[Illustration: Cover art]
[Frontispiece: "Hurrah, my lads; remember Egypt!" shouted Sir John
Moore. _p._ 310]
Shoulder
to Shoulder:
A
STORY OF THE STIRRING TIMES OF OLD.
BY
GORDON STABLES, M.D., C.M.
(_Surgeon Royal Navy_),
AUTHOR OF "ON TO THE RESCUE"; "HEARTS OF OAK";
"EXILES OF FORTUNE";
ETC. ETC.
"Be Britain still to Britain true,
Amang oursels united;
For never but by British hands
Maun British wrangs be righted."--BURNS.
NEW EDITION.
_LONDON:_
JOHN F. SHAW AND CO.,
48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.
_COPYRIGHT BOOKS UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME._
THE CRUISE OF THE ARCTIC FOX DR. GORDON STABLES.
CLEARED FOR ACTION W. B. ALLEN.
EXILES OF FORTUNE DR. GORDON STABLES.
A REAL HERO G. STEBBING.
A TANGLED WEB E. S. HOLT.
BEATING THE RECORD G. STEBBING.
THRO' UNKNOWN WAYS L. E. GUERNSEY.
IN SHIPS OF STEEL DR. GORDON STABLES.
IN CLOISTER AND COURT E. EVERETT-GREEN.
THE UGLY DUCKLING HANS ANDERSEN.
ODEYNE'S MARRIAGE E. EVERETT-GREEN.
ENGLAND'S HERO PRINCE DR. GORDON STABLES.
ANDERSEN'S FAIRY TALES H. C. ANDERSEN.
FACING FEARFUL ODDS DR. GORDON STABLES.
SHOULDER TO SHOULDER DR. GORDON STABLES.
EDGAR NELTHORPE ANDREW REED.
WINNING AN EMPIRE G. STEBBING.
HONOUR NOT HONOURS DR. GORDON STABLES.
IDA VANE ANDREW REED.
GRAHAM'S VICTORY G. STEBBING.
THE END CROWNS ALL EMMA MARSHALL.
HER HUSBAND'S HOME E. EVERETT-GREEN.
FOSTER SISTERS L. E. GUERNSEY.
DOROTHY'S STORY L. T. MEADE.
A TRUE GENTLEWOMAN EMMA MARSHALL.
BEL MARJORY L. T. MEADE.
WINNING GOLDEN SPURS H. M. MILLER.
ON TO THE RESCUE DR. GORDON STABLES.
DASHING DAYS OF OLD DR. GORDON STABLES.
TWO SAILOR LADS DR. GORDON STABLES.
IN SEARCH OF FORTUNE DR. GORDON STABLES.
ENGLAND, HOME, AND BEAUTY DR. GORDON STABLES.
HEARTS OF OAK DR. GORDON STABLES.
OLD ENGLAND ON THE SEA DR. GORDON STABLES.
LONDON: JOHN F. SHAW & CO.,
48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.
CONTENTS.
Book I
_IN THE HIGHLANDS A HUNDRED YEARS AGO._
CHAPTER
I. AULD-DA
II. MY HERO--BONNIE PRINCE CHARLIE
III. THE FIRST ACT IN A TRAGEDY--A WILD AND LAWLESS MAN--MUIRACHIE
THE DWARF
IV. THE DUKE AT FONTENOY--CULLODEN MOOR--THE CAVE--A BRAVE HIGHLAND
LASSIE--A RACE FOR LIFE--"TO HORSE! TO HORSE!"
V. ROYALS TO THE RESCUE--THAT FAITHFUL DWARF--HAND TO HAND WITH DIRK
AND CLAYMORE--"THE RED-COATS ARE COMING!"
VI. A HIGHLAND SCHOOL A HUNDRED YEARS AGO
VII. HARD TIMES FOR A TEACHER.--THE TAWSE--LITTLE RACHEL--A DROLL
ADVENTURE--MY GRANDFATHER STUCK FAST IN THE CHIMNEY
VIII. THE CONSPIRATORS--A DEED OF DARKNESS--A FEAST TO
FOLLOW--STRANGE SCHOOL-CUSTOMS--A FIGHT IN THE FOREST--LAST DAYS AT
SCHOOL
IX. LEAVING HOME--A HUMBLE TRADE--"I'LL NOT SERVE UNDER A FRASER OR
LOVAT: I AM A ROBERTSON AND A LOYALIST"
X. THE KING'S SHILLING--IN CORNEY'S CAVE--"SURRENDER IN THE KING'S
NAME!"--CAPTURE AND ESCAPE
XI. SWORN TO SHOOT AT SIGHT--AN ADVENTURE ON THE ROAD--"PLEASE, SIR,
ARE YOU THE COLONEL?"--"WE'LL CALL YOU JOHN"
Book II.
_OFF TO JOIN HIS REGIMENT._
I. FIRST MONTHS OF SOLDIER-LIFE--THE PLEASURE OF DRILL--A PASSAGE OF
ARMS--EN ROUTE FOR EDINBURGH CASTLE--AN OLD-TIME TROOPER
II. THE VOYAGE OF THE "VENGEFUL"--TERRIBLE SUFFERINGS AT SEA
III. LIFE AT THE CASTLE--A DANCE ON THE DINNER-TABLE--HOW A QUARREL
WAS SETTLED--A DROLL DUEL AND THE ENDING THEREOF
IV. WHAT A BATTLE SEEMS LIKE TO THE SOLDIER--TERRIBLE TIMES IN
PARIS--CIVIL WAR AND MURDER
V. FIGHTING AT TOULON--TERRIBLE SORTIES--EVACUATION--OFF TO
CORSICA--CAPTURED BY BRIGANDS--CAPTAIN DRAKE'S FIRST FIGHT
VI. MY GRANDFATHER IS PROMOTED--AN UNLUCKY ESCAPADE--SAVED BY A
RIBBON--MASSACRE OF FRENCH NOBLES--NAPOLEON BONAPARTE TO THE FORE
VII. POLICY AND AMBITION OF NAPOLEON--REBELLION IN IRELAND--ATTEMPTS
AT INVASION--THE WHOLE WORLD OF EUROPE IN A BLAZE
VIII. GRANDFATHER GOES ON FURLOUGH--A CHANGE AND MANY A CHANGE--POOR
LITTLE RACHEL--BATTLE OF ALEXANDRIA--THE GALLANT 42ND--NIGHTFALL ON
THE FIELD OF BATTLE
Book III.
_FROM WAR TO GENTLE PEACE._
I. THE DUKE OF KENT AS GRANDFATHER KNEW HIM--DISCIPLINE AND THE LASH
IN THE BRAVE DAYS OF OLD--TONAL'S DILEMMA, AND HOW HE GOT OUT OF IT
II. AWFUL CONDITION OF GIB--GRANDFATHER STABBED--A VENDETTA--THE DUKE
WAS THE BEST-HATED MAN ON THE ROCK
III. MYSTERY--A GRUESOME BOX--A MEETING OF CONSPIRATORS--TERRIBLE
THREATS--THE MUTINY
IV. WARNED BY A DYING SOLDIER--MORE MUTINY--HE FELL FORWARD DEAD--WAR
BREAKS OUT ONCE MORE--NAPOLEON'S PLANS AND MOVEMENTS--MURDER!
V. NAPOLEON'S SCHEME FOR INVADING BRITAIN--A BRIGHT
PROMISE--GRANDFATHER MEETS HIS FATE
VI. AN IRISH FAIR AT DUNDALK--GREAT FUN AND NO END OF FIGHTING--THE
BOMBARDMENT OF COPENHAGEN--GRANDFATHER GETS MARRIED
VII. THE FRENCH IN SPAIN AND PORTUGAL--BRITISH TO THE RESCUE--SIR
ARTHUR--SIR JOHN MOORE--SPLENDID GENERALSHIP OF NAPOLEON
VIII. TREACHERY AND FOOLERY--A RACE FOR LIFE AND A RUN FOR THE
SEA--TOM GRAHAME'S BABY--SORROW, SUFFERING, AND DANGER--IT MUST BE
DEATH OR VICTORY
IX. FIGHTING AGAINST FEARFUL ODDS--DEATH OF MOORE--THE EMBARKATION--A
WIFE AND A NEW SET OF BAGPIPES
X. "I'M A SOLDIER'S WIFE; I'LL SHARE A SOLDIER'S TOILS"--GIRL
HEROINES--STORMING OF BERGEN-OP-ZOOM--STRANGE ADVENTURES--BORN ON A
BATTLEFIELD
XI. ACROSS THE WIDE ATLANTIC--A STRANGE PARADE--THE BAREFOOT
SQUAD--SHIPWRECK--A FEARFUL FIGHT
XII. RED-EYE, THE INDIAN CHIEF--A TERRIBLE ADVENTURE WITH A BEAR--BAD
NEWS!--STOLEN OR KILLED BY INDIANS
XIII. "WHERE IS RED-EYE? I WILL KILL HIM!"--A SOLEMN SCENE--THE
MOONLIT FOREST
XIV. THE FIGHT WITH SAVAGES--A LONE GRAVE IN THE FOREST--RETURN OF
SPRING--NAPOLEON AT ST. HELENA
To
DR. JOHN ROBERTSON
THIS BOOK IS INSCRIBED,
WITH MANY A KINDLY WISH,
BY HIS COUSIN,
THE AUTHOR
Book I.
In the Highlands a Hundred Years Ago.
SHOULDER TO SHOULDER.
Book I.
_IN THE HIGHLANDS A HUNDRED YEARS AGO._
CHAPTER I.
AULD-DA.
Never for a moment--as we sat together in the twilight--could the
dear old man have imagined that, just thirty years after his death,
his grandson would be here, in a wigwam, writing the story of his
romantic life.
That story, let me tell you, is also the story of the old days, when
"Wild war's deadly blast was blowing";
the story of the times when Napoleon was still the world's hero, his
glory putting in the shade even that of Wellington himself, and many
another great and notable general.
Ah, me! how long ago it seems now since I used to lift the "sneck" of
Auld-da's door, and slip quietly in, just as the shades of evening
were deepening into night.
"Is that you, Williamie?" he would say, without turning his head.
"Yes, Auld-da"; and, next moment, I would be sitting on the
"creepie"* by his feet, with my arm leaning on his knee, waiting for
a story.
* Creepie: a low stool.
A little, little boy, they tell me I was then, with pale face and
dark-blue wondering eyes. Not over strong, you may guess, because I
lived in the realms of romance, and because fairy tales--stories of
water-kelpies, that lurk in the darkest pools of forest-shaded
rivers, and eat men's flesh at midnight; stories of brownies and
spunkies, that bob their lights before belated travellers to lure
them far across the moor to the bog, in which they sink and
perish--and all the legends of my native Scottish land were, to me,
as dear as the very air I breathed.
But, pale-faced though I was, and not likely, then, to grow up an
athlete, I was my grandfather's favourite.
In Scotland, far north, although in the sweet summer-time one can see
to read nearly all night long, yet in winter,
".... When the rain rains cauld,
And frost and snow on every hill,"
the days are very short indeed, and gloaming comes on at four in the
afternoon, or even earlier. But, then, there is all the long,
delightful forenights to spend by the cheerful low fires of peat and
wood; so, with games and music, one never does feel weary, and
bed-time comes far, far too soon.
* * * * *
A very humble cottage was Auld-da's--only a but and a ben, with
attics--but it was sufficient for all his needs; and his little
garden, where, in the soft, sweet summer time, old-fashioned flowers
grew in banks, where the honeysuckle twined over the hedge, and the
roses trailed above the porch, was pleasant indeed.
A better or a bigger house than this might have been his, had he
cared for it, but he dearly loved the children, as he called my
brothers and sisters, and liked to be near us all.
Very old he was, as I remember him. Probably bordering upon eighty.
But he bore his years well, though winter's snows had whitened his
hair and furrowed his war-bronzed face.
When not working in his garden, he was ever, ever reading, and,
strange to say, with the exception of the weekly paper, his books
were only two. One was the Bible, which, every year of his life, he
read from beginning to end, always, he used to tell us, discovering
some new truth or truths in it; the other, a very large, well-thumbed
volume, called _Looking unto Jesus_.
But at eventide, when
"The day was done, and the darkness
Fell from the wings of night,
As a feather is wafted downwards
From an eagle in its flight,"
then my aunt, who kept house for her father, took the books away, and
left him for a while to sit in his easy-chair and look at the fire.
And this was my hour--"the children's hour," as Longfellow so
prettily calls it.
It is pleasant to sit and look at a fire on a low hearth, just
between the dark and the daylight, and, child though I was, I knew,
as if by instinct, that scenes in his past life were rising up before
him in the peat fire's fitful glow.
"Tell me a story."
"Tell you a story, Williamie, laddie? Was that it?"
He bends down to move a log, and a merrier light bursts up through
the curling smoke, and throws the room behind us into darker gloom.
"Yes, auld-da, and mind it must be all true."
"Tell me," I would say if he paused to consider. "Did you ever kill
a man?"
This was a blood-thirsty query to put, but I think it comes natural
to all little boys to revel in thoughts of gore.
My question, however, was one that my grandfather could seldom be
prevailed upon to answer directly.
"O, Williamie!" he might begin. "War is a terrible, terrible
thing----"
But that was the very reason I wanted to hear about it.
The old man would often recite to me whole plays, from beginning to
end; for he was possessed of a marvellous memory. But ever my
thoughts would revert to fighting and slaughter by land and by sea;
so, _nolens volens_, he had to return to war.
It was thus, during these delightful twilight hours by the low hearth
in winter, or out in the woods when summer days were fine, that I
learned, bit by bit, the whole story of my grandfather's life, and
that, too, of many and many of his messmates.
"For a boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."
* * * * *
Whatever my lot in life, I never could forget that kind Auld-da, who,
next to my parents themselves, was the dearest and best friend I ever
knew. But were I inclined to forget those old days I could not, just
for one reason which may seem strange to many. There grows, then, in
my orchard an old apple-tree--long may it flourish--which every year
is laden with fruit. The apples are a species of codlin, somewhat
pear-shaped but raised in ridges, very white on one side, very rosy
on the other, and the scent is like that of no other in all my place.
Well, I never pass that tree when autumn winds are bringing down the
nearly-ripe fruit, without my thoughts reverting to the days o' auld
lang syne.
That was the apple, laden with which, Auld-da used to return from the
city of Aberdeen, every quarter day.
These were red-letter days to my sister Leonora and me, for the old
Highland soldier, my grandfather, would be up betimes, and after an
early breakfast, would start alone for the distant city of Aberdeen,
to draw his half-pay, or retiring allowance. There were coaches
running on the road, grand old-fashioned four-in-hands, that could
take one into town very quickly. But these the sturdy veteran
despised. Many a weary march he had made in his soldier days; he was
not going to fail now.
So, wet day or dry day, in sunshine, sleet or snow, away he would
trudge. A stick he carried, but it was but to twirl in his hand, and
I never saw it touch the ground.
How eagerly Sissie and I used to watch for his home-returning--not,
mind you, reader, for the sake of the apples and nuts, not for the
sake of the prospective and certain half-crown each, that he always
gave us, but for sake of the dear old man himself. Sometimes we
would see him, in the winter-time, when a whole mile off, a little
black dot, which by-and-by became a man walking sturdily towards us,
between the great white banks left by the snow-plough. Then how
madly we would rush to meet him and lead him home and into my
mother's house, where dinner was waiting, and where he would spend
the evening up to nearly the midnight hour.
Auld-da preached me many a sermon in the long forenights. I think I
have never quite forgotten them. They were spoken so earnestly and
with such an air of truth and experience. And the burden of almost
every such discourse was love and trust and hope in the goodness of a
Heavenly Father, and in Him who died.
I must not give you the impression, however, that Auld-da was a
solemn man--by no means, only in his thinking, philosophising moods.
Out of doors he was always as merry as merry could be. He would
often visit the servants working in the fields, especially in the
harvest, and the droll old stories he told them kept all hands
laughing continuously.
In the hey-day of his manhood he had been--like all true soldiers of
those good old times--a splendid swordsman. His claymore and pike
were as sharp as razors. With that claymore he could have cut a
horse's head off with one blow, or broken the bayonet from the musket
of a charging enemy, and slain him where he stood.
One piece of clever swordsmanship in my grandfather's younger days,
unknown now, I believe, was as follows: The performer, who had to be
extra expert, stood facing the edge of an open door, and bringing his
face or nose within two inches--the sword's breadth--of the
door-edge, cause the claymore to describe circles without touching
either door or nose. The sword's edge being very keen, this was a
trick that required a steady hand, a steady head, courage, and a
supple wrist. If anyone who reads this would like to try the trick,
I advise him to practise with a paper-cutter in the first off-go.
We have heard of people being born with silver spoons in their
mouths: my grandfather was not, but Highlanders seemed in those days
to be born with swords between their lips. Their performances with
the claymore would have eclipsed those of the Arabs, and they are
perhaps the finest swordsmen in the world.
When out in the harvest-field, it used to give my grand-da great
pleasure to be allowed to put an edge on the men's scythes. The
servants declared that after this they cut like razors, and the
labour was lightened by one half.
But such was my grandfather in his green old age. No Pharisaical
Christian he, but a believer in the truest sense of the word, happy
and contented, ever looking forward with faith and joy to a brighter
world beyond the tomb.
* * * * *
He wore away at last in his 89th year, and I think the last words he
spoke were to me.
I stood by his bedside trying in vain to repress the tears.
I laid my hand gently on his, as it lay cold and white on the
coverlet.
"Do you know me, Auld-da?" I said.
"O, yes," came the answer, faint but clear. "Don't I know my own
laddie! Mercy! Mercy!"
Shortly after this he expired, and my parents led me heart-broken
from the room. Beside the Bass o' Ury--a strange green knoll in the
grave-yard, said by some to have been the burying-place of chiefs of
old--my dear Auld-da lies sleeping, and the river sings his lullaby.
Near him, alas! lie my father and mother too. Is it any wonder that
the place should be sacred to me, or that, slightly altering the
words of Thorn, the Inverurie poet, I should say:
"Move noiseless, gentle Ury, around his lonely bed,
And I'll love the gentle Ury, where'er my footsteps tread
For sooner shall thy fairy wave return from yonder sea,
Than I forget yon lowly grave and a' it hides from me."
CHAPTER II.
MY HERO--BONNIE PRINCE CHARLIE.
There was one subject, and one only, upon which, boy though I was, I
dared to differ from my grandfather. And that related to Bonnie
Prince Charlie and the so-called "rebellion" of 1745.
If it was rebellion for Prince Charles to attempt in fair and honest
fight to win back the throne that belonged of right to the ancient
Stuart line, then was I, at the age of seven, one of the rankest
little rebels that ever waved a wooden sword and cut off the heads of
tansies, imagining every one of them to be a fallen foe.
Nor could you have wondered at it, had you but heard the sweet and
plaintive songs my mother sang,
"As she rocked me in my cradle,
Or crooned* me on her knee--
And I would not sleep, she sang so sweet,
Those dear old songs to me."
* Crooned: sang low lullabies.
It has been said, dear boy and girl readers, that I, the author of
this book, have Jacobite tendencies. This is not the truth. I love
the Queen as only Scotsmen can love her; I have served her loyally,
and would to-morrow, or to-night, spill my last drop of blood
fighting for her and my native land. I love her all the better
because she has some of the old Stuart blood in her veins.
_But_--listen--had I been a man, or even a lad, in the --45, I would
have done as my ancestors, the Gordons, did, side by side with those
of Lord George Gordon Byron--I would have fought till the bitter end
for Bonnie Prince Charlie.
Yes, and I love the Queen as much as I hate and despise the atrocious
memory of ----, but stay! I will not even write his name in the same
sentence as that of her kind Majesty.
The memory, I was going to say, of the "bloody Duke of Cumberland,"
who stained our Highland heather with the blood of old, white-haired
men and helpless babies.
It is told of this fiend, that, while walking across the fatal field
of Culloden after the battle, and accompanied by one of his officers,
a poor Highland soldier sat in the agonies of death against a bank,
looking towards them.
"Shoot me that grinning Scot!" cried the Duke.
The reply of the officer was that of a brave Englishman and a true
soldier.
"Your Grace," he said, "I am your humble servant, but not your
executioner."
The inhuman coward--all cruel men are cowards--then seized a musket
from one of his attendants and, rushing forward, shot the man himself.
* * * * *
One hundred and fifty years have passed and gone since the battle in
which the once bright sun of the Royal Stuarts set behind the red
clouds of battle on Culloden Moor, but the memory of the terrible
atrocities committed by the Duke and his minions dwells in the hearts
of the Highlanders, as if they had been committed but yester e'en.
Tourists to the land of green heath and shaggy wood see or know
little, if anything, of this. The Scots are far too proud to speak
of what their forefathers suffered after the "rebellion," to
strangers or foreigners. But in many a humble cottage home, by
mountain, stream, or sea, those sweet old Jacobite songs are still
sung, and their pathetic music, and no less pathetic words, never
fail to bring the "saut,* saut tear" to the eye of the listener.
* Salt.
And the songs never fail to lead to a story of the terrible times,
told by the low fire of logs and peats that burns upon the hearth;
told, in all probability, by the head of the house to the big-eyed,
eager-faced bairnies that gather round his knee, and drink in every
word. But the ending of the true tale is invariably somewhat as
follows:
"And now, children, let us thank our Heavenly Father that we live in
times of peace, under the reign of a pious Queen, and shall never see
the babe torn from the young mother's arms to be tossed on bayonets,
while she is dragged to death and worse. Come, bring the Book, and
then for bed."
The Scots are of the poetic temperament. This, among those who dwell
amidst the wild mountains, is somewhat imbued with superstition, but
all are musical to the core and from the core. There is just this
difference between the Celt and the Saxon, or purely English--the
latter have no natural love for music until it is taught to them;
even then, seldom indeed it is a sacred fire burning on the heart as
its altar, but your Celt, be he Scotch or Irish, sings without
book-teaching, sings as naturally as does the mavis in the bonnie
woods, or the lintie on the golden furze.
Ah! me, but those old, old songs are plaintive and sorrowful even to
a degree, yet tender and sweet beyond compare. They seem to have
been written with the very heart's blood of the heroes who died for
their native land.
But the fate of Prince Charlie, instead of crushing the patriotism of
his countrymen, only intensified it, and around his memory are woven
many of the sweetest, saddest ballads we possess. Some South Britons
pretend to despise these--Germans or Italians do not--but bide a wee
till war comes, and this country has to bleed and to suffer, and then
even John Bull will know the power that song has, either to cheer the
soldier in his camp, or lead him on to death or victory.
On hearing the soldiers singing in their camp on the night before the
battle of Inkermann, someone feelingly wrote:
"'T was strange in that dark hovel drear,
With war's impending horrors near,
Those homely, doric tones to hear;
Or list the vocal flow
Of sad, but sacred, home-love, blent
With chivalrous and hold intent,
And thoughts on deadly conflict bent,
And battle's wildest throe.
"No recreant will that soldier prove
Within whose valiant breast
The gentle thoughts of woman's love,
With warlike ardour rest."
Well, I am not ashamed to confess that it was the songs sung by
mother, or "crooned," rather than sung, that made a little rebel of
me at seven years of age. But the stories of the awful tragedies and
sufferings of the clans, with many of which I count kinship, had much
to do with it. The story of our Prince and his deeds of valour took
strong hold of an imaginative child.
That sweet old song, "He's owre the hills that I lo'e weel," how well
do I recollect it of my father, as he sang it. Let me give but a
verse or so, it is so expressive of the feeling of those by-gone
warlike days.
[Illustration: HE'S OWRE THE HILLS THAT I LO'E WEEL.]
HE'S OWRE THE HILLS THAT I LO'E WEEL.
DUET.
1st VOICE. With animation.
He s owre the hills that I lo'e weel. He s owre the hills we
2nd VOICE.
daur na name; He's owre the hills a - yont Dumblane, Wha soon will
get his welcome hame. My Fa-ther's gane to fight for Him, My
brith-ers win - na bide at hame, My mith-er greets* and
prays for them, And 'deed she thinks they're no to blame.
He's owre the hills. &c
The whigs may scoff, and the whigs may jeer,
But ah! that love maun be sincere,
Which still keeps true whate'er betide,
And for his sake leaves a' beside.
* Greets--Weeps.
There is something so thoroughly expressive of true patriotism in
those last two lines:
"My mither greets and prays for them,
And 'deed she thinks they're no' to blame."
That Scottish mother is like a Spartan of old. The Spartan handed
her son his large shield before he went to battle. "Go, my son," she
would say, "to battle against the foe. You fight for the ashes of
your fathers, for the temples of your gods. Here is your shield.
Come back with it or on it."
And the Highland mother says, "Here is your sword, my own boy. Never
heed my foolish tears. Go fight for your Prince, and lawful King,
and I will stay at home to pray."
And even the young soldier's sister must speak with a dash of naiveté
and pluck:
"What lads ere did, our laddies will do,
Were I a laddie, I'd follow him too."
* * * * *
But the martial fire and spirit in that true soldier-song:
"Cam' ye by Athol, lad wi' the philabeg,*
Down by the Tummel and banks o' the Garry,
Saw ye the lads, wi' their bonnets and white cockades,
Leaving their mountains to follow Prince Charlie?"
so fired my young blood, as my father sang it, that it took a whole
hour in the field of tansies with my wooden sword to allay my
excitement.
* Kilt.
I followed all the story of our Prince, and the humour of Johnnie
Cope's defeat used to make me chuckle with glee. In my imagination I
could see the wild and impetuous rush of the Highlanders, dashing on
like a mountain torrent that nothing could withstand. Wedge-shaped
was their first formation, firing their pistols but once, then
dashing them at the heads of the foe, as they drew their claymores
and dirks, and charged, while slogan after slogan rent the morning
air. I could see the foe as they backward reeled, dazed and
astonished; I could see the Prince, with his bonnie yellow hair
floating on the breeze, as he led on his fiery soldiers. Then the
flight and the race.
Ah! it was in the race that Johnnie Cope, the general, showed his
skill. He won that, though he couldn't win the fight. He not only
outstripped his pursuers, but took the cake from his own followers.
They literally were his followers now. And the song makes Cope say
of the Highlanders:
"If I'd stayed any longer,
They'd have broken my legs,
So I bade them good-day
In the morning."
But then, my hero's story took the wrong turning. The clansmen
quarrelled among themselves, and many forsook his cause.
Thus--disaster.
A disaster that culminated at Culloden.* In his beautiful
song--wedded to music so charming--the Anglo-Scottish bard, Lord
Byron, speaks of the Gordons, his ancestors, thus:
"Shades of the dead, have I not heard your voices
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?
Surely the soul of some hero rejoices,
And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale.
Round Loch-na-garr, while the stormy mist gathers,
Winter presides in his cold, icy car;
Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers!
They dwell 'mid the tempests of dark Loch-na-garr.
"Ill-starred, though brave, did no vision foreboding
Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?
Ah! were ye then destined to die at Culloden,
Tho' victory crowned not your fall with applause?
Still were ye happy, in death's earthy slumbers;
You rest with your clan in the caves of Brae-mar,
The pibroch resounds to the piper's loud numbers,
Your deeds to the echoes of dark Loch-na-garr."
* To English readers: The "o" is long, as it is in Balmoral and Oban.
But the sorrows of my hero Prince made him all the dearer to me.
I used to cry when my mother sang that touching ballad, "O, wae 's
me!* for Prince Charlie."
* Woe is me!
I could in fancy see the little bird coming to the hall-door, and
singing my Prince's sorrow, and the old man, whose son was slain,
weeping as he listens to that "lilt o' dool and sorrow."
"O! when I heard the wee bird sing,
The tears came dripping rarely,
I took the bonnet aff my head,
For weel I lo'ed Prince Charlie."
And the birdie sings on:
"Dark night came on, the tempest howled
Got o'er the woods and valleys,
And where was't that our Prince lay doon,
Whose home should've been a palace?
"He rolled him in his Highland plaid
That covered him but sparely,
And slept beneath a bush o' broom,
O! wae 's me for Prince Charlie!"
But my mother consoled me when she told me of his wanderings through
the Highland wilds, and that although
"O'er hills that were by right his own,
He roamed a weary stranger;
On every side pressed hard by want,
On every side by danger,"
still he ever found a kindly welcome in the houses, or rather huts,
of the peasantry, who shielded him and bielded him, though thirty
thousand pounds was offered for his head. Then came his romantic
escape and "Flora Macdonald's Lament."
But one winter's evening--I mind it well--while I sat at Auld-da's
fireside, I broached the subject of Prince Charlie for the first
time---and for the last.
He kicked a burning log till the sparks flew up the chimney, and I
could see a red spot burning on his cheek.
But he soon cooled down.
"Ah! dear boy," he said, "never speak of the Pretender to me. Your
father's kin were rebels to a man, but your mother's forbears, the
Robertsons of the Braes of R----, were royalists all.
"It was for this very reason that, when compelled to become a
soldier, I joined the 1st Regiment or Royal Scots.
"So old is this regiment, Williamie, that it was called for fun,
'Pontius Pilate's Guards.'
"That regiment was at Culloden, on the right and royal side, and in
it fought your ancestors, boy, and mine. Robertsons even from Struan
itself.
"The Duke of Kent was my colonel. The Duke of Kent was our dear
Queen's father, a daughter of the regiment we well might call her."
* * * * *
I remembered then that once when the Queen was ailing, I had seen the
old man shed tears, and it occurred to me now to put the following
silly question:
"Auld-da, do you love the Queen--much?"
At this moment I think I can see the mild blue eyes he turned upon me.
"Love her, boy? Love my Queen? Don't I pray for her every night?
And I had the high honour of once talking to her when she was little
more than a baby. She a baby--I a simple soldier. Yes,
boy--I--love--the Queen.
"Her father was the means of saving my life," he said, after a pause.
"Tell me that story."
"Not to-night. Some other time.
"But as for your Prince Charlie," he added, giving that log of wood
another kick, "why, that much for him and his cause, which ended even
as that log will end, in smoke and sparks----"
"And in blood," I ventured to put in.
He paid no heed to that remark.
"There's a verse of an old Scotch song," he said, "that goes thus:
"'O, but you've been long o' coming,
Long, long, long o' coming;
O, but you've been long o' coming,
But you're welcome, Royal Charlie.'
"Well, we soldiers of the gallant 1st used to sing that, but we put
the 'royal' in the right place:
"'O, but you've been long in coming,
But you're _royal-welcome_, Charlie.'"
I was silent for a time, now. I was watching the sparks and the
rolling smoke.
But I was just as much a rebel as ever.
"So," I said at last, "my father's clan, the Gordons, fought at
Culloden, and my mother's, the Robertsons, also."
"True, boy, true, and both under a different banner."
"How funny!"
"Ah! laddie, war is a terrible thing, and there was little fun at
Culloden, and less after it.
"And our family on the Braes of R---- would have been killed, and
their houses laid in ashes by the Pretender's flying and vanquished
troops, had not a special Providence seemed to intervene.
"And thereby hangs a tale, dear child."
"A story, Auld-da? A story with fighting in it? O, tell us, tell
us."
"To-morrow, then, boy, to-morrow, if we are both spared."
So I said good-night, and left him dreaming over the fire, thinking
over the earthly past, and the future that, for him, was all beyond
the grave.
CHAPTER III.
THE FIRST ACT IN A TRAGEDY--A WILD AND LAWLESS
MAN--MUIRACHIE THE DWARF.
Next day seemed a long one to me. And school, with its tasks, its
books and its slates and its drawing, was very irksome. As soon,
however, as I got clear out and away, I started to run. For a whole
mile I went on at a jog-trot, and finally plunged into a wood. The
rest of the boys who came my way I had by this time left far behind.
