OUR HIGHLAND REGIMENTS—_continued_.
The health of the British army both at home and abroad has improved
very much of late years. The British soldier is better fed, better
clothed, and better lodged now than he ever was before; hence in India
the mortality has been reduced by one-half, and a corresponding change
has been effected in the number of admissions to our military hospitals.
Still the fact cannot be overlooked that a larger amount of sickness
prevails among soldiers than among civilians of the same age and rank
in life, whose physical wants are less carefully attended to; and while
other causes may intervene, this difference is to be attributed mainly to
the habits of the men themselves. The surest test of the moral character
of a regiment is the number of admissions to hospital. When a regiment
is demoralised, the wards will be crowded; when a healthy moral tone
prevails in the ranks, they will be comparatively empty. Drunkenness and
immorality have done more to thin the ranks of the British army, and to
crowd our unions with discharged soldiers, than the bullets of the enemy,
the scorching sun of the tropics, the fatigues of actual warfare, or the
malaria of unhealthy stations.
On consulting the statistics of mortality connected with the Highland
regiments when first raised, we are surprised at the small number of
casualties which occurred among them. They were always first in the
field of danger, and yet there were fewer deaths among them than in
many regiments in time of peace. We find, for example, that the 42nd
Regiment embarked for Flanders on the 18th of June, 1794, and landed at
Ostend on the 26th of the same month. They shared in all the hardships
of that unfortunate expedition, and took part in the disastrous retreat
to Deventer, the miseries of which have been compared to the sufferings
of the French after the burning of Moscow. Disease, the result of the
severity of the weather and the want of food and proper clothing, thinned
the ranks of the British army; many of our best soldiers sank under the
accumulated hardships which beset them. The Dutch, on whose gratitude
they had the strongest claims, inhospitably closed their doors against
the sufferers, and refused to render them any assistance. The result was
that some of the newly-raised regiments lost more than three hundred
men by disease alone, while the 42nd, which had three hundred young
recruits in its ranks, lost only twenty-five men, including those killed
in battle, from their disembarkation at Ostend till their embarkation
at Bremen on the 14th of April, 1795. This immunity from disease is to
be attributed to their temperate habits as much as to their natural
strength of constitution and power of enduring fatigue and privation.
An amusing incident occurred while the regiment was stationed at Alost
in the month of July. A party of 400 of the French cavalry entered the
town, and being mistaken for Hessians, met with no resistance till they
reached the market-place, where one of them attempted to cut down a 42nd
Highlander of the name of MacDonald, who was walking along, unsuspicious
of danger, with his basket on his head. He was severely wounded in the
hand which held the basket, but promptly drawing his bayonet with the
hand which was disengaged, he attacked the dragoon with such fury that
he was compelled to retreat. Donald then continued his course, muttering
his regret that he had not his father’s good broadsword to cut the rascal
down. The enemy were soon recognised and driven from the town. It is
worthy of remark that the practice of enticing mere boys into the service
was then unknown in the Highland regiments. The profession of arms was so
popular in the North, that they could always find a sufficient supply of
able-bodied men. Their average age on enlistment was twenty-two years, a
period of life not too young to render them incapable of enduring the
hardships and sufferings of military service, nor too old to unfit them
for learning that discipline without which an army would soon degenerate
into an armed mob. In short, they were picked men, and the advantage
of this carefulness of selection was manifest in their exemption from
disease, and their power of enduring privations under which others less
robust would have succumbed. The Ross-shire Fusiliers when reduced were
as strong and efficient as when embodied. Not one man had died during
the period of service, a case unparalleled, we believe, in the annals of
the British army. The money which is too often spent in the canteen or
in still worse places was remitted to their friends, and this generous
self-denial was not without its reward.
