for a little space, and then, suddenly wheeling, rode off in
different directions; but at every turn new enemies appeared, and at
last the hunted men, dismounting, fled on foot, through the thickest
part of the low oaks, until they were again met by infantry detached
in small parties down the sides of the pass, and directed in their
chase by the waving of the French officers' hats on the ridge above.
(Day had now broken.) Leon fell exhausted, and the barbarians who
first came up killed him, in spite of his companion's entreaties."
"My poor Juanna, what will now become of you?" exclaimed Grant, on
seeing his faithful Domingo expiring under the reeking bayonets of
the voltigeure; and now, totally incapable of further resistance, he
gave up his sword to an officer, who protected him from the fury of
his captors. He was at last a prisoner!
A few days after this, Manrico, covered with wounds and with one arm
in a sling, appeared sorrowfully before Lord Wellington, to announce
that Grant, "el valoroso capitano," had been taken, after a desperate
conflict in the pass of Penamacor. Lord Wellington was greatly
concerned for the safety of his favourite officer, and the greatest
excitement prevailed in the ranks of his regiment, for Colquhoun
Grant was well beloved by the soldiers of the Black Watch. To the
guerilla chiefs Wellington offered a thousand dollars for the rescue
of Grant, and his letters proclaiming this reward were borne by
Manrico and the broken-hearted Juanna through some of the wildest and
most dangerous parts of the frontier; but Marmont took his measures
too well, and kept his valuable prisoner too securely guarded, for
rescue or escape to be thought of.
The officer who had captured him, M. Armand, was a young
sous-lieutenant of the 3rd Voltigeurs (the same who had destroyed the
_granja_ of Leon the farmer); but he had a heart that would have done
honour to a marshal of the empire; and, with all kindness and
respect, he conducted him to the quarters of the Marshal Duc de
Raguse.
The latter invited the captive to dinner, and chatted with him in a
friendly way about his bold and remarkable adventures, saying that he
(Marmont) had been long on the watch for him; that he knew his
companions, Manrico the Bearded, Leon and his sister Juanna (here
Grant trembled), and that all his haunts and disguises were known too.
"Disguises--pardon mi, M. le Maréchal," said Grant,
warmly--"disguises are worn by spies; I have never worn other dress
than the uniform and tartan of my regiment."
"Vrai Dieu! the bolder fellow you!" exclaimed the Duc de Ragose.
"You are aware that I might hang you; but I love a brave spirit, and
shall only exact from you a special parole, that you will not
_consent_ to be released by any partida or guerilla chief on your
journey between this and France."
"Monseigneur le Duc, the exaction of this parole is the greatest
compliment you can pay me," replied Grant, who, on finding matters
desperate, gave his word of honour, and was next day sent towards the
Pyrenees with a French guard, under M. Armand, his captor. Grant,
without suspicion, was bearer of a treacherous letter to the Governor
of Bayonne, in which he was designated by Marmont "a treacherous
_spy_, who had done infinite mischief to the French army, and who was
not executed on the spot out of respect for _something resembling a
uniform_ (_i.e._, the Scottish dress) which he wore; but he (Marmont)
desired that at Bayonne Grant should be placed IN IRONS, and sent up
to Paris." (_Peninsular War_, vol. iv.)
On the first night of his march to the rear, M. Armand halted in a
grove of cork and beech-trees, within a mile of Medellin, on the
Quadiana--the birth-place of Cortes, the conqueror of Mexico; but as
a guerilla chief with 5000 desperadoes held possession of the town
and bridge, our lieutenant of Voltigeurs, with his prisoner and
escort, were forced to content themselves with such shelter as the
light foliage of the wood afforded.
The night was pitchy dark; the blackness that involved the sky, the
mountains, the vale through which the Guadiana wound, and the wood
where our travellers bivouacked, was palpable, painful, and
oppressive; but at times it was varied by the red sheet lightning
which shot across the southern quarter of the sky, revealing the
lofty Sierra, whose sharp peaks arose afar off like the waves of a
black sea, and the stems and foliage of the cork and beech-trees in
the foreground.
On this night occurred the most horrible episode of Grant's military
adventures.
After having drained their canteens of Lisbon wine, and discussed
their ration of cold beef and commissariat biscuit, Grant and Armand,
the voltigeur, lay down fraternally side by side in their cloaks to
repose; their escort lay close by, long since asleep; for Grant had
given his parole that he "would not attempt to escape," and such were
their ideas of military honour and value for a soldier's word, that
these brave Frenchmen never doubted him.
