Shoulder to shoulder

CHAPTER VIII.

TREACHERY AND FOOLERY—A RACE FOR LIFE AND A RUN
FOR THE SEA—TOM GRAHAME'S BABY—SORROW, SUFFERING,
AND DANGER—IT MUST BE DEATH OR VICTORY.

It was the want of proper information as to what was really going on that caused the ruin of the unfortunate Sir John Moore. That information ought to have come to him from Frere, the British ambassador at Madrid. Not only did this fellow not trouble himself to communicate with Moore, but he scarcely bothered to find out the real state of matters himself. He was led by the nose by the plausible traitor, Morla, who was in communication with the French.

Had a fellow like Frere belonged to the French army, he would have been shot—or hanged, for shooting was really too good for him.

From the little he did know, more by chance than anything else, he concluded he must retreat into Portugal.

Both Sir David Baird and his corps, as well as Sir John Hope with the artillery, were still at a distance. Moore sent messengers to both. Baird was to fall back on Corunna, and sail with his army to Lisbon; Hope was to meet him at Ciudad Rodrigo.

Pity indeed these arrangements were not carried out. And why were they not? Simply because Moore was out-generalled by means of the treachery of Morla, and the blank idiocy of the ambassador, Frere.

The latter wrote to Sir John from Avanjuez, on November 30th, and earnestly protested against his proposed retreat. Nothing, he said, could beat the splendid valour of the Spaniards. Moore, if he marched to Madrid, could save Spain by repulsing the French before they received reinforcements!

This letter, as we know, was written just as Napoleon was dashing down upon Madrid, after scattering the Spanish frontier lines into mist. At the very time that Moore received the communication, the French were lying in wait for the general, and a day or two after Frere himself was fleeing for his life to Badajoz.

Frere took no trouble even now to send to warn Moore. But he did worse, for the scoundrel Morla—instigated by the French—also wrote to Sir John Moore urging him to come on. He even sent a messenger after Frere, and this letter was endorsed by the British minister.

The desire of Morla was, of course, to make our hero, Moore, believe that Madrid would fight to the last if he would hurry up to their assistance. But at this very time Napoleon was in possession of Madrid! And instead of fighting, the nobles had fled, thinking more about saving their lives and their jewellery than of becoming patriots.

It was all clearly a plot to lead Moore into a disaster that would have been infinitely more terrible than that which did take place.

Moore, however, still thought he could beat the French general, Soult, before Napoleon could come up. He was finally reinforced by Baird and Hope, and had now altogether about 25,000 men, with more regiments coming on.

He was obliged, however, to halt at Sahagan, to wait for his baggage and supplies, and Soult was only a day's march distant.

It was now that for the first time, and that too by the merest chance, Moore learnt that Napoleon himself, with 40,000 picked men, was on his trail, having crossed a ridge of mountains by forced marches through sleet and snow.

Everything depended now on whether Napoleon's vanguard or Moore's army should reach the bridge at Benavente, that spans the river Esla.

Moore won this, and blew it up immediately after he got his army over.

What was the odds, as regards numbers, between Moore's force and that of the enemy? Why, the French numbered altogether 100,000 men.

There was nothing for it now but a retreat upon Corunna, but Napoleon felt certain that Moore and all his men would speedily fall into his hands.

The Emperor, after following Moore for a day or two, left the rest for his marshals to do. It was easy work, of this he was confident.

But Soult, with his great army of three to one of the British, still followed on.

On the very last day of December, 1808, Napoleon was close to the rear of the flying army of Britain.

On the 1st of January, 1809, he was at Astorga, and this ambitious man, who seemed neither to fear God nor regard the sufferings and torture he was causing to writhing millions, must needs climb an adjacent hill to see the last of Moore and his men, to feast his eyes, as it were, upon the sight of the already tired and weary rear-guard, that dragged on after the main body.

He was required elsewhere.

"Soult," he said to himself, "will settle with them. My guiding star leads me back to fair France, which is all my own. Ay, and my own it must be, despite the news that these despatches bring me."

The news he referred to was that Austria had gone on the war-path.

So next day he hurried away from Spain, back again over the Pyrenees, with far greater speed than he had come.

Everything depended on his presence in Paris, and at the seat of this new war.

