HALT AT ST. SERVAND.
During the 7th of June the whole force (save one regiment, which was
left at Cancalle to cover our re-embarkation, if necessary) marched
towards St. Malo, through a rough and woody country. A dense mist
from the ocean enveloped the scenery for some miles inland, and
through this we were advancing when Captain Brook was killed. The
soil seemed barren, with black sheep grazing among the rocks and
boulders; old and ruinous bridges lay across deep swamps and rugged
watercourses, that rushed towards the sea. Without molestation we
passed several quaint, old manor houses, girdled by weedy fosses and
moss-grown oaks--and some whose embattled _porte cocher_ and grated
casements opened to long and shady avenues of sycamore trees.
Ere long, we came to more open parts of the country, covered with
pink heath and spotted with yellow flowers; in others, with fields,
snow white with the bloom of buckwheat. In these flat places rose
here and there, exactly as in Scotland, great battle stones of the
Druids or the Celtic Bretons, that stood grim, grey, erect, solemn
and silent; and so a march of nine miles through scenery such as this
brought us in sight of St. Malo.
The men of our troop were so much occupied in scouring the district
through which the infantry advanced, covering both flanks,
reconnoitring and so forth, that it was not until sunset when our
small army encamped at the village of St. Servand, two miles from St.
Malo, that I had an opportunity of relating to my two chief friends,
Tom Kirkton and Jack Charters, the strange adventure of the preceding
night.
They listened to me with astonishment, as we sat by the foot of a
large tree under which our horses were stabled (if I may use such a
term), and where we were regaling ourselves with ration biscuits and
the contents of a gallon keg of French wine, of which Charters had
become proprietor on the march.
Around us the whole force, horse, foot, and artillery, were busy
cooking or preparing for the bivouac of the night. Countless little
fires, lighted beside trees, hedges, and low walls, glared and
reddened in the evening wind, and when the dusk set in, they shed a
wavering gleam on the piles of arms that stood in long ranks, on the
white bell-tents and the red-coated groups that loitered near. The
whole scene was picturesque, lively, and striking, and in the
distance lay the town and fortress of St. Malo, quaint and worn by
time and the misty storms that came from the open sea.
Its harbour is one of the best seaports in France, but is extremely
difficult of access. The town is small, gloomy, and dull, but
populous and wealthy, and crowns a rock which the sea encompasses
twice daily--thus St. Malo is alternately insular and peninsular, as
the tide ebbs, flows, and churns in foam against its fetid rocks,
whereon the russet-brown seaweed rots in the sunshine; and far around
it lies a barrier of sharp white reefs, the foe of many a ship ere
beacons were invented.
It was guarded by a strong castle, flanked by great towers, on the
battlements of which the last light of the setting sun yet lingered
with a fiery gleam. The town had usually a good garrison; but His
Grace the Duke of Marlborough had now learned that there were not
quite five hundred troops in the whole of this neglected province of
Brittany, which, though forming a portion of the kingdom of France,
had long been under its hereditary dukes, and was now governed by a
States General, with provincial privileges of its own.*
* It continued so until the Revolution in 1792.
For ages so separate had its interests been from those of France,
that James III. of Scotland was requested by Charles VIII. to send
thither a body of troops to capture and annex Brittany to his
northern kingdom but the Scottish parliament declined to sanction the
subjugation of a free people; so this strange scheme was abandoned.
A strong wall surrounded St. Malo, and every night twelve dogs of
great size and ferocity were led round it by a soldier of the city
watch, that their barking might give notice if brigands or an enemy
approached.
The last ray of sunlight soon faded upward from the cathedral spire
of St. Vincent, and the shades of twilight were already casting into
obscurity the rocky basement of the whole city and its weedy reefs
amid the chafing sea, when in a lonely part of our camp by St.
Servand my two comrades and I reclined on the turf beside our
accoutred horses, and drank the contents of the wine-keg, using one
horn--for we possessed but one--fraternally by turns.
"It is very true," continued Charters, with reference to my adventure
of the preceding night; "egad, friend Gauntlet, you had a narrow
escape! In other hands--particularly those of old Preston--you had
assuredly been brought to the drum-head and had a volley of ten
carbines for dereliction of duty. To fall asleep on one's post
before an enemy----"
"But I was _not_ asleep," I persisted.
"Well, well; but to let the enemy pass you----"
"I was thinking of other times, Jack."
"Very likely," said Kirkton; "on such a lonely duty, and at such a
time, by night, I have too often found the thoughts of other times,
and images of those I have loved or lost, who are dead, or far, far
away, all come unbidden before me."
"It is unwise to look back regretfully--for the past can never come
again. Oh, never more!" continued Charters, sadly, as he thought of
some cherished episode of his own life; "so the wiser and the manlier
way is to improve the present (pass the keg, Tom), and look boldly at
the future."
"You are right, Jack," said I, as this military philosopher proceeded
to light his pipe and groom his horse, which he carefully covered
with his cloak; "but I fear it will be long before I can school
myself into your cool way of taking things. I have seen but little
of the world, Jack, and have only learned to enjoy life since
embracing the profession which sets no value upon it."
"Time and travel will improve your views, my boy; and 'all travel,'
says Dr. Johnson, 'has its advantages; if it lead a man to a better
country, he learns to improve his own; if to a worse, to enjoy it.'
I have travelled much in my time--steady, old horse, steady!--and as
I did so with sundry rounds of ball cartridge at my back, I have
learned much that Dr. Johnson never thought of."
"In what way, Jack--to handle a dice-box and make love to the
barmaids?" asked Tom.
"I have learned more than that," retorted Charters, somewhat coldly;
"travel taught me to be charitable; for one finds good people
everywhere, abroad as well as at home, for as it takes a great many
men to make an army, so many people are required to make a nation."
"Bah!" shouted Tom Kirkton, who was in his shirt-sleeves and
attending to our cooking; "we have had enough of musty moralising.
This is like one of old father's sermons, poor man! and a sermon
sounds oddly in your mouth, Jack. Here is a rasher of bacon, broiled
on a ramrod and done to a turn. Come here while it is hot and
savoury, for we may say with the fool in the Scripture, 'Let us eat
and drink, for to-morrow we die.'"
"Boot and saddle! To horse, you fellows there!" cried the loud and
authoritative voice of a staff officer as a strange sequel to Tom's
ominous speech. He proved to be General Elliot, who was passing
through our bivouac at a hand gallop, accompanied by his
aide-de-camp, both plumed and aiguiletted. "To horse--the Light
Dragoons!"
"Fall in--the Scots Greys!" added Captain Lindsay, coming up at a
trot; "we are ordered to the front."
So Tom's dainty rasher was eaten in a trice; the last of Charters's
wine was drained, the keg tossed into the nearest watch fire, we
sprang on our horses, and at the first ruffle on the kettle-drum,
formed line on the left of our standard.