It has been said that, even in the public streets, the men, and sometimes their superiors, might be seen at any hour of the day so clothed as to resemble a roving horde of lawless plunderers, rather than drilled and organised soldiers.
I can believe that.
It is, however, stated that the Duke laboured cheerfully seventeen hours a day.
This is an exaggeration.
My grand-dad, however, has assured me that, what with office work and other duties, he himself was never harder worked even while campaigning.
It is sad to have to add that the Duke came to Gib with the character of a martinet and a man who carried discipline, even over his officers, to the extent of positive tyranny. This is not true. I have what I consider good authority for stating that he was a man of mild mien, though bold and brave as a lion when occasion demanded it.
Swearing and the use of terribly vulgar expressions were considered quite the thing in those days. A bad word was never heard on the Duke's lips. He would reason with his officers rather than lose his temper and scold them for what he considered conduct—in private life—that did not accord with the grand old title of "gentleman."
He was as fair also in his dealings with the sergeants or men, or between officers and men, as any judge could have been.
I will give but one instance of this. My grandfather, who now in a great measure took his ideas of strict discipline from the Duke himself, one day when on duty did a daring thing. He found two friends—not males—of an officer of pretty high rank quarrelling and fighting near the door of the officers' mess. I am sorry to say that neither was sober, but glad to add they did not belong to my gallant progenitor's company. He, however, had them both arrested and confined to separate rooms, placing a sentry at the door of each compartment. The wrath of the officer, when this was reported to him, knew no bounds.
"I'll do for your career," he cried.
My grand-dad answered never a word, but he was reported to the Duke as having been guilty of insubordinate, almost mutinous conduct.
Some men would have taken that officer's word, and a really painstaking sergeant would have been lost to the company. Not so the kindly Duke. He investigated the case, with the result that the officer was quietly but sternly reprimanded.
Returning from town about a week after this with letters for headquarters, just in the dusk of the evening, two men rushed suddenly out from a drinking-booth, and attacked my grandfather might and main. The sergeant, however, had not forgotten the use of his fists, and one of the would-be assassins speedily found himself in the filthy gutter. He would have settled the other fellow just as quickly, but a third Spaniard appeared upon the scene.
The mêlée now became general—a kind of civil and military riot. It might have been bad indeed for the sergeant, had not Drake himself appeared on the scene, and with a few of his men speedily cleared the decks. But grandfather had been wounded with a stiletto, and, although he insisted on carrying the letters to headquarters, he lost so much blood that it was weeks before he was able to resume duty.
"That looked like a vendetta,* Sergeant, did it not?" said the Duke quietly when he resumed work.
* Act of revenge.
"I'm afraid, your Royal Highness," was the reply, "I'm afraid I dare not say so."
"Humph!" said the Duke. "You see, Sergeant, one may do what is right, and yet receive no reward in this world."
As the Duke therefore was no favourite, even the officers did as much as they could to thwart all his endeavours to curb vice and drunkenness.
His Royal Highness, however, was not to be curbed, and many of his reforms were excellent indeed. He diminished the number of wine-shops by one-half—humanely, however. It is not said, even by his enemies, that he turned the families of wine-shopkeepers adrift to starve. In fact it was quite the reverse, for he often supported some of them out of his own pocket. He weeded out the worst of those dens, especially those that were down narrow lanes, and in which foul murder itself was often committed. Nor would he have wine-shops near to the barracks or guardrooms.
Idleness is oftentimes the parent of vice, just as sorrow may be the parent of genius, hard work, and fame. The Duke was a man of the world, and knew this. He therefore instituted extra drills and dress parades, and even confinement to barracks after the second evening gun-fire.
He also established regimental canteens, and made many other reforms that soon began to work for the good not only of the soldiers, but of the civilians themselves.
All these reforms took time and very hard work, and though the Duke got himself well hated by the Rock scorpions—both officers and men—he persevered and did his duty right honourably and according to his light.
It is no wonder, therefore, that he became about the best-hated man on the Rock.
All this could have but one ending.
The men mutinied at last.
CHAPTER III.
MYSTERY—A GRUESOME BOX—A MEETING OF
CONSPIRATORS—TERRIBLE THREATS—THE MUTINY.
There are slums in Gibraltar to this day. But they are nothing to the lanes and courts that used to exist at the time the Duke of Kent commanded here. Narrow were most of these; dark even in daylight; reeking with filth and all abomination. Reeking with vice also, and filled with wine-shops.
No well-dressed man could have entered one of these after sunset with any certainty of ever coming out alive again.
Men who had been missing for weeks were often found in the water with ugly wounds in them. They had been enticed into some den of iniquity, robbed, and murdered. Sailors often suffered thus after landing from a long voyage and coming on shore to see the sights.
The victim's body had to be disposed of in some way, and some methods of disposal were as original as they were ghastly.
I will give but one instance.
Mr. Myers was first mate of a ship called The Bonito, outward bound for the Mauritius. His sailors all liked him, and called him a real jolly gentleman and full of fun. It seems, however, that on shore he was sometimes full of something else, quite the reverse of fun when it overpowers a man.
Myers busied himself getting cargo on board and on shore—the ship was only touching at Gib on her way out—and everything was nearly ready. On the third day, however, the mate went on shore. He would be off by midnight, he told the captain. But he did not come. For two days an unavailing search was made for the poor fellow, then he was given up for lost. He might have fallen over a cliff, or been drowned. Nobody could tell or guess. It was one of the mysteries of the Rock, and his ship must sail without him.
The last morning on board a vessel all but ready for sea is always a busy one, and The Bonito had still many cases and packages to hoist in. A man, about ten o'clock, might have been seen with a heavy box on a kind of trolley, coming down one of the steep streets towards the harbour. It was almost all the fellow could do to keep the trolley from taking charge, but when half-way down a waggon overtook him. This was half loaded with cases for The Bonito. The waggoner was hailed and bargained with to take the other box also, which was duly lettered and labelled, and it was soon after hoisted on board and stowed below with others.
The ship had been at sea a whole week before the hold was overhauled, owing to sickly odours that emanated therefrom. I need go no farther, for every reader will guess that the mysterious box contained the corpse of the unfortunate Mr. Myers.
In slums like these, then, it may easily be credited that it is just as easy to foster a mutiny as to commit murder.
