Still and calm lay the sleeping waters of Loch Ard, as they reposed in
their beauty on the morning of the 17th of August, 17--. The hour was
early, and the rays of the rising sun had not yet dispersed the thick
mists that hung on the bosoms of the surrounding hills. The scenery
around, although of the most romantic character, and composed of the
choicest materials for the picturesque, had an air of gloominess and
rawness about it, that did but little justice to the thousand beauties
which its simple elements of wood and water, rock and hill, were
capable, by their various combinations, of producing. That scene yet
wanted the life and soul, the cheering, spirit-stirring influence of
the blessed sunlight, to bring out its loveliness, and to exhibit its
details in all their fairy brightness. This want was not long of being
supplied. The sun rose in all his splendour; the mist rolled away from
the face of the hill; the calm, placid surface of the lake, like a
mighty mirror, embedded in its rude and gigantic, but gorgeous
framework of wooded mountains, shone with dazzling effulgence; and the
hills and forests displayed themselves in their robes of brightest
green.
As every one who has visited these romantic regions knows, the road
that conducts to Aberfoyle from the west end of Loch Ard runs, for a
considerable space, close by the margin of the lake on its northern
side--and a most beautiful locality this is. The road is low and
level; on one hand is the bright, smooth, sandy shore of the loch,
with its clear, shallow water; and, on the other, steep mountains,
shaggy with primeval woods. We have directed the attention of the
reader to this particular point of the landscape, for the purpose of
saying, that, at the moment at which our story opens (namely, on the
morning of the 17th of August, 17--), two persons were seen, at the
early hour which our description would indicate, trudging silently
along by the margin of the lake. They were two young men, and
evidently prosecuting a journey of some length. Over the shoulder of
each projected a stout oak stick, on whose extremity a small bundle
was suspended; probably, small as they were, containing all the
earthly possessions of their bearers. Yet, however poor the lads might
be in world's wealth--for they were, as was sufficiently evident from
their dress, of the humblest class--they were rich in the gifts of
nature; for a couple of handsomer-looking young men than they were the
Highlands of Scotland could not have produced. Strongly built, and
exhibiting in their erect and springy gait the peculiar muscular
energy of their mountain education, they appeared men capable of any
fatigue, and, to judge by the air of calm determination and mild
resolution expressed in their bold and manly countenances, of any deed
of honourable daring. Such was the personal appearance--for, although
differing in individual features, they resembled each other in their
general characteristics--of James M'Intyre and Roderick M'Leod, which
were the names of the two young men whom we have just introduced to
the reader. The ages of the two seemed to be about equal--somewhere
about five or six-and-twenty; in stature they were also nearly the
same; but, if there was any difference between them in this
particular, it was in favour of M'Intyre, who stood nearly six feet in
height. M'Leod might be an inch shorter. They had been brought up
together from their infancy; had a thousand times together climbed the
heights of Cruagh Moran, and as often swam across the deep, dark
waters of Loch Uisk, which lay just before their doors. Their parents
were next door neighbours in the little village of Ardvortan,
situated in one of the most beautiful straths in the West of Scotland.
James and Roderick had not only been companions from their earliest
years, but earned their scanty subsistence; and they were now,
together, about to try their fortunes in a world to which they had
hitherto been strangers. Stories of the warlike renown of their
ancestors, with more recent tales of the achievements of their
countrymen who had enlisted in the 42nd and other Highland regiments,
had roused the martial spirit which they inherited from their fathers,
and determined them to leave their peaceful glen and native hills, to
seek, in "the ranks of death," for that which they had been taught to
believe was the proudest gift of fortune--a soldier's fame.
It was a sad, and yet a proud day, for the mothers of the young men,
that on which they left their native village. Natural affection
deplored their departure, while maternal pride gloried in visions of
the honours that awaited them on the fields of war. The plumed bonnet,
the belted plaid, and all the other gallant array of the Highland
soldier, presented themselves to the fond mothers; and they thought,
as they gazed on the stately forms of their sons for the last time,
how well they would look in the martial garb which they were about to
assume. The young men, then, whom we have represented as wending their
way by the margin of Loch Ard, and prosecuting a southward journey,
were proceeding to Glasgow, one of the recruiting stations of the --th
Highland regiment, to enrol themselves in that gallant corps, which
was already filled with their friends and countrymen.