I did not care much for them anyhow; I much preferred to be alone,
because the birds and the beasts, and all kinds of creatures, seemed
to speak to me, and even the wild flowers nodded as I passed; while
the feathery larch-trees and the pines whispered many a secret into
my listening ear.
Besides, these lads were but lowland farmers' sons, and their chief
conversation was about horses and cattle and crops. I rather
glorified in the fact that I hated and despised all such menial ties,
and that I could trace my descent through a long line of men who had
fought in many a blood-stained field, both in their own country and
far abroad.
These boys had not grandfathers who could tell them stories to make
their flesh creep, and their hair stir as if the wind were blowing
through it. Their grandfathers were old, feeble men, who hadn't a
soul among them above a turnip or a leek; who had never been ten
miles, in all their lives, beyond the fields that grew the corn for
their porridge; men who were not only old, but looked old, bent and
grizzled, and who, when you talked to them, put one hand behind an
ear and yelled, "Eh--h? what d' ye say? Canna hear a single wird,"
and then stumped off looking uglier and sourer than ever. But my
Auld-da was a hero and a warrior to boot.
As I trotted home that afternoon, with the stout saugh (willow) wand
I carried, I smote off the head of many a tansy, but I spared the
thistles.
I spared them because their pink or crimson blooms looked so bonnie
against the green of the ferns; because they scented the evening air
with their sweet perfume; because they made beds for the bumble-bees,
but most of all, I spared them because they were the emblems of my
native land--the land I had already learned to love.
I am sure Auld-da liked his "laddie," as he fondly called me, to come
in of an evening and listen to his stories, or even his soliloquies.
It is better even to speak to a boy than talk to a burning peat.
"Finished your dinner already, laddie?"
"Yes, Auld-da. It was only porridge and milk; that soon goes down,
you know.
"Weren't you going to tell me a story, Auld-da?" I said, after a
pause.
"A story! Well, boy, I have nothing but the truth to relate."
Though a Celt of Celts, Auld-da had no superstition. That had been
born in him, no doubt, but contact with a rough world had worn it
away long, long ago. But he had a genuine love for history and for
poetry, and could repeat many of the longest poems of Burns and of
Scott, ay, and even lengthy extracts from Ossian, but this, best in
the Gaelic language.
"Well, Williamie, you know," he began to-night, "when the Pretender
landed----"
"No, no," I cried, "you must begin your story quite like a story, you
know."
"Shall I begin," he said, as he stirred up the fire till our shadows
danced on the opposite wall, "shall I begin with the words, 'Once
upon a time'?"
"O, no, Auld-da! that is only fit for children. I'm nearly a man,
you know. I'm quite seven. But tell me, in the first place, where
our people lived in those old days."
Auld-da looked at me and said:
"I seem to be there now, laddie, high up among the wild hills; far
above are the dark woods, but far above these the mighty mass of bold
Ben Wyvis, that sternly stands with his snow-clad shoulder to the
west. Sailing round and round in the blue silence of the sky, is an
eagle--Jove's own bird, they say--and not a sound save his wild
scream pierces the stillness of the scene."
"A bit of poetry now, Auld-da? I beg."
"Well, well," he says, smiling.
"What lonely magnificence stretches around,
Each sight how sublime, how awful each sound,
All hushed and serene as a region of dreams,
The mountains repose 'midst the roar of the streams."
I am not sure that I can give my grandfather's exact words, but I can
follow the thread of his narrative as if told to me only the day
before yesterday.
"But," he continued, "that which I have tried to describe to you was
the wildest portion of the scenery, and lay far back and above the
bonnie Braes of R----. And what I am about to tell you of happened
many, many years before I was born. My people had not come from
Struan a very long time. The house they occupied then was rather a
pretentious sort of a building, and stood well up on a brae-land, and
not far from a lovely and well-wooded dingle, where in spring and
summer it was a treat to listen to the song of merle and thrush. At
the bottom of this dingle was a fishing-stream, that, as a rule, ran
singing over its pebbly bed to mingle its waters with the river that
should bear it onwards to the sea.
"This river is and was the _Beauly_,* and not far from the bonnie
banks, all among its woods and wilds, stood the castle of the Frasers
of Lovat--_Belladrum_.
* Beauly: pronounce Bewley.
"Simon Fraser, the Lord of Lovat, was a cousin of my father's father,
and it was on his account, I believe, that our people had come from
Struan to settle in his lovely district, on a farm under the rebel
lord.
"The town of Beauly, now so charming and pretty, was then but a
hamlet, and the road leading along the south bank of the bonnie bay
was little more than a bridle-path.
"My father's father, boy, was then a young and stalwart man. He
lived, I may tell you, to the patriarchal age of 101, and was found,
one day, sitting in the forest, his back against a pine-tree, his
snuff-box in his hand--dead."
"Dead, Auld-da?"
"Ay, dead, dear boy. God had taken him. Every forenoon, in summer,
he used to go for a walk into the cool, green depths of the wood, but
that day he was missing, and that is how they found him.
"But, as I say, some years before the war broke out, and the fiery
cross was sent through the glens to call the clans to arms, he was
living a very peaceful life indeed. My father and sisters were but
little tow-headed mites, my grandmother--Heaven rest her soul--was
not very old. But a younger sister lived with them, and it is around
her that this true story centres. Fiona* was her name. Fiona
Stuart, just turned eighteen, with dark-brown eyes and tresses like
the raven. They said she looked like some beautiful Italian girl,
and the blue-eyed maidens of the braes and glens called her Gipsy.
They were jealous of her beauty, as well they might be, for there was
not a lad, far away or near, who did feel happy for all the week, if
he got but a word or a smile from Fiona at the little church on
Sunday.
* Pronounce Feeona
"At this time there was living at the castle a wild young Highlander,
called Raoul McIvor, but usually known as Raoul Dhu, or Black Ronald.
He was a great musician, both on pipes and violin, and this is,
perhaps, the reason that he was so much and so often with Lord Lovat.
Those were the high-drinking days, which I trust will never come
again, and Raoul Dhu was nothing if not a bacchanalian and a
reveller. In this respect he was eminently suitable as a companion
for my grandfather's cousin, the arch-rebel Lovat.
"Raoul was a tall and handsome Highlander, who spent most of his time
on the hills or lakes, shooting or fishing.
"One day he crossed our people's farm, and entered to beg for a glass
of water. By his side was a splendid deerhound, which Fiona bent
down to caress, her beautiful hair flowing over the dog's shoulders
as she did so.
"'If you would care for that dog,' said Raoul, with an affectation of
gallantry, 'you shall have him.'
"The dignity of this Highland maiden was offended. With cheeks on
fire, she stood erect and angry. She looked at him just once,
thanked him with a word, then court'sied and withdrew.
"Just then her brother-in-law entered.
"'What!' he said, 'is it water you are drinking in the house of a
Robertson? Sit down, sir. You're a friend of my kinsman, Lord
Lovat, but were you an enemy, no one leaves my house without bite and
sup.'
"Raoul gladly took a seat, and so agreeable did he prove himself to
be, that when at last Robertson bade him good-bye, it was with an
invitation to return.
"So, laddie, Raoul Dhu came and came again; and, as he also took to
visiting the little church on Sunday, some said he was about to
become a Protestant.
"'Pooh!' said an old man, who was reputed to be gifted with the
second sight; 'Raoul Dhu worships but one saint, and that is St.
Fiona. Yet the sweet bit lassie will never wed a rake like Raoul
Dhu.'
"If she would not, it was no fault of his. But Fiona gave him little
encouragement, indeed.
"Raoul learned the meaning of her indifference one afternoon. The
girl was walking near the edge of the great forest, that stretched
away and away for many a mile towards the wild mountains. She was
alone, if one can be called alone who has a book and a faithful
collie dog.
"Perhaps Fiona did not know, so absorbed was she in her book, how far
she had come. But she was startled at last by the report of a gun
close by her.
"Next moment, a poor, bleeding hare rushed almost into her arms. The
creature was crying in a most human way, as wounded hares do. Fiona
bent over it, but its eyes were already glazing, and the beautiful
creature died in her arms.
"She was still bending over it, and, I believe, shedding tears--her
honest collie doing his best to comfort her--when she heard footsteps
behind her.
"'Fiona!' said a voice she well knew.
"'Raoul Dhu,' she answered, 'was it you who killed this gentle
creature?'
"'Sport, Fiona! Sport, my fair one!'
"There was something in his voice that offended her.
"She stooped once more, just to touch the hare, as if in pity for its
fate, then bowing, was about to go.
"'One moment, Fiona. I would speak with you. I--I--I am a blunt,
outspoken man, Fiona, and, when dealing with men, more fond of giving
blows, I fear, than of making fine speeches. Fiona, I love you, and
there's an end to it. You must marry me.'
"'Ronald McIvor,' she answered, with dignity, 'maidens of my clan are
not accustomed to be dictated to, even by their kinsmen. As to
marrying you, that I would never think of, even if I were free; but I
am not. My heart is not my own to give. It is far, far away with my
soldier boy, with ma ghaol ma chree, my Ian* Robertson. He is now
fighting for his King and country in a foreign countrie.'
* Ian, pronounced Eean.
"Her heart was far away, as she said, and her eyes, also, at that
moment had a far-away look in them. She was gazing southwards and
eastwards, over the mountains, over the sea. But it was not the
landscape she was gazing on. She saw not that, she saw but her
soldier--an officer he was in the bold and gallant 1st. Saw him,
too, as he stood before her on that last sad day when she bade him
adieu.
"Raoul thought she never, looked more beautiful than she did then.
But the love of wild and lawless men like this is like that of the
wild beasts of the jungle, hardly, at times, to be distinguished from
anger and hate.
"'He is a traitor,' he cried; 'a traitor to his lawful King--not your
hateful, cow-lipped George, but a royal Stuart who will soon be here
to claim his own. I hate your Ian, and, if we meet, I will sheath my
dirk in his bosom.'
"'You dare not!'
"She was like a beautiful lioness at bay now.
"'I dare not! What is that, Raoul Dhu dare not?'
"He seized her arm in his passion and fury, so cruelly, too, that she
screamed aloud.
"But help was at hand.
"Neither Fiona nor Raoul Dhu had noticed some creature that had leapt
the green turf forest fence, and was creeping nearer and nearer
through the long strong heather.
"It was a boy, or young man--you scarcely could have told which. A
face wild and uncouth, though not unpleasant, a head all unkempt, a
broad chest and long, long arms, as wiry as the sapling oak.
"He was close behind Raoul when Fiona screamed.
"Next moment he had sprung like a tiger on the strong man's back, and
those sinewy arms of his tightened round his neck and held it as in a
vice. Raoul's face grew almost black. He writhed and strained, and
finally fell to the ground.
"The dwarf, for in height he was but little more, held a little
longer, then slowly relaxed his grip and rose from the ground.
"'O, Muirachie,' cried Fiona, 'you have killed him!'
"'She'll no pe deaded whatefer, Miss Fiona. No, no. When ta dew
falls ta rascal Raoul Dhu no pe deaded. O, no. Come, come!'
"I fear that poor Muirachie's English was not of the purest, but he
did his best, and none can do more.
"A quarter of an hour after this Fiona was safe at home.
"She did not tell the adventure quite as it happened. Well she knew,
that if she had done so, her stalwart brother-in-law would have
followed Raoul and dirked him, even in the drawing-room of his
kinsman, Simon Fraser, of Lovat.
"And now," said Auld-da, "the curtain drops, dear boy, on the first
act of this Highland tragedy. An interval of four-and-twenty hours,
Williamie, must elapse between the first and last acts."
Auld-da was a good disciplinarian, and I knew his word was law, and
so I said, "Good-night!" and went home to bed--to think and dream.
CHAPTER IV.
THE DUKE AT FONTENOY--CULLODEN MOOR--THE CAVE--A
BRAVE HIGHLAND LASSIE--A RACE FOR LIFE--"TO
HORSE! TO HORSE!"
"The wild and lawless times came soon after this, my laddie," said
Auld-da, next evening, when I was once more seated by his knee.
"Plenty of fighting I hope, Auld-da?"
"Alas! yes, fighting and trouble too. But let me tell you. Your
Prince Charlie landed, and the fiery cross was sent through the glens
to assemble the clans near Braemar. How quickly the clans answered
the summons is historical. Would it had only been in a better cause,
but, dear boy, I can see the finger of God in it now; ay, and in all
the trouble that followed."
I sat uneasy on my stool for a moment as Auld-da said this, for I
could not help thinking of all the Bloody Duke's atrocities after the
terrible fight of Culloden, but I did not dare to interrupt the dear
old man.
"With the rebellion itself, boy, I have nothing to do at present,
except in so far as it affected your mother's ancestors and mine.
"Just a word or two, however," he continued, after a thoughtful
pause, "about this Duke of Cumberland. I do not want to defend his
terrible conduct after the victory of Culloden. No Englishman that I
ever yet met has done that, but the Duke has been called a coward
because of his cruelty. He was a brave, dashing man and an able
leader nevertheless, and he was probably the only Saxon who could
have quelled the rebellion.
"Have you heard of the battle of Fontenoy, laddie?"
"Only at school, Auld-da; and at school everything is so dry, you
know."
"True, true, and to have the cane and the 'tawse'* over a poor boy's
head is not the best way to develop his mental powers, or brighten
his memory.
* A leather strap with which the boys were flogged on the hands.
"George II., then, was reigning in 1745, and the Duke of Cumberland
was his son. In the spring of this year Louis XV. collected a great
army of 76,000 in Flanders, under the command of Marshal Saxe, a man
of undoubted military genius. In the early part of May, Saxe laid
siege to Tournay. Now the British were then in alliance with the
Dutch and with the Austrians. But neither came up to the scratch at
the time their men were wanted most. Britain sent nearly 30,000 men
to Europe--fellows who could fight--and among these were the Royal
Scots. The Dutch had promised 50,000 men, and sent 23,000; while the
Austrians only mustered eight or nine squadrons of cavalry, under the
command of Marshal Konigsagg, who wanted everything his own way, and
looked upon our Duke of Cumberland as little more than a boy.
"Prince Waldeck commanded the Dutch, and at his earnest supplication,
Cumberland marched to relieve Tournay.
"The Allies, having made up their minds to do so, ought to have
struck at once, but instead of that they shilly-shallied and
dilly-dallied till Marshal Saxe was prepared and ready for battle.
For this clever general left 5,000 men to continue the blockade of
Tournay, and with 60,000 soldiers marched to near Fontenoy, where he
quietly chose his own battle-field, and as quietly entrenched it, on
the braes that slope upwards from the right banks of the Scheldt. It
was a splendid position. Fontenoy and a valley lay in their front.
Both Fontenoy and the village of Antoine were strongly garrisoned and
fortified, and there were redoubts between the two.
"On the 10th of May, nothing daunted at the terrible obstacles to be
overcome, Cumberland advanced and drove in the French outposts. Then
night fell, and his army lay on their arms till four next morning,
when the battle began in earnest.
"The Duke, in person, led the Hanoverians and British, advancing
against the French left. But now blundering began; for Ingoldsby was
sent to clear a wood, and, mistaking some sharp-shooters who occupied
it for a whole division, retreated.
"Meanwhile the Dutch, under Prince Waldeck, had been sent to attack
the French right, also Fontenoy itself, supported by one of our
Highland regiments. Those Dutch fight well at times. They did not
that day. They proved arrant cowards. The Highlanders positively
prodded them on to fight, but at last they fairly gave way, leaving
this single Scottish regiment to face a hail of shot from the
batteries and 5,000 French foot.
"This regiment had to retreat, or rather they were called upon to
support the Duke, who had dashed on with his brave troops.
"The fighting now, in battery and in redoubt as well as in the open,
was close and awful. The British and Hanoverians lay in heaps, and
the French suffered too.
"But victory seemed in the hands of the Duke, and even Marshal Saxe
thought he had lost the day; till suddenly an officer rode up to him
just as he was about to seek safety in flight.
"'Sir, sir,' he cried, 'the Dutch are not coming up; they are leaving
those brave English and Hanoverians to their fate.'
"'Good! send, then, all the troops from Fontenoy and Antoine to our
assistance, and sad shall the fate of the brave English be.'
"Saxe therefore endeavoured now, with all his troops--notable among
whom was an Irish regiment--who, as Walter Scott says,
"'Move to death with military glee.'
"Yes, to death, but would it not be to victory also? Ay, boy, for
the British and Hanoverians now got massed, and, in this condition,
were attacked by artillery and by foot, in front and on both
flanks--truly a terrible tulzie. How well we fought is a matter of
history, for when obliged to retire at last, the Duke left behind him
4000 British dead and wounded, and 2000 Hanoverians.
"But no prisoners save the wounded fell into the hands of the French,
and never a standard.
"The Duke, in this fearful battle, had been the first to advance, and
he was the last to retreat.
"So you see, boy, the Duke was no coward."
"But what cowards the Dutch were, Auld-da," I replied evasively.
"True, boy, true; and so terribly enraged at them were the British,
that had there not been an enemy coming up behind, they would have
fallen upon them in force, and the strangest battle in history would
have been fought.
"But now, lad, let us return to the Braes of R----, when the fiery
cross was carried through Strathglass and the glens around. Several
families made no response. Among these were our own Robertsons,
despite the fact that Lord Lovat was a cousin.
"Even before this, Raoul Dhu had shown his enmity to our family in
many ways. He had taunted my father's father.
"'Charlie our Prince,' he said one day, 'will soon be landed. Of
course, Robertson, you will be the first to join his standard?'
"'Indeed and indeed, Raoul,' was the bold reply. 'I'll be after
doing nothing of the sort.'
"'What, not follow the fiery cross!'
"'I'll follow no cross save that which our Saviour carried, Raoul.
If the Prince does land, it will only be to bring ruin and bloodshed
on our poor country; to give the eyes of our young men to the ravens,
our women and children to rapine and massacre. No, Raoul, I will not
follow that cross. And I'd tell Lord Lovat that to his face, and the
Chief Lochiel as well. Verily theirs is a losing cause----'
"'Is that why you will not fight, Robertson?'
"'No, Raoul Dhu, the Robertsons never were cowards, but would spend
the last drop of their blood in a cause that was just. If you dare
say the reverse----'
"Robertson drew himself up and fingered his dirk.
"'If I dared?' said Raoul, 'What then?'
"'I'd stretch you dead among the heather.'
"'Ah! my friend, Raoul Dhu takes a lot of frightening, but I speak
for your own sake when I tell you that, if you join not our standard
when it flutters on the Braes of Mar, Heaven help your wife, your
children, and the beautiful Fiona as well. Good-day.'
"One evening, about a month after this, Muirachie the dwarf came
rushing in panting and breathless.
"'O,' he cried in Gaelic, 'I have heard----I----'
"'What is it, Muirachie?'
"'O, the pretty lady, master, I have heard that Raoul Dhu means
mischief.'
"'Let him come, my lad; he'll find the Robertsons can hold their own.'
"But if Raoul meant mischief then, he had no chance to carry it out,
so quickly was he marched off from the glen with Lord Lovat's forces.
"Well, the summer passed away quietly enough, and there were few
young men left about even to till the land or gather in the scanty
harvest.
"Report and rumour reached our family, sometimes of victory to the
rebels, sometimes of defeat, but there was nothing reliable. News
came slowly in those days, boy, and oftentimes the glittering swords
or bayonets of a foe far outstripped the runner.*
* Runner: a message-bearer or postman.
"But although from first to last Robertson felt certain that
Charlie's cause would be defeated, he never attempted to minimise the
danger. Well he knew that a beaten rebel army would do all in their
power to destroy any of the loyalists they came across.
"Robertson would fight to the last, however. When peace returned he
would be safe.
"The farm he held in no way resembled a fort, but, nevertheless, if
strengthened on three sides by ramparts and palisades, a few resolute
men would--Robertson believed--be able to hold it for a day, if not
two, against stragglers from a beaten army.
"Winter came on, and a dreary one it was.
"Robertson determined now to strengthen his place, for rumours were
floating in the air that Prince Charlie was in full retreat back
through Scotland, pursued by the implacable Duke of Cumberland.
"All the men, Williamie, that your ancestor could muster were ten,
including Muirachie, the faithful dwarf.
"But trenches were thrown up, and a strong, loop-holed, wooden fence,
and, on the whole, the farm soon looked quite formidable.
"The men were principally shepherds, but strong, hardy fellows, and
all were accustomed to shoot, for many a hare, and many a deer even,
they had brought down on Lord Lovat's estate.
"No doubt the Prince would make one last stand at Inverness, or near
it, and the man most to be dreaded, if he were not already slain, was
Raoul Dhu. Even Fiona knew this, and shuddered when she thought of
the revenge he might take on her and hers.
"Then came the fearful battle at Culloden Moor, only a few miles from
Inverness.
"Ill news flies apace, and it was speedily known that the clans were
beaten and scattered.
"They ran in all directions, the Prince himself flying from the fatal
field on horseback.
"Then stragglers, war-worn and weary, began to come into Beauly.
"Some passed on up the glens; others stayed in the village to rant,
and revel, and drink.
"It was just a day after the fight that, in the midst of a posse of
these revellers, there appeared a tall, dark man, in tattered dress
which was all blood-stained.
"It was Raoul Dhu, and a dozen hands at least were held out to bid
him welcome.
"He tossed off a bumper of fiery whisky, and, throwing himself into a
chair, assumed a nonchalant air.
"'Yes, my lads,' he said, 'we are beaten, but I will not have it that
we are vanquished. Our cause is not lost. We shall rise again. I
swear it on my dirk.'
"As he spoke he drew the dagger from its scabbard, and kissed its
hilt.
"'Scotland ought to have risen to a man. Why did it not?'
"'Shame on all cowards!' cried the men. 'Where shall we find one?
We will fling him dead into the nearest loch.'
"'Pah!' said Raoul, 'they are too numerous. There is Robertson of
the Braes, not three miles distant.'
"'Ay, ay,' shouted the rebels. 'Robertson! Robertson! let us dig
the fox out, give his house to the flames, and his flesh to the
eagles!'
"'Stay, men, stay. We must not be rash. Rashness lost us many a
fight. Let us wait till night falls. Few of Prince Charlie's brave
fellows have come this way. No red-coats will follow. They will go
Badenoch way, after the main body. And, see here, at Robertson's
farm is one bonnie birdie that I wanted to cage before the --45. She
must be treated kindly, and put under my protection. But when night
falls I am with you.
"'Now, piper, play up, and we shall dance.'
"No one who had seen that Highland reel so mad, so merry, could have
believed that these very men were vanquished soldiers, who might soon
be surrounded by the Duke's troops, and cut to pieces.
"There was a spy among them, though, hidden in a corner--none other
than Muirachie himself. At a time when the revelry was at its
wildest he managed to escape unseen, and hurried away to the Braes.
"On hearing the news that the dwarf brought, Robertson immediately
called in his men, closed his ports, and prepared for action.
"Well he knew he had to play a dangerous and deadly game, for Raoul
Dhu's band of revenge-seeking rebels would doubtless be increased by
scores, when it commenced its march to the Braes.
"His difficulty was to know what to do with his children, his wife,
and sister-in-law. Rather, he told his men, than they should fall
into the power of those drunken and infuriated rebels, he would shoot
them with his own hand.
"'No, no, Mister McRobb'--it was faithful Muirachie who spoke--'it is
mysel' that knows ta place to hide ta poor leddies in whetefer.'
"'Place of concealment? Where? where?'
"'Ta whisky-still down ta glen.'
"'You can guide them there?'
"To pe surely, Mister McRobb. Muirachie can do it.'
"The shades of evening were already falling, and there was no time to
lose. In a few minutes, therefore, Robertson's family had commenced
a perilous descent towards the stream, and soon, guided by Muirachie,
found themselves within a cave. It was so concealed as to render
detection impossible.*
* In the same still, since those days, many and many a gallon of
whisky has been made and smuggled. It is only a few years since it
was discovered and raided by the Excise.
"Muirachie lit a big oil lamp which, at all events, rendered the
dungeon a little less dreadful. Then he hurried away.
"'I must help ta kill ta foe,' he said as he took his leave.
"'Can they possibly hold out till the Royalist soldiers arrive?'
This was the question that Mrs. Robertson anxiously asked her sister
as soon as they were left alone.
"'No,' answered Fiona; 'if we have to await assistance, all will be
lost and your husband slain.'
"'Sister, sister, what shall we do?'
"'Not wait for assistance,' was the calm response, 'but seek it.'
"'What mean you, Fiona?'
"Fiona had hastily proceeded to wrap herself in a Highland
shepherd-tartan plaid. She next put on her head a bonnet of the
shape now called Tam-o'-Shanter, and under this she soon tucked her
bonnie hair. Then she seized a crook that she found in a corner.
"'Sister Mary,' she said resolutely, 'the 1st regiment is with the
Duke. If not already dead, my Ian is there. I am going to seek the
Duke's assistance to save us.'
"'But, girl, girl--
"'Detain me not a moment,' she cried. 'Every minute is precious. A
minute lost may mean a life. Pray for me, Mary; that is all you can
do.'
"She was gone, and poor Mary threw herself on a rude bedstead to weep
and to pray, her children crowding round and trying to console her.
"There was a struggling moon shining through the rifts in the dark
and threatening clouds, and giving now and then a little light, and
the wind moaned drearily among the silver birchen trees hardly yet in
leaf.
"But a louder moan soon fell on Fiona's ear as she staggered down the
dangerous steep. It was the roar of the stream beneath. To her it
was a hopeful sound. Though falling oft, and bruising her tender
limbs, she kept steadily on, and the streamlet guided her to the
river, and in another hour she had passed Beauly on the left, and was
hurrying along the road that leads to Inverness.
"No braver deed was ever done by any girl, I think," continued
Auld-da, "whether Scotch or English. Indeed, I doubt whether an
English girl would have attempted it, or been possessed of the
strength to carry it out.
"Once clear of the town, and a mile or two on the road to Inverness,
a distance of about fourteen miles to the camp, near Culloden, lay
before her, and now the danger and horror began. The night seemed to
grow rather darker. Fiona had the eyes of an eagle as far as sight
was concerned, and she needed these to-night, and ears as well as
eyes. For a time all was silent, and she walked on briskly enough.
Down to the left she could hear the low sob of the sea on the beach,
and she even caught glimpses of it now and then, sleeping quietly
under the stars; to her right were birchen woods, and the night wind
soughed mournfully through their drooping branches, while the stems
of the trees could be seen against the heather, like spirits that
seemed to walk and move as she ran briskly on.
"Now and then an owl flew overhead, and its weird cry was startling
in the extreme.
"More than once she stumbled over guns and belts, and even claymores,
that had been thrown hastily away by the fugitives.
"A sudden thought seemed to strike her, and, bending down, she picked
one of these swords up. If attacked, this Highland maiden meant to
sell her life dearly.
"But what is that dark object by the wayside? She stops to gaze
fearfully towards it. A low groan is borne to her ears, and a voice
saying in piteous tones, 'Water, water, in Heaven's name!'
"There is the sound of a rippling rill near; she hesitates not a
moment, but, doffing her Highland bonnet, turns it outside in and
fills it.
"A ray of moonlight falls upon the form of the wounded soldier who
has crept off the wood to die. He blesses her as he drinks, and
whispers 'Farewell!' But now she hears voices, and, drawing her
plaid close round her, she crouches beneath a tree.
"They were not red-coats, she could see that at a glance, but kilted
rebels, and as soon as they passed, she hurried on once more.
"She sees many a sad sight in the darkling, and meets many men flying
onwards to the west. All these she avoids.
"But a very narrow escape she has from death or worse. She remembers
there is a near cut through a part of the wood that will save her
miles, and, knowing every inch of the country, determines to take it.
"Suddenly, on turning round the corner of a rock, a glare of light
from a camp-fire falls on her face and form. Around this sit or lie
half a score of reckless Highlanders, some with recent cuts upon
their faces that made them hideous to behold.
"'A spy! a spy!' cried one.
[Illustration: "A spy! A spy!" cried one.]
"'Spy or not spy, a right fair maid. By my soul I shall catch her
dead or alive.'
"A pistol shot or two rang out as Fiona dashed back into the darkness
of the wood, and a bullet whizzed closely past her ear.
"For the first time now since she had departed, the danger of her
situation rose up before her mind. What a fearful thing it would be
to fall into the clutches of these reckless and lawless men! Fear
lent speed to her feet, and she flew on, hardly knowing or caring
whither. Her pursuer, coming straight from the firelight, could at
first see but indistinctly; but he soon recovered sight, and ran like
a deer after the figure in front. The wood was now more open, and
this added to the chance of her being caught. It was, indeed, a race
for life.
"And now she sees the wood again but a little way ahead, and
increases her speed. If she can once get into the shade of the
trees, she thinks she will be safe.
"The increase in speed was but a last spurt, however, and now she
feels her strength fast failing her. She stops and presses a hand to
her brow.
"'God give me strength!" she mutters.
Next moment she has turned on her pursuer like a tigress at bay.
"'Stand!' he cries, 'or I'll dirk you.'
"'Come a yard nearer,' she shouts, 'and you are a dead man!'
"But dirk in hand he rushes in.
"The girl's claymore gleams for a moment in the uncertain light; then
comes a dull thud.
"The man falls heavily on his face.
"Killed or wounded she stops not to see, but goes hurrying on, and
next minute she is safe within the shadows of the friendly wood.
"On she walks now, but cautiously, and has the good luck soon to
reach the road once more, only two Scots miles from Inverness.
"But the town she must avoid. There is greater danger there than in
the darkling forest.
"The moon has sunk, but the stars are very bright, for the sky has
cleared. And far in the east and south she espies a glare in the sky.
"'That must be the Duke's camp!' she thinks.
"Joy now takes the place of fear, and she walks bravely on, her head
erect, as becomes a fearless Highland maiden, but her hand upon the
claymore.
"She is near the camp, but still in the darkness, though watch-fires
light the bush around her. Suddenly there is a rattle as of a musket
being brought to the shoulder.
"'Who goes there?"
"'Friend.'
"'The watchword. Speak quickly, or I fire.'
"'I'm a woman!' cried poor Fiona. 'You will not shoot a girl. I
have a message for the Duke."
"'Advance, girl.'
"She drew near to the sentry, who was one of the 1st, or Royal Scots.
Loyal Scots would have been a good name for them in those days as
well as ever since.
"The sentry held up a light.
"'I must do my duty,' he said. 'Hand over that claymore. Why it
drips with gore! Are you a rebel?'
"'I am not; I am a loyal and royal Scot.' But she added, 'I fear I
have slain a rebel.'
"Hearing voices, three figures muffled in cloaks, with swords that
clanked upon the ground, came from a tent and approached the spot.
"'Captain McDonald,' said the sentry, 'this is a young lady who
claims audience with the Duke."
"'The Duke cannot be seen, Miss Stranger,' said the officer, 'but
come to our tent. We would hear your story.'
"A young officer was sitting writing at a rude table in the tent as
the party entered. His back was towards her, but as soon as she
spoke he started to his feet and looked at her.
"'What, Fiona!'
"'It is I, Ian. O, thank Heaven you are safe!'
"The officer had taken the girl in his arms, and was gazing fondly in
her face.
"But now her eyes swam, and all became dark. When she again looked
up, Ian was bending over her as she lay on a plaid.
"'Have I been long ill?'
"'Only a few minutes, Fiona, ma chree.'
"'Then there may still be time to assist my dear brother-in-law, his
wife, and children. But see, Ian, day is already breaking. You must
to horse if precious lives would be saved.'
"And hurriedly now she told her lover and his comrades all the story.
"Not more hurriedly than Captain McDonald gave the orders that
followed.