It was within about a fortnight of Christmas that, in a back upstairs-room in one of these streets or slums, a party of soldiers were assembled. These men, I am sorry to say, belonged for the most part to the Royals. I am just as proud to say that not a man there belonged to my grandfather's company. At this meeting there were present delegates from several other regiments, notably the 25th. The company here did not stand by privates. Indeed there were but few of these here; they were, for the most part, non-commissioned officers and—will it be believed?—officers in mufti of the highest grades.
The supper was of the best quality that the Rock could afford, and the wines of the choicest. But it was noticeable that few partook of much wine. They but tasted. There was an ominous quiet brooding over the whole company, and until the table was cleared and relaid with fruit and wine the conversation was limited to a painful degree.
I can give but the briefest account of the transactions of this meeting of grim-visaged mutineers.
The first to speak was a gentleman in mufti.
"Gentlemen," he said, "fill your glasses and drink to the health of Mr. Milan, who has invited us here at his own expense, and set before us a most excellent meal. Mr. Milan, gentlemen, is a wine merchant, and one who with many others has been thrown into the street, figuratively speaking, by the uncalled-for interference of the tyrant K. (Muttered growls and oaths.) We all feel sorry for Mr. Milan, and wish him health and hopes of better times to come, when——"
This officer, for officer he was, drew his finger significantly across his throat and sat quietly down.
"The whole history of the world," said Mr. Milan in reply, "proves that the throne of a tyrant is but an insecure one at the best; that it is ever surrounded by enemies, even in the guise of friends; and that sooner or later it is bound to fall and bury the tyrant himself in its ruins. I can say, gentlemen, that you have done me much honour in coming here to-night. And I can say for myself and my numerous friends, many of whom have been ruined by this tyrannical Pharisee, that if we did not know that, in trying to redress our grievances, you were also redressing your own, we would rise and raise the people, who would respond to our appeal as one man, and come to your assistance, even if it should terminate in dragging the tyrant from his bed at midnight, and hurling his body over the Rock."
Boom! It was like the sound of a far-off gun, though in reality it came from a gong.
But it was followed by
"A silence deep as death,
And the boldest held his breath."
And every eye was turned to a door in the end of the room, which was now quickly opened and reclosed.
A masked and hooded figure, draped in black, carrying a Book, a cross, and a dagger, advanced slowly and took a place at the head of the table.
Further than to tell you that the Book was solemnly put down and flanked by the cross and the dagger, the latter darkly marked with what appeared to be blood, I need not describe the fearful ceremony of "swearing in." It was too dreadful, too sacrilegious and awe-inspiring, to mention here.
Boom! Once more that mournful sound—once more the door was opened, and the masked figure glided silently out and away.
The mutineers seemed relieved, but they applied themselves to the wine now, and as their tongues were let loose their courage rose.
Pitiful indeed is the courage that is born of the wine-cup.
Grievances caused by the Duke were now most freely talked over—grievances of men and officers, and those of civilians to boot.
The grievances of men and officers were much the same. They were treated no longer as soldiers, but simply as slaves. There was no rest for either night or day—thus spoke the head mutineer, an officer of very high rank on the Rock, but burned up with a hatred of the Duke which from the first was fostered by jealousy. The officers could not engage in the most harmless game of either cards, billiards, or dice with the certainty that they would not be called away in the midst of it by command of this "cow-lipped, goggle-eyed tyrant, who was undoubtedly mad—mad over his plans of reform, his shabby canteen, his reforms, his stupid general orders, and cursed parades."
The men were treated even worse than the officers; were denied all fun and pleasure; were locked up at night like a parcel of schoolboys; were black-holed for the slightest offence, and flogged almost to the death for frolics that would have been laughed at in days gone by, when soldiers were soldiers and not Sunday-school children, as K. had made them now.
Were war proclaimed, they said, they would fight like Britons, fight like heroes for their country and their King, but not under such a humbugging, sycophantic, Father Mathew Rock-scorpion as he who now held the sceptre in one hand and the cat-o'-nine-tails in the other.
There was but little of the Demosthenic about this speech, but such as it was it roused the men to fury, and without doubt, could they have laid hands at that moment on the Duke, they would have torn him limb from limb. When quietness was restored, a proposal was made and carried unanimously, somewhat to the following effect: The Duke, some time soon—the date was not agreed upon that night—was to be seized and conveyed on board one of his Majesty's ships of war, with orders not to return on pain of death, and that his Royal Highness the Duke and Governor was to be sent off from the Ragged Staff.
"Sent off from the Ragged Staff," asked one mutineer, "but dead or alive?"
"I do not counsel violence," said the head mutineer, "but——"
He was interrupted.
"Kill him!"
"Twist his neck!"
"Drown him in his own canteen!"
"Help him over the Rock!"
"Hush, friends, and hear me. I do not counsel violence, I say, but if an accident should happen to the tyrant, his blood be on his own head."
"Amen!" from many of the conspirators.
* * * * *
The Duke's enemies in town, among the civilians that is, spoiled their own plans.
They had an idea that to stir up mutiny, or to bring it to a head, drink was necessary. No greater mistake could they have made in their own vile cause. Conspiracies are only successfully hatched in the dark. The mutineers must be clear-brained and as silent as the grave. A drunken mob is a headless one; an intoxicated regiment has neither power to act, nor will to govern.
It was the evening of the 24th December, and it was or had been pay-day, a busy day with my grandfather, as well as with other pay-sergeants, and he noticed nothing unusual.
Drake, who was still my grand-dad's best friend, was that day acting as adjutant. Some suspicion that everything was not right had entered his mind, and rightly or wrongly, I cannot say which, he had given orders that the soldiers should not be allowed to go into the town.
This order was disobeyed, however, and in the low drinking-places they proceeded to squander their pay just as soldiers did in those days. But louder than ever now, and on all sides, rose expressions of discontent against some of their officers, but especially against the Duke himself.
It was evident that mischief was brewing, and that the time had come when the mutiny should break out.
That day the civilian enemies of his Grace plied the men of the Royals with wine until they were more like maniacs than soldiers. They overdid it.
It was quite dusk, yet my grandfather was still busy writing, when a sentry brought him a note which had been thrown into the passage.
The words were meant as a warning, and a warning they proved.
"Your Major Drake and the Adjutant will lie duly murdered to-night. Beware!—A FRIEND."
Grand-dad lost no time in finding out his friend and showing him the note.
"Done for a lark, I suppose, Sergeant," he said.
