country of the Cameron, or the land of the great Lochiel on the banks of
Loch Linnhe, among the wild dark mountains of Lorn and Morven,--the
Morven of Ossian. From these he came to follow the son of the laird
through the continental wars, and he had been by the side of Cameron in
every battle in which the corps had been engaged in Egypt, Denmark,
Holland, Portugal, and Spain, and had been twice wounded,--once at
Bergen-op-Zoom, and again at the battle of Alexandria in Egypt. Dugald
was nearly seventy years of age, yet his well-knit frame was strong and
muscular as that of a horse, and his hair was white as snow; while his
face was as dark as his tartan, by constant exposure to the weather.
With the broad blue bonnet over his thin white haffets, the heavy-belted
plaid cast over his gallant breast, the dirk, the pistol, and the
claymore dangling at his belt, his strong bare limbs, and the
brass-studded Highland target slung on his shoulder, Dugald Mhor was the
_beau-ideal_ of the loyal old Jacobite of the 'forty-five;' that period
when the star of the Stuarts, amid the last blaze of the true Scottish
spirit, flashed-forth but to vanish for ever. It need scarcely be added
that old Dugald was a stanch Jacobite. He had witnessed the battle of
Culloden, whither, as a sort of page or attendant gilly, he had followed
Cameron of Lochiel. Since the day Fassifern left his home to follow the
drum, Dugald Mhor had been to him a kind of standing orderly, friend,
sometimes a governor, but always a leal true northern henchman, that
would cheerfully have laid down his life, if by doing so he should have
pleased his master.
When Stuart beheld this kilted vassal of the colonel's standing on the
narrow path before him, he was sure that the latter could be at no great
distance; a flush suffused his cheek, and he became confused at the idea
of encountering so proud and fiery a man while lying under his
displeasure. A turn of the path brought him in view of Cameron, who was
just bidding adieu to Sir Rowland Hill. To avoid a rencontre now seemed
impossible. The general rode off in the opposite direction, while
Cameron advanced straight towards Ronald by the narrow footway at the
river-side.
"Well, Mr. Stuart," said he frankly; "this morning from my trusty Dugald
Mhor I received and perused your long letter concerning your absence,
for which I believe I must excuse you. It was a very unfortunate affair
that of the Spanish lady's death; but every means must be taken to
discover this rascal, Micer Cifuentes. How deeply you colour! I trust
I have said nothing to offend? Ah! I comprehend the matter fully now,
by your confusion. There was a great deal more in that letter than what
met the eye, though it was very cunningly worded. But it will not do in
these days, even in Spain, to ride to the rescue of every distressed
damsel, and a knight-errant in a red coat is a strange anomaly. But I
believe there was much more of love than chivalry in the affair;
therefore, Stuart, I pass it over, as I trust it will never occur
again."
"To that, colonel, I may pledge you my word of honour; one such
adventure is quite enough for a life-time."
"You are aware how far I might have carried this matter; for one who
commands a Highland regiment, composed of such fiery spirits, and so
different from the line generally, must be strict. Your absence has made
a noise through the whole division, and I have just been making your
peace with Sir Rowland Hill, who is very favourably disposed towards
you, in consequence of the dashing manner in which you led the stormers
on at Almarez, and for this last affair,--the capture of d'Erlon's
aide-de-camp. How very unluckily the count escaped! He would have been
a noble prize to have sent to Britain. The adjutant will send you your
sword; and remember not to be restive at the mess, as it is probable you
will be severely quizzed, the officers having heard of this Spanish
donna, and got a version of the story very different from the real one."
That night Ronald returned to his billet with a lighter heart than he
had felt since the death of Catalina. His trusty squire of the body,
Evan Iverach, on learning the low state of his exchequer, pressed upon
him a purse of dollars, which he had carefully saved up from his pay
with the intention of purchasing a silver-mounted set of pipes for his
father Donald, the old piper at Lochisla. Ronald, with much reluctance,
took the money as a loan, Evan vowing if he did not, he would throw it
out of the window into the Guadiana, which ran below it. Any chagrin he
had felt at being put under arrest, was entirely obliterated by the
hearty congratulations and welcome he received from the officers
assembled on parade next morning. But his indignation was soon called
forth again by the manner in which Louis Lisle greeted him. On
advancing towards him with his outstretched hand, Lisle bestowed upon
him a cold and angry glance, turned on his heel, and withdrew to a
distant part of the parade. Ronald's fiery blood boiled up within him;
and, had not the memory of Alice arisen in his mind, subduing and
softening him, he would there and then have called her brother to an
account for his singular conduct. But smothering his indignation, he
returned to the group of officers with a flushed brow and an angry eye,
to have his temper sorely tried for some time about the Spanish lady,
with regard to whom many stories had been circulated at the mess-table.