Let us follow Moore, then.

Words, of course, are useless to describe the retreat of this general and his now disorganised army.

A beaten or retreating army is ever a demoralised one, and the British, in this case, was no exception.

The retreat was indeed a race for life on a gigantic scale.

A race for life, a run for the sea.

For the first few days the retreat was conducted in as orderly a manner as possible. Some of the French, however, had crossed the stream, and, making a dash for Moore's rear, succeeded in capturing many hundreds of the sick and stragglers. These they despatched with scant ceremony.

It was pitiful indeed that the sick should be thus ruthlessly murdered; but as for the other stragglers, I fear they had only themselves to blame, for these men had weakened their constitutions with wine. Some, indeed, were found by Soult's men drunk on the hills or in the woods, and subjected to unheard-of atrocities.

But the torrents of rain, that left off only to change to pelting snow, and the terrible condition of the roads they had to traverse, soon began to tell upon the very best and bravest of the men, and they became gloomy, hopeless, and, in not a few instances, reckless.

The women and children—more of whom had been taken along with the army than Sir John Moore had sanctioned—were, perhaps, in a more terrible plight than even the men, being, of course, more feeble and less able to bear hardships and exposure to the elements.

These, with the sick, which every day increased in numbers, were kept as well in front as possible, but it is not going too far to say that the very helplessness of these poor creatures often inspired our fellows with courage, even when themselves sinking with fatigue.

Moore was making all haste, but so was Soult, and ever, as he pressed too closely in the rear, Sir John would single out his best regiments and companies, and while the main portion of his retreating army, with baggage and women, hurried on, he turned like a very lion in the face of Soult's men.

Did they fight despairingly?

No, Britons never despair when fighting.

Had you, reader, but heard the wild cheers of the English at such times, the terrible slogan of the Highlanders, and the inspiriting notes of the bagpipes, you would have been proud of your country. Nothing could have satisfied you but drawing your sword, taking up the battle-cry, and dashing on with our troops to face the French.

And not only was my grandfather's great friend, Tonal, in this retreat, but Sergeant Tom Grahame also.

In the dusk, one evening, my grand-dad met Tom carrying something in the folds of his plaid.

The honest fellow was bending down over it, and singing—mirabile dictu!

"Why, Tom," cried my grandfather, "what have you got there?"

"A poor wee lassie, John. She belonged to Jack Burns, of ours."

"And what are you going to do with her?"

"Why, Lord love the bairn; I dare say I'll have to adopt her."

"But her mother and father, Sergeant?" said Major Drake, who came up at this moment.

"Hush, sir, hush."

Then in a whisper: "I found the bairn beneath a bush out yonder, beside her dead mother. The father fell to-day in the rush back against Soult. She's an orphan. Sleep, dearie, sleep."

And he swung her back and forwards.

"A pretty child, indeed," said Drake.

The wee thing looked up into his face, and smiled.

"I'se dot (got) some suga' candy," she said, "and I'se going to keep a big, big piece for dear daddy and ma."

"Tom," said Major Drake, "however are you going to fight with a child in your arms?"

"O, I'll find a way," said Tom gaily; "but anyhow I'll stick to her till we get to Corunna."

"If ever we do get, lad," said grand-dad.

"Don't you go despairing next, John."

"O, I never despair."

Drake walked on. The halt had been called, and soon some food was brought—the sort it was.

"Why here comes Tonal, bagpipes and all."

"Well, it isn't me, John, that's going to play to-night. Man, I wouldn't play to wake the childer' (children) and the poor women for anything."

"Sit down, Tonal. Sentries are set, and I'm off duty, in a way of speaking. We'll spend the night together. Raise a fire, Tonal."

"I will with pleasure. And glad I am to be with you, och! and och! the scenes, on in front yonder, where Dr. McLeod is labouring, like the big, good-hearted giant he is, are just too awful for anything. And is it a little child you've got, Tom?"

Tom laughed.

"It's my little daughter," he said, and then told the sad story.

The fire was soon lighted, and the wee one was fed and dried. Then Tom rolled her in his plaid again, and she went to sleep in his arms.

"I think," said Tonal, thoughtfully gazing at the fire, "that it's myself can find you a nurse for the wee thing."