However, he looked grave.
The time flew by. Grandfather heard the second evening gun fired, but the corps had not returned, or only a few. This looked ominous, and the gates were closed.
The officers were still at dinner—and more than one of these seemed unusually quiet and subdued to-night, and were evidently ill-at-ease, nervous, and expectant—when shouting was heard.
It emanated from the drunken mutineers, who were encouraging each other as they dashed on and up to the barrack gate.
These they smashed in.
"To arms! To arms!" was now the wild cry, and speedily indeed did they seize their muskets and bayonets.
"To death with the adjutant! let us begin with him, who would stop our leave! Hurrah! lads. Hurrah!"
The 25th were in barracks.
The 54th were in barracks, and though the former regiment could not be trusted—thanks to the warning received—the grenadier company there were under arms and prepared.
The adjutant would certainly have been killed if found. So too Drake and Blood. The former had gone to the barracks of the 54th. Blood was not to be found.
O'Reilly rushed out to meet the infuriated soldiers, after him went Dr. McLeod, followed by my grandfather.
O'Reilly had a narrow escape. He was mistaken for the Duke.
"It's the Duke. It's the Duke. Down with him! Kill him!"
O'Reilly was speedily thrown down, but next moment the doctor was knocking the men about right and left, with those brawny fists of his.
"Would you kill your own O'Reilly? Back, you drunken squabs! I tell you it's not the Duke."
"Follow me, men," cried a ringleader next, "on to the barracks of the jolly 25th. Then for the tyrant Duke!"
On they sped or staggered, but to their intense surprise, the 25th refused to come and join them.
A move was next made towards the barracks of the 54th. They at all events would join the mutiny.
About half of the Royals were left, trying to persuade the 25th to turn out. The grenadiers gave the others so warm a reception, that their Dutch courage* began rapidly to evaporate, as courage of this sort always does, and when met with a galling fire from the barracks of the 54th, with men in their midst falling here and there—dead, wounded, or drunk, they knew not which—these mutineers speedily retreated.
But the worst had yet to come.
* Dutch courage is, I believe, not so called out of disrespect for the Dutch themselves, who are as brave as any soldiers need be, and in olden times as good sailors as the British themselves. Dutch courage is simply Hollands gin, which on some stations, notably the East African, can be bought for 6d. a bottle, and has been the means of killing many a man-o'-war's-man and invaliding many an officer.
CHAPTER IV.
WARNED BY A DYING SOLDIER—MORE MUTINY—HE FELL
FORWARD DEAD—WAR BREAKS OUT ONCE MORE—NAPOLEON'S
PLANS AND MOVEMENTS—MURDER!
In a couple of hours at most the first mutiny was quelled.
So quiet and apparently contrite were the men of the Royals, that the kind-hearted Duke addressed them, and in a short speech, after commenting strongly upon the heinousness of their crime, told them that as this was Christmas, a holy and forgiving time, he freely forgave them, and hoped they would be as good men and true in the future as they had been in the past.
The soldiers raised a cheer, though I am afraid it was not altogether a hearty one, and were then allowed to return to duty.
But there was anger at the hearts of the Royals against the men of the 25th, among whom, by the way, were a great many foreigners. The Royals hissed them as they passed, and roundly rated them for being cowards and traitors to their cause.
Several stand-up fights were the result, and more than one man was removed bleeding to the guardroom. It was probably this disaffection betwixt the Royals and the 25th that after all saved the Duke's life.
But he had been warned in a strange way of the fate that was impending over him, and it would really thus appear that it was the very disinterestedness and kindness to those under him that resulted in his life being saved. The Duke was a man of such activity and spirit that he in person would often visit rooms in the barracks to inspect their sanitary condition, for well he knew that health and cleanliness go hand-in-hand. He was also a constant visitor to the hospital. One day, some time before the mutiny, the Duke was walking through the hospital, attended by Dr. McLeod himself, who was pointing out to him with honest pride many little improvements he had made. He was telling him also the story of every important case, and the Duke had many a kindly word to say to the suffering patients.
"I think, sir," said McLeod presently, "that man," pointing to a bed in a distant corner, "would like to speak with your Royal Highness."
"But," he added, "let me first tell you that he is dying, and dying from the effects of drunkenness and evil living."
"Poor, unhappy man! Is there no hope, Surgeon?"
"None, I fear."
The dying soldier's voice was little more than a whisper, but the Duke bent over him to listen.
"What can I do for you, soldier?"
"Ah! Governor, sir," replied the man, speaking with nervousness and difficulty, "you can do nothing for me. I'm in the clutches of death, but I can do much for you, if you'll take warning and hear the truth from a dying mar's lips."
He paused for a moment.
"Go on, my good fellow, I am listening."
"I have been one of the worst and most reckless of men in your regiment, and I have done the most I could to excite my comrades to mutiny. I was, till laid down here with sickness, one of the committee sworn to seize you on parade and eject you from the Rock, or throw you headlong from it. Can you forgive me? I can die in peace if you do."
"I forgive you, my poor fellow, as I myself hope to be forgiven," said the Duke solemnly.
"God bless you. God bless you. I can now go before the great court-martial, but I'll say the Duke forgave me, and may God forgive me too."
His Royal Highness just patted the dying man's hand, and silently left the ward.
But to return to the would-be mutineers. It was usual for each man to receive a shilling on Christmas Day in addition to his pay.
On the 26th, having spent their money, or "wetted Christmas," as they called it, the 25th, being still taunted and even assaulted by the men of the Royals, determined to stand it no longer. They would kill the Duke, and they would kill a few of the Royals also.
As night drew in, therefore, they could no longer be restrained.
A third of the whole regiment flew to arms, and with terrible yells and imprecations rushed to attack the barracks of the Royals.
There was much more bloodshed that night, but, to their honour be it credited, the Royals showed their contrition by nobly defending the person of his Royal Highness.
The artillery, too, did the same, and so also the King's and the 54th, so that before morning the mutiny was quelled. Many were wounded, and some were killed.
But although the Duke could be as forgiving as any general that ever lived, he felt now that the time had come to make an example of some of the ringleaders of this horrible mutiny. Ten of these were therefore tried by court-martial and condemned to die.
The sentences on all but three, however, were commuted to banishment from the Rock—perhaps to India, I do not know.