On arriving at Glasgow, which, although a distance of nearly forty
miles from the spot where we first introduced them to the reader, they
made out with perfect ease on the evening of the same day on which
they left their native village, the young men repaired to a well-known
resort of the privates of Highland regiments which were from time to
time quartered in Glasgow. This was a low, dark public-house in the
High Street of that city, kept by a Serjeant M'Nab, an old veteran,
who had seen service in his day; and who, although he had now retired
into private life, continued to maintain all his military connections
with as much zeal as if he was still in the discharge of his military
duties; and, indeed, this he was to some extent, having still an
authority to enlist. The house of M'Nab was thus filled from morning
to night with soldiers of various grades of rank--serjeants,
corporals, and privates--and of various degrees of standing, from the
raw, newly-enrolled recruit, with his stiff black stock--the only
article of his military equipment with which he had been yet
provided--to the veteran serjeant, who had literally fought his way to
his present rank. In every corner of every room in this favourite
resort of the Celtic warriors, lay heaps of muskets resting against
the wall; and on every table lay piles of Highland bonnets--their
owners being engaged in discussing the contents of the oft-replenished
_half-mutchkin stoup_. Occasionally, too, the scream of a bagpipe
might be suddenly heard in some apartment, where the party by which it
was occupied had attained the point of musical excitement, while, over
all, except the sounds of the aforenamed instrument, prevailed the din
of noisy, but good-humoured colloquy, in sonorous Gaelic; for no other
language was ever heard in the warlike domicile of Serjeant M'Nab.
Such, then, was the house--further distinguished, we forgot to say, by
the sign of the Ram's Head--to which James M'Intyre and Roderick
M'Leod now repaired. They were met at the door by M'Nab, then in the
act of bidding good-by to a batch of serjeants, who, adjusting their
bonnets as they stepped, one after the other, from beneath the low
doorway of the Ram's Head, were about to form a recruiting party to
beat up through the streets for young aspirants after military
glory--a single drummer and fifer being in attendance for this
purpose.
"Ah, Shames! Ou Rory!" exclaimed M'Nab, taking each of the young men,
who were both well known to him (he being from the same part of the
country), by the hand; "what has brought you" (we translate, for this
was spoken in Gaelic) "to this quarter of the world?"
The lads smiled, and said they would inform him of that presently.
Accustomed to such visits, for such a purpose as M'Intyre and M'Leod
now made, M'Nab at once guessed their object, and, without any further
remark, conducted them into his own private apartment, where, the tact
of the recruiting serjeant and the natural hospitality of the man
combining, he entertained them liberally with the best his house
afforded. During this refection, the young men made known the object
of their visit. The serjeant highly approved of their spirit,
descanted on the glories of a soldier's life, stirred up their
ambition of military fame by recounting various exploits performed by
relations and acquaintances of their own with whom he had served, and
concluded by tendering them the ominous shilling. It was accepted, and
James M'Intyre and Roderick M'Leod became soldiers in His Majesty's
--th regiment of foot.
Desirous, however, as the young men were of enlisting, there was a
condition which they insisted on being conceded them, before they
finally committed themselves. This was, that they should continue
comrades after they became soldiers; that is, as is well known to
every one in the least conversant with these matters, that they should
occupy the same bed, and be placed in a position to render each other
the little services of domestic intercourse in quarters.
M'Nab at once promised that their wishes in this respect should be
complied with; and the promise was faithfully kept. The two lads were
allowed to continue as comrades after they had joined the regiment;
and in this situation maintained that feeling of tender friendship for
each other, which had distinguished the previous part of their lives.
Two handsomer or finer-looking soldiers than James M'Intyre and
Roderick M'Leod, after they had donned the full costume of the corps
to which they belonged, and had acquired the military air of their new
profession, could not have been found, not only in their own regiment,
but perhaps in the whole British army. Modest in their manners, quiet
and civil in their deportment, cleanly, sober and attentive to their
duties, they were beloved by their equals, and looked upon with
especial favour by their superiors; they were, in short, the pride and
boast of the regiment--no small honour in a corps where there was an
unusual proportion of stout and steady men.
