THE KING'S OWN BORDERERS.
A Military Romance.
BY
JAMES GRANT,
AUTHOR OF
"SECOND TO NONE," "THE ROMANCE OF WAR," "THE YELLOW FRIGATE,"
ETC. ETC.
"Memories fast are thronging o'er me,
Of the grand old fields of Spain;
How he faced the charge of Junot,
And the fight where Moore was slain.
Oh the years of weary waiting
For the glorious chance he sought,
For the slowly ripened harvest
That life's latest autumn brought."
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS,
BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL.
1865.
LONDON:
SAVILL AND EDWARDS, PRINTERS, CHANDOS STREET,
COVENT GARDEN.
PREFACE.
In the following volumes I have endeavoured to delineate the career
of a soldier--and of a character that has not as yet, I think,
figured in the pages of our military novelists--a Gentleman
Volunteer, serving with a line regiment in time of war, according to
a custom which survived even the memorable battles of the Peninsula.
As the scene of his adventures (some of which are not quite
fictitious), I have chosen the expedition under the gallant and
ill-fated Sir John Moore, as it has scarcely, if ever, been made the
theme of a military romance.
No history of the 25th Foot is in existence; hence, as the brief
outline of its early career in the first volume is substantially
correct, it may prove of interest to some readers.
I may add that the 94th regiment mentioned occasionally, is the old
94th or "Scots Brigade," which came from the service of the States
General, and was disbanded after Waterloo.
The corps at present bearing the same number in the Army List was
also, however, raised in Scotland, but in December, 1823; and on that
occasion the green standard of the old brigade of gallant memory was
borne through the streets, from the castle of Edinburgh, by a soldier
of the Black Watch.
26, DANUBE STREET,
EDINBURGH.
CONTENTS
OF
THE FIRST VOLUME.
CHAP.
I. LADY WINIFRED
II. THE PARTAN CRAIG
III. THE CASTLE OF ROHALLION
IV. THE CHILD OF THE SEA
V. THE PAST
VI. LORD ROHALLION
VII. OUR STORY PROGRESSES
VIII. QUENTIN'S CHILDHOOD
IX. THE QUARTERMASTER'S SNUGGERY
X. FLORA WARRENDER
XI. LOVE, AND MATTERS PERTAINING THERETO
XII. A LAST KISS
XIII. COSMO THE MASTER
XIV. AN ABRUPT PROPOSAL
XV. THE BLOW
XVI. EXPOSTULATION
XVII. FORTH INTO THE WORLD
XVIII. UNAVAILING REGRET
XIX. AN OLD SOLDIER'S STORY
XX. THE WAYFARER
XXI. THE VAULT OF KILHENZIE
XXII. THE QUEEN ANNE'S HEAD
XXIII. NEW FRIENDS
XXIV. THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER
XXV. THE PRUSSIAN GRENADIER
XXVI. COLCHESTER BARRACKS
XXVII. THE LOST LETTER
THE KING'S OWN BORDERERS,
CHAPTER I.
LADY WINIFRED.
"Thick, thick--no sight remains the while,
From the farthest Orkney isle,
No sight to seahorse or to seer,
But of a little pallid sail,
That seems as if 'twould struggle near,
And then as if its pinion pale
Gave up the battle to the gale."
LEIGH HUNT.
On the afternoon of a lowering day in the November of 1798, a
square-rigged vessel--a brig of some three hundred and fifty
tons--was seen in the offing, about twelve miles distant from the
bluff, rocky headland of Rohallion, on the western coast of Carrick,
beating hard against a head-wind and sea, that were set dead in
shore; and, as a long and treacherous reef, locally known as the
Partan Craig (_Anglicè_, Crab-rock), lies off the headland, many
fears were loudly expressed by on-lookers, that if she failed to gain
even better sea room, ere night-fall, the gale, the waves, and the
current might prove too much for her in the end, and the half-sunken
reef would finish the catastrophe.