"'To horse, to horse, immediately, sergeant!' he shouted. 'Thirty
men armed to the teeth. If not here within ten minutes, I will
cleave the last man with my sword!'
"And now, laddie," said Auld-da, pausing, "have you had enough for
to-night?"
"No, no, no," I cried. "Tell me how it ended."
CHAPTER V.
ROYALS TO THE RESCUE--THAT FAITHFUL DWARF--HAND
TO HAND WITH DIRK AND CLAYMORE--"THE
RED-COATS ARE COMING!"
A glimmer of coming daylight was spreading high up in the east, and
one by one the stars were paling before it, as that warlike band
galloped away from the camp: thirty-three in all were they. Good men
and true.
"The largest and strongest horse carried Ian, and behind him sat
Fiona herself, for she was the guide.
"And now, dear boy, we must go back a few hours in this true story,
to see what happened to sturdy Robertson and his faithful men.
"It was nearly twelve o'clock, and the honest farmer was beginning to
think that after all no attack would be made on his little
stronghold, when suddenly Muirachie grasped his master's arm.
"'Hist!' he said in Gaelic, 'they are coming, I can hear their
footsteps.'
"At the same moment the faithful dwarf's collie, Kooran, sprang up
with a growl, and would have given voice had not Muirachie seized her
by the muzzle.
"Next moment, the tramp of armed men could be heard by all.
"'This side, this side,' whispered Robertson. 'Each man to a
loop-hole, but do not fire till I give the order.'
"Raoul Dhu was the first to advance towards the farm.
"'Hullo! fortified, are you?' he muttered, and drew back
"Robertson could have shot him where he stood, but generously
permitted him to retreat.
"'Come forth, you traitor to your lawful King and country,' cried
Raoul now. 'Come forth, I say, and I'll fight you with dirk or
claymore.'
"There was no response from the darkened fort.
"'Shut up your women folks. We don't want to kill females and
children, and we're going to fire. But, Robertson, we'll hang you
and all the traitor hounds you have beside you, and Fiona shall be
mine.'
"Then came a lull for the space of five minutes at least.
"It was the stillness that precedes a storm. A long line of smoke
and fire followed it, but the bullets hardly pierced the palisade.
It was briskly replied to from the forts, and more than one man was
seen to fall.
"Raoul and his men sought shelter now, and for the next half hour an
intermittent fire was kept up from the bush.
"It was not even replied to, for, determined not to waste his
ammunition, Robertson had caused his little force to lie down, and
the bullets pattered harmlessly on the walls behind them.
"In their cave, half down the wooded ravine, Mrs. Robertson heard the
firing, and even the loud, threatening voices of the assailants, but,
woman-like, she could but weep. O, yes, she prayed also, as perhaps
she had never prayed before, and even caused her little ones to kneel
down and add their voices to hers in supplication.
"It seemed, for two long hours, or probably nearer three, that those
prayers had been heard, and that the attack on the farm was
relinquished.
"Then, in the distance, those in the fort heard a murmur of many
voices coming nearer and nearer up the brae.
"They carried torches, too, which they wildly waved aloft. By this
light Robertson noted that Raoul's attacking force was now full fifty
strong.
"The defenders did not wait for the onslaught this time, but poured a
withering fire into the advancing ranks. Volley after volley; but
though many were seen to reel and fall, the rest kept rushing on, the
commander shouting:
"'Ready, lads, with the axes; and failing that, we'll rout them out
with fire and smoke.'
"Soon the hatchets were thundering on the palisade, and those who
wielded them were comparatively safe from the port-hole fire.
"Something must be done, and that at once.
"'Follow me!' cried Robertson.
"The rebels, in the glare of the torchlight, could see nothing of the
raid that your ancestor and his men now made from a door to the east,
and the very closeness of their ranks made Robertson's fire most
deadly. Two volleys were poured in at short range. So short,
indeed, that one bullet probably killed or wounded two men.
"'Now for the claymores!' shouted Robertson.
"The attack followed close on the shout, and men fell before it as if
mowed down by the reaper's scythe.
"They fled now to the adjoining copse, and the defenders poured a
volley after them into the wood.
"But that copse was not to protect them, for somehow a fallen torch
set a light to the undergrowth, and the fire was speedily raging and
licking up everything before it.
"The attacking party was obliged to fly, but, lit up by the glare,
many became an easy prey to the defenders, who were once more behind
the palisade.
"But startling now was the voice that Robertson heard at his elbow.
"'O, mister, mister'--it was the dwarf who spoke-- 'ta leddies, ta
leddies and children!'
"'What! You think the fire will reach them?'
"'To pe surely, mister. They will pe smother in ta cave whatefer.
But Muirachie will save them.'
"He waited no word of command. He simply disappeared.
"But what had now become of the besiegers? Will Raoul was not the
man to be easily discouraged, though his men were worn out, and none
would return. He had, therefore, to lead them back to Beauly, and
there revelling and drinking were resumed. Such was the custom of
the period. Then sleep followed.
"Day had broken and morning well advanced before Raoul Dhu resumed
his attack. It was still more determined than that which had gone
before it, and to the horror of the defenders it was seen that the
rebels had armed themselves with a battering-ram. Moreover, they had
crept up the side of the ravine, and had their instrument planted
almost before Robertson could fire a shot.
"Nothing, it seemed, was able to save them now. Their destruction
was but a matter of time.
"Crash! crash! crash! went the ram, and the palisade flew into
flinders before that iron-shod beam.
"One volley more was fired, then the Robertsons retreated to their
last trench.
"They would die fighting, at all events.
"And the end speedily came, dear boy."
"What, Auld-da," I cried, excitedly, "did Raoul Dhu slay the poor
men?"
"The end came, dear boy, thus," said Auld-da, in his quiet way:
"Raoul Dhu, who seemed to possess a charmed life--for his mother,
they said, had been witched at the time of his birth--dashed though
the breach followed by his men. He seemed surprised to find an inner
trench that had still to be stormed. But with a wild shout the
rebels leapt at it.
"It would be hand to hand now with dirk and claymore, and,
overpowering them by numbers, the enemy would make short work of the
defenders. Even at this awful moment Robertson had time to think of
those he was about to leave behind him.
"'God help my wife and bairns!' he cried, as he drew his dirk.
"There was no more shouting, for, when hand to hand, laddie, men do
not shout. There were sounds, however, in that trench and above it,
that would have made your blood run cold. The clash of steel, the
dull thuds of dirks driven home, short cries and groans, gaspings and
oaths. Oh! war is a terrible thing, my boy.
"But hark! Just at this moment, when all seemed lost, high above the
din of the hand-to-hand conflict rose a soldiers' cheer.
"'The red-coats are coming!' shouted Raoul Dhu. 'Back, men, to the
opening! Quick!'
"The red-coats were coming. Ay, and they had come, and next minute
were pouring in through the opening in the palisade.
"But let us drop the curtain, laddie, over the scene. It is too
dreadful to describe.
"Suffice it to say that no quarter was given. Every rebel inside
that palisade was slain.
"Ian, Fiona's lover, and Raoul Dhu seemed to single each other out,
and fought for many minutes with all the beauty and coolness of
skilled swordsmen; but Ian's sword found flesh at last, and Raoul Dhu
fell to the ground, pierced through the chest.
"With one foot on his foe, and right arm drawn back, Ian was about to
give the _coup de grace_ which Raoul, too proud to sue for mercy,
calmly awaited, when Fiona herself rushed upon the scene, and threw
herself on her lover's breast.
"'No, no, no!' she cried. 'For my sake, kill him not! To slay a
fallen foe were murder. Spare him.'
"'I will,' said Ian, and he sheathed his sword."
"But, Auld-da," I persisted, "the sword was all dripping with blood
and gore, wasn't it?"
"Haven't you had enough of that, laddie?" said Auld-da, smiling.
"I'll tell you no more, because my story is ended. You see, my boy,
God had heard the children's prayers."
"But what became of--of--of everybody, Auld-da?"
"That is soon told. Raoul Dhu was taken prisoner, and, I believe,
afterwards suffered the extreme penalty of the law at Edinburgh.
"When peace was once again restored, Ian was married to Fiona in the
little church adown the glen, for the soldier was now on leave.
"The children grew up; my father was one of them, my Uncle Peter
another.
"The farm, however, was burned, and, sad to say, poor Muirachie lost
his life in attempting to save the cattle.
"Then the Robertsons went higher up, and nearer to the forest.
"It was there that I was born, boy. But I shall tell you no more
to-night. Old men like me tire soon."
And so I left him dozing over the fire.
CHAPTER VI.
A HIGHLAND SCHOOL A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.
I went home the other day.
Home to Scotland, I mean. For though I may be found all winter long
at work here in my wigwam, in one of the sweetest sylvan nooks of
bonnie Berks, "My heart's in the Highlands," as the old song says.
Well, I work here for my boys and my girls, that is, for the
thousands--I think I may say thousands at least--of lads and lasses
who do me the honour of reading my books and stories.
England has endeared itself to me by many a tie of friendship and of
love. But home is home, you know, and so in spring-time, when the
light green tassels droop from the larch-trees, with their tiny
crimson buds, when the mavis makes the woodlands ring with his glad
clear notes, and the linnet sings its own sweet wee love-song among
the banks of golden furze that hug the ground on our Scottish
moorlands--I go home. And I go home again in autumn, when the purple
and crimson of heather and heath cover mountain and brae, and the
whirr of the gorcock is heard on the hills. When streams roll wilder
as they dash onwards to the sea, and solemn pine forests nod dark in
the breeze.
Waxing poetical, I do believe! Well, I am taken that way sometimes.
Anyhow, I went home the other day, and as I sat on a rock high up in
the Deeside Highlands, and gazed around on scenery that, for wild and
lonesome grandeur, is hardly to be surpassed in all broad Scotland, I
do believe that the tears would have dropped from my eyes, had not
the Wizard of the North come to my aid, and bade me declaim as
follows:
I had to stand up to do it, mind you.
"This is my own, my native land.
* * * * *
"O Caledonia! stern and wild,
Meet nurse for a poetic child!
Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
Land of my sires! what mortal hand
Can e'er untie the filial band
That knits me to thy rugged strand?"
"Well," said a voice close behind me, "after that I think you had
better come home and take tea with me."
I was so taken aback, and so shy at being caught rhapsodizing, as one
might call it, that had there been a fox's burrow anywhere near, I
should have dived head first into it.
The speaker was the village minister, a good and clever little man,
who plays and sings, and does any number of nice things.
Of course, I would go and have tea; so down the mountain-side we went
together.
There was nobody else at the minister's house except an old maiden
lady, who spends most of her time in visiting the poor and--gossiping.
I soon found out that she and I were not on the same platform as
regards boys.
"O, I _hate_ boys," she said emphatically.
"Well, _I_ don't," I observed mildly.
"O, but _I do_," she snapped, "and I never see a boy without thinking
of a monkey. Boys are noisy, chattering, howling, whistling, teasing
brats, and never out of wickedness except when asleep. Gentle or
simple, they are all the same at heart, just as full of mischief as
this delicious new-laid egg is full of----"
She cut the top off, viciously too, as if the poor egg had been a boy.
There was a chicken in it!
Well, I couldn't stand it any longer. I just laughed and laughed,
and leant back and laughed, till the minister's chair began to crack.
Yes, and the minister joined me too, right heartily.
But Miss Steelyard pierced me through and through with those
indignant little grey eyes of hers, till I began to think I'd gone
too far.
"Ah! well, Miss Steelyard," I said winningly, "I suppose there are
boys and boys."
"No, I won't admit it," she snapped. "They are all boys, every one
of them--'deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked.'"
Well, I wasn't going to stand that.
"For my own part," I said, "I rather like a boy who has some spirit,
and who even plays tricks. There is never any saying what a bad boy
may turn out. He might stand at the head of a great republic, Miss
Steelyard."
"O, yes," said this lady, witheringly, "or dangle at the end of a
long rope."
As I saw there was no soothing the old maid, I sipped my tea in
silence till the parson changed the subject to trout-fishing.
But I maintain, nevertheless, dear readers, that there are boys and
boys.
To which of these catalogues my grandfather belonged when he was a
boy, it is not for me to say, but for you to judge.
* * * * *
It was about thirty-five years after the terrible events I have tried
to record in last chapter, before my grandfather--plain John
Robertson, but called Ian when his foot was on his native heath--saw
the light of day.
The day before his birth there had been several strange happenings,
all duly related by his mother's nurse, an ancient dame, called
Yonish MacPhee. Her name was not MacPhee--fa--fi--fum, though it
might have been, for Yonish wore a mob-cap, and dreamt dreams and saw
visions.
Come to think of it, I dare say the mob-cap had not much to do either
with the dreams or visions, but it was a weird looking head-dress of
bleached cotton, with flaps all round the front, that sometimes
almost hid her thin yellow face, and sometimes blew right back on her
neck, or stuck straight out like the lugs of an oar-eared rabbit. No
wonder people said she was a witch. Anyhow, the day before his
birth, Yonish saw four magpies sitting all in a row on the limb of a
dead tree. This was a bad omen!
Then about fifty red-deer came out of the forest and ate up about
half an acre of green springing oats. This was good for the deer,
but bad for the farmer. Yonish would have gone to "hush-oo" them
away, but they would have tossed the old lady on their horns, and
played skittles with her.
That day, too, a raven set upon the chimney and croaked, the cream
turned sour, and the nanny-goat let down no milk.
But in spite of all these omens, grandfather was declared to be the
finest child ever seen in the parish, with his father's nose, and the
very blue eyes of his mother. I myself won't take the nose in,
because I have been told that my great grandfather's nose was very
large. He snuffed, and there was no want of accommodation for the
snuff.
That is the mildest way of putting it.
Well, then, my grandfather began to grow up. I have no
authentication of this. I simply reason from analogy. Most boys do
grow, for they have not much else to do or think about.
From swaddling bands to kilts. And having arrived at the latter
stage, he began to take notice of things, putting this and that
together as it were, and drawing his own conclusions.
At seven years of age he was sent to school, and then his mind began
to expand as well as his body. It was a day-school, of course, and
stood about a mile and a half from his father's house.
I dare say it was a very humble sort of an edifice; it was pulled
down long ago. But this school was kept up by the Kirk, and the
curriculum was of no mean order.
It stood a little way off the road, I have been told, and was a long,
low, stone building, thatched with heather, and not unlike a tiny
church, for the door was in the eastern gable, and there were two
windows at each side with real glass in them, each pane being very
green and with a bull's eye in the centre.
Those windows did not draw up nor down; and when the dominie wanted
ventilation he simply opened the door "wide to the wall."
The scholars, as they were called, were about thirty or more, and
came from far and near. They were of both sexes, the girls occupying
one side of the school, the boys the other. Near the far gable, and
close to the fire, there was a kind of little pulpit, and here the
dominie reigned serene, monarch of all he surveyed.
Here too, in a drawer, was the tawse--terrible weapon of punishment,
especially on a cold day when one's hands are blue: flogging, in the
English sense, was never permitted in Scottish schools. The palms or
fingers were warmed with the brutal tawse, and oftentimes boys were
slashed around the bare feet and ankles, and their howls for mercy
would be heart-rending. But mercy was unknown to the souls of those
old-time dominies. My own knowledge of Latin was all flogged into me
with the tawse, and I used to believe the dominie had no soul, only
just a gizzard like a hen or a cock.
When young Ian first went to school, he thought he knew a thing or
two; for he had been taught at home, and could already read the New
Testament and make pot-hooks and figures on a slate. He thought he
knew as much as the teacher, but he was very soon undeceived.
Why, this dominie could not only read Virgil and Horace, but he could
even talk good English. So could the boy Ian.
But Gaelic was always spoken in the play-ground, and English and
Gaelic in school.
On Fridays not a word of Gaelic was allowed to be uttered.
The schoolmaster was said to be an angel out of doors, but a
perfect--well, not an angel--in the school-room.
There was a sturdy independence about Ian, that did not tend to make
the dominie love him. The first day he came, the teacher had him up,
and addressed him in English.
"How old are you?"
"Seven."
"Say seven, sir."
"Seven, sir."
"What is your name?"
"Ian."
"Ian, _Sir_."
"No, Ian Robertson."
"Say, John Robertson."
"Shan't! My name is Ian."
"Well, you'll have a touch of the tawse."
"Does she hurt?"
"'Deed, indeed she does. Now what's your name?"
"Sir John Robertson."
Then the boy's tongue went off at a tangent as it were, and he
rattled off the following gibberish:
"Sir John Robertson is my name
And Scotland is my nation,
Forest Farm's my happy home
And heaven my expectation."
Sir John, as the boys determined to call him, was now permitted to
take his slate and sit down.
But he was very sulky for a time.
Why had he been sent to school? he asked himself.
What was the good of school, anyhow? He would have but little time
now to catch humble-bumble bees, to chase young rabbits, to look for
birds' nests, to fish, and to climb trees.
How beautiful it was out of doors! How sweetly the sun shone in
through the green glass of the windows. He had half a mind to bolt
and run for it. He was sure enough the teacher couldn't catch him.
But--hillo! here was a boy going to get a thrashing. There was some
fun in that. Not for the culprit, however, for he spat in his hands
and pulled down his sleeves when the dominie went for the tawse. But
what a face he made, and how he kicked and jumped and cried when he
got the first tingling "pandé." My little boy grandfather had to
thrust his bonnet into his mouth to prevent himself from laughing
aloud.
But, just as "pandé" number six was descending, the culprit's courage
failed him, and he quickly drew in his hand. Down came the tawse on
the dominie's own leg. All the boys and girls tittered, and the boy
was whacked all the way back to his seat, where he cried the whole
afternoon.
Ian then took to drawing little men and women on his slate. He gave
each a long tail, and then held them up for the other boys to laugh
aloud at. He thus succeeded, beyond even his expectations, in
getting no less than three boys tawsed.
School was fine fun after all.
It was also a treat for young Ian to see how deftly the dominie threw
the tawse. He was a demon bowler. When he noticed a boy, say at the
other end of the school, talking or laughing, he rolled the tawse up
in a ball and sent it whirling towards the urchin with an astonishing
accuracy of aim, the result of long practice. The tawse would alight
in the culprit's lap, and he had to carry it up--it felt like
carrying a snake by the tail--and, presenting it to the pedagogue,
receive his "pandés" and go back to his seat a sadder and a wiser
loon.
These "pandés" reddened all the palms, and sometimes even blistered
the wrist. It was ten times worse for hours to come than the feeling
one experiences after a snow-ball fight.
But young Ian's first day at school came to an end at last.
"School's out!" cried the teacher.
This wasn't very elegant English, but it had a grand effect. Books
and slates and Bibles were bundled away; and a rush was made for the
door. Here a block occurred, of course, but finally all were free to
yelp and yell, and dance and scream, till the rocks re-echoed the
pandemoniacal noise.
But Ian stopped to speak to no one. He didn't like boys over much,
and he hated girls, because they were so silly and couldn't do
anything as it ought to be done.
So my little morsel of a grandfather flew off like a hare to the
hills, his bare legs brushing the heather, and his bonnet under his
arm, because a big boy made a grab at it before he left the
play-ground.
When the children had all gone, the dominie put away the "tawse,"
locked up the school, and retired to the bosom of his family.
CHAPTER VII.
HARD TIMES FOR A TEACHER--THE TAWSE--LITTLE RACHEL--A
DROLL ADVENTURE--MY GRANDFATHER STUCK FAST
IN THE CHIMNEY.
There wasn't much bosom about the dominie's family, for the matter of
that. Only his wife, a great kind-hearted woman, his little daughter
Rachel, and the collie dog.
Dominie Freeschal himself was not much of a man, "judged by points,"
as doggy people say. He lacked size and bone, and he was thin----and
quite out of show-form, so to speak.
He was supposed to be "powerfully learned," however, and powerful
with the tawse. In those good old times some of Solomon's _dicta_
were construed very literally indeed.
"Spare the rod and spoil the child" didn't mean that you were to lock
up the tawse in the desk, and make a pet of the boy.
Quite the reverse.
A "scholar" might consider himself very lucky indeed if he did not
have a sound whacking once in three days. And even the parents
expected that the dominie would do his duty towards his pupils in the
way of flagellation, and do it handsomely too.
"Now, Mister Freeschal," said a father one day, "I'm going to be
after sending my little son to your school, and it's a little
_nickem_ he is whatsoever, so you'll not be letting him over you at
all, for he is entirely over his mother."
"I'll see to it, Sandy," was the dominie's reply; and he did.
Another day, another father came to see the schoolmaster on business.
"I've a complaint to make, Mister Freeschal."
"Well," said Mister Freeschal, "it's myself that is sorry for that
same. What is it, Mister Young?"
"It's that you don't thrash Tonal enough. Now for more 'n two weeks
he hasn't been crying, for his face is as clean at night as in the
morning evermore. I'm indignant, sure, and if you'll not be doing
your duty by the boy, I'll not be after paying you."
And off he went.
That same afternoon, young Tonal was called up and told to spell the
words "believe," "deceive," and "relieve."
In each case poor little Tonal had the misfortune to misplace the "i."
A hush fell over the school as the dominie marched off to the desk
for the tawse, for every one could tell by the swing of his
coat-tails that he meant business.
Young Tonal licked his palms and prepared for the inevitable.
"You're wrong in your orthography" (the dominie put the emphasis on
the "graphy"). "Now I'm not going to _deceive_ your father, nor take
his money for nothing; but I _believe_ I'll _relieve_ my feelings by
whacking you well. Hold out your hand."
And Tonal went home with a dirty wet face that night anyhow. But as
will presently be seen, the dominie had succeeded in stirring the
boy's blood and making a conspirator of him.
There are exceptions to every rule, however, and one day a boy's
mother believed that the dominie had tawsed her lad too much, so she
went to the school to relieve her feelings.
She was no great beauty, certainly, but a plain-faced, fair-haired
woman, with sinews as tough as gun-tackle.
I think the dominie quailed as she entered the school-room.
"And it's you that'll be after beating my boy black and blue, is it,
you miserable oshach?"
She waited for no reply, but just went straight for Mister Freeschal
with a broom-handle, which she carried under her arm; and I'm really
afraid that the boys and girls grinned as the dominie fled round and
round the school, and finally took refuge in the pulpit, or desk.
Mrs. Nairn, for that was the good lady's name, had a visit from the
minister next day, and it is said she received a most severe
heckling, but, nevertheless, the teacher never dared touch that boy
again. Johnnie Nairn became quite a hero, and the other pupils used
to say:
"O, Johnnie, it's me that would like to have such a mother as you've
got."
Sometimes a boy would be "one licking to the good." This happened
when the dominie made a mistake and whacked the wrong youngster.
"Never mind, my lad," the schoolmaster would say; "you're one to the
good. Don't forget to remind me of it next time I'm going to tawse
you."
And the boy never did forget.
The teacher was no great favourite, you may be sure.
I suppose he ruled his wife by psychal force; it certainly could not
have been by physical, for she weighed at least two of him.
There was a long peat-stack that the boys had to pass on their way
from school, and near this Mrs. Freeschal would often be found, and
she had always a kind word and a smile, and sometimes a pea-meal
bannock for the urchins whose faces were all begrimed with tears.
In his daughter, Rachel, the dominie was quite bound up. She was a
little thing of eight, with long fair hair, blue eyes, and brown bare
legs and feet.
She ruled the boys as if she'd been a little queen, and even the
girls had to be sweet to her. Some boys were so much in love with
Rachel that if she gave one a smile and tossed her head defiantly and
imperiously at another, there was sure to be a fight between the
rivals on the way home that evening, resulting in torn kilts and
bleeding noses, and sometimes a black eye.
This black-eye business was serious, because, whenever the dominie
saw a boy so disfigured, he went for the tawse at once, and no
questions were asked or answered. So before two boys began to fight
it was no unusual thing to bargain that there should be "no hitting
in the face."
* * * * *
Now it came to pass that before my little sturdy mite of a
grandfather had been at this seminary quite six months, he had fought
himself half-way up the school, that is, he could thrash about
fifteen boys, and fifteen could thrash him. But he was conquering
one every week at least.
So as he was so brave, and because he used to take his tawsings
manfully and never cry, he began to be looked upon as a kind of hero
in Rachel's eyes.
Rachel's father, when he paid a visit to Beauly, always came back
with a pocketful of brandy-snaps and sugar-bools* for his wee
daughter. Of course she ate most herself, but had always a few to
expend on her boy favourites.
* Sugar-marbles.
The dominie didn't like boys not to cry when tawsed, and used to
devise other modes of punishing them.
One of these was "keeping them in." That is, locking them up for an
hour or two in the schoolroom after hours. There was an awful
legend, too firmly believed in by the boys, that once upon a time a
lad was locked up and forgotten, and how he fell asleep, and the rats
ate two of his toes clean off.
So this mode of punishment was no favourite with the pupils, you may
be sure.
One day Rachel slighted my grandfather--who thought he was madly in
love with her. She put the point of her little tongue out at him and
immediately after smiled most sweetly on a bigger boy, Kenneth McRae.
Of course my grandfather determined to fight Kenneth, but not content
with that, he was so incensed at his heroine that he called her
"little wretch," and she began to cry.
There was a drum-head court-martial at once. It was in vain that my
grandfather pleaded that he meant "little Rache"; he was convicted,
had six pandés on each hand, and was condemned to be kept in that
beautiful spring evening for a whole hour after it was dark.
Rachel cried all that afternoon, and nobody could tell why.
The punishment was more than the boy could bear with anything akin to
equanimity. It was bad enough while the sun still shone, but when
that luminary began to sink, encrimsoning the clouds, and making the
bull's eye in each pane of glass look like a little setting sun
itself, then he began to grow impatient, to say the very least of it.
If the dominie were to release him at once, then there might still be
time to go home by the hill and the forest, because there were many
birds' nests to visit.
I am not holding the prisoner up as a paragon of virtue in the way of
bird-nesting. He did not rob them, simply because it had never
occurred to him that there was any fun in making a collection of
eggs. He had seen one such collection, and also a lot of stuffed
birds at a barber's shop in Beauly, and being at heart a naturalist,
he was much disgusted; the eggs had lost colour, and seemed
dreadfully out of place, and the birds were dusty, their necks and
legs all awry, and a perfectly idiotic stare in their glass eyes.
But I must give my daft morsel of a grandfather his due, and say he
never robbed a nest. He would watch these nests from the very
foundation; watch the strange architecture day after day till they
were lined, and his pleasure at seeing the first bonnie egg was very
real indeed. The birds, he told me, seemed all to know him, and look
upon him as their champion. And so he was. If ever he met a much
bigger boy in the forest, he lured him away in a diplomatic kind of
way which was nearly always successful; if the boy was about his own
size, he ordered him off, or stripped and fought him. So even at
this early age I think my hero was an embryo soldier.
Well, on this particular evening he was sitting on a stool bemoaning
his sad fate, when something like the tapping of a woodpecker fell on
his ear.
He looked quickly up.
There was a face at the window, looking in at him through a hole
which a snow-ball had made last winter.
"Ian!"
"She has come to laugh at me, I suppose," he said to himself.
"Ian!"
It was a still small and pitying voice. Sorrow in it, but no anger.
He went quickly towards the broken pane.
"Ian, I'se sorry for you."
"O, don't say that! I don't mind a tawsing, but kind words would
make me cry. I wouldn't like to cry before you."
"No; you's a brave boy, and never cries. Ian! am I a little wretch?"
"No----o----; you're little Rachel!"
"Ian, put your mouf (mouth) up to the broken hole. Don't be sy
(shy); I'm not going to tiss you. Boys is always sy."
Ian put his mouth up to the hole anyhow, and Rachel popped a
sugar-bool in it, and watched him eat it with quite a womanly
interest. Then she fed him with brandy-snaps, and finished off with
two more bools.
"Now I'se off!" she cried. "I'se going to Beauly to fetch mammy and
daddy home, then you'll be free."
Away she went, and the schoolroom looked darker now and more lonesome
than ever. The sun had set too, leaving only a few red bars of cloud
athwart the forest horizon.
He began pacing up and down like a caged wild beast, But he wasn't
that quite. He felt a hero after the brandy-snaps and sugar-bools,
and Rachel's kindly words.
"I won't stop here," he cried aloud. "There might be ghosts, or
anything."
He gave the door a kick, and, as he did so, discovered that the key
was in it, though on the outside.
Even had he known this before Rachel came to feed him, he was too
manly to have asked her to rescue him. It would have brought trouble
on her.
He began to think.
Ha! what a happy thought! He would climb up the chimney, slide down
over the roof, and then turn the key and let himself out. It was a
funny idea, but the very humour of it commended itself to him.
There was still light enough to read a portion of the good Book by;
so this droll little grand-dad of mine sat down by the window, and
read aloud for some time. Then, jumping up, he prepared for action.
He stripped off his jacket, and vest, and kilt. He seldom wore a
cap, only a towzie head of yellow hair.
He had nothing on now but his shirt; that would get black enough, but
he could wash it in the burn.
He peeped fearfully up the chimney now, and could see the sky. He
shuddered a little, but went boldly up, head first.
Alas! and alack! I don't quite know what "alack" means, but it
doesn't matter. Anyhow, my grandfather stuck fast in the chimney.
Here was a plight, and he was half-choked, too, with the falling soot.
O! the agony of the next two hours! He gave himself up for lost; if
he didn't die in the chimney, of soot-suffocation, he would be
roasted alive next morning, when the fire was lit.
He said his prayers over and over again; then singular to say, he
fell asleep, sound and fast.
How long he slept he could not tell himself, but, when he awoke, he
made one more struggle for life and liberty, and succeeded. The rest
would be easy.
But now let me tell you what befell the dominie. His wife, and he,
and Rachel when she arrived, first stayed at a friend's house for
supper, and at eight o'clock he set out alone to walk home, the whole
of his family--that is, the whole lot of the two of them--remaining
in Beauly for the night.
He had not forgotten his prisoner. He would get home by nine, he
told himself, and, if the young rascal did get a scare, it would
serve him right. Ah! little did he know just then where the scare
was to come in. Now, those were the stupid old drinking days, when
people believed that spirits warmed them and did them good, and all
such silly nonsense. So when the dominie met a friend who invited
him into an inn, poor prisoner Ian was soon forgotten.
It was long past twelve, but almost as bright as day, owing to the
big, round moon that was shining, when the dominie rather unsteadily
approached the school.
At this very time my grandfather was about to slide down, and so he
saw the dominie advancing. Something must be done speedily. Like
most people in this wild land, the schoolmaster was superstitious,
and Ian seemed to know this.
First, then, he emitted the low, mournful cry of a barn owl. Next
moment, with an eldritch yell, he dropped from aloft, right in front
of the dominie. Such a sudden apparition, black from head to foot,
was enough to frighten anyone.
The dominie was more than frightened--he was appalled; his hat fell
off, his eyes bulged out, his arms were half-raised, and he looked
like a chicken trying to fly.
"Wha--wha--where d'ye co--co--come from?" stammered the dominie.
My tricky little grand-da shrieked again, and pointed aloft; then
down dropped the dominie, in a dwaum.*
* A dwaum: fainting brought on by fear.
Boy-like, Ian couldn't help giving the dominie's hat just one good
kick; then he turned the key, gathered up his clothes, and made off
towards the stream that ran through the ravine.
A bath at such a time of night was rather risky, but the occasion
demanded it.
Next day Ian went to school as usual. The dominie eyed him narrowly,
but said nothing. No doubt he thought that the adventure with the
black sprite, or imp of darkness, was all a dream.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE CONSPIRATORS--A DEED OF DARKNESS--A FEAST TO
FOLLOW--STRANGE SCHOOL-CUSTOMS--A FIGHT IN THE
FOREST--LAST DAYS AT SCHOOL.
