[Illustration: Cover art]
THE
'SCOTS BRIGADE'
_AND OTHER TALES_
BY
JAMES GRANT
AUTHOR OF 'THE ROMANCE OF WAR'
'The dying and dead strewed the breach at Meenen,
Where our brave Scottish blades met the troops of Turenne;
When cannon and firelock and musketoon played,
As often, elsewhere, on the old Scots Brigade!
Holland's Bulwark--in many a battle of yore--
From the woods of Brabant to the far Frisian shore;
Never Frenchman, nor Spaniard, nor German essayed
To withstand the hot charge of the old Scots Brigade!'
_Camp Song._
LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS
BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL
NEW YORK: 9, LAFAYETTE PLACE
1882
CONTENTS.
THE SCOTS BRIGADE:
I. THE LOVER
II. THE COLONEL-COMMANDANT
III. SWORD-PLAY
IV. DOLORES
V. 'THE BULWARK OF HOLLAND'
VI. AT THE GOLDEN SUN
VII. THE GENERAL'S SECRET
VIII. THE RIDOTTO
IX. THE ABDUCTORS
X. THE FAIR WIDOW
XI. OMNIA VINCIT AMOR
XII. CONCLUSION
THE STORY OF THE CID RODRIGO OF BIVAR
THE BOY-GENERAL. THE STORY OF JEAN CAVALIER
THE BUGLE-BOY OF BADAJOZ
THE VOYAGE OF THE 'BON ACCORD'
A TALE OF THE RETREAT FROM CABUL
DICK STAPLES OF THE 'QUEEN'S OWN'
THE STORY OF LIEUTENANT JAMES MOODY OF BARTON'S REGIMENT
'OLD MINORCA;' OR, GENERAL MURRAY OF THE SCOTS FUSILIERS
[Illustration: Chapter 1 headpiece]
THE SCOTS BRIGADE.
[Illustration: Chapter 1 tailpiece]
THE SCOTS BRIGADE.
CHAPTER I.
THE LOVER.
'And you will not accompany me to call on these ladies, uncle?' said
the young man persuasively.
'Certainly not, boy; do you take me for a fool--der Duyvel!' was the
snappish rejoinder, as the General tossed his silver-mounted
meerschaum on the table, and thrust his chair back on the polished
oak floor, 'I have suspected you for some time past, and know, from
old experience, that a young fellow in love is lost to the service
and himself; among women he is as helpless as a rudderless ship among
the thousand shoals of the Zuyder Zee! You are my heir, as you know,
provided your conduct and obedience satisfy me. I am rich enough for
both of us, and I had begun to hope that, like me, you would go
through the world without the encumbrance of a wife. I shall not see
you make a fool of yourself, without making an effort to save you. I
shall give you a Beating Order, and send you to recruit for the
Brigade in Scotland; or how would you like to roast on detachment at
Guayana, or among the Dutch Isles in the Caribbean Sea?'
'Such a separation would be death to me, and to Dolores too.'
'Dol--what?' roared the General, grasping the knobs of his arm-chair
and glaring at the speaker; 'how familiar we are, it seems! Where
the devil did she get that absurd name?'
'From a Spanish ancestress, and with the name much of her beauty,'
replied the younger man, who had a very pleasant voice and manner,
which, if somewhat sad and soft, possessed the charm of cultured
influences and refinement.
'Dolores--a very Donna Dulcinea, no doubt! Well, my young
cock-o'-the-game, it is useless in me to repeat what you don't want
to hear, and in you to say the same thing over and over again, as you
have been doing for the last hour. So far as you and this--Dolores
are concerned, my mind is made up--yes, by the henckers' horns!'
The speaker was no Dutchman, as his interjection might lead the
reader to infer, but, like his nephew, a native of the northern
portion of our isle, being Lieutenant-General John Kinloch, of
Thominean in Fifeshire, Colonel-Commandant of the six battalions of
the Scots Brigade, in the service of their High Mightinesses the
States-General of Holland--a corps which boasted itself 'the Bulwark
of the Republic'--a veteran of more than twenty years' hard service,
though still in the flower of manhood.
His hair was powdered and queued, as was then the fashion; his
handsome face was well bronzed by long exposure to the tropical sun,
and his hands, which had never known gloves, contrasted in their
brown hue with snow-white ruffles of the finest lace at the wide
cuffs of his uniform coat.
His nose was straight; his mouth expressed firmness and decision, and
his dark eyes, which were sparkling then with no small amount of
anger, had somewhat shaggy brows that nearly met in one, and gave
great character to his face.
His nephew, who stood near him, playing with the gold knot of his
sword, and trying to deprecate his anger, was Lewis (or as he was
generally called Lewie) Baronald of that Ilk in Lanarkshire (the only
son of a baronet attainted after Culloden), and now a handsome young
lieutenant in the Earl of Drumlanrig's Battalion of the Scots
Brigade, in quarters, where we find him, at the Hague.
His face wore a droll expression just then, in spite of himself, as
he knew that his uncle and patron was well known in the Brigade, and
in Dutch society, as a misogynist--a genuine woman-hater, under the
influence of some never-forgotten disappointment he had endured in
early life, and who never omitted by the exertion of his advice,
influence, or actual authority, to mar--if possible--the matrimonial
views and wishes of the officers and men under his command.
When any of his brother officers would venture to express their
surprise that one who was evidently so good-hearted and warm by
nature, and who--though in all things a perfect soldier--was
apparently fond of domestic life, should have omitted to share it
with a help-mate, their remarks only invoked a torrent of grotesque
invectives upon the sex, and put the General in such exceeding bad
humour, that they were glad to beat a retreat and leave him to
himself.