On the evening of that day the streets of Merida rang to the echo of
muffled drums and the sad notes of the military dead march, as the
funeral of D'Estouville passed on its way to the church of San Juan,
attended with similar honours as would have been shown to a British
officer of the same rank.
The sword and cap, bearing the badges of the brave old Guard, were laid
on the lid of his coffin, the pall of which was borne by Fassifern, and
five other field-officers. His countryman, De Mesmai, acted as chief
mourner. Another officer of the French medical staff, who was also a
prisoner in Merida, attended likewise. A smile of pleasure kindled in
the proud eye of the cuirassier as the mournful procession passed
between the ranks of the first brigade, leaning on their arms reversed,
and lining the streets on both sides. He was well pleased at the
sentiments of generosity and chivalry which directed Sir Rowland Hill to
evince the same respect to the remains of a foe that would have been
paid to those of a friend; and De Mesmai was one who knew well how to
appreciate them. The grenadiers of the Gordon Highlanders formed
outside the church, under the command of Major Campbell, and fired three
volleys in the air, while the grave closed over the remains of what was
once a gay and a gallant heart. The officers of the first brigade of
infantry would have erected a monument to the memory of D'Estouville,
but it was known that it would be demolished by the Spaniards the moment
the British left the city; therefore the idea was abandoned, and the
tomb of the guardsman lies unmarked and unknown under the chancel of the
great church at Merida, a few feet in front of the mutilated monument
erected to the memory of Francisco Pizarro of Truxillo. At the wine
casa and the _rouge-et-noir_ table De Mesmai was loud that night in
praises of British generosity and gallantry; but these he suddenly
changed for something very like invectives, when he was informed that,
by day-light next morning, he must be prepared to accompany a detachment
of sick and prisoners, who were ordered to the rear.
"And where is our destination, monsieur, if I may inquire?" asked he of
Claude A----, the adjutant of the Gordon Highlanders, who had made the
communication to him in French. "Some gay place, I hope. Lisbon is
it?"
"The castle of Albuquerque, I believe."
"_Tete Dieu!_ a most detestable and gloomy hole! And I am to be mewed
up there, am I, monsieur?"
"For the present, until an opportunity occurs for your transmission to
some strong garrison-town, across the Portuguese frontier, or home to
Britain."
"You are exceedingly kind, _Monsieur Officier_, by the name of the bomb!
most superbly so. But I trust that dilatory little devil, General the
Count d'Erlon, will save you all this trouble. And as for my
transmission to England--_diable_! I should be sorry his Britannic
majesty's government should take so much concern in my affairs." He
smiled sourly, and twirled his black moustaches. "Ha! and what sort of
being is the officer who commands on the way to Albuquerque? I hope he
will halt at La Nava: I left a sweetheart there twelve months ago, with
whom I must leave my card in passing. But the officer,--is he a jovial
trump, that will drink and play deep,--stride, swagger, and swear like a
Hector?"
"None of _ours_ are much given to any of these habits," answered Claude
drily. "The Honourable Louis Lisle commands."
"Lisle! An ensign is he not? A pretty boy with yellow curls, more like
the Duchess de Choiseul's page than a belted soldier? Ah! we shall get
on famously. Such a chit will not cross me in my amusements with these
don Spaniards. De Mesmai of Quinsay under the orders of a young Scots
sub-lieutenant! Ho, ho! excellent. But, body o' the Pope! tell me,
monsieur, am I really to be kept in the castle of Albuquerque?"
"Captain de Mesmai, I have already told you," replied the adjutant,
turning to go.
"Then permit me to acquaint you, monsieur, that such treatment is
tacitly saying you doubt that sacred word of honour which I pledged to
Ensign Ronald Stuart, when, as an officer and gentleman, I surrendered
myself to him on parole. This being the case, that parole is dissolved;
and I consider myself at liberty to effect my escape where, when, and
how I please, without dishonour."