For some years, the military life of M'Intyre and M'Leod was unmarked
by any striking vicissitude. The usual movements of the corps from
place to place occurred; but hitherto they had not been called on to
take any share in active service. Their turn, however, was to
come--and it did come. They were ordered to America, shortly after the
commencement of the first war with that country and Great Britain.
Previous to their embarking for the seat of war, the two comrades
obtained three days' leave of absence--it was all that could be
allowed them--to visit their friends in the Highlands. The time was
short--too short for the distance they had to travel; but, as the
point of embarkation was Greenock, they thought they could make it
out; and, by travelling night and day, they did so. They presented
themselves in their native glen in the full costume of their corps,
and gratified their mothers' hearts by this display of their military
appointments. A few short hours of enjoyment succeeded; another bitter
parting followed; and the two comrades were again on their way to
rejoin their regiment. On the second day after, they were crossing
the ocean with their regiment, to the seat of war in the new world.
In this new scene of experience, the two friends distinguished
themselves as much by their bravery as they had before by their
exemplary and soldierly conduct. In all the actions in which they were
engaged, they made themselves conspicuous by their gallantry, and by
several instances of individual heroism. But they rendered themselves
still more remarkable by the tenderness of their friendship, made
manifest in a thousand little acts of brotherly love. They stood
together foremost in the fight, and attended each other with
unremitting kindness and assiduity, when wounds and sickness had
alternately stretched them on the couch of suffering. Their affection
for each other soon became, in short, a subject of general remark,
exciting a singular degree of interest, from the romantic character
with which the bravery of the two friends had invested it.
About this time--that is, about the middle of the war--the regiment to
which M'Intyre and M'Leod belonged had the misfortune to lose their
commanding officer, who was killed in action. To the regiment this was
a misfortune, and one of the most serious kind; for the gallant
soldier who had fallen was the friend as well as the commander of his
men. He studied and adapted himself to their peculiarities; knew and
appreciated their character; and was beloved by them in return, for
the kind consideration which he always evinced for their best
interests. He was, moreover, their countryman--a circumstance which
formed an additional tie between him and the brave men whom he
commanded.
But the death of Colonel Campbell was a double mischance to the
regiment; inasmuch as to his loss was added the misfortune of his
place being supplied by a man of totally opposite character. His
successor, stern, and unforgiving, endeavoured to procure that
efficiency in his corps through fear, which his predecessor had
commanded through love. He was an Englishman; and was a perfect
stranger to the feelings and national peculiarities of the men over
whom he was thus so suddenly placed; neither was he at any pains to
acquire so necessary a piece of information, nor in any way to conform
his system of discipline to the peculiar spirit of the mountain band
which was now under his harsh and undiscriminating control.
Unfortunate, however, as was the circumstance of this officer's being
put in command of the --th regiment to every soldier in that gallant
corps generally, there were two individuals to whom it was indeed a
misfortune of the most melancholy and deplorable kind, and these two
the most meritorious and deserving men in the regiment. Need we say
that these were James M'Intyre and Roderick M'Leod? But we must detail
the circumstances as they occurred.
To do this, then, let us mention that, after a weary night-march of
many miles over a mountainous road covered with snow, the --th
regiment, with several others, found itself within cannon-shot of one
of the enemy's positions. The ground destined for the British troops
having been gained, the whole were ordered silently to bivouac, till
the morning light should enable them to advance to the attack, which
was the particular object of the movement. It was yet, however, some
hours till morning; and it was thus necessary, in case of sudden
surprisal, to establish a chain of outposts around the position
occupied by the troops. Amongst those selected for this duty was
Roderick M'Leod, who was placed alone in a solitary post at one of the
most remote points of the circle formed by the British sentinels. It
was a perilous and important position; and for these reasons was it
that M'Leod was chosen to occupy it--every reliance being placed on
his courage, vigilance, and well-known steadiness.
Aware of the importance of his trust, Roderick, with his shouldered
firelock, commenced pacing smartly--for the night was intensely
cold--in the limits of his appointed place, and keeping a sharp
look-out in the direction of the enemy. This position he had occupied
about half-an-hour, when he thought he heard footsteps approaching.
Roderick brought down and cocked his piece, and stood ready to fire.