But the other three, two foreigners and an Irishman called Reilly, as reckless a young fellow, we are told, as ever presented arms or drew a trigger, expiated their crimes at the musket's mouth.
All three, I was given to understand, refused to have their eyes bandaged.
Reilly bared his chest and stood as firm as a rock.
"Aim here, comrades," he cried, "Reilly forgives you. He fears not death——"
The muskets rang out clear and sharp in the morning air, and he fell forward dead. Just one or two slight quivering or convulsive motions, and all was over.
So ended the mutiny at Gibraltar, a mutiny from which the youngest reader may learn, methinks, a lesson. For hard it is to reform a people, an army, or even oneself, if evil habits have once been formed.
* * * * *
In the year eighteen hundred and three, and in the spring of that year, war once more broke out between Britain and France, and was continued with many a desperate and bloody encounter onwards to the bitter end. Those were stirring days again at home, as well as abroad. Throughout every town and city, ay, and even village, the recruiting-sergeant was busy indeed, and not only was the usual shilling given, but free kit, bounty and all.
The country would sink more deeply into debt than ever. But what signified it? Soldiers would have asked you, Aren't we going to thrash the French? The French were our hereditary enemies. We hated them—there is no other name for it—and they hated us. Happily, we nowadays bear none of that hatred to, and mistrust of, our Gallic neighbours. And did we not fight shoulder to shoulder with them in the war against Russia?
I was but a boy when this Crimean war commenced, but well do I remember the anger of my grand-dad when we formed an alliance with France. Sooner far, he told me, would he have joined hands with Russia itself. The thoughts of such an alliance seemed to embitter his old age.
"Depend upon it, boy," he said to me, "it is an alliance that never will work us any good."
Malta was, as far as my reading goes, the first bone of contention between the French and ourselves in the renewed struggle, or rather let me call it the first cause of that struggle.
Malta was considered to be the key to Egypt, and the French were once more casting eagle-glances towards that much-coveted country.
The First Consul, Napoleon, in spite of the remonstrances of Prussia, whose political status had at this time sunk to a very low ebb, occupied Hanover, and despatched a fleet to blockade the Elbe at Cuxhaven, to stop the trade between this country and Prussia. As a reprisal, we told the Prussians that unless the French withdrew we should blockade, not only the Elbe, but the Weser as well. But Prussia's remonstrances with Napoleon were all in vain.
For two long years the Hanoverians suffered all the penalties and indignities inseparable from the usurpation of their country by a domineering nation like the French.
In the end, however, their sufferings bore fruit, for they and the whole of Germany north were at length aroused from the lethargy into which they had sunk, and compelled to take up arms against the oppressor.
But Russia now became displeased at this French occupation of Hanover. What might it not end in? Hitherto Russia had been little better than a tool in Napoleon's hand. So the Great Bear of the North began to growl.
The outbreak of war betwixt this country and France made the ambitious Napoleon, or First Consul, a greater hero than ever in the eyes of the French. It needed but the occurrence of some plot against his life, and in favour of the old royal family, to ensure his being placed upon the throne. Such a conspiracy had actually existed for some time. Then quickly followed the execution or murder of the chief conspirators, some of whom were actually strangled at night in prison, so horrible were the times. This dreadful fate happened to Pichegru, a general.
Hardly less terrible was the murder of the Duke of Enghien. Exiled from his country, this man—although he had fought for his own in the first coalition against France—was now living peacefully in Baden; but him the First Consul determined to sacrifice. He was surrounded with spies of the low-caste or Communistic order, who regard neither God nor man, and having no consciences are prepared to swear anything if it serves their turn. On the 10th of March, 1804, while sitting quietly reading in his home at Ettenheim, a troop of soldiers who had crossed the Rhine from France suddenly surrounded the house. Resistance, or even remonstrance, was in vain. He was hurried away without being able to bid farewell to his weeping relatives. His poor dog, who would have followed his master, was bludgeoned before his eyes.
In five days' time he arrived at the fortification of Vincennes, and hardly allowed rest or refreshment ere he was hurried—at night it was—before a mock tribunal of six officers. The trial lasted but a few minutes. He was beckoned away, his arms pinioned, and shot beside his already-dug grave.
Through rivers of blood, on stepping-stones of murders like these, Napoleon crossed to the site of his further ambitions and glories, and was proclaimed Emperor of the French.
Alas! we are too prone even now to associate civilization with urbanity of manners, with regal pomp and state, with riches, with gaiety, and with dresses loaded with gems rich and rare. This is human nature. But Paris, even at this time, when such fearful murders as those I have described were taking place in her very midst, was as gay and careless as is our London of to-day.
* * * * *
To follow the undoubtedly great but heartless Emperor of France through all his series of victories and defeats, even in epitome, would be a task for which my readers, I fear, would scarcely thank me, especially as history is making itself every day around us with a speed we scarce can follow. But even as I write these lines in early January, our fleets are re-forming, our armies are being re-massed, and there is the terrible possibility hovering around us of an invasion of our shores by a powerful foreign foe, it is well we should remember something of Napoleon's pet scheme to carry the war into our native land. This, indeed, was his greatest ambition. Could he have dictated his terms of peace with Britain from the Tower of London or Windsor Palace, with his foot upon the British lion, he would, I believe, have died contented.
He concentrated an army at Boulogne that was powerful enough to have overwhelmed all the forces of fencibles and regulars we could have opposed to it on English ground. The only difficulty was how to land them.
But the very thought that he might be able to do so cast a cloud of gloom and fear over all our land, from England's southermost shores far north to the Scottish Highlands themselves.
In Scotland north at this time things were about as bad as they could be. There was poverty as well as doubt; the crops failed in many places, the oats were blighted, starvation stared the people in the face, and grim death seemed to stalk about the streets of hamlets and villages. From the far-off Braes of R——, where the effects of cruel war were felt, as in other places, many a prayer rose up morn and even from Robertson's hearth for the preservation of the boy whom fate had made a soldier.
All Napoleon needed, so he believed, was the possession of the Channel for a few days. At the present time, reader, the possession of the silver streak of sea that guards us—for even a few hours—would suffice to land an enemy upon our coast. And a fog might at any time favour one.
Napoleon's plan was clever. He would endeavour to lure our great commander, Nelson, away across the ocean, by means of a fleet which should pretend to sail for the purpose of making war against our possessions in the West Indies.
