Shoulder to shoulder

CHAPTER VII.

POLICY AND AMBITION OF NAPOLEON—REBELLION IN
IRELAND—ATTEMPTS AT INVASION—THE WHOLE WORLD
OF EUROPE IN A BLAZE.

By the genius and strategy of Napoleon, coupled with a certain dash and élan that never forsook him till the very last, Austria was driven from Italy. By the end of March he had even carried the mountain passes that guard Carinthia, and pursued the enemy to within eighty miles of Vienna. The Emperor sued for peace, and the kind of peace made was one dictated by Napoleon himself, and to his own advantage as much as that of France.

In fact, Napoleon Bonaparte was a capital map-maker. What was Italy one day, would be Austria the next, and French territory soon after. Treaties, in those days, were as often abrogated as not. They were all very well so long as they suited the convenience of those who had made them. When they failed to do so, nations tore them up and made war; then the victor made another treaty, and the self-same fate probably awaited that.

Napoleon was probably one of the most graspingly ambitious men that ever lived, and one of the cleverest. Like a shepherd's collie, he seemed to sleep—if ever that great brain of his did sleep—with one eye open, ready to come down like a wolf on the fold, whenever he saw an opening. He played at the great game of war. He played for high stakes, too; he cared nothing how many crowns or sovereigns he threw down, or how many kings, queens, and knaves opposed him. Talking of kings and queens, by the way, there were a good many about in those days, and some were hardly distinguishable from knaves.

"A prince can mak' a belted knight,
    A marquis, duke, and a' that,
But an honest man's aboon his might,
    Guid faith he mauna fa' that!"

Well, I don't suppose the great Napoleon himself ever attempted to make an honest man. An honest man might have stood in his way. He preferred fools. As to Marquises and that kind of folks, he could turn them out by the score, and he could make kings too—or mar them. It was all the same to Napoleon. He dreamt that, like Alexander the Great, he had conquered the world, and he was going to do his best to make that dream come true. But he didn't mean to imitate Alexander any further; he wouldn't sit down and cry because there were no more worlds to conquer. No, those he had conquered and trampled under foot, might do the weeping, he should sit on high and play at being a god.

On second thought, I beg to retract that wee word "sit."

No ambitious man ever did or could sit. Sitting only belongs to the happy and contented. The brain of ambition is always in a turmoil and a whirl.

Ambition is the tower of Babel, which a man builds for himself, and the higher he builds it, the farther from the heaven and the haven of contentment does he place himself. Because contentment rests on earth, and happiness is its twin brother.

However, it was Napoleon's very successes that made him popular with the French. Some people are driven "daft" by good luck, and some nations are of the same temperament. Our Gallic neighbours are, for example. They possess but little of the bull-dog courage, the steadiness and staying power, of the British. So long as luck favours them, then "Pah!" they cry, "We vill fight till all is blue." But when reverses come, their hearts cool down. They are like the steam that rises, from a burning house as the firemen play on it, on a hard-frosty night in winter. It rises high in air, as steam, but it soon gets chilled and descends as snow.

But the ovation that General Napoleon received in December, 1797, from, this excited people in the great Hall of Legislature, would have turned many a modest head. Perhaps no young conqueror, ever before, faced so great and enthusiastic an audience. We are told that the flags and trophies of all the battles of the Republic were displayed in the Audience Hall that evening.

The "glories" were set forth in inscriptions such as the following:

"A hundred and seventy captured flags.

"A hundred and fifty thousand prisoners taken in battle.

"Six hundred field guns.

"Five hundred and fifty siege guns.

"Five pontoon bridges.

"Nine 64-gun ships, twelve frigates, and twelve corvettes.

"Armistice with the King of Sardinia.

"Convention with Genoa.

"Armistice with the King of Naples and the Pope of Rome.

"Preliminaries of Leoben.

"Liberty granted to the peoples of Bologna, Ferrara, Modena, Massa, Carrara, and Lombardy, and to the peoples of the Ægean Sea, Ithaca, and Corcyra."

Then there were the grand works of art and spoils of the churches.

And was the man on whom every eye was turned in this great assembly, proud? Well, he looked so young, so modest, and yet so gallant withal, that ladies got a little off their head about him.

But in the brief extracts of the speech he made, he did not show a very overwhelming amount of modesty.

"We, the people of France, must be free, and to be so we must conquer kings. We must overthrow the prejudices of eighteen hundred years, to gain a constitution founded on reason. We have triumphed over many obstacles, as the trophies around you prove. Though feudalism, royalty, and religion have hitherto governed Europe, from the peace now concluded a Representative Government shall date. The territory of this mighty nation is bounded but by natural limits. France and Italy now see arising, from the graves of their ancestors, immortal liberty. I hand to you the treaty of peace signed at Campo Formio, and ratified by the Emperor, a peace that shall ensure liberty, prosperity, and glory to the Republic. France is free, and the whole of Europe must be free also."

This speech, though not remarkably eloquent, was a torch that bid fair to set the whole of Europe in a blaze.

Austria having made peace with France, Britain was left to fight her single-handed. The bombastic doctrines preached by France and put into practice—successfully, too—by so great a war-genius as Napoleon, stirred up the worst blood and the lowest classes in many European cities. Men who would never work for themselves could talk. Why should not every nation follow the example of France, and be free? Why should kings and queens and nobles wallow in wealth, while the poor were left to die for hunger?

There were insurrections soon at Rome itself, and even the Pope was deposed. We Britons were autocratically ordered to restore to France all the spoils we had taken in the war, and all the lands.

Of course, we didn't.

No nation, or combination of nations, is ever going to put a foot on Britain's neck, or rob her of a single possession, so long as we retain that greatest possession of all—possession of the sea.

In 1798 the Irish rebelled. They too would be free. O reader, we cannot blame them. They were a conquered nation, and held down by bloodshed, murder, and rapine.

Ireland was, indeed, a thorn in the flesh of Great Britain at that time, and it was a thorn that the French would gladly assist in extracting, and afterwards keep for itself.

A certain Dr. McNiven repaired to Paris on the sly, and arranged with the Directory all the preliminaries of an invasion, which it was believed would entirely dismember Ireland from England and Scotland. The United Irishmen meanwhile rose in arms. It was their purpose to seize in one night the Castle of Dublin, the camp, and all the artillery. But the conspirator let the cat out of the bag, and this was disastrous to the cause.

