THE ROUTE.
Few scenes are more stirring than the departure of a regiment for the
seat of war, in Scotland, perhaps, more than anywhere else, when it
is the departure of a national regiment endeared to the people by
historical and warlike associations, combined with those of clanship
and kindred.
The last toast at the mess, ere it was broken up, was '_Tir nam Bean,
nan Glean, s nan Gaisgaich_;' and now, till more peaceful times, its
magnificent and trophied mess-plate was stored away, among it that
gigantic silver tripod, with its fluted bowl, weighing eighteen
hundred ounces, bearing, with other mottoes, these:--_Na Tir chaisin
Buardh son Eiphart_ 21 _Mar,_ 1801' and--'_O'Chummin Gaidhculach d'
on Freicudan Dhu, na_ 42 _Regiment_.'
About seven in the morning the pipers of the Black Watch blew the
gathering, waking the echoes of that grand old fortress, which is the
focus of so much Scottish history, and from the gates of which by
sword or spear the tide of war was so often rolled back in the stormy
days of old; and now the sound of the pipes found a deeper echo in
the hearts of the thousands who were mustering in the streets below
to bid the regiment farewell, and wish it God-speed in the land it
was going to.
The August morning was a lovely one, and the shadows formed by the
golden sunshine lay purple and deep in the glens of the Pentlands,
and in the valleys and hollows spanned by the bridges of the city and
overlooked by the towering edifices of its terraced streets, amid
which rose every spire and pinnacle tipped with ruddy splendour.
The woods and gardens were still in all their summer beauty and
greenery, and the corn-fields in the distance were ripe with golden
grain over all the sun-lighted landscape. Ere that corn was all
gathered, many of those who came gaily forth, mustering to the sound
of the pipes, were to find their graves in the sand of the Egyptian
desert, where the Black Watch had gathered so many laurels in the
wars of other years.
All the city was astir as it had never been since the King's Own left
the same fortress for the shores of the Crimea, and the hum of the
gathering thousands filled the clear air of the dewy morning.
Cluny trusted in his men, and thus, on this conspicuous morning, no
man failed him, and no man was absent from his place in the ranks.
The bustle of departure was past; stores had been issued; the grey
tropical helmet, with a little crimson hackle worn on the left side,
was for a time to supersede the graceful bonnet with its black
plumes; valises and haversacks had been packed; rifles and bayonets
inspected; the baggage selected and forwarded; and nothing remained
now but to march, after sixteen months' residence in the city of the
Stuarts.
Cluny had kindly given ample opportunities to his men to take leave
of their friends, and it was only for a short time before their
departure, that the great palisaded barriers of the Castle were
closed at the _tête-du-pont_ against all comers, and the human surge
that pressed against them.
At last the pipes were heard echoing under that deep archway through
which millions of armed men have marched; the brass drums rang under
the grim ports of the Half-Moon Battery; the barriers were rolled
back, and, with dragoons clearing the way, the Black Watch, in their
fighting kits, with grey helmets, white jackets, and dark-green
tartans, their colours cased, and all their bayonets glittering in
the sun like a rippling stream of steel, came marching down the
slope, while cheers rent the air, cheers and shouts, though doubtless
many a heavy heart was there, for wives and sweethearts, children and
parents, alike were being left behind by those on whose faces they
might never look again.
Each man had on his back a valise, tin canteen, and great-coat; his
haversack and water-bottle were slung, and attached to a lanyard at
his neck, each carried a large knife--like the genuine jockteleg of
the days of old--and right service-like and purpose-like they all
looked.
The officers, who were in blue patrol jackets, with kilt, claymore,
and dirk, carried knives of the same kind, together with a haversack,
field-glass, and water-bottle.
Dense were the crowds occupying every street, every window and
balcony, every coign of vantage, and the whole area through which the
regiment marched to the sound of its national and martial music
seemed instinct with life, ardour, and enthusiasm.
Many veterans were in the ranks of the regiment--men who had served
in Ashanti, and not a few who, as Albany Highlanders, had marched to
Candahar and fought in Afghanistan. Their colonel--Cluny the
younger, son of that venerable Cluny who is chief of the Macphersons
or Clanvurich (the second tribe of the great Clan Chattan), and was
once a Black Watchman--rode at their head, and near him marched his
favourite sergeant-major, MacNeil, a tall, stately, and tried
soldier, who, though he knew not the fate before him, when the hour
came, had no fear of facing death, as became one of the Freicudan Dhu.
