
reinforcements which, after innumerable delays, had been permitted to
land at Corunna. These were the 10,000 men under Baird, including
those of the Royals my grandfather was attached to, and which also
included the 42nd--the "gallant Forty-twa."
Ill-luck seemed to cloud, then, this expedition from the very first.
Sir John had expected that he would speedily join the already
victorious armies of Spain, and assist in sweeping the French back
across the Pyrenees. Where were those armies? With what or whom was
he to co-operate?
But he could get no correct information. The Spanish Junta were
taking it easy. They vainly imagined that they hardly now required
the assistance of the British. Were their own victorious troops not
lying defensively on the frontiers? Were not these able to overthrow
the French?
How little they knew the French, or rather Napoleon.
At Salamanca Sir John Moore seemed to be completely befogged, and the
state of his mind at this time was certainly not an enviable one.
Just think of it for a moment, reader. The French were within twenty
leagues of him, having captured--so he was told--Valladolid.
Mr. John Hookham Frere at this time--worse luck--was ambassador at
Madrid. From him poor Sir John Moore could get no information. Sir
David Baird had not got away from Corunna, and Sir John Hope had not
yet got past Madrid with the guns. In fact Moore was isolated.
CHAPTER VIII.
TREACHERY AND FOOLERY--A RACE FOR LIFE AND A RUN
FOR THE SEA--TOM GRAHAME'S BABY--SORROW, SUFFERING,
AND DANGER--IT MUST BE DEATH OR VICTORY.
It was the want of proper information as to what was really going on
that caused the ruin of the unfortunate Sir John Moore. That
information ought to have come to him from Frere, the British
ambassador at Madrid. Not only did this fellow not trouble himself
to communicate with Moore, but he scarcely bothered to find out the
real state of matters himself. He was led by the nose by the
plausible traitor, Morla, who was in communication with the French.
Had a fellow like Frere belonged to the French army, he would have
been shot--or hanged, for shooting was really too good for him.
From the little he did know, more by chance than anything else, he
concluded he must retreat into Portugal.
Both Sir David Baird and his corps, as well as Sir John Hope with the
artillery, were still at a distance. Moore sent messengers to both.
Baird was to fall back on Corunna, and sail with his army to Lisbon;
Hope was to meet him at Ciudad Rodrigo.
Pity indeed these arrangements were not carried out. And why were
they not? Simply because Moore was out-generalled by means of the
treachery of Morla, and the blank idiocy of the ambassador, Frere.
The latter wrote to Sir John from Avanjuez, on November 30th, and
earnestly protested against his proposed retreat. Nothing, he said,
could beat the splendid valour of the Spaniards. Moore, if he
marched to Madrid, could save Spain by repulsing the French before
they received reinforcements!
This letter, as we know, was written just as Napoleon was dashing
down upon Madrid, after scattering the Spanish frontier lines into
mist. At the very time that Moore received the communication, the
French were lying in wait for the general, and a day or two after
Frere himself was fleeing for his life to Badajoz.
Frere took no trouble even now to send to warn Moore. But he did
worse, for the scoundrel Morla--instigated by the French--also wrote
to Sir John Moore urging him to come on. He even sent a messenger
after Frere, and this letter was endorsed by the British minister.
The desire of Morla was, of course, to make our hero, Moore, believe
that Madrid would fight to the last if he would hurry up to their
assistance. But at this very time Napoleon was in possession of
Madrid! And instead of fighting, the nobles had fled, thinking more
about saving their lives and their jewellery than of becoming
patriots.
It was all clearly a plot to lead Moore into a disaster that would
have been infinitely more terrible than that which did take place.
Moore, however, still thought he could beat the French general,
Soult, before Napoleon could come up. He was finally reinforced by
Baird and Hope, and had now altogether about 25,000 men, with more
regiments coming on.
He was obliged, however, to halt at Sahagan, to wait for his baggage
and supplies, and Soult was only a day's march distant.
It was now that for the first time, and that too by the merest
chance, Moore learnt that Napoleon himself, with 40,000 picked men,
was on his trail, having crossed a ridge of mountains by forced
marches through sleet and snow.
Everything depended now on whether Napoleon's vanguard or Moore's
army should reach the bridge at Benavente, that spans the river Esla.
Moore won this, and blew it up immediately after he got his army over.
What was the odds, as regards numbers, between Moore's force and that
of the enemy? Why, the French numbered altogether 100,000 men.
There was nothing for it now but a retreat upon Corunna, but Napoleon
felt certain that Moore and all his men would speedily fall into his
hands.
The Emperor, after following Moore for a day or two, left the rest
for his marshals to do. It was easy work, of this he was confident.
But Soult, with his great army of three to one of the British, still
followed on.
On the very last day of December, 1808, Napoleon was close to the
rear of the flying army of Britain.
On the 1st of January, 1809, he was at Astorga, and this ambitious
man, who seemed neither to fear God nor regard the sufferings and
torture he was causing to writhing millions, must needs climb an
adjacent hill to see the last of Moore and his men, to feast his
eyes, as it were, upon the sight of the already tired and weary
rear-guard, that dragged on after the main body.
He was required elsewhere.
"Soult," he said to himself, "will settle with them. My guiding star
leads me back to fair France, which is all my own. Ay, and my own it
must be, despite the news that these despatches bring me."
The news he referred to was that Austria had gone on the war-path.
So next day he hurried away from Spain, back again over the Pyrenees,
with far greater speed than he had come.
Everything depended on his presence in Paris, and at the seat of this
new war.
Let us follow Moore, then.
Words, of course, are useless to describe the retreat of this general
and his now disorganised army.
A beaten or retreating army is ever a demoralised one, and the
British, in this case, was no exception.
The retreat was indeed a race for life on a gigantic scale.
A race for life, a run for the sea.
For the first few days the retreat was conducted in as orderly a
manner as possible. Some of the French, however, had crossed the
stream, and, making a dash for Moore's rear, succeeded in capturing
many hundreds of the sick and stragglers. These they despatched with
scant ceremony.
It was pitiful indeed that the sick should be thus ruthlessly
murdered; but as for the other stragglers, I fear they had only
themselves to blame, for these men had weakened their constitutions
with wine. Some, indeed, were found by Soult's men drunk on the
hills or in the woods, and subjected to unheard-of atrocities.
But the torrents of rain, that left off only to change to pelting
snow, and the terrible condition of the roads they had to traverse,
soon began to tell upon the very best and bravest of the men, and
they became gloomy, hopeless, and, in not a few instances, reckless.
The women and children--more of whom had been taken along with the
army than Sir John Moore had sanctioned--were, perhaps, in a more
terrible plight than even the men, being, of course, more feeble and
less able to bear hardships and exposure to the elements.
These, with the sick, which every day increased in numbers, were kept
as well in front as possible, but it is not going too far to say that
the very helplessness of these poor creatures often inspired our
fellows with courage, even when themselves sinking with fatigue.
Moore was making all haste, but so was Soult, and ever, as he pressed
too closely in the rear, Sir John would single out his best regiments
and companies, and while the main portion of his retreating army,
with baggage and women, hurried on, he turned like a very lion in the
face of Soult's men.
Did they fight despairingly?
No, Britons never despair when fighting.
Had you, reader, but heard the wild cheers of the English at such
times, the terrible slogan of the Highlanders, and the inspiriting
notes of the bagpipes, you would have been proud of your country.
Nothing could have satisfied you but drawing your sword, taking up
the battle-cry, and dashing on with our troops to face the French.
And not only was my grandfather's great friend, Tonal, in this
retreat, but Sergeant Tom Grahame also.
In the dusk, one evening, my grand-dad met Tom carrying something in
the folds of his plaid.
The honest fellow was bending down over it, and singing--_mirabile
dictu!_
"Why, Tom," cried my grandfather, "what have you got there?"
"A poor wee lassie, John. She belonged to Jack Burns, of ours."
"And what are you going to do with her?"
"Why, Lord love the bairn; I dare say I'll have to adopt her."
"But her mother and father, Sergeant?" said Major Drake, who came up
at this moment.
"Hush, sir, hush."
Then in a whisper: "I found the bairn beneath a bush out yonder,
beside her dead mother. The father fell to-day in the rush back
against Soult. She's an orphan. Sleep, dearie, sleep."
And he swung her back and forwards.
"A pretty child, indeed," said Drake.
The wee thing looked up into his face, and smiled.
"I'se dot (got) some suga' candy," she said, "and I'se going to keep
a big, big piece for dear daddy and ma."
"Tom," said Major Drake, "however are you going to fight with a child
in your arms?"
"O, I'll find a way," said Tom gaily; "but anyhow I'll stick to her
till we get to Corunna."
"If ever we do get, lad," said grand-dad.
"Don't you go despairing next, John."
"O, I never despair."
Drake walked on. The halt had been called, and soon some food was
brought--the sort it was.
"Why here comes Tonal, bagpipes and all."
"Well, it isn't me, John, that's going to play to-night. Man, I
wouldn't play to wake the childer' (children) and the poor women for
anything."
"Sit down, Tonal. Sentries are set, and I'm off duty, in a way of
speaking. We'll spend the night together. Raise a fire, Tonal."
"I will with pleasure. And glad I am to be with you, och! and och!
the scenes, on in front yonder, where Dr. McLeod is labouring, like
the big, good-hearted giant he is, are just too awful for anything.
And is it a little child you've got, Tom?"
Tom laughed.
"It's my little daughter," he said, and then told the sad story.
The fire was soon lighted, and the wee one was fed and dried. Then
Tom rolled her in his plaid again, and she went to sleep in his arms.
"I think," said Tonal, thoughtfully gazing at the fire, "that it's
myself can find you a nurse for the wee thing."
"Yes, Tonal?"
"O, it is just a little Spanish lassie of sixteen, but an angel for
all that; so brave, too, though you wouldn't think it to look at her.
And so bonnie, I--I--I think, man, I've sort of lost my heart to the
girl."
"Well," said my grandfather, "I thank Heaven, Tonal, that my heart is
far away, near Dublin Bay. And my wife, too, was sick to come with
me. Maybe, Tonal, she is praying for us now."