"As you choose," answered Claude quickly. "But remember, you will
probably be shot in the attempt; or if retaken, will be degraded to the
rank of a private dragoon,--what in your service you call a _simple
cavalier_. Remember, monsieur, to be on the alert at day-break; you
will hear the sound of the warning pipes as they pass under the piazzas
of your billet."
With Lisle's detachment De Mesmai departed next morning for Albuquerque,
but by some means effected his escape on the route there. He afterwards
fell into the hands of some of the guerillas of Don Salvador de Zagala's
band, by whom he was treated with less kindness and courtesy than he had
received at Merida, and with whom I must for the present leave him.
*CHAPTER XV.*
*THE HEIGHTS OF ALBUERA. THE CROSS OF SANTIAGO.*
"Come away, come away,
Hark to the summons!
Come in your war array,
Gentles and commons.
"Come every hill-plaid, and
True heart that wears one;
Come every steel blade, and
Strong hand that bears one."
_Pibroch of Donuildhu._
On the night of the 11th, or rather the morning of the 12th of June,
Ronald was awakened from sleep by an officer, who occupied the same
billet, entering his chamber half dressed.
"Rouse, Stuart," said he; "something strange has happened. There is a
noise and bustle over the whole town."
"I have heard nothing yet, Kennedy," answered the other, springing out
of bed, and with military instinct donning his regimentals hastily in
the dark. "You have aroused me from the most pleasant nap I have
enjoyed for these six months past."
"Hark! there go the pipes."
"'Tis not the turn-out. What can be the matter? 'tis still two hours
from day-break. We shall be roughing it again with D'Erlon or Drouet, I
suppose."
"The pipes have ceased," said Kennedy, throwing open the casement, where
the voices of the musicians were heard engaged in a quarrel.
"Plaw _the warning_, Hector Macfarlane, you very great sumph!" exclaimed
Macdonuil-dhu, the piper-major, in great wrath. "Was it _Hoggil nam
Bo_,--the pibroch of your ain mushroom name, I desired you to plaw?"
"Oich, prut trut!" replied Macfarlane fiercely. "I do suppose tat ta
lads o' Lochsluai are as good and as pretty men, and bear as auld a
name, as ony Macdonald o' the Isles. Diaoul!"
"Hoch, Got tam! it's mutiny and repellion this! Did ye move yer hand to
yer dirk, Macfarlane?" asked Macdonald furiously. "Did ye grip yer dirk
to threaten me?"
"It's a far cry to Lochowe. Gin you and I strode there, ye would na
cock your feather or craw sae crouse," said the other coolly. "It's
piper-matchor you are, and sorrow tak the hoor that Hector Macfarlane,
the son of Rori-bheg, has to obey your orders!" The angry reply of the
non-commissioned officer was lost in the sound of the war-pipe, the
drones of which Macfarlane threw over his shoulder, and strode down the
street swelling with Highland indignation, while he made Merida ring far
and wide to the tune of _Johnnie Cope_, the warning for the march, while
the drums, bugles, and trumpets of other regiments, horse and foot, were
heard in various parts of the echoing city.
"Holloa! Serjeant Macdonald, what is all this noise and uproar about?"
asked Stuart.
"I ken nae mair than an unporn pairn, sir," replied the leader of the
pipers; "put it's a tammed cauld morning to rouse puir chields frae
their plankets. There is a soughing meeserable _Hanoverian_ wind
plawing frae the east, sharp enough to skin our pare hoghs, and be
tammed tilt! And that trunken loon, Macfarlane, has sae mony queghsfu'
under his belt, that he took the dorts, and in spite o' a' orders blew
the pibroch o' Lochsloy. A ponnie thing for him--the son o' Roribheg, a
riever, hanged at Crieff for _liftin'_, to speak in defiance at me!"
The voice of the adjutant bawling for his horse was now heard, as he
issued from under the piazzas, attended by an orderly with a lighted
lantern, to collect the reports and get the companies mustered. The men
were already falling in at the alarm post, and the musquet-butts were
heard clattering heavily on the pavement, as one by one they took their
places in the ranks.
"Stuart, don your fighting jacket; pack up your best scarlets for a ball
when we reach Madrid," cried Claude, as he passed the window. "We are
about to show Mr. Soult the point of war,
'Gin he meets us in the morning,'
as the song says. A despatch has within this hour arrived from
Wellington, and we are ordered off to the front forthwith, to prevent
Estremadura being invaded. Turn out as soon as you can; the corps are
nearly all mustered in our _Plaza de Armas_. Ho, there! orderly
drummer; beat for the coverers! Fall in, covering Serjeants!"