My grandfather grew, and kept on growing.
But Ian grew not merely in height, as some lads, who never take
exercise nor the cold morning-tub, do, till they become lanky and
thin and lantern-jawed, or fat and pasty, with faces like half-cooked
dumplings, but in strength as well.
And though he was wild enough when free, he stuck to his books and
slates at school.
He continued, however, to fight his way to the top of the school.
But, though he was often tawsed, he was never kept in again.
This was very satisfactory, for that terrible adventure in the
chimney he never could forget. The tawsing, however, was far from
pleasant, and so when one day Tonal, the boy whom the teacher
thrashed so unmercifully as to make the lad bear malice, came up to
my grandfather in the play-ground, and said mysteriously that he
wanted him that evening to go with him to the dark forest, where he
would tell him something, a ready consent was given; for even at this
early age my grandfather was fond of adventure.
Tonal, who was a great friend of Ian's, led him that night into a
gloomy defile before he uttered a word. Then after looking around
him, as if he feared they had been followed, he whispered words in
grandfather's ears that made him start.
"You don't mean it surely?"
"I do," said Tonal, nodding.
"And the other boys are afraid?"
Tonal nodded again.
"You and I are friends, Tonal, aren't we?"
"Better than brothers."
"Then I will help you."
The two young rascals then shook hands in a most tragical way, as if
the deed they were about to commit were nothing less than arson at
the least.
Just three days after this, Tonal drew a caricature of the dominie,
with a bottle of whisky sticking out of his pocket. This he held up
for the inspection of the other boys, who tittered and laughed; then
down flew the tawse, and Tonal picked it up and marched boldly to the
front.
But the slate also had to be produced.
This was mutiny. Ten pandés on each hand, and to be kept in!
It was early spring, and night fell about eight o'clock, and a dark
night it was.
Tonal would have been very much afraid in the lonesome schoolroom,
had not the thoughts of what was to come buoyed him up.
At long last, the key turned softly in the door, and a mysterious
voice gave the watchword:
"Hist!"
"I've got it," said Tonal, touching Ian's hand with the cold, snaky
tawse.
"Well, come on then; I'll run and give the key back to little Rachel."
"Wasn't it in the door?"
"No."
Rachel was waiting at the peat-stack. She was trembling with fear.
"O, you good little Rachel," said my grandfather.
Then a sudden impulse caused him to take her in his arms and give her
a rough kind of a hug. He had never gone so far in his sweethearting
before, and now, though it was too dark to see it, his face was as
red as a Christmas turkey's.
Rachel hurried back to hang up the key, and the boys flew off to the
forest.
In a little glade a fire had already been laid, and soon its gleams
were illuminating the brown stems of the pine-trees, and sparks like
golden snow were carried high aloft in the rolling smoke.
With much pomp and ceremony, the conspirators laid the tawse on the
gleaming wood, and sat down in silence, like a couple of stoical
Indians, to see it consumed.
It had always felt like a snake; how like one it seemed now, and how
it twisted and writhed, and twined and turned. It settled down at
last into a fiery serpent, then it gradually crumbled away and
disappeared.
After this the boys gave three such wild cheers that the very birds
were scared, and some flew, screaming, away into the black darkness
beyond.
A little feast now followed. They had provided themselves with
bannocks and butter, with potatoes to roast, and a huge mountain
trout to grill over the clear embers.
There is no doubt about one thing, they were entirely happy around
this camp-fire, and, boy-like, must commence to talk about their
prospects. Tonal was two years older than grandfather, and he was
determined to be a soldier.
"I can beat the drum a little, you know, so they are sure to take me.
And I may be a drum-major yet, you know."
"Well, I'm going to be a farmer," said my grandfather, "and have as
many sheep as there are pine-trees in the forest. Then----"
"Then what?"
"Well then, you know, I'll marry Rachel."
Poor boys! Little did they know that
"There is a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough hew them as we will."
* * * * * *
The events that immediately succeeded their feast in the forest may
soon be told.
1st. Tonal had already told his father, a very humble and poor
cottar, that he would enlist.
"If it be the will of Heaven, go, my boy, and the Lord be ever with
you."
This was of course spoken in Gaelic.
So Tonal did not go back to school to face the dominie's wrath. He
would rather face the French.
2ndly. My grandfather did go back to school.
3rdly. The dominie went straight to Beauly and bought a bran-new
tawse. But O, the irony of fate, my grandfather was the very first
it was tried upon. And he didn't like it either.
Nevertheless, in spite of his frequent tawsings, this ancestor of
mine continued to grow. It is just possible I am showing the worst
side of his character. Perhaps I shouldn't. For he must always have
been good-hearted. The boy is the father of the man; the boy I might
say is the grandfather of the man.
I know one thing for certain, and that is this: he dearly loved his
father and mother, and brothers and sister. He had only one sister.
The farm on the Braes was a good one and prolific, and Ian's sturdy
father was revered and respected, an elder of the church, and one who
brought up his children in the fear and admonition of the Lord, as it
was termed. Every evening there were prayers, and morning prayers
also. But this was quite the reverse of making the children
restricted or sad.
Many a jovial dance was got up in the long winter evenings at
Robertson's house, and on such occasions the father was as merry as
the young people, and if he wasn't dancing among them he was beating
time to the music of fiddle or bagpipe.
In the Highlands of Scotland the winters are usually long and stormy,
but the peasantry and farmers have many pleasant ways of making it
pass; so that, when at length he went out into the world, my
grandfather had a very happy home to look back to.
School life, despite an occasional tawsing, was far indeed from
unbearable.
There were one or two strange customs connected with the little
Highland school that do not prevail nowadays. How would my reader
like, for instance, to carry a peat to school with him every winter's
morning? But this was what my grand-dad and all the other boys had
to do. The girls were exempt.
If a boy forgot to bring his peat, he had his hands well warmed with
the tawse, and he was not likely to forget next day.
These peats kept up not only the school fire but the dominie's family
fire also.
Well, there was no disgrace in bringing a peat to school. Even the
minister's son had to do it.
But the other custom I only mention to condemn.
It was a great cock-fight that took place before Christmas, or Old
Yule rather, every year.
Every boy on this great day brought a cock to school with him, and
the boy whose cock should be victor was proclaimed king of the school
for the whole year, and was exempt from tawsing, except for specially
aggravating conduct.
The cocks that were killed became the property of the dominie.
The fight, I am sorry to say, created considerable excitement in the
parish, and the boys' parents came from far and near to witness it.
I have been told, though I can scarcely believe it, that even the
minister himself came to see the fun.
Sad fun; yes, and cowardly, cruel fun!
Nevertheless, when, on the evening of a great fight, my grandfather
was duly crowned king, no prouder boy perhaps ever lived.
Even the cock that won him the honour and glory clapped his wings and
crew over and over again, and to complete my grand-dad's happiness,
little Rachel looked upon her hero as sweetly as an angel could have
looked, though it could only be an angel of darkness who would attend
a cock-fight.
As he sat next Rachel that evening, at a party which the dominie got
up for the occasion, Ian felt his cup of bliss was not only full but
overflowing. Rachel had on a lovely snow-white frock and scarf of
Fraser tartan, and Ian was dressed in his Sunday's kilt with an
eagle's feather in his bonnet.
As king he was asked to open the ball, and of course choose his
partner.
Now duty whispered to him, "Ask Mrs. Freeschal to dance."
But duty was left in the lurch for once. One glance at Rachel's
bonnie face, and next moment both were whirling through that very
mazy dance--the Reel of Tulloch.
Tom Grahame, a much bigger and older boy than Ian, looked on at the
dance with the green eye of jealousy.
When it was over, and the king was escorting his little queen back to
her seat, Tom stole up behind his majesty and whispered darkly in his
ear.
And these were the words he whispered:
"It's myself that will thrash you to-morrow within an inch of your
life."
"Sure, then, Tom Grahame," was young Ian Robertson's reply, "the
threat that you throw on me won't keep me awake, and when I sleep it
isn't dreaming about you I'll be. Good-night till the morning."
That was a happy evening anyhow, and when he went to school next day
my grandfather had almost forgotten all about the coming battle.
Boys will be boys, and they were just as combative in those days as
now. Perhaps more so.
At this school, when any pitched battle was to be fought, the
belligerents and their friends betook themselves to the forest.
There were no rules of the ring. A fall decided the end of a round;
but if the two fell together, they were allowed to fight it out on
the ground like a couple of bears.
"Is it to be hitting in the face or not?" said big Tom Grahame.
"As the fight is for a lady," replied my gallant grandfather, "I'm
going to hit wherever I can, and you may do the self-same."
That was really the most terrible school-combat that had taken place
for years.
Tom Grahame was a vengeful tyke, and fought with fearful fury. But
Ian was more skilful, and punished his adversary so well that the
fight would have ended in his favour, had not Tom used his foot in a
most unhandsome fashion.
Down rolled poor Ian, and while the other boys shouted "Unfair!" Tom
threw himself on top of my little progenitor, and mauled him terribly.
Then in desperation Ian pulled out his kilt pin, and popped it
straight into his big antagonist's chest.
This decided the fight. It nearly decided the fate of Tom Grahame
also. The big pin had done its work so well--or ill--that Tom was
confined to bed for a whole month.
Filled with remorse, my grandfather went every day to see him, and so
did the doctor, till he was out of danger.
But Ian became Tom's nurse, in a manner of speaking, all throughout
his illness, and, strange to say, between those two boys sprang up a
friendship that lasted for many and many a year, until deep seas
rolled between, and, as will be seen as we go on, years after this.
Ever after, however, as long as my grandfather remained at school, he
was known by the nickname of Preen Mhor.*
* Big pin.
* * * * *
One day, and well did my grandfather remember it Mr. Freeschal paid a
visit to the farm, and was kindly welcomed in.
"It's about your boy I've come to speak," said the dominie.
"Why, surely, he hasn't gotten into any more mischief, has he?"
"O, no, and if it was that same, it isn't complaining to you I'd be;
I'd tawse him well."
Robertson senior held out his snuff-box, and the dominie, after
tapping the lid in a sociable kind of way, took a hearty pinch, and
returned the mull.
Meanwhile Mrs. Robertson was bustling about getting ready the evening
meal, for Highlanders are nothing unless sociable.
"Your boy," said the dominie, "is about past my lore. He knows about
as much as his master."
"It's myself that is delighted, Mr. Freeschal!"
"Yes, I've done well for him, and there isn't a boy in all Great
Britain, France, or Ireland, who can beat him at figures or grammar,
and his writing is just copper-plate itself, only, if anything,
better. I could teach him Latin and Greek, you know, if it is a
parson you'd be making of him. If not, I tell you, as an honest man
should, that it would be taking your money for nothing to keep him
longer with me. And that's what I've come to tell you."
"Well, well, Mr. Freeschal, you have made us all happy, and of course
you'll stop to supper?"
There was some pretty play for nearly a minute after this, the
dominie expostulating, the farmer's wife beseeching. But it ended in
the dominie staying, which he had meant to do from the first.
By-and-by the minister himself dropped in and took a friendly chair
and a friendly bit of food.
During the evening, which was a very jovial one, young Ian's future
prospects were freely discussed, but nothing definite was arrived at,
except that to educate my grandfather any further would only tend to
weaken his brain.
Strange reasoning this was, only it contented those simple souls, and
that was enough. There is a good deal of truth in Pope's lines--
"From ignorance our comfort flows,
The only wretched are the wise."
This would be considered somewhat dangerous doctrine nowadays.
* * * * *
Grandfather's last days at school soon arrived, and both teacher and
his companions were better to him than ever; and Rachel, now a demure
little maiden of fourteen, told Ian in confidence that he was going
away out into the world now, and that it just felt to her like death
or growing old, neither of which she considered very desirable.
When the very, very last evening came, she bade him good-bye at the
corner of the old peat-stack, and though my grandfather did all he
could think of to comfort her, he had to part from her at last in
sorrow and tears.
CHAPTER IX.
LEAVING HOME--A HUMBLE TRADE--"I'LL NOT SERVE
UNDER A FRASER OF LOVAT: I AM A ROBERTSON AND
A LOYALIST."
It was with a heart filled to overflowing that Ian Robertson, my
fifteen-years-old grandfather, left his old home on the Braes and
started on his journey to the distant town of Inverness.
I purposely pass over the parting with his mother, father, brothers,
and sister, because I do not wish to have my pages blistered with
tears.
Sturdily did the boy march off, however, with all his chattels tied
up in a bundle swung over his shoulder on the end of a stick, and a
five-shilling-piece in his pocket.
Ah! well, many a brave boy has begun the world on less than five
shillings, and Ian was not the lad to be daunted.
He paused at the turn of the road to wave his bonnet back at the old
farm, and half a mile farther on he mounted a rock that placed him
within view of the old schoolhouse and school. And--why yonder was
Rachel her own little self standing right on top of the peat-stack
and waving him adieu!
His heart went right away back to her with every wave that he gave
his blue bonnet, and it was only with a considerable effort that he
plucked up courage at last to jump down and continue his journey.
Ah! those partings of youthful days, how sad they are, and brave is
the sensitive boy who can bear them.
Now, the reader, I hope, will think none the less of my hero when I
say that, having arrived at a little pine wood, he looked up and down
the road to make sure nobody saw him, then entered the plantation,
and knelt down to pray.
He prayed just then as he had never prayed before, and felt that in
that prayer he was giving himself all away to God.
I am not going to repeat a sentence of the prayer. Indeed, though I
know the soul and substance of it, I could not if I tried. "Out of
the fulness of the heart the mouth speaketh," you know. It was that
way with the boy now.
We are told that the prayer of a righteous man availeth much. Well,
I have not painted my grandfather as a saint; but I do most firmly
believe that the prayers of sinners are listened to as well as those
of better men.
Anyhow, I do know this--my grandfather, even in his boyhood, had
faith, and as he rose from his knees, he felt brighter and happier
and more hopeful than ever he remembered feeling before.
Whether or not his prayers for guidance for his every footstep in
life were heard, my story has yet to reveal.
* * * * *
Towards the evening of this eventful day, this tired and weary
boy-grandfather of mine, with his red bundle on his shoulder, drew
near to his destination.
He was about to learn a trade. There is no money to be made nowadays
out of business--at all events, few professional men make large
fortunes--and it was just the same in the good old times of which I
am writing.
And what was my respected grand-dad going to be? Why a staymaker, of
all trades in the world. A corset is the new name of stays, as I
need not tell you.
There was nothing romantic about the trade, and certainly not a
vestige of romance about the little old snuffy man he had come to act
as boy for. He lived above his shop and workshop, in a dingy house
in High Street, all alone with his wife and the cat.
Nevertheless they gave him a kindly welcome, and a hearty supper also.
After this he was lighted down to his bedroom, and as soon as he had
got into bed, Mr. Craig, the staymaker, came and blew out his
farthing dip.
His bed was a hard one, a mere shake-down on the floor under the
counter. As soon as the light was out the rats began to scamper
about and quarrel and fight and squeak. This wasn't pleasant at all,
but the boy soon fell fast asleep, and did not waken till it was
broad daylight.
Well, next day his work began, and very hard it was; and very few
were his holidays, for not even on the Sabbath day was he allowed to
go for a walk.
At the end of six months, so proficient was he that he could almost
make a pair of stays himself.
Perhaps it was a pity that this tow-haired little grandfather of nine
didn't stick to staymaking. Why, there were wonderful possibilities
connected with the business. He might have become a millionaire and
been thrice Lord Provost of Glasgow city.
But fate willed it otherwise.
One day he was sent with a parcel of finished work to the house of a
lady of some pretensions, who lived on the bonnie banks of Ness, in
quite a charming house, surrounded by beautiful grounds.
My grandfather was dressed very neatly, and looked extremely well.
So much taken with the lad was the lady, that she began to question
him as to his birth and parentage.
"Why," she said, "you are a third cousin of our own. For poor brave
Lord Lovat, who was martyred on Tower Hill, was a cousin of my
husband's father. How strange!"
"Can you write and read well, boy?"
She made him do both.
"Why," she cried in amazement, "it is shameful that a boy of your
abilities should be learning the trade of a staymaker. It is as bad
as being a tailor. Come back to-morrow; Mr. Fraser himself will be
at home, and I will speak to him about you."
My grandfather thanked her and retired.
That night, in his little bed among the rat-holes he dreamt
that--well, I almost forget what he did dream, but I think that there
were powdered footmen in it, and a coach-and-four, or something
equally stupid.
"So, boy, you'll be going to leave us," said Mr. Craig, next night,
when he came back from Falkirk Lodge, and told the staymaker and his
wife how kind his newly-found cousins had been to him.
"You'll be going to leave us. Well, it's no me that will stand in
your way. But come to see us sometimes. We like you, lad, and as
long as you live in Inverness you shan't want a friend."
He did need a friend very much ere long, as we shall see.
Mrs. Fraser was a very amiable lady indeed, and my grandfather liked
her from the very first. But Fraser himself was haughty and
affected, and soon gave the boy to understand that he was little
better than a menial, and taken, not really out of charity, but
because he and his lady would permit no cousin of theirs, in whose
veins flowed the Fraser-of-Lovat blood, to work in a shop like a
common "snob."
Ah! well, he might have been like one, but he was independent while
with Mr. Craig, even though as poor as one of his bed-fellows, the
rats.
I have ever failed to see that there was anything to be ashamed of in
poverty.
"Is there, for honest poverty,
That hangs his head, and a' that?
The coward-slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,
Our toils obscure, and a' that;
The rank is but the guinea-stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that!"
My grandfather then began life at Falkirk Lodge, by being clerk to
his Cousin Fraser, and amanuensis to his wife.
It was a pleasant enough sort of existence, and the work was not
hard. He had plenty of liberty also, and was even permitted to keep
a dog, called Dash, that poor old honest Craig had given him. And
Dash was a lovely collie.
I think Dash was about the best friend that the boy had even now.
For Mrs. Fraser went much into society, and Ian had to go with her as
a sort of poor relation.
His manliness resented this, but he never complained, for the lady
was most kind.
But something very strange happened about six months after my
boy-grandfather came to reside at the Lodge. For one evening Fraser
came home unusually elated.
"It is done," he cried, "done, my dear. All finished and done."
Here he embraced Mrs. Fraser.
Then he turned round to Ian.
"Leave the room," he said haughtily.
My grandfather bit his lip, and turned a trifle red in the face. But
he turned to go.
Just as the lad was leaving, this proud Fraser called him back.
"Here," he cried, "I don't want to be rough with you. Take this
shilling and spend it as you please."
"Donald," he added, addressing a servant, "you see I am not a
bad-hearted fellow, and I've had good news to-day, so I give my
little kinsman a shilling, and here is one for you."
Donald put the shilling in his pocket.
Ian, my plucky grand-dad, felt inclined at first to throw the
shilling in the grate, and run right away back to his old friend
Craig. But Mrs. Fraser looked so gentle and kind that he had not the
heart to vex her. So he followed Donald's example, and put the coin
in his pocket.
Then he walked out.
That same evening he happened to enter the great kitchen, that was
honoured by the title of servants' hall.
"Ha!" cried the butler, "here comes another young soldier..
"And he's going to fight the French,
For King George upon the throne."
Ian looked so puzzled that everybody laughed.
"I'm no soldier," said my grandfather, "and don't want to be."
"Och!" cried Donald, "that won't do at all. For sure you took the
King's shilling as well as myself did."
"Yes, you are enlisted," said the butler, "right enough. Haven't you
heard that master has been made Captain in the Black Watch, and wants
to take all the young Highlanders with him he can get?"
Then my grandfather's wrath was aroused. He brought his sturdy
little fist to the table with a bang.
"I will not serve under a Fraser of Lovat," he cried. "Cousins of
ours though the Frasers are, they were rebels. I am a Robertson and
a loyalist."
Then he dashed out, regardless of the platoon fire of laughing that
followed him.
Captain Fraser was away for a whole week, and when he returned he was
in uniform.
My grandfather met him respectfully in the hall.
"Salute your officer!" said Fraser haughtily.
"You are not my officer, sir."
"You are a soldier legally enlisted, young man, and to-morrow you
join your company at Fort Augustus. I am not going to make you a
private soldier, for my own sake. You will still be my clerk, and if
you behave well, your promotion will come."
My grandfather made no reply.
Had he tried to, the words would have been those of anger.
He simply bowed, and walked out.
It was a beautiful morning in spring. The sky was soft and blue, the
air was balmy, and the rippling of the river, not far off, soothed
his mind.
Far, indeed, was he from being happy, however, and as he stood on the
cool green walk of the old garden, gazing upwards at the sky, he felt
that he would have given a good deal for the luxury of a hearty cry.
But then we can't always cry when we wish to. Presently, a soft warm
muzzle was thrust into his hand, and looking down, lo! there were the
brown eyes of his favourite collie, Dash, turned upwards to
his--anxiously--enquiringly.
They said as plainly as dog's eyes could talk, "What mood are you in
this morning, master? for I am ready for anything. I shall remain
quiet and sympathise with you and love you, or we can go for a grand
old game of romps together."
Dash's appeal was irresistible, and next minute Sidney and he had
left the garden together, and side by side were scampering over the
fields and by the hedgerows, with the glad sun shining down on them,
shining into their very hearts, while the wild flowers, that grew
everywhere around them, seemed part and parcel of their young lives.
Yes, Dash, like Ian himself, was young. O, give youth a young dog, I
say; the natures of the two are in unison, their minds are _en
rapport_, and let your old dogs go pottering around with elderly
people. But little more than a year had yet passed over Dash's
smooth head and bonnie brow. Life to him as yet was all a bright and
beautiful show, in which every creature that moved was just as happy
and full of fun as he himself was. "What were the cocks crowing
for?" he would have asked you. "Why did the birds sing so sweetly
and so merrily?" Why? because they were all so brimful of happiness
and joy, that they would have died if unable to give vent to their
feelings. Even the trees sang softly to the passing winds, and the
dimpled ponds and purling brooklets laughed gladsomely upwards at the
blue sky and the fleecy, floating clouds. Everything was joyful like
the dog himself. He went scampering on in front of the boy, and
picked up a round stone that he found on the grass. "Why, Mr.
Stone," he seemed to say, "don't you join in the general jollity all
around you? Why should you lie there so still and quiet when Nature
all is gay? I'll teach you a lesson."
And he tosses the stone high in the air, catching it ere it fell,
though it makes his teeth bleed just a little. Then he rolls it in
front of him, ever so funnily; then he covers it with grass, and
rolls and tumbles over it; then pretends it is lost entirely, and
that there isn't a ghost of a chance of ever finding it again at all.
Then--"Wow!" he has found it again, and once more the fun grows fast
and furious, till my grandfather forgets his grief, and is fain to
laugh aloud and take a hand in the sport, and round and round they
"whish" and run, a madcap collie and a madcap boy.
Soldiers and all are forgotten for the time being; grief and sorrow
are no more real now than half-forgotten dreams, and that dreadful
old Cousin Fraser, who had arisen on the horizon of the lad's life,
vanishes like a darkling cloud when it meets the moon.
On and on they scampered, the madcap collie and the madcap boy. On
and on. They neither knew nor cared whither.
But they brought up at last in the midst of a wild, hobgoblin kind of
a heathy moor, where the sun shone very brightly; and here Dash threw
himself down to rest and pant, his pink ribbon of a tongue hanging
out at one side of his mouth across teeth whiter far than alabaster.
CHAPTER X.
THE KING'S SHILLING--IN CORNEY'S CAVE--"SURRENDER
IN THE KING'S NAME"--CAPTURE AND ESCAPE.
My grandfather found himself at long last among the birchen woods
that in those days lay not far off the bay that leads to Beauly. The
day was already far spent, and Dash and he were getting hungry.
Suddenly he sat down upon a stone close to the sea, and Dash laid his
beautiful muzzle on his knee and looked up sympathisingly in his face.
"Whatever is to be done now, doggie!" said my grandfather.
"Never mind, master, never mind."
That is about all the advice a dog can give one in times of trouble,
but the look of unquenchable affection that is conveyed by the eyes
is better far, and more soothing, than the set phrases of sympathy
vouchsafed to one from human lips.
"Here I am, Dash, in one of the prettiest of pickles. I've turned my
back on Inverness, on Falkirk Lodge at any rate, and now here I am
with nothing in the world except what I stand up in, just as poor as
you, Dash, and as hungry as a hawk. What a fool I was to leave the
Craigs. I wasn't so very unhappy there, Dash, even though I did
sleep under the counter; the rats daren't come near me when you were
there. Heigho! hungry and tired, and nothing to get food with.
"O yes, by the way, there is that shilling."
He took the coin from his pocket and looked at it.
"That shilling, Dash, would keep you and me alive and well for three
days. But I would not break it to save my life--no, nor your life,
Dash. The King's shilling! Well, if I had wanted it I would have
asked for it, and could have fought for my country as bravely as did
the Robertsons of old.
"Dash, I _could_ be a soldier, but never, _never_ a slave!
"There goes the King's shilling."
He flung it far into the sea as he spoke.
"Some cod-fish may swallow it, Dash, and I hope it will agree better
with him than it has with me. Come, doggie, we'll gather some
dulse."*
* A kind of edible seaweed.
Dash didn't care for it, but he made pretence to eat some just to
please his master.
There was a fisherman's hut not far off, and near the door, sitting
at her knitting on an upturned coble, a buxom fisher-lass.
My grandfather drew near, and addressing her in Gaelic, begged for a
drop of water for his dog.
"My father and I are just going to have a bit of dinner; you and the
doggie must come in and take pot-luck." That was the lassie's reply.
"To be sure," cried her grey-bearded father from the doorway, "the
lad must come in and the beastie too. What says the Good Book? 'Be
ye careful to entertain strangers, for some have entertained angels
unawares.'"
My grandfather thanked them, and gladly entered the hut. "But," he
said, laughing, "Dash here may be an angel, but there isn't much
angel about me. Why, I'm a runaway. I'm not sure, indeed, that I'm
not a deserter."
Then he told the good people all the story.
And the old man's wrath was aroused.
"Is it," he cried, "is it that they would be making a soldier of you
by force? The villains! Let the French do that, but Britons will
never bow to it!"
My grandfather thought that meal the most delicious he had ever eaten
in his life. And it was only boiled haddock and potatoes after all.
Dash was of the same opinion.
"Now, boy," said the old man, as he bade him good-bye, "go home to
your people on the Braes, and defy your proud Cousin Fraser. Pride
always goes before a fall. The Lord Himself be with you, laddie.
Good-day, good-day."
* * * * *
It now occurred to my grandfather that the old fisherman's advice was
very good indeed, and that he had best go and see his people.
He walked briskly on now, with Dash galloping and barking around him.
Something would turn up.
In the bright lexicon of youth, there ought to be no such word as
"Fail."
"Dear boy, you're welcome home."
These were his father's first words.
"If nothing better happens, why, you can join your brothers at the
farm."
Ian had half expected a scolding, and the tears came to his eyes as
his mother embraced him. He spent three or four very happy days at
the farm, and visited many times and oft his old friends and his old
haunts.
Rachel had grown wonderfully, and was a trifle more reserved and shy,
pretending to take more interest in the dog than in his master.
"Love me, love my dog."
There is truth in that old saying.
But there was one friend he missed, and that was Tom Grahame, the boy
he had nearly slain with his big kilt pin.
The boy had gone south--nobody knew his destination--to seek his
fortune, as resolute young Scotch lads did in those days, and do
still.
Meanwhile, to return for a moment to Falkirk Lodge, the wrath of the
newly-fledged Captain Fraser knew no bounds.
He was deprived of the services of a good clerk, and his company of a
soldier.
He wrote at once to the commandant at Fort Augustus, describing poor
Ian, from head to foot, from his blue bonnet to his brogue sheen,*
and branding him as a deserter.
* Highland boots or shoes.
Now every soldier was valuable in those warlike days, so the
commandant lost no time in attempting to arrest my grand-dad. He was
just sitting down to dinner one day, when little Rachel rushed in.
"O Ian, Ian," she cried, the tears rolling over her cheeks, "the
soldiers are coming, three of them with guns and bayonets and all.
O, where can you hide? They will hang you and shoot you and all."
This was a time for action and coolness too. There was no fear about
Ian. But quite the reverse. He comforted and reassured poor Rachel.
"They can never take me," he said; "I am no deserter, but I want some
fun. I'll go to the forest, father; the soldiers will tire looking
for me in a week's time. Put some food for me now and then in
Corney's Cave. Don't cry, Rachel. This is quite a romance. Dash
and I will be playing at being outlaws. Good-bye."
He sprang out by the back door, just as the feather bonnets and
bayonets of a sergeant and a file of soldiers appeared on the brae.
Dash went with him.
Corney's Cave was the very place in which Ian's father and
grandmother and Fiona had been hidden during the terrible fight at
the old farm, after Culloden. Though used as a whisky-still, it was
at present out of employment. There was no fear of any smoke being
seen, as this found its way, by a kind of natural chimney in the
rocks, into a shepherd's hut.
Here my grandfather could lie quiet for a month or more, if he chose,
without the possibility of being captured.
He lit himself a fire, for there was plenty of dry peats and wood in
a corner; then making Dash lie down, he went out to pull heather for
a couch. He was very systematic with his work. The heather was tied
up in little bundles, and when about two score of these were placed
side by side, the green ends upwards, they formed a bed that many a
fugitive king, in olden times, would have reposed upon with delight.
Just before darkling, Dash emitted a low growl, and next moment a
tiny, bare-headed gillie crept into the cave.
He brought plenty of cakes and cheese and milk for Ian and Dash. He
also told my grandfather all about the soldiers. They had searched
all day in the forest, but had now returned to Beauly, as no one on
the Braes or near there would give them food.
Then the lad said good-night and slipped away as silently as a
heather newt.
It was certainly lonesome enough in that cave, and but for the
presence of Dash, I believe my grandfather would have dreaded a visit
from ghosts or water-kelpies.
As it was, after making up a good fire, which lit the whole cave up
in the most cheery way, Ian and Dash enjoyed a hearty supper.
Then he said his prayers and lay down to sleep, a Highland plaid his
only covering.
He had "backed" the fire and stowed away a kindling peat, so he had
no fear for the morrow.
For quite a long time he lay awake, thinking and wondering how all
this was going to end. The strangeness of the situation and his
surroundings, no doubt, helped to make him wakeful. The fire burned
lower and lower, the black roof at one moment enveloped in shadow and
darkness, and next, lit up with flickering gleams of light. Outside
was the low moan of the wind and the murmur of the stream over its
stony bed; but presently these sounds seemed to draw farther and
farther off, and soon were heard no more.
For Ian slept.
He strolled only a little way from the cave next forenoon, but as the
sun began to sink in the west, the irksomeness of cave-life became
unbearable, and he determined to risk all and treat himself and Dash
to a stroll in the forest. Among those grand old trees, with the
green, cool moss beneath his feet, he forgot his troubles, and
soldiers were soon banished from his thoughts away.
He had a rude awakening.
For while lying on his back listening to the sweet even-song of the
birds, and watching the crimson light of the westering sun,
flickering on the branches of the lofty pines, Dash suddenly sprang
up and barked. Ian was on his feet in a moment.
"Now we have you! Surrender in the King's name!"
[Illustration: "Surrender, in the King's name!"]
So near were the soldiers to him, that he seemed to look down the
muzzles of their muskets.
They fired as he darted off through the woods, and one bullet
whistled close past his head. Then the chase began.
As well might they have attempted to follow a red-deer on foot.
Ian soon left them far behind. Then patted Dash's faithful head, and
took matters very leisurely.
They made a long detour, however, and only Apache Indians could have
followed their trail back to the cave. Here was the wee gillie
waiting by the fire. He was very glad to see Ian, and told him all
the news. My grandfather kept him quite a long time chatting by the
fire and he promised to come again after dusk next evening.