Over the craig the angry breakers of the Firth of Clyde were seen to
boil and whiten, and the ridgy reef seemed to rise, at times, like a
hungry row of shark's teeth, black, sharp, and shining.
With royal yards on deck, with topsails lowered upon the caps, her
fore and maincourses close-hauled, with a double reef in each, the
stranger was seen to lie alternately on the port and starboard tack,
braced so close to the wind's eye as a square-rigged craft dared be;
but still she made but little way to seaward.
From Rohallion there were two persons who watched her struggles with
deep interest.
"The turn of the tide will strengthen the current, my lady, and bring
her close to the craig, after all," said one.
"Under God's favour, John Girvan, I hope not!" was the fervent
response.
"There is an eddy between the craig and the coves of Rohallion as
strong as the whirlpool of Corryvreckan itself."
"Yes, John; I have seen more than one poor boat, with its crew,
perish there, in the herring season."
"Look, look, my lady! There is another vessel--a brig, I take her to
be--running right into the Firth before the wind."
The speakers were Winifred Lady Rohallion and her husband's bailie or
factor, who stood together at a window of the castle of Rohallion,
which crowns the summit of the headland before mentioned, and from
whence, as it is a hundred and fifty feet in height, and rises almost
sheer from the water, a spacious view can be obtained of the noble
Firth of Clyde, there expanding into a vast ocean, though apparently
almost landlocked by the grassy hills and dales of Cunninghame, the
princely Isle of Bute (the cradle of the House of Stuart), the blue
and rocky peaks of Arran, the grey ridges of Kintyre; and far away,
like a blue stripe that bounds the Scottish sea, the dim and distant
shores of Ireland.
A few heavy rain-drops, precursors of a torrent, plashed on the
window-panes, and with a swiftness almost tropical, great masses of
cloud came rolling across the darkening sky. Under their lower
edges, lurid streaks between the hill-tops marked the approach of
sunset, and thunder began to grumble overhead, as it came from the
splintered peaks of Arran, to die away among the woody highlands of
Carrick.
Aware that when the tide turned there would be a tremendous swell,
with a sea that would roll far inshore, the fishermen in the little
bay near the castled rock were all busily at work, drawing their
brown-tarred and sharp-prowed boats far up on the beach, for there
was a moaning in the sea and rising wind that foretold a tempestuous
night: thus, they as well as the inhabitants of Rohallion Castle were
at a loss to understand why the strange brig, instead of running
right up the firth in search of safe anchorage under some of the high
land, strove to beat to windward.
The conclusion therefore come to was, that she was French, or that
her crew were ignorant of the river navigation; there were no pilots
then, so far down the firth, and when the fishermen spoke among
themselves of running down to her assistance or guidance, they
muttered of French gun-brigs, of letters of marque, and
privateers--shrugged their shoulders, and stood pipe in mouth under
the lee of the little rocky pier to watch the event.
At the drawing-room windows of the more modern portion of the old
stronghold of Rohallion, the lady of that name, and her bailie, stood
watching the ship, by the dim light of the darkening afternoon.
Lady Winifred was a woman of a style, or rather of a school, that has
passed away for ever out of Scotland.
Tall and stately, but gentle, homely, and motherly withal, her quaint
formality was tempered by an old-fashioned politeness, that put all
at their ease.
Now though verging on her fiftieth year, she was still very handsome,
albeit where dimples once laughed, the wrinkles were appearing now.
She had been an Edinburgh belle in those days when the tone of
society there was very stately and aristocratic; when the city was
the winter resort of the solid rank and real talent of the land; when
it was a small and spirited capital instead of a huge "deserted
village," abandoned to the soothing influences of the church, the
law, Sabbatarianism, and the east wind.
Her lofty carriage and old-fashioned courtesy reminded one of what is
described of the ladies of Queen Anne's time; she possessed a
singular sweetness in her smile, and every motion, even of her
smooth, white hands, though perfectly natural, seemed studies of
artistic grace. Her eyes were dark and keen; her features straight
and noble; her complexion brilliantly fair. Though powder had been
wisely discarded by Her Majesty, the Queen Consort, and the six
Princesses, their doing so was no rule for Lady Rohallion, who was
somewhat of a potentate in Carrick, and still wore her hair in that
singular half-dishevelled fashion, full and flowing, as we may see it
depicted in Sir Joshua's famous portrait of her, which is to be hung
on the walls of the Scottish National Gallery, when cleared of some
of their local rubbish.