Battles, however, were fought here and there all over Ireland, but in every instance the Irish lost, and so the rebellion was put down, with, as usual, much needless slaughter and terrible cruelty.

The mission of Dr. McNiven to Paris bore fruit, and was productive of sad results to France itself, as well as to poor bleeding Ireland.

An invasion was actually effected, for the French landed in Kallala Bay with 1200 men, under General Humbert, and with uniforms for 3000 men. They were quite certain that the Irish would rise to meet and assist them.

Humbert drove in the Fencibles, as they were called, who were really akin to the Volunteers of the present day. Then he advanced to Castle Bar, and thrashed Lake and his army, although nearly double that of his own in numbers.

The British were in a fix now, but prepared to meet it by strategy and force. Lord Cornwallis was made Viceroy of Ireland, and arrived at Dublin in June. He flattered, he threatened, he cajoled and blarneyed, and finally succeeded in raising an army so big that the French threw away their guns and ran.

They were all captured, and, I fear, received but scant grace or mercy.

There was still another expedition from France at the same time. But this was detected and followed. The French were overhauled at sea, and as pretty a pitched battle on a small scale fought as any English tar would wish to be engaged in.

We won. But, indeed, the weather had severely damaged the French fleet before our war-ships took them in hand.

May the wind and weather always fight for brave Britons hereafter, as it has done in days gone by.

But the French were not content with invading Ireland, for, to tell the truth, Bonaparte had not much faith to place in the fighting powers of the Irish while their feet were placed on Irish bog, although he knew they were splendid soldiers when well commanded. But the French Directory set about planning an invasion of England, or some part of Britain, in a fleet of flat-bottomed boats.

There lies between Cherbourg and Havre a group of small islands that Sir Sidney Smith had captured, and garrisoned with marines and sailors, in 1795. With thirty well-armed flat-bottoms the French tried to regain these, but two of our ships treated them to such a hailstorm that they, having just sense enough to get in out of a shore, ran into Sallenelle, and stopped for three weeks to repair. Then they determined to try again.

Says General Cust: "The enemy remained here for three weeks, during which time he received a great accession of troops and forty more flat boats, which enabled him again to put to sea and reach unobserved the roadstead of La Hague."

On the 6th of May, availing themselves of a calm, which gave them some advantage over sailing vessels, they stood across to attack the islands.

At daybreak next morning the boats, fifty-two in number, rowed up with great resolution to within musket-shot of the batteries, while our brigs with their heavy cannon kept up a fire upon them from a distance of 300 or 400 yards.

The British ships Adamant, Eurydice, and Orestes were all this time in the offing, but unable, owing to the calm, to get nearer than six miles. But our lieutenant, Papps Price, who commanded the garrison, loaded to the muzzle with round shot, grape, and canister, poured such an iron storm upon the boats that several of them, cut into chips, went down bodily, and those that could float began to seek safety in flight.

The pity was, reader, that the wind wouldn't blow, and let the ships up to sink or capture the whole flotilla.

Of course our sailors whistled for the wind, until they nearly whistled the whites of their eyes out, but all in vain.

Another attempt was to have been made, but at length the whole of the gun-boat fleet returned to Cherbourg.

Just as our ministers did this year in which we live, 1896—ninety-eight years after the flotilla action—when menaced by foreign powers, so did the British minister then. He adopted and increased every means for the defence and security of the British shores. The Alien Bill was also renewed, and a suspension of the Habeas Corpus Act carried. The greatest alacrity was shown among all classes of the British people to confront the menaced assault on their country.

Party differences were suspended, and the whole kingdom, united in heart and hand, rested in firm confidence, that

            "Nought shall make us rue,
If Britain to herself do rest but true."

* * * * *

I feel inclined, being a naval sailor myself, to tell you here how a French fleet sailed under sealed orders, and under Bonaparte for the Mediterranean, and how they captured Malta: and how Nelson was sent after them; how Napoleon, landed his army in Egypt and captured Alexandria, and fought the battle of the Pyramids, near Cairo.

I say I feel inclined to let loose all this history on you, but must pull myself up with a round turn.

In one of my other books, I think, I have described Nelson's great victory of the Nile, and so I must refer you to that.

But, my dear boy-readers, a knowledge of history may well do us much good, and help us to fight for our country in the days to come.

Our Navy is our first defence. Long may it float supreme! If so, we can sleep quietly and calmly in our beds at night, and never fear invasion.

The

"Flag that braved a thousand years,
    The battle and the breeze,"

shall guard the front gates of our castles and homes, but our forts must not be forgotten. They are the guards to the back gates, and our brave Volunteers are behind them.

The year 1799 was no less bloody than its predecessor.

The French and Napoleon became more and more ambitious, France forming a cordon of republics on all sides of her, that bade fair to put an end for ever to kings and kingdoms, and place in their stead republics, mob law, and murder.

Russia saw the danger, so did Prussia and Austria, and against the latter, now preparing a great army to recapture, if possible, all it had lost, the French Republic declared war.

A second coalition now threatened France.

The whole world of Europe was soon in a blaze. These were, indeed, the dashing days of old, and yet we do not want them to return. For, as my dear old grandfather used to say:

"War is a terrible, terrible thing!"

CHAPTER VIII.

GRANDFATHER GOES ON FURLOUGH—A CHANGE AND MANY
A CHANGE—POOR LITTLE RACHEL—BATTLE OF
ALEXANDRIA—THE GALLANT 42ND—NIGHTFALL ON THE
FIELD OF BATTLE.

Late in the year 1800, or early in January, 1801, my grandfather's company were doing duty in Dublin.

He had behaved so entirely to the satisfaction of his officers and colonel, that when a longing came over him to behold once more the scenes of his boyhood, a furlough was at once granted to him, and, in a sailing packet, stormy and cold though the weather was, he left Dublin for Glasgow. The wind was favourable, though high, and in little more than two days he landed at his destination.

