MYSTERY--A GRUESOME BOX--A MEETING OF
CONSPIRATORS--TERRIBLE THREATS--THE MUTINY.
There are slums in Gibraltar to this day. But they are nothing to
the lanes and courts that used to exist at the time the Duke of Kent
commanded here. Narrow were most of these; dark even in daylight;
reeking with filth and all abomination. Reeking with vice also, and
filled with wine-shops.
No well-dressed man could have entered one of these after sunset with
any certainty of ever coming out alive again.
Men who had been missing for weeks were often found in the water with
ugly wounds in them. They had been enticed into some den of
iniquity, robbed, and murdered. Sailors often suffered thus after
landing from a long voyage and coming on shore to see the sights.
The victim's body had to be disposed of in some way, and some methods
of disposal were as original as they were ghastly.
I will give but one instance.
Mr. Myers was first mate of a ship called _The Bonito_, outward bound
for the Mauritius. His sailors all liked him, and called him a real
jolly gentleman and full of fun. It seems, however, that on shore he
was sometimes full of something else, quite the reverse of fun when
it overpowers a man.
Myers busied himself getting cargo on board and on shore--the ship
was only touching at Gib on her way out--and everything was nearly
ready. On the third day, however, the mate went on shore. He would
be off by midnight, he told the captain. But he did not come. For
two days an unavailing search was made for the poor fellow, then he
was given up for lost. He might have fallen over a cliff, or been
drowned. Nobody could tell or guess. It was one of the mysteries of
the Rock, and his ship must sail without him.
The last morning on board a vessel all but ready for sea is always a
busy one, and _The Bonito_ had still many cases and packages to hoist
in. A man, about ten o'clock, might have been seen with a heavy box
on a kind of trolley, coming down one of the steep streets towards
the harbour. It was almost all the fellow could do to keep the
trolley from taking charge, but when half-way down a waggon overtook
him. This was half loaded with cases for _The Bonito_. The waggoner
was hailed and bargained with to take the other box also, which was
duly lettered and labelled, and it was soon after hoisted on board
and stowed below with others.
The ship had been at sea a whole week before the hold was overhauled,
owing to sickly odours that emanated therefrom. I need go no
farther, for every reader will guess that the mysterious box
contained the corpse of the unfortunate Mr. Myers.
In slums like these, then, it may easily be credited that it is just
as easy to foster a mutiny as to commit murder.
It was within about a fortnight of Christmas that, in a back
upstairs-room in one of these streets or slums, a party of soldiers
were assembled. These men, I am sorry to say, belonged for the most
part to the Royals. I am just as proud to say that not a man there
belonged to my grandfather's company. At this meeting there were
present delegates from several other regiments, notably the 25th.
The company here did not stand by privates. Indeed there were but
few of these here; they were, for the most part, non-commissioned
officers and--will it be believed?--officers in mufti of the highest
grades.
The supper was of the best quality that the Rock could afford, and
the wines of the choicest. But it was noticeable that few partook of
much wine. They but tasted. There was an ominous quiet brooding
over the whole company, and until the table was cleared and relaid
with fruit and wine the conversation was limited to a painful degree.
I can give but the briefest account of the transactions of this
meeting of grim-visaged mutineers.
The first to speak was a gentleman in mufti.
"Gentlemen," he said, "fill your glasses and drink to the health of
Mr. Milan, who has invited us here at his own expense, and set before
us a most excellent meal. Mr. Milan, gentlemen, is a wine merchant,
and one who with many others has been thrown into the street,
figuratively speaking, by the uncalled-for interference of the tyrant
K. (Muttered growls and oaths.) We all feel sorry for Mr. Milan,
and wish him health and hopes of better times to come, when----"
This officer, for officer he was, drew his finger significantly
across his throat and sat quietly down.
"The whole history of the world," said Mr. Milan in reply, "proves
that the throne of a tyrant is but an insecure one at the best; that
it is ever surrounded by enemies, even in the guise of friends; and
that sooner or later it is bound to fall and bury the tyrant himself
in its ruins. I can say, gentlemen, that you have done me much
honour in coming here to-night. And I can say for myself and my
numerous friends, many of whom have been ruined by this tyrannical
Pharisee, that if we did not know that, in trying to redress our
grievances, you were also redressing your own, we would rise and
raise the people, who would respond to our appeal as one man, and
come to your assistance, even if it should terminate in dragging the
tyrant from his bed at midnight, and hurling his body over the Rock."
Boom! It was like the sound of a far-off gun, though in reality it
came from a gong.
But it was followed by
"A silence deep as death,
And the boldest held his breath."
And every eye was turned to a door in the end of the room, which was
now quickly opened and reclosed.
A masked and hooded figure, draped in black, carrying a Book, a
cross, and a dagger, advanced slowly and took a place at the head of
the table.
Further than to tell you that the Book was solemnly put down and
flanked by the cross and the dagger, the latter darkly marked with
what appeared to be blood, I need not describe the fearful ceremony
of "swearing in." It was too dreadful, too sacrilegious and
awe-inspiring, to mention here.
Boom! Once more that mournful sound--once more the door was opened,
and the masked figure glided silently out and away.
The mutineers seemed relieved, but they applied themselves to the
wine now, and as their tongues were let loose their courage rose.
Pitiful indeed is the courage that is born of the wine-cup.
Grievances caused by the Duke were now most freely talked
over--grievances of men and officers, and those of civilians to boot.
The grievances of men and officers were much the same. They were
treated no longer as soldiers, but simply as slaves. There was no
rest for either night or day--thus spoke the head mutineer, an
officer _of very high rank_ on the Rock, but burned up with a hatred
of the Duke which from the first was fostered by jealousy. The
officers could not engage in the most harmless game of either cards,
billiards, or dice with the certainty that they would not be called
away in the midst of it by command of this "cow-lipped, goggle-eyed
tyrant, who was undoubtedly mad--mad over his plans of reform, his
shabby canteen, his reforms, his stupid general orders, and cursed
parades."