Tonal simply said:
"Well, John, and we'll pray for her and for the dear souls on the
peaceful Braes of R----. It's well they don't know to-night of our
sorrows, or sufferings, or dangers."
Then they got talking together of far-off homes and times long gone
by, till, wearied at last, they fell sound asleep.
The dark day had not yet broken, however, before the retreat was once
more commenced.
As long as the marching continued, Tom Grahame stuck to his
prize--the little orphan.
But things grew worse and worse, and the waysides or hills were
littered with the weary and dying or dead. Especially did the women
and children suffer. Alas! these were only too often left to be
mutilated and torn to pieces by Soult's savage soldiers.
But on the day when Colbert, the French general, was killed by our
maddened though flying forces, and seven squadrons of cavalry that he
led cut to pieces, Tom Grahame entrusted Annie, as he called the
child, to the care of the girl who had so captivated poor Tonal.
Poor Tonal, I well may say; for that day, while leading a stirring
charge, or cheering the men, at all events, with the sound of the
sweet Highland bagpipe, he was struck down with a bullet, that not
only went through his shoulder, but through the bagpipes as well.
I really think Tonal was more vexed at the accident to his pipes than
that to himself.
My grandfather helped to carry Tonal off the field, and to place him
under the care of McLeod. Nor did he leave him until assured by the
doctor that his friend's wound was not mortal.
"Och!" said Tonal, "but the wound to my poor pipes is mortal, Dr.
McLeod, and it isn't you yourself that can mend that same."
The girl had now to nurse both the orphan and her lover, Tonal. As
often as not the child and she were borne in the same litter.
Almost daily the fighting continued, and Soult soon came to the
conclusion that in the British, despite the fact that they were a
retreating or flying army, he had no mean foe to deal with.
I am sorry to add, so demoralized did many of our troops become, that
they frequently broke the ranks, and rushed pell-mell to seize food
and wine from the Spanish villages, or wherever else it could be
found. Many thus lost their lives who might otherwise have been
spared.
The night of the eighth was a memorable one. On the previous day, so
fearful was the onslaught of the British on the advancing foe, that
about five hundred French lay dead on the field, and so disheartened
was Soult, that he refused battle.
This night there was no rest for the wounded and weary, except the
eternal rest, into which many sank. For after a hurried supper the
march was resumed.
Afar off they could see the camp-fires of the French, and their own
the British left burning to deceive the foe.
When, on the 13th day of January, they came near to Corunna at last,
their spirits rose to a joy almost akin to deliverance at the sight
of the sea. But, alas! they sank again almost as speedily, for here
was no British fleet to receive them.
Now at last it must be death or victory.
CHAPTER IX.
FIGHTING AGAINST FEARFUL ODDS--DEATH OF MOORE--THE
EMBARKATION--A WIFE AND A NEW SET OF BAGPIPES.
At Corunna Sir John Moore quickly established his troops. He found
plenty of ammunition here that the careless, stupid Spanish
authorities had not troubled themselves to send on.
At Corunna he determined to defend himself till the transports came
up; they really had been detained at Vigo by stress of weather.
However, on the very next day after their arrival, the ships did
arrive, and no time was lost in getting the wounded, the sick, the
women and children, and even the horses, on board, for Sir John was a
humane man.
But already Soult was close to the town, and skirmishing had
commenced.
Sir John had blown up a magazine only the day before, that was built
on a hill overlooking the town. It is said that in this magazine
were about 4000 barrels of gunpowder that had been sent from England.
In this very spot Soult had some of his guns planted, and, in seizing
these, brave Colonel McKenzie and many of his men were killed by the
French.
Our troops occupied the village of Elima, and to command this Soult
had erected a formidable battery. Opposite this battery, and not far
off, were Sir David Baird and his men.
About twelve o'clock on the 15th of January, the terrible but
glorious battle began in earnest.
I am not going to describe it in detail. It was a fight that every
British schoolboy should know as much about as any novelist can tell
him.
We fought a desperate battle, though not a despairing one.
Defeat would have meant for us utter annihilation. Yet we fought
against fearful odds.
I--a Scot--would naturally like to claim the greatest honours for my
own countrymen, notably the gallant Forty-twa, and my grand-dad's
regiment. O, it is only natural. But, my brave English lads and
lasses who do me the honour of reading my books, I am going to do
nothing of the sort. Let us say honours were divided 'twixt Scotch,
English, and Irish.
Just a word about the numerical strength of the opposing hosts.
Soult, then, had fully twenty thousand men, and Sir John but little
over fourteen thousand. Moreover, our general had shipped all his
artillery with the exception of a few small cannons.
Many a gallant charge was made that day, and again and again was the
village taken and lost. Many a brave man and officer fell too. But
we were not to be denied, not to be beaten.
Poor Sir John Moore! his last heroic words, his last wild shout, were
addressed to the 42nd.
This was a critical time, for Sir David Baird's arm was broken by a
cannon-ball. Major Stanhope was killed, and the well-known Sir
Charles Napier, at this time a major, was wounded, and Paget was
borne back on the right wing.
It was then that, seeing the critical state of affairs, Sir John
Moore, who, you will remember, led the Highlanders at Alexandria,
galloped up to the 42nd.
"Hurrah! my lads," he shouted; "remember Egypt! Down with the foe!"
Surely a wilder slogan had never been heard before in any
battle-field than that which answered Sir John.
"That we will!" roared Tom Grahame. "Forward!"
Then the cheer and the slogan, and those sturdy mountaineers seemed
to carry everything before them. The Highlanders were bravely
supported by men brought up by Hardinge.
But, alas! it was then that, while waiting for this officer, brave
Sir John Moore was struck. He fell from his horse.
But, with his terrible wound bleeding, he sat up once more and gazed
after the 42nd, who were driving the enemy before them.
Of two things the hero now felt certain. First, that the victory was
ours, and secondly, that he himself had received his death-wound.
Like the immortal Nelson--
"In honour's cause his life had passed,
In honour's cause he fell at last
For England, Home, and Beauty."
Sergeant Tom Grahame, with two other soldiers, making a hammock of a
Highland plaid, carried the poor bleeding general to the rear, though
more than once, so great was his anxiety to see how things were going
on, he caused them to halt, that he might catch one more glimpse of
the battle-field.
Sir John Moore's wounds were mortal, and by sunset he was dead.
But our troops were victorious all along the line and in every line.
There was no coffin to lay the remains of the hero in. He was just
buried at midnight, in the uniform he had worn when shot down,
wrapped in martial cloak, as Wolfe in his poem describes it, and
without either pomp or ceremony. He had endeared himself, however,
to his soldiery, and had it been daylight, many a tear might have
been seen glistening in the eyes of the rough and weather-beaten
soldiers, who placed him in his narrow bed.
"Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried
"We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
"No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
"Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
"We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!
"Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
"But half our heavy task was done,
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.
"Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone--
But we left him alone with his glory."
It was not without danger and difficulty, to say nothing of accident,
that the troops were finally embarked.
General Soult may have imagined we were going to keep the lines we
had so gallantly won, and remain for a time at Corunna. When,
therefore, he found next morning that these were deserted, and our
ships making off to sea, he caused great guns to be dragged to the
tops of the hills, and endeavoured to sink the vessels.
Three or four of these got on shore, but although they had to be
abandoned, those on hoard were saved by the boats; and so ended this
ill-fated expedition.
* * * * *
Once fairly at sea, there was time for our brave fellows to think and
talk of all the fearful sufferings they had come through. Not that
these were quite all over yet. The transports were but small, and
were painfully over-crowded.
Moreover, in the hurry of embarkation, women got separated from their
children, and knew not whether they were dead or alive. Nor could
wives tell the fate of their husbands.
Many mourned as dead those they joyfully met again on shore, and,
alas! not a few felt certain their husbands were safe on board some
other transport, though they were lying stark and stiff on the
battle-field where they had so gallantly fought and fallen.
Neither O'Reilly nor Drake, though bravely indeed had they led their
men on, had received a scratch, nor had my grandfather. These two
officers, however, were on board another ship; while once again, as
fate would have it, Tom Grahame, Tonal, and my grand-dad found
themselves together--thanks to careful nursing, for the Spanish girl
had embarked with the others, bringing Tom's baby, as little Annie
was called, along with her. The child had taken a very great fancy
for the burly sergeant, and screamed with delight when she saw him
again.
"What are you going to do with her, Tom?" asked my grand-dad again.
"Well, Preen Mhor," was the reply, "I haven't just made up my mind
yet. If I can get a furlough, I'll just take her home to my mother
on the braes. If not, she must follow a soldier's fortunes."
"Well, Tom, you have a great big heart of your own, to be sure. But
as for Tonal, it is very evident what he means to do."
"To be sure, to be sure, Tonal has a soft heart of his own, and now
that he has lost his bagpipes, nothing but a wife can take their
place."
"A good exchange, Tom; and when he comes to have a few bairns, faix!
he won't miss the pipes."
Tom laughed.
But it turned out much as was predicted. Tonal did get married. At
Dover, I believe, the happy event took place. And Tonal was doubly
delighted, because on that same day the officers and non-commissioned
officers presented the honest fellow with a splendid stand of
bagpipes, brent new from Inverness.
No wonder Tonal was happy. Many a man gets a wife, but probably not
one in ten thousand gets a wife and a stand of bagpipes both in the
same day. That was where the laugh came in.
CHAPTER X.
"I'M A SOLDIER'S WIFE, I'LL SHARE A SOLDIER'S TOILS"--GIRL
HEROINES--STORMING OF BERGEN-OP-ZOOM--STRANGE
ADVENTURES--BORN ON A BATTLE-FIELD.
I need scarcely tell you that, as soon as he could get a furlough,
nay grandfather hurried off to Dublin.
What a pleasure, and what a change from the terrible toils of battle
and retreat, was the seat by the fireside of Mrs. Stapleton's cottage!
"Ellen," my grandfather said, "looked prettier than ever." Had his
name been William instead of Ian or John, I dare say the following
lines would have been appropriate to their meeting:
"She gazed, she reddened like a rose,
Then pale as any lily;
Then sank into his arms and cried,
'Are ye my ain dear Willie?'"
"O John, John," she told him when they were alone that first evening,
"what a sad and weary time it has been to me, and never, never, did I
expect to see you more! But, John----"
"Yes, dear."