The coach road to Edinburgh was clear, and he was lucky enough to find a ship just starting for Inverness. He stopped for nothing, but hurried on board. He was a good sailor now, but, moreover, he was lucky in getting a good ship; and so, on the 10th of January, he found himself again in Inverness. Every street, almost every house, brought back to his mind recollections of his former life, and days of his boyhood. 'T was but a short time ago, after all, for he was now but twenty-one. But there were changes, and some were sad enough.

Naturally he bent his steps towards the house of his old friend, Craig, the staymaker.

He found it deserted, and the windows boarded up.

He entered a shop close by, to make enquiries.

The people had only recently arrived from the south.

But a woman was there shopping.

"I knew the Craigs well," she said. "Indeed, indeed, the pair of stays I'm wearing at this very moment was made by the old man himself."

"And where have they gone?"

"O, dead and buried years and years ago. Old folks, you know. A pound of sugar, Mr. McDonald."

My grandfather thanked her, and walked away, somewhat saddened by the brief interview.

He walked out now towards the river, and down along its bonnie banks, that were green even now, though away on the mountains the snow lay thick and white.

Yes, there was the Lodge. The house itself was looking much the same, but the gardens were ill-kept, and it was evident, from the drawn blinds, that the Frasers had left.

He had had no intention, at any rate, to call, but the deaf old gardener was leaning over the gate, and him he addressed.

"You don't remember me?"

"No, no, not at all. You're a bonnie man yoursel', but she doesna like a red-coat."

"And where have the Frasers gone?"

"Eh? What? O, ay, the Frasers. Well, ochone! the bonnie leddie is dead and away. And the captain is gone to the wars. They tell me he has gone to fight for Charlie. Heigho! it will be bonnie days when the old Stuarts get their own."

My grandfather smiled. This, then, was all that this poor dottled gardener knew about the wars that were then shaking the world to its social foundation.

He knew what a shilling was, though.

Now this old man was seventy if a day, but when my grandfather held out that shilling he drew back with a start.

"She'll no' touch it," he cried. "You'll be wanting me to enlist to fight for George. Na, na, she'd maype fight for Sharlie Stuart, but not for George, no, no, no."

"He would have taken half a crown, though,
But had to be content with 'saxpence.'"

Grandfather started off now to walk to Beauly.

There were no leaves upon the birchen trees. The heather was brown, the brachens withered, the voice of song-birds was no longer heard in the woods, only, across the dark waters of the Firth, the white gulls skimmed and screamed. Yet, desolate though the scene was, it cast not a shade of gloom on the young soldier's heart. It was home. And

"Hame is hame, howe'er sae hamely."

* * * * *

He remembered, now, the fisherman's little cottage. Ah! that must be visited. So down he went towards the beach. Yes, yonder stood the little cot. But it was roofless and still. Only the sea winds moaned around its deserted walls.

Before he reached Beauly he passed the very spot where, years ago, he had knelt in prayer. Someone unseen seemed to beckon him there to pray again, and willingly he obeyed.

He had much to be thankful for, and thankful he was, just pouring out his heart silently before the Unseen God, and praying that, as he had hitherto been mercifully preserved, the same kind Father would thenceforth keep his eyes from tears, and his feet from falling.

Well, poor young fellow, he needed some consolation; for, on calling at the little inn at Beauly, where he had been a prisoner, he found Ellen, but little changed.

They talked away right merrily for a time, till at last she asked:

"Does your people know you are coming?"

"No, Ellen; I want to give them a happy surprise."

"I suppose you know your old dominie has left and gone to Glasgow?"

"No—o—o; that is news indeed. And Rachel, she——"

"Ah! yes; your little sweetheart, she is dead and gone."

Grandfather felt as if a shot had struck him. He reeled and staggered backward into a chair. Ellen was shocked at her own rashness. She put her arms around his neck as if he were still a boy.

"Poor Ian, poor Ian. Oh, I didn't know you loved her so much."

He dashed away the tears, and rose slowly from his seat. The sudden news was, indeed, a shock to him, and one from which he did not recover for weeks.

* * * * *

Should I apologise, my dear boy and girl readers, for thus letting our little heroine Rachel die? I think not. Because you must remember that the story I am writing is not mere fiction. You will, doubtless, believe me when I say that I am more sorry than anyone else could be. An author ever loves his heroines as well as his heroes.

Sorrow for the dead is a grief—a chastening grief—for which there is no antidote in life, save time, that levels all things.

John Robertson went sorrowfully, sadly up the hill. He took out Rachel's little letter from its case, and read it over again once more. The sight of that little four-bladed clover, that his child-sweetheart had given him, brought tears to his eyes once more. He replaced it in his bosom.

"Yes," he told himself, "I will always keep it there."

At a distance he saw the little school and schoolhouse, ay, and even the peat-stack from which little Rachel had waved him adieu.

But a new dominie taught and tawsed the boys there now, and he wouldn't have gone near it for the world.

He went on and up the brae.

A collie dog came running down to accost the strange soldier. It was Dash, somewhat hoarse and stiff with age.

Would the dog know him?

He did. His barking was changed to cries of joy as he jumped and played around our hero. In fact, Dash, for the time being, hardly knew what to do with himself, or how to behave.

But a happy thought seemed suddenly to occur to him, and off he went trotting into the house, and, in his own way, conveyed to the young soldier's parents the news that Ian, his master, had returned.

Both ran out to meet him.

No—I shall skip the description. Suffice it to say that Ian's mother wept for joy.

"Ah! but they were not to have me long," said my grandfather, as he told me of this joyful meeting, "for in three days' time the runner from Beauly brought me a letter, laddie, on the King's service. I was told thereby that I must join my regiment at once, for it was ordered on foreign service."

So away went my soldier grandfather.

Would he ever see his parents again? That was a question none could answer.

It is well at times we are not permitted to look into the future.

The present alone is ours. The past is no more. Our futures are with God.

My grandfather joined his company. His company joined his regiment; and by the 1st of March, 1801, they landed with others, under Sir Ralph Abercromby, at Aboukir Bay, or, rather, they reached the bay.

It was a pity for Britain, and a pity and even disgrace for the British Navy, that Napoleon was ever allowed to leave Egypt. But he had escaped, and had been lucky enough not to meet a British ship on his way to Corsica.