Just as the two officers were about to sleep, they became aware of
various cold and dewy drops, or clammy creeping things, that
continued to fall upon them from the beech trees overhead.
"Sangbleu!" exclaimed the lieutenant of Voltigeurs; "we are all over
creepers or cockroaches, and they drop like rain from this old beech
upon us."
"Let us seek another tree, my friend," said Grant, drowsily; "one
place is the same as another to me now."
"Diable! let us shift our camp then--but do you smell the lightning?
It must have scorched the grass."
"Why?"
"There is a stench so overpowering here on every breath of wind."
Moving a few paces to their left, they lay down at the root of
another beech tree; but there the same cold dewy drone seemed to
distil upon them like rain; yet the night was hot, dry, and sultry;
and ever and anon there fell those hideous creepers, whose slimy
touch caused emotions of horror.
"Tudieu!" shouted the Frenchman, springing up again; "I cannot stand
this! We had better have beaten up the guerillas in their quarters
at Medellin. Holo, Corporal Touchet--flash off your musket, and let
us see what the devil is in these trees!"
Roused thus, the corporal of the escort cocked his piece; and as he
fired, the two officers watched the beeches in the sudden and
lightning-like gleam that flashed from the muzzle.
Lo! the dark figure of a dead man swung from a branch, about twelve
feet above them!
"Ouf!" said the voltigeur, with a shudder of horror.
"These beeches bear strange nuts," said Grant, as they hastily left
the wood, and passed the remainder of the night on the open sward in
front of it. When day dawned, Grant went back to examine the places
where they had first attempted to sleep. The corpses of a man having
a voluminous beard, and a woman with a profusion of long and silky
hair, were suspended from the branches; and, as they swung mournfully
and fearfully round in the morning wind, the crows flew away with an
angry croak, and a cry of horror burst from the lips of Grant on
recognising Manrico el Barbado and--_Juanna de Leon_!
* * * *
Three weeks after this, Colquhoun Grant saw the long blue outline of
the Pyrenees undulating before him, as he approached the frontier of
France, a country for which he had now the greatest horror; and
during the whole march from Medellin towards Bayonne, the young
subaltern of Voltigeurs experienced the greatest trouble with his
prisoner, on whom that frightful episode in the cork wood had left a
dreadful impression.
In his hatred and animosity to France and everything French, Grant,
from that hour had resolved, that though he could not with honour
attempt to escape while in Spain, he would spare no exertion or
trouble, no cunning or coin, to leave France, and return once more to
find himself sword in hand before the ranks of Marshal Marmont, whom
he now viewed as the assassin of that poor maiden of Leon.
As they approached Bayonne, he took an early opportunity of
deliberately tearing open the sealed letter which the marshal had
given him for the Governor of that fortress, and made himself master
of its contents. Instead of finding its tenor complimentary and
recommendatory as he had been told, he saw himself therein designated
as a "dangerous spy who had done infinite mischief to the French
army," and who should be marched in fetters to Paris, where no doubt
tortures such as those to which Captain Wright was subjected in the
Temple, or a death on the scaffold awaited him! The contents of this
letter more than released him from any parole.
"Oho, M. le Duc de Raguse, is this your game?" said Grant, as he tore
the letter into the smallest bits, and buried them in a hole. "Let
me see if I cannot make a Highland head worth a pair of French heels."
Arrived at Bayonne, Lieutenant Armand presented him to the governor
and bade him adieu. Then Grant confidently requested, in the usual
way, to be furnished with a passport for Verdun, the greatest
military prison in France. This the governor at once granted him,
little suspecting that he meant to commence an escape the moment he
left the garrison. Aware that, guarded as all the avenues from
Bayonne and the Pyrenean passes were by French troops of every kind,
flight towards Spain was impossible, he resolved to make the attempt
in the _opposite_, and consequently less to be suspected, direction.
The moment he left the governor's quarters, Grant quietly put the
passport in the fire, and repairing to the suburb of St. Esprit,
which, from time immemorial has been the quarter of the Portuguese
Jews, he sold his silver epaulettes and richly-laced Highland
uniform, to a dealer in old garments, and received in lieu the plain
fragged surtout, forage cap, and sabre of a French staff-officer; he
stuck the cross of the Legion of Honour at his button-hole, and after
promenading along the superb quay, after repairing boldly to the
"Eagle of France," an hotel in the Place de Grammont, he ordered an
omelette and a bottle of vin ordinaire with all the air of a Garde
Imperiale and sat down to dinner.