"Yes, Tonal?"

"O, it is just a little Spanish lassie of sixteen, but an angel for all that; so brave, too, though you wouldn't think it to look at her. And so bonnie, I—I—I think, man, I've sort of lost my heart to the girl."

"Well," said my grandfather, "I thank Heaven, Tonal, that my heart is far away, near Dublin Bay. And my wife, too, was sick to come with me. Maybe, Tonal, she is praying for us now."

Tonal simply said:

"Well, John, and we'll pray for her and for the dear souls on the peaceful Braes of R——. It's well they don't know to-night of our sorrows, or sufferings, or dangers."

Then they got talking together of far-off homes and times long gone by, till, wearied at last, they fell sound asleep.

The dark day had not yet broken, however, before the retreat was once more commenced.

As long as the marching continued, Tom Grahame stuck to his prize—the little orphan.

But things grew worse and worse, and the waysides or hills were littered with the weary and dying or dead. Especially did the women and children suffer. Alas! these were only too often left to be mutilated and torn to pieces by Soult's savage soldiers.

But on the day when Colbert, the French general, was killed by our maddened though flying forces, and seven squadrons of cavalry that he led cut to pieces, Tom Grahame entrusted Annie, as he called the child, to the care of the girl who had so captivated poor Tonal.

Poor Tonal, I well may say; for that day, while leading a stirring charge, or cheering the men, at all events, with the sound of the sweet Highland bagpipe, he was struck down with a bullet, that not only went through his shoulder, but through the bagpipes as well.

I really think Tonal was more vexed at the accident to his pipes than that to himself.

My grandfather helped to carry Tonal off the field, and to place him under the care of McLeod. Nor did he leave him until assured by the doctor that his friend's wound was not mortal.

"Och!" said Tonal, "but the wound to my poor pipes is mortal, Dr. McLeod, and it isn't you yourself that can mend that same."

The girl had now to nurse both the orphan and her lover, Tonal. As often as not the child and she were borne in the same litter.

Almost daily the fighting continued, and Soult soon came to the conclusion that in the British, despite the fact that they were a retreating or flying army, he had no mean foe to deal with.

I am sorry to add, so demoralized did many of our troops become, that they frequently broke the ranks, and rushed pell-mell to seize food and wine from the Spanish villages, or wherever else it could be found. Many thus lost their lives who might otherwise have been spared.

The night of the eighth was a memorable one. On the previous day, so fearful was the onslaught of the British on the advancing foe, that about five hundred French lay dead on the field, and so disheartened was Soult, that he refused battle.

This night there was no rest for the wounded and weary, except the eternal rest, into which many sank. For after a hurried supper the march was resumed.

Afar off they could see the camp-fires of the French, and their own the British left burning to deceive the foe.

When, on the 13th day of January, they came near to Corunna at last, their spirits rose to a joy almost akin to deliverance at the sight of the sea. But, alas! they sank again almost as speedily, for here was no British fleet to receive them.

Now at last it must be death or victory.

CHAPTER IX.

FIGHTING AGAINST FEARFUL ODDS—DEATH OF MOORE—THE
EMBARKATION—A WIFE AND A NEW SET OF BAGPIPES.

At Corunna Sir John Moore quickly established his troops. He found plenty of ammunition here that the careless, stupid Spanish authorities had not troubled themselves to send on.

At Corunna he determined to defend himself till the transports came up; they really had been detained at Vigo by stress of weather.

However, on the very next day after their arrival, the ships did arrive, and no time was lost in getting the wounded, the sick, the women and children, and even the horses, on board, for Sir John was a humane man.

But already Soult was close to the town, and skirmishing had commenced.

Sir John had blown up a magazine only the day before, that was built on a hill overlooking the town. It is said that in this magazine were about 4000 barrels of gunpowder that had been sent from England. In this very spot Soult had some of his guns planted, and, in seizing these, brave Colonel McKenzie and many of his men were killed by the French.

Our troops occupied the village of Elima, and to command this Soult had erected a formidable battery. Opposite this battery, and not far off, were Sir David Baird and his men.

About twelve o'clock on the 15th of January, the terrible but glorious battle began in earnest.