The place looked gloomier when the gillie went, but Ian heaped more
wood on the fire, and the excellent supper sent by his mother made
him feel once more happy.
It wasn't such a disagreeable life, this, after all. Many a better
man than he had been an outlaw, he told himself. There was King
Bruce, for instance, and Sir William Wallace, and many a brave knight
besides on whose heads a price was set, and who lived in caves and
forests, just as he was living now.
Ah! brighter days would come.
For a whole week poor Ian stuck to his cave, only venturing out after
dusk.
The soldiers still hung around the woods, so the gillie told Ian, and
the sergeant had even declared that he would stop "till Doomsday in
the afternoon," rather than return without his prisoner.
Ian thought that cave-life till Doomsday in the afternoon would
become rather monotonous. However, he unluckily made up his mind,
one evening, to pay a visit to his old dominie's house.
The soldiers would hardly be in that neighbourhood.
So, as soon as gloaming, and the gillie had come and gone, and
darkness was creeping down and filling up the glens, he crept out of
his hiding, and made his way up the steep rocks, and on to the
brae-lands above. Although it must have been well on to nine
o'clock, much to his joy he noticed lights still glimmering in the
dominie's window.
He had left Dash tied up, and walked very cautiously, frequently
looking round when he heard the slightest sound. There was just one
little copse to pass through, then he should be safe.
Alas! he had no sooner entered, than he was seized and thrown down.
His captors were the soldiers.
They bound his hands behind his back, then told him to march.
The men chatted right merrily all the way to Beauly, but Ian spoke
hardly a word.
No, he had not let down his heart. Not a bit of it; he was only
meditating how best he could escape.
"Well," said the sergeant, as they neared a small inn--the landlord
and his daughter were well-known to Ian's father--"Well, lad, you
have led us a nice dance, but I bear no ill-will. Come in here with
us, and we'll wet your whistle."
Ian didn't want his whistle wetted, but he had to enter all the same.
They were kindly received, and shown into the best room.
"Poor boy," said the girl, aloud, "and have they caught you after
all?"
But she took the opportunity of whispering in his ear, "Pretend to
sleep, and fly when I put out the lights."
"Yes, we've caught the young rascal," said the sergeant, "and I've a
good mind to catch you also."
But Ellen glided off like an eel, and presently returned with cakes
and cheese, and a huge black bottle, and I need hardly say what that
contained.
They forced Ian to drink some, though he had never touched spirits
before.
After this, the men proceeded to make themselves merry. And right
merry they seemed to be. As Ian passed his glass as often as any of
them, though he managed to spill it, instead of drinking it, they
patted him on the shoulder, and told him he would make a splendid
soldier. The lad volunteered a song, and was rapturously encored.
Then he kept up the delusion by talking nonsense.
Presently he pretended to tumble off his chair.
My grandfather now began to snore aloud.
"He's safe enough, anyhow," said the sergeant. "So, lads, another
toast."
By one o'clock the fun grew fast and furious, and presently in came
Ellen.
"Now, soldiers, it's bed-time."
"No, no, no."
"Father will give you no more to-night. Pay, and go to bed."
"We'll sit here till morning dawns, my beautiful, winsome,
charming----"
Ellen cut short the oration in true Highland fashion, by a sounding
slap across the speaker's cheek.
"Ye'll sit in the dark, then," she cried, and out went the candle.
Now was Ian's chance. In the confusion that followed, he made his
way to the door, and by two o'clock was safe and sound once more in
the cave.
Dash was delighted, and, the fire being replenished, both had supper,
and then went to sleep together on the heather couch.
When he awoke next morning, Ian could hardly believe for a time that
his adventure had been aught else save a troubled dream.
CHAPTER XI.
SWORN TO SHOOT AT SIGHT--AN ADVENTURE ON THE
ROAD--"PLEASE, Sir, ARE YOU THE COLONEL?"--"WE'LL
CALL YOU JOHN."
When the faithful little gillie returned to the cave that night, he
brought with him a kindly letter of advice from the dominie. He had
seen the soldiers that very forenoon, and so incensed were they, that
they had sworn to shoot my grandfather on sight, without further
parley. And there was no doubt they meant to carry this awful threat
into execution.
"Now, dear boy," the latter continued, "I advise you to make an
attempt to leave the place as soon as possible. By day will be
safest, for then the soldiers are there in the forest. At night they
keep watch around the houses. If you get safely to Inverness, go to
see a man of law called John Chisholm. Take this letter with you,
and he'll receive you kindly, and tell you what is best for you to
do."
"My daughter Rachel encloses a little note for you. So sorry that
neither of us can see you, but it would not be safe. Good-bye, and
the Lord be with you."
Next day the gillie came at eleven o'clock.
"The soldiers," he said, "are scouring the forest. Now will be your
chance."
A short time after this Ian entered his father's house and took a
hurried farewell of all. A most affecting farewell it was, and many
were the tears that were shed.
Even poor Dash knew that the parting had come, and sadly woe-begone
he looked.
"Be kind to dear Dash, sister," were among the last words the lad
said.
Then he hurried away from the home which it would be many and many a
long year before he should see again--if ever.
Rachel's note was to my grandfather a very precious one, though
simple:
"DEAR IAN,--Fly quickly, O, fly. They will shoot you dead if you
don't. With fond love and prayers I send you a four-bladed clover.
"But, dear Ian, trust more in God than even the four-bladed
clover.--Your little RACHEL. Amen! so let it be."
My grandfather put the letter in his bosom and hurried on.
At Beauly he was well known, but not a soul would have thought of
giving him away.
He went in to thank Ellen for assisting him to escape, and stayed and
chatted quite a long time.
So safe did he feel, that he must even visit the little old fisherman
on the border of the bay, and bid him and his daughter a long
farewell.
A little farther on he overtook three Forty-second soldiers. He
would have darted into the woods, but he sighted them all at once on
rounding the bend of the road, and one happening to look round
sighted him.
With country courtesy, they waited till he came up, and his heart
beat high and uneasily as he joined them.
Would they recognise him and make him prisoner? That was the thought
uppermost in his mind. But his fears were for a time set to rest,
till one of them began to laugh.
"Can't help thinking how neatly Sergeant McGregor was done," he said
in Gaelic.
Then the others laughed, and one turning round to Ian said, "Do you
come from Beauly?"
"From far beyond," replied grandfather evasively. "But," he added,
"I didn't stop long enough to get any news."
"Ah, well, you know, the sergeant and a file were after a deserter,
not much older, maybe, than yourself."
My grandfather felt his colour come and go, while his heart thumped
wildly against his ribs.
"Why," cried another soldier, "by all descriptions, this young fellow
would pass for the deserter."
Then all laughed, and Ian laughed too, as if he enjoyed the joke
immensely. But he found courage to say--and he spoke the truth when
he said it--
"I've never been a soldier yet, but if I were I should stick to my
colours."
"Good, my boy, good, and it's a soldier you ought to be."
My grandfather knew now the crisis had passed, so he said to the
first speaker:
"Tell me the story, soldier."
"O, McGregor of ours and his men had been watching the woods for,
maybe, a month. But they collared their man at last and led him down
to the Charlie Stuart Inn, at Beauly, and so they all marched inside.
Well, the deserter was just rolling in money that his father had
given him, for they do say he is a near connection of the Lovat
family. So he ordered a splendid supper, and he made all the three
of them so full with one thing or another, that before two in the
morning they went comfortably to bed beneath the table.
"Then," continued the soldier, "the young rascal of a deserter coolly
blackened all their faces till you couldn't have told them from
negroes, rammed their muskets up the chimney, with their butt-ends
stuck in the fire."
"Didn't they go off?" said Ian.
"I tell you they were all asleep under the table."
"But the guns, I mean."
"Well, I suppose they did after a bit, but they didn't waken the men."
"And the deserter went off, of course?"
"Yes, and he's safe in the woods now."
"Is he, indeed?" said grandfather, hardly able to suppress a smile.
"It will never be let down on McGregor," added the soldier. "It was
the girl Ellen who waked them next morning, and when they looked at
each other and found they were all black men, I--I--ha, ha, ha, I
would have given worlds to have seen the fun."
And talking thus cheerfully they reached Inverness, but my
grandfather was not at all sorry when at last they bade him good-bye
and went off.
* * * * *
John Chisholm was a florid-faced, white-haired, very fat man.
But good-hearted, and reputed the cleverest lawyer in the capital of
the Highlands.
He bade my sixteen-year-old grandfather be seated.
Then he mounted a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles and quietly perused
the dominie's letter.
After this he looked at my grandfather over his glasses and said:
"Humph!"
Well, that expression "Humph!" isn't even here or there.
"I assure you, my boy, I'm a sort of sorry for you. You have been
completely sold, or rather bought, and there is only one thing I can
advise."
"Yes, sir?"
"Are you averse to becoming a soldier?"
"O, no, indeed, sir; I think I'd rather like going to the wars.
"But," he added manfully, "I'd rather be shot than fight under my
rebel-cousin, Fraser."
"Bravo! Well, go and be shot like a good boy."
"I'm afraid I don't quite understand, sir."
"Don't you? Why, go straight away to Fort George, where there is a
recruiting-squad of that grand old regiment, the 1st Royals,
stationed, and enlist. Nothing can be more simple."
My grandfather thanked him profusely, and took his leave.
That night he slept in his old bed beneath Mr. Craig's counter. Mr.
Craig, his wife, and the cat were all delighted to see him, and gave
him quite a hearty welcome, and when they parted next day, the old
lady took what she called an eternal leave of him.
"We'll never see you more, poor boy," she said.
And she never did.
The recruiting-sergeant of the 1st Royals was a most dignified and
dashing soldier, with a long powdered cue dangling over the upper
part of his spine, and covering his scarlet jacket with a layer of
snow-white dust. He was in the square when my grandfather entered
the gloomy portals of this renowned fort, and was pointed out to him
by a sentry.
"That is the sergeant with all the ribbons a-fluttering from his cap."
Ian approached somewhat timidly.
He saluted, and being the first military salute ever he had made, I
dare say it was rather an awkward one.
"Well, my man, what can I do for you?" said the gallant
non-commissioned officer, bending as far as his high stock would
permit him to do.
"Please, sir, are you the colonel?"
The sergeant laughed, and a smile rippled over the faces of a few men
near by.
"No, lad, I'm only a general. The colonel has had a shave, and gone
to bed for fear of catching cold after it. Perhaps I can do for the
time being. What is your business?"
"I've come to enlist, if you please."
"Enlist! Why you do the grand old regiment an honour which it will
not soon forget. But come along, lad; I must, have my little joke.
Follow me, and I'll make a man of you before you are five minutes
older."
He led the way in through a narrow passage, and my grandfather soon
found himself in a long narrow room, with a ceiling so low that he
could have touched it. There were a table, some forms, and a chair
in it, and at the former the smart sergeant sat down, and pulled
towards him some official-looking paper, an ink-bottle, and a huge
quill pen.
"Now, then, I want to know something about you."
"Well, sir, my father--
"O, come, come, I don't want you to go back to Noah altogether. Give
me your name, age, &c., place of birth, and everything else."
My grandfather did so. The sergeant wrote all down. Then he shoved
a shilling across the table.
"I beg your pardon, sir, but I don't think I should take that."
"Not take the King's money?"
"No, sir; I got the King's shilling before, and Dash and I threw it
into the sea."
The sergeant dropped his quill pen as suddenly as if he had been shot.
"What!" he cried, "you've enlisted before?"
"It was not enlistment, sir, it was fraud; my lawyer, Mr. Chisholm,
told me so."
"Come," said the sergeant, "this gets interesting. A boy who has a
lawyer should be an ensign to begin with, to say the least of it.
Tell me all about it, boy."
Then he got the whole story, and laughed heartily at it.
"You'll take this shilling, nevertheless, my boy, and I've no doubt
you'll pass the doctors all right. But," he added, "as you seem to
have some qualms of conscience--a very awkward possession for a
soldier to begin life on--here is another shilling out of my own
purse, to send back in a letter to your pretty cousin, whose nose I'd
dearly like to pull.
"You may write to him here, and I'll sign it.
"Tell him you return his coin, and that his kilted warriors needn't
knock about the damp woods any longer looking for you, as you now
belong to the oldest regiment in Britain, and the finest that ever
crossed bayonets with a warlike foe."
Ian did as he was told.
"How beautifully you write, boy!" the sergeant said, as he peeped
over his shoulder. "It's my opinion you'll soon be an orderly."
My grandfather smiled, though he had not the faintest notion what was
meant by an orderly.
"My mother always thought me very orderly, sir."
Again the facetious sergeant laughed.
"Well, now," he said, "I'll put you in charge of a soldier who will
see you all right, and put you up to getting your kit and everything
else.
"But one thing I must tell you, and I would tell you a good many if I
had time. You must always do your duty briskly, heartily, and
pleasantly, and be obedient to orders. We've all got to do that,
lad. You will only be a small cog in a mighty great wheel. That
wheel is the British Army, that rolls round the world and crushes
everything that dares to oppose it.
"Your name is Ian?"
"Yes, sir."
"And the English is 'John.' Keep the Ian till you go back home
again--if ever you do. We'll call you John. And now, my brave lad,
I shake hands with
"PRIVATE JOHN ROBERTSON, OF THE 1ST ROYALS."
Book II.
Off to Join his Regiment
Book II
_OFF TO JOIN HIS REGIMENT_
CHAPTER I.
FIRST MONTHS OF SOLDIER-LIFE--THE PLEASURE OF DRILL--A
PASSAGE OF ARMS--EN ROUTE FOR EDINBURGH CASTLE--AN
OLD-TIME TROOPER.
Private John Robertson had been for three whole months in Fort
George, and drilling every day. Yes, those were stirring times, and
soldiers were so valuable that they had, figuratively speaking, to be
made by machinery.
Nobody likes to be drilled for the first time, or to form part in the
awkward squad of "Jockie Raws" as they used to be called.
I think that from the very first my grandfather considered himself
better in every way than the lads he was drilled with. Well, there
is no harm, but quite the reverse, I think, in a young man having a
good opinion of himself. But these companions of his were young
fellows who had been shepherds, plough-boys, or mechanics, and few of
them had very much English to bless themselves with, although I
grieve to say they soon learned bad words.
"You would make good men when trained," the drill-sergeant said,
"but," he added, "you are far from a pretty picture just at present."
Well, they were of all shapes and sizes, and they wouldn't "dress."
They kept their thumbs to the seams of their trousers, and their
heads in the air, but when told to dress* they sidled about like
crabs, and their eyes went squinting right and left in the most
comical way imaginable.
* Dress: form in a straight line.
One would have pitied that smart sergeant.
At times his brows were lowered till you could hardly have seen an
eye in his head. At times he beat his legs with his cane.
"Oh! oh! oh! what _are_ you doing?" he would cry. "Take the time
from me. McLeod, you are out of step. Donaldson, you dunce, you
ought to be shot."
There was a captain here who used to watch Sergeant Brown drilling
his awkward squad, and much amused he seemed to be. But he was even
more irascible than Brown. For instance, there were times not a few
when, losing his patience altogether, the sergeant would advance a
few steps towards his "Jockie Raws," and switch one across the face
with his gloves.
Then forward Captain Drake would dash.
"Don't soil your gloves, Sergeant," he would shout. "Don't even lose
your temper; I never lose mine at all, at all."
But next moment he would dash his fist straight out at the man whom
the sergeant had flicked, and no matter how big he was, down he
rolled, and took up ground on his back in the square.
Yes, Captain Drake had a beautiful fist, and those were rough times
for recruits and soldiers generally.
* * * * *
The words I am now going to write are purposely put parenthetically,
so that if they look too like a little bit of preaching they can be
skipped. There is an old saying then: _poeta nascitur non fit_. The
poet is born not made. This is certainly true. But we hear often
enough the same thing said about the soldier. "Some men are soldiers
born." This is not so true. Anyhow, depend upon it that, given the
raw material, a good soldier or a bad can be made out of it. A
soldier can be made or marred. Some who read this book will
themselves become officers in the army. I pray them, therefore,
never to forget that _good soldiers are made by kindness and
encouragement, and marred by rough treatment_. Find out the good
that is in a man. Fan that.
Whether my dear Auld-da was a good soldier or an indifferent, his
story will tell; and tell, too, I have family pride enough to
believe, in his favour.
In those wild and warlike times it was most difficult, be assured,
for a young fellow to rise from the ranks, and having so risen, to
keep on and on through good report and ill report, and never be
broken.
But I am of opinion that it was the words of kindness and
encouragement he received that first helped this soldier-grandfather
of mine to step out of the ranks and prove himself worthy of the
trust and confidence of his superiors.
And just one last word: just as often as not those very superiors
were far indeed from being patterns themselves.
* * * * *
I am sure that my grandfather was very proud indeed when he first
handled a musket. I know this from experience, having myself been a
full private in the Volunteers when I was in my teens. But when one
gets one's rifle and learns how to handle it--unloaded I mean--the
very exactness and detail of the motions are delightful. Then comes
company-drill, which seems to a beginner as senseless as the first
steps we learn at a dancing-school. But battalion-drill stirs the
blood, methinks, especially if you have a few miles' march to the
field of parade, with plenty of room for manœuvres. And what can
be more jolly than skirmishing in an open country? Nothing in the
form of exercise is more exhilarating, whether it takes place when
the summer sun is glistening on the greenery of the woods, or in
winter when the crisp dry snow covers all the land as if with a white
cocoon. Why, the very trumpet or bugle calls inspire you, and if you
are blessed with a good imagination you can easily believe you are
engaged in actual warfare, instead of only playing at being soldiers.
But the prettiest exercise of all, in my opinion, is that with the
bayonet. It has to be seen or experienced to be believed in.
Well, my grand-dad, of course, went through all these; yes, and he
and his companions in arms were kept very hard at it too. It was no
child's play learning to be a soldier in the latter end of the
eighteenth century. Pretty early to bed and precious early to rise,
drill, drill, drill all day long in summer's sun or winter's snow,
and with about a score of masters--more or less--to serve, Tommy
Atkins's life was then no sinecure.
Although my grandfather often used to say in after-days that with his
good sword he could shiver spear or pike, and bend or break an
enemy's bayonet off his gun, still he took very much to
bayonet-exercise at first, and delighted the heart of his
drill-sergeant.
Even at this early age, in a passage of arms at the New Year's fete,
the lad quite distinguished himself by his skill and agility. And
his instructor was a proud man accordingly. But his pupil had the
high honour of being called to a box occupied by ladies of title and
rank, and literally caressed by them. I dare say he felt a trifle
shy, especially when such remarks as the following were made in his
presence, and while he was being turned round and round for
inspection.
"Doesn't he look a perfect picture, Lady Jane?"
"A love of a lad!"
"And a perfect angel with the bayonet!"
"Look at his dainty cue!" The lady lifted it on her closed fan as
she spoke.
"And cheeks like raspberries!"
"Heigho!" sighed a stout old lady, in a comfortable chair, "if I were
only a hundred years younger I'd be a soldier myself."
"I dare say you have a dainty little dear of a sweetheart, haven't
you?" asked a lady.
My sixteen-year-old grandfather dropped his eyes.
"Yes, did you say? And what is her pretty name?"
"Rachel."
"How sweet! And now we'll let you go."
He saluted and left.
"Bless the little innocent!" were the last words that he heard.
"Find it rather hot up there, Robertson?" said the captain who used
to knock the recruits down.
"Just a little, sir."
"Ha, ha, good thing ladies don't often mix with our soldiers. Blame
me if pretty Lady Jane yonder wouldn't spoil a whole battalion.
"By the way, young cockalorum," he added, "would you like to be a
mess servant or my servant. You'd have less to do. Speak out.
Nobody wants to force you."
"Then, sir, I'd rather stick to ordinary duty."
"Quite right, my lad. Quite right. Well, look here, you play so
prettily with the bayonet that I think it would do you good to learn
sword-exercise. I'll send for you sometimes, and give you a lesson.
So shall Sergeant-Major Rae after we get down to Edinburgh. He is
nearly as good as myself with the broadsword."
This on the whole had been a very happy day for grand-dad, and when
he turned in that night, he thought everyone had been so kind to him,
especially Captain Drake.* He made a firmer determination than ever,
therefore, to stick hard to drill, and just learn all he could, and,
as his sergeant said, look upon himself as still merely a schoolboy.
* For obvious reasons names of officers who figure in this story must
be fictitious.
Some of the recruits had got to be wild and reckless even already.
They were rather encouraged than otherwise by the older soldiers.
Swearing, I am sorry to say, or the use of very ugly language, was
all too prevalent in the British Army in those days. So was
drinking. But apart from the use of expletives, the privates were in
the habit of passing very rude remarks, indeed, about their officers
and superiors generally. It is conduct of this kind that often leads
to mutiny in regiments, but in the old war-times the officers were
often much to blame for such a state of affairs.
There were many happenings, too, that would scarcely be permitted in
our time.
One day, as my grandfather was doing sentry-go by a gate near the
square, he noticed Captain Drake coming from the direction of the
officers' mess, and a couple of unarmed privates, under the charge of
a sergeant, marching from the men's side of the square.
They took up a position within hearing distance of my grand-dad, and
Captain Drake, note-book in hand, confronted him.
"Been at it again, Sergeant?"
"Yes, sir, and I've warned them ever so many times, but they will
keep on argle-bargling."
"Any insubordination? They keep quiet when you speak to them?"
"Yes, sir, and 'no' to your first question. Only to-day McGruer
threw a spoon at Pope's head."
"Hit him?"
"Yes, Captain Drake; you can see the mark on the bridge of Pope's
nose now."
"The Pope's nose, eh? Ha, ha. Well, did Pope throw anything back?"
"The salt-cellar, sir. Missed McGruer and brought up on big
Playfair's head. Big Playfair went for Pope, and there was five
minutes of a rough room, sir."
"Well, Playfair can't be blamed. This isn't a case for the halberts,
Sergeant. The men shall punish each other."
"You shall fight, men, and fight fairly, and after this there must be
peace, and I'll flog the man who breaks it. Nine o'clock to-morrow,
Sergeant."
Captain Drake turned on his heel and marched off.
At nine o'clock next morning, sure enough, the two men, stripped to
the waist, stood confronting each other in fighting attitude.
All the junior officers, were present, and one or two of the seniors.
At a given signal the men commenced. It was an ugly scene, as all
such are. Many rounds were fought, and much blood was spilt, to the
delight of the spectators, but at last McGruer was knocked out of
time. Presently the men shook hands, and I am bound to record that
peace was maintained between them ever after.
* * * * *
The company got the route at last, and on a cold, blustering morning
in December were marched to Inverness, and embarked the same evening
on board the packet for Leith.
The packet was a full-rigged ship. She carried a few guns--more, I
think, for show than defence, for the vessel was a mere tub. She had
seen better days, no doubt, and though little over seven hundred
tons, was reputed to have fought more than one battle against the
French or Dutch--it does not matter which, for grandfather himself
did not know.
We live in comparatively comfortable times, for the voyage from
Edinburgh to the beautiful capital of the Highlands can be easily
accomplished by steamer in a day. And now we shall learn something
about this short voyage as accomplished in an old trooper.
About fifty soldiers in all, probably more, were crowded down below
forward, although they had the option of sleeping on deck near the
fo'c's'le, if they chose. The officers, including Captain Drake
himself, were, of course, aft in the saloon, and had state-rooms such
as they were.
But the upper-deck, all between the fore and mizen masts, was crowded
with sheep, cattle, and a few horses. A kind of rude bridge ran
athwart-ships just abaft the main-mast. It was little more, indeed,
than a plank, easily unshipped, from which the officer of the watch
could abuse the sailors who were working the ship.
"Hee--hoy--oy! Yo--yea--ea!"
It was the sing-song of the men setting or shifting sail, as the good
ship _Vengeful_ got stretching out into the Moray Firth, and began to
feel the force of the cold, wild wind that blew from north and east.
Note that I have said "good ship _Vengeful_." In many respects she
was far, indeed, from being a good or a safe ship, so it is out of
courtesy to the old craft that I call her so. I cannot help,
somehow, always looking upon a ship as a living thing. Well, many a
storm had this ship braved, many an adventure had she taken part in.
From her lofty sides she had poured a hail of fire and shot that
scattered death and destruction along the decks of our saucy foes.
She had done her duty, and should I despise her in her old age? No.
And once more I dare to call her good.
Well, she sailed away, and as the short winter's day drew near its
close, she was still staggering on up the Firth, but well to the
north, with Kinnaird's Head so far distant that there was little
probability of her rounding the point for a day or two to come.
My hero had never been to sea before, and had he lived for over a
hundred years, it is unlikely that he could have forgotten that first
rough night.
There was little pleasure aft even in the saloon. A few gathered
round the table, and pretended to enjoy dinner with the ship's
officers, but all save Captain Drake himself, who was an old sailor,
retired at the earliest opportunity.
The saloon was deserted now, save by the skipper himself and the
ship's cat. And the great lamp swung in its gimbals, the
rudder-chains creaked, the ship's timbers groaned, and every time a
big sea struck her on the bows, she shook for minutes after like some
creature in the agonies of death.
The mate came below in a sou'-wester and dripping oilskins, and stood
in the doorway for a moment with a smile on his rosy face.
"All alone, sir?"
"All alone, mate. Soldiers have turned in."
"Best thing they could do, sir."
"Think it's going to be a dirty night, then?"
"Sure of it. Later on, you know. Fact is, sir, it is a blowing half
a gale now, and increasing every hour."
As he spoke, the first officer opened a cupboard, and helped himself
and his superior to something in tumblers that looked like coffee,
but wasn't.
Then he sat down on the edge of a chair. Sitting on the edge of a
chair was looked upon as partaking of deference to a superior, in
those days.
"Bring yourself properly to anchor, mate," said the captain cheerily.
Then the first officer drew his chair up to the table, and both lit
their pipes.
"Second mate's watch, I think?"
"Yes, just relieved me. I'll go on again at midnight, sir, 'cause I
expect it'll be a case of batten down."
"And those Swedes (soldiers), sir. Why, I pity them more'n the cows.
Mostly all on deck at present, and wet to the skin. What they'll do
when I batten them down is more 'n I can tell."
The mate spoke nothing but the truth, and not all the truth.
Come with me, in imagination, along this old-time trooper's decks,
and we shall see a little of sea-life in the days of yore.
CHAPTER II.
THE VOYAGE OF THE "VENGEFUL"--TERRIBLE SUFFERINGS
AT SEA.
As we crawl up the companion steps that lead from the saloon door to
the upper-deck, and leave the companion, we are glad we are in the
possession of good sea-legs.
We stand by the bulwark here a few minutes, clinging to the stays,
until our eyes get more accustomed to the darkness. Yonder, high
overhead, is a morsel of a moon, and the dark, goblin-like clouds are
positively racing across its disc.
Look we seawards, and we find the horizon is almost close aboard of
us, only the waves between tossing their white manes as they madly
gallop past us.
Whew--ew--ew! How the wind whistles through the rigging, and across
the scanty canvas!
With uncertain steps we stagger forward. Here is a very narrow
gangway betwixt the weather bulwark and the lashed planks that hem or
pen the cattle in. They are slipping, and sliding, and moaning low
in their shivering misery. We hold our lantern up for a moment, but
their pleading eyes appal us, and we hurry on.
Now and then, a bigger wave than usual sends the drenching death-cold
spray high above us, and we are fain to cower beneath the bulwarks.
But we are past the cattle-pens at last, and, but for our lantern,
would stumble over not one man, but many. All young--several, among
whom is my grandfather, only boys. He is lying there near the
bowsprit, and quite exposed to the elements, his head pillowed on a
coil of ropes, but, like most of the others, fast asleep.
Why do they not go below, where they may at least be dry and warm?
Warm! Yes; but I doubt the dryness. Come below and see.
The broad steps are black and slippery, the forehold has a cook's
range in it. This is forward. Hammocks all filled, and a bobbing
lantern hung more aft. The deck is so low that we clutch the beams
overhead to balance ourselves as we examine this floating black hole.
All round underneath the hammocks, on lockers, on boxes, on the wet
and fulsome deck itself, lie soldiers in every attitude of
prostration. Only a few are sitting up. Of these, some are uttering
maudlin sentiments, or waving their arms and singing songs we should
not hear, while others are playing cards in the uncertain light. But
one or two--strange sight in such a place--are kneeling down in
prayer.
We cannot stay long down here. The odour would make us sick, sailors
though we be. We cannot wonder now that the other recruits prefer
the cold, the darkness, and spray on deck.
But listen! The storm rages now more wildly than ever, and we can
hear the bo's'n's pipe, "All hands shorten sail!"
This is the order, and men spring from their hammocks and, hardly
waiting to dress, rush roughly past us.
Now, all is noise and confusion.
As long as she can, the _Vengeful_ must continue tacking. To lie-to
might mean drifting on a lee shore, and no soul could be saved if the
good ship once beat her sides against the dark rocks.
An hour passes by. There is no abatement in the terrible gale.
The men are working at the pumps, cheering each other as they do so
with snatches of wild song and a merriment that seems sadly out of
place. Quite a mill-stream of dark water is rushing over the side,
and the jerk, jerk of the pumps can be heard high above the roar of
the storm, beating a kind of harsh accompaniment to the men's rough
music.
No leak is sprung, yet so fast does she make water that the men are
kept steadily at the pumps.
And now comes the order to batten down.
"Rouse up, you lads! Rouse up and tumble down below. Quick's the
word."
My poor grandfather feels a foot in his ribs, and, hardly knowing
where he is, staggers up, and is almost carried below in the rush.
Luckily we are not down there now. The hold of a slave-ship were
surely sweeter far. And there imprisoned they must remain. If
daylight brings a lull in this storm the hatches will be thrown open,
if the ship founders down they must go--drowned or smothered--like
rats in a hole.
And surely this is what it is coming to.
For, hark! again the bo's'n's pipe.
We strain our ears to catch the order.
"Hands lighten ship!"
Yes, the cattle and sheep are to be thrown overboard into the boiling
sea, else the ship will sink.
O, the pity of it! and O, the cruelty and terror!
The poor sheep mute, as they always are, in the agonies of death, are
speedily disposed of.
Then comes the worst and saddest sight of all, as the struggling,
maddened, and bellowing cattle are hoisted with block and tackle, and
dropped into the sea.
But this is slow work, and danger presses. A gangway is opened at
great risk in the bulwarks, and the remainder of the poor beasts
literally slide off the decks, and for minutes you may hear their
bellowing far astern, amidst the wash and the dash of the billows.
* * * * *
Then the ship plunges on, and the men resume their work at the pumps:
and resume their songs.
Daylight breaks at last. Very slowly, but as it spreads over the sea
from east to west, the terrible turmoil of that awful sea is
awe-striking. The waves indeed seem mountains high, and tower green
and threatening over the ship as if bent upon engulfing her.
The hatches are thrown open later on, and the poor, half-dead
soldiers permitted to breathe once more the breath of heaven, and see
the light of day.
Truly it has been a fearful night. Nor has it passed without loss of
life, for one poor sailor has "lost the number of his mess," as
seamen say. He got entangled among the cattle, and was literally
rushed overboard with the poor beasts that had been doomed to death.
The storm lulls in a few hours now, and though the darkling land is
seen miles to the south, and the wind is still unfavourable, all
danger is over for the time.
Five days after this, having encountered head winds, and gale upon
gale all the way, the _Vengeful_ sails up the Firth of Forth and
anchors off Leith.
Perhaps never were soldiers more glad to get on shore than those poor
sea-beaten "Jockie Raws" are, my grandfather included.