Another characteristic trait in the character of these men was their
quiet, orderly, and kind deportment to the inhabitants of the different
countries in which they were stationed. Soldiers are apt to look
upon themselves as a distinct class, and to assume a certain haughty
bearing in their dealings with civilians, who, of course, are prone to
retaliate. The Highlanders seem never to have forgotten that they were
only civilians in arms, bound by the laws of courtesy as well as by the
rules of military discipline. During the years 1743-44 the 42nd Regiment
was stationed in different parts of Flanders, under the command of
Field-Marshal the Earl of Stair, where, if they had been so disposed,
they might have levied contributions on the powerless inhabitants. The
latter, however, had such confidence in their honesty and integrity, that
they specially requested to have them appointed the guardians of their
property, and bore willing testimony to the faithfulness with which they
had discharged this duty. Few of them, we are told, were ever drunk, and
they as rarely swore. They retained in Flanders the simple habits of
their own native glens, and when they left, the Elector-Palatine wrote
to his envoy in London, desiring him to thank the King of Great Britain
for the excellent behaviour of the regiment while in his territory,
“for whose sake,” he adds, “I will always pay a respect and regard to a
Scotchman in future.”
In the month of May, 1815, the intelligence reached England that Napoleon
had escaped from Elba, and the three Highland regiments which had
been stationed in Ireland at once embarked for Flanders, and took up
their quarters at Brussels, where they became very popular among the
inhabitants. They were billeted among the citizens, who, instead of
regarding this as a hardship, rejoiced in their presence, and had such
confidence in their honesty, that they often committed their shops to
their care when they had occasion to go out. It was not unusual to see a
stalwart Highlander nursing a Flemish baby, and handling it as tenderly
as if he had been “to the manner born.” But, in truth, our Highland
soldiers have always been remarkable for their fondness for children.
When the 78th Highlanders forced their fiery way to the Residency at
Lucknow, and were welcomed by the starving women whom they had saved
from a fate worse than death, they seized the children from their arms,
pressed their bearded faces against their tender cheeks, and shed tears
of generous pity over them. Those tears did not unman them or unfit them
for their duty, as all who are familiar with the annals of the Indian
campaign will at once admit. No wonder that the kind-hearted Highlanders
at Brussels made a favourable impression on the hearts of the Flemish
maidens with whom they were brought in contact. A soldier of the 42nd
had gained the affections of the daughter of a wealthy tradesman in
whose house he was quartered at Brussels, and though he had never told
his love, a mutual understanding had sprung up between them. When the
British forces advanced to Waterloo, the Flemish maiden trembled for
the fate of her lover. The power of Napoleon was shattered on that
hard-contested field, but the Highlanders returned not to Brussels. The
42nd embarked for England, and arrived in the vicinity of Edinburgh on
the 18th of March, 1816, where they were welcomed by the inhabitants
with acclamations of joy, and entertained at a public dinner. The postal
arrangements were not so perfect in those days as at present. Long weary
months passed away, and the Flemish maiden heard nothing of her lover.
One day a party of Highlanders were carousing together in Edinburgh, and
toasting their sweethearts, as was the custom at that period. It was
observed that one of them was silent, and refused to toast his mistress.
“Leave him alone,” the others said; “we all know that he left his heart
at Brussels.” The remark had scarcely been made when it was announced
that a person had called to see him. On entering another room, he found
there a young lady dressed in the deepest mourning, who rushed forward
and welcomed him with a cry of joy. It was the Flemish maiden. In broken
English, and with many tears, she told him of all the anguish she had
suffered from his absence and silence. She had borne it all till the
death of her father left her mistress of her actions, when she resolved
to visit England in order to ascertain his fate. On reaching London, she
learned that the 42nd had been sent north to Edinburgh, and followed the
regiment there. She only knew her lover’s name, but a soldier, touched
with pity by her romantic tale, searched the town till he discovered
where he was. The rest may be left to the imagination of our readers. The
war was now over, and she had no difficulty in purchasing the discharge
of her lover. The officers of the regiment took an interest in the young
couple, and were present at their marriage, after which the Highlander
and his bride returned to Brussels, where they established themselves in
business, and were as prosperous as they deserved to be.