The grey day-light was now beginning to make objects visible. The sky
was clear, and of a cold and dark blue, and a chilling blast swept
through the dull and gloomy streets, where all was martial bustle and
preparation. While dressing himself with more haste than care, Stuart
heard the voice of Cameron and the adjutant ordering and directing the
serjeant-major; he in turn bawled to the Serjeants of companies, who
were vociferously calling the rolls, in which an immense number of
Jocks, and Tams, and Donalds followed each other in succession. All was
commotion and 'hurry-skurry,' amid which De Costa's brigade of Spanish
horse galloped past, brandishing their swords, and shouting, "_Arma!
arma! Viva! Viva!_" with might and main. General Long's brigade of
British followed, but in characteristic silence.
To prevent Marshal Soult from invading Estremadura from the neighbouring
province, Sir Rowland Hill marched his brigades of horse and foot to
Sancho Perez, collecting from Zafra and other places on his march all
the Spanish and Portuguese troops he could bring together to meet the
enemy, who advanced towards him in great strength, plundering and
destroying the grain and vines on their route. At Zafra they attacked
and defeated an advanced corps of Spanish dragoons, commanded by the
Conde Penne Villamur. Animated by this success, Soult continued to
press forward at the head of thirty-eight or forty thousand men; and Sir
Rowland Hill prudently fell back upon the heights of Albuera with his
division, twenty-two thousand strong. There he took up a position,
which every means were taken to strengthen by the erection of trenches,
breastworks, and traverses, at the formation of which fatigue-parties
wrought day and night. Fresh troops joined them here daily, and Ronald
heard, with considerable pleasure, that Don Alvaro's troop of lances
were expected to join the Spanish brigade. Alvaro's command was a sort
of independent troop, unattached to any regiment, like _les compagnies
franches_, the free troops or companies, in the old French service. The
second division occupied this entrenched position twelve days, awaiting
the appearance of Soult, who advanced no nearer than Santa Martha, a
town about a long day's march distant. He showed no disposition to
fight a second battle of Albuera, the ground being so strong and its
occupiers so determined, that the heights could only have been captured
with immense loss,--if indeed Soult could have carried them at all. On
the first night after the position was taken up, a blunder of Evan's
caused no ordinary commotion throughout the camp.
At the base of the heights, where a stream called the Albuera runs, he
was posted as an advanced sentinel in a most wild and dreary spot. A
wide and desolate plain, stretching away towards Santa Martha, lay
before him; black ridges like waves of ink rose behind; and all around
were scattered the ghastly remnants of the battle fought on the ground
twelve months previously. The night was gloomy and dark, the sky was
starless, and not a sound broke the solemn stillness of the hour save
the Albuera, brawling and gurgling along that deep and savage-looking
ravine, by means of which the French had out-flanked the Spaniards.
Excepting the murmur of the mountain-torrent, all was silent as the
tomb; not a blade of grass was stirring, and those gloomy fantasies, so
apt to fill the strong imagination of a Highlander, arose appallingly
before Evan. Anxiously and intently he had fixed his eyes on some
shrubbery or tall weeds, which appeared in the twilight afar off. These
his heated imagination transformed into battalions of foot and squadrons
of horse, advancing stealthily over the plain. He fired his musquet,
and retired on the main body of his picquet, which lay within an
_abbatis_ composed of cork trees, felled and intertwined for a
breast-work around them. The whole camp rose in arms, expecting
instantly to be attacked, but the dawn revealed the cause of Evan's
mistake. A few days after Soult had taken possession of Santa Martha,
Ronald had the command of one of the picquets thrown out in that
direction. All were on the alert, as the enemy were continually
expected to advance from their cantonments. The picquet, which
consisted of thirty Highlanders, occupied the summit of a rocky
eminence; where, piling their arms, they lay down on the green sward to
watch the sun, as it verged towards the western horizon, glittering on
the polished arms of solitary sentinels and videttes posted at equal
distances along the banks of the rocky river, and in front of that dark
forest from the bosom of which its waters came. A Spanish sunset is a
glorious scene in June, but which of the Highlanders there would have
exchanged the Scottish pine or purple heath, for the olive grove or
clustering grapes of Spain? Ronald was seated in a grassy nook,
employed in conning over the pages of the Madrid _Gaceta_, when he was
roused by the trampling of hoofs and clang of harness. He sprang up in
time to see the shining helmets of a hundred French cuirassiers flashing
in the sun-beams, as they issued successively from a deep and narrow
gorge on his left, into which they had contrived to penetrate and
advance unseen,--evading thus the sentinels of the other picquets.