When we landed at Aboukir Bay, it had been arranged that we were to be supported by Turkish troops from Syria, as well as by a division of British and Indian troops. But both were late, and Sir Ralph, with his army of seventeen thousand, began the fun, as our soldiers termed it, all alone.

Now, the French general had no less than twenty-seven thousand troops at Cairo. He lacked courage and dash, however, and only sent detachments, which were speedily placed hors de combat before our gallant fellows.

One cannot help feeling a little sorry at the mistakes of even one's enemies. Why, we cannot help asking, did not the French general concentrate?

Had he done so, he would have had some chance of victory, but he would have been defeated just the same, and there would have been all the more honour and glory for our country.

I remember, boys, right well, how my dear Auld-da's description of this glorious fight stirred my young blood as I sat by his knee one winter's evening, and watched his face.

"I recollect," he said, "that 7th day of March as if it were but yesterday.

"We were all in fine fighting form, so Captain, now Major, Drake told me, as I stood beside him, gazing landwards over the bulwarks, while the sun sank slowly towards the blue sea.

"'Ah, Sergeant, my boy,' he said, laughing, and rubbing his hands, 'we're going to have a touch of the real thing to-morrow.'

"'Sure and we are,' put in O'Reilly, 'and it is myself that wishes it were only to-night. What an Irishman can't stand is the waiting for it.'

"Big Dr. McLeod was there also, towering like a giant in his might above them all. Near him stood little Blood and dashing Jones—quite a muster of officers, and all as merry as May bees.

"'Yes, it's going to be to-morrow morning, Sergeant,' said the surgeon, 'and I hope your cheese-knife is ready and sharp enough to cut a head off. I'm going to sharpen my sword, and my gum-lancet too, and do my duty among you to the end of the chapter.'

"'I wonder,' said little Blood, drawing himself up to his full height, which wasn't much, 'if there is a man in our gallant regiment whose blood does not thrill as he looks around him here this night, and remembers that we are anchored in the very bay where Nelson fought the battle of the Nile?'

"'Go it, Blood,' cried O'Reilly, 'I like to hear you talk. It sort o' strengthens one's nerves.'

"'I'll go bound for it,' said Drake, 'that Blood will fight to-morrow as well as he talks to-night. Sergeant Robertson,' he continued, 'I'll keep my eye on you to-morrow too, if I can open it, just to see how well a young Highlander can fight.'"

"And were you afraid, Auld-da?" I asked.

"Well, no, laddie, I can't say I was, and I remember thinking to myself it was odd that I wasn't. I slept soundly enough, for I had turned in early.

"We had a hurried breakfast, boy, and the boats were called away before it was light. We embarked with as little noise as possible. Not that this mattered much. But the sun had not even risen, though his beams were reddening the long low clouds that lay along the eastern horizon.

"What a dash that was for the shore! Five thousand strong we were. That was all, but we were called the flower of Sir Ralph Abercromby's little army.

"I remember the even-down and regular plash with which our oars took the water, and how the boats, almost without hitch, darted shorewards.

"I remember the wild cheer with which we started, and something else as well, for among the first five thousand troops landed were the 42nd Highlanders. I was in flank a boat, and coming from one near me, I heard a voice I knew right well.

"'Hurro! Preen Mhor, here we are again. See you later on, when we lick the Froggies.'

"And this, as you will guess, was none else than brave Tom Grahame. I could not help lifting my cap, and waving it over my head, for the dear fellow's voice quite cheered me.

"'Shoulder to shoulder, Tom,' I cried, in Gaelic, and more than Tom raised a cheer at these words, which, you must know, dear laddie, form one of the mottoes of our fighting Scottish soldiers all the wide world over.

"If I had felt fear before, boy, Tom's brave Highland voice would have banished it all.

"But presently every thought was concentrated on the shore, for suddenly puffs of white smoke, balloon-shaped, and with wicked tongues of fire, rolled up from Aboukir Castle, and from the French artillery posted on the hill.

"Not a shot was returned, although the cannon-balls tore up the water, and the grape pattered like hailstones around us. I saw a shot alight close to Tom's boat and envelop it in white spray. I felt my heart leap with anxiety, but next moment I saw my friend's red face once more, and I thanked God.

"No, laddie, I never feared for myself that day. I was but a humble sergeant, but I think I did my duty beside my men.

"Our leader was General (afterwards Sir John) Moore, and bravely indeed did he lead us on.

"It was a tough climb up that sandy hill, and almost too much for some of our younger English lads.

"On and on we pushed, keeping well in line. I saw Drake with his sword drawn in front, cheering, as he pointed to the heights.

"Next moment a round shot tore up the ground in front, and he fell. I was the first on the spot, my laddie, and glad I was to help my friend to his feet. He was unwounded, and we climbed the hill together.

"The French general had brought ten or maybe twelve thousand men to meet us. But so irresistible was our dash that we mowed them down before us, and they fled like chaff before the wind. I think I hear our slogans yet. I think I see the darting bayonets, the clash of sword and sabre, and the round sun looking down on the carnage, lurid and red in the rolling smoke of battle."

"And the French ran away, Auld-da?"

"It was more than a mere retreat, laddie; they fled helter-skelter, with the fear of death at their hearts, blocking the narrow roads that led to Alexandria.

"There were many dead and wounded among our ranks, however. It is always thus. In war, my boy, victory has ever to be paid for in blood.

"Among the numerous daring deeds done that day I must mention one, for it came under my own observation.

"Dr. McLeod, our splendid and spirited surgeon, had followed his company closely, and did his duty well. But in the very heat of the battle he had spied brave little Blood hurled beneath a carriage with the ram-rod of the huge gun. Next moment the wounded officer would have been sabred, had not the giant—bare-headed, and with blood streaming from his brow, that is how I can see him even at this moment in the peat-fire there, laddie—rushed to his rescue. Man after man went down before the fury of this giant's attack. Next minute he was bearing the insensible form of the tiny officer triumphantly to the rear.

"He had hoisted him on his shoulder just as he had hoisted me as a boy, on the night I danced the hornpipe on the dinner-table.

"Blood looked dead enough. But I may tell you he survived, and the surgeon's wound, though it looked bad enough, did not keep him from duty.

