WARNED BY A DYING SOLDIER--MORE MUTINY--HE FELL
FORWARD DEAD--WAR BREAKS OUT ONCE MORE--NAPOLEON'S
PLANS AND MOVEMENTS--MURDER!
In a couple of hours at most the first mutiny was quelled.
So quiet and apparently contrite were the men of the Royals, that the
kind-hearted Duke addressed them, and in a short speech, after
commenting strongly upon the heinousness of their crime, told them
that as this was Christmas, a holy and forgiving time, he freely
forgave them, and hoped they would be as good men and true in the
future as they had been in the past.
The soldiers raised a cheer, though I am afraid it was not altogether
a hearty one, and were then allowed to return to duty.
But there was anger at the hearts of the Royals against the men of
the 25th, among whom, by the way, were a great many foreigners. The
Royals hissed them as they passed, and roundly rated them for being
cowards and traitors to their cause.
Several stand-up fights were the result, and more than one man was
removed bleeding to the guardroom. It was probably this disaffection
betwixt the Royals and the 25th that after all saved the Duke's life.
But he had been warned in a strange way of the fate that was
impending over him, and it would really thus appear that it was the
very disinterestedness and kindness to those under him that resulted
in his life being saved. The Duke was a man of such activity and
spirit that he in person would often visit rooms in the barracks to
inspect their sanitary condition, for well he knew that health and
cleanliness go hand-in-hand. He was also a constant visitor to the
hospital. One day, some time before the mutiny, the Duke was walking
through the hospital, attended by Dr. McLeod himself, who was
pointing out to him with honest pride many little improvements he had
made. He was telling him also the story of every important case, and
the Duke had many a kindly word to say to the suffering patients.
"I think, sir," said McLeod presently, "that man," pointing to a bed
in a distant corner, "would like to speak with your Royal Highness."
"But," he added, "let me first tell you that he is dying, and dying
from the effects of drunkenness and evil living."
"Poor, unhappy man! Is there no hope, Surgeon?"
"None, I fear."
The dying soldier's voice was little more than a whisper, but the
Duke bent over him to listen.
"What can I do for you, soldier?"
"Ah! Governor, sir," replied the man, speaking with nervousness and
difficulty, "you can do nothing for me. I'm in the clutches of
death, but I can do much for you, if you'll take warning and hear the
truth from a dying mar's lips."
He paused for a moment.
"Go on, my good fellow, I am listening."
"I have been one of the worst and most reckless of men in your
regiment, and I have done the most I could to excite my comrades to
mutiny. I was, till laid down here with sickness, one of the
committee sworn to seize you on parade and eject you from the Rock,
or throw you headlong from it. Can you forgive me? I can die in
peace if you do."
"I forgive you, my poor fellow, as I myself hope to be forgiven,"
said the Duke solemnly.
"God bless you. God bless you. I can now go before the great
court-martial, but I'll say the Duke forgave me, and may God forgive
me too."
His Royal Highness just patted the dying man's hand, and silently
left the ward.
But to return to the would-be mutineers. It was usual for each man
to receive a shilling on Christmas Day in addition to his pay.
On the 26th, having spent their money, or "wetted Christmas," as they
called it, the 25th, being still taunted and even assaulted by the
men of the Royals, determined to stand it no longer. They would kill
the Duke, and they would kill a few of the Royals also.
As night drew in, therefore, they could no longer be restrained.
A third of the whole regiment flew to arms, and with terrible yells
and imprecations rushed to attack the barracks of the Royals.
There was much more bloodshed that night, but, to their honour be it
credited, the Royals showed their contrition by nobly defending the
person of his Royal Highness.
The artillery, too, did the same, and so also the King's and the
54th, so that before morning the mutiny was quelled. Many were
wounded, and some were killed.
But although the Duke could be as forgiving as any general that ever
lived, he felt now that the time had come to make an example of some
of the ringleaders of this horrible mutiny. Ten of these were
therefore tried by court-martial and condemned to die.