I am not going to describe it in detail. It was a fight that every British schoolboy should know as much about as any novelist can tell him.

We fought a desperate battle, though not a despairing one.

Defeat would have meant for us utter annihilation. Yet we fought against fearful odds.

I—a Scot—would naturally like to claim the greatest honours for my own countrymen, notably the gallant Forty-twa, and my grand-dad's regiment. O, it is only natural. But, my brave English lads and lasses who do me the honour of reading my books, I am going to do nothing of the sort. Let us say honours were divided 'twixt Scotch, English, and Irish.

Just a word about the numerical strength of the opposing hosts.

Soult, then, had fully twenty thousand men, and Sir John but little over fourteen thousand. Moreover, our general had shipped all his artillery with the exception of a few small cannons.

Many a gallant charge was made that day, and again and again was the village taken and lost. Many a brave man and officer fell too. But we were not to be denied, not to be beaten.

Poor Sir John Moore! his last heroic words, his last wild shout, were addressed to the 42nd.

This was a critical time, for Sir David Baird's arm was broken by a cannon-ball. Major Stanhope was killed, and the well-known Sir Charles Napier, at this time a major, was wounded, and Paget was borne back on the right wing.

It was then that, seeing the critical state of affairs, Sir John Moore, who, you will remember, led the Highlanders at Alexandria, galloped up to the 42nd.

Surely a wilder slogan had never been heard before in any battle-field than that which answered Sir John.

"That we will!" roared Tom Grahame. "Forward!"

Then the cheer and the slogan, and those sturdy mountaineers seemed to carry everything before them. The Highlanders were bravely supported by men brought up by Hardinge.

But, alas! it was then that, while waiting for this officer, brave Sir John Moore was struck. He fell from his horse.

But, with his terrible wound bleeding, he sat up once more and gazed after the 42nd, who were driving the enemy before them.

Of two things the hero now felt certain. First, that the victory was ours, and secondly, that he himself had received his death-wound.

Like the immortal Nelson—

"In honour's cause his life had passed,
In honour's cause he fell at last
        For England, Home, and Beauty."

Sergeant Tom Grahame, with two other soldiers, making a hammock of a Highland plaid, carried the poor bleeding general to the rear, though more than once, so great was his anxiety to see how things were going on, he caused them to halt, that he might catch one more glimpse of the battle-field.

Sir John Moore's wounds were mortal, and by sunset he was dead.

But our troops were victorious all along the line and in every line.

There was no coffin to lay the remains of the hero in. He was just buried at midnight, in the uniform he had worn when shot down, wrapped in martial cloak, as Wolfe in his poem describes it, and without either pomp or ceremony. He had endeared himself, however, to his soldiery, and had it been daylight, many a tear might have been seen glistening in the eyes of the rough and weather-beaten soldiers, who placed him in his narrow bed.

"Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
    As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried

"We buried him darkly at dead of night,
    The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
    And the lantern dimly burning.

"No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
    Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
    With his martial cloak around him.

"Few and short were the prayers we said,
    And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
    And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

"We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,
    And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
    And we far away on the billow!

"Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
    And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
    In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

"But half our heavy task was done,
    When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
    That the foe was sullenly firing.

"Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
    From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone—
    But we left him alone with his glory."

It was not without danger and difficulty, to say nothing of accident, that the troops were finally embarked.

General Soult may have imagined we were going to keep the lines we had so gallantly won, and remain for a time at Corunna. When, therefore, he found next morning that these were deserted, and our ships making off to sea, he caused great guns to be dragged to the tops of the hills, and endeavoured to sink the vessels.

Three or four of these got on shore, but although they had to be abandoned, those on hoard were saved by the boats; and so ended this ill-fated expedition.

* * * * *

Once fairly at sea, there was time for our brave fellows to think and talk of all the fearful sufferings they had come through. Not that these were quite all over yet. The transports were but small, and were painfully over-crowded.

Moreover, in the hurry of embarkation, women got separated from their children, and knew not whether they were dead or alive. Nor could wives tell the fate of their husbands.

Many mourned as dead those they joyfully met again on shore, and, alas! not a few felt certain their husbands were safe on board some other transport, though they were lying stark and stiff on the battle-field where they had so gallantly fought and fallen.