Often, indeed, in the history of the Highland regiments—
“Shine martial Faith and Courtesy’s bright star
Through all the wreckful storms that cloud the brow of War.”
We could multiply instances of their kindness and forbearance to the
helpless inhabitants of foreign lands, whom they might have plundered
with impunity, and of the proofs of gratitude shown by the latter to
their benefactors.
Alluding to the services of Keith’s and Campbell’s Highlanders with the
allied army in Germany in 1759, the _Vienna Gazette_ of 1762 says—“From
the goodness of their disposition in everything, the boors are much
better treated by these savages than by the polished French and English.”
When these two regiments were ordered home, such was the character
they had established for themselves during three campaigns that the
inhabitants of Holland welcomed them with acclamations on their march
through that country, and the women crowded around them and presented
them with laurel-leaves. This display of friendly feeling may have been
owing partly to the long services of the Scotch Brigade in the Dutch
service, and the frequent intercourse between the two countries; but
it was elicited in a great measure by the excellent conduct of the
Highlanders themselves. After landing at Tilbury Fort, they marched for
Scotland, and were treated with the most marked attention by the citizens
of the different towns where they halted, especially by those of Derby,
who presented the men with gratuities in money. This unusual liberality
is said to have sprung from a grateful remembrance of the respect shown
for their persons and property by the Highlanders when they visited the
town in 1745, under the command of Charles Edward, the Young Pretender.
Some of these Highlanders had given a remarkable proof of the high spirit
of honour which prevailed among them before leaving Scotland. Every
one is familiar with the massacre of Glencoe, that detestable deed of
butchery the details of which, after the lapse of more than a century,
cannot be read without a shudder of horror. Part of the Mac Ians had
escaped, and when Charles Edward landed in the North, their young chief
joined his standard with a hundred and fifty men, and accompanied him
in his march to the South. At first success attended his arms, and the
Highland army passed near a beautiful mansion, the property of the Earl
of Stair, whose forefather of the same name, from motives of private
revenge, had caused the unfortunate Mac Ians to be murdered in cold blood
by those whom they had welcomed as friends. It was part of the policy of
Prince Charles to conciliate the Lowland proprietors who still kept aloof
from his cause, and a guard was posted for the protection of Lord Stair’s
house, which was believed to be in some danger of being attacked by the
Mac Ians in revenge for the massacre of their forefathers. No sooner had
the chief of Glencoe heard of this precaution than he deemed his honour
insulted, and demanded an interview with the prince.
“If a guard must be posted here,” he said, “let the Mac Ians, who have
most reason to hate the name of Dalrymple, supply that guard. If you
refuse this request it must be from want of confidence in the MacIans,
who, finding themselves distrusted, can no longer follow your standard.
They are willing to die for you, but they will not submit to the insult
of being watched by others.”
[Illustration: Glencoe.]
It was fortunate that the prince understood the character of the young
MacIan, and granted his request. The guard was duly posted, and the
mansion of the Dalrymples received no injury. When we consider that old
Lord Stair was the author of the massacre of Glencoe, and that revenge
among the Highlanders was almost a sacred duty, we cannot withhold
our admiration from the chief who could restrain his men on such an
occasion, and from the men who voluntarily submitted to such restraint.
The name of young MacIan of Glencoe is worthy of being ranked with those
of Scipio and other heroes of antiquity, who knew how to practise, under
the pressure of strong temptation, the difficult duty of self-denial.
“This murderous chief, this ruthless man,
This head of a rebellious clan,”
spared the mansion of his hereditary foe.