"You shall not leave me again. I shall go with you."
"Child, child, you little know what a terrible thing war is. O, had
you but seen how some of those poor women, the soldiers' wives,
suffered in that awful retreat, dragging on, on, on, day after day,
through slush and mud, in rain and cold, and sleeping by the
camp-fires at night, with scarce even a plaid to cover them, and
never knowing the moment the enemy would attack! Then the weariness,
the cold, the hunger. O, don't think of it, Ellen, agra'."
"But, John, your Ellen has already thought about it."
She stood up as she spoke, and with one loving hand upon his shoulder
and her eyes looking straight into his:
"John, listen to me. English women and Scottish followed their
husbands through all the horrors, and toils, and terrors of that sad
retreat. What a Scotch or English lass can do an Irish lass can do
as well! Besides," she added, with a smile, "the motto of the
British army is 'Advance!' and not 'Retreat!'"
Then, more seriously, but with pretty determination:
"John, mavourneen, I'm a soldier's wife. I'll share a soldier's
toils."
What could grand-dad say or do?
Ellen had her own way, and all was arranged.
* * * * *
I dare say my girl readers will think that last line of asterisks
represents kisses. They may if they choose. But it really is only
my way of dividing periods and paragraphs.
Never, then, during the next six years, in which she followed his
fortunes, did my grandfather repent having taken his wife with him.
But those were indeed stirring days!
Stirring days for Europe, stirring days for Britain from Land's End
to John O' Groats. For our country was being drained of its best and
bravest men to fight the French in far-off foreign lands, or upon the
ocean itself.
Some women are cut out for soldiers' wives, and are heroines noble,
faithful, and true. The times in which they live and the scenes they
see around them in war times make heroines of even girls, or, let us
say, bring to the fore all of the heroic that had hitherto lain
latent in their natures.
Remember, for instance, the story of Joan of Arc, and that of the
Maid of Saragossa. Was she a beautiful lunatic? Some have dared to
say so, just as those who are "stirks" and asses themselves tell you
that genius is akin to madness.
Ah! we need the example of such lunatics, even in Britain, to stir
our blood and clear it. But when the French, under Napoleon himself,
were besieging Saragossa--when, at a certain place, the fire of
mortars, howitzers, and cannon was so terrible that nothing could
stand before it; when, as fast as the sand-bag batteries could be
built, they were scattered to the winds, and the soldiers torn in
pieces; when the citizens at last refused to re-man the guns--this
girl seized a match from a dead artilleryman, sprang over the bodies
of the slain who lay in heaps, and fired a cannon at the foe. She
then leapt upon the gun-carriage and, waving her arms aloft, vowed
she would never leave it till the men resumed their duties. Her
courage fired the soldiers; they answered her with a cheer, and never
were more noble deeds done than those at this terrible siege.
So numerous were my grand-dad's adventures during the Napoleonic wars
that I cannot relate a tithe of them.
Not in all his marches did my grandmother accompany him. But she was
never far away. She was not far off when her gallant husband took
part in that wonderful fight, the storming of Bergen-op-Zoom.
While in a town once by herself, and living not far from the harbour,
when a powder-ship blew up that seemed to shake the city to its very
foundations, the windows in the rooms where she then was were
shattered almost into dust.
Strange to say, a cat belonging to this ship had that very morning
run aloft and found its way to the main truck--that is the highest
point, as a landsman would call it, or tip of the main-topgallant
mast. There this prescient pussy sat, to the astonishment of all,
till, with the ship and all on board, she was blown to pieces.
But about Bergen-op-Zoom. At the time of our extraordinary action
there the whole of Austrian Flanders, except this stronghold, with
Antwerp and three other places, was in the hands of the British and
their allies.
"Bergen-op-Zoom," Alison tells us, "was in every respect the worthy
antagonist of Antwerp, to which it was directly opposite at a
distance of only fifteen miles. On its works the celebrated Cohern
had exhausted all the resources of his art.... And the works were so
extensive that they could only be adequately manned by twelve
thousand men. In addition to this, an immense system of mines and
subterranean works rendered all approach by an enemy hazardous in the
extreme."
There are three gates to the place. The garrison was about five
thousand strong.
It was in the winter of 1814 that, some of the ditches being frozen
over and some of the scarps out of repair, General Lord Proby
determined to take the place by assault, with a little over three
thousand troops that he divided into four columns.
It was a most daring undertaking; and I mention it only to show the
intrepidity and valour of our soldiers of the days of yore.
Bergen-op-Zoom was stormed at every gate, though at one the attack
was a mere feint.
The place was considered impregnable, and, had the guard shown as
much tact as daring courage, the end might have been far different.
The place, wonderful to say, was carried by escalade, or considered
to be carried.
Even the force that had made the false attack retired to their
cantonments, and a brigade of Germans, that had advanced on hearing
the firing, returned.
The French troops retired to the centre of the town, making sure that
they would be made prisoners at break of day.
But, before then, the British soldiers, considering themselves
victorious, broke into the gin-shops and drank to excess. There was
even a ball got up among the sergeants, and they were still dancing
when, at break of day, they were called to arms.
Then the fight was, indeed, a furious one. Our forces were divided,
and one portion was all but annihilated. My grandfather fought on
the summit of the Antwerp bastions, and long and bloody was the
contest, as may be understood from the fact that we lost in killed
and wounded nearly one thousand men.
[Illustration: The contest on the summit of the Antwerp bastions was
long and bloody.]
The rest of our troops were taken prisoners.
My grand-dad, with several hundred men, were marched into a church,
and there confined for, I believe, over four-and-twenty hours without
food or water.
Then, it is said by historians, they were exchanged. But the
soldiers themselves believed that no exchange would have been made
had the French been able to feed their prisoners.
My grand-dad's uniform was so soiled with blood and mud, that on
being freed he stripped off his outer garments and washed them at a
pump.
As his name was entered on the list of the dead, my grandmother's
grief may be better imagined than described. Major Drake himself
came to break the news to her.
She seemed to know by his face what he had come for.
"O, John, John!" she cried, in an agony of grief. "He is dead! He
is dead!"
Major Drake could only shake his head in sad confirmation.
But that evening John himself turned up, and her grief was changed to
joy.
This puts one in mind of the lines in the old stage doggerel song,
"Jack Robertson ":
"O, someone to me said,
In a paper he had read,
That Jack Robertson was dead.
'I was never dead at all,'
Cried Jack Robertson!"
* * * * * *
My grand-dad fought side by side with the Russians against the
French. And with the Austrians, too.
Once, when crossing the ice on the Danube, the ice gave way, and many
women and children were drowned before their husbands' eyes. This
waggon was supposed to have on board not only my grandmother, but her
child Robert. It was her turn to be reported dead. Luckily,
however, she had been changed into another conveyance that got safely
over.
This Robert Robertson was, of course, my baby uncle. If ever anyone
was a soldier born, it was he. For, after an engagement that our
fellows had gallantly won, they encamped on the very ground on which
they fought. That night he made his first appearance on the stage of
life.
Born on a battle-field, he died on a battle-field--died, sword in
hand, fighting by a gun in India.
Strange indeed were the adventures of the wives who elected to follow
their husbands to the seat of war in those days.
I have one more to tell of my grandmother, who was undoubtedly one of
the most courageous girls that ever went upon the war-path.
It was after an action--a skirmish my bold grand-dad called it--with
the French, which had been fought on a braeside sparsely covered with
bush. If skirmish it was, it was a long and bloody one, but we had
succeeded in beating the foe from the field, and retired some
distance to bivouac for the night.
Grand-dad did not return with his company. The wounded were brought
in, the dead left on the brae to be buried next morning, in which sad
ceremony the French, under flag of truce, would also take part.
The Irish are, or were in those days, somewhat superstitious, and
dreamers of dreams.
Anyhow, my dear, brave young granny had cried herself to sleep by the
camp-fire. It was about midnight when, she assured me herself, she
heard her name called distinctly enough three times.
"Ellen, mavourneen! Ellen! Ellen!"
The voice was that of her husband.
It was but a dream, perhaps, but she sprang from her pallet, and
passing the sentries, who tried to dissuade her, went straight to the
battle-field to look for her husband.
"Take this with you, anyhow," said one young sentry, handing her a
pistol.
This she placed in the belt she wore, and, muffling her head and
shoulders in a little Highland plaid, set out upon her ghastly
mission.
Dead, dead, all seemed dead here under the moonlight, which made
their faces uncanny to look at.
"O," she said to herself, "if I can but find him, I'll lie down and
die by his side."
Dead? Yes, but not all, for yonder from behind a bush appears the
figure of a woman.
Some poor creature, perhaps, come like herself--to search for a
husband among the slain.
But O, horror! she sees this fiend in woman's shape swirl something
quickly round her head, and then she hears a groan, as the harpy
bends down to rifle the pockets of a man she has murdered.
The sight makes my grandmother almost sick, and a terrible fear gets
hold of her heart, and for a moment she feels ready to faint.
She quickly hides behind a bush.
She sees the harpy finish off another poor fellow in whom some spark
of life remained.
"Ellen! Ellen!"
It is--it is her husband's voice, coming from near the bush behind
which she hides.
But the harpy has heard it too.
"Coming, John! coming, mavourneen!"
She rushes out now from the place of concealment, just as the
she-fiend approaches from the other side, and both meet almost at the
spot where my grandfather lies, so terribly wounded that he had been
left for dead.
There is no more fear in the heart of that soldier's wife now. She
stands face to face with the murderess--a peasant woman belonging to
the district.
"You would kill my husband as you killed the others?"
The pistol rings out clearly on the still air. They hear it even in
camp, and soldiers are despatched to the battle-field to find out the
cause.
They find my grandmother kneeling by the side of her husband.
And just a little way off lies the murderess--dead.
In her pocket were found both silver and gold, and many watches and
rings.
The weapon she had been using to complete her awful work was a
strange one--a cannon-ball in a stocking.
My grandfather's wound was not so dangerous as first anticipated,
and, with careful nursing, and the kind attention of stalwart Dr.
McLeod, in a month's time he was able once more to take the field.