The sounds became more audible. He raised his musket to his shoulder,
and placed his finger on the trigger. He saw some persons approaching,
apparently with confident step. He challenged, and was answered. It
was a picket of his own regiment, commanded by a serjeant, a
particular acquaintance and friend, the son of one of his father's
neighbours. He was making a round of the outposts, to see that all
were on the alert, and to inquire if anything had been stirring.
"All quiet, Roderick?" said Serjeant More M'Alister, on approaching
the former.
"All quiet, serjeant," replied M'Leod.
"Cold work this, Rory," rejoined the serjeant, at the same time
drawing a flask from his bosom, and handing it to the former; "here,
take a mouthful of that, to keep the frost out."
M'Leod, perishing of cold, gratefully acknowledged the very timous
kindness, placed the flask to his mouth, and unguardedly took a hearty
pull of the brandy it contained. Shortly after, the visiting party
moved off on their rounds, and, for a little time subsequently, M'Leod
felt himself renovated by the spirits he had taken. The excitement,
however, was but temporary; reaction took place; a degree of lassitude
came over him, which, aided as it was by the fatigue of his previous
march and the severity of the cold, he found himself unable to shake
off. In this state of feeling, he leaned against a tree which stood
close by his post, and, ere he was aware, fell into a profound sleep.
At this unfortunate moment, his commanding officer, accompanied by a
small party, rode up to M'Leod. He was found asleep; and, still more
heinous offence, when awakened, he was found to be the worse of
drink--a momentary incoherence, and the smell of his breath, which
betrayed the presence of ardent spirits, being held as conclusive
proof by his superior that he was drunk.
"I am not drunk, sir," replied M'Leod, calmly, on being harshly
charged with that offence by Colonel Maberly.
"You _are_, sir," was the peremptory rejoinder. "Besides, you have
been asleep at your post. Men, disarm that fellow, and make him your
prisoner."
The order was instantly obeyed. M'Leod's musket and bayonet were taken
from him; another man was placed on his post; and he was marched away,
to abide the consequence of his dereliction of military duty. As the
intended attack on the enemy took place on the following morning, no
proceedings were instituted in M'Leod's case for some days after; but
all dreaded the most fatal result from these, when they should occur,
from the ferocious and unforgiving nature of Colonel Maberly.
We fear we would but weaken the effect of the reader's more impressive
conceptions, were we to attempt to describe the feelings of M'Intyre
during the days of agonising suspense between the period of his
comrade's arrestment and the judgment which followed. He refused all
sustenance; and, from being one of the most active and cheerful men in
the regiment, became careless in his duties and morose in his temper,
and seemed as if he courted, or would willingly have done something
calculated to expose him to the same fate which he had no doubt
awaited his unhappy comrade. The two unfortunate men--for the one was
scarcely less an object of compassion than the other--had frequent
interviews previous to M'Leod's receiving the sentence which was
thought due to his offence; and these were of the most heartrending
description. These men, of stout frame and lion heart, who side by
side had often marched unappalled up to the cannon's mouth, wept in
each other's arms like women. Words they had none, or they were but
few.
At length the fatal judgment was passed. M'Leod was condemned to be
shot; and the sentence was ordered to be carried into execution on the
afternoon of the same day on which it was awarded. The unhappy victim
of military law shrunk not at the contemplation of the miserable fate
that awaited him. He heard it announced with unmoved countenance and
unshrinking nerve; his only remark, simply expressed in his native
language, being, "that, as to being shot, he minded it not; but he
could have wished that it had been on the field of battle." Although
prepared for the dreadful intelligence which was to inform him of the
doom of his comrade--for he had no doubt from the first that it would
be so--M'Intyre knew not yet the one-half of the misery that awaited
him in connection with the impending death of his friend. It was
possible to aggravate to him the horrors of that event tenfold, and to
increase inconceivably the torture of his already agonised mind--and
poor M'Intyre found it was so.