Thus, the white powder which she retained in profusion, formed a
singular but not unpleasing contrast to her black eyebrows, black
eyes, and long dark lashes--silky fringes, from which, some
five-and-twenty years before, she had shot more than one perriwigged
sub, who had come unscathed from the dangers of Bunker's-hill and
Brandywine.
On the present occasion, her visitor, who bore the somewhat
unaristocratic name of Mr. John Girvan, or, at times, Girvanmains,
was a short, thickset, weatherbeaten man about sixty years of age,
and in whom any one could have discerned at a glance the old soldier,
by the erect way in which he carried his head. He wore an old
military wig that had once been white, but was quite unpowdered now
and was bleached yellow; and he had a jolly good-humoured face,
rendered so red by exposure to the weather and by imbibing
whisky-toddy, that, as he once said himself, "it might blow up a
gunpowder magazine, if he came within a mile of it."
He had been the Quartermaster of Lord Rohallion's regiment, the 25th
Foot, and after long service with it in America and elsewhere, had
settled down on his colonel's estates in the capacity of
land-steward, ground-baillie, and general factotum, and in this
capacity had snug apartments assigned to him in a part of the old
castle.
"While looking at yonder ship, my lady, you forget the letters I have
brought you from Maybole," said he, producing a leathern pouch having
the Rohallion arms stamped in brass on the outside; "the
riding-postman, with the mailbags, arrived just as I was leaving the
Kirkwynd Tavern. Waes me! what a changed place that is now. Many a
crown bowl of punch have poor Robbie Burns and I birled there!"
"True, John, the letters; unlock the bag, and let me see what the
news is from Maybole."
This ancient burgh-of-barony was the little capital of the old
bailiewick of Carrick.
Opening the pouch, Girvan tumbled on the table a number of letters
and newspapers, such as the Edinburgh "Courant" and "Chronicle,"
which then were about a quarter of the size of the journals of the
present day, and were printed on very grey paper, in such very brown
ink, that they had quite a mediæval aspect.
The first letter Lady Winifred opened was from her chief friend and
gossip, the Countess of Eglinton, with whom she had been at school,
when she was simply Winifred Maxwell, and when the Countess was
Eleanora Hamilton, of Bourtreehill. Her letter was somewhat
sorrowful in its tenor:--
"I wish you would visit me, my dear friend," it ran; "Eglinton Castle
is so dull now, so very _triste_! My good lord the earl (whom God
preserve!) has been appointed Colonel of the Argyle Fencibles, one of
the many kilted regiments now being raised, lest we are invaded by
the French and their vile Corsican usurper; so he hath left me. My
second boy, Roger, too, hath sailed lieutenant of a man-o'-war, and
sorely do I opine that never mair shall my old hand stroke his golden
curls again--my own brave bairn! (Her forebodings were sadly
verified when, soon after, this favourite son died of fever at
Jamaica.) I send you Mrs. Anne Radcliffe's novel, 'The Mysteries of
Udolpho,' in five volumes, which I am sure will enchant you. I send
you also the last book of the fashions, which I received by the
London mail three weeks ago. Carriage robes are to have long
sleeves, and the jockey bonnets are trimmed with green feathers;
white satin mantles, trimmed with swansdown, of the _exile style_,
are considered the most elegant wraps for the opera. You will see by
the papers that our brave Lord Nelson hath been created Duke of
Bronte, but returns from Naples with the odious woman Lady Hamilton.