The dream my grandmother dreamt is the strangest part of this story;
but is it not true that
"There are more things in heaven and earth
Than we dream of in our philosophy"?
CHAPTER XI.
ACROSS THE WIDE ATLANTIC--A STRANGE PARADE--THE
BAREFOOT SQUAD--SHIPWRECK--A FEARFUL FIGHT.
It is quite early on the morning of a bright and lovely summer's day.
On board the brave old transport _Salamanca_ seven bells have only
just been struck. The officers are briskly walking about the
quarter-deck, up and down, up and down, in that eager and hungry
expectancy with which Britons, be they soldiers or sailors, await a
summons to breakfast.
The sea is almost calm now. Only a gentle breeze ruffles its waters,
and the sunshine is sparkling on every wave.
But only yesterday, and down to yester eve, it blew so fiercely that
the good ship was scudding along almost under bare poles, and rolling
and plunging enough--the seamen said--to drag the masts out of her
and haul them overboard. There was one consolation, however, even
when the gale was at its worst. The _Salamanca_ had plenty of
sea-room, for she is crossing the wide Atlantic with troops to assist
in the American war, in Canada.
Far too much elated at the success of the first great War of
Independence, the Americans had gone to war with us again, and would
not be content, so they vowed, until they had captured Canada, and
thus "cabbaged," as they termed it, "the whole boundless continent."
Pity indeed that two nations such as America and Britain, speaking
the same language, holding fast by the same religion, brothers in
every sense of the beautiful word, should ever long to imbrue their
hands in each others blood.
The _Salamanca_ is under easy sail this morning, for she is a fast
ship of her kind, and the captain judged, rightly too, that she must
be far ahead of the other transports, and of the line-of-battle ship
the _Warrior_, which was acting as their convoy.
But hark! there is a hail from the main-top-mast cross-trees.
"Sail in sight!"
"Can you make her out?"
There is a long pause, while the out-look scans her. And there is
anxiety visible enough on every countenance; for the vessel is
three-quarters of the way across, and this sail may be a Yankee
cruiser.
"_Can't_ you make her out?" was shouted a second time.
One moment.
"Yes, sir; it is the _Warrior_."
A cheer rises from the deck fore and aft, then the steward's bell
rings, and the officers go tumbling down to breakfast.
A little child, three years of age--a sailor's pet she is, if ever
sailors had a pet--is perched high up on the shoulders of sturdy,
giant McLeod. In fact, she has a little leg, with well-bronzed knee,
over each shoulder, as if she were a kind of top-gallant bulwark to
the bold doctor.
The doctor has been her horse for the last half-hour, and she has
been riding him up and down the deck.
But now her excitement knows no bounds, and she clutches the doctor
by the hair with one hand, while with the other she waves on high a
little flag that one of the men made for her.
"Hillo! the _Walliol_," she cries.
But now Dr. McLeod lowers her from her perch, for she, too, is ready
for breakfast.
"Good-morning, Sergeant," he says, as he meets my grandfather. "Here
is your little daughter. We have been having such glorious fun, but
if it continues like this every morning, I won't have a hair on my
head! How do you get on with the women, Sergeant?" continued the
doctor. "Better, I trust. Have you got them to wash their faces
every morning yet?"
He referred to the soldiers' wives.
"Just hold on half a minute," said grandfather, laughing, "and you'll
see the strangest parade, perhaps, you ever clapped eyes on. You
see," he explained, "I have ordered every woman on board to appear on
deck for inspection, bareheaded, with bare necks and naked feet."
The latter would be called "Trilbies" nowadays.
"And to show there is no unfairness," he continued, "I have put my
own wife at the head of them."
Next minute about thirty soldiers' wives appeared on deck just as my
grand-dad described, and at their head, in the same strange
_deshabille_, my grandmother.
They were drawn up like so many Amazons, their own husbands laughing
and chaffing a little.
"Chin up, Maria!" cried one soldier.
"Attention! Jeannie, my lass!" came from another.
"Dress, Betsy," said a third.
"Dress, indeed!" answered Betsy with a saucy toss of her head. "I
wish we could."
"Silence! Attention!"
That was my grand-dad's voice.
"Now, Mrs. Robertson," he said, "do your duty!"
Armed with a sergeant's pike, my grandmother commenced the
inspection, and, stopping for a few seconds in front of every woman,
carefully scrutinised her, literally from top to toe.
Had any one of them appeared even with unclean hands, either she
herself would have been punished by being kept below, or punished by
proxy--namely, by the stopping of her husband's grog.
When Dr. McLeod went below and reported what he had seen, there was a
good deal of laughing.
The adjutant, however, approved of the plan, and complimented
grandfather on his originality.
It certainly was successful, for the women after this took much more
interest in their personal appearance. But the "barefoot squad," as
Jack Tar called them, was drilled just the same all throughout the
voyage.
* * * * *
In those days there were no ocean greyhounds, as our fleetest
Atlantic liners are now called. The voyage across the sea was
therefore a long and a weary one.
The _Salamanca_, however, did not get out without adventure, for in
the gulf of the St. Lawrence she was separated from the other
transports in a dense fog, and for many a week saw no more of the
_Warrior_ or any other ship.
Finally, in the darkness of a wild and stormy night, they ran on the
rocks off the island of Anticosti.
Daylight revealed the peril of their situation, for both wind and
waves were high, and there was every sign that the vessel would soon
break up. It was a terrible time and a trying.
At last a boat was lowered and manned by bold British bluejackets,
who pulled shorewards and round a little cape to seek for a
landing-place.
How long the time seemed! Hours and hours passed by, and yet there
were no signs of their return. The soldiers and their wives were
huddled together under the lee of the bulwarks forward, and the
children crouched beneath their shawls and plaids.
At long last there was a cheer. The boat could be seen coming round
the point.
Luckily their report was a good one. They had found a spot where a
landing could be effected.
The women and children were sent off first, then the soldiers, then
stores, and last of all, just as the vessel was slipping off the
rock, the sailors left her.
Far over the wooded western shore the sun was setting and daylight
would soon be at an end.
The last boat was not sixty yards away from the vessel when she
slipped back. For a moment or two her jib-boom was stretched high in
the air like the naked arm of a drowning man extended in agony, then
she went down with a sullen boom like the roar of a distant gun.
"How, brothers, row; the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near, and the daylight is past."
The stream did run high, or rather the tide, and although there were
no rapids, there were rushing waves, and breakers too.
The last boat rounded the point safely, however, and presently they
could see the lights waving on shore to guide them on.
And never, perhaps, were tired sailors more glad to get on shore, and
seat themselves around a cheerful campfire.
I cannot remember how many days or weeks these shipwrecked men and
women remained here, but it was a dismal time, for the fogs closed
around them again and buried all the distant shores.
Moreover, the bears were in scores, and the poor children were nearly
frightened to death; for so bold did the brutes become that they made
dashes at night, and carried away provisions in the very glare of the
campfires.
They were rescued at last, however, and taken on board another
transport.
Then they were hurried on up into the interior, where fighting was
going on, and where their services were very much needed indeed.
* * * * * *
Although geography ought to be studied from globes, still maps are
very useful, although at times puzzling, as they very often give
wrong impressions of the lay of the land and the bearings of one
country to another. I should always take the part of that boy or
girl who hated geography or history, for this reason: it is
taught--if teaching one can call it--from a wrong basis at our
schools and seminaries. It is rendered neither pleasant nor
interesting, but, on the contrary, hateful. I should just as soon
expect a youngster to get by heart the first chapter of the Book of
Numbers, and feel interested in that, as in the geography and history
as taught in schools.
I will tell you, however, where a map becomes a comfort and a
necessity, and that is when a war is on. Indeed, I believe that war
teaches most people about all they know about any place.
I have mentioned the river St. Lawrence. Now although some little
boys may imagine that the St. Lawrence is somewhere down in Surrey or
up Yorkshire way, I can assure them it is in no such place.
Just for once in a way take a glance at your map. What a mighty
ocean that is which stretches right away, without bounds or limits or
even an island to break its monotony, from the south of England to
Newfoundland. Some idiots call it the herring-pond, in an off-hand
kind of way as if such an ocean were a mere mill-dam compared to the
seas they have crossed. Such people have probably never been a mile
from a cow's tail in all their low little lives.
The Atlantic is a mighty and wonderful expanse of water, and although
crossed by thousands of ships, I have sailed in a bee-line on this
great world of waters for a whole week without seeing a craft of
anything.
Only the dark heaving waves, only the boundless horizon, only the
sky. Its very lonesomeness has made me feel eerie.
O, if that ocean had a voice other than that of its booming billows,
what a story it could tell! What sufferings it has seen, what
founderings, what battles, what agonies! And what strange mysteries!
So pray do not talk of it slightingly, if you wish to lay claim to
having more brains than could be held in a walnut-shell. But when
going to the St. Lawrence you sail on and on till at long last you
round the great Bank of Newfoundland, then bear north and west, till
you skirt the huge island itself, which is as large as the whole of
Ireland itself.
When past this you are in the Gulf, and so you sail on and past
Anticosti, where my grandfather, grandmother, and my three-year-old
mammy were wrecked. You are in the river now, but still a mighty
long way from Quebec itself. But, if you clap your eagle eye on the
map, you may be surprised to know that the distance from Toronto to
the mouth of the St. Lawrence is nearly as far as from Cork to the
middle of the Atlantic, and Lake Erie farther still. You will note
also that New York itself is far nearer to Toronto than Quebec itself.
Well, the United States had been casting sheep's-eyes at our big
sister Canada. But Canada is our love, not theirs. She belongs to
this other boy--to John, and not to Jonathan--and if John catches
Jonathan making love to his sister Canada, O my! won't Jonathan catch
it, that is all! The boundary-line of the United States is a
perfectly straight one from the shores of the Pacific to the Lake of
the Woods in Upper Canada. Well, all Jonathan wanted was to extend
that line on the straight to the Atlantic Ocean.
But Sister Canada wouldn't have it.
"If you come a step nearer, Mr. Jonathan," she says, "I'll scream,
and wild cats won't be in it."
You see, reader, it is not a very difficult thing to make a map on
paper with pen and ink. But when the same job is attempted on _terra
firma_, with a sword for a pen and blood instead of ink, why the case
is considerably altered.