Neither O'Reilly nor Drake, though bravely indeed had they led their men on, had received a scratch, nor had my grandfather. These two officers, however, were on board another ship; while once again, as fate would have it, Tom Grahame, Tonal, and my grand-dad found themselves together—thanks to careful nursing, for the Spanish girl had embarked with the others, bringing Tom's baby, as little Annie was called, along with her. The child had taken a very great fancy for the burly sergeant, and screamed with delight when she saw him again.

"What are you going to do with her, Tom?" asked my grand-dad again.

"Well, Preen Mhor," was the reply, "I haven't just made up my mind yet. If I can get a furlough, I'll just take her home to my mother on the braes. If not, she must follow a soldier's fortunes."

"Well, Tom, you have a great big heart of your own, to be sure. But as for Tonal, it is very evident what he means to do."

"To be sure, to be sure, Tonal has a soft heart of his own, and now that he has lost his bagpipes, nothing but a wife can take their place."

"A good exchange, Tom; and when he comes to have a few bairns, faix! he won't miss the pipes."

Tom laughed.

But it turned out much as was predicted. Tonal did get married. At Dover, I believe, the happy event took place. And Tonal was doubly delighted, because on that same day the officers and non-commissioned officers presented the honest fellow with a splendid stand of bagpipes, brent new from Inverness.

No wonder Tonal was happy. Many a man gets a wife, but probably not one in ten thousand gets a wife and a stand of bagpipes both in the same day. That was where the laugh came in.

CHAPTER X.

"I'M A SOLDIER'S WIFE, I'LL SHARE A SOLDIER'S TOILS"—GIRL
HEROINES—STORMING OF BERGEN-OP-ZOOM—STRANGE
ADVENTURES—BORN ON A BATTLE-FIELD.

I need scarcely tell you that, as soon as he could get a furlough, nay grandfather hurried off to Dublin.

What a pleasure, and what a change from the terrible toils of battle and retreat, was the seat by the fireside of Mrs. Stapleton's cottage!

"Ellen," my grandfather said, "looked prettier than ever." Had his name been William instead of Ian or John, I dare say the following lines would have been appropriate to their meeting:

"She gazed, she reddened like a rose,
    Then pale as any lily;
Then sank into his arms and cried,
    'Are ye my ain dear Willie?'"

"O John, John," she told him when they were alone that first evening, "what a sad and weary time it has been to me, and never, never, did I expect to see you more! But, John——"

"Yes, dear."

"You shall not leave me again. I shall go with you."

"Child, child, you little know what a terrible thing war is. O, had you but seen how some of those poor women, the soldiers' wives, suffered in that awful retreat, dragging on, on, on, day after day, through slush and mud, in rain and cold, and sleeping by the camp-fires at night, with scarce even a plaid to cover them, and never knowing the moment the enemy would attack! Then the weariness, the cold, the hunger. O, don't think of it, Ellen, agra'."

"But, John, your Ellen has already thought about it."

She stood up as she spoke, and with one loving hand upon his shoulder and her eyes looking straight into his:

"John, listen to me. English women and Scottish followed their husbands through all the horrors, and toils, and terrors of that sad retreat. What a Scotch or English lass can do an Irish lass can do as well! Besides," she added, with a smile, "the motto of the British army is 'Advance!' and not 'Retreat!'"

Then, more seriously, but with pretty determination:

"John, mavourneen, I'm a soldier's wife. I'll share a soldier's toils."

What could grand-dad say or do?

Ellen had her own way, and all was arranged.

* * * * *

I dare say my girl readers will think that last line of asterisks represents kisses. They may if they choose. But it really is only my way of dividing periods and paragraphs.

Never, then, during the next six years, in which she followed his fortunes, did my grandfather repent having taken his wife with him. But those were indeed stirring days!

Stirring days for Europe, stirring days for Britain from Land's End to John O' Groats. For our country was being drained of its best and bravest men to fight the French in far-off foreign lands, or upon the ocean itself.

Some women are cut out for soldiers' wives, and are heroines noble, faithful, and true. The times in which they live and the scenes they see around them in war times make heroines of even girls, or, let us say, bring to the fore all of the heroic that had hitherto lain latent in their natures.