"I saw the doctor that night, as I passed through the battle-field to visit Tom Grahame, and asked for Blood.

"'He'll live, Sergeant, he'll live, and the Lord be praised, for, if you'll remember, I pitched him through a window once in Edinburgh Castle, and now we're square, for I think I've saved his life.'

"Tom Grahame and I had a long talk together about olden times, my boy, but I went back early, and slept soundly on the battle-field among the falling dew.

"One of the events of that battle morning had been a charge of French cavalry, but this we had staved off by forming a rallying-square, and we soon emptied their saddles for them.

"I often think," continued Auld-da, "that we might have followed up our victory even on the 8th. But then the gallant Moore, no doubt, knew better. We were but a small force, and in warfare, although much may be done by dash and daring, the true general will always use precaution.

"We kept the ground we had taken until the 12th, when all the rest of our men and stores being now landed, we were ordered to march.

"'March to the battle-field,
The foe is on before you.'

You mind that old song, laddie? Well the foe really was on before us that day."

"Ah, yes, Auld-da, because you'd driven him on."

"That's it, laddie, that's it. But then, you know," he added with a smile, "they were only Frenchmen; and frogs are not much to fight upon.

"We were off for Alexandria itself.

"On the 13th I heard firing, and was told by O'Reilly that we might be wanted at any moment.

"But we were not. The 90th and 92nd (Highlanders) had had a tough brush with the enemy, and driven him in, that was all.

"The real battle had to come. I think, laddie, we were eighteen or nineteen regiments strong.* But for seven weary days, boy, we lay inactive. The French position was terribly strong, and they were being reinforced.

* General Cust speaks thus concerning the disposition of our forces:—"The army took up a position on the skirt of a sandy plain—within sight of the great Egyptian city, the lake of Aboukir on the left, and the sea on the right. The 42nd occupied an eminence close to the sea-shore. From right to left the regiments ranked thus—In the first line 58th, 42nd, 40th, Guards, Royals, 92nd, 54th, 8th, 18th, 90th, and 13th. In the second line, Minorca regiment, De Rolle's, Dillon's, the Queen's, 44th, 89th, 130th, 22nd, and 29th Dragoons, the 27th, 50th, and 79th. The French occupied a parallel position on a ridge of hills, their centre protected by Fort Cretin, their right extending to Pompey's Pillar, and their left to Cleopatra's Needle."

"But early on the morning of the 21st, dear laddie, much to the joy of O'Reilly, at all events, the silence was broken on the French side by the roar of cannon. It was so early, that when we got the order to advance, darkness still prevailed, lit up, every now and then, by the brilliant flashes of the enemy's guns.

"It is said that the 42nd were first to the front, and that their steady fire checked, for a time, the fury of the advancing French. I only know my own part, and that I was far too busy to think of anything but my own men, many of whom went down before the storm of iron hail.

"The most awful charge of the day was that by the French Invincibles. It was furious in the extreme, laddie. But bravely did we receive it, and fearful indeed was the carnage.

"Indeed this French Legion was all but annihilated.

"Nothing, I think, but the individual coolness of our regiments enabled us to hold our own and defeat the foe.

"But while the Invincibles littered the ground with their dead and their bleeding wounded, and finally laid down their arms and surrendered, fresh French troops were being hurled against us, and for a time victory wavered in the balance.

"The charge and charges of the 42nd were grand in the extreme. They were led on by brave Moore, and their wild slogan could be heard from end to end of the battle-field, high above the rattle of musketry and shouting of other combatants.

"And, laddie, there was the skirl of the bagpipes as well: that martial music, that never fails to steel the hearts of our Scottish soldiers on the day of battle.

"But the 42nd suffered terribly. As theirs was the first charge, laddie, so theirs, aided by the brigade brought up by Stewart, was the last.

"The sons of Caledonia had won a glorious fight, and no prouder name is attached to their standard than 'Alexandria.'

"In this battle, boy, fell the gallant Sir Ralph, and much indeed was his loss deplored.

"One more strange adventure did I myself have on this day, and this I must tell you, laddie, ere you go.

"I was looking for our wounded in company with brave Surgeon McLeod. Looking for the wounded we were, and sometimes bending down to close the eyes of the dead."

The old man paused a moment.

"O, such ghastly sights, boy," he said, "may you never, never witness! Even the dead sat or lay in such strange positions that often one could scarcely believe that life was extinct.

"Then the pitiable condition of the dying and the wounded, the moaning, the groaning, the maudlin cries, and the mournful appeals for water.

"But of this last there was, alas! scarcely enough to wet the throats of those who needed it most.

"Every now and then the flapping of hideous wings overhead would be heard, and we could tell that the birds of prey had already commenced their ghastly work.

"I had left the doctor for a few minutes, and was among the hillocks where the French dead lay side-to-side with the kilted warriors of the north, as some poet called them.

"Morning was already beginning to break, and things were, dimly seen. Across the eastern horizon were spread the first rose-tints of dawn. I had my hand to my eyes to hide some ghastly sight, when I could distinctly hear my name called, but in tones so faint and low that at first I could not tell whence the sound proceeded.

"'Ian Robertson. Ian, Ian.'

"My heart beat tumultuously. The voice, I thought, must be that of Tom Grahame.

"'Ian, it is I. Come.'

"A figure half-raised itself from a hole in the sand.

"I saw at a glance, now, it was none other than my cousin, Captain Fraser.

"He was dying, that was evident.

"'Have you—water?' he gasped.

"I knelt down, and he drank from my canteen, and seemed to revive just a little.

"'Ian, I—I—used you badly—unfairly. You can pardon a dying man?'

"'Don't name it, dear cousin. Nor are you dying. I will get assistance at once.'

"'Too late—listen. Have me carried away—when all is over. Give the letter to—my little daughter, Ailie. How dark it is—how dark—God bless you—dark, dark!'

"Ay, it was the darkness of death, laddie.

"I closed his eyes, and stretched his limbs.

"Poor Fraser, my kinsman. He had his faults, but he meant well, laddie, and he died a hero's death."

* * * * *

"When wild war's deadly blast was blawn,
    And gentle peace returning,
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless,
    And mony a widow mourning;
I left the lines and tented field,
    Where lang I'd been a lodger,
My humble knapsack a' my wealth,
    A poor and honest sodger."

