But when the war, at the beginning of the century, was renewed with
Napoleon, the preparations against him were not confined to the water.
We had not only our guardship in the river, but the town itself was
stoutly garrisoned against any enemy. We had always several regiments of
regular soldiers or militia quartered here. But, besides these, O! what
drumming and fifing and bugling and trumpeting there used to be among the
regiments of our own raising; for old Liverpool did her duty well and
nobly in those days of threatened invasion. Young and old, gentle and
simple, high and lowly were all alike seized with a military fever and a
patriotic glow, and hastened to don red coats and cocked hats, carry
muskets, or wear swords by their sides. And some famous soldiers we had
amongst us, and plenty of them. Let us see. There was Colonel Bolton’s
regiment, consisting of as fine and well-disciplined a body of men as
ever mounted guard in St. James’s or Buckingham Palace. In what awe we
used to stand of the tall, upright, somewhat prim, and starched old
colonel, as, mounted on his favourite white charger, he marched, band
playing, colours flying, at the head of his men, round and round Mosslake
fields, looking, both he and they, defiance at all the world in general,
and Napoleon, and Ney, and Soult, and Lannes, and Davoust, and Murat, and
all the rest of the frog-eaters in particular. And then there was the
fine old major, called Joe Greaves among his familiars, who lived at the
top of Mount Pleasant, and kept a glorious house, and welcomed everybody,
and was welcome everywhere. A fine fellow was the major as ever we set
eyes upon, and he was the father of as fine a family as ever sprung up,
like olive branches, round any man’s table. He was always kind, affable,
and good-natured, whenever we met him. Peace to his memory! And Sir
Thomas Brancker, quiet citizen as he now looks, used to wear, to us, a
most formidable aspect, when an officer in Bolton’s Invincibles.
Occasionally he would act as adjutant to the regiment, and, if our memory
does not fail us at this distance of time, we once saw him—we certainly
saw some one achieve the feat—ride at a troublesome boy, who would
intrude within the line of sentinels, and leap his horse clear over the
head of the terrified urchin. We also recollect a Hurry and an Aspinall,
officers in this regiment. There was also Colonel Williams’s regiment of
volunteers, a fine body of men, and well ordered and officered. The
colonel had seen some hard service, and heard real hostile bullets
whistling abroad. He was a strict disciplinarian, and a good soldier.
We need not attempt to describe him. He lived to so ripe an old age, and
to the last took such an active part in our public affairs, that most of
our readers must have his picture, in his white Russian ducks, fully
impressed upon their memory. He was an ardent lover of his race and of
his country, spared no labour in the cause of improvement and reform, and
in earnestness, and sincerity, and integrity of purpose never was
surpassed. Moreover, we had Colonel Earle’s regiment of Fusiliers; a
company of Artillery, commanded by Major Brancker, the father of Sir
Thomas; a Custom-house Corps; a Rifle Corps, second to none in the
country; and Major Faulkner’s Light Horse, better mounted than any
cavalry in the service. And the military infection spread so far that
the very boys at the schools used to form themselves into regiments, and
drum about the streets, with their little colours streaming in their
front. And what reviews there were on the North Shore, and sham fights!
And the waterside carts were all numbered, so as to be easily brought
into use in case of an enemy appearing. Occasionally the soldiers were
practised in them. Benches for seats were placed in them, and they would
drive off as if for some distant place, to which a railway would now
carry them like a flash of lightning. Once or twice there were sham
alarms, raised in the night to try the activity and spirit of our
volunteers; and O! what rattling of artillery, galloping of horsemen,
beating of drums, and blowing of trumpets aroused the affrighted women
and children from their beds, to look at the crowds of soldiers rushing
through the streets to the several places of mustering for which they
were bound. One of the most distinguished officers quartered amongst us
in those bustling old times was Colonel Stuart, now the Marquis of
Londonderry. A strange man is this said old marquis reported to be, and
funny stories are told of him as ambassador at Vienna, and in various
matters, political and diplomatic. But, nevertheless, a daring and
gallant soldier was he in his youth; and, as a cavalry officer, in dash
and skill, was reckoned, not only second, but almost equal, to Murat, the
Marquis of Anglesea, and perhaps Jerome Buonaparte, whose desperate
charges at Waterloo drew from his brother the exclamation, that if all
had fought like him the day would have had a different issue. Well do we
recollect Colonel Stuart, on his prancing Arabian horse, which he had
brought with him from the Egyptian campaign; and a noble pair they looked
as they dashed along. There was a rumour at the time, let us hope an
idle one, that this steed of Araby was begged from him by a royal duke,
and subsequently passed into a hackney coach. And how well do we
recollect the encampment which was formed one summer, somewhere towards
Litherland, and how the proud soldiers, living under tents, fancied that
they were undergoing all the horrors and hardships of war in behalf of
their beloved country. And what heroes we had in command of this
military district. There was old General Benson, whose quarters were in
Islington, a little of a martinet, and more of a prig, with a large slice
of the pedant in things warlike—a regular old pig-tail, but reputed to be
a good soldier. After him, we had a hero of another cut, figure, and
appearance, General Fisher, whom it was glorious to behold. We will
attempt to describe him. It was his custom to creep up Duke Street,
where he was quartered, every morning before breakfast. He used to have
on a pair of long, light blue pantaloons; slippers, down at the heels; a
seedy coat, dear at three-halfpence for a scare-crow; a cocked hat to
match, with much more grease than nap on it—we all hated Nap in those
days—and a little feather, about two inches high, just peeping above it.
And then the figure of fun arrayed in these habiliments. The general was
a stout man, with rather a protuberant corporation. His cheeks bore the
marks, it may be of many campaigns, but certainly of many vintages. He
blushed port wine unceasingly. His nose, no small one, grew into
something like a large bulbous root towards the extremity; and he wore a
pig-tail, huge in its dimensions, both as to length, breadth, and
thickness, even in those days of pig-tails. Such was the one-time
champion of this district, as he might be seen creeping every morning
through the streets, with his hands in his pantaloon pockets, not unlike
an old pantaloon himself, and with a crowd of little boys admiring the
war-like apparition, but strongly doubting whether it was St. George or
the Dragon that stood before them.