We leave it to the reader to conceive what were his feelings, when he
was informed that he was to be one of the firing-party--one of his
comrade's executioners! This was a refinement in cruelty which had
been reserved for Colonel Maberly. It was unparalleled. But his order
had gone forth. He had willed it so, and it was known that he never
yielded a point on which he had once determined. It was believed also,
that his usual obstinacy and hard-heartedness would be increased in
this case, from an idea that he was adding to the terror of the
example, by the savage proceeding just alluded to. The idea, however,
of compelling one comrade to assist in putting another to death, was
so revolting to every feeling of humanity, so wantonly cruel, that the
men of the regiment determined on sending a deputation to the colonel,
to entreat of him to rescind his order, and to relieve M'Intyre of
the horrible duty to which he had appointed him. This deputation
accordingly waited on the commanding officer, and, in the most
respectful language, preferred their petition. They did not seek a
remission of the unfortunate man's sentence; for they felt and
acknowledged that, however stern and cruelly severe it was, it was yet
according to military law; but they implored that his comrade might
not be compelled to share in its execution. The petition was preferred
in vain. Colonel Maberly was inexorable. "He had given his orders," he
said, briefly and impatiently, "and they must be obeyed."
Finding it in vain to urge their request farther, the deputation sadly
withdrew, to communicate to M'Intyre, who was awaiting their return in
a state of mind bordering on distraction, the result of their mission.
When it was told him, he said nothing, made no reply, but seemed lost
in thought for some moments. At length--
"I will go to the colonel myself," he said; "and, if there be any
portion of our common nature in him, he will not refuse to hear me. If
he does not----"
Here he clenched his teeth fiercely together, but left the sentence
unfinished. Acting on the resolution which he had thus formed,
M'Intyre sought out Colonel Maberly. When he found him--
"Colonel," he said, touching his bonnet with a military salute, "you
have ordered me to be of the party who are to shoot"--here his voice
faltered, and it was some seconds before he could add--"my comrade,
M'Leod."
"I have, sir--and what of that?" replied the colonel, fiercely; but he
quailed when he marked the deadly scowl that now gleamed in the eye of
M'Intyre.
"It was cruel, sir," replied the latter, with a desperate calmness and
determination of manner; "and I implore you, as you hope for mercy
from the God that made you, to release me from this horrible duty."
"Sir," exclaimed Colonel Maberly, furiously, "do you mean to
mutiny?--do you mean to disobey orders?"
"No, sir, I do not. I merely ask you to relieve me from the dreadful
task of being my comrade's executioner."
"Then I'll be d--d if I do!" said the military tyrant.
"You had better, sir, _for your own sake_," replied M'Intyre.
"What, sir! Do you threaten me?" exclaimed Colonel Maberly, in an
outrageous passion.
"Oh no, sir," replied M'Intyre, with an air of affected respect; but
it was one in which some deep mysterious meaning might have been
discovered. "Will you absolve me from this duty?"
"No, sir; I will not," replied Colonel Maberly, turning on his heel,
and cutting the conference short by walking away.
"Your blood be upon your own head, you cruel, merciless man!" muttered
M'Intyre, as he looked after Colonel Maberly, himself continuing to
stand the while in the spot where the latter had left him.
M'Intyre soon after returned to his quarters, and was seen calmly and
silently preparing his arms for the dreadful duty which they were
about to be called on to perform. In making these preparations, he was
observed to be particularly careful that everything should be in the
most serviceable condition. He fitted several flints to his piece,
snapping each repeatedly, before being satisfied with its efficiency,
and was even at the pains to dry and pulverise a small quantity of
powder for priming, to insure a more certain explosion than could be
counted on in its original state of grittiness.
In the meantime, the hour of execution approached, and at length
arrived. The entire regiment was drawn out to witness the example
which was about to be made of the consequences that attended such
departures from duty as M'Leod's misconduct involved. Being formed in
military order, and the prisoner placed in a conspicuous yet secure
position, the whole were marched off, to the music of fife and muffled
drum, to a level piece of ground at the distance of about a quarter of
a mile from the quarters occupied by the regiment. M'Leod's conduct on
this trying occasion was in perfect keeping with his general
character. It was calm, firm, and manly. His step was steady and
dignified; and his whole bearing bespoke at once a resigned and
undaunted spirit. Yet it might not, nay, it certainly would not, have
been so, had he known that the comrade of his bosom was to be one of
his executioners. This, however, had been mercifully concealed from
him. It was all his fellow-soldiers could do for him; but, to a man,
had they all anxiously and carefully kept from him the appalling
secret; for they knew it would have unnerved him in the hour of
trial--in the hour of death.