Remember, for instance, the story of Joan of Arc, and that of the Maid of Saragossa. Was she a beautiful lunatic? Some have dared to say so, just as those who are "stirks" and asses themselves tell you that genius is akin to madness.

Ah! we need the example of such lunatics, even in Britain, to stir our blood and clear it. But when the French, under Napoleon himself, were besieging Saragossa—when, at a certain place, the fire of mortars, howitzers, and cannon was so terrible that nothing could stand before it; when, as fast as the sand-bag batteries could be built, they were scattered to the winds, and the soldiers torn in pieces; when the citizens at last refused to re-man the guns—this girl seized a match from a dead artilleryman, sprang over the bodies of the slain who lay in heaps, and fired a cannon at the foe. She then leapt upon the gun-carriage and, waving her arms aloft, vowed she would never leave it till the men resumed their duties. Her courage fired the soldiers; they answered her with a cheer, and never were more noble deeds done than those at this terrible siege.

So numerous were my grand-dad's adventures during the Napoleonic wars that I cannot relate a tithe of them.

Not in all his marches did my grandmother accompany him. But she was never far away. She was not far off when her gallant husband took part in that wonderful fight, the storming of Bergen-op-Zoom.

While in a town once by herself, and living not far from the harbour, when a powder-ship blew up that seemed to shake the city to its very foundations, the windows in the rooms where she then was were shattered almost into dust.

Strange to say, a cat belonging to this ship had that very morning run aloft and found its way to the main truck—that is the highest point, as a landsman would call it, or tip of the main-topgallant mast. There this prescient pussy sat, to the astonishment of all, till, with the ship and all on board, she was blown to pieces.

But about Bergen-op-Zoom. At the time of our extraordinary action there the whole of Austrian Flanders, except this stronghold, with Antwerp and three other places, was in the hands of the British and their allies.

"Bergen-op-Zoom," Alison tells us, "was in every respect the worthy antagonist of Antwerp, to which it was directly opposite at a distance of only fifteen miles. On its works the celebrated Cohern had exhausted all the resources of his art.... And the works were so extensive that they could only be adequately manned by twelve thousand men. In addition to this, an immense system of mines and subterranean works rendered all approach by an enemy hazardous in the extreme."

There are three gates to the place. The garrison was about five thousand strong.

It was in the winter of 1814 that, some of the ditches being frozen over and some of the scarps out of repair, General Lord Proby determined to take the place by assault, with a little over three thousand troops that he divided into four columns.

It was a most daring undertaking; and I mention it only to show the intrepidity and valour of our soldiers of the days of yore.

Bergen-op-Zoom was stormed at every gate, though at one the attack was a mere feint.

The place was considered impregnable, and, had the guard shown as much tact as daring courage, the end might have been far different.

The place, wonderful to say, was carried by escalade, or considered to be carried.

Even the force that had made the false attack retired to their cantonments, and a brigade of Germans, that had advanced on hearing the firing, returned.

The French troops retired to the centre of the town, making sure that they would be made prisoners at break of day.

But, before then, the British soldiers, considering themselves victorious, broke into the gin-shops and drank to excess. There was even a ball got up among the sergeants, and they were still dancing when, at break of day, they were called to arms.

Then the fight was, indeed, a furious one. Our forces were divided, and one portion was all but annihilated. My grandfather fought on the summit of the Antwerp bastions, and long and bloody was the contest, as may be understood from the fact that we lost in killed and wounded nearly one thousand men.

The rest of our troops were taken prisoners.

My grand-dad, with several hundred men, were marched into a church, and there confined for, I believe, over four-and-twenty hours without food or water.

Then, it is said by historians, they were exchanged. But the soldiers themselves believed that no exchange would have been made had the French been able to feed their prisoners.

My grand-dad's uniform was so soiled with blood and mud, that on being freed he stripped off his outer garments and washed them at a pump.

As his name was entered on the list of the dead, my grandmother's grief may be better imagined than described. Major Drake himself came to break the news to her.

She seemed to know by his face what he had come for.

"O, John, John!" she cried, in an agony of grief. "He is dead! He is dead!"

Major Drake could only shake his head in sad confirmation.

But that evening John himself turned up, and her grief was changed to joy.