Admiral Villeneuve was, therefore, ordered off to Martinique. He was there to join with other ships, and return with all haste to free the French fleet, blockaded at Brest and other parts of the coast. Villeneuve did succeed in luring Nelson after him, and the French admiral had a sixteen days' start homeward, before Nelson had an inkling of his designs. Now came the extreme danger. It was impossible for Nelson to overtake and smash Villeneuve, for fleets cannot rush across the ocean with the speed of a single ship. They are bound to keep together.
Knowing this, Nelson at once chose the fastest, fleetest brig in his squadron, and sent her off in all haste with despatches for England.
Only think of it, reader. The whole fate of this mighty nation depended, for the time being, on the quickness with which one little British ship could cross the ocean.
A single accident; the carrying away of a spar while cracking on; a white squall; the shot of the enemy; the springing of a leak, would have meant the triumphant ending of Napoleon's schemes and the conquest of Merrie England.
Was not this indeed a race for life, a race for the life of our own dear fatherland?
Would the brave little brig win?
CHAPTER V.
NAPOLEON'S SCHEME FOR INVADING BRITAIN—A BRIGHT
PROMISE—GRANDFATHER MEETS HIS FATE.
By God's blessing, the brig did win. The very winds seemed to favour her, and, in a few hours after receiving the message of our hero Lord Nelson, orders were sent to Sir Robert Calder, who was at that time blockading the French in the harbours of Ferrol and Rochefort, to raise the blockade and hasten to meet Villeneuve, or lay wait for him off Cape Finisterre.
On July the 22nd, 1805, to his astonishment, the French admiral met the British fleet.
What a hearty welcome they gave him!
What a hearty hiding!
This would have been worse had Villeneuve stayed, but he ran, and managed in a crippled condition to make an entrance into Ferrol.
But even yet Napoleon must play another card, his last, and the French admiral received orders to attempt a movement on Brest and Rochefort. He tried to obey, but our strength was beyond his power and courage, so he fled to Cadiz, without attempting to fight us.
Britain was saved!
Napoleon was furious!
But the great army with which he had designed to pay us so unwelcome a visit, he now let loose upon Austria.
The capitulation of the Austrians at Ulm, a bloodless capitulation of twenty-five thousand men, put the people of Paris mad with rejoicing. Their Emperor was ten times a hero! What had they to fear now, even if the whole world were in arms against them?
The French always were an ebullient nation, but their ebulliency received a sad check only two days after the victory of Ulm and the bombastic despatch of forty Austrian standards to Paris.
Trafalgar was fought.
That great naval victory of ours, in which the fleets of France and Spain were smashed, and Britannia crowned once more Queen and Mistress of the Seas, was decided on the 21st of October.
Alas! that in the hour of triumph our hero should have fallen on the blood-slippery, fiery deck of the far-famed flagship, Victory.
The news of this wonderful battle spread like wildfire over Britain, ay, and over Europe itself.
"Trafalgar," says Fyffe, "was not only the greatest naval victory, it was the greatest and most momentous victory won either by land or by sea, during the whole of the Revolutionary War. No victory, and no series of victories, of Napoleon produced the same effect upon Europe. Austria was in arms within five years of Marengo, and within four years of Austerlitz. Prussia was ready to retrieve the losses of Jena in 1813, but a whole generation passed before France could again seriously threaten Britain at sea.
"The prospect of crushing the British Navy, so long as we had the means to equip a navy, vanished. Napoleon henceforth set his hopes on exhausting our resources by compelling every State on the Continent to exclude our commerce.
"Trafalgar forced him, therefore, to enforce his yoke on all Europe, or to abandon the hope of conquering Great Britain."
* * * * *
Have you ever looked down into the crater of a great volcano, reader mine? I dare say not. It is a pleasure of a somewhat awesome nature, that you still have before you. The volcano must not be in an active state when you peer fearfully over its brink. But if it be but semi-quiescent, the sight that meets your eyes is indeed a wonderful one, especially if the crater be one of considerable extent, like that of Kalakahui, in the Fiji Islands. It is a sight that will be photographed, as it were, on the tablets of your memory, indelible for ever and a day—a sight you may dream of many a night in bed, and yet if you were asked to describe it, or picture it in words to any of your friends, you would probably remain silent. No language could bring before the mind's eye of another person that seething, bubbling, ever-changing lake of fire; its mysterious chasms opening up for a moment or two, to vomit forth flames and steam, and then closing as suddenly as if swallowed up in the waves of liquid lava; the strange, bright colours of the flames, or the streaks of bright crimson, blue, or green fire that creep hither and thither, and turn, and twist, and coil like hissing snakes; the clouds of smoke and steam that settle here and there, but vanish as you look at them; little conical hills that rise in this place or that, higher and higher, and higher, till they burst at last and spue forth their boiling contents, then collapse as quickly and change into lakes!
No wonder that the ancients looked upon such a place as this with fear and trembling, and considered it the gates of the evil place, that led downwards into the bottomless pit.
But, in reading the history of Europe that for the next ten years succeeded Trafalgar, anyone who has ever looked into such a crater as I have tried, though in vain, to describe, cannot help comparing the condition of the Continent and the great Powers—its battles, its sieges, its bloodshed, fire, thunder, and strife—with the volcano's molten, seething sea.
It is a relief to turn for a time from this turmoil of war, of intrigue, and murder, to more peaceful scenes at home.
Battalions, companies, and draughts of our regiments were, in those days, beings lifted about here, there, and everywhere, like men and knights on a chess-board. In the summer of 1807 my grandfather was not at all surprised or displeased to find himself back once more in Dublin barracks. Both he and his company.
Some changes, however, had taken place among the officers. Drake was still here, so was O'Reilly, and Dr. McLeod also.
There was never wanting plenty of work for McLeod to do, and, if he was not labouring in hospital, or among his own men, his services were in request in some other corps lying at the same barracks.
But Blood died in battle, fighting against fearful odds, sword in hand, on a parapet. In the same action fell Captain Jones, the brave Welshman. A round shot carried his leg away above the knee.
Only the Royals and one or two other regiments were engaged in this skirmish with the French, and they were victorious.
I have observed that my grandfather, like many other old heroes who have fought in great battles, talked of lesser engagements as mere "skirmishes." This seems odd, when you find out that the so-called skirmish lasted perhaps three or four hours, with much loss on either side.
Again, old heroes are in the habit of referring to a wound that has not actually severed a limb, or cut a man in two, as "only a scratch."