He had begun to perceive that for some time past, his nephew was
abstracted in manner, that he absented himself from his quarters, was
rather estranged from his comrades, and was almost neglectful of his
military duties; and from rumours that reached him from the idlers
and promenaders in the Voorhout and on the Vyverberg, the General was
not long in discovering that a charming young girl was the cause of
all this, and great was his wrath thereat. And when he found that
Lewie Baronald's abstraction increased; that he caught him reading
poetry instead of studying the '_Tactique et Discipline dc Prusse_';
that he sighed sometimes involuntarily, and more than once had been
caught inditing suspicious-looking little missives in the form of
delicately folded, tinted and perfumed notes, he took him finally to
task, and his indignation found vent, as it did on the present
occasion.
'And you fell in with this girl----'
'When our battalion was sharing duty with the Dutch Guards at the
Prince of Orange's palace in Amsterdam.'
'And how about her mother?' growled the General.
'She was very averse to my attendance on her daughter till----'
'Till when or what?' snapped the uncle.
'She asked me some questions concerning my name and family, and then
suddenly I became quite a favourite.'
'All cunning--all cunning! But our name and our blood are as good as
any in Holland, and better than some, I suppose; but every Scot has a
pedigree, as King James was wont to say.'
And as General Kinloch spoke, the strong old Scottish accent, which
then prevailed at the Bar and in the Pulpit at home (as it had done
at Court in the preceding century), deepened with his excitement and
irritation.
'And the mother is a widow, Drumlanrig tells me,' he continued; 'a
widow who, I doubt not, loves her coffee with a glass of good curaçoa
from De Pylsteeg at Amsterdam.'
'Indeed you mistake her, uncle,' replied the young man indignantly.
'Umph--egad--do I?'
'She often speaks to me of you, uncle.'
'Does she? I am greatly honoured.'
'Yes--and seems to know all about you, and your brilliant services to
their Mightinesses the States, and so forth.'
'The devil she does! Well, she probably knows also that I never was
a lady's man--a lady-killer, a buck, or a blood in my time; so my
lady countess may spare her breath to cool her porridge. And _who_
is this Countess van Renslaer? Her name sounds new to me.'
'She has but lately come to Holland.'
'From where?'
'England last, I believe; and none seem to take a higher place at the
Court of the Prince of Orange; at the balls of the Grand Pensionary,
and of the richest burgers in the Hague and Amsterdam.'
'Ouf! Well, I go to none of them--not even to Court, save once a
year, to kiss the Prince's hand, and give in the Brigade Reports.
She has a great retinue--keeps a stately coach and two sedans, I
hear; and does this artful old--countess seem to tolerate the
advances of a penniless sub like you, to her daughter?'
'Yes.'
'Why?'
'Because she is interested in me,' replied Lewie Baronald, smiling.
'For what reason?'
'Her first lover had been one of the Scots Brigade, and her heart
still warms to the uniform.'
The knitted brow of the General relaxed for a moment, and he said
with a grim smile:
'Then there have been two fools at least in the Brigade, to my
knowledge. And for this prize, Dolores--I have caught her absurd
name, you perceive--have you no rivals--no competitors?'
The young man's brow grew very dark.
'Yes,' said he, after a pause.
'Many?'
'One chiefly.'
'Whom you fear??
'I fear no man that wears a sword, uncle! She has a cousin, called
Maurice Morganstjern, whom I greatly distrust.'
'Grandson of that Morganstjern who was one of the assassins of the De
Witts in the last century? Avoid the whole brood, I say! If you
will not be guided by me, who have your interest at heart, consult
your Colonel, Drumlanrig, on this matter, and hear what _he_ will
say.'
'The last man to consult on such a topic.'
'Why?'
'Like yourself, he shuns female society. He is a gloomy misanthrope,
and one of a fated race.'
'Right: a curse fell on his house, for the duke's share in the Union
of 1707. I thought your family troubles were at an end when you
joined the Brigade; but, der Duyvel! they seem only beginning, with
this Dolores. To me it appears that there are some families--in
Scotland more especially--whom misfortune--fate--which you
will--pursueth to utter destruction.'
'The fate of mine was their own choosing: it lay between prudence and
loyalty, and ill would it have become my people to have wavered when
the Royal Standard was unfurled in Glenfinnan.'
'Your father's views and mine were different in that matter,' said
the General in a softer tone.
'Give me your hand. I do not despair of your favour for us yet.'
'Indeed!'
'Tyne heart, tyne all, as we say at home.'
'In old Scotland, yes--and before the enemy, that is well enough; but
anent a woman--go--go--or I shall lose my temper again. Besides,
Lewie, there is a cloud on the horizon--the political horizon, I
mean--which, though as yet no bigger than a man's hand, may expand
into a dark and mighty one of storm and bloodshed. A revolution is
at hand in France, and a time is coming when we--the Scots
Brigade--will have other work than love-making cut out for us, and we
shall have to choose between casting our lot forever with the
States-General or with his Majesty George III.; for there is not a
tavern and not a caserne in Holland in which the matter is not
debated keenly and hotly now.'
Though the steady opposition and hostility of his uncle and patron,
on whom all his hopes depended, left the young man depressed in
spirit and heavy in heart, and inspired by no small dread of
separation from the object of his love, he quitted the General's
house, and set forth to visit her.