Such a map, however, the Americans determined to make, a year before
my grandfather's battalion crossed the ocean.
At this time, instead of having ships on the great lakes and soldiers
on shore, we had neither to speak of.
So, in the early part of 1813, General Dearborn, who commanded the
American forces, had set the ball in motion. He advanced upon
York--a town and stronghold on Lake Ontario.
We had barely a thousand men there, and, as the Yankee was supported
by a flotilla of gunboats, the Canadians decamped, leaving their
military stores for Dearborn.
"That is a good beginning," he said to himself. So, in his flotilla,
he loaded up those stores, and with artillery, cavalry, and
infantry--about seven thousand all told--he set sail for Niagara,
and, after some hard fighting, captured Fort George. General
Vincent, of the British or Canadian side, had only a handful of
troops, so could not well oppose Dearborn. But Vincent, after
clearing out of Fort George, collected all the troops he could find,
to the number of about eighteen hundred, and determined to make a
stand fifty miles up the strait at Burlington Bay.
This was another chance for Dearborn to annihilate a few more
Britishers; so he marched to attack brave Vincent with nine guns and
three thousand men. But Vincent himself did the attacking this time;
and Colonel Harvey, of ours, was chosen to lead a midnight bayonet
charge on Dearborn's camp. It was an awful fight, but it did not
last long. Harvey was victorious; though he had only seven hundred
men, he scattered the enemy in all directions, littered the ground
with their dead and wounded, and took four guns and over one hundred
prisoners.
This, then, was the beginning of this new American war; and, though
it must be admitted the Yankees fought bravely at times and met with
many successes, they really had reckoned without their host. That
host was Canada; and so pluckily did she fight that they were utterly
beaten.
They had run up a heavy bill which it would take a long time for
their country to clear; they had lost in all over fifty thousand men,
and last, but not least, they had earned for themselves the hatred of
every man and woman in Canada, and that hatred, I fear, is a fire
that is smouldering till this very day, as the extraordinary activity
of the Canadians and their splendid rush to arms during the-war scare
in January, 1896, fully prove.
The word "never" is a long one, for neither men nor nations know what
may be in store for them in the future, or how near to them the
future that shall work such changes may be; but it is the general
opinion, both here and in Canada, that America will never be able to
conquer Canada. She will never be a great naval Power either. She
certainly will not be if she crosses arms with Britain. It will add
to her wealth, as well as her power, to keep the peace with her old
mother, Britain.
And now, my intelligent reader, I consider that there has been blood
enough spilt in these pages of mine to satisfy any gore-loving lad
that ever sat by a cosy fire on a winter's evening.
But I must give you a sketch of just one fight that occurred on the
Canadian frontier, and, after you have read it, I wish you to ask
yourself the question: Ought two nations, who can fight so terribly
as this, to be other than friendly?
The fight was about a battery that the British had erected on a
commanding hill at the battle of Chippewa. "The action," says
Alison, quoting from General Drummond's official account, "began
about six in the evening, and the whole line was soon warmly engaged,
but the weight of the conflict fell upon the British centre and left."
Notwithstanding the utmost efforts, the latter was forced back, and
our General Riell was severely wounded and made prisoner. The 89th,
Royals, and King's regiments opposed a determined resistance, and the
guns on the hill, which were worked with prodigious rapidity,
occasioned so great a loss to the attacking columns, that General
Brown (American) soon saw that there was no chance of success until
that battery was carried; and a desperate effort was resolved on to
obtain the mastery of it.
The Americans, under General Millar, advanced with the utmost
resolution, and with such vigour that five of the British cannon at
first fell into their hands.
So desperate was the onset, so strenuous the resistance, that the
British artillerymen were bayoneted by the enemy in the act of
loading, and the muzzles of their guns were advanced to within a few
yards of the English battery.
This dreadful conflict continued till after dark, with alternate
success, in the course of which the combatants fought hand to hand,
by the light of the discharges of the guns, and the artillery on both
sides was repeatedly taken and retaken.
At length the combatants sank to rest, from pure mutual exhaustion,
within a few yards of each other, and so intermingled that two of the
American guns were finally mastered by the British, and one of the
British by the Americans.
During the period of repose the loud roar of the battle was succeeded
by a silence so profound, that the dull roar of the Falls of Niagara,
interrupted at intervals by the groans of the wounded, was distinctly
heard.
Over the scene of this desperate strife the moon threw an uncertain
light, which yielded occasionally to the bright flashes of musketry
and cannon when the combat was partially renewed.
But British Drummond took advantage of the lull in the awful storm to
bring up his right, so as to support the centre.
The American general now saw that all his efforts were in vain, and
at midnight the bugles sounded the retreat; the blood-red hill and
their guns were left to the British who had so manfully defended them.
I think you will agree with me that the answer to the question I
requested you to put to yourself must be: "No--_No_--No."
"I re-echo," said a well-known man on January 25th, 1896 (Burns'
birthday), "I re-echo and I reciprocate, from the bottom of my heart,
the noble words which were spoken by the American Senator Walcott,
amidst uwonted applause, in the hall of the Capitol at Washington,
when he said: 'Blood is thicker than water, and until a just quarrel
divides us, which Heaven forbid, may these two great nations, of the
same speech, lineage, and traditions, stand as brothers shoulder to
shoulder in the interests of humanity by a union compelling peace.'
That always has been, that always will be, the wish of every Briton.
The two nations are allied, and more closely allied in sentiment and
in interest than any other two nations on the earth. While I should
look with horror upon, anything in the nature of a fratricidal
strife, I should look forward with pleasure to the possibility of the
Stars and Stripes and the Union Jack floating together in defence of
a common cause sanctioned by humanity and by justice."
In God's name, then, let us have peace with our brother Jonathan, and
heartily shake
HANDS ACROSS THE WATER.
CHAPTER XII.
RED-EYE, THE INDIAN CHIEF--A TERRIBLE ADVENTURE
WITH A BEAR--BAD NEWS!--STOLEN OR KILLED BY
INDIANS.
The war in Upper Canada may be said to have ended before the winter
of 1814-15. Ended indeed in General Drummond's terrible but abortive
attack or assault on Fort Erie, in which he lost about five hundred
in killed and wounded.
The general, although reinforced, dared not attack again, "but," as
Alison says, "contented himself with drawing closer the investment,
and cooping the large American army up in a corner of British
territory, where they were rendered perfectly useless during the
remainder of the campaign."
Meanwhile, however, ships were being built, and gunboats too, both
for the British and Americans to float and fight on the great inland
seas and lakes, and this with the intention on the American side to
make one more effort to conquer Canada in the ensuing spring.
If, however, I were to tell you of the battles, by land and sea,
which took place this year between Britain and America, further south
than Canada, although I might succeed in interesting some of my
readers on this side of the Atlantic, I might irritate my good
friends on the other.
While the good weather lasted, and the bright and beautiful Indian
summer, life in camp, in log huts, or in houses was delightful enough
to my grandfather and his wife, with my little mother, Mary
Robertson, to say nothing of Tonal's Spanish wife herself.
The woods and forests, the lakes and streams, and the rugged hills
were clad in all the glory and colour of a late autumn.
My mother was a true _fille du regiment_, and continued to be as much
a favourite and as much beloved by officers and men on shore as she
had been at sea.
The Indians in those times were far more numerous in the forests and
hills, in the great lake districts, than they are now. Neither
British nor Americans have ever meted out to them any very great
measure of justice. In fact it has been very much the reverse. We
have driven them back, back, back, before us; we have taken their
territories over and over again; we have cheated and robbed them, and
when they have retaliated and taken the revenge that red men always
will, we have declared against them a war of extermination, or
almost; we seemed to forget that they were human beings, and shot
them down like wolves.
These poor, brave creatures assisted us greatly in the war against
America. But they fought in a savage way, and mutilated even the
wounded in a shocking and fearful manner. For the braves must have
scalps to hang on poles, far away where their wigwams stood in forest
glade, or by the peaceful streams that meandered through their
territory.
These Indians, now that comparative peace had come, still lingered
around our camps. They were, alas! too often led into excesses by
the fire-water of the pale-faces.
Strangely enough, the child Mary exhibited not the slightest trace of
fear in the company of these dusky warriors. She would even toddle
off at times to their camp, and not be seen again for hours, when
some of the Royal Scots, being sent in search of her, were sure to
find her chatting gaily to squaws or braves, in their tents or by the
log-fires.
But there were Indians also who hated the British, and hated also
those tribes who had fought for the pale-faces, such as the
Chippawas, the Wyandottes, and Minsees. With these, I believe, we
were friendly on the whole, but far away in the west and north, was a
tribe or branch of the Micmacs, whose hand appeared to be turned
against everyone, and who were constantly on the war-path. They
lived chiefly by their bows and arrows or spears, but of late years
had made use of guns also, so that they were now considered still
more dangerous and deadly.
Their wigwams stood on the shores of a beautiful, lonesome sheet of
water, embosomed by woods, and to which they had given the euphonic
name Eeowreeva, or Yewreeva, the Great Pike Lake. Here these red men
had lived for many generations, more than Red-Eye, a friendly Micmac,
who often visited the camp, could count on his fingers. They loved
their home in the wild west, Red-Eye said, because no pale-face had
ever yet come to see and seek their land.
This land, and all the hills and forests around it, was no
reservation. It was simply a country into which the pale-face had
not as yet penetrated.
But Red-Eye, or Led-Eye, as Mary called him, was no beauty to gaze
upon. On the contrary, it was believed that, although he prided
himself on the distance he could throw a spear, or his skill with a
tomahawk, his chief pride lay in his stern and dreadful face, and in
the number of scars he had on his body, many of which, he assured my
grandmother, whom he often visited, had been received in fights and
encounters with wild beasts, with bears and panthers, that he had
followed, even to their very dens, and killed. In his own country he
had been a chief.
Little Mary, my mother, used to listen with rapt attention to this
semi-civilised savage's account of his adventures, as he squatted
near the fire, wrapped in his great striped blanket.
But she must have been too young to understand much of what was said.
A strange sort of friendship, however, sprang up between the two.
Their love-making, if so it could be called, was droll in the extreme.
