HEAD QUARTERS.
Having now related how I became a soldier, almost in desperation and
misanthropy, I shall soon show how such emotions gave place to
better, to braver, and to higher aspirations, fanned by that blessed
_hope_ which never dies in the heart of youth.
I learned--but not for a long time after this period--that when news
of the step I had taken was brought by the sorrowing old Rector to
Netherwood, it gave great satisfaction to my worthy grandfather, and
still more to my affectionate cousin Tony, who drained a full bumper
to the health of the Frenchman whose bullet should rid them of me for
ever; and then Sir Basil was actually barbarous enough to shake him
by the hand and say--
"Zounds! Tony, my boy, you may be heir to my title as well as acres,
and die a baronet yet!"
After travelling eighteen miles we reached Rothbury, a quaint old
market town of Northumberland, pleasantly situated in a valley
overlooked by a lofty ridge of rocks. Our head-quarters were here,
but some of our troops were billeted at Bickerton, Caistron, and
other townships of the parish.
The Coquet flowed through the town, and every morning one of our
first duties was to take our horses there to water, which was done by
beat of kettledrum, for as yet the Greys, being Horse Grenadiers, had
no brass trumpets.
On the morning after our arrival at Rothbury, I was brought before my
commanding officer, Colonel George Preston. Tall, handsome, and
venerable in aspect, he was a noble veteran officer, though somewhat
of an eccentric character in his way. He was now far advanced in
life, and had been from his boyhood in the Scots Greys, having
entered the regiment as a kettledrummer in the last years of Queen
Anne.
He was a captain at the battle of Val, where, at the head of only
thirty Greys, he made so furious a charge upon a great body of French
cavalry, that he routed and drove them fairly off the field. He then
pulled out his purse, and gave each trooper a ducat with his left
hand, for his _right_ was so swollen by the vigorous use he had made
of his broad sword, that the hilt had to be sawn in two by the
regimental armourer before he could be released from it.
Under his old-fashioned scarlet uniform, which was cut somewhat in
the mode of Queen Anne's days, he wore a _buff coat_, and this was,
no doubt, the last appearance of such a garment in any European army.
He received me gravely but kindly, and said,
"So, boy, you have resolved to become a soldier?"
"Yes, noble sir," said I; for as Charters had informed me, this was
then the mode of addressing the commanding officer of a regiment.
"You are very young, and seem somewhat different from the common run
of our recruits. Your name is rather uncommon, too. I presume that
your parents----"
"They are in their graves. I have none to advise or regret me--none
whom I can regret."
(Did no thought of Poor Ruth arrest this sweeping speech?)
"Good! you are then the best of food for gunpowder. Your age----"
"I am about eighteen, sir."
"You look older than that--in face, especially."
"Sir, those who have undergone such years as I have, frequently do
so."
In truth, I looked older than my age. My figure was tall, well
formed and developed, while my face had a matured expression, and
somewhat resolute aspect, especially about the eyes. Colonel
Preston, though a stern man, and a strict disciplinarian, felt a deep
interest and pride in his regiment, and thus he narrowly examined
every recruit before passing him into the ranks, and every man's name
and character there, were graven on his memory.
"I like both your spirit and bearing, boy," said he. "Sixty years
ago, I was a poor and penniless lad, so I e'en became a private
trooper in the Scots Greys, and behold me now! I am
Lieutenant-Colonel of the regiment, and hope, please God, to die a
General, and go to my grave under a salute of cannon. Ere long, my
lads," he continued to me, and several other recruits, who had just
been ushered into the Orderly room, "we must all be in France or
Germany, and there we shall find what the fortune of war has in store
for us. Remember that the sword of a brave man is always sharp, but
that of a coward for ever wants grinding! Stand by me, my lads, and
I shall never fail you, and in me you see a living example of the
reward that may await sobriety, steadiness, and a strict obedience to
orders. Put Basil Gauntlet into Captain Lindsay's troop; attach the
rest to Captain Cunninghame's. The tailor and the roughrider will
soon make dragoons of them all."
I was conducted to my billet. Fortunately it was in the same tavern
where Kirkton and Charters were quartered, and with them I shared the
first instalment of my pay, which at that time was small enough, when
a cornet had but a half-crown per diem, and a lieutenant-colonel of
Dragoons only eight shillings and six-pence!
My bounty-money was soon dissipated, for under pretence of
fraternising with me, or teaching me many matters that might be
useful, several of those rogues who are usually known in barracks as
"old soldiers," or "knowing ones," stuck close to me and to the other
recruits, so long as our cash lasted.
The next day saw me arrayed in full uniform. The largest mirror in
the tavern (it measured only six inches each way) by no means
afforded me sufficient scope for the admiration of my own person in
this new attire; though I could view it, when reflected at full
length, in the shop-windows, while passing along the streets, into
which I at once issued, as Kirkton said, "to exhibit my war-paint."
In those days--this was in the year before we fought at Minden--the
Greys wore double-breasted scarlet coats, lined with blue, having
slit sleeves; long slashed pockets were in each skirt, and a white
worsted aiguilette dangled from the right shoulder. We wore long
jack-boots, and tall grenadier caps, with the Scottish Thistle and
circle of St. Andrew in front. Our cloaks were scarlet lined with
blue shalloon, and in front they had rows of large flat buttons set
two and two, on white frogs, or loops of braid. On our collars we
wore a grenade in memory that at its formation, a portion of the
regiment had been armed with that formidable weapon, the same as the
Scots Horse Grenadier Guards.