But soon, safe in Edinburgh Castle, their sorrows are all forgotten,
and they are once more the careless, happy-go-lucky young soldiers,
just the sort of boys that were needed to fight for their King and
country in the brave days of old.
CHAPTER III.
LIFE AT THE CASTLE--A DANCE ON THE DINNER-TABLE--HOW
A QUARREL WAS SETTLED--A DROLL DUEL AND
THE ENDING THEREOF.
If anything could inspire an enthusiastic young soldier like my
grandfather with warlike ardour, it was residence in such a romantic
and mighty castle as that of Edinburgh. Its history is one of the
greatest and grandest that has ever been penned, and its associations
full of romance.
His friend, Captain Drake, lent him books about it, and these,
boy-like, he gloated over. They did him good in more ways than one,
as books and papers invariably do the soldier who cares to read, for
they kept him away from the temptations that are inseparable from
every large town or city.
But even a private soldier can choose his companions, though, in
barracks or out of barracks, this is sometimes hard to do.
Grandfather John, however, was fond of walking about by himself. He
could not be called quite alone, however, if he had a book and his
own thoughts. So he would climb the lofty hills on the Salisbury
Crags, and when tired of gazing at the lovely scenery, set himself to
read or think. Oftentimes, even when reading, his thoughts would
wander home to the bonnie Braes of R---- and his old school life, and
his droll adventures would rise up before his mind's eye, as well as
that cosy fireside in his father's house, by which he used to spend
the long forenights of winter.
Letters were dear to send in those days; they were dear indeed when
received--dear to the heart, I mean. The boy used to save up for the
postage, and this would take him, as a rule, a fortnight at the very
least.
He still kept Rachel's little letter and four-bladed clover. Indeed,
he had invested in a little case for it, and wore it around his neck
as an amulet on a ribbon of blue.
Sentimental was he? Well, perhaps; but I for one like a lad none the
less for that.
Captain Drake and the drill-sergeant continued to be very good
friends to John.
Under pretence of giving him some writing to do, such as copying
letters, the captain frequently took the lad to his rooms, and after
the work was done he would talk to him, and tell him strange, wild
stories of the life he had led, and of the countries in which he had
served.
I have no means of knowing whether these stories were true or merely
fiction, or part of both; however, they served their turn, and amused
the reciter as well as the listener.
I do not think that my grandfather's musical abilities were ever of a
very high order. In fact, like the illustrious Duke of Wellington,
he pretended to despise music. I think it was His Grace who used to
say that of all sounds music was the least disagreeable.
But when I was a bit of a boy, Auld-da often used to get me to sing
for him.
He was an adept at dancing, however, not only Highland reels and
flings, but hornpipes, and it soon was admitted that no lad in the
whole castle was more nimble among the feet than he.
Hornpipes are hardly known nowadays, but they were in great repute,
both on sea and land, in those old war times.
Captain Drake saw the lad dancing one day, and was rather taken aback.
Now although I do not think that betting, or wagering as it was
called, had grown up into a national sin and science during the
Napoleonic wars, still many a strange bet was made.
One evening, for example, at mess, someone said something about
dancing. I rather think it was Dr. McLeod--a stalwart junior surgeon
who stood six feet in his stocking-soles, and was well built besides.
In those same stocking-soles McLeod often treated his messmates to
the Highland fling or sword-dance after dinner.
On the evening in question the swords he danced across, to the music
of the bagpipes, were almost as sharp as razors.
"Well, McLeod," said Drake, "that is very clever, but I am willing to
wager a week's pay I can find a private in my company who can beat
your performance, and not cut his feet either."
The wager was taken at once by Major Lloyd. "But what is the dance
to be?" he asked.
"Well, he shall dance a ranting hornpipe on the dinner-table, without
breaking either a plate or a bottle."
There was a chorus of laughter. The thing was deemed an
impossibility.
The wager was accepted after this by three or four officers.
Next afternoon Captain Drake had an interview with my grand-dad, and
told him what had happened.
"Now, lad," he said, "my honour is in your hands, or rather feet.
Can you do it?"
My bold young progenitor's face glowed with excitement, and his eyes
sparkled merrily.
"Yes, Captain Drake. Yes," he cried, "and be so happy to please you."
The music was to be the fife, then a great favourite in the service,
and after dinner the performers came in.
The cloth was not even removed, and the long, strong table was
crowded with plates, dishes, and bottles.
My brave little grand-dad was not daunted by this fragile array. He
had been provided with a pair of dancing-pumps. He bowed to the
company, as the fifer struck up, and at the end of the first measure
sprang from floor to table as lightly as an indiarubber ball.
Not a step that he did not dance, and there were eleven, and not a
portion of the table that he did not traverse to the mad, merry lilt
of the fife. Yet never an article was broken or even touched.
The continued laughter ended, just as the hornpipe was finished, in
one wild burst of applause, which seemed to shake the very castle
walls.
Big McLeod was a droll fellow, and a very great favourite with the
officers.
"I'm beaten, and we're all beaten. Bravo! little man. If you can
fight as well as you can dance, what a rare soldier you'll make.
Hurrah! Play up again, fifer!"
And this bold, gay surgeon flung my ancestor on his brawny shoulders,
and went capering round the room with him, singing an old Irish ditty
to the old Irish music:
"'T was then, my boys, the merry pipes
Struck up a lilt so gaily O!
Och! 't was rare to see old Father Phipps
Beat time with his shill-ail-ee O!
Fill-a-lill-laie,
Liltie-laie,
Beat time with his shil-ail-ee O!"
* * * * *
Next morning Captain Drake gave my youthful progenitor five
shillings, but told him not to say a word to anybody.
The boy's eyes filled so suddenly with tears that the captain was
surprised.
"What! boy, you're not going to cry!"
"Oh, no, sir--at least--only tears of joy, sir. I'll be able to
write home now."
The officers' mess at the castle was a large and somewhat mixed one.
The officers and men of various regiments lay here, and would for
some months to come.
It was a mixed one, and it was a merry one, but I cannot say that
peace always reigned in the castle.
The officers had many ways of amusing themselves, both at home and in
the city. The play was a favourite resort, but balls and parties
were frequent enough.
Now, whether or not in those olden times men were braver than they
are now, I am unable to say. But one thing is pretty certain, life
was less valued, and among officers, and even civilians, quarrels
that in our day would be disposed of by a few words of explanation
were apt to lead to duels, that might or might not be fought to the
bitter end, either with pistols or broadswords.
I think that the worst kind of cowardice of any is that displayed by
the man who is afraid of being thought afraid. And an individual of
this small moral calibre is apt to be touchy, and apt to take offence
where none is meant. I have met such people often enough. I have
one in my mind's eye at this moment who belonged to the
flagship--well, let me call her the _Dockemshort_. A little fellow,
and no great favourite in our mess. He seemed to carry his eyes upon
stalks, like the lobsters, and was always on the outlook for someone
who might attempt to hurt his dignity.
In our times we settle disputes by arbitration; in our grandfathers',
or great-grandfathers' times, what was called honour was a far more
tender article.
Walter Scott makes two of his heroes who are about to fight address
each other thus:
"'Can nought but blood our feud atone?
Are there no means?'
'No, stranger, none.'"
There were two officers in this mess who seemed directly antithetic.
One was honest, gigantic McLeod, the surgeon. He was good-natured
and lovable, and hated duelling, or fire-eating, as he termed it.
The other was Lieutenant Blood--well-named, by the way. A little
fellow, and fiery. He was, when in his cups, somewhat of a braggart,
and would even boast of the number of times he had been out--not only
with his own countrymen, but with Frenchmen, Prussians, or Russians,
or anyone who would oblige him.
Well, at a ball, given in honour of something or of somebody, Blood
became greatly incensed at McLeod for having danced too often with a
beautiful young lady that he--Blood--had cast eyes upon.
McLeod and she were talking together, in a green, quiet corner, when
Lieutenant Blood strutted boldly up. He took no notice of McLeod,
who looked kingly in his uniform, and on whose arm the lady was at
that moment leaning.
"Pardon me, Miss Niven, but I believe the next dance is mine, and
with your fair hand."
"Not this time, Captain. I have my partner here."
McLeod looked down; there was a smile in his eye. Blood looked up;
there was mischief in his.
Nothing was said till next evening, when dessert was about half
through.
"O, by the way, McLeod," cried the fire-eater suddenly, "I consider
your conduct last night as simply abominable."
"Hullo! Hullo! Hullo!"
This from his messmates.
"You absorbed the whole of Miss Niven's attention, and you did me out
of several dances."
"But the lady liked it," said the surgeon, with a smile.
"I don't believe the statement, and I don't believe you."
Blood snapped his fingers in the air.
"Pass the salt, Jones," said the surgeon quietly. "I'm going to
catch it."
Jones made some remark about putting salt on sparrows' tails, and
Blood's eyes looked daggers.
"I--I--I--" he began.
"Toot! toot!" cried the doctor. "Don't get nervous, Blood, or I
shall have to put you on the sick-list."
"Now, to tell you the truth," he continued calmly, "Miss Annie----"
"Miss Niven, sir!"
"Well, she's Miss Niven to you, she's Annie to me. But she said in
my ear, with her face very close to mine, that she did not care to
dance with you, because you barely reached to her waist."
"For that _insult_, sir, you shall give me _sa-tis-faction_. You
understand?"
"Sa-tis-faction!" repeated McLeod provokingly. "You mean you want to
fight me with pistols. I'm not going to fight. Excuse me for
calling the attention of my messmates to the insignificance of your
person compared with mine. Figuratively speaking, Blood, you're only
one target, and I'm three. And unless your hand shook much more than
it usually does of a morning, you'd hit me. No, I'm not going to
fight you, Blood. Annie wouldn't like it."
"McLeod, you're a coward!"
Every officer sprang to his feet in a moment.
"That settles it," shouted the surgeon. "Waiter, throw up that
window. Quick!"
With an agility that no one would have given him credit for, McLeod
sprang on to the table and over it. There was the crashing of
bottles and plates, but next moment the giant had seized the pigmy by
an arm and a leg, and thrown him like a curling-stone right through
the open window.
There was no duel next morning. Blood was on the sick-list for a
week; but he never said "Duel" to the doctor again.
* * * * *
Even Captain Drake himself, kind-hearted though he was, found himself
one evening involved in a dispute with a friend at dessert.
Captain O'Reilly was an Irishman, but one of the merriest and
best-natured men in the Service.
I suppose wine was to blame on this occasion, as on many others.
O'Reilly had been away over the hills fishing all day, and feeling
tired, had exceeded somewhat. Like most of his countrymen, he was
most patriotic. Ireland has many grievances even now. She had far
more then. But the quarrel commenced with a slight O'Reilly threw at
the English, just after someone had sung a charming and patriotic old
Irish song.
Blood was the first to take the battle up.
"English music," he alleged, was "as good as Irish"; and Captain
Drake sided with him.
The argument grew so warm that O'Reilly called the English a nation
of musicless louts and shopkeepers. Then Drake retired.
"He means challenging me," said O'Reilly heatedly, as the door closed.
Now Drake meant nothing of the sort.
"He means to challenge me. But, by this and by that, I'll be first
with it. Doctor McLeod, will you be my second?"
"I'd rather not, O'Reilly."
"Certainly you can't," said the president, "because you see, doctor,
you'll have to be on the ground with your instruments, to extract the
bullets after the gentlemen shoot."
"The better plan," said big McLeod, laughing, "would be to extract
the bullets before the shooting begins."
"I won't be laughed down," shouted O'Reilly.
"Then," retorted the doctor, "do as the sparrows do: dicht your neb
and flee up."*
* Wipe your bill and fly up.
"I shall second Captain Drake," cried Blood.
"And I shall second O'Reilly," said Major Jones, a quiet little
Welshman.
Things were speedily arranged, although Captain Drake would far
rather have had them arranged in quite a different way.
The morning broke bright, and clear, and balmy. The blackbirds were
singing on bushes that clung to the cliffs, as Captain Drake opened
his window and gazed eastwards, where the sunshine was glittering on
the sea.
"Heigho!" he said half aloud, "what a pity that men should thirst for
each other's blood on a day like this. I can't make out what was the
matter with O'Reilly last night. I dare say I must shoot him,
however; but I'm very sorry."
"Come in."
This was shouted aloud, and next moment his servant entered his room
with a cup of hot milk, and told him that young John Robertson wanted
to speak with him.
"O, yes, of course. He is coming to the park with us to carry my
extra garments. Send him in."
"Well, lad, you're early."
"Because I was told to see you alone, sir."
"Leave the room, Spence."
"Now, John, what is it?"
"Lieutenant O'Reilly's servant gave me this note for you, sir. I was
to let no one see me deliver it."
As soon as Drake read it, he flung himself into a chair, stretched
out his legs, and laughed right heartily for fully fifteen seconds.
"Go now, John," he said, as soon as he could speak, "Come back in
half an hour, and we'll be ready for the march."
The note was from O'Reilly, and ran thus:
"DEAR DRAKE,--My morning reflections embitter my soul. Sorra a bit
of spite have I at you at all, at all. But listen, my boy: When the
word is given, just you fire at my second, and I'll fire at yours.
That'll settle it, and maybe settle the seconds too.
"Thine to the spine,
"PATRICK O'REILLY."
The only one on the field of battle who was really frightened was my
grandfather. So he told me. He had never believed it possible that
two friends could stand up in this cool-blooded way to take each
other's lives. However, the duel proceeded.
Drake, when he shook hands with O'Reilly, gave that officer's hand a
squeeze which he fully understood. The word was given.
Bang--bang, went the pistols; Drake deliberately firing at Jones,
O'Reilly letting off on Blood. Next moment little Blood sprang two
feet in the air, and fell sprawling to the ground.
"By this and by that," cried O'Reilly, "I'm feared that I've kilt the
little man entirely."
"Hurry, Doctor, hurry," gasped Blood, "I'm shot clean through the
heart. Extract the bullet if you can."
"With pleasure!" said the doctor.
The coat was taken off. There was a hole in that, and a hole in the
shirt, but no hole in the heart; no hole in the skin. The bullet had
hit the busk of the little man's stays, glanced off and gone
goodness--or badness--only knows whither.
The principal and the other second, Jones, past whose ear Drake's
bullet had whizzed, declared that honour was satisfied, and O'Reilly
shook hands with his friend once more, and all left the field about
as merry a party as ever drew pistols with deadly intent. No, not
quite all, for little Blood appeared considerably crestfallen.
But why? Well, it had been discovered that he wore stays, and I do
believe he would have preferred a flesh-wound to that discovery by
his messmates.
Nor did he get leave to forget it. That evening, at dinner, quite a
ripple of chaff ran round the table at this dapper little officer's
expense, and I fear that big McLeod began it.
"I think, Blood, you had a wonderful escape. But for the steel busk
in your stays, you would now be an ensanguined corpse."
"I move," said Jones, "that we all wear stays. Couldn't we petition
the Horse Guards?"
The president, Colonel ----, thought it time to hold up his hand,
though he smiled as he did so.
But Lieutenant Blood had done with duelling for a time at all events.
CHAPTER IV.
WHAT A BATTLE SEEMS LIKE TO THE SOLDIER--TERRIBLE
TIMES IN PARIS--CIVIL WAR AND MURDER.
"And so," said Drake one evening, to my grandfather, shortly after
the memorable duel in the park, "so you were really frightened?"
"I was sir, and I'm----"
He said no more, but hung his head.
"You are ashamed of being afraid. Eh?"
"I think so, sir. I'm afraid, too, that I'll never make a soldier."
"Nonsense, lad, nonsense. Right well do I remember my own first
fight. It was my first real fight, too. It is some years ago now,
and I was still an ensign, when clouds of war began in the East. I
knew nothing at all about fighting then, and I didn't know the least
little bit about politics.
"Indeed," he added laughing, "I don't know much about politics yet,
and don't want to. I know we have a King and a Parliament, and that
when most of them say one way, then they poke up the British lion,
then come busier times in the dockyard and busier times in barracks,
war is declared and we soldiers go away to fight, but to each of us,
individually, a battle is all a muddle. It is just marching and
counter-marching, shooting and fighting, advancing and retreating,
and so on and so forth--a most puzzling complication. Sometimes,
when you feel sure that you have beaten the enemy pretty nearly off
the face of the earth, you find that it is your side that has been
beaten, and that you have to retreat. At other times when you lie
down exhausted after a hard day's fearful fighting, not caring
whether you ever awake again after you get to sleep on the hard, cold
ground, because you think that your side has sustained defeat, you
are gloriously surprised to find out next morning that victory is
crowning you with glory, that the enemy is in full retreat, and your
regiment has received orders to follow them up."
"Along with other regiments, I suppose," my grand-daddy ventured to
remark.
"Yes, yes, of course with other regiments. But perhaps it is a
foggy, muggy, miserable morning, and you can't see any other
regiments, only a mounted officer or orderly galloping here and there
in the mist, looking more like a ghost than a man. That is war, lad,
but that isn't the worst of it.
"But let me see. What was I going to tell you about?"
"Your first fight, and your first fright, sir."
"O, yes, so it was. Well, there had been a terrible Reign of Terror
in France. Some day you may read an account of those massacres,
treason, treachery, and all combined. I know all about it by heart,
but it isn't wholesome reading for young fellows like you, so I shall
say little about it.
"But, briefly, boy--for I can see by your eyes that you want to know
a little--in 1792 war broke out between France and Austria, and
fighting began on the Flemish frontier.
"The French had little honour and glory in their first battles
anyhow. The Austrians walked through them, or would have done, had
they waited, but, instead of that, they not only bolted like so many
rabbits, but even murdered their own officers.
"Revolution was smouldering then in Paris. The armies of France lay
idle in front of the foe, afraid to attack, ashamed to retire.
"Then, as the time flew past--by weeks and months--and nothing was
done against the foe, the people of Paris became madly incensed
against the King and his profligate court, whom they accused of
treason against the people's rights.
"King Louis behaved like a fool, if he was not one out-and-out. He
could not recognise that the people had a mind and a will of its
own--that his subjects were not slaves. His Parliament, or Assembly,
desired to banish the priests that resisted its will. The King would
not submit. The people feared invasion, hardly knowing the day or
hour when the enemy should conquer and drive in their armies, and
appear before their gates; the Assembly, therefore, called for
volunteers to drill and make ready, and even encamp outside the city.
The King saw no necessity. He even dismissed the Minister whom the
populace delighted to honour and obey.
"This enraged the people beyond measure, and the streets of Paris
were filled with a yelling, haranguing, and, I fear, blood-thirsty
mob.
"This mob, at midsummer, actually forced its way into the Tuileries.
"Even this had not the effect of arousing the King to a sense of
impending danger. He was surrounded by his priests, his profligates,
and worse.
"But now the Austrians got allies. The Prussians joined them, and
France was invaded in earnest. Here was an army of fifty thousand
Prussians, commanded by the brave Duke of Brunswick, marching along
the banks of the Moselle, with an army of Austrians, or two rather,
pouring in from Belgium and the Upper Rhine.
"And now the end began to draw near, for in the name of the Emperor
of Austria, and the King of the Prussians, a proclamation was issued
to the people of France.
"This manifesto declared that the allied armies were marching on
Paris to take the part of the injured King--so they called him, or
thought him.
"'The city of Paris,' it went on, 'and its inhabitants, without class
distinction, are hereby warned that they must submit immediately to
their King, Louis XVI.; set that Prince at entire liberty, and show
him, and all the Royal Family, that inviolability of respect which
the law of Nature and of nations imposes on subjects towards their
sovereigns. Their Imperial and Royal Highnesses will hold all the
members of the Assembly, the Municipality, and National Guard of
Paris responsible before military tribunals for all events, and _with
their heads_, without hope of pardon.'
"They--the allies--further declared that if the Château of the
Tuileries were forced or insulted, or the least violence offered to
the King or Queen, or any of the Royal Family, and provision not at
once made for their preservation, safety, and liberty, they--the said
allied armies--would deliver the city of Paris to military execution
and total overthrow.
"This proclamation was issued on the 25th of July."
"O dear! said my innocent grandfather, that was nearly as bad as
Culloden, and the massacres that followed."
Captain Drake laughed.
"Wait a moment, lad, and make sure.
"That proclamation decided the fate of the King. The awful Bastille,
which had been so long the city's terror, had already been destroyed,
and, as soon as word was brought that the Duke, with his Prussians,
had crossed the north-east frontier, Danton, who was leader of the
demon democrats of Paris, assembled his ragged but desperate army, to
destroy for ever the monarchy that the invaders seemed bent on
supporting.
"The Republic was won* in a single day by the populace of Paris,
amidst the roar of cannon and the flash of bayonets.
* _Vide_ FYFFE'S _Modern Europe_, vol. i.
"On the 10th of August Danton let loose the armed mob upon the
Tuileries. Louis quitted the palace, without giving orders to the
guard either to fight or to retire.
"There was nothing to defend, for the monarch no longer hoped for
anything beyond his life; but the guard were ignorant that their
master desired them to offer no resistance, and one hundred and sixty
of the mob were shot down by them before an order reached the troops
to abandon the palace.
"The cruelties which followed the victory of the people indicated the
fate in store for those whom the invaders came to protect.
"It is doubtful whether the foreign Courts would have made any
serious attempt to undo the social changes effected by the Revolution
in France; but no one supposed that those thousands of self-exiled
nobles who now returned behind the guns of Brunswick had returned in
order to take their places peacefully in the new social order.
"In their own imagination, as much as in that of the people, they
returned with fire and sword to repossess themselves of rights of
which they had been despoiled, and to take vengeance on the men who
were responsible for the changes made in France since 1789.
"In the midst of a panic .... Danton inflamed the nation with his own
passionate courage and resolution; he unhappily also thought it
necessary, to a successful national defence, that the reactionary
party at Paris should be paralysed by a terrible example.
"The prisons were filled with persons suspected of hostility to the
national cause, and in the first days of September many hundreds of
these unfortunate persons were massacred by gangs of assassins, paid
by a committee of the Municipality. Danton had made up his mind that
the liberty of France could not be saved without striking terror into
the hearts of its enemies .... and the sword, once drawn, was not
sheathed until the best voices of France were silent, and the
exercise of power had become but another name for the commission of
crime.
"The Republic was then proclaimed, and the war became a crusade of
Democracy.
"You see, my lad, France, not content with having banished Monarchy,
and turned herself into a Republic, would fain have murdered every
king and queen in the world, and set up puppet--puppy, if you like
the word--presidents in their place.
"The leader of the French army was Dumourier, who, after checking
Brunswick, carried the war into Germany itself, which was then in a
poor condition to defend itself.
"But I see you are getting tired, lad, and want me to come to my
first fight."
"No," said my grandfather. "I like to hear you speak, sir."
"I only want to tell you what drew Britain into the turmoil.
"Well, the French, after crossing the frontier, won the battle of
Jenappes, and the Austrians abandoned the Netherlands.
"After this victory the French became excited by the fever of
conquest. Savoy and Nice were annexed. Corsica had already been
reconciled.
"And now, elated by their luck, there was no saying into what country
they might not carry fire and sword. And not only fire and sword,
but Revolution in its blackest and bloodiest garments.
"For it was decreed that in every country which should be occupied by
the armies of the French Republic, the generals thereof should
announce the abolition of all existing authorities; of nobility and
every feudal right and monopoly; proclaim the sovereignty of the
people; form provisional Governments therefrom to which no officer of
a former Government should be eligible.
"Well, as the agents of the French were fostering sedition in every
state, and stirring up bad blood even in Britain itself by the
preaching of the Rights of Man, and as the people of this country
could not forget the fearful massacres of September, we began to get
impatient and to thirst for war.
"When a country thirsts for war, lad, an excuse soon comes.
"There was a peace party in Britain, but as soon as news came to
London that the French King had been executed, war became inevitable,
and was declared on the 3rd of February by the French, just to be
beforehand with the British.
"Pitt, our Prime Minister, spared no pains now to isolate France, and
to crush her by raising a great coalition against her. Holland at
once joined us, then, later on, Naples, Tuscany, Spain, Portugal, and
the Papal States.
"But there were two parties in France itself--the Girondins, who
would have saved the King, if they could have at the same time kept
up their own influence in Paris. But the populace and Mountain party
saw through their falseness.
"And next came defeat and disaster, and even treason.
"The French General Dumourier opened the ball against Holland, but as
the Austrians had beaten the French at Maestricht, and they were in
full retreat before the foe, he had to return and fight the Austrians
near Brussels.
"He was defeated, and Flanders was opened up to Austria. Then came
the treason of this scoundrel Dumourier, for he coolly proposed
uniting his beaten army with the Austrians, and to attack the Paris
Convention, and restore Monarchy. He did not succeed, however, with
his army, and was obliged to fly to the Austrian side, and was shot
at, while he fled, by his own men.
"This treasonable coward brought ill-luck to the French, and they
soon lost all they had won in the autumn before, except Mainz, which
was garrisoned by a brave Republican army of 17,000.
"Castine, a French general, had to fall back upon Weissenburg.
"But worse than this happened to France, for civil war broke out.
The large province of Vendée, a peasant people, were ordered to raise
300,000 men. They refused. They had not been pleased at the
expulsion of the priests from Paris. They would rather fight the
Parisians, and in this they were encouraged by their Church, and the
Royalists still among them. So a civil war was inaugurated.
"The Government of Paris had only raw levies to send against them,
composed for the most part of gutter-grubbers and cut-throats, and
these the Vendéans soon put out of existence.
"Hitherto the Gironde party had held sway, but now, with Britain and
Austria thundering at the northern gates of France, laying siege to
Condé and Valenciennes, and driving the French army back before it,
the Girondes lost the confidence of the people, and were openly
charged with causing all the terrible troubles, even down to the
civil war of La Vendée. The Convention was surrounded by armed men
calling themselves a Commune, and the Mountain party arrested and
crushed the Girondes.
"They escaped, however, and now civil war commenced in terrible
earnest, Lyons, Marseilles, Normandy, and other departments rushing
to arms to attack Paris. The Royalists, of course, thought they saw
their opportunity, and joined these against the Mountain party.
"After the Lyons revolt, Robespierre the Bloody stepped upon the
stage, and the Reign of Terror--far too awful even to think
of--commenced.
"Well, my lad, it was early in the year 1793 that I first saw real
service, and this was at Toulon."
"Tell me," said my grandfather eagerly.
And Captain Drake continued his story.
CHAPTER V.
FIGHTING AT TOULON--TERRIBLE SORTIES--EVACUATION--OFF
TO CORSICA--CAPTURED BY BRIGANDS--CAPTAIN
DRAKE'S FIRST FIGHT.
"Well, John, lad," Captain Drake went on, "when I embarked for the
fair land of France, soon after the declaration of war, though many
years older than you are now, I had never seen a shot fired in anger
in all my life.
"With the 2nd battalion of our Royal Scots I embarked at Toulon.
"This great seaport was then held by the Royalists of France. Held
against the army of the French Republic I mean, and held, I fear, in
a somewhat shaky way.
"These Royalists had gone so far as to proclaim a successor to their
murdered prince, and they prayed the British to come to their
assistance.
"This we speedily did, Lord Hood taking possession of the place, to
have and to hold in behalf of 'Louis XVII.'
"But, not long after this, it was entirely invested by the Republican
forces. A stern and obstinate resistance was made, and for a time we
were, as a rule successful.
"Sortie after sortie was made, and successfully too, and the
Royalists behaved with the greatest gallantry, as they have always
done, my boy, and ever will."
"Were you in those sorties?" asked John.
"No, lad; I was kept engaged behind the ramparts, for my first fight
had not yet come.
"But the Republicans got so numerous, and our forces were so small
compared to the great extent of fortification we had to protect, that
it was at last deemed expedient to evacuate the place.
"If the whole truth must be told, as it always should be, even at the
expense of one's _amour propre_, the loss of Toulon was mainly caused
by the terrible artillery-fire conducted by a young officer called
Napoleon Bonaparte."
"_The_ Napoleon Bonaparte?"
"No other, lad. No other."
"Then we were beaten at Toulon?"
"Certainly; that is plain English.
"Hood was obliged to evacuate. Discretion is the best part of
valour, and, had he not done so, the Republicans would soon have
seized the place, and not a French Royalist or a Royal Scot would
have been left alive.
"But we embarked the Royalists on board our ships. We fired the
Trench shipping, and blew up the magazines and arsenals.
"Ay, boy, and that was a sight I am not likely to forget till my
dying day.
"But all were got safely on board at last, my own company, or rather
the company to which I belonged, being the very last to leave the
dockyard gates.
"It was about a year after this that an expedition was fitted out to
go to Corsica. The Corsicans, as I have already told you, assented
in a half-hearted kind of way to be under the dominion of the French
Republic, but some of them now saw the error of their ways, and would
rather hand the island over to Britain. These were in the minority,
however, so we prepared to fight.
"In addition to the 1st Royals, we had six good regiments along with
us.
"Well, I wasn't much of a sailor just then, and the first part of the
voyage, anyhow, was far from agreeable. We were in troopers, guarded
by ships of war, which kept a good look-out, I can assure you. The
French had still some craft afloat, and I, for one, had no great wish
to take part in a naval engagement. I hardly know, indeed, what part
we would have taken; I dare say it would have been the part of 'cut
and run.'
"However, we saw no foe except the elements. Crossing the Bay of
Biscay was a fearful experience. The Bay has a bad name, anyhow, and
this time it appeared determined to maintain it. It was not that the
wind was terribly boisterous, but the waves were hills high--a
seething, boiling, foaming mass. I dare say that if I were a sailor
I could describe it in more nautically romantic language. It seemed
to me, however, that when we got between two seas we would wallow
there for a time, and then founder. Then, when we got on top of a
billow, and could see about us a bit, that billow behaved in the most
heartless manner, shook itself, in fact, and shook us too, then
kicked us down once more into the trough of the ocean to wallow once
more. Our ship rolled at times till her yard-arms stirred up the
water as a Highland bull tosses a bundle of hay; then she would
pretend she was going down, head first, like a sea-unicorn, scaring
me out of my wits; after this, by way of a change, she would cock
herself up on one end--the stern, I think seamen call it--like a
poodle begging with a bit of bread on its nose.
"You may smile, John, lad, but it was no smiling matter to us. If
that be the way Britannia rules the waves, I'd rather stay at home, I
thought, and keep a farm. But we got into beautiful water after we
passed Gibraltar. Beautiful weather, too. The poet calls the
Mediterranean the Blue Levant, and no sky was ever bluer than the
ocean around us was now. The worst of it was that it fell dead calm.
For my part, I thought that was the best of it--I wasn't in any great
hurry to fight the Corsicans.
"We got there at last all the same, and on the 22nd of May our guns
shook the town of Bastia like a select assortment of juvenile
earthquakes, and there was some fighting. They told me after the
battle that we had taken the town in fine style, though, for the life
of me, I couldn't see where the fine style came in.
"But there was more to be done yet. As for the Bastians, they were
like a parcel of well-whipped schoolboys, and ready to promise
anything. They gave over not only the city, but all the island, to
the British. A rough lot they were, but they gave us fairly good
dinners and dances. Then there was very beautiful and wild scenery
further inland, and we got up shooting parties, though--bar rats, and
rabbits, and half-wild pigs--there wasn't much to shoot.
"One day I got separated from my companions, and lost myself in a
wood. I wandered on and on till nightfall, when I found myself in a
kind of rocky glen, and close to a rude sort of a cottage without a
chimney. Smoke was curling up through the roof, though, and some
goats and a cow were near by.
"I was very hungry, and here I thought was a chance of getting a bite
and sup, so I went boldly up and knocked.
"The door was opened after a time, but only just a little way, and
one of the most awful-looking faces I have ever seen peeped round the
edge. It was that of a blear-eyed hag, with dark, dishevelled rags
of hair, a nose that had been smashed, and a huge cavern of a mouth,
studded, apparently, with rusty nails instead of teeth.