"Po' Led-Eye," she said one day, as she stood beside him, nursing one
of his hands, on which were the marks left by a panther's teeth.
"Po' Led-Eye. And the nasty wild beast cut you so! Did you kill the
big cat, Led-Eye?"
"Ugh! child, yes, I kill he quick. With my spear I kill he. Hold my
spear so."
"Ah! Ah! wild cat was all toveled (covered) wi' blood, wasn't he,
Led-Eye?"
"Blood in streams!" said Red-Eye.
"O, how nice! Anazle (another) big tut (cut) on 'oo blow (your
brow), po' Led-Eye, what make that tut?"
"The spear of a chief, child of my heart."
He smoothed her long fair hair as he spoke, and glanced lovingly into
her blue eyes.
"Child of my heart! Hair like sunset clouds. Eyes and cheeks like
stars and flowers. Child of my love!"
"'Oo iss, of tourse. Child of oor love. But 'oo kill the tief
(chief) that troo the spear and cuttit oo blow. You kill him, quick,
quick?"
"I kill him, plenty quick."
"And he bleeded all over?"
"Ugh! I wash my hands in his blood."
My little mother jumped for joy.
"How nice! how nice!" she cried, clapping her hands. "Tell the chile
of oo love mo' stolies."
"Mary, Mary," cried my grandmother, "come here this instant, till I
get you ready for bed."
"I think," said Tonal to my grandfather, as they lay on their
blankets by the fire, "I think that Mary would grow up a splendid
savage. Come here, Mary, and sit on my knee. Your mother won't put
you to bed for just a little while, I'm sure."
"Not if she's good."
"I sit on oo knee bymeby, when po' Led-Eye does (goes) away to feep
(sleep)."
"You like Red-Eye best, then?"
"Of tourse. Led-Eye mo' ugly as you.
"Nevah mind," she continued, patting the savage's cheek, "when I
dlows (grows) up, I lun (run) away to the woods and be oo queen."
"It's all settled then, John," said Tonal.
"It would seem so, Tonal."
But Red-Eye's love-making did not end in mere words. Words are only
froth, acts alone are solid, and he used to bring the "child of his
love" many beautiful things from the forest--flowers, skins of
beasts, and feathers of birds.
Once he brought her a live humming-bird, or one of an allied species.
It soon died, however. Then he took much pains to cure it for her.
He opened it slightly, and stuffed it with strange spices and musk.
Then he rolled it in leaves, and laid it on a stone near the fire,
and behold! in an hour it was embalmed and cured.
That little bird, in a tiny glass case, is on my table as I write. I
would not part with it for all the world. All the world would be
nothing to me, as I should not know what to do with it, but this
little case, ah! what gladsome memories it brings me back.
Tonal and my grandfather used often to accompany Major Drake or Dr.
McLeod in long rambles into the forests.
They would be away for two or even three days sometimes, and never
return without the spoils of the chase, to the great delight of my
little mother, Mary.
Part of these excursions was by boat, the other on shore.
Their guide was invariably Red-Eye.
He was a fearless fellow, and often led them into adventures that it
would have been as well for them had they avoided.
On one of these occasions McLeod fired upon a great bear on a
hillside. The brute was but grazed, and came rushing down upon him
with a roar that seemed to rend the very rocks. Both man and bear
went rolling down the brae, and powerful though the doctor was, he
never could have come out of the adventure alive, had not Red-Eye
been there. The Indian buried his tomahawk in the monster's neck.
With a yell the bear now sprang at him, and had not O'Reilly, who was
near, placed the muzzle of his gun close to the bear's ear and fired,
poor Red-Eye would have told my little mother no more terrible
stories.
Though badly bruised,
"Unwounded from the dreadful close
But breathless all McLeod arose."
Red-Eye appeared none the worse. He just shook himself and said,
pointing to O'Reilly's gun:
"Ugh! Much good fire-stick."
But the spoils of the chase did not invariably consist of bears, or
any other of the _feræ_, but game and pigeons. The latter were seen
sometimes, not in flocks only, but in clouds, so that it was no
uncommon thing for our heroes to bring them down with bullets.
I do not mean to say that the very bird that was aimed at always
fell---though with a good modern rifle and a good modern marksman
this might have been the case--but so numerous were they that it was
almost impossible to fire without hitting.
Some of the streams, away in the backwoods, teemed with fish. In
fact, so numerous were these that one could scarcely call it sport to
catch them.
One day, while my grandfather and Drake were in the woods, they got
talking together about home, and the old scenes they had passed
through, and the battles in which they had fought shoulder to
shoulder.
Both had received letters only the day before.
"O, by the way, Sergeant," said Major Drake suddenly, "I have
something to tell you.
"I had a letter from H----. You know he is a friend of the Duke--our
particular Duke."
"The Duke of Kent?"
"Yes; and it seems H---- was telling his Royal Highness how your wife
shot that terrible harpy on the battle-field, and saved your life.
"The Duke," continued Drake, "was enthusiastic, and he does not take
wine to make him so, either.
"'Robertson,' he said, 'was one of the best non-commissioned officers
I ever had on my staff, and right bravely but coolly he could do his
duty in his regiment also.
"'And, H----,' he continued, 'the Highland battalion. of the Royal
Scots will soon be _au fait accompli_, and I shan't forget my promise
to Robertson.'"
"Thank Heaven," said my grandfather, "for that news! It has been my
dream for years. Could I afterwards gain a captaincy in my company,
and once lead it into action against the French, I would die happy.
And you know, sir, I am no mere romancist.
"But, sir," he added, "with the fall of Napoleon and the restoration
of the Bourbons, don't you think wars will cease all over the world,
and that there won't be anymore use for Highland battalions?"
Drake laughed.
"Listen, Sergeant John," he said. "Mind, I'm no prophet, and never
was, but--Napoleon is scotched, not killed."
"And pray, sir--who--or where----"
"Where did I get my information?"
"I fear I'm rude, sir, but that is what I was about to ask."
"Well, my good follow, a wee birdie told me."
That was a happy day all through for my grandfather.
Happy, that is, until eventide.
But as he was going singing up to his own log hut, with a bundle of
birds over his left shoulder, he was surprised to find the men
standing here and there in little groups. And he could not help
imagining that they were looking at him in a kind of pitying way.
I have said little about Tonal's Spanish wife for the simple reason
that there was little to tell; yet she had followed his fortunes all
through the war, and proved a very great boon to the pipe-major, as
he was now called.
She was here in camp.
Instead of little Mary running as usual to meet her father, it was
poor Mrs. Tonal that came.
Her large, dark eyes were swimming in tears.
"O, Sergeant Robertson," she began, but the grief seemed to choke her
utterance.
"Good heavens, girl, speak!" cried my grandfather. "Speak, I entreat
of you! Has anything happened to my dear wife?"
"No, no," gasped the girl, for girl she was to all appearance. "She
is gone to the Indian camp, but my husband has gone."
"Tonal gone?--dead?"
"Oh!" she cried, "we do not know, Mr. Robertson, but Mary, little
Mary, too, has gone."
For a moment, forest, lake, and hill seemed to spin round, and my
grandfather had almost fainted.
His daughter, whom he adored, lost, gone! It was too awful to think
about.
He threw down his gun, threw down his game, and next moment was
hurrying off to the Indian camp.
He would now, at all events, hear the very worst.
CHAPTER XIII.
"WHERE IS RED-EYE? I WILL KILL HIM!"--A SOLEMN
SCENE--THE MOONLIT FOREST.
On his way to the wigwam camp, as that of the Indians was called, he
met stalwart McLeod.
"Ah!" said the soldier-surgeon, "I see you have heard the bad news."
My grandfather's face was set and stern, but very pale.
"No, Doctor," he replied. "Tonal's wife could tell me nothing, only
that her husband and my child have disappeared."
"Yes, and--but can you bear the evil news, my good fellow?"
"I can bear anything--anything except suspense."
"Well, the facts, as far as we know them, are these. Our friendly
Indians had arranged to-day to hold a feast far away in the forest.
They went off in their war-paint. The pipe-major, with one
man--Roberts, of your company--went with them, and poor wee Mary
would not be left behind. You know your wife will trust her anywhere
with Tonal."
"Yes, yes. O Doctor, pardon my impatience, but go on--go on."
"The Indians went off with great rejoicing, Tonal good-naturedly
playing in front of them.
"At three o'clock the scattered remains of our Indians came into the
camp by twos and threes, some sadly wounded, but no Tonal, no Mary,
and no Roberts."
"Killed?"
"Roberts was killed at the first volley. For the Micmacs are on the
war-path, and have come from afar to take revenge on our Indians.
They seem to have known the very day they would hold this feast."
"Dr. McLeod, there is treason in the camp.
"Where is Red-Eye? I will kill him!"
"Stay, stay," cried the doctor; "do not be rash. I believe Red-Eye
to be as faithful as he is simple and brave."
"Where is he, I say?"
"He has gone alone into the forest to seek for your child. If there
is any man in our camp who can pick up a trail, it is he."
"Dr. McLeod, sir, he will never return; and I here make a vow--and
let it be registered in heaven--I will follow him to the wilds of the
farther west, and, when I find him, will slay him in his tracks."
"Robertson, my boy," said the kind-hearted doctor--"for you are but a
boy to me--Red-Eye may be a savage, but he is also a Christian, and
to the lake-side, after sunset, he has gone every night to pray. I
happened to be there but two nights ago, when he stalked silently
down, and knelt with his face to the west. Me he could not see,
Robertson. I have heard eloquent prayers from many a pulpit, and at
many a humble fireside far away in bonnie Scotland, but I never
listened to so simple yet heart-o'erflowing prayer before. And you
and your little daughter were prayed for in words of such passionate
tenderness that I shall ne'er forget them."
There was a reaction now.
"God forgive me, Doctor, if I wrong the man."
Then he covered his face with his hands.
"Come, come, Robertson, do not take on so. There yet is hope, you
know. Come, I shall have your wife and yourself on my hands as
patients, if you break down thus."
* * * * *
A party, that had gone out to bury the dead and bring in more of the
wounded, now came in. They bore, on a litter of branches, the
lifeless body of Roberts, a young fair-haired lad, who had joined in
Canada.