Everywhere the proud motto of the corps met my eye; on the standards
and kettledrums, on our caps, carbines, and pistol-barrels, and on
the blades of our long straight broadswords, I read the words--
SECOND TO NONE!
That short sentence seemed full of haughty spirit; it gave me a new
life, and fired my heart with lofty inspirations. I repeated it,
dreamed and pondered over it, and as our departure for the seat of
war was daily looked for, I longed for active service, and for the
peril and adventure ever consequent thereto.
The brusque manners, rough words, oaths and expletives used by some
of my comrades, certainly shocked and somewhat blunted my chivalry.
To be sure all gentlemen then swore to their hearts content: and I am
sorry to say the army carried the fashion to an extreme, and there a
quiet fellow was sure to be mocked and stigmatized as a methodist or
quaker.
In all the many wars which succeeded its first formation, when it was
raised by Sir Thomas Dalyell and Graham of Claverhouse, in 1678, to
fight against the hapless covenanters, our regiment had borne a great
and glorious part. At the battle of Drumclog and at Airsmoss where
Richard Cameron the field-preacher fell, the Greys were, unhappily,
the terror of their own countrymen; and even now, after the lapse of
so many generations, traditions of those dark days still lingered in
our ranks--handed orally down from veteran to recruit.
In better times they had served in the wars of Anne and of the
earlier Georges, and always with honour, for in every campaign they
captured a colour, and at the battle of Ramillies surrounded and
disarmed the French Regiment du Roi, capturing no less than
_seventeen standards_.*
* Fact: _vide_ "Regimental Record."
Our officers were all gentlemen of high spirit, who belonged to the
best families in Scotland; and so attached were their men to them,
that the corps seemed to be but one large family.
Punishments--especially degradations--were almost unknown; yet "auld
Geordie Buffcoat," as they named Preston, was one of the most strict
colonels in the service.
Every regiment has its own peculiar history and traditions, just as a
family, a city or a nation have; these are inseparably connected with
its own honour, achievements and badges, and with the military glory
of the country, and thus inspire and foster the fine sentiment of
_esprit du corps_.
But to resume:--
We marched southward by easy stages, and during the spring of the
year were quartered at Newmarket, where the inns have ever been
proverbial for the excellence of their stabling and other
accommodation, and where the race-ground and extensive heath were so
admirably adapted for training the cavalry, who were all subjected to
severe drill in anticipation of foreign service.
By this time I had gone from squad to squad, rapidly through all the
phases which a recruit has to pass--position-drill and sitting up
till my spinal column was erect as a pike; club-exercise to expand
the chest and strengthen the muscles of the arm. Then came pacing
and marching; then equitation, embracing all the skilful and ready
aids by which to guide and control my horse in all his paces, and to
acquire a firm seat in every variety of movement--to govern him also
by my legs and bridle hand, so as to leave my right at the fullest
liberty for the use of my weapons. Then I had the exercise of the
latter to acquire--the sword, carbine, and pistol. Other hours were
devoted to lance, post, and stick practice. Even a smattering of
farriery was not omitted; so the first six months which followed my
_début_ as a Scots Grey left me little leisure for reflection, or for
the study of ought else than would conduce to make me a perfect
dragoon, skilled in all the science of destroying human life. I
learned, moreover, that a _perfect_ dragoon is not made in a day.
Colonel Preston daily superintended in person the training of his
recruits; and the presence of the fine old man, with his mingled
kindness and enthusiasm, kindled a kindred spirit even in the breast
of the dullest fellow among us.
It seemed to me--but it might be fancy--that he took particular
interest in myself, for he frequently spoke to me with such words of
encouragement or praise, that my young heart swelled with gratitude;
and I felt certain when the time came, that I would follow the brave
old man, even to the cannon's mouth, with the devotion of a son,
rather than the mere obedience of a soldier.
An anecdote of our veteran colonel, then current, related that when
George II., who frequently displayed much favour and partiality for
the Greys (notwithstanding his hatred of the Scots), was reviewing
them in Hyde Park one day before the Marshal Duke de Broglie and a
prince of the House of Bourbon, Louis Philippe, Duke of Orleans, he
said--
"Monseigneur le Prince, did you ever see a finer regiment?"
"They are fine indeed," replied the Prince, as the royal staff passed
along the line; "but pardon me if I think them inferior to our
Gendarmes de la Garde. Did your majesty ever see _them_?"
"No," replied the king; "but I have little doubt that my Scots Greys
have--eh, Colonel Preston?"
"Yes," said the Colonel, grimly, "we _have_ seen them."
"Where?" asked Louis Philippe.
"At Dettingen, when auld Jamie Campbell, who was killed at Fontenoy,
led us to the charge against them."
"Well--well," said the king, impatiently, "and what followed?"
"We cut them to pieces, and there I took their _white standard_,
cleaving the bearer down to the breeks; and the prince, if he
chooses, may see it now, hanging in Westminster Hall."
At Newmarket my chivalry received a severe shock, by being present at
the execution of a Light Dragoon who was shot for desertion. He had
been sentenced to three hundred lashes by a regimental court-martial.
On this, he appealed to a general court, which, instead of confirming
the former sentence, inflicted the penalty of--death!
It was long before I forgot the horrors of that scene; the grey light
of the early morning--our pale faces on parade--the ominous
silence--the almost whispered words of command--the pallid prisoner,
as he knelt beside his black deal coffin, and the shriek with which
he fell within it as the death volley rang across the far extent of
the open heath, and then the trumpet sounding to form open column and
pass the poor corpse by files, announced that all was over.