"I suppose I didn't look very terrible; anyhow, seeing it was 'only
me,' she threw the door quickly open, seized my rifle with one hand,
and clapped a pistol to my brow with the other.
[Illustration: "A bleared-eyed hag clapped a pistol to my brow."]
"She speedily disarmed me, and then dragged me in and pointed to a
stone in a corner near the fire. Of course I sat down, and as I
didn't understand a word she said, I made signs that this Corsican
lady understood, for she handed me a huge bowl of milk and some fruit.
"After this I made up my mind that it was time to go. My rifle stood
near the door, and I made for that. But I never reached it. The hag
seized me by the coat-tails and seated me again so roughly on the
stone that I believed a bone was broken. I was a prisoner,
evidently, and guarded by a woman. What a humiliating position for
an officer of the 1st Royal Scots!
"But the worst was to come.
"I could see that she expected company. She stuck an extra pistol in
her leathern cingle, and gave me a nod, as much as to say, 'That's
for you, my pretty boy, unless you're good.' Then she set about
cooking a savoury stew.
"In about a couple of hours' time I heard voices singing in the
distance. They had lit two huge lamps, and immediately after the
door was opened, and in walked three brigands, armed with knives and
shooting-irons.
"I thought they would despatch me at once, but instead of that they
stuck their hands to their sides and laughed till the shanty shook
again.
"They ate like ogres, but every now and then they looked at me and
laughed again. Well, there was no laughing in my heart, especially
when they took to drinking next.
"But my time soon came. One fellow advanced and pulled my hat off
and placed it on his own dirty head, another took my necktie, and the
third my boots. Thus by degrees they stripped me naked, and that old
hag looking on and enjoying the fun.
"I was afraid they would now turn me out of doors, and had made up my
mind to struggle and die first. But this was not to be my fate.
"For, still laughing as if it were the best joke on earth, they
rigged me out as a brigand, though a very ragged one, and stuck a
huge broad-brimmed hat jauntily on my head.
"I was next led to the door, and a fellow beckoned me to follow him.
"It was a lovely star-lit and moon-lit night, with never a breath of
air, a night that under other circumstances I would have enjoyed to
the full.
"My guide led me on and on for nearly an hour, till at last, coming
to the brow of a hill, I saw the lights of Bastia and our ships far
down beneath. Then the guide disappeared.
"I had to make the best of a bad job now. So I hurried off down
towards the town. Luckily our temporary barracks lay on the
outskirts, for if I had been obliged to walk through the town, my
adventures might have ended by someone shooting me.
"The windows of our mess-place were all open wide, and two figures
were walking on the grass, Dr. McLeod and Lieutenant O'Reilly, both
smoking.
"I ran towards them.
"The doctor clubbed his big fist to knock me down.
"'It's only me,' I cried; 'for goodness' sake go and tell my servant
I want him at once.'
"Instead of doing anything of the sort, the doctor seized me by the
shoulder, while O'Reilly caught me by the hand, and thus they ran me
right into the mess-room.
"Everybody, including the colonel, was on foot in a moment; and when
they saw it was only me, why the laughter of those brigands was
nothing to be compared to the chorus that rang out now on all sides
of me.
"When they had nearly finished, I told my dismal story, and glad
enough I was to get away at last, throw off my brigand rags, and have
a bath.
"But my strange story ran all through our little army--a dozen
different editions of it--and it was months before I heard the last
of it.
"But to return to our Corsican war, John, and my first real fight.
Though the Bastians there were agreeable to give over the island to
Britain, a town called Calvi still held out. It stands at the head
of one of the best of Corsican harbours, and commands it.
"Calvi was going to fight. Calvi did fight, and as it could not be
taken from the sea front, General Stuart determined to storm it from
one side.
"A battalion of picked men was therefore formed, and embarked on
board our ships with artillery and war material of every kind.
"Our Royal Scots were among the chosen, and hard indeed was the work
before us.
"We were landed quite three miles from Calvi, which was as well
fortified by Nature as by art.
"The road to the town and its outworks, which we had to make, led
along the mountain-sides. These ended in precipices. But over these
hills, and along the edge of fearful chasms, our guns had to be
dragged, and batteries constructed on the very top.
"Then our fire began, and continued until at last we effected a
breach in the walls of the biggest and strongest outwork, called the
Morello.
"The storming of this tower and wall was entrusted to the Royals.
"The Corsicans could fight well behind walls, and the evening before
the attack nothing was spoken of in our mess except the coming
battle, and engagements of a similar kind that older officers than I
had taken part in.
"'Ah!' said a grey-haired major, 'your work to-morrow will be mere
child's play to some of the experiences I had when a youngster out in
America. Driven back pell-mell again and again, sometimes under a
_feu d'enfer_ that decimated our brave lads, and tore whole regiments
almost to pieces.'
"This didn't tend to raise my spirits, anyhow, and I did not sleep a
very great deal. When I did doze off, it was to dream I was storming
terrible heights and facing fearful odds, with guns roaring around
me, and men falling dead or wounded on every side. The guns in my
dreams, however, were real enough, for our artillery were firing at
the breach--though with uncertain aim--to prevent the enemy from
repairing it.
"Next day was one of trial for me. That is for a time, and so it may
be with you, lad, when you first come under fire.
"I told you I was scared, and now I'll tell you where and when the
fright and nervousness came in. It was before we rushed on to the
storming, and while we stood to arms, waiting for a whole hour before
the signal to engage came.
"I pretended to laugh and chaff lightly with my fellow-officers. I
dare say older heads saw through this mean pretence of courage and
_sang-froid_. Perhaps I was a bit white about the gills. Well,
there were several men in the ranks, probably, whiter than I was.
"But the signal came at last.
"'On, lads!' shouted the officer in command, drawing his sword, and
pointing to the breach.
"There was a wild cheer, and our fellows rushed forwards with
bayonets fixed. But the climb took the wind out of us, and silence
succeeded the cheering.
"As our men began to fall here and there, and the guns roared loud in
front of us, I think my heart made several attempts to jump out of my
mouth.
"Then came the main charge--in the deadly breach. Our fellows did
not cheer now. It was a slogan, a wild yell, that we uttered as we
ran in and on.
"Now all fear had vanished. I only saw the foe in front of me. I
heeded not the volleys, the blood, the clash of steel; I had no
thought but that of getting hand-to-hand with the fierce defenders.
"They were borne backwards at last by the fury of our attack. Then,
all at once, the cheering was renewed, and I knew we were victorious.
When I looked up I saw our flag fluttering in the breeze, and, though
very much out of breath, I felt not only exceedingly happy, but proud
as well.
"Perhaps my pride was excusable, for I had done my share, despite the
restless night I had passed, and my absurd state of 'funk' while
waiting for the order to advance.
"But I had no more fighting for two years, during which time our
Royals held the stronghold.
"And now, lad, off you trot, for there goes the first bugle for
dinner."
CHAPTER VI.
MY GRANDFATHER IS PROMOTED--AN UNLUCKY ESCAPADE--SAVED
BY A RIBBON--MASSACRE OF FRENCH NOBLES--NAPOLEON
BONAPARTE TO THE FORE.
Promotion was quick in those days; that is, if a young soldier were
really deserving.
I have always thought my grandfather one of the smartest men for his
years that I ever knew. He was smart in appearance, soldierly in
bearing, and most particular as to his toilet, and this without any
signs of pride.
It was these very traits in his character that first brought him into
notice with his officers. They could trust the young fellow, and if
he was commissioned to do anything, or to carry a message, he did his
duty most thoroughly. Well, if a thing is worth doing at all, it is
worth doing well.
He was soon so perfect in his drill that he was made corporal.
That was a proud day for him, when he was told off to drill a squad
of Jockie-raws in the barrack-square, in Dublin. His foot was now on
the first step of the ladder of fame, and he was determined that it
should not slip.
But now, as a corporal, he had more temptations to battle against
than before. He was taken more out, and even the sergeants, who, as
a rule, have more pride of place than their superiors, did not
hesitate to make a companion of him, and a confidant as well.
"Robertson will soon be one of ourselves." That was what they said,
or prophesied.
Another thing in honest John's favour was the education that had been
drilled or driven into him by Dominie Freeschal. His correct English
and his penmanship were specially in his favour, and he was often
employed by the senior officers to write from dictation.
He was by no means loth to do this, not because it excused him from
duty--which he dearly loved--but because it brought him into contact
with men from whom he could not help learning much. Moreover, the
work was not unremunerative from a pecuniary point of view. The
officers of the Royals were too proud to accept the services of a
writer for nothing.
* * * * *
When but little over twenty years of age, this progenitor of mine, to
his intense delight, found himself the proud owner of a sergeant's
sash and pike; and now, as I do not wish to hold him up to the
reader's notice as a paragon of virtue or a plaster saint, I must
record an adventure that he had, not long after his promotion, which
was very nearly being his ruin, and, but for a lucky chance, would
have broken him, and reduced a really able non-commissioned officer
to the ranks.
Had it ended thus, he assured me himself, he would never again have
returned to the Highland home where his father and mother and people
dwelt.
Sergeant John Robertson had been for some time a Freemason. I am not
a Freemason myself, so cannot tell you what a Royal Arch is, or
whether it requires but one stone to compose it, or a thousand of
bricks. Anyhow, that was the rank the young soldier held in the
lodge to which he belonged, and I dare say there was nothing in it to
be otherwise than proud of.
The regiment, or a portion of it, had been sent to the south of
Ireland, for the French had threatened an invasion, and it was our
purpose to give them a warm reception, and to prevent anything like a
rising of the Irish malcontents to meet them.
One day, grandfather was sent from the camp to march a squad of
Royals to a neighbouring town, a distance of about twelve miles. He
was early astir, and he, with his men, accomplished the journey in a
little over three hours. He was to come back alone, after delivering
the squad at the barracks.
This, having dined, he prepared to do, but as ill-luck would have it,
he forgathered with a squad of another sort, some Highland sergeants,
one of whom, to his great surprise and delight, was none other than
Tom Grahame, the boy--boy now no longer--with whom he fought for
Rachel Freeschal, and whom he had stabbed with his kilt-pin.
My grandfather did not know this tall kilted warrior, who came up to
him in the street and held out a hand to shake.
"Preen Mhor, and is it really yourself I see before me? Why, Ian,
don't you remember the lad you stuck the big pin into and nearly
killed, all for the love of sweet little Rachel?"
"Tom Grahame, is it you?"
The delight was mutual, and naturally enough the two linked arm in
arm and marched off to a neighbouring inn, to talk about those dear
old times that seemed so far away now, and the people they might
never see again. This was indeed a happy meeting.
Ah! dear me, though, I'm sure it would have been happier had they
taken nothing stronger than water.
But other sergeants dropped in, and now the company numbered five
withal, and a merry afternoon they spent.
My grandfather was not used to strong drink, and it is no wonder,
therefore, that the fiery stuff he swallowed should have flown to his
head.
He had put an enemy in his mouth, and it had stolen away his brains.
The Highland sergeants gave him what is called a Scotch convoy. They
walked with him to the third mile-stone, then they all walked back
half a mile to an inn. Here a bottle of usquebaugh was bought, and
at the fourth mile-stone the contents were discussed and the bottle
smashed. Taking a hearty leave of poor Tom and his companions, my
very naughty grandfather went on by himself. Presently, as the sun
began to wester, he thought he would treat himself to a little song,
and did. And now he heard the sound of horses' hoofs clattering up
behind him, and next minute a gentleman's servant pulled up alongside.
"Soldier," he said, "you look tired; will you have a ride? This
horse can carry you and me both, and never turn a hair."
"Thank you very much. How far are you going?"
"Within two miles of your camp. Leastways I take it to be yours. My
master is Colonel W----, of the 42nd, stationed in the town you've
been to, but he lives out this way for the present.
"Are you too unsteady," he added, "to get up behind?"
"Not a bit of it," said my grandfather.
So he mounted, and on they rode, chatting cheerily.
By-and-by they came to an inn, and naturally, let me say
hypothetically, my grandfather asked the man to drink, and I suppose
had some himself.
Inns must have been plentiful enough along that road, for they had
not ridden a mile farther before they came to another little hostelry.
This time the man ordered the "noggin," but as soon as this was
disposed of, he said rather gruffly to my grandfather, "Pay for that."
"Pay yourself--you called for it. I paid the last, and I'll pay the
next."
"What! You won't pay it?"
"No."
"Then get off my horse."
This was too much for Highland blood, especially Highland blood fired
with Irish whisky. Sergeant John seized the man by the neck and a
leg, and in two seconds threw him off the horse. He managed to
wrench the reins from him as he fell.
He just stopped long enough to toss a coin to the gaping landlord,
then struck his heels in the horse's ribs, and, uttering a yell like
a Mexican cow-boy, dashed madly off.
He felt more inclined to sing now than ever, though what he did sing
I cannot say. Something madly Bacchanalian, I have little doubt.
And as he sang he waved his pike and slew imaginary foes.
Now, not far from the house where lived Colonel W----, was a narrow
bridge over a stream, a high old Gothic sort of structure from which
quite half a mile of the road could be seen.
Some men working here, noticing what they thought was a mad soldier
on horseback, quickly formed across the road, and, at considerable
risk, succeeded in stopping my grandfather's gallop.
His career was stopped for one night, and he was made prisoner.
Before this, however, the servant himself was seen in the distance,
and honest John at once rushed to meet him. He merely meant to
frighten the man, but this he succeeded in doing entirely to his own
satisfaction, if not to that of the unfortunate servant.
The rest was all a blank to my soldier grand-dad, till he awoke next
morning in a strange room, and found a sentry standing beside the
window with fixed bayonet.
"Am I a prisoner, then?"
"You are, indade, sorr. Don't ye moind what ye did at all?"
"Nothing terrible, I hope?"
"Well, as near as a toucher, Sergeant. Sure, if you hadn't been
caught, it's a big hole you would have drilled in the colonel's
servant, and kilt him entoirely."
The prisoner's agony of mind for the next two hours may be better
conceived than described.
He was then brought to the colonel's own room, and, much to his
astonishment, received with kind words and a smile.
"But now give an account of this sad affair," he said. "My servant
gives me his version, I would like to hear yours."
"I will tell you all I remember, sir, and you will then see that the
fault was altogether mine, and your servant not at all to blame."
He then told the story as we know it.
"And that is the truth, Sergeant; the whole truth?"
"O, no, sir, not the whole truth."
"And what have you kept back?"
"Why, nothing that I can think of. I have brought myself as far as
the bridge; after that it is all a blank."
The colonel smiled.
"Well," he said, "if I report you to your regiment, you are fully
aware what the consequences will be."
My grandfather hung his head.
"I will not report you. There is a morsel of ribbon in your jacket.
I well know what that denotes. I am myself a Mason, as--as you know.
I will forgive you."
"O, sir, what can I do to show my gratitude? Anything, sir, in the
world----"
"Stay, don't be too profuse. But there is one thing I wish you to
do. Promise me, on your honour, that you will not let temptation
overcome you again."
"On my honour as a soldier, sir, I promise you, but----"
"But what?"
"I had already made the same promise to myself, and I have prayed for
help."
"Good. Go back now to your camp. You shall hear no more of this.
Good morning."
"Good morning, sir, and a thousand thanks."
I have only to add that the promise he made to Colonel W---- he stuck
to, not only for a time, but throughout his whole career. He may,
and doubtless did, take his "ration of grog," but never again did he
exceed.
I cannot say the same for many of the other sergeants, however, for
those were hard, wild times. His own colonel said to my grandfather
one day long after this:
"I have never seen you even once the worse of liquor, Sergeant
Robertson. And I verily believe if I set you astride a wine-cask,
like Bacchus, I would find you all right in the morning."
My grandfather's thoughts reverted to that wild night when returning
from K----, but he answered never a word.
* * * * *
To hark back a little way, or rather a few years, and that is indeed
but a short time in a war that lasted for twenty twelve-months.
Captain Drake told us then how Hood had to leave Toulon after burning
the French fleet. He said nothing, however, about the horrors of
bloodshed and massacre that followed the entry of the French
Republican forces. Such stories are perhaps best left untold.
The burning of the fleet, however, gave us full power in the
Mediterranean. But the Vendéans, though promised help from the
British, were soon overpowered, then Lyons fell.
After Robespierre himself had met his deserts in 1794, a new
Government reigned in Paris.
In June, 1795, the British fleet landed the old nobles of France and
an army in the Bay of Quiberon, in South Brittany. The people here
were loyal to the backbone, and the expedition would be supported not
only by British ships, but by British money.
But, alas! those nobles spent time quibbling and quarrelling as to
who should command their forces. Then General Hoche swept down on
them like an eagle, captured their fort, and hurled them back towards
the sea.
In their fright the fugitives threw themselves into the waves, and
many of these were saved by our boats, but all the others who were
not killed in battle were made prisoners, and, horrible to relate,
six hundred of these were massacred in cold blood.
* * * * *
In the early part of 1796, that bright particular star, Napoleon
Bonaparte, whom we last heard of at Toulon as a young artillery
officer, began to blaze on high, for we found him in command of the
Italians--Italy at that time was not of much importance, and sadly
priestridden. He had advised the Directory, as the French Government
was now called, to make a threefold attack on Austria. Peace had
been concluded with Spain, while Holland and the Lower Rhine were at
peace, owing to the Treaty of Basle.
It will do the reader no harm to know that the French General Jourdan
was to enter Germany by Frankfort; Moreau to cross the Rhine at
Strasburg; and Napoleon himself to face the Austrians and Sardinians
on the mountain slopes forty miles to the westward of Genoa.
Napoleon had 40,000 men on the hills above the coast 'twixt Nice and
Genoa. The Austrians had an army of equal strength to face this
force, and the Sardinian army besides.
To sever these two armies Napoleon fought for four days, then getting
betwixt them he left a force to watch the Austrians, while he swooped
down on the Piedmontese, driving them back towards Turin with
terrible slaughter. The Government was terrorised, and glad to make
peace with the young and artful general, giving up to him the
fortresses of Coni, Ceva, and Tortona, most important strongholds,
because they commanded the entrance to Italy itself.
But Napoleon got also the town of Valenza, at which place, or near
it, General Beaulieu was led to understand the French would cross the
Po. Here he concentrated his forces and waited to give Napoleon
battle. But the latter was cleverly playing his own game. He
crossed fifty miles lower down.
There were no telegraphs in those days, so Beaulieu got no inkling of
the awful truth until he heard the roar of Napoleon's guns in his
rear. It was a grand fight, that at Lodi.
Sword in hand at the head of his grenadiers, the future Emperor of
the French crossed the Bridge of Lodi, and the Austrians were
fearfully beaten.
Then into Milan itself marched Napoleon in triumph. And the Milanese
had to purchase their freedom, not only with vast sums of money, but
even with the spoils of their beautiful churches. Napoleon next
marched into Central Italy, being determined to drive the armies of
Austria completely out of the field. He advanced upon Mincio. In
the battle fought by the Austrians and French at Borghetto, Beaulieu
was again badly thrashed, and forced to fly into the Tyrol, leaving
the French to invest Mantua.
CHAPTER VII.
POLICY AND AMBITION OF NAPOLEON--REBELLION IN
IRELAND--ATTEMPTS AT INVASION--THE WHOLE WORLD
OF EUROPE IN A BLAZE.
By the genius and strategy of Napoleon, coupled with a certain dash
and _élan_ that never forsook him till the very last, Austria was
driven from Italy. By the end of March he had even carried the
mountain passes that guard Carinthia, and pursued the enemy to within
eighty miles of Vienna. The Emperor sued for peace, and the kind of
peace made was one dictated by Napoleon himself, and to his own
advantage as much as that of France.
In fact, Napoleon Bonaparte was a capital map-maker. What was Italy
one day, would be Austria the next, and French territory soon after.
Treaties, in those days, were as often abrogated as not. They were
all very well so long as they suited the convenience of those who had
made them. When they failed to do so, nations tore them up and made
war; then the victor made another treaty, and the self-same fate
probably awaited that.
Napoleon was probably one of the most graspingly ambitious men that
ever lived, and one of the cleverest. Like a shepherd's collie, he
seemed to sleep--if ever that great brain of his did sleep--with one
eye open, ready to come down like a wolf on the fold, whenever he saw
an opening. He played at the great game of war. He played for high
stakes, too; he cared nothing how many crowns or sovereigns he threw
down, or how many kings, queens, and knaves opposed him. Talking of
kings and queens, by the way, there were a good many about in those
days, and some were hardly distinguishable from knaves.
"A prince can mak' a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that,
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Guid faith he mauna fa' that!"
Well, I don't suppose the great Napoleon himself ever attempted to
make an honest man. An honest man might have stood in his way. He
preferred fools. As to Marquises and that kind of folks, he could
turn them out by the score, and he could make kings too--or mar them.
It was all the same to Napoleon. He dreamt that, like Alexander the
Great, he had conquered the world, and he was going to do his best to
make that dream come true. But he didn't mean to imitate Alexander
any further; he wouldn't sit down and cry because there were no more
worlds to conquer. No, those he had conquered and trampled under
foot, might do the weeping, he should sit on high and play at being a
god.
On second thought, I beg to retract that wee word "sit."
No ambitious man ever did or could sit. Sitting only belongs to the
happy and contented. The brain of ambition is always in a turmoil
and a whirl.
Ambition is the tower of Babel, which a man builds for himself, and
the higher he builds it, the farther from the heaven and the haven of
contentment does he place himself. Because contentment rests on
earth, and happiness is its twin brother.
However, it was Napoleon's very successes that made him popular with
the French. Some people are driven "daft" by good luck, and some
nations are of the same temperament. Our Gallic neighbours are, for
example. They possess but little of the bull-dog courage, the
steadiness and staying power, of the British. So long as luck
favours them, then "Pah!" they cry, "We vill fight till all is blue."
But when reverses come, their hearts cool down. They are like the
steam that rises, from a burning house as the firemen play on it, on
a hard-frosty night in winter. It rises high in air, as steam, but
it soon gets chilled and descends as snow.
But the ovation that General Napoleon received in December, 1797,
from, this excited people in the great Hall of Legislature, would
have turned many a modest head. Perhaps no young conqueror, ever
before, faced so great and enthusiastic an audience. We are told
that the flags and trophies of all the battles of the Republic were
displayed in the Audience Hall that evening.
The "glories" were set forth in inscriptions such as the following:
"A hundred and seventy captured flags.
"A hundred and fifty thousand prisoners taken in battle.
"Six hundred field guns.
"Five hundred and fifty siege guns.
"Five pontoon bridges.
"Nine 64-gun ships, twelve frigates, and twelve corvettes.
"Armistice with the King of Sardinia.
"Convention with Genoa.
"Armistice with the King of Naples and the Pope of Rome.
"Preliminaries of Leoben.
"Liberty granted to the peoples of Bologna, Ferrara, Modena, Massa,
Carrara, and Lombardy, and to the peoples of the Ægean Sea, Ithaca,
and Corcyra."
Then there were the grand works of art and spoils of the churches.
And was the man on whom every eye was turned in this great assembly,
proud? Well, he looked so young, so modest, and yet so gallant
withal, that ladies got a little off their head about him.
But in the brief extracts of the speech he made, he did not show a
very overwhelming amount of modesty.
"We, the people of France, must be free, and to be so we must conquer
kings. We must overthrow the prejudices of eighteen hundred years,
to gain a constitution founded on reason. We have triumphed over
many obstacles, as the trophies around you prove. Though feudalism,
royalty, and religion have hitherto governed Europe, from the peace
now concluded a Representative Government shall date. The territory
of this mighty nation is bounded but by natural limits. France and
Italy now see arising, from the graves of their ancestors, immortal
liberty. I hand to you the treaty of peace signed at Campo Formio,
and ratified by the Emperor, a peace that shall ensure liberty,
prosperity, and glory to the Republic. France is free, and the whole
of Europe must be free also."
This speech, though not remarkably eloquent, was a torch that bid
fair to set the whole of Europe in a blaze.
Austria having made peace with France, Britain was left to fight her
single-handed. The bombastic doctrines preached by France and put
into practice--successfully, too--by so great a war-genius as
Napoleon, stirred up the worst blood and the lowest classes in many
European cities. Men who would never work for themselves could talk.
Why should not every nation follow the example of France, and be
free? Why should kings and queens and nobles wallow in wealth, while
the poor were left to die for hunger?
There were insurrections soon at Rome itself, and even the Pope was
deposed. We Britons were autocratically ordered to restore to France
all the spoils we had taken in the war, and all the lands.
Of course, we didn't.
No nation, or combination of nations, is ever going to put a foot on
Britain's neck, or rob her of a single possession, so long as we
retain that greatest possession of all--possession of the sea.
In 1798 the Irish rebelled. They too would be free. O reader, we
cannot blame them. They were a conquered nation, and held down by
bloodshed, murder, and rapine.
Ireland was, indeed, a thorn in the flesh of Great Britain at that
time, and it was a thorn that the French would gladly assist in
extracting, and afterwards keep for itself.
A certain Dr. McNiven repaired to Paris on the sly, and arranged with
the Directory all the preliminaries of an invasion, which it was
believed would entirely dismember Ireland from England and Scotland.
The United Irishmen meanwhile rose in arms. It was their purpose to
seize in one night the Castle of Dublin, the camp, and all the
artillery. But the conspirator let the cat out of the bag, and this
was disastrous to the cause.
Battles, however, were fought here and there all over Ireland, but in
every instance the Irish lost, and so the rebellion was put down,
with, as usual, much needless slaughter and terrible cruelty.
The mission of Dr. McNiven to Paris bore fruit, and was productive of
sad results to France itself, as well as to poor bleeding Ireland.
An invasion was actually effected, for the French landed in Kallala
Bay with 1200 men, under General Humbert, and with uniforms for 3000
men. They were quite certain that the Irish would rise to meet and
assist them.
Humbert drove in the Fencibles, as they were called, who were really
akin to the Volunteers of the present day. Then he advanced to
Castle Bar, and thrashed Lake and his army, although nearly double
that of his own in numbers.
The British were in a fix now, but prepared to meet it by strategy
and force. Lord Cornwallis was made Viceroy of Ireland, and arrived
at Dublin in June. He flattered, he threatened, he cajoled and
blarneyed, and finally succeeded in raising an army so big that the
French threw away their guns and ran.
They were all captured, and, I fear, received but scant grace or
mercy.
There was still another expedition from France at the same time. But
this was detected and followed. The French were overhauled at sea,
and as pretty a pitched battle on a small scale fought as any English
tar would wish to be engaged in.
We won. But, indeed, the weather had severely damaged the French
fleet before our war-ships took them in hand.
May the wind and weather always fight for brave Britons hereafter, as
it has done in days gone by.
But the French were not content with invading Ireland, for, to tell
the truth, Bonaparte had not much faith to place in the fighting
powers of the Irish while their feet were placed on Irish bog,
although he knew they were splendid soldiers when well commanded.
But the French Directory set about planning an invasion of England,
or some part of Britain, in a fleet of flat-bottomed boats.
There lies between Cherbourg and Havre a group of small islands that
Sir Sidney Smith had captured, and garrisoned with marines and
sailors, in 1795. With thirty well-armed flat-bottoms the French
tried to regain these, but two of our ships treated them to such a
hailstorm that they, having just sense enough to get in out of a
shore, ran into Sallenelle, and stopped for three weeks to repair.
Then they determined to try again.
Says General Cust: "The enemy remained here for three weeks, during
which time he received a great accession of troops and forty more
flat boats, which enabled him again to put to sea and reach
unobserved the roadstead of La Hague."
On the 6th of May, availing themselves of a calm, which gave them
some advantage over sailing vessels, they stood across to attack the
islands.
At daybreak next morning the boats, fifty-two in number, rowed up
with great resolution to within musket-shot of the batteries, while
our brigs with their heavy cannon kept up a fire upon them from a
distance of 300 or 400 yards.
The British ships _Adamant_, _Eurydice_, and _Orestes_ were all this
time in the offing, but unable, owing to the calm, to get nearer than
six miles. But our lieutenant, Papps Price, who commanded the
garrison, loaded to the muzzle with round shot, grape, and canister,
poured such an iron storm upon the boats that several of them, cut
into chips, went down bodily, and those that could float began to
seek safety in flight.
The pity was, reader, that the wind wouldn't blow, and let the ships
up to sink or capture the whole flotilla.
Of course our sailors whistled for the wind, until they nearly
whistled the whites of their eyes out, but all in vain.
Another attempt was to have been made, but at length the whole of the
gun-boat fleet returned to Cherbourg.
Just as our ministers did this year in which we live,
1896--ninety-eight years after the flotilla action--when menaced by
foreign powers, so did the British minister then. He adopted and
increased every means for the defence and security of the British
shores. The Alien Bill was also renewed, and a suspension of the
Habeas Corpus Act carried. The greatest alacrity was shown among all
classes of the British people to confront the menaced assault on
their country.
Party differences were suspended, and the whole kingdom, united in
heart and hand, rested in firm confidence, that
"Nought shall make us rue,
If Britain to herself do rest but true."
* * * * *
I feel inclined, being a naval sailor myself, to tell you here how a
French fleet sailed under sealed orders, and under Bonaparte for the
Mediterranean, and how they captured Malta: and how Nelson was sent
after them; how Napoleon, landed his army in Egypt and captured
Alexandria, and fought the battle of the Pyramids, near Cairo.
I say I feel inclined to let loose all this history on you, but must
pull myself up with a round turn.
In one of my other books, I think, I have described Nelson's great
victory of the Nile, and so I must refer you to that.
But, my dear boy-readers, a knowledge of history may well do us much
good, and help us to fight for our country in the days to come.
Our Navy is our first defence. Long may it float supreme! If so, we
can sleep quietly and calmly in our beds at night, and never fear
invasion.
The
"Flag that braved a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze,"
shall guard the front gates of our castles and homes, but our forts
must not be forgotten. They are the guards to the back gates, and
our brave Volunteers are behind them.
The year 1799 was no less bloody than its predecessor.
The French and Napoleon became more and more ambitious, France
forming a cordon of republics on all sides of her, that bade fair to
put an end for ever to kings and kingdoms, and place in their stead
republics, mob law, and murder.
Russia saw the danger, so did Prussia and Austria, and against the
latter, now preparing a great army to recapture, if possible, all it
had lost, the French Republic declared war.
A second coalition now threatened France.
The whole world of Europe was soon in a blaze. These were, indeed,
the dashing days of old, and yet we do not want them to return. For,
as my dear old grandfather used to say:
"War is a terrible, terrible thing!"
CHAPTER VIII.
GRANDFATHER GOES ON FURLOUGH--A CHANGE AND MANY
A CHANGE--POOR LITTLE RACHEL--BATTLE OF
ALEXANDRIA--THE GALLANT 42ND--NIGHTFALL ON THE
FIELD OF BATTLE.
Late in the year 1800, or early in January, 1801, my grandfather's
company were doing duty in Dublin.
He had behaved so entirely to the satisfaction of his officers and
colonel, that when a longing came over him to behold once more the
scenes of his boyhood, a furlough was at once granted to him, and, in
a sailing packet, stormy and cold though the weather was, he left
Dublin for Glasgow. The wind was favourable, though high, and in
little more than two days he landed at his destination.
The coach road to Edinburgh was clear, and he was lucky enough to
find a ship just starting for Inverness. He stopped for nothing, but
hurried on board. He was a good sailor now, but, moreover, he was
lucky in getting a good ship; and so, on the 10th of January, he
found himself again in Inverness. Every street, almost every house,
brought back to his mind recollections of his former life, and days
of his boyhood. 'T was but a short time ago, after all, for he was
now but twenty-one. But there were changes, and some were sad enough.