My grand-dad had a terrible scar on the left shoulder that must have cut far into the deltoid muscle. I remember well that when I first saw it, while the old warrior, stripped to the waist, was enjoying his morning ablution, I cried out in childish terror, "O, Auld-da, look at your shoulder. What a terrible cut! Didn't you cry awfully?"
He smiled, but went on towelling.
"Only a scratch, dear boy. Only a scratch!"
Well, during this spell in Dublin, my hero undertook recruiting duties. The fact is that smart, handsome men were usually picked out for work of this kind, and were proud of it. I dare say that they received pickings and perquisites more than enough to buy the ribbons of red, white, and blue, that fluttered so gaily from their caps. On a market-day it was nothing unusual for a dashing young sergeant to enlist half a dozen or more.
Major Drake drew my grandfather aside one day, and had a quiet talk with him about several things.
"Now, Sergeant," he said at last, "our regiment, they tell me"—here he read a portion of a letter he had received from headquarters—"needs filling up to its full strength, and you are the man to help to do it. You generally bring in three recruits to any other sergeant's one. Well, there is a great fair to take place near Dundalk, and I'm going to send you round, and I expect you to return here with quite a haul of young fellows. I believe in a mixture of blood myself, and that is why we are recruiting here, but at that fair at Dundalk you'll find plenty of good honest Irish and Scots, and you're to do your best to bring at least a round dozen. And you needn't spare expense."
My grand-dad saluted, and said, "Certainly not, sir."
"But," added Drake, "if I have a fault to find with you, it is this——" He paused and looked comically for a few seconds at my worthy progenitor, as if not sure how he would take it.
"Well, sir?"
"You're a pleasant sight too honest, Sergeant."
"But I draw them all the same."
"You would draw more if you told a white lie now and then. And, Sergeant——"
"And what, Major Drake?"
"All lies told for the benefit of your King and country are white lies."
"The regiment is soon to go abroad again, I suppose, sir?"
"That's so, I think."
"I'm glad to hear it."
"And why?"
"Because I think cutting throats for your King and country is far more honest and honourable than telling lies, however white they may be."
Drake laughed heartily.
"O, Robertson, Robertson, you'd make a capital captain of a company, but you'd never do for a general."
"By the way," he added, "there is something I ought to have told you years ago. Although we have been separated often enough, you having been so ubiquitous, I had plenty of opportunities. Before he left the Rock, the Duke informed me in conversation that he never had an orderly or staff-sergeant under him that pleased him better than you."
"Did he really?"
Grand-dad's eyes were sparkling with pleasure.
"Yes, but he told me more. There is to be a Highland battalion of the Royal Scots,* if his Royal Highness can manage it."
* This was on the tapis before Waterloo.
"So he has hinted to me himself, sir."
"Did he tell you anything else?"
"No."
"Well, he assured me that you would be one of the first appointed to it as ensign, and I'll be happy, Sergeant Robertson, when that day comes, to welcome you as a brother officer."
He extended his hand, and my grandfather shook it warmly.
Now although, innocently enough, I asked him if he had cried when he received that awful slash across the shoulder, and although not even the "pandés" of Dominie Freeschal could make my grandfather cry, there had been tears in his eyes when his officer spoke thus kindly. They came up with a gush and a rush, and it was a wonder they didn't overflow.
"Major Drake," he said, "you've been always a friend to me on sea and land, and we have fought shoulder to shoulder many a time, and I declare to you honestly, I've always felt happy when I saw your sword waving through the smoke of battle. But now you've made me the happiest man in all the regiment. I've always tried to do my duty, and henceforward, wherever I am, be the danger what it may, I shall ever remember what the dear Duke said, and that ensign's sword will seem to guide me on."
"Bravely spoken, Robertson. Now off you go and get ready for Dundalk."
"I'm off, sir. O, by the way," he said, turning back, "my old friend Tonal is on furlough, and will be here to-morrow. He'll have his bagpipes. Shall I take him with me?"
"Most certainly."
* * * * *
It was not "to-morrow," however, but that very afternoon that Tonal and my grand-dad met. The latter was walking across the bridge with the ribbons fluttering gaily from his hat, as he swung his dainty cane, and looked as gay as a goldfinch, when a voice said behind him, "I want to enlist," at the same time he received a slap on the back that made him jump.
"Take that, you spalpeen," roared grandfather, rounding briskly on his assailant with uplifted cane.
But the blow never fell.
For there was Tonal himself as large as life, and laughing all down both sides, apparently.
"Well, I am glad."
"And so am I."
"But, Tonal, man, what a terribly hard fist you have!"
They adjourned together to a quiet inn at which my grandfather was wont to treat the men whom he hoped to enlist.
There was no recruiting in his head now, however, and it was two whole hours before those two friends and cronies made their exit, so much had they to speak about and tell each other.
A day or two after this happy meeting, both were off and en voyage for Dundalk.
And now I have to tell you how my grandfather won his wife.
How my hero won my grandmother. Is that a better way of putting it? I'm sure I don't know. You see she couldn't have been my grandmother then, because I wasn't born. I was dead then, as the children say. Besides, a girl of seventeen isn't very often a grandmother, is she? Heigho! I always did get ravelled in reckoning or counting kith and kin.
But one day, a week or two before this momentous visit to Dundalk, he was returning to Dublin from Booterstown. He was admiring the quiet villas, that even at that distant date were springing up, here and there, not far from the water's edge.
The bay was very blue and beautiful, and afar off were the bonnie green hills and the rocks that, together, seemed to float in the gloaming haze.
Somehow or other, grandfather's thoughts, just then, were reverting to the braes where his father and mother lived, and to his old schooldays, when little innocent Rachel Freeschal was his boyhood's idol. He had sunk into a kind of reverie, which, though just tinged with a little sadness, was far indeed from being unpleasant, when he heard the rattle of wheels some distance behind him.
He looked quickly round, and noticed a pony and trap rapidly advancing, the occupants of which—an elderly lady and a young—had evidently lost all control over the steed.
This was a moment for action, and grand-dad was ready for it. Though not tall, he was very powerfully built, an athlete to all intents and purposes.
This catching of a runaway horse is by no means so easy as it seems. And it is, moreover, attended with considerable danger.
In pictures we sometimes see the action represented as if the hero thereof had caught the nag, and forced him on his haunches. It never was like this. Donald Dinnie himself could not do it.