The men were treated even worse than the officers; were denied all
fun and pleasure; were locked up at night like a parcel of
schoolboys; were black-holed for the slightest offence, and flogged
almost to the death for frolics that would have been laughed at in
days gone by, when soldiers were soldiers and not Sunday-school
children, as K. had made them now.
Were war proclaimed, they said, they would fight like Britons, fight
like heroes for their country and their King, but not under such a
humbugging, sycophantic, Father Mathew Rock-scorpion as he who now
held the sceptre in one hand and the cat-o'-nine-tails in the other.
There was but little of the Demosthenic about this speech, but such
as it was it roused the men to fury, and without doubt, could they
have laid hands at that moment on the Duke, they would have torn him
limb from limb. When quietness was restored, a proposal was made and
carried unanimously, somewhat to the following effect: The Duke, some
time soon--the date was not agreed upon that night--was to be seized
and conveyed on board one of his Majesty's ships of war, with orders
not to return on pain of death, and that his Royal Highness the Duke
and Governor was to be sent off from the Ragged Staff.
"Sent off from the Ragged Staff," asked one mutineer, "but dead or
alive?"
"I do not counsel violence," said the head mutineer, "but----"
He was interrupted.
"Kill him!"
"Twist his neck!"
"Drown him in his own canteen!"
"Help him over the Rock!"
"Hush, friends, and hear me. I do not counsel violence, I say, but
if an accident should happen to the tyrant, his blood be on his own
head."
"Amen!" from many of the conspirators.
* * * * *
The Duke's enemies in town, among the civilians that is, spoiled
their own plans.
They had an idea that to stir up mutiny, or to bring it to a head,
drink was necessary. No greater mistake could they have made in
their own vile cause. Conspiracies are only successfully hatched in
the dark. The mutineers must be clear-brained and as silent as the
grave. A drunken mob is a headless one; an intoxicated regiment has
neither power to act, nor will to govern.
It was the evening of the 24th December, and it was or had been
pay-day, a busy day with my grandfather, as well as with other
pay-sergeants, and he noticed nothing unusual.
Drake, who was still my grand-dad's best friend, was that day acting
as adjutant. Some suspicion that everything was not right had
entered his mind, and rightly or wrongly, I cannot say which, he had
given orders that the soldiers should not be allowed to go into the
town.
This order was disobeyed, however, and in the low drinking-places
they proceeded to squander their pay just as soldiers did in those
days. But louder than ever now, and on all sides, rose expressions
of discontent against some of their officers, but especially against
the Duke himself.
It was evident that mischief was brewing, and that the time had come
when the mutiny should break out.
That day the civilian enemies of his Grace plied the men of the
Royals with wine until they were more like maniacs than soldiers.
They overdid it.
It was quite dusk, yet my grandfather was still busy writing, when a
sentry brought him a note which had been thrown into the passage.
The words were meant as a warning, and a warning they proved.
"_Your Major Drake and the Adjutant will lie duly murdered to-night.
Beware!_--A FRIEND."
Grand-dad lost no time in finding out his friend and showing him the
note.
"Done for a lark, I suppose, Sergeant," he said.
However, he looked grave.
The time flew by. Grandfather heard the second evening gun fired,
but the corps had not returned, or only a few. This looked ominous,
and the gates were closed.
The officers were still at dinner--and more than one of these seemed
unusually quiet and subdued to-night, and were evidently ill-at-ease,
nervous, and expectant--when shouting was heard.
It emanated from the drunken mutineers, who were encouraging each
other as they dashed on and up to the barrack gate.
These they smashed in.
"To arms! To arms!" was now the wild cry, and speedily indeed did
they seize their muskets and bayonets.
"To death with the adjutant! let us begin with him, who would stop
our leave! Hurrah! lads. Hurrah!"
The 25th were in barracks.
The 54th were in barracks, and though the former regiment could not
be trusted--thanks to the warning received--the grenadier company
there were under arms and prepared.
The adjutant would certainly have been killed if found. So too Drake
and Blood. The former had gone to the barracks of the 54th. Blood
was not to be found.
O'Reilly rushed out to meet the infuriated soldiers, after him went
Dr. McLeod, followed by my grandfather.
O'Reilly had a narrow escape. He was mistaken for the Duke.
"It's the Duke. It's the Duke. Down with him! Kill him!"
O'Reilly was speedily thrown down, but next moment the doctor was
knocking the men about right and left, with those brawny fists of his.
"Would you kill your own O'Reilly? Back, you drunken squabs! I tell
you it's not the Duke."
"Follow me, men," cried a ringleader next, "on to the barracks of the
jolly 25th. Then for the tyrant Duke!"
On they sped or staggered, but to their intense surprise, the 25th
refused to come and join them.
A move was next made towards the barracks of the 54th. They at all
events would join the mutiny.
About half of the Royals were left, trying to persuade the 25th to
turn out. The grenadiers gave the others so warm a reception, that
their Dutch courage* began rapidly to evaporate, as courage of this
sort always does, and when met with a galling fire from the barracks
of the 54th, with men in their midst falling here and there--dead,
wounded, or drunk, they knew not which--these mutineers speedily
retreated.
But the worst had yet to come.
* Dutch courage is, I believe, not so called out of disrespect for
the Dutch themselves, who are as brave as any soldiers need be, and
in olden times as good sailors as the British themselves. Dutch
courage is simply Hollands gin, which on some stations, notably the
East African, can be bought for 6d. a bottle, and has been the means
of killing many a man-o'-war's-man and invaliding many an officer.