Such were the elements of which our Highland regiments were formed. When
the mountaineers transferred their services to the House of Hanover,
they did not lose their distinctive character; they shrank from no duty,
however dangerous, but they never inflicted unnecessary suffering on the
unprotected. The latter were always prepared to express their sense of
their forbearance, and to lament their removal to another station. After
the battle of Waterloo the 78th Regiment did garrison duty at Brussels
till 1816, when they received orders to return home. The inhabitants had
come to regard them as a part of themselves, and requested the mayor
to try to prevent their removal. This could not be done, but the mayor
expressed the feeling of his fellow-citizens by issuing the following
document:—“As Mayor of Brussels, I have pleasure in declaring that the
Scotch Highlanders who were garrisoned in this city during the years
1814 and 1815 called forth the attachment and esteem of all by the
mildness and suavity of their manners and excellent conduct, insomuch
that a representation was made to me by the inhabitants, requesting me
to endeavour to detain the 78th Regiment of Scotchmen in the town, and
to prevent their being replaced by other troops.” The mayor’s eulogium
applies to all the Highland regiments stationed at Brussels, but the 78th
were the best known because they had been longest there. _Les braves
Flamands_ witnessed their departure with the liveliest feelings of
regret. “They are kind as well as brave;” “they are part of ourselves”
(_enfans de famille_); “they are lions in the field, lambs in the house.”
Such were the expressions that greeted the plumed warriors of the North
as they marched for the last time through the streets of Brussels.
Nor was it in foreign lands alone that the Highlanders secured the
confidence and esteem of the inhabitants by their good conduct. The 92nd,
or Gordon Highlanders, who were embodied in 1794, and derived their name
from having been raised chiefly on the estates of the Duke of Gordon, in
the counties of Aberdeen, Banff, and Inverness, were ordered to Ireland
in 1798, to assist in quelling the insurrection which had broken out in
that unfortunate country. Nothing could be more trying to the temper of
the men than the duties they had to perform. They were constantly moved
from place to place in the midst of a hostile population. On one occasion
they had to march ninety-six Irish miles in three successive days, with
arms, ammunition, and knapsacks. Notwithstanding their arduous duties,
and the avowed hostility of the population to the red-coats, the Gordon
Highlanders conducted themselves with such forbearance, that, on their
being removed elsewhere, public testimony was borne to the fact that
they had been “exemplary in all duties; sober, orderly, and regular in
quarters.” They had earned the same good character when stationed in the
island of Corsica in 1795, and such was the estimation in which they were
held in Ireland, that a parting address was presented to the Marquis of
Huntly, the colonel of the regiment, in which it is said that “peace and
order were re-established, rapine had disappeared, confidence in the
government was restored, and the happiest cordiality subsisted since his
regiment came among them.” Many of the privates in this regiment belonged
to a different class from those who usually enter the army; they were
the sons of respectable farmers, who had been induced to enlist by the
personal influence and blandishments of the beautiful Duchess of Gordon,
the mother of their colonel.
In the Peninsula the conduct of the 92nd was as exemplary as in Ireland.
Unmoved by hunger and the example of others, they respected the lives
and property of those who could offer no resistance. Napier has rendered
his readers familiar with the horrors which followed the capture of St.
Sebastian in Spain. A more pleasing picture is presented by the conduct
of the Gordon Highlanders and the old “fighting 50th” when they drove
the French from the town of Aire on the 2nd of March, 1814. Places thus
captured were almost invariably given up to pillage and destruction, and
the miserable inhabitants deemed themselves fortunate if they escaped
with their lives. On this occasion there was not a single act of plunder
or violence; the Highlanders took quiet possession of the town, and paid
for every article they required. Their generous forbearance produced such
an impression on the inhabitants of Aire, that they presented an address
to Colonel Cameron expressive of their gratitude for exemption from
plunder and rapine, the usual fate of the defenceless in times of war.
The Highlanders have always been popular in Ireland; they are sprung from
the same Celtic stock, and speak a dialect of the same language. Though
they had no sympathy with the Irish during the rebellion of 1798, and
took an active part in quelling it, they were guilty of no unnecessary
cruelty, and discharged their duty in such a way as to conciliate the
esteem of those who were opposed to them. It was said of them that “their
conduct and manners softened the horrors of war, and they were not a week
in a fresh quarter or cantonment that they did not conciliate and become
intimate with the people.”
