THE LIGHT TROOP.
I was welcomed back by the gallant Captain Lindsay, by Lieutenant
Douglas, and Cornet Keith (the three officers of the light troop), by
old Sergeant Duff, big Hob Elliot, and other comrades, with a warmth
that was very flattering; but by none more than by Jack Charters and
honest Tom Kirkton, and among them all, on the night of my return,
rejoining, or "resuscitation" as they phrased it, there was held
quite an ovation.
For two months my name had remained on the muster-roll as "missing;"
but no doubt existed that I had been sabred or shot in our affair
with the French hussars near Dol.
We had a jovial meeting, and the pantries of the good wives of the
adjacent village supplied us amply with the means of having a
plentiful supper. With ham, bread, fowls, wine, and cognac we
regaled ourselves while lounging on the grass, with the silver moon
wading through snowy clouds for a lamp and the star-studded sky for a
canopy.
In some instances, however, the indiscriminate pillage of government
stores and abandoned dwelling-houses caused several scenes of riot,
disorder, and debauchery, which neither patrols, the picket, or guard
of the Provost Marshal could repress.
I was now in the best place to teach me to forget the past. The
merry and familiar voices, the gay uniforms, the noble grey chargers
picketed at their breast ropes close by our bivouac, and the _tout
ensemble_ of the latter, weaned me from thoughts that were
oppressive, and the ardour of the service glowed anew within me.
A narrative of my adventures in Brittany was necessary, but I took
care to relate only such portions as I cared to let those heedless
fellows know; and when I concluded, my green hunting suit, with its
Parisian cut and fashion, afforded a subject for much merriment, and
for many empty jokes of that small kind which will go a long way in
the barrack and guardroom.
I found Charters and Kirkton rather more soured and reckless than
when I last saw them. Both had expected promotion to follow our
first expedition to France, and both still enjoyed their respective
ranks of full corporal and full private; thus when we betook us to
rectifying the acidity of the Norman wine by pure cognac they began
to moralize in their old fashion.
"The devil!" said Charters; "ten years have I worn a red coat, and I
am tiring now even of it. But every day that passes into night is
one march further forward to the land of the leal where we shall all
meet at last; so pass the bottle and let us be jolly while we may.
How, Gauntlet, you shake your head? What the deuce has come over the
boy! France does not seem to have improved him a bit."
"Nay, Charters," said I, "but remember that the troop parades an hour
before daybreak to-morrow, so no more brandy. Have we not had
enough?"
"One bottle more, say I!"
"Zounds, Jack!" urged Kirkton, "if you were not a very sponge you
would have been drowned in wine long ago."
"Come, Tom," said Charters, who was rather tipsy, "don't be
mutinous--I have an idea----"
"What! after all this wine and brandy you have actually an idea? It
must be worth uncounted gold."
"It may be worth the king's commission, Tom, or such a coffin as the
pioneer's shovel gives us," replied Charters, little knowing how
prophetically he spoke. "We are to attack St. Vallon to-morrow, and
if the French have a standard in the field, I will take it sword in
hand--I, John Charters of Amisfield--or die in the attempt!"
And tipsy though he was, this unfortunate fellow made the boast with
a lofty dignity that repressed the smile which spread on Kirkton's
face. And now drums beating and trumpets sounding in varying cadence
the tattoo, announced that sleep, or at least silence, should reign
in camp and bivouac, till the commodore's ship in the bay should fire
the morning gun upon the eventful morrow.