Shoulder to shoulder

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!"

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.