Inquiring of the waiter "if there were any officers in the house
about to proceed to Paris?" he was told that "M. le General Souham
was about to leave that very night." Grant procured a card, and
writing thereon _Captain O'Reilly, Imperial Service_, sent it up, and
was at once introduced to old Souham, who was just about to start,
and was in the act of buckling on his sabre.
"Captain O'Reilly," said he, frowning at the name, and glancing round
for a French Army List, but fortunately none was at hand.
"Of what regiment?"
"Lacy's disbanded battalion of the Irish Brigade."
"Ah! And in what can I serve you, monsieur?"
"Allowing me to join your party about to proceed to Paris."
"You do me infinite honour, M. O'Reilly."
"Thanks, general."
"From whence have you come?"
"The banks of the Coa."
"Sacre! the banks of the Coa!"
"Yes; I am attached to the staff of M. le Duc de Raguse."
"Ah! old Marmont Peste! he is my greatest friend. M. Armand of the
3rd Voltigeurs brought me a letter from him, in which he says that a
dear friend of his would join me on my way to Paris."
"How kind of brave Marmont," said Grant; "he never forgets me."
"So he has captured the notorious Scaramouche, Captain Grant?"
"Yea; a wonderful fellow that!"
"Quite a devil of a man; allons, let us go; you have a horse of
course?"
"No, M. le General."
"One of mine is at your service."
"Mille baionettes! You quite overwhelm me."
In half an hour after this, Grant, with Souham and two other French
officers had crossed the wooden drawbridge of Bayonne, and left the
citadel of M. Vauban with all its little redoubts in their rear, as
they all rode merrily _en route_ to Paris; Souham by the way telling
twenty incredible stories of Wellington's prince of scouts, the
Scottish Captain Grant. In a house of entertainment in the Rue
Royale at Orleans, Grant fortunately made the acquaintance of a man
who proved to be an agent in the secret service of the British
Government. This person furnished him with money and a letter to
another secret agent who lived in an obscure part of Paris, where he
arrived, still disguised as an officer in the suite of General
Souham, and as such, for a time, he visited all the theatres, the
gardens, the operas; and all splashed and travel-stained, as fresh
from the seat of war, was presented to the great Emperor, who
patronizingly spoke to him of the probability of restoring Lacy's
Irish Regiment, "by recruiting for it among the Irish in the prisons
of Bitche and Verdun, in which case his services would not be
forgotten," &c, "and his promotion to a majority would be duly
remembered," &c. &c. Grant could not foresee that in _three_ years
after this, the old Black Watch, after raising the cry of "Scotland
for ever" at Waterloo, would make the Tuileries ring to their
Highland pipes, and that he would actually compose the well-known
parody--
"Wha keep guard at Versailles and Marli,
Wha, but the lads wi' the bannocks of barley?"
He spoke French with fluency, having been a pupil of the famous Jean
Paul Marat, when that notable ruffian taught French in Edinburgh,
where, in 1774 he published a work entitled "The Chains of Slavery."
Grant thanked the Emperor, and thinking that the daring joke had been
carried quite far enough, he doffed his French uniform, sabre and
all, and making a bundle thereof, flung the whole into the Seine one
night. Then, attiring himself in an unpretending blouse, he repaired
to the house of the secret agent, presented his letter, and obtained
more money to enable him to reach Britain.
"Monsieur is in luck," said the agent; "I have just ascertained that
a passport is lying at the foreign office for an American who died,
or was found dead this morning."
"How is your American named?"
"Monsieur Jonathan Buck."
"Very good--thanks! From this very hour I am Jonathan Buck," said
the reckless Grant. He reloaded his pistols, concealed them in his
breast, and repairing to the Foreign Office, demanded his passport
with the coolness of a prince _incog_.
"Your name, monsieur?"
"M. Jonathan Buck," drawled Grant through his nose.
The passport was handed to him at once, and long before the police
could ascertain that Monsieur Buck had departed this life at 9 A.M.,
and yet had received his papers at 9 P.M., on the same day, our hero
had left Paris far behind him, and was travelling post towards the
mouth of the Loire.