At this period duelling was an established custom in the British army,
and some of the Highland officers were as ready to take offence as Sir
Lucius O’Trigger in _The Rivals_, or the redoubtable Captain MacTurk in
_St. Ronan’s Well_. They were jealous of their personal honour, and as
ready to challenge one another as those of a different race. We read of
a Captain Campbell who fought a duel in a dark room without seconds, and
killed his opponent. The absence of witnesses led the jury to give a
verdict of murder, and the unfortunate man was hanged. A duel was fought
at Gibraltar, in 1795, between Captain, afterwards Colonel Cameron, and
Lieutenant, afterwards Sir John Maclean, in consequence of some disputed
point of precedency. Both escaped without any serious injury. The
Marquis of Huntly, the colonel of the 92nd, to which Cameron and Maclean
belonged, took them to task for their conduct, and warned his officers
against the practice of duelling. “I have the more right to insist upon
this,” he said, “as I believe you are all, more or less, connected with
my father’s estates.” The hot-blooded Cameron started to his feet. “I,”
he exclaimed, “have no connexion with your father’s estates or your
father’s clan; such an argument, therefore, cannot apply to me.” The
marquis knew how to soothe his wounded feelings, and this was his first
and last duel. Nothing more readily rouses a Highlander’s ire than any
insult offered to his country, his language, or his dress, and strangers,
ignorant of this peculiarity, were sometimes involved in quarrels without
any intention of giving offence. We remember the case of an English
officer, the nephew of an archbishop, who happened to be seated at a
mess-room table opposite to a Highlander who wore the national costume,
the uniform of his regiment. They were strangers to one another, and it
was their first and last meeting in this world. The English officer made
some bantering remark on the Highlander’s dress, which was regarded by
the latter as an insult, and led to an immediate challenge. They agreed
to settle their difference at once, and on the first exchange of shots
poor Mr. ⸺, the English officer, fell. Highland soldiers have now learned
to bear any amount of “chaff” on their national peculiarities without
taking offence, but national feeling was stronger and more sensitive in
former days, and the barbarous custom of duelling often led to death
in cases where an apology would now be deemed ample atonement. It is
somewhat remarkable that the horror excited by the death of an Indian
officer, slain in mortal combat by his own brother-in-law, an officer of
the Life Guards, and a Highlander by birth, produced such a reaction,
that the custom of duelling—that barbarous relic of a barbarous age—may
now be regarded as obsolete.
An interesting work might be written on the female warriors of all
nations, including the standing army of the King of Dahomey. In every
country and in every age there have been men who, in point of valour,
were women; and women who, in point of valour, were men. The Amazons
of antiquity, the _vivandières_ of France, and the camp followers of
the British army, would all be entitled to some passing notice; but
more attractive still would be the personal history of those women who,
instigated by the promptings of valour or love, have entered the army
and served for years without their sex being discovered. The wives of
soldiers who have followed their husbands to the field, sharing their
dangers and ministering to the wants of the wounded, might also find
place in such a work, to which we willingly present the following
contribution. Towards the close of last century, a stalwart, buxom
Scottish lass became the wife of a private in the 42nd Highlanders,
and was permitted to accompany the regiment when it embarked, in 1795,
to take part in the expedition to the West Indies. She soon learned
to share in all the hardships and dangers of a soldier’s life, was
frequently under fire, and became as skilful in dressing wounds as the
most experienced surgeon. She was known to every one in the regiment, and
was equally a favourite with officers and men. She was present at, and
took part in, the attack on the island of St. Vincent, then occupied by
the French and the insurgent natives. In one of the skirmishes between
the 42nd and the enemy, Lieutenant-Colonel Graham was severely wounded,
and left insensible on the field. After a time his own men returned and,
believing him to be dead, dragged his body across the rough channel of
the river to the sea-beach. The motion elicited some signs of life, and
they hastened in search of a surgeon; meanwhile the body was borne along
in a blanket for about four miles till they reached a post occupied by
the 42nd. Colonel Graham still continued insensible, and no surgeon
could be found to dress his wounds or restore him to consciousness. It
was plain then, unless something were done at once he could not long
survive, as a bullet had entered his side, come out beneath his breast,
and shattered two of his fingers. He was already exhausted with the
loss of blood. Fortunately for him our Highland Amazon was at this
post, and at once proceeded to act the part of the good Samaritan. She
washed his wounds, and bound them up with such skill that the surgeons,
on their arrival, did not find it necessary to unloose the dressing.