We had re-conquered Egypt then, reader, and the French. Right bravely had our soldiers done their work, and Britain borne the brunt in the terrible struggle that convulsed Europe.

Negotiations for peace were then entered into at London and were signed early in the year 1802.

Napoleon was now First Consul of France and President of Italy.

It was about this time, and for his gallantry in action, that my grandfather was made colour-sergeant. It is a question whether he was not as proud of his promotion as Napoleon was of his. I am certain of one thing: he had more right to be.

Well, peace had come.

Query: How long would it last?

Book III.

From War to Gentle Peace.

Book III.

FROM WAR TO GENTLE PEACE.

CHAPTER I.

THE DUKE OF KENT AS GRANDFATHER KNEW HIM—DISCIPLINE
AND THE LASH IN THE BRAVE DAYS OF OLD—TONAL'S
DILEMMA, AND HOW HE GOT OUT OF IT.

A beautiful village on the eastern shores of Kent, a village that partly and chiefly went straggling up a little cosy dingle or dell, and partly rested on two high cliffs that—one especially—descended sheer down towards the dark and heaving ocean, which in stormy weather spent its fury against its sides: such was Ramsgate in the early part of this century.

There were churches on the cliffs and in the hollow; there was also a naval outlook or coastguard station; and there were barracks for soldiers. A bracing town then as now. Perhaps even more so, for it was hardly in those days a sea-side watering-place. There were no noisy trains, no factories worth the name, few vessels in the harbour save those of fisher-folks, and far less bustle and stir. In fact a kind of Sabbath-calm rested here eternally. To be sure, the coming and going of the soldiers occasioned a little excitement, so did the arrival of a man-o'-war, especially if she stayed long enough to give the sailors a spell on shore. Then, indeed, the peace was broken in more ways than one. For Jack and Tommy Atkins might be seen linking arm in arm along the street, or streets, singing together, drinking together, and, alas! often fighting together. In this latter upshot the Jacks generally, if not invariably, had the best of it.

I do not mean to say that a sailor is, on the whole, braver than a soldier, but in times of peace he probably is, for then Tommy Atkins rests at home—languishes in barracks, let us say—while Jack is ever facing danger and death afloat on the ocean wave.

It was in the autumn of 1801 that my grandfather, with his regiment, or a portion of it, lay here, and just about this time his Royal Highness the Duke of Kent took the command of the Royals, vice Lord Adam Gordon, D.D.*

* "D.D." in this case does not mean Doctor of Divinity, but Discharged Dead.

The Duke was, it must be remembered, the father of our good and illustrious Queen Victoria.

It was here at Ramsgate that my grand-dad first had the honour of coming under his Royal Highness's notice, and was taken on his staff.

In those days the pay of a company passed through the captain thereof, but this had fallen into my grandfather's hands in the following way: He was possessed of a little money, and this, or a portion of it, he had lent to his captain. He never got it back, for the officer was impecunious, but he had the pay of the company turned over to him, and in those days in foreign lands the men were paid in the coin of the country in which they served. A captain therefore, in paying his men, had usually some pickings left for himself, as English coin was more valuable than foreign.

It was—I may say it. I trust, without appearing boastful—my grandfather's smartness, sobriety, strict attention to duty and discipline, and his love of order and cleanliness, that first attracted the notice of the Duke, and that his Grace was pleased with him goes without saying.

From my grand-dad's account of him, the Duke was a noble-looking man, a capital soldier, and a most rigid disciplinarian, but withal most humane and kindly, not only to every officer and man under him, but to every animal as well.

The Duke was never known to tread upon a worm; this is not figurative, but simply the truth.

Drake and O'Reilly used to go shooting sea-birds, and brought home the spoils of sport—as they facetiously called the beautiful dead.

"How came it here? Who so cruel as shoot it?" The speaker was the Duke. He had picked up a lovely gull, its feathers dyed in blood, its breast still warm.

"I'm afraid I did, sorr," said O'Reilly, walking up and saluting his Royal Highness.

"Sir, this is not sport—it is murder!"

The Duke turned on his heel and walked away.

There were no more gulls killed on the cliffs by the officers of the Royals.

* * * * *

The following anecdote of the Duke's kind-heartedness was believed in the sergeants' mess. It is possibly true; I cannot say farther.

However, as the story goes, the Duke of Kent one day called a sergeant towards him, while walking on the square or parade.

"Sergeant," he said, "I have several times noticed lights in the men's quarters, even at midnight. What is the meaning of it?"

"I beg your pardon, your Royal Highness, but the men occasionally light a clip to hunt for fleas."

"What are they, Sergeant?"

"Little animals, sir, that haunt the rooms, and bite."

"Not—eh—bats, Sergeant?"

"No, sir."

"Bring me one to look at."

Unfortunately a pulex irritans was not difficult to find, for the little blood-sucker was a plague in the barracks.

The sergeant rolled the specimen with a wetted finger to make it lie still for the Duke's inspection.

His Royal Highness turned it over once or twice with his finger, then—

"Poor little fellow! poor little fellow!" he said; "he is still alive. Put him up; put him up."

And the sergeant, accustomed to obey carefully, returned the flea to the soldier's bed.

* * * * *

Well, the Duke was a very strict disciplinarian, but I doubt if he was ever really cruel.

Discipline had to be strict in those old days, in the army as well as in the navy. The men were, as a rule, a rough and careless lot, and as they took almost every opportunity of drinking that they could find, it is no wonder that they needed careful handling at times. But when it is remembered that in drinking they were only taking example from the officers who led them, it will be admitted that the punishment for intoxication was sometimes cruel in the extreme.

An officer before whom a man might be brought up of a morning, charged with drunkenness, might not himself be sober. Yet he would order that man to the halberts to be flogged, then wend his way unsteadily to his mess.

The punishment was a fearful one. Three hundred lashes were sometimes given for insubordination, after which the unfortunate fellow would be handed over to the surgeon, more dead than alive. An offender would sometimes faint under the punishment. If the doctor advanced, the officer might say, "Stand back, Doctor, please. We'll flog the faint out of him."