On reaching Nantes, he repaired at once to Paimboeuff, twenty miles
further down the river, where all vessels, whose size was above
ninety tons, usually unloaded their cargoes; and there he boarded the
first vessel which had up the stars and stripes of America, and
seemed ready for sea. She proved to be the _Ohio_, a fine bark of
Boston, Jeremiah Buck, master.
"'Tis fortunate," said Grant through his nose, as he was ushered into
the cabin of the Yankee; "I am a namesake of yours, captain--Jonathan
Buck, of Cape Cod, seeking a cabin passage to Boston."
"All right--let me see your passport, stranger?"
"Here it is, skipper."
"Well, for a hundred and fifty dollars, I am your man," drawled the
Boston captain, who was smoking a long Cuba; "but it is darned odd,
stranger, that I have been expecting _another_ Jonathan Buck, my own
nephew, from Paris; he is in the fish and timber trade, and hangs out
at old Nantucket; but he took a run up by the dilly to see the
Toolerie, the Loover, and all that. Well, darn my eyes, if this is
not my nephew's passport!" exclaimed the American suddenly, while his
eyes flashed with anger and suspicion. "Stranger, how is this?"
In some anxiety, Grant frankly related how the document came into his
possession, and produced the letters of the secret agent, proving who
he was, beseeching the captain, as a man come of British blood and
kindred, to assist him; for, if taken by the French, the dungeon of
Verdun or Bitche, or worse, perhaps, awaited him.
The Yankee paused, and chewed a quid by which he had replaced his
cigar. Full of anxiety, yet without fear, Grant summoned all his
philosophy, and recalled the words of Bossuet, "That human life
resembles a road which ends in frightful precipices. We are told of
this at the first step we take; but our _destiny_ is fixed, and we
_must_ proceed."
Natural sorrow for the loss of his relative, and the native honesty
of an American seaman, united to open the heart of the captain to our
wanderer, and he agreed to give him a passage in the _Ohio_ to
Boston, from whence he could reach Britain more readily than from the
coast of France, watched and surrounded as it was by ships and
gunboats, troops and gens d'armes, police, spies, passports, &c.
Believing all arranged at last, Grant never left the ship, but
counted every hour until he should again find himself in Leon, the
land of his faithful Juanna, with his comrades of the Black Watch
around him, and the eagles of Marmont in front.
At last came the important hour, when the anchor of the _Ohio_ was
fished; when her white canvas filled, and the stars and stripes of
America swelled proudly from her gaff-peak, as she bore down the
sun-lit Loire with the evening tide; but now an unlooked-for
misfortune took place. A French privateer, the famous _Jean Bart_,
ran foul of her, and, by carrying away her bowsprit and foremast,
brought down her maintop-mast too. Thus she was forced to run back
to Paimboeuff and haul into dock.
For our disguised captain of the 42nd Highlanders to remain in the
docks, guarded as they were by watchful gens-d'armes, was impossible;
thus, on being furnished by the skipper of the _Ohio_ with the coarse
clothes of a mariner, and a written character, stating that he was
"Nathan Prowse, a native of Nantucket, in want of a ship," he stained
his face and hands with tobacco-juice, shaved off his moustache, and
repaired to an obscure tavern in the suburbs of Paimboeuff, to find a
lodging until an opportunity offered for his escape. Under his
peajacket he carried a pair of excellent pistols, which he kept
constantly loaded; and a fine dagger or Albacete knife, a gift of
poor Domingo de Leon.
As he sat in the kitchen of this humble house of entertainment, his
eye was caught by a printed placard above the mantelpiece. It bore
the imperial arms, with the cipher of the Emperor, and stated that
"the notorious spy Colquhoun Grant, a captain in a Scottish regiment
of the British army, who had wrought so much mischief behind the
lines of le Maréchal Duc de Raguse, in Leon, and who had been brought
prisoner to France, where he had broken his parole, was wandering
about, maintaining a system of espionage and Protean disguises; that
he had, lastly, assumed the name, character, and passport of an
American citizen, named Jonathan Buck, whom he had wickedly and
feloniously murdered and robbed in the Rue de Rivoli at Paris; that
the sum of 2,000 francs was hereby offered for him dead or alive; and
that all prefects, officers, civil and military, gens-d'armes, and
loyal subjects of the Emperor, by sea and land, were hereby
authorized to seize or kill the said Colquhoun Grant wherever and
whenever they found him."
With no small indignation and horror, the Highlander read this
obnoxious placard, which contained so much that wore the face of
truth, with so much that was unquestionably false.