The colonel remained in a dangerous state for three weeks, when he was
removed to England, where he gradually recovered and rose to the rank of
Lieutenant-General and Governor of Stirling Castle. It is to be hoped
that he did not forget the kind-hearted woman to whom he owed his life.
Be that as it may, she accompanied the 42nd in their different
expeditions, and proved herself a skilful nurse in hospital, a fearless
leader on the field of battle. Wherever her husband went she followed,
watching over his safety, and threatening to avenge him if he fell. There
is reason to believe that, like other veterans, she came at length to
love fighting for its own sake, and that anxiety for the safety of her
husband was only a cloak to justify her presence amid the wild excitement
of the battle-field. On one occasion, before the commencement of an
attack, the officer in command, being anxious to expose her husband to
as little danger as possible, left him in charge of the men’s knapsacks,
which they had thrown aside before rushing up the hill. He remained at
his post, but his wife, borne along by an irresistible impulse, rushed
forward at the head of the attacking columns, and cheered them on to
victory. No man could refuse to follow where a woman led the way. Three
redoubts were carried in rapid succession, and just as the officer was
giving orders to charge the fourth and last, he was suddenly tapped on
the shoulder. On turning round he beheld his friend, the female warrior,
with her clothes tucked up to her knees, and the proud expression of
victory in her lace. Seizing his hand, and shaking it heartily, she
exclaimed, “Well done, my Highland lad! See how the brigands scamper,
like so many deer! Come,” she continued, “let us drive them from yonder
hill.” Her advice was acted on, and the success of the Highlanders was
complete. When the fighting was over, friend and foe shared alike in her
sympathies. Her skilful hand, like the spear of Achilles, could heal the
wounds it had made.
About forty years ago, in almost every village in Scotland might be seen
tall, erect, gray-headed old men, retired veterans, who, after fighting
the battles of their country in every quarter of the globe, had returned
to the place of their birth, the memory of which had haunted them during
long years of absence and exile. They were the leaders of public opinion
in the small community in which they lived—the village Nestors, from
whose lips dropped words of wisdom, tales of strange adventure, and
dangers encountered by sea and land. They feared God and honoured the
king; they had only one failing—an overweening love of the bottle;
they were the oracles of every tap-room, where, amid the applause of
their boon companions, they fought their battles o’er again, even to the
thrice routing of all their foes and the thrice slaying of the slain.