The man is invariably dragged some little way unless he can keep his feet.
On the present occasion my gallant grandfather was most successful, and Mrs. Stapleton and her daughter were most grateful.
The frightened pony had taken them some distance past their cottage, and grandfather led him back.
He would have taken his leave then.
"Sergeant," said the elder lady, "we are presently going to dine; you must come and join us."
"Ladies," was the reply, "I am but a simple soldier."
"And we're but simple people. Peter, take the pony. Scold him a little, but don't beat him. This is the gate, Sergeant. Come."
And as the girl's eyes said "Come" also, what could he do?
But those eyes, ay, and the beautiful face as well, reminded him so of Rachel that non-compliance was out of the question.
"Obedience to orders," he said, smiling, "is the first duty of a soldier. I follow."
He unpinned the ribbons from his hat, however, and placed them in his pocket.
The ladies lived here all alone, with a single servant ind the boy Peter.
Mrs. Stapleton* was the widow of a doctor once well known in Dublin, and although comfortably off, they were by no means wealthy. She was by no means averse to talking about her past life, nor Eleanor about her dead-and-gone father, but all in such a quiet way that my grandfather felt perfectly at home. He was a simple-minded and truthful man, and although those were the days of effusive compliments, strange to say, he never paid even a lady one.
* Mrs. Stapleton and Eleanor are real, not fictitious names.
But he told them much of his strange, romantic life, and especially his early adventures, which made both ladies laugh.
Eleanor played prettily on the harp, and sang sweetly too.
Grandfather, in the course of the evening, blurted out the following remark:
"How like your daughter's eyes and looks are to—to one I knew."
"Aha! a sweetheart. O, you soldiers!" said Mrs. Stapleton.
"Yes, a—sweetheart. It is long, long ago. She is dead. I was thirteen, she was twelve."
Some impulse made him show the ladies his amulet, Rachel's letter, and the sadly-faded four-bladed clover.
Eleanor smiled when she read it. But her bonnie blue eyes were swimming in tears.
* * * * *
"If ever I marry," said my grandfather to himself as he walked homewards, "that sweet girl shall be my bride. But, heigho! I'm only a soldier, and—they did not even say, 'Come back and see us.'"
CHAPTER VI.
AN IRISH FAIR AT DUNDALK—GREAT FUN AND NO END
OF FIGHTING—THE BOMBARDMENT OF
COPENHAGEN—GRANDFATHER GETS MARRIED.
That little cruise round to Dundalk and back was to be big with my grandfather's fate, though he did not know this at the time he started.
He voyaged, with his friend Tonal, in a small but comfortable trading schooner, the St. Patrick. She was well decked, and though her cabin or cuddy was small, it and everything else were beautifully clean.
The skipper was likewise the owner of the craft, and as soon as the vessel had cleared the bay, and established a good offing—for the wind, though light, was dead on to the rocky shore, a shore on which many a good ship has left her ribs—all three got talking.
The skipper told his passengers that he made many a journey to Liverpool, and even Glasgow, and that being his own master he could go wherever he pleased.
"My little ship is almost like a yacht, you see," he said, looking round the deck with pardonable pride. "If she weren't my own, perhaps I wouldn't take so much pains with her."
"I don't know who it can be," said my grandfather presently, "but you are very like someone I know."
"I am said to be very like my elder sister at Booterstown, Sergeant; but you would hardly know Mrs. Stapleton. She and her daughter have a cottage there, and, as I always tell them, are buried alive among the trees."
"But, sir, I do know them. What a strange meeting, to be sure!"
Then he told the skipper the story of the runaway pony, and the pleasant evening he had spent at the cottage.
"The first and the last," he added with half a sigh.
"Don't be too sure, young Sergeant," said the skipper; "for troth, then, I took Eleanor to Dundalk with me only a week ago, to see another uncle, and it is back with me she'll be coming same time as yourself.
"If you've no objection, Sergeant."
This was said with a sly and merry twinkle of the eyes.
"Ah!" he added, "you needn't be looking at the seagulls, Sergeant. Sure it is myself that can see as far into a stone as a mason himself. Or free-mason."
He held out his hand.
"Shake, brother, shake."
* * * * * *
That was a merry fair indeed. And when Tonal blew up the bagpipes—he was dressed in full Highland costume—the two of them had a very pretty following, I assure you.
I really cannot say whether my grandfather was guilty of overpraising his Majesty's service or not. Perhaps he was.
He and Tonal were very lordly, however, and tossed coins upon the counters in a way that struck awe into the hearts of the simple lads they treated.
"Faix!" said one fellow. "Faix, Sergeant agra, you must know where them things is dug."
Grand-dad took him aside for a few moments, and talked to him. In that brief time he had gained a recruit.
A fine, strapping, fair-haired lad he was, and when he had got a few ribbons attached to his cap he was proud indeed, and, marching off behind Tonal, became a kind of nucleus to draw other recruits. That first day the haul was seven.
More ribbons were bought, and more recruits were got next forenoon.
Why, Tonal really seemed the "pied piper," whom the rats all followed.
Anyhow, it was recruits, not rats, that were wanted, and by the end of the third day they had scored nineteen good men and true.
There was great fun at the fair, and no end of fighting.
His recruits begged my grandfather, late on the last day, just to let them have a little scrimmage, and he hadn't the heart to refuse.
And, with their shillalahs, those nineteen recruits quickly cleared the market-place. There were many constables there, and they alleged that, "on their honour, they couldn't have done it more nately themselves."
On the evening of the fourth day, my grandfather marched proudly down to the harbour at the head of his men, Tonal on the other side, playing a right lively pibroch.
Here there was much sad leave-taking, sisters, sweethearts, and aged mothers crying and wringing their hands, as if broken-hearted, because their boys were going off to the wars.
But they were all safely shipped at last, and then the schooner set sail.
My grandfather felt strangely sad, for he saw no signs of Eleanor there. She could not have come, then; but his sadness disappeared like dark clouds at daybreak when the skipper went down below, and presently returned leading Ellen by the hand.
"Is this the young lady?" said that sly and wicked old skipper. "She was baptized Eleanor as certain as sunrise, but she's called Eleanora, Leonora, Ellen, or Nora, according to taste, and answers to any or all of them together. I'll leave the two of you together till dinner time. Sure, sodgers never need prompting to talk."