Tell Bailie Girvan ('Quartermaster,' I think he prefers,) that I
thank him for the hawslock-wool* he sent to Eglinton; my girls and I
are spinning it with our own hands. Also I thank your sweet self for
the lace mittens you knitted for me on Hallow-e'en. Your little
friend--it may soon be ward--Miss Flora Warrender, is now with us,
and seems to grow lovelier and livelier every day. I have Madame
Rossignal, an _emigré_, the fashionable mistress of dancing, from
Fyfe's Close, Edinburgh, with me just now, teaching my girls; but for
a child of eight years, the little Warrender excels them both. Her
father goes abroad in command of his regiment, and her poor mother is
almost brokenhearted."
* The finest wool, being the locks that grow on the throat.
"If she is lonely at Eglinton, with her daughters the Ladies Jane and
Lilias, how much more must I be, whose husband is absent, and whose
only son is with the army!" exclaimed Lady Winifred.
"A letter from Rohallion himself!" said the old Quartermaster in an
excited tone, handing to the lady a missive which bore her husband's
seal and coronet.
"From him, and I read it _last_!" said she reproachfully, as she
opened it.
It was dated from White's Coffee-house, in London, whither he had
gone as a representative peer, and it contained only some news of the
period, such as comments on Lord Castlereagh's or Mr. Pitt's speeches
about the Irish Union; ("which is to be carried by English gold and
guile, like our own," said the Quartermaster, parenthetically;) the
hopes he had of getting command of a brigade in Sir Ralph
Abercrombie's proposed Egyptian expedition; he related that their son
Cosmo, the master of Rohallion, then serving with the Guards, was
well, and stood high in favour with the Prince of Wales.
"A doubtful compliment, if all tales be true," commented Lady
Winifred.
"If Rohallion goes on service, I'll never stay at home behind him,"
exclaimed old Girvan; "it would ill become me."
"_All_ the Highland regiments in Great Britain, second battalions as
well as first, are under orders for immediate foreign service,"
continued his lordship's letter; "this looks like work, Winny dear,
does it not?"
He added that Parliament was to be prorogued in a day or two, and
that he would return by sea in one of the Leith smacks, which were
then large and heavy passenger cutters, of some two hundred tons or
so; they were all armed with carronades, and as their crews were
secured from the pressgangs, they manfully fought their own way,
without convoy, with the old Scots flag at their mast-head.
"He comes home by sea," said Lady Rohallion aloud, glancing nervously
at the offing, where the coast of Ireland had disappeared, and where
the clouds were gathering black and rapidly.
"By sea!" repeated Girvan.
"Now, the Lord forfend, at this season of the year!"
"And when so many French and Spanish privateers infest the seas, led
by fellows who, in daring, surpass even Commodore Fall or Paul
Jones," exclaimed Girvan.
As if to echo or confirm their fears, a booming sound pealed from a
distance over the sea.
"What noise is that?" asked Lady Rohallion, starting up, while her
pale cheek grew paler still.
"A gun--a cannon shot to seaward!" exclaimed the old soldier,
pricking up his ears, while his eyes sparkled on recognising the once
too familiar sound.
"'Tis that vessel in distress," said Lady Rohallion, as they hurried
once more to the windows which overlooked the sea. "Away to the
clachan, John; get all our people together, and have the boats
launched."
"That will be impossible with such a heavy sea coming rolling in, my
lady--clean impossible!" replied the other, as he threw up a window
and levelled a telescope at the vessel, while the wild blast against
which she was struggling made the damask curtains stream like
banners, and frizzed up, like a mop, the Quartermaster's old yellow
wig.
"What do you see, John? Speak, Girvanmains!"
"There go her colours; but I can't make them out."
"Twenty guineas a man to all who will aid her!" exclaimed Lady
Rohallion, taking a key from her gold chatelaine, and hurrying to a
buhl escritoire, while gun after gun pealed from a distance over the
stormy sea; but they came from two vessels, one of which was hidden
in a bank of dusky vapour.
The lady grasped the old Quartermaster's arm, and her white hands
trembled nervously as she exclaimed in a whisper--
"Oh, my God, John Girvan! what if Rohallion should be on board of
her, with a foe on one hand and a lee shore on the other?"