The sentences on all but three, however, were commuted to banishment
from the Rock--perhaps to India, I do not know.
But the other three, two foreigners and an Irishman called Reilly, as
reckless a young fellow, we are told, as ever presented arms or drew
a trigger, expiated their crimes at the musket's mouth.
All three, I was given to understand, refused to have their eyes
bandaged.
Reilly bared his chest and stood as firm as a rock.
"Aim here, comrades," he cried, "Reilly forgives you. He fears not
death----"
The muskets rang out clear and sharp in the morning air, and he fell
forward dead. Just one or two slight quivering or convulsive
motions, and all was over.
So ended the mutiny at Gibraltar, a mutiny from which the youngest
reader may learn, methinks, a lesson. For hard it is to reform a
people, an army, or even oneself, if evil habits have once been
formed.
* * * * *
In the year eighteen hundred and three, and in the spring of that
year, war once more broke out between Britain and France, and was
continued with many a desperate and bloody encounter onwards to the
bitter end. Those were stirring days again at home, as well as
abroad. Throughout every town and city, ay, and even village, the
recruiting-sergeant was busy indeed, and not only was the usual
shilling given, but free kit, bounty and all.
The country would sink more deeply into debt than ever. But what
signified it? Soldiers would have asked you, Aren't we going to
thrash the French? The French were our hereditary enemies. We hated
them--there is no other name for it--and they hated us. Happily, we
nowadays bear none of that hatred to, and mistrust of, our Gallic
neighbours. And did we not fight shoulder to shoulder with them in
the war against Russia?
I was but a boy when this Crimean war commenced, but well do I
remember the anger of my grand-dad when we formed an alliance with
France. Sooner far, he told me, would he have joined hands with
Russia itself. The thoughts of such an alliance seemed to embitter
his old age.
"Depend upon it, boy," he said to me, "it is an alliance that never
will work us any good."
Malta was, as far as my reading goes, the first bone of contention
between the French and ourselves in the renewed struggle, or rather
let me call it the first cause of that struggle.
Malta was considered to be the key to Egypt, and the French were once
more casting eagle-glances towards that much-coveted country.
The First Consul, Napoleon, in spite of the remonstrances of Prussia,
whose political status had at this time sunk to a very low ebb,
occupied Hanover, and despatched a fleet to blockade the Elbe at
Cuxhaven, to stop the trade between this country and Prussia. As a
reprisal, we told the Prussians that unless the French withdrew we
should blockade, not only the Elbe, but the Weser as well. But
Prussia's remonstrances with Napoleon were all in vain.
For two long years the Hanoverians suffered all the penalties and
indignities inseparable from the usurpation of their country by a
domineering nation like the French.
In the end, however, their sufferings bore fruit, for they and the
whole of Germany north were at length aroused from the lethargy into
which they had sunk, and compelled to take up arms against the
oppressor.
But Russia now became displeased at this French occupation of
Hanover. What might it not end in? Hitherto Russia had been little
better than a tool in Napoleon's hand. So the Great Bear of the
North began to growl.
The outbreak of war betwixt this country and France made the
ambitious Napoleon, or First Consul, a greater hero than ever in the
eyes of the French. It needed but the occurrence of some plot
against his life, and in favour of the old royal family, to ensure
his being placed upon the throne. Such a conspiracy had actually
existed for some time. Then quickly followed the execution or murder
of the chief conspirators, some of whom were actually strangled at
night in prison, so horrible were the times. This dreadful fate
happened to Pichegru, a general.
Hardly less terrible was the murder of the Duke of Enghien. Exiled
from his country, this man--although he had fought for his own in the
first coalition against France--was now living peacefully in Baden;
but him the First Consul determined to sacrifice. He was surrounded
with spies of the low-caste or Communistic order, who regard neither
God nor man, and having no consciences are prepared to swear anything
if it serves their turn. On the 10th of March, 1804, while sitting
quietly reading in his home at Ettenheim, a troop of soldiers who had
crossed the Rhine from France suddenly surrounded the house.