* * * * *
I'm sorry, for my reader's sake, that no wild storm arose during the voyage of the St. Patrick back to Dublin, or that the ship didn't founder, leaving them all to escape in the boats, or float for days on a stormy sea, or that they weren't attacked by a French brig—sorry, in a word, that nothing happened to give my grand-dad and Tonal a chance of showing off their gallantry and bravery.
But nothing did. That is the worst of writing a true story. Had this been fiction, I should easily have known how to dispose of the Sergeant and Nora, if I had had to sink the ship and drown everybody else.
Well, nothing did happen just then, but I'll tell you what did happen a few months after this, if you'll wait a few minutes.
We are in the officers' mess again, then, and listening to the conversation of an animated little group who are sitting by themselves near a window, through which are peeping the red rays of the setting sun.
"You may say what you like, Drake, but I don't think it's altogether a fair action on the part of the British Government."
"I can't say it is, either," said big McLeod, "but it serves Boney (Bonaparte) right, though I pity the poor Danes that were killed. The women and the bairns. Yet how! Seems to me that Boney is the devil incarnate, and that he is not only unscrupulous and sinful himself, but manages to stir up evil in every nation he enters or places his black foot upon."
"Well, perhaps you're right, Doctor."
"O, I'm sure I am."
"Just like a medico. Anyhow, I'd believe any evil you like to tell me about Boney. Why he has been let loose on earth, goodness only knows."
"When taken to be well shaken."
"Yes, till the life is out of him. But here is, or was, Doctor, the state of the case. Russia has proved about as much a rogue as France. For we find the Bear and the Eagle hugging each other for their mutual benefit.
"Says the Eagle: 'If you'll be on my side, we'll play fair. You shall have the rich and splendid provinces of Finland and the Danube.'
"'Yes, yes,' says the Bear, 'and what am I to do for all these fine things?'
"'O, hardly anything, only in case of Britain refusing the terms of peace that I offer, you, Mr. Bruin, and I, Mr. Eagle, will bring matters to a head. It will be fine fun. Denmark and Portugal are neutral, but we'll force them to join us against England. See?'
"'Yes,' grunted the Bear; 'but suppose the Sultan cuts up rusty and says——'
"'O, bother! what does the Sultan signify? I can take him by the nose and force him to give up every bit of European territory he holds, bar Roumelia and Constantinople, and this we would divide between us.'
"Says the Bear: 'Couldn't I have Constantinople? It would——'
"'No, no, no; that is, not at present. But won't we laugh to see the fall of prideful, boasting, blessed Britain?'
"'Ha, ha, ha!' roared Bruin.
"'And I can then have a castle in Spain,' says the Eagle.
"'And I, you said (didn't you?), would have the city of Constanti——'
"'No. You're joking, Bruin.'
"Well, this was the secret arrangement between the two nations that were pretending to wish for peace with us. Were we going to permit them to walk away with that splendid fleet of Denmark's, that should help them to come thundering to our gates? Perish the thought! We should have it, and not they."
"And yet," said O'Reilly, "you say England isn't a grasping nation. Faith, it's myself that differs from you entirely. I say that England would rather smash an egg than let any other old hen sit on it."
"Anyhow, the thing's done," said Drake. "We sent a fine fleet and a fine army out, and it got there in the middle of August.
"'Hand over these ships,' said the British Lion, 'else the Eagle will float them.'
"'We won't,' was the reply.
"'They'll only be in pawn till peace is proclaimed, you know, and we can protect you from the wrath of France——'"
"Yes, indeed," sneered O'Reilly, "and what did brave Denmark reply? She told them (didn't she?) that she wasn't sure the wrath of the Eagle wasn't less to be dreaded than the friendship of England. 'Why,' says the Dane, 'there is more honour to be expected from the pirates of Barbary than from you British.'"
"And a very insolent remark it was," said Drake, "and I don't wonder that the Lion growled."
"'If you don't shut up, and hand over your ships,' cried the Lion, 'I'll blow you sky-high off the face of the earth.'
"'Then I shan't,' cried Denmark.
"So, men, the bombardment of Copenhagen commenced."
"Ay," said Dr. McLeod, "and a terrible one it must have been. A feu d'infer that lasted three days and nights. Eighteen hundred houses levelled to the ground. The city on fire, here, there, and everywhere; even the women and children perishing in the flames, and not knowing where to turn or run to. Awful!"
"But," said Drake, "not only was the fleet then handed over to us, but all the stores in the arsenal as well."
"To be kept in pawn? Eh?"
"No, no, not now. What we've got we mean to hold."
O'Reilly jumped up, and walked away laughing, but ha turned in the doorway, and said—
"English fair-play? Eh? O, sure, it's a beautiful thing entirely. English fair——ha, ha, ha!"
And off went O'Reilly.
"I beg your pardon, Sergeant Robertson," he said, as he nearly tumbled over my grandfather in the passage.
"It was to see Major Drake I came," said my grand-dad.
"Knock and go right in, my boy; you'll find him by the window, talking—nonsense."
My grandfather told me he felt very shy. But he broke the ice at last.
He wanted to get married, and wanted the commanding officer's leave; and would Major Drake——
Of course he would.
"Of course he will," added McLeod also. "We'll be proud to have your wife join the Royals."
* * * * *
So grandfather got married.
Or, in more poetical language, grandfather made this sweet young girl—my grandmother—his bride, which was very good of him.
The marriage was a very quiet one—Presbyterian, of course, my gallant grand-dad being a Scot as well as a Royal Scot.
Honeymoons were not in those days considered an indispensable appendix to a wedding. Nevertheless, my grand-dad got a fortnight's furlough, to say nothing of a lot of old shoes and handfuls of rice as he drove off in a carriage and pair, en route for the Lakes of Killarney.
By the way, I am not much of an antiquarian, else I would pause here to wonder what is the reason annexed to throwing old shoes—not hob-nailed ones—after a happy pair, plus handfuls of rice.
I suppose—but I don't know—that the old shoes mean: "May you never go barefooted."
And the rice: "May you never go hungry!"
I think that fortnight's furlough must have been spent most blissfully, because one of the few snatches of song that ever I heard the old man sing, was this:
"Did e'er you hear tell of Kate Kearney?
She lives by the banks of Killarney.
From the glance of her eye
Shun danger, and fly,
For fatal's the glance of Kate Kearney."