Shoulder to shoulder

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.

"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.