Evan Cameron, as he marched on, claymore in hand, had a shrewd idea
that among the many there whose tender hearts were filled with pity
and enthusiasm, would be one who was secretly and inexpressibly dear
to himself; and yet, though a kind of mortal pain was in his breast,
his heart, despite it all, beat responsive to the cadence of the old
familiar march--the regimental quick-step--the same air to which he
had so often trod in past times and in other lands; and now, as one
in a dream, he saw the seething crowds, the forest of waving hats and
handkerchiefs, and all the glorious view on which he was probably
looking for the last time--the noble line of Princes Street, steeped
in the morning sun, the Calton Hill with its line of towers and
battlements, its temples, great stone obelisk, and reproduction of
the classic Parthenon of Minerva, Arthur's Seat, and the Craigs, and
the old city with its ten-storey houses--each a stone record of the
historic past.
He was suddenly roused on seeing Carslogie playfully kiss the basket
hilt of his claymore, and wave his hand to a young lady who sat by
the side of an elderly gentleman in an open barouche.
She was closely veiled, but Evan's heart leaped in his breast when he
recognised Eveline--Eveline by the side of Sir Paget, who waved his
hat occasionally, and jerked his bald head about as usual.
'Why was such a girl as that, Allan Graham's sister, sacrificed to
that old devil of a fogie?' asked one of the Black Watch of
Carslogie, a high-spirited young fellow, who thought it very nice to
be in the 42nd, but very nasty to be also in debt, and was now right
glad to find himself _en route_ for Egypt.
'Why, indeed? you may well ask,' he replied; 'simply because her
father is one of the upper ten, and, like all that lot, selfish to
the backbone.'
And Cameron's heart endorsed his answer to the full.
Eveline saw him, and for a moment--but a moment only--raised her,
veil.
The tale of all she had endured was written in the wistful and
mournful expression of her soft hazel eyes, and all who knew her now
remarked that, though she sometimes smiled, she never laughed.
She felt her lips quiver and the lines of them tighten, for we may
control deep emotion in the eyes, but on the mouth, never.
Her whole heart and soul were concentrated in the effort to appear
calm and look on, though her eyes were dim with the tears in which
she feared just then to indulge.
'Oh, my darling!' she whispered to herself, again and again, but
voicelessly, in her heart. 'My dear love--my brave Evan--I shall
never see you again!'
Surreptitiously she concealed her tear-soaked handkerchief in her
pocket, and drew forth another--a fresh one redolent of
eau-de-Cologne. Quickly though she did it, Sir Paget saw the act,
drew his own conclusions therefrom, and thought himself an ass for
having accorded her permission to see the Black Watch depart.
Their recent brief meeting--the memory of the passionate kisses that
should never have been given or taken--added now to the supremeness
of the present moment.
He only appeared to bow to her; but as he gazed with eyes of
passionate yearning on her flower-like face, the lips he had kissed
so often, the eyes that had so often looked with love into his, and
did so now, his heart filled with a wild and desperate longing to
take her to his breast and cover her face with kisses again.
But the drums beat, the pipes played loud and high, the crowds
cheered, and the forward march went ruthlessly on.
All this fuss of Eveline's, thought Sir Paget, could not be merely
for the departure of her brother's regiment!
At last to Eveline's ears the sound of pipe and drum died away in the
distance as the barouche was driven homeward to Maviswood; but now
the despair in her face and attitude was too palpable not to attract
the attention of Sir Paget, who jerked his face forward quite close
to hers and regarded her gloomily and in silence.
In all that followed now, Evan Cameron seemed to act mechanically,
and to do that which was his duty by mere force of habit, as the
regiment marched into the resounding railway station, where he saw
the men of his company told-off to compartments; saw the sergeants
marking on the footboard of the carriages with chalk the letter of
the company; saw the men take off their valises; and ere long the
swift special train was sweeping through the dark tunnel that pierces
the rocky bowels of Calton Hill, and the Black Watch were fairly off
for Egypt again.
How to bear his loss in the long years that were to come, if the
fortune of war spared him, was the thought that tortured most the
mind of Cameron then, and gave him an emotion of despair.
He remembered the fixed and agonised gaze of Eveline; he remembered,
too, the manner in which her spouse had looked grimly on, with an
angry, yet not unsatisfied, jerk of the head, as he, no doubt, was
thinking they 'had seen the last of Evan Cameron.'
The future! All that was vague to the latter indeed.