All unconscious, therefore, of the additional misery with which the
cruel order of his commanding officer was yet to visit him, M'Leod
marched undauntedly on to his doom. His mien was erect, his eye calm
and composed, and a slight paleness of countenance alone bore
testimony to his consciousness of the awful situation in which he was
placed. On reaching the locality intended for the scene of execution,
the corps was formed into three sides of a square. In the centre of
that which was vacant, the prisoner was placed; and, at the distance
of about twenty yards further in the square, stood the firing party.
On the left of these, and between them and the prisoner, stood Colonel
Maberly, who, in consequence of having seen some very marked symptoms
of disgust with his severity in the corps, had determined on presiding
at the execution in person.
It was now, for the first time, that M'Leod became aware that his
comrade was to be of the number of his executioners. He saw him
amongst the firing-party. Unknowing the fact, and never dreaming of
the possibility of such an atrocity as that which M'Intyre's position
involved, M'Leod calmly asked a serjeant who stood near him--"What
does James do there?" The serjeant evaded a reply, or rather affected
not to hear him. At this moment the chaplain of the regiment came up
to the unfortunate man, to administer the comfort and consolation of
religious aid to the doomed soldier. But, ere he could enter on his
sacred duties, M'Leod, on whose mind some approximation to the horrid
truth as regarded the part assigned his comrade had now flashed, put
the same question to the chaplain as he had done to the serjeant.
"Mr Fraser," he said, "I guess the truth; but I would fain be assured
of it. Why is my comrade, James M'Intyre, amongst the firing-party?"
The chaplain, as the serjeant had done, endeavoured to evade a reply,
by directing the unhappy man to matters of spiritual concernment; but
he would not be evaded, and again repeated the question. Thus pressed,
the chaplain could no longer avoid the explanation he sought. He told
him M'Intyre was one of the firing-party by order of the commanding
officer.
"I guessed as much," said M'Leod, calmly. "It is a piece of dreadful
cruelty; but may God forgive him, as I freely do!"
He then, without making any further remark, entered solemnly and
composedly into the devotional exercises prescribed by his spiritual
comforter. These concluded, and everything being ready for the last
fatal act of the tragedy, the firing-party were ordered to advance
nearer, when M'Intyre, stepping out from his place amongst them,
advanced towards the colonel, and again implored him to release him
from the dreadful duty imposed on him. The colonel's reply was as
determined and peremptory as before.
"Do your duty, sir!" he said, waving his hand impatiently as a signal
to M'Intyre to return to his place, and stepping a pace or two away
from him as he spoke. "Do your duty, sir, or I'll compel you; I'll
have you in the same situation with your friend."
M'Intyre obeyed the ruthless order without saying another word. He
returned to his place. The prisoner's eyes were now bandaged. The
firing-party had levelled their muskets, and were waiting the fatal
sign. It was made. Colonel Maberly himself made it. The volley was
discharged, and M'Leod fell; but he fell not alone. In the same
instant, the commanding officer of the --th regiment was also
stretched lifeless on the plain. The well-aimed musket of M'Intyre had
sent its ball through the heart of the ruthless tyrant. On
perpetrating the deed, the former threw his piece on the ground,
exclaiming, "Roderick is avenged, and the mercy the tyrant showed to
others has been meted out to himself!" and offered himself up, an
unresisting prisoner, to whoever might choose to execute that duty.
It was some minutes--so sudden and unexpected had been the
catastrophe--before any one made the slightest movement; all looking
on in silent and fixed amazement, but we cannot add with much regret;
till at length a serjeant stepped out of the ranks, and seized
M'Intyre by the breast.
"Right, Serjeant Thompson, right," said the latter, calmly; "you are
doing your duty. I know what awaits me, and I am prepared for it. I
did not do what I have done without making up my mind to the
consequences."
These were indeed inevitable. On the third day thereafter, the roll of
the muffled drum announced that M'Intyre's hour was come; and he fell,
but not unpitied, beneath the bullets of a party of his
fellow-soldiers, on the identical spot where, three days before, his
unfortunate comrade had met a similar doom.