Naturally he bent his steps towards the house of his old friend,
Craig, the staymaker.
He found it deserted, and the windows boarded up.
He entered a shop close by, to make enquiries.
The people had only recently arrived from the south.
But a woman was there shopping.
"I knew the Craigs well," she said. "Indeed, indeed, the pair of
stays I'm wearing at this very moment was made by the old man
himself."
"And where have they gone?"
"O, dead and buried years and years ago. Old folks, you know. A
pound of sugar, Mr. McDonald."
My grandfather thanked her, and walked away, somewhat saddened by the
brief interview.
He walked out now towards the river, and down along its bonnie banks,
that were green even now, though away on the mountains the snow lay
thick and white.
Yes, there was the Lodge. The house itself was looking much the
same, but the gardens were ill-kept, and it was evident, from the
drawn blinds, that the Frasers had left.
He had had no intention, at any rate, to call, but the deaf old
gardener was leaning over the gate, and him he addressed.
"You don't remember me?"
"No, no, not at all. You're a bonnie man yoursel', but she doesna
like a red-coat."
"And where have the Frasers gone?"
"Eh? What? O, ay, the Frasers. Well, ochone! the bonnie leddie is
dead and away. And the captain is gone to the wars. They tell me he
has gone to fight for Charlie. Heigho! it will be bonnie days when
the old Stuarts get their own."
My grandfather smiled. This, then, was all that this poor dottled
gardener knew about the wars that were then shaking the world to its
social foundation.
He knew what a shilling was, though.
Now this old man was seventy if a day, but when my grandfather held
out that shilling he drew back with a start.
"She'll no' touch it," he cried. "You'll be wanting me to enlist to
fight for George. Na, na, she'd maype fight for Sharlie Stuart, but
not for George, no, no, no."
"He would have taken half a crown, though,
But had to be content with 'saxpence.'"
Grandfather started off now to walk to Beauly.
There were no leaves upon the birchen trees. The heather was brown,
the brachens withered, the voice of song-birds was no longer heard in
the woods, only, across the dark waters of the Firth, the white gulls
skimmed and screamed. Yet, desolate though the scene was, it cast
not a shade of gloom on the young soldier's heart. It was _home_.
And
"Hame is hame, howe'er sae hamely."
* * * * *
He remembered, now, the fisherman's little cottage. Ah! that must be
visited. So down he went towards the beach. Yes, yonder stood the
little cot. But it was roofless and still. Only the sea winds
moaned around its deserted walls.
Before he reached Beauly he passed the very spot where, years ago, he
had knelt in prayer. Someone unseen seemed to beckon him there to
pray again, and willingly he obeyed.
He had much to be thankful for, and thankful he was, just pouring out
his heart silently before the Unseen God, and praying that, as he had
hitherto been mercifully preserved, the same kind Father would
thenceforth keep his eyes from tears, and his feet from falling.
Well, poor young fellow, he needed some consolation; for, on calling
at the little inn at Beauly, where he had been a prisoner, he found
Ellen, but little changed.
They talked away right merrily for a time, till at last she asked:
"Does your people know you are coming?"
"No, Ellen; I want to give them a happy surprise."
"I suppose you know your old dominie has left and gone to Glasgow?"
"No--o--o; that is news indeed. And Rachel, she----"
"Ah! yes; your little sweetheart, she is dead and gone."
Grandfather felt as if a shot had struck him. He reeled and
staggered backward into a chair. Ellen was shocked at her own
rashness. She put her arms around his neck as if he were still a boy.
"Poor Ian, poor Ian. Oh, I didn't know you loved her so much."
He dashed away the tears, and rose slowly from his seat. The sudden
news was, indeed, a shock to him, and one from which he did not
recover for weeks.
* * * * *
Should I apologise, my dear boy and girl readers, for thus letting
our little heroine Rachel die? I think not. Because you must
remember that the story I am writing is not mere fiction. You will,
doubtless, believe me when I say that I am more sorry than anyone
else could be. An author ever loves his heroines as well as his
heroes.
Sorrow for the dead is a grief--a chastening grief--for which there
is no antidote in life, save time, that levels all things.
John Robertson went sorrowfully, sadly up the hill. He took out
Rachel's little letter from its case, and read it over again once
more. The sight of that little four-bladed clover, that his
child-sweetheart had given him, brought tears to his eyes once more.
He replaced it in his bosom.
"Yes," he told himself, "I will always keep it there."
At a distance he saw the little school and schoolhouse, ay, and even
the peat-stack from which little Rachel had waved him adieu.
But a new dominie taught and tawsed the boys there now, and he
wouldn't have gone near it for the world.
He went on and up the brae.
A collie dog came running down to accost the strange soldier. It was
Dash, somewhat hoarse and stiff with age.
Would the dog know him?
He did. His barking was changed to cries of joy as he jumped and
played around our hero. In fact, Dash, for the time being, hardly
knew what to do with himself, or how to behave.
But a happy thought seemed suddenly to occur to him, and off he went
trotting into the house, and, in his own way, conveyed to the young
soldier's parents the news that Ian, his master, had returned.
Both ran out to meet him.
No--I shall skip the description. Suffice it to say that Ian's
mother wept for joy.
"Ah! but they were not to have me long," said my grandfather, as he
told me of this joyful meeting, "for in three days' time the runner
from Beauly brought me a letter, laddie, on the King's service. I
was told thereby that I must join my regiment at once, for it was
ordered on foreign service."
So away went my soldier grandfather.
Would he ever see his parents again? That was a question none could
answer.
It is well at times we are not permitted to look into the future.
The present alone is ours. The past is no more. Our futures are
with God.
My grandfather joined his company. His company joined his regiment;
and by the 1st of March, 1801, they landed with others, under Sir
Ralph Abercromby, at Aboukir Bay, or, rather, they reached the bay.
It was a pity for Britain, and a pity and even disgrace for the
British Navy, that Napoleon was ever allowed to leave Egypt. But he
had escaped, and had been lucky enough not to meet a British ship on
his way to Corsica.
When we landed at Aboukir Bay, it had been arranged that we were to
be supported by Turkish troops from Syria, as well as by a division
of British and Indian troops. But both were late, and Sir Ralph,
with his army of seventeen thousand, began the fun, as our soldiers
termed it, all alone.
Now, the French general had no less than twenty-seven thousand troops
at Cairo. He lacked courage and dash, however, and only sent
detachments, which were speedily placed _hors de combat_ before our
gallant fellows.
One cannot help feeling a little sorry at the mistakes of even one's
enemies. Why, we cannot help asking, did not the French general
concentrate?
Had he done so, he would have had some chance of victory, but he
would have been defeated just the same, and there would have been all
the more honour and glory for our country.
I remember, boys, right well, how my dear Auld-da's description of
this glorious fight stirred my young blood as I sat by his knee one
winter's evening, and watched his face.
"I recollect," he said, "that 7th day of March as if it were but
yesterday.
"We were all in fine fighting form, so Captain, now Major, Drake told
me, as I stood beside him, gazing landwards over the bulwarks, while
the sun sank slowly towards the blue sea.
"'Ah, Sergeant, my boy,' he said, laughing, and rubbing his hands,
'we're going to have a touch of the real thing to-morrow.'
"'Sure and we are,' put in O'Reilly, 'and it is myself that wishes it
were only to-night. What an Irishman can't stand is the waiting for
it.'
"Big Dr. McLeod was there also, towering like a giant in his might
above them all. Near him stood little Blood and dashing Jones--quite
a muster of officers, and all as merry as May bees.
"'Yes, it's going to be to-morrow morning, Sergeant,' said the
surgeon, 'and I hope your cheese-knife is ready and sharp enough to
cut a head off. I'm going to sharpen my sword, and my gum-lancet
too, and do my duty among you to the end of the chapter.'
"'I wonder,' said little Blood, drawing himself up to his full
height, which wasn't much, 'if there is a man in our gallant regiment
whose blood does not thrill as he looks around him here this night,
and remembers that we are anchored in the very bay where Nelson
fought the battle of the Nile?'
"'Go it, Blood,' cried O'Reilly, 'I like to hear you talk. It sort
o' strengthens one's nerves.'
"'I'll go bound for it,' said Drake, 'that Blood will fight to-morrow
as well as he talks to-night. Sergeant Robertson,' he continued,
'I'll keep my eye on you to-morrow too, if I can open it, just to see
how well a young Highlander can fight.'"
"And were you afraid, Auld-da?" I asked.
"Well, no, laddie, I can't say I was, and I remember thinking to
myself it was odd that I wasn't. I slept soundly enough, for I had
turned in early.
"We had a hurried breakfast, boy, and the boats were called away
before it was light. We embarked with as little noise as possible.
Not that this mattered much. But the sun had not even risen, though
his beams were reddening the long low clouds that lay along the
eastern horizon.
"What a dash that was for the shore! Five thousand strong we were.
That was all, but we were called the flower of Sir Ralph Abercromby's
little army.
"I remember the even-down and regular plash with which our oars took
the water, and how the boats, almost without hitch, darted shorewards.
"I remember the wild cheer with which we started, and something else
as well, for among the first five thousand troops landed were the
42nd Highlanders. I was in flank a boat, and coming from one near
me, I heard a voice I knew right well.
"'Hurro! Preen Mhor, here we are again. See you later on, when we
lick the Froggies.'
"And this, as you will guess, was none else than brave Tom Grahame.
I could not help lifting my cap, and waving it over my head, for the
dear fellow's voice quite cheered me.
"'Shoulder to shoulder, Tom,' I cried, in Gaelic, and more than Tom
raised a cheer at these words, which, you must know, dear laddie,
form one of the mottoes of our fighting Scottish soldiers all the
wide world over.
"If I had felt fear before, boy, Tom's brave Highland voice would
have banished it all.
"But presently every thought was concentrated on the shore, for
suddenly puffs of white smoke, balloon-shaped, and with wicked
tongues of fire, rolled up from Aboukir Castle, and from the French
artillery posted on the hill.
"Not a shot was returned, although the cannon-balls tore up the
water, and the grape pattered like hailstones around us. I saw a
shot alight close to Tom's boat and envelop it in white spray. I
felt my heart leap with anxiety, but next moment I saw my friend's
red face once more, and I thanked God.
"No, laddie, I never feared for myself that day. I was but a humble
sergeant, but I think I did my duty beside my men.
"Our leader was General (afterwards Sir John) Moore, and bravely
indeed did he lead us on.
"It was a tough climb up that sandy hill, and almost too much for
some of our younger English lads.
"On and on we pushed, keeping well in line. I saw Drake with his
sword drawn in front, cheering, as he pointed to the heights.
"Next moment a round shot tore up the ground in front, and he fell.
I was the first on the spot, my laddie, and glad I was to help my
friend to his feet. He was unwounded, and we climbed the hill
together.
"The French general had brought ten or maybe twelve thousand men to
meet us. But so irresistible was our dash that we mowed them down
before us, and they fled like chaff before the wind. I think I hear
our slogans yet. I think I see the darting bayonets, the clash of
sword and sabre, and the round sun looking down on the carnage, lurid
and red in the rolling smoke of battle."
"And the French ran away, Auld-da?"
"It was more than a mere retreat, laddie; they fled helter-skelter,
with the fear of death at their hearts, blocking the narrow roads
that led to Alexandria.
"There were many dead and wounded among our ranks, however. It is
always thus. In war, my boy, victory has ever to be paid for in
blood.
"Among the numerous daring deeds done that day I must mention one,
for it came under my own observation.
"Dr. McLeod, our splendid and spirited surgeon, had followed his
company closely, and did his duty well. But in the very heat of the
battle he had spied brave little Blood hurled beneath a carriage with
the ram-rod of the huge gun. Next moment the wounded officer would
have been sabred, had not the giant--bare-headed, and with blood
streaming from his brow, that is how I can see him even at this
moment in the peat-fire there, laddie--rushed to his rescue. Man
after man went down before the fury of this giant's attack. Next
minute he was bearing the insensible form of the tiny officer
triumphantly to the rear.
"He had hoisted him on his shoulder just as he had hoisted me as a
boy, on the night I danced the hornpipe on the dinner-table.
"Blood looked dead enough. But I may tell you he survived, and the
surgeon's wound, though it looked bad enough, did not keep him from
duty.
"I saw the doctor that night, as I passed through the battle-field to
visit Tom Grahame, and asked for Blood.
"'He'll live, Sergeant, he'll live, and the Lord be praised, for, if
you'll remember, I pitched him through a window once in Edinburgh
Castle, and now we're square, for I think I've saved his life.'
"Tom Grahame and I had a long talk together about olden times, my
boy, but I went back early, and slept soundly on the battle-field
among the falling dew.
"One of the events of that battle morning had been a charge of French
cavalry, but this we had staved off by forming a rallying-square, and
we soon emptied their saddles for them.
"I often think," continued Auld-da, "that we might have followed up
our victory even on the 8th. But then the gallant Moore, no doubt,
knew better. We were but a small force, and in warfare, although
much may be done by dash and daring, the true general will always use
precaution.
"We kept the ground we had taken until the 12th, when all the rest of
our men and stores being now landed, we were ordered to march.
"'March to the battle-field,
The foe is on before you.'
You mind that old song, laddie? Well the foe really was on before us
that day."
"Ah, yes, Auld-da, because you'd driven him on."
"That's it, laddie, that's it. But then, you know," he added with a
smile, "they were only Frenchmen; and frogs are not much to fight
upon.
"We were off for Alexandria itself.
"On the 13th I heard firing, and was told by O'Reilly that we might
be wanted at any moment.
"But we were not. The 90th and 92nd (Highlanders) had had a tough
brush with the enemy, and driven him in, that was all.
"The real battle had to come. I think, laddie, we were eighteen or
nineteen regiments strong.* But for seven weary days, boy, we lay
inactive. The French position was terribly strong, and they were
being reinforced.
* General Cust speaks thus concerning the disposition of our
forces:--"The army took up a position on the skirt of a sandy
plain--within sight of the great Egyptian city, the lake of Aboukir
on the left, and the sea on the right. The 42nd occupied an eminence
close to the sea-shore. From right to left the regiments ranked
thus--In the first line 58th, 42nd, 40th, Guards, Royals, 92nd, 54th,
8th, 18th, 90th, and 13th. In the second line, Minorca regiment, De
Rolle's, Dillon's, the Queen's, 44th, 89th, 130th, 22nd, and 29th
Dragoons, the 27th, 50th, and 79th. The French occupied a parallel
position on a ridge of hills, their centre protected by Fort Cretin,
their right extending to Pompey's Pillar, and their left to
Cleopatra's Needle."
"But early on the morning of the 21st, dear laddie, much to the joy
of O'Reilly, at all events, the silence was broken on the French side
by the roar of cannon. It was so early, that when we got the order
to advance, darkness still prevailed, lit up, every now and then, by
the brilliant flashes of the enemy's guns.
"It is said that the 42nd were first to the front, and that their
steady fire checked, for a time, the fury of the advancing French. I
only know my own part, and that I was far too busy to think of
anything but my own men, many of whom went down before the storm of
iron hail.
"The most awful charge of the day was that by the French Invincibles.
It was furious in the extreme, laddie. But bravely did we receive
it, and fearful indeed was the carnage.
"Indeed this French Legion was all but annihilated.
"Nothing, I think, but the individual coolness of our regiments
enabled us to hold our own and defeat the foe.
"But while the Invincibles littered the ground with their dead and
their bleeding wounded, and finally laid down their arms and
surrendered, fresh French troops were being hurled against us, and
for a time victory wavered in the balance.
"The charge and charges of the 42nd were grand in the extreme. They
were led on by brave Moore, and their wild slogan could be heard from
end to end of the battle-field, high above the rattle of musketry and
shouting of other combatants.
"And, laddie, there was the skirl of the bagpipes as well: that
martial music, that never fails to steel the hearts of our Scottish
soldiers on the day of battle.
"But the 42nd suffered terribly. As theirs was the first charge,
laddie, so theirs, aided by the brigade brought up by Stewart, was
the last.
"The sons of Caledonia had won a glorious fight, and no prouder name
is attached to their standard than 'Alexandria.'
"In this battle, boy, fell the gallant Sir Ralph, and much indeed was
his loss deplored.
"One more strange adventure did I myself have on this day, and this I
must tell you, laddie, ere you go.
"I was looking for our wounded in company with brave Surgeon McLeod.
Looking for the wounded we were, and sometimes bending down to close
the eyes of the dead."
The old man paused a moment.
"O, such ghastly sights, boy," he said, "may you never, never
witness! Even the dead sat or lay in such strange positions that
often one could scarcely believe that life was extinct.
"Then the pitiable condition of the dying and the wounded, the
moaning, the groaning, the maudlin cries, and the mournful appeals
for water.
"But of this last there was, alas! scarcely enough to wet the throats
of those who needed it most.
"Every now and then the flapping of hideous wings overhead would be
heard, and we could tell that the birds of prey had already commenced
their ghastly work.
"I had left the doctor for a few minutes, and was among the hillocks
where the French dead lay side-to-side with the kilted warriors of
the north, as some poet called them.
"Morning was already beginning to break, and things were, dimly seen.
Across the eastern horizon were spread the first rose-tints of dawn.
I had my hand to my eyes to hide some ghastly sight, when I could
distinctly hear my name called, but in tones so faint and low that at
first I could not tell whence the sound proceeded.
"'Ian Robertson. Ian, Ian.'
"My heart beat tumultuously. The voice, I thought, must be that of
Tom Grahame.
"'Ian, it is I. Come.'
"A figure half-raised itself from a hole in the sand.
"I saw at a glance, now, it was none other than my cousin, Captain
Fraser.
"He was dying, that was evident.
"'Have you--water?' he gasped.
"I knelt down, and he drank from my canteen, and seemed to revive
just a little.
"'Ian, I--I--used you badly--unfairly. You can pardon a dying man?'
"'Don't name it, dear cousin. Nor are you dying. I will get
assistance at once.'
"'Too late--listen. Have me carried away--when all is over. Give
the letter to--my little daughter, Ailie. How dark it is--how
dark--God bless you--dark, dark!'
"Ay, it was the darkness of death, laddie.
"I closed his eyes, and stretched his limbs.
"Poor Fraser, my kinsman. He had his faults, but he meant well,
laddie, and he died a hero's death."
* * * * *
"When wild war's deadly blast was blawn,
And gentle peace returning,
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless,
And mony a widow mourning;
I left the lines and tented field,
Where lang I'd been a lodger,
My humble knapsack a' my wealth,
A poor and honest sodger."
We had re-conquered Egypt then, reader, and the French. Right
bravely had our soldiers done their work, and Britain borne the brunt
in the terrible struggle that convulsed Europe.
Negotiations for peace were then entered into at London and were
signed early in the year 1802.
Napoleon was now First Consul of France and President of Italy.
It was about this time, and for his gallantry in action, that my
grandfather was made colour-sergeant. It is a question whether he
was not as proud of his promotion as Napoleon was of his. I am
certain of one thing: he had more right to be.
Well, peace had come.
Query: How long would it last?
Book III.
From War to Gentle Peace.
Book III.
_FROM WAR TO GENTLE PEACE._
CHAPTER I.
THE DUKE OF KENT AS GRANDFATHER KNEW HIM--DISCIPLINE
AND THE LASH IN THE BRAVE DAYS OF OLD--TONAL'S
DILEMMA, AND HOW HE GOT OUT OF IT.
A beautiful village on the eastern shores of Kent, a village that
partly and chiefly went straggling up a little cosy dingle or dell,
and partly rested on two high cliffs that--one especially--descended
sheer down towards the dark and heaving ocean, which in stormy
weather spent its fury against its sides: such was Ramsgate in the
early part of this century.
There were churches on the cliffs and in the hollow; there was also a
naval outlook or coastguard station; and there were barracks for
soldiers. A bracing town then as now. Perhaps even more so, for it
was hardly in those days a sea-side watering-place. There were no
noisy trains, no factories worth the name, few vessels in the harbour
save those of fisher-folks, and far less bustle and stir. In fact a
kind of Sabbath-calm rested here eternally. To be sure, the coming
and going of the soldiers occasioned a little excitement, so did the
arrival of a man-o'-war, especially if she stayed long enough to give
the sailors a spell on shore. Then, indeed, the peace was broken in
more ways than one. For Jack and Tommy Atkins might be seen linking
arm in arm along the street, or streets, singing together, drinking
together, and, alas! often fighting together. In this latter upshot
the Jacks generally, if not invariably, had the best of it.
I do not mean to say that a sailor is, on the whole, braver than a
soldier, but in times of peace he probably is, for then Tommy Atkins
rests at home--languishes in barracks, let us say--while Jack is ever
facing danger and death afloat on the ocean wave.
It was in the autumn of 1801 that my grandfather, with his regiment,
or a portion of it, lay here, and just about this time his Royal
Highness the Duke of Kent took the command of the Royals, _vice_ Lord
Adam Gordon, D.D.*
* "D.D." in this case does not mean Doctor of Divinity, but
Discharged Dead.
The Duke was, it must be remembered, the father of our good and
illustrious Queen Victoria.
It was here at Ramsgate that my grand-dad first had the honour of
coming under his Royal Highness's notice, and was taken on his staff.
In those days the pay of a company passed through the captain
thereof, but this had fallen into my grandfather's hands in the
following way: He was possessed of a little money, and this, or a
portion of it, he had lent to his captain. He never got it back, for
the officer was impecunious, but he had the pay of the company turned
over to him, and in those days in foreign lands the men were paid in
the coin of the country in which they served. A captain therefore,
in paying his men, had usually some pickings left for himself, as
English coin was more valuable than foreign.
It was--I may say it. I trust, without appearing boastful--my
grandfather's smartness, sobriety, strict attention to duty and
discipline, and his love of order and cleanliness, that first
attracted the notice of the Duke, and that his Grace was pleased with
him goes without saying.
From my grand-dad's account of him, the Duke was a noble-looking man,
a capital soldier, and a most rigid disciplinarian, but withal most
humane and kindly, not only to every officer and man under him, but
to every animal as well.
The Duke was never known to tread upon a worm; this is not
figurative, but simply the truth.
Drake and O'Reilly used to go shooting sea-birds, and brought home
the spoils of sport--as they facetiously called the beautiful dead.
"How came it here? Who so cruel as shoot it?" The speaker was the
Duke. He had picked up a lovely gull, its feathers dyed in blood,
its breast still warm.
"I'm afraid I did, sorr," said O'Reilly, walking up and saluting his
Royal Highness.
"Sir, this is not sport--it is murder!"
The Duke turned on his heel and walked away.
There were no more gulls killed on the cliffs by the officers of the
Royals.
* * * * *
The following anecdote of the Duke's kind-heartedness was believed in
the sergeants' mess. It is possibly true; I cannot say farther.
However, as the story goes, the Duke of Kent one day called a
sergeant towards him, while walking on the square or parade.
"Sergeant," he said, "I have several times noticed lights in the
men's quarters, even at midnight. What is the meaning of it?"
"I beg your pardon, your Royal Highness, but the men occasionally
light a clip to hunt for fleas."
"What are they, Sergeant?"
"Little animals, sir, that haunt the rooms, and bite."
"Not--eh--bats, Sergeant?"
"No, sir."
"Bring me one to look at."
Unfortunately a _pulex irritans_ was not difficult to find, for the
little blood-sucker was a plague in the barracks.
The sergeant rolled the specimen with a wetted finger to make it lie
still for the Duke's inspection.
His Royal Highness turned it over once or twice with his finger,
then--
"Poor little fellow! poor little fellow!" he said; "he is still
alive. Put him up; put him up."
And the sergeant, accustomed to obey carefully, returned the flea to
the soldier's bed.
* * * * *
Well, the Duke was a very strict disciplinarian, but I doubt if he
was ever really cruel.
Discipline had to be strict in those old days, in the army as well as
in the navy. The men were, as a rule, a rough and careless lot, and
as they took almost every opportunity of drinking that they could
find, it is no wonder that they needed careful handling at times.
But when it is remembered that in drinking they were only taking
example from the officers who led them, it will be admitted that the
punishment for intoxication was sometimes cruel in the extreme.
An officer before whom a man might be brought up of a morning,
charged with drunkenness, might not himself be sober. Yet he would
order that man to the halberts to be flogged, then wend his way
unsteadily to his mess.
The punishment was a fearful one. Three hundred lashes were
sometimes given for insubordination, after which the unfortunate
fellow would be handed over to the surgeon, more dead than alive. An
offender would sometimes faint under the punishment. If the doctor
advanced, the officer might say, "Stand back, Doctor, please. We'll
flog the faint out of him."
It was not uncommon for a man to die after such brutal
punishment--sometimes, I am sorry to add, by his own hand.
Even sergeants, at certain times, had power to order a man to be
flogged.
Malingering, that is, pretending to be sick in order to procure a
discharge from the service, was rife at this time.
Some strange stories could be told concerning this. A man, for
example, pretended to be paralysed. The surgeon pronounced him a
malingerer. The captain doubted the doctor's diagnosis.
"And I'll prove it to you, McLeod," said the officer.
"How, sir?"
"Well, that man is one of the finest swimmers in the regiment. We
shall take him out to sea and drop him into deep water. He'll
quickly strike out to save himself."
This was really done. The man perhaps preferred death to the
punishment he knew he would receive if he moved a limb, which he did
not. He sank like a stone, and it was with some difficulty that his
life was saved.
He was discharged, and that same evening recovered the use of his
limbs sufficiently to walk, or rather stagger about the streets, for
he was not sober.
* * * * *
A man was brought before O'Reilly, charged with being a malingerer.
He was apparently as deaf as a post, and Dr. McLeod only suspected,
but could not swear he was shamming.
O'Reilly cleverly made assurance doubly sure. "How long have you
been like this, my poor fellow?" he whispered by his ear.
"More than a fortnight, sir," said the man, completely taken off his
guard.
"Then I'm glad you're better, poor fellow. Twelve dozen at the
halberts and a week in the black-hole will complete the cure.
Sergeant Robertson, see to this."
Just one other case. This was feigned paralysis of the right arm.
Incredible as it may seem, the man was hoisted off his feet by the
left hand, and flogged in this position, without even moving the
right arm.
"That will stimulate the system," said O'Reilly, who was convinced
the fellow was shamming. "Bring him up in ten days' time, Sergeant,
if not better, and we will give him three hundred."
Next day this man came to my grandfather.
"See what I can do, Sergeant," he said, lifting the "paralysed arm"
about a foot from his side.
He was sent to duty next day.
There was in another regiment, the 54th, if I remember rightly, a man
flogged terribly for being intoxicated and riotous, although his
character for ten years was all that could be desired. He was a
strong, robust man, and bore his punishment well, though his back was
slashed and bleeding.
The colonel* was considered by the men--and with some just cause,
perhaps--to be tyrannical.
* Hay was, I think, the officer's name.
Anyhow, no sooner had this man been released, than he snatched up a
large cannon-ball from a pyramid near by, and hurled it with fearful
force at the colonel's head.
The escape was a narrow one, for the missile grazed his cheek.
"Your musket! Your musket!" cried the colonel, springing towards the
sentry.
The sentry, out of humanity, dared to disobey. But without doubt,
had he given the musket up, the colonel would have shot the culprit
on the spot.
He cooled down almost immediately.
But, addressing the man as calmly as he could, "I'll send you where
you'll never see England again," he said.
The man was banished to India, sent to what the soldiers called the
Rogues' Regiment.
He was married and had two children, and the parting from those dear
ones, whom he ne'er should see again, was said to be sad in the
extreme.
Flogging, on a very extensive scale indeed, was to have been carried
out once upon a time. The weather was very hot, the regiment abroad.
The company who disobeyed orders had been ordered to parade in heavy
marching order. But they had cut their blankets, retaining only a
small portion to protrude during inspection. The fraud was
discovered at night, and so incensed was the colonel that he
threatened to flog the whole company next morning.
But far too early for the punishment to be carried out the French
attacked them.
At a most critical moment the company stopped and refused to advance.
"Three cheers for the colonel and the blankets," cried a voice in
their midst.
The colonel rode back. He was pale as death.
"For Heaven's sake, my brave fellows, come on. You shall never hear
about the blankets again."
Then there was a shout and a cheer of a different sort, and on they
dashed with a vim and vigour that turned the scale of victory.
I think this proves that officers may easily be merciful as well as
just.
* * * * *
Poor Dominie Freeschal, of the school on the Braes, might, if he were
living in our time, set up a college for preparing young officers for
the army. At least three of his pupils did well as soldiers, my dear
grand-dad, honest Tom Grahame, and Touvil, the boy who assisted at
that dark orgie in the Highland forest, when the dominie's tawse was
committed to the flames.
He rose as he had hoped, and as he said he was determined to do, to
the leadership of his regiment's band.
He was transferred into the Royals, on a vacancy occurring in the
brigade to which my grandfather belonged, and glad indeed were the
two old schoolfellows to meet again once more.
"Indeed, Ian," he said--"or is it John I must be calling you now?--I
managed my own transferment. I'll tell you more about that same
again, but it was all through my love and regard for my old
schoolfellow, Ian Robertson."
From that day forward Tonal and John continued to be fast friends and
companions.
It was about this time that the event occurred that led my
grandfather ever after to say, and with truthfulness too, that the
Queen's father had saved his life.
A detachment of the Royals was ordered abroad for foreign
service--out west, to America, I think. The names of the officers
and non-commissioned officers had to be previously submitted to the
Duke of Kent, for his sanction.
As soon as his eye caught sight of my grand-dad's name, he drew his
pen through it.
"No!" he said; "he is much too good a man to lose."
The vessel grandfather ought to have sailed in had not gone far
before she encountered a terrible gale off the coast. She was driven
on the rocks on a lee shore, stove, and sunk in a few minutes.
_Not a soldier or sailor was saved._
Tonal became a great favourite with all the officers, especially with
those of the company to which my grandfather belonged.
He was an excellent piper, and though it was not his duty to play at
all, he often did so at the mess, and this greatly delighted the
Scottish element, especially the honest giant, Dr. McLeod.
Now Tonal was a strict "Auld Kirk," and if he did deign at times to
enter the portals of an English church, it was only because he was
obliged to.
One day a dignitary of the Church sent to beg assistance. The organ
was out of order, and there would be no music for some weeks unless
the band of the Royals could kindly condescend to conduct it.
Tonal was thunderstruck. He would have to rehearse for the occasion,
and he would have to obey orders. He was in despair.
"Och!" he told McLeod mournfully, "it is only half-papists they are
anyhow, and sure if my poor mother, rest her soul, knew I'd be
playing to them, it's her ghost that would rise and come all the way
from the old kirkyard of R---- to haunt me."
McLeod himself was a member of the Church of Scotland, so he felt
sorry for Tonal.
He pondered over it, and he consulted some other members of the mess,
and at last they got up a conspiracy.
I have no desire to defend the conspirators, reader; I but record
_facts_.
Tonal was delighted when the plan was laid before him.
There were more people that first Sunday than usual. The band was a
great attraction. Perhaps some of them would have stayed away had
they known what was to transpire.
However, everything went well till the time of departure, when
something soft and low ought to have been played as the people rose
to leave the church.
Now I do not myself know a more emphatic, more merry, or
blood-stirring strathspey to dance to than the old air called "The
Miller o' Drone," if given with a good bass and a touch of the drum.
In its very gleefulness you can hear in every bar the thud, thud, of
the jolly old mill as the air runs merrily on.
My readers may judge of the consternation of the parson and people
when the band struck up the grand old tune as they rose to go.
It was played with vim, and vigour too, to the very last note. For
Tonal was on his mettle.
I need hardly tell you that the band was never again requested to
officiate.
But Tonal was more a hero in the mess than ever.