Resistance, or even remonstrance, was in vain. He was hurried away
without being able to bid farewell to his weeping relatives. His
poor dog, who would have followed his master, was bludgeoned before
his eyes.
In five days' time he arrived at the fortification of Vincennes, and
hardly allowed rest or refreshment ere he was hurried--at night it
was--before a mock tribunal of six officers. The trial lasted but a
few minutes. He was beckoned away, his arms pinioned, and shot
beside his already-dug grave.
Through rivers of blood, on stepping-stones of murders like these,
Napoleon crossed to the site of his further ambitions and glories,
and was proclaimed Emperor of the French.
Alas! we are too prone even now to associate civilization with
urbanity of manners, with regal pomp and state, with riches, with
gaiety, and with dresses loaded with gems rich and rare. This is
human nature. But Paris, even at this time, when such fearful
murders as those I have described were taking place in her very
midst, was as gay and careless as is our London of to-day.
* * * * *
To follow the undoubtedly great but heartless Emperor of France
through all his series of victories and defeats, even in epitome,
would be a task for which my readers, I fear, would scarcely thank
me, especially as history is making itself every day around us with a
speed we scarce can follow. But even as I write these lines in early
January, our fleets are re-forming, our armies are being re-massed,
and there is the terrible possibility hovering around us of an
invasion of our shores by a powerful foreign foe, it is well we
should remember something of Napoleon's pet scheme to carry the war
into our native land. This, indeed, was his greatest ambition.
Could he have dictated his terms of peace with Britain from the Tower
of London or Windsor Palace, with his foot upon the British lion, he
would, I believe, have died contented.
He concentrated an army at Boulogne that was powerful enough to have
overwhelmed all the forces of fencibles and regulars we could have
opposed to it on English ground. The only difficulty was how to land
them.
But the very thought that he might be able to do so cast a cloud of
gloom and fear over all our land, from England's southermost shores
far north to the Scottish Highlands themselves.
In Scotland north at this time things were about as bad as they could
be. There was poverty as well as doubt; the crops failed in many
places, the oats were blighted, starvation stared the people in the
face, and grim death seemed to stalk about the streets of hamlets and
villages. From the far-off Braes of R----, where the effects of
cruel war were felt, as in other places, many a prayer rose up morn
and even from Robertson's hearth for the preservation of the boy whom
fate had made a soldier.
All Napoleon needed, so he believed, was the possession of the
Channel for a few days. At the present time, reader, the possession
of the silver streak of sea that guards us--for even a few
hours--would suffice to land an enemy upon our coast. And a fog
might at any time favour one.
Napoleon's plan was clever. He would endeavour to lure our great
commander, Nelson, away across the ocean, by means of a fleet which
should pretend to sail for the purpose of making war against our
possessions in the West Indies.
Admiral Villeneuve was, therefore, ordered off to Martinique. He was
there to join with other ships, and return with all haste to free the
French fleet, blockaded at Brest and other parts of the coast.
Villeneuve did succeed in luring Nelson after him, and the French
admiral had a sixteen days' start homeward, before Nelson had an
inkling of his designs. Now came the extreme danger. It was
impossible for Nelson to overtake and smash Villeneuve, for fleets
cannot rush across the ocean with the speed of a single ship. They
are bound to keep together.
Knowing this, Nelson at once chose the fastest, fleetest brig in his
squadron, and sent her off in all haste with despatches for England.
Only think of it, reader. The whole fate of this mighty nation
depended, for the time being, on the quickness with which one little
British ship could cross the ocean.
A single accident; the carrying away of a spar while cracking on; a
white squall; the shot of the enemy; the springing of a leak, would
have meant the triumphant ending of Napoleon's schemes and the
conquest of Merrie England.
Was not this indeed a race for life, a race for the life of our own
dear fatherland?
Would the brave little brig win?