It was not the mere love of drink that led them there; mingled with
this weakness was the pleasure of recalling scenes in which they had
borne a part, battles in which they had fought and conquered. Often the
schoolboys on the village green would cease from their sports and gather
round one of these veterans in an admiring circle, as, seated beneath a
shady tree and leaning on his crutch, he told of the gallant deeds of
the Gordon Highlanders or the Old Black Watch. His rude eloquence never
failed to awaken the enthusiasm of his audience, and many a Scottish
soldier was first led to think of the profession of arms, and to long,
like Norval, to follow some brave chieftain to the field, from listening
to these veterans. They have now gone the way of all living; we know of
only one veteran survivor of Waterloo in the North, but we can recal
many who lived and flourished a quarter of a century ago. Old Hyderabad
stands before us at this very moment. There he is, with all the towering
majesty of six feet and some additional inches, with shaggy eyebrows and
straggling hair as white as snow, with a rough, stern, but not unkindly
face, rendered still more stern by a sabre-cut on the brow, with his
formidable pikestaff in one hand, and his ram’s-horn “sneeshin’-mull,”
or snuff-box, in the other. His real name was James Bruce, but he was
universally known as Hyderabad, from the interminable stories he told
of the capture of that Indian city, at which he assisted. His stories
occasionally exceeded the bounds of credence; for example, he used to
relate that any eccentricity of manner observable in his conduct arose
from a singular accident which happened to him at Hyderabad. He was
fighting his way through the streets, when a bullet-wound in the leg
laid him prostrate; one of his assailants rushed upon him and laid open
his skull with a cut of his sabre. “I put up my hand to my head,” said
James, “to feel what was the matter; it so happened that I had just
been takin’ a pinch and forgot to put up my mull. Aweel, you see, I was
so startled at the size of the hole in my head that I lost hold of my
sneeshin’-mull, and it dropped inside my skull. Up came the doctor, and,
without thinking of the mull, he clapped the skull together and trepanned
it; the wound soon healed, but sometimes I feel a little queer in the
head.” No wonder that he did, considering that he believed that there was
a ram’s-horn in the place where his brains should have been. The delusion
had originated from a sunstroke which he received in India, and which
would have killed any other man than Hyderabad. It is worthy of remark
that, though he was universally known as Hyderabad, few ever ventured to
address him by that sobriquet; it was dangerous to take liberties with
one whose pikestaff was ever ready to punish any impertinence. We can
only recal one occasion when James was thus addressed. He was walking
with stately gait through a country fair, when a young urchin, set on
by his older companions, walked up to him, and said in his most winning
way, “How d’ye do, Old Hyderabad?” Had the earth yawned beneath James’s
feet he could not have looked more surprised than he did on hearing these
ominous words; here was an urchin who barely reached his knee addressing
him familiarly by that name which the boldest never ventured to mention
in his presence. It was like a mouse insulting a lion, but what could he
do? He was too tender-hearted to touch a child, but such liberties must
be repressed, so he flourished his pikestaff in the air and gave a yell
such as a savage gives when he despatches his foe. Years have elapsed
since James uttered that yell; his voice is now among the voices of the
night; but it is still ringing in the ears of him who evoked it, and who
fled in terror from the redoubtable presence, and equally redoubtable
pikestaff, of Old Hyderabad.
Nor have we forgotten Old Corunna, the one-eyed veteran, who fought with
Abercrombie in Egypt, and helped to lay the green turf on the grave of
Sir John Moore in Spain. Many were the stories he used to recount of
that disastrous retreat, of that fatal embarkation. We have seen his one
eye dimmed with a tear as he spoke of Moore, that gallant leader who
was dear to his men amid all their sufferings; we have seen it lighted
up with genuine humour as he told of wealthy officers marching at the
head of their men without shoes or stockings, and the latter whispering
to one another, “There goes ten thousand a year.” Unlike Hyderabad,
Corunna was of small stature, but wiry as a terrier, retaining his
vigour to the last, and ready to meet all comers. The fame of one of his
encounters still lives in his native parish, and has long survived him.
At the period when he flourished, it was not unusual for professional
prizefighters to visit country fairs and to challenge the rustics to a
friendly combat. If the challenge was not accepted, they claimed, and
usually received, a certain sum of money; if they fought and failed to
win, the money belonged to the victor. It so happened that Corunna was
refreshing himself in a booth or tent at one of these country fairs when
a noted pugilist appeared and gave the usual challenge. No one seemed
disposed to take it up, till Old Corunna, over-brimming with whisky and
valour, rushed from the tent, divested himself of his great-coat, and
went at the bully with such thorough good will and masterly science that
victory soon declared in his favour. That was, perhaps, the proudest day
in poor Corunna’s existence. During the fight a thief had stolen his
great-coat, but this loss was very soon made up, and Corunna remained to
his death the champion of the parish. He has several sons now serving in
the British army.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]