His terrible wounds were all in front, showing how well he had fought.
He, like all the other dead, and some of the wounded had been scalped.
The assault by the Micmacs, it seems, had been terribly sudden.
It was a wild _mêlée_, and terrible tulzie, but soon over.
As neither Tonal nor the child was found in the forest, it was
evident that they had been taken prisoners.
Tonal would doubtless be tortured at the stake, but how about Mary?
She would either be flung into the river or over the cliff, or
stripped and dressed as a papoose, then handed over to the tender
mercies of some horrid squaw, to be reared as a little savage.
Poor wee wonder! she had often expressed her wish to become a savage,
and roam through the woods and wilds with the braves. Little did she
know then what was about to befall her.
There would be no sleep for grandfather to-night, and little for
anyone else.
Preparations were being hastily made, however, for an expedition
against the Micmacs. It was hoped that, secure in the depth of the
forests, and in their mountain fastnesses, they would not hurry
homewards, but follow the chase for a time. But this was only
conjecture. If they went directly towards their own country, there
was but little chance of our people being able to overtake them.
Besides, there were no good guides. The knowledge of even the
friendly Indians, concerning this hostile tribe, was but small, but
they would do all they could.
The expedition would not start until daybreak; so it was at first
arranged. Without proper guides, rashness would only mean disaster.
My grandfather lay down for a time, but sleep was, for once, banished
from his eyes.
He was restless, wildly restless. So he got up and left the hut. He
left his wife asleep, for sorrow, in some, often causes drowsiness.
He would have bent down and kissed her, had he not feared it would
wake her, for her cheeks were even now wet with tears.
Grandfather passed the sentry, and went on towards the lake. The
sight of a placid sea or lake seems to have a soothing effect upon
the nerves.
What a beautiful night it was! Not a breath of wind!
The great round moon was struggling up through a ghostly fog, and her
red beams turned the waves to a yellow-pinkish hue. The forest all
around looked like rolling clouds of vapour, and the ground itself
was so white, that at a little distance it seemed covered with snow.
It was a solemn scene!
Nothing was heard, except now and then the mournful cry of a
night-bird, and the shout of a watchful sentry. But the drone of the
distant waterfall filled all the air, and the very trees appeared to
vibrate to its rhythm.
No life was visible anywhere.
Grandfather was alone. Alone with his grief. Alone with God.
Yes, He could see him. He loved him still.
A very bright star shone high up in the east, and appeared to look
down on the sorrowing father with kind and pitying eye.
He knelt near the lake to pray. It was no presumptuous prayer.
"If it be Thy will, O Father, who have always been my Guide and
Friend----"
That was the first of it.
"If it be Thy will."
And prayer should never go further than this.
As he still knelt there, and the waters of the lake grew more and
more silvery every minute, as the moon rose higher and higher, a tall
figure came gliding from the forest, walking in its moccasins as
silently as, they tell me, ghosts walk.
"Ugh!"
Grandfather started to his feet.
The moon shone full now in the face of the Indian, Red-Eye.
"Red-Eye, it is you. What is it you carry?"
Red-Eye held his burden by the hair aloft.
An Indian head, with half-open eyes and drooping jaw.
"Red-Eye, how came you by that ghastly trophy?"
The Indian only pointed to the west, threw the head down carelessly,
and sat down.
"I tire, much tire," he said, as he leant on one arm and commenced to
fill his wooden pipe.
Grandfather sat down beside him and waited. He knew the habits of
Indian warriors.
He felt sure the man would speak anon.
The moon was in full silver flood now, and grandfather could watch
Red-Eye, and note every expression on his wild uncouth face.
"Red-Eye's heart is heavy," he said at last.
"And my heart is heavy, Red-Eye."
"Indian can love more--much more than pale-face. I loved your lost
child."
Grandfather drew nearer to him. He felt he could trust this strange
man. He felt that now, for the first time.
"Long ago--long before the pale-face was sent by your great white
chief to fight bad 'Merican man--I live in the sunset west. Soon
quarrels rise. I love one Indian. Grat Pike love her too. We
fight. All braves fight--but I kill my chief. Then I fly and live
in the forest. Every man want to kill Red-Eye then. For years I
live so. Meemee come too, but one night she die."
He paused for a minute, as if the memory of his grief had made him
dumb.
"Then when pale-faces come, I come to your camp-fire. You not trust
me. You think poor Red-Eye traitor and thief. You think I steal the
child for my tribe."
"No, no, no, Red-Eye! I did doubt you, but now I think my eyes have
been opened."
Red-Eye pointed with his pipe to the ghastly head.
"He one scout. One spy. Yes, he belong to my tribe. Ugh! He not
tell more tale."
"And whither, think you, have they taken my child and my friend?"
"When I kill he, I go after my tribe. Your child I cannot see. Your
friend play in my tribe's camp."
"Tonal playing! He must be mad!"
"No. Suppose not play, then----"
Red-Eye touched his neck with the point of his finger.
This was significant enough.
Then up sprang Red-Eye, tall, defiant, determined.
"Your men ready?"
"They will start to-morrow morning early."
"Too late! They start now!"
He pulled out his knife and quickly scalped the hideous head.
The scalp he hung to his girdle.
"Come," he said.
And grandfather followed mechanically, as it were.
His head was bent downwards. He walked as soldiers walk at the
funeral of a well-beloved friend.
But he was hopeless. He would never see his little Mary-again. Of
this he felt certain.
The Indian led the way to the hut occupied by Major Drake, and
quickly that gallant officer responded to the summons.
Dr. McLeod came out with him. Both started when they saw the tall
Indian with scalp and tomahawk in his girdle.
"Red-Eye, I am happy to see you," said the doctor.
"Come _now_," said Red-Eye, pointing to the moon. "I will guide you
to the camp of the Micmacs. Come quick."
In less than half an hour O'Reilly, Drake, and McLeod, with fully
half of my grandfather's company, had fallen in.
They were silent and grave, but the look of sternness on each face
told that they meant business.
My grandfather ran in to say good-bye, and bid his wife and Tonal's
be of good cheer and--just _pray_!
Then, in double file, and still in silence, men and officers marched
away, guided by Red-Eye, and soon were lost to view, swallowed up, as
it were, in the depths of that great white, moonlit forest.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE FIGHT WITH SAVAGES--A LONE GRAVE IN THE
FOREST--RETURN OF SPRING--NAPOLEON AT ST. HELENA.
At first the half-frozen leaves rustled crisp beneath the men's feet,
but Red-Eye led them through the darkness of the great forest, into
which hardly a ray of moonlight could find its way, and here the
ground was soft, and the leaves made no noise.
Red-Eye believed he had the scalp of the only spy hanging at his
girdle; but he might be mistaken, so every precaution was taken to
maintain an unbroken silence.
Ten of the friendly Indians, by Red-Eye's desire, had accompanied the
expedition, and these he spread out on both flanks and ahead, so that
if an enemy appeared they could give timely warning, and our fellows
would be ready to fight.
On and on they marched, for many weary hours; then at last, when near
daybreak, Red-Eye ordered a halt. The camp of the enemy was not far
distant.
Leaving the scouts well spread out, the guide now went on by himself.
He would soon return, he told the officers.
"I dare say it is safe enough, O'Reilly," said Major Drake, "but
precaution is part of a soldier's duty. We will keep our fellows
well together, and post sentries. This may be an ambuscade, you
know."
Daybreak was already spreading up in the east-by-south, when Red-Eye
once more glided into the camp.
"No good news," he said. "Red man's camp-fires are cold. But I find
the trail."
He now rolled himself in his blanket, and was soon fast asleep.
The wearied men, by Major Drake's advice, did the same, and the
needful rest was taken that should prove of so much importance when
they got, at last, hand to hand with the Indian foe.
Weary men sleep soundly, and three hours' slumber to a soldier on the
war-path will make him as fresh and strong as ten hours taken in a
stuffy room.
On again; on and on all that day, through woods and wilds, sometimes
climbing wooded hills, in the sides of which many huge bears had
their caves, and into which they retreated, growling and threatening,
as our men walked past.
Great was the temptation to Drake and O'Reilly to try conclusions
with some of the monsters. But the sound of a gun in these forests,
where, as Red-Eye expressed it, the very trees have ears and tongues,
might have given an alarm that would have rendered the expedition all
in vain.
Red-Eye himself said but little. He was too busily engaged, sticking
to the trail as a pointer follows the scent of game. This trail was
at times so much in evidence that even a white man could make it out;
at others difficult even for the red man himself to descry.
Sometimes it was divided and subdivided, seeming to go in a hundred
different directions, and it required the utmost skill then to
discover which was the right one.
There were rivers to be forded, also deep morasses to be crossed,
while at times a lake caused a long detour to be made.
Sometimes a strange Indian was met with, and was invariably made
prisoner.
At nightfall a halt was again called, and rest and food taken.
But Red-Eye seemed to need neither rest nor food. He left his party
once more, telling Major Drake he would return at moonrise.
How he could find his way through the dark of the forest, with
nothing save the stars to guide him, it is impossible to say.
The men lay down by their arms. No one was inclined to talk. They
were tired, and sleep alone could do them good.
It was midnight before Red-Eye once more glided into camp.
My grandfather, who had slept but for a very short time, was up and
watching for him.
His report was this:
"I travel many, many miles. Then I come to big, big hill. This I
climb and look far to the west. Ugh! I can see plenty camp-fires
light the sky, and my heart rejoices. I go nearer and nearer. Then
cat-music fall upon my ear, and I rejoice more."
"Cat-music, Red-Eye?"
"Cat-music--the wild music of your people."
"You mean the great Highland bagpipes."
"It is that. It is that. Your Tonal play to the chief, and they
much rejoice."
"With God's help," said my grandfather, "we'll change their tune."
The whole camp was speedily astir now. According to Red-Eye, they
would have only about seven miles to traverse, but, at the slow and
creeping pace they needs must travel, it would take them about three
hours at least to do the journey, for they would have to be as silent
and cautious as panthers.
It was midnight when they started, and the moon shone bright in every
clearing. But they still had to keep well into the darkling of the
woods, for it was unlikely that a savage tribe of Indians like the
Micmacs would squat around their tent-fires without posting sentries
and scouts.