"So Buck, whose papers I have appropriated, has been murdered--poor
devil!" was his first reflection; "what if the honest skipper of the
_Ohio_ should see this precious document and suspect _me_! In that
case I should be altogether lost."
He retired from the vicinity of this formidable placard, fearing that
some watchful eye might compare his personal appearance with the
description it contained; though his costume, accent, and the fashion
of his whiskers and beard altered his appearance so entirely that his
oldest friends at the mess would not have recognised him. He hastily
retired upstairs to a miserable garret, to think and watch, but not
to sleep.
When loitering on the beach next evening, he entered into
conversation with a venerable boatman, named Raoul Senebier, and an
exchange of tobacco pouches at once established their mutual
good-will. Grant said that "he was an American seaman out of a
berth, and anxious to reach Portsmouth in England, where he had left
his wife and children."
The boatman, an honest and unsuspicious old fellow, seemed touched by
his story, and offered to row him to a small island at the mouth of
the Loire, where British vessels watered unmolested, and in return
allowed the poor inhabitants to fish and traffic without interruption.
"I can feel for you, my friend," said old Senebier; "for I was taken
prisoner at the battle of Trafalgar, and was seven years in the
souterrains of the _Château d'Edimbourg_, separated from my dear wife
and little ones, and when I returned, I found them all lying in the
churchyard of Paimboeuff."
"Dead--what, all?"
"All, all, save one--the plague, the plague!"
"Land me on the isle, then, and ten Napoleons shall be yours," said
Grant, joyfully, and in twenty minutes after, they had left the
crowded wharves, the glaring salt-pans which gleam on the left bank
of the Loire, and all its maze of masts and laden lighters, as they
pulled down, with the flow of the stream and the ebb-tide together.
The fisherman had his nets, floats, and fortunately some fish on
board; so, if overhauled by any armed authority, he could pretend to
have been at his ordinary avocation. They touched at the island, and
were told by some of the inhabitants that not a British ship was in
the vicinity, but that a French privateer, the terrible _Jean Bart_,
was prowling about in these waters, and that the isle was
consequently unsafe for any person who might be suspected of being a
British subject; so, with a heart that began to sink, Grant desired
old Raoul Senebier to turn his prow towards Paimboeuff.
Morning was now at hand, and the sun as he rose reddened with a glow
of Italian brilliancy the tranquil banks of the Loire, and the sails
of the fisher-craft that were running up the stream. No vessels were
in sight, for terror of the British cruisers kept every French keel
close in shore; but suddenly a large white sail appeared to the
southward, and in the lingering and ardent hope that she was one of
our Channel squadron, Grant prevailed upon Raoul to bear towards her.
The wind became light, and all day the two men tugged at their oars,
but still the ship was far off, and yet not so distant but that
Grant, with a glistening eye and beating hearty could make out her
scarlet ensign; when evening came on, and a strong current, which ran
towards the Loire, gradually swept the boat towards the coast of
France, and just as the sun set, old Raoul and the fugitive found
themselves suddenly close to a low battery, a shot from which boomed
across the water, raising it like a spout beyond them. Another and
another followed, tearing the waves into foam close by.
"We must surrender, monsieur," said Raoul, wringing his hands; "and I
shall be brought in irons before M. le Prefect for aiding the escape
of a prisoner of war."
"Call me your son," said Grant; "say we were fishing, and leave the
rest to me."
"I have a son," said Raoul; "he escaped the plague by being where he
is now, on board the _Jean Bart_."
They landed under the battery; a little corporal in the green uniform
of a Voltigeur, with six men, conducted them with fixed bayonets
before the officer in command. He was a handsome young man, and
Grant in a moment recognised his former captor and companion, M.
Armand, the sous-lieutenant of the 3rd Voltigeur Regiment.
"Milles demons! is this you, monsieur?" exclaimed Armand, who knew
Grant at once.
"Exactly, Monsieur le Lieutenant," replied Grant with admirable
presence of mind; "'tis I, your old companion, Louis Senebier,
captain of a gun aboard the _Jean Bart_, from which I have a day's
liberty to fish with my father, old Raoul of Paimboeuff, whom you see
before you here; but understanding that a rascally British cruiser is
off the coast, we were just creeping close to the battery when
monsieur fired at us."
"Is this true, M. Senebier?" asked Armand, with a knowing smile.
"All true; my son is said to be very like me," replied the old
fisherman, astounded by the turn matters had taken.