It was not uncommon for a man to die after such brutal punishment—sometimes, I am sorry to add, by his own hand.

Even sergeants, at certain times, had power to order a man to be flogged.

Malingering, that is, pretending to be sick in order to procure a discharge from the service, was rife at this time.

Some strange stories could be told concerning this. A man, for example, pretended to be paralysed. The surgeon pronounced him a malingerer. The captain doubted the doctor's diagnosis.

"And I'll prove it to you, McLeod," said the officer.

"How, sir?"

"Well, that man is one of the finest swimmers in the regiment. We shall take him out to sea and drop him into deep water. He'll quickly strike out to save himself."

This was really done. The man perhaps preferred death to the punishment he knew he would receive if he moved a limb, which he did not. He sank like a stone, and it was with some difficulty that his life was saved.

He was discharged, and that same evening recovered the use of his limbs sufficiently to walk, or rather stagger about the streets, for he was not sober.

* * * * *

A man was brought before O'Reilly, charged with being a malingerer. He was apparently as deaf as a post, and Dr. McLeod only suspected, but could not swear he was shamming.

O'Reilly cleverly made assurance doubly sure. "How long have you been like this, my poor fellow?" he whispered by his ear.

"More than a fortnight, sir," said the man, completely taken off his guard.

"Then I'm glad you're better, poor fellow. Twelve dozen at the halberts and a week in the black-hole will complete the cure. Sergeant Robertson, see to this."

Just one other case. This was feigned paralysis of the right arm. Incredible as it may seem, the man was hoisted off his feet by the left hand, and flogged in this position, without even moving the right arm.

"That will stimulate the system," said O'Reilly, who was convinced the fellow was shamming. "Bring him up in ten days' time, Sergeant, if not better, and we will give him three hundred."

Next day this man came to my grandfather.

"See what I can do, Sergeant," he said, lifting the "paralysed arm" about a foot from his side.

He was sent to duty next day.

There was in another regiment, the 54th, if I remember rightly, a man flogged terribly for being intoxicated and riotous, although his character for ten years was all that could be desired. He was a strong, robust man, and bore his punishment well, though his back was slashed and bleeding.

The colonel* was considered by the men—and with some just cause, perhaps—to be tyrannical.

* Hay was, I think, the officer's name.

Anyhow, no sooner had this man been released, than he snatched up a large cannon-ball from a pyramid near by, and hurled it with fearful force at the colonel's head.

The escape was a narrow one, for the missile grazed his cheek.

"Your musket! Your musket!" cried the colonel, springing towards the sentry.

The sentry, out of humanity, dared to disobey. But without doubt, had he given the musket up, the colonel would have shot the culprit on the spot.

He cooled down almost immediately.

But, addressing the man as calmly as he could, "I'll send you where you'll never see England again," he said.

The man was banished to India, sent to what the soldiers called the Rogues' Regiment.

He was married and had two children, and the parting from those dear ones, whom he ne'er should see again, was said to be sad in the extreme.

Flogging, on a very extensive scale indeed, was to have been carried out once upon a time. The weather was very hot, the regiment abroad. The company who disobeyed orders had been ordered to parade in heavy marching order. But they had cut their blankets, retaining only a small portion to protrude during inspection. The fraud was discovered at night, and so incensed was the colonel that he threatened to flog the whole company next morning.

But far too early for the punishment to be carried out the French attacked them.

At a most critical moment the company stopped and refused to advance.

"Three cheers for the colonel and the blankets," cried a voice in their midst.

The colonel rode back. He was pale as death.

"For Heaven's sake, my brave fellows, come on. You shall never hear about the blankets again."

Then there was a shout and a cheer of a different sort, and on they dashed with a vim and vigour that turned the scale of victory.

I think this proves that officers may easily be merciful as well as just.

* * * * *

Poor Dominie Freeschal, of the school on the Braes, might, if he were living in our time, set up a college for preparing young officers for the army. At least three of his pupils did well as soldiers, my dear grand-dad, honest Tom Grahame, and Touvil, the boy who assisted at that dark orgie in the Highland forest, when the dominie's tawse was committed to the flames.

He rose as he had hoped, and as he said he was determined to do, to the leadership of his regiment's band.

He was transferred into the Royals, on a vacancy occurring in the brigade to which my grandfather belonged, and glad indeed were the two old schoolfellows to meet again once more.

"Indeed, Ian," he said—"or is it John I must be calling you now?—I managed my own transferment. I'll tell you more about that same again, but it was all through my love and regard for my old schoolfellow, Ian Robertson."

From that day forward Tonal and John continued to be fast friends and companions.

It was about this time that the event occurred that led my grandfather ever after to say, and with truthfulness too, that the Queen's father had saved his life.

A detachment of the Royals was ordered abroad for foreign service—out west, to America, I think. The names of the officers and non-commissioned officers had to be previously submitted to the Duke of Kent, for his sanction.

As soon as his eye caught sight of my grand-dad's name, he drew his pen through it.

"No!" he said; "he is much too good a man to lose."

The vessel grandfather ought to have sailed in had not gone far before she encountered a terrible gale off the coast. She was driven on the rocks on a lee shore, stove, and sunk in a few minutes.

Not a soldier or sailor was saved.

Tonal became a great favourite with all the officers, especially with those of the company to which my grandfather belonged.

He was an excellent piper, and though it was not his duty to play at all, he often did so at the mess, and this greatly delighted the Scottish element, especially the honest giant, Dr. McLeod.

Now Tonal was a strict "Auld Kirk," and if he did deign at times to enter the portals of an English church, it was only because he was obliged to.

One day a dignitary of the Church sent to beg assistance. The organ was out of order, and there would be no music for some weeks unless the band of the Royals could kindly condescend to conduct it.

Tonal was thunderstruck. He would have to rehearse for the occasion, and he would have to obey orders. He was in despair.

"Och!" he told McLeod mournfully, "it is only half-papists they are anyhow, and sure if my poor mother, rest her soul, knew I'd be playing to them, it's her ghost that would rise and come all the way from the old kirkyard of R—— to haunt me."

McLeod himself was a member of the Church of Scotland, so he felt sorry for Tonal.

He pondered over it, and he consulted some other members of the mess, and at last they got up a conspiracy.