This made one of the chief difficulties in the way of effecting a
rescue.
Another difficulty was even more formidable. So, at all events, it
appeared to grandfather. It lay in the fact that, if the enemy's
camp was not captured by very sudden surprise, the savages would,
doubtless, spear poor Tonal, while they who had possession of little
Mary would strangle her.
This last thought was a horror of horrors that made my grandfather
almost delirious.
If anything happened to his child, he determined that he would never
return. He would follow the savages alone. Without doubt, he would
pay the penalty of such rashness with his life: but he would sell
this dearly.
Without adventures of any sort, though often startled by the growling
of some bear, or the mournful cry of the great brown owl, they crept
stealthily on. After a time, however--and how very long that time
had seemed to my poor grandfather it need scarcely be told--a sound
of another sort fell on the listening ears of the Royal Scots. It
was the wail of the bagpipe playing a coronach, or lament.
How solemn and sad it was, rising thus from the depths of the
midnight forest!
It stopped suddenly; and once more the little army marched onwards.
They could not be far off now, so double caution must be exercised.
Red-Eye soon lifted his hand as a signal for the halt. Then he
touched Major Drake and my grandfather on the shoulder, and beckoned
to them to follow.
When about seventy yards off, Red-Eye lay down for a moment with one
ear close to the ground.
This is the savages' telephone, and it is wonderful what sounds they
can thus hear.
The very earth seems to talk to them, and confess its secrets.
He crept forward now on hands and knees, the others following his
example.
Suddenly a glimmer of light could be seen rising high up on the
pine-trees beyond, and next moment they were looking down over a rock
into the camp of the red men.
If the Indians have more acute hearing than we pale-faces, they have
also better eyesight. Neither Drake nor my grandfather could
distinguish anything very well in the uncertain light of the
camp-fires, that darted up through the rolling clouds of smoke, and
struggled confusingly with the moonbeams.
There were but two tents in the camp, which was pitched low down in
an open glade, near to a little lake or pool. Both were made of
green pine-boughs. The larger, near to which lay poor Tonal, now
bound hand and foot, no doubt belonged to the chief and his squaw.
The other, it was equally certain, contained Mary and her attendant.
Red-Eye and his companions now drew back a little, and held a
whispered conversation--a council of war.
My grandfather wished to make a sudden dash on the foe, but Red-Eye
shook his head.
"No, no, no," he said: "Indian too quick--kill Tonal, kill child of
my heart too."
Then he proposed his own plan.
He would creep snake-like towards the camp, cut the cords that bound
poor Tonal, then dash straight to the smaller tent, and seize the
child.
By this time the camp would be roused, and the soldiers must come to
the rescue.
This plan was adopted, and away glided Red-Eye on his truly dangerous
mission.
The men were brought as close to the camp of the enemy as safety
would admit of, and my grandfather and Major Drake once more took up
their position on the rock from which they could see the camp-fires.
For the present, all they could do was to wait and watch.
At no period of his life, my grandfather has told me, did he ever
experience such terrible anxiety as that which he now felt.
How very, very long the time seemed!
At last his head sank on the moss. He could bear to look no longer.
What a blessing it is that God is near us wherever we go, and that we
can always pray.
But hark!
There is the sound of a musket far down beneath.
Then a yell.
"Like the wild scream of the curlew,
From crag to crag the signal flew."
The whole camp down yonder is in motion, the savages are rushing
hither and thither like a nest of hornets. The fires are being
rapidly extinguished--this is the work of the squaws. But as yet no
savage knows whence the danger will come. They are already armed,
however, with bow and spear and musket.
See! see!
The retreating figure of an Indian can be distinguished by them,
making his way eastwards, and bearing something in his arms.
Twang go the bows, muskets are discharged, but still he hurries on.
But now, high above the ear-splitting yells of the savage foe, rises
the war-cry of our men, as they dash down to the charge with bayonets
fixed.
That was an ugly fight while it lasted.
A battle bloody but brief.
Our fellows spared none, their bayonets doing the work until the
savages broke and fled. Then volley after volley was fired, until
all had disappeared in the depths of the forest.
Dr. McLeod had fought his way to the chief's tent, and near it he
found Tonal, still bound, for Red-Eye had been discovered before he
had had time to cut his bonds.
"God bless you! God bless you, Dr. Mac!" he cried, as the giant
lifted him on his back as deftly as one might lift a child.
"But man! man! the pipes! I'll no go a single inch without my
bagpipes."
Hastily Dr. McLeod picked up the bagpipes, then speedily rushed back
in the direction Red-Eye had taken.
Little Mary was running to meet him. Safe and sound she was, but
crying bitterly.
"Po' Led-Eye! O, po' Led-Eye! He is all blooded and dead."
Dr. McLeod now cut Tonal's cords, then hurried to the spot where the
poor faithful fellow lay. It was evident that life was fast ebbing
away, but the doctor did what he could to stanch the bleeding.
He administered a little brandy, and Red-Eye seemed to revive. It
was but as the glimpse of sunshine that precedes the summer storm,
and of this Red-Eye appeared to be fully aware.
When my grandfather and the others ran up after the savages had fled,
they found Tonal supporting Red-Eye on his breast, and the child
sitting near, quietly weeping. She rushed into her father's arms.
"But O, daddy," she entreated, "tan oo save po' Led-Eye, 'fore he
dies, and does (goes) away to a dark hole?"
"He is sinking fast," said Dr. McLeod, as my grandfather knelt beside
the dying man.
"I will take little Mary away."
"No, no, no," cried the child; "I sit by po' Led-Eye all the time."
And down she sat.
Red-Eye tried to lift his hand towards Mary. She took the poor
scarred hand that she had often nursed before, and the faithful
fellow seemed more peaceful now.
"Lead me--through--the darkness," he murmured--"to the land of the
Great White Spirit."
These were the last words he spoke. His own spirit fled.
Grandfather closed his eyes.
His bitterest thought at that moment was that he had ever doubted
this poor Indian, who had given his life to save the child.
* * * * *
So sudden had been the attack upon the savages that few of our
fellows were wounded--none dangerously--and no one was killed.
The nearest route was now taken towards the camp. So a litter of
boughs was made, and the corpse of Red-Eye, covered with leaves, was
borne along with them. They would not bury him at a place where
there was the slightest chance of the savages desecrating his grave.
But when they got once more within sight of the Fort, and not far
from the camp, a grave was dug, and the Indian hero laid to rest.
Accompanied by Tonal, every morning, as long as a wild flower was to
be had, my wee mother visited the grave, to place on the green mound
some little floral tribute to the memory of her never-to-be-forgotten
playmate and friend.
But winter came at last, and covered all the land in robes of white.
As severe a winter, probably, as ever had been experienced in Canada.
But British soldiers are capable of roughing it in any climate, and
few, if any, fell victims to the terrible frost.
Winter wore away, and one day Mary, the daughter of the regiment,
rushed to tell her mother that flowers were growing in the woods, and
that once more Red-Eye's grave was green.
* * * * *
* * * * *
If I happened to come across a village school anywhere, during my
summer rambles in my caravan, in which there were boys who had never
heard of Quatre Bras, of Napoleon's return from the beautiful and
romantic island of Elba, and of the memorable battle of Waterloo, I
should borrow the teacher's tawse or cane, and lay it on
unmercifully. Not on the boys--pray do not mistake me--but on the
teacher himself, unless he happened to be a much bigger and more
active man than myself, in which case I--I--well, discretion, you
know, is the better part of valour!
It was a lasting sorrow with my dear grandfather that the transport
in which he and the rest of his company recrossed the Atlantic did
not get home in time to give them a chance of sharing in the glories
of Waterloo. This was partly owing to stress of weather, but mostly
to the fact that she got her fore-foot on a sand-bank, and there lay
for a week. This one single week made all the difference 'twixt
glory and the loss of it.
Peace was proclaimed at last, and a lasting peace it proved.
The Highland battalion was no more thought of, and shortly after the
war was over, not only my grandfather, but his two friends, Tom
Grahame and Tonal, left the army and returned to their own country.
For many years they lived within easy hail of each other, and met
together, to talk of old times and of the future, almost every night.
Tonal's bonnie black-eyed bairns, and "Tom Grahame's baby," as Annie
continued to be called, were brought up at the same school, and
although changes came and separation too, they were friends as long
as they lived.
Both O'Reilly and Major Drake retired shortly before my grandfather
left the Service, and brave, sturdy Dr. McLeod took up a practice in
Glasgow. His name had been mentioned in many a despatch; that was
all, for in those days there were no Victoria Crosses.
One day--how well I remember it, though but a child--a hale, hearty
old man came to see my grandfather, at his cottage, and a right merry
afternoon and evening they spent.
"They fought their battles o'er again,
And thrice they slew the slain."
* * * * * *
Napoleon Bonaparte was sent, as you all know, to spend the remainder
of his days and chafe his life away on a sea-girt rock, called St.
Helena.
It is really one of the most charming islands in the tropical ocean.
It is a long time now since his grave, down in a cool, green hollow,
in a grove of trees, was vacated, for the French were permitted at
last to take their dead hero home.
The house, a far from pretentious one, stood and stands on a bold,
bare bluff, out-looking as blue a sea as anyone ever beheld. To the
left, as you approach the house, far down beneath, is the green glen
where the grave was dug; but behind you, if you turn your gaze, the
scenery is well-wooded and mountainous.
Truly a lovely island, but this end of it is lonesome in the extreme,
and surely in such a place as this, watched night and day by ships
and soldiers, this eagle-hearted genius of war must have found his
punishment almost greater than he could bear.
Before visiting the house, I went to the grave, and was permitted to
cull some large pink flowers, which were afterwards stolen from my
cabin on board H.M.S. _Valorous_.
The interior of the house itself, and its rooms, reminded me of
hospital wards.
Hung up near to a bed was a placard, worded somewhat as follows:
"If these walls could speak, and tell the story of the great man's
sufferings in this room, it would melt the hardest heart to tears."
And this, then, was the end of a life of cruelty and ambition.
Heigho!
"So sinks the pride of former days,
When glory's thrill is o'er,
And hearts that then beat high with praise
Now feel that pulse no more."
THE END
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