"Death and fury! we are lost men. Our retreat is cut off! Stand to
your arms," cried he, drawing his sword. "Form circle round the face of
the rock,--show your front to them! Be cool, and steadily take your
aim. Keep up your fire till the cavalry picquets in front of the wood
ride to our rescue. Ha! the gallant 9th are in their saddles already."
With coolness and precision his orders were obeyed. The brave little
band, aware of the power of foot over horse, formed circle round the
eminence, and opened a close and well-directed fire, before which the
cuirassiers were compelled to waver, recoil, and stay for some minutes
their headlong charge, being impeded and entangled with falling men and
horses; and the former, if not dead when they fell, were soon trodden to
death by the hoofs of the rear rank.
"Charge!" cried the officer, a dashing fellow, who led them on.
"_Charges en queue la troupe!_" and firing their pistols, they came
furiously forward sword in hand, making the turf shake as they thundered
along. It was a critical moment for the little band! A sharp twinge in
his left shoulder informed Ronald that a pistol-shot had taken effect
there, depriving him of the use of his arm; and several of his men lay
killed and wounded among the feet of their comrades, who could not help
feeling a little dismayed at the overwhelming number of their opponents.
"Keep up your fire, brave Highlanders! stand fast, true Scotsmen!" cried
Stuart, brandishing his claymore. "Aim deliberately and level low;
strike below the corslet. Courage, my boys! 'tis all for our lives.
They will kill, as they cannot capture. Hold your ground; keep shoulder
to shoulder, and give them the bayonet at the face of the rocks.
Hurrah! well done, my own brave comrades! We shall be rescued
instantly."
The cuirassiers advanced in a semi-circle boldly enough; but the steady
fire of their opponents caused them again to recoil.
"_Vive l'Empereur! Chateaufleur, Chateaufleur! retournez la charge.
Charge!_" cried the officer again, and again the serried ranks came
rushing on with renewed impetuosity; but they were once more driven
back, leaving the ground strown with writhing men and steeds. A few
resolutely pressed forward in the rashness of their daring, and struck
at the defenders of the rock across the ridge of deadly bayonets which
protruded over it. But they were at once destroyed, shot and bayoneted.
One soldier, who was cut across the face, clubbed his musquet and dashed
out the brains of his adversary. And one powerful French dragoon
grasped the Serjeant of the picquet, and attempted to drag him down by
main strength from the rock; but Ronald saved him, by plunging his sword
through the corslet of the Frenchman, who tumbled from his saddle, and
was dragged away down the ravine of the Albuera by his affrighted horse.
The rock was again free, but not entirely so, as the cuirassiers, who
were reduced to half their original number, were preparing to renew the
attack, which appeared to be general along the whole chain of outposts,
as the sound of firing was heard in every direction. The picquets of
the 39th and 66th regiments, on the right and left, were retiring
rearward on the heights, firing as they fell back, on bodies of the
enemy's cavalry which were advancing over the plain. Ronald beheld all
the other out-picquets retiring in safety. His alone had been cut off,
and by means of that accursed ravine! His little party were now reduced
to sixteen effective men, and he gave them and himself up for lost. But
aid was nigh; part of De Costa's cavalry, lying in front of the wood,
were ordered forward by Sir Rowland Hill to his rescue. Onward they
came with the speed of the wind, bearing death on the points of their
spears. Ronald beheld with delight that it was the troop of Alvaro de
Villa Franca, who had just joined De Costa, which was moving to his aid.
As they came on, they raised the old battle cry of Spain. "_San Jago, y
cierra Espana!_" was the shout, as they swept gallantly on in a compact
mass,--horse to horse, helms and corslets glancing, plumes and pennons
waving.
"_Senora Beatificada_ strengthen our spears!" cried Alvaro, rushing
forward with his uplifted sword. "Follow me, Montesa! Saint James and
Close Spain! Stand, Frenchmen, if ye be true cavaliers! _Viva! San
Jago, y cierra Espana! Cerrar con el enemigos!_"