I have no desire to defend the conspirators, reader; I but record facts.

Tonal was delighted when the plan was laid before him.

There were more people that first Sunday than usual. The band was a great attraction. Perhaps some of them would have stayed away had they known what was to transpire.

However, everything went well till the time of departure, when something soft and low ought to have been played as the people rose to leave the church.

Now I do not myself know a more emphatic, more merry, or blood-stirring strathspey to dance to than the old air called "The Miller o' Drone," if given with a good bass and a touch of the drum. In its very gleefulness you can hear in every bar the thud, thud, of the jolly old mill as the air runs merrily on.

My readers may judge of the consternation of the parson and people when the band struck up the grand old tune as they rose to go.

It was played with vim, and vigour too, to the very last note. For Tonal was on his mettle.

I need hardly tell you that the band was never again requested to officiate.

But Tonal was more a hero in the mess than ever.

CHAPTER II.

AWFUL CONDITION OF GIB—GRANDFATHER STABBED—A
VENDETTA—THE DUKE WAS THE BEST-HATED MAN ON
THE ROCK.

The scene of our story shifts away now to a far-off land.

In imagination I walk or wander with my gallant grandfather from point to point of the most famous rock that history can boast of. It is almost the first name that a child learns to lisp at school, when commencing to learn geography, and has been so for the last hundred years.

Personally speaking, when I myself first visited it, many years ago, I was astonished at everything I saw around me and above me. I had been taught to believe that it was but a lonesome rock, like a lion couchant, almost isolated from everything worth beholding; a rock that, though armed, was of no use to us, but only held in a spirit of bravado, a kind of clenched fist held up as a menace before the face of any or every other nation in the world, a John Bull fist, a British fist, saying as well as words could express it:

"Here I am, and I've come to stay, and the fate of the foe that would dare to face me is a foregone conclusion."

But I did not quite understand this. We Britons are proud of our great history, it is true, proud of our associations with an almost forgotten past, and with these may, and doubtless does, mingle a little romance. We bear no great goodwill for the iconoclast, the snivelling, snarling, unpatriotic idiot who would smash the people's idols, and trample them in the dust, who would hardly leave us a museum of antiquities, or relics that fathers may point to with pride, as he tells his children the story of the half-forgotten past. These relics may sometimes be but symbols, as, for instance, says the great Carlyle, "the clouted shoe that the peasants bore aloft as ensign in their Bauernkrieg, or Peasant's War. Or the wallet and staff, round which the Netherland Gueux, glorying in that nickname of beggars, heroically rallied, and prevailed, though against King Philip himself. Intrinsic, significance these had, not only extrinsic, as the accidental standard of multitudes, more or less sacredly uniting together, in which union itself there is ever something mystical, and borrowing of the god-like. Under a like category, too, stand or stood the stupidest heraldic coats of arms; military banners everywhere. Nevertheless, through all there glimmers something of a divine idea; as, through military banners themselves, the divine idea of duty, of heroic daring, in some instances of freedom, of right."

But these iconoclasts would tear the shot-rent standards or flags, around which so many heroes bled and fell, from the very walls of Windsor Castle itself; but a few years ago they would have deprived us of that nation's pride, the grand old ship Victory, on whose blood-slippery deck the hero Nelson fell. And they would deprive us of Gibraltar also.

Yet, though we Britons are thus proud of our blood-stained symbols and relics, we are also just, and would retain no portion of any nation's territory it has a legal right to, and would not use against ourselves, or hand over to our enemies.

If you disarm a burglar, are you to give him back the pistol with which he tried to blow your brains out? Or are you to hand it over to the burglar's friend, who must be your foe?

No, and so we shall stick to Gibraltar.

What we have we mean to hold,
Though pretended friends at home may scowl:
        Though blood be shed,
        And men fall dead,
And savage foes around us howl,
Still, what we have we'll stick to,
As in the dashing days of old.

I am not at all proud of my composition, reader. The verse may be doggerel, but there is truth in it.

Well, I had not been a day in Gibraltar, or Gib as we call it for short, before I found out it was by no means so barren a rock as had been represented.

There is a great town there now, though the streets be narrow, and here you may meet people of all nationalities, and in almost every garb, from the felt-hatted cute and clever Yankee to the Arab himself, or even the dastardly Turk. Vegetables of almost all sorts grow here. It is the paradise of fruit, and on the mountain-slopes, as well as in the cultivated gardens, grow flowers of every hue and shape.

Both the Horse Guards and the Duke of York placed unbounded confidence in the Duke of Kent. His former good conduct as a soldier, his hatred of intoxicants, and his skill as a disciplinarian, all told in his favour, and unlimited powers were placed in his hands. He was expected to reduce the Rock to a condition of greater sobriety, and to restore discipline. Nay, more, he was commanded to do so.

Hard indeed and thankless was the task he had before him.

Put not your trust in princes, nor in those in high places, either. Fine clothes never make the man. As true and loyal a heart may beat beneath a jacket of fustian as beneath the ermine-trimmed robes of a peer.

Kings and queens, or their ministers, make many "nobles." Nature makes a few, but she takes infinitely more pains with them than does royalty, and I know to which category I would rather belong. It may be treason to speak thus, but it is also the truth. And having said so boldly, I shall be all the more readily believed when I say also that I consider the Duke of Kent to have been one of the grand men of the early part of this century.

"Much exertion"—thus spoke the Horse Guards, or the Commander-in-Chief, the Duke of York—"will be necessary on your part, in order to restore a due degree of discipline among the troops."

And the Duke of Kent left England on the 27th of April, 1802, to take command of the historic fort, determined to do his duty, and relying on the promise that he would be supported by the high authorities at home.

Put not your trust in princes!

Arrived at Gib, the Duke commenced work at once.

There were all kinds of reforms to make among the rock scorpions, as soldiers who had been here a long time were called. Even the officers, as well as the men, were simply giving themselves up entirely to having what the Americans call a real good time of it. If drunkenness and every vice that follows in its train could be called happiness, then these men were happy.

It was then considered no crime to be intoxicated while off duty. But officers were too unsteady sometimes to walk straight or talk plainly, even on parade. This state of things led to much illness among all hands, in addition to extreme slovenliness.