This puts one in mind of the lines in the old stage doggerel song, "Jack Robertson ":

"O, someone to me said,
In a paper he had read,
That Jack Robertson was dead.
'I was never dead at all,'
        Cried Jack Robertson!"

* * * * * *

My grand-dad fought side by side with the Russians against the French. And with the Austrians, too.

Once, when crossing the ice on the Danube, the ice gave way, and many women and children were drowned before their husbands' eyes. This waggon was supposed to have on board not only my grandmother, but her child Robert. It was her turn to be reported dead. Luckily, however, she had been changed into another conveyance that got safely over.

This Robert Robertson was, of course, my baby uncle. If ever anyone was a soldier born, it was he. For, after an engagement that our fellows had gallantly won, they encamped on the very ground on which they fought. That night he made his first appearance on the stage of life.

Born on a battle-field, he died on a battle-field—died, sword in hand, fighting by a gun in India.

Strange indeed were the adventures of the wives who elected to follow their husbands to the seat of war in those days.

I have one more to tell of my grandmother, who was undoubtedly one of the most courageous girls that ever went upon the war-path.

It was after an action—a skirmish my bold grand-dad called it—with the French, which had been fought on a braeside sparsely covered with bush. If skirmish it was, it was a long and bloody one, but we had succeeded in beating the foe from the field, and retired some distance to bivouac for the night.

Grand-dad did not return with his company. The wounded were brought in, the dead left on the brae to be buried next morning, in which sad ceremony the French, under flag of truce, would also take part.

The Irish are, or were in those days, somewhat superstitious, and dreamers of dreams.

Anyhow, my dear, brave young granny had cried herself to sleep by the camp-fire. It was about midnight when, she assured me herself, she heard her name called distinctly enough three times.

"Ellen, mavourneen! Ellen! Ellen!"

The voice was that of her husband.

It was but a dream, perhaps, but she sprang from her pallet, and passing the sentries, who tried to dissuade her, went straight to the battle-field to look for her husband.

"Take this with you, anyhow," said one young sentry, handing her a pistol.

This she placed in the belt she wore, and, muffling her head and shoulders in a little Highland plaid, set out upon her ghastly mission.

Dead, dead, all seemed dead here under the moonlight, which made their faces uncanny to look at.

"O," she said to herself, "if I can but find him, I'll lie down and die by his side."

Dead? Yes, but not all, for yonder from behind a bush appears the figure of a woman.

Some poor creature, perhaps, come like herself—to search for a husband among the slain.

But O, horror! she sees this fiend in woman's shape swirl something quickly round her head, and then she hears a groan, as the harpy bends down to rifle the pockets of a man she has murdered.

The sight makes my grandmother almost sick, and a terrible fear gets hold of her heart, and for a moment she feels ready to faint.

She quickly hides behind a bush.

She sees the harpy finish off another poor fellow in whom some spark of life remained.

"Ellen! Ellen!"

It is—it is her husband's voice, coming from near the bush behind which she hides.

But the harpy has heard it too.

"Coming, John! coming, mavourneen!"

She rushes out now from the place of concealment, just as the she-fiend approaches from the other side, and both meet almost at the spot where my grandfather lies, so terribly wounded that he had been left for dead.

There is no more fear in the heart of that soldier's wife now. She stands face to face with the murderess—a peasant woman belonging to the district.

"You would kill my husband as you killed the others?"

The pistol rings out clearly on the still air. They hear it even in camp, and soldiers are despatched to the battle-field to find out the cause.

They find my grandmother kneeling by the side of her husband.

And just a little way off lies the murderess—dead.

In her pocket were found both silver and gold, and many watches and rings.

The weapon she had been using to complete her awful work was a strange one—a cannon-ball in a stocking.

My grandfather's wound was not so dangerous as first anticipated, and, with careful nursing, and the kind attention of stalwart Dr. McLeod, in a month's time he was able once more to take the field.

The dream my grandmother dreamt is the strangest part of this story; but is it not true that

"There are more things in heaven and earth
Than we dream of in our philosophy"?

CHAPTER XI.

ACROSS THE WIDE ATLANTIC—A STRANGE PARADE—THE
BAREFOOT SQUAD—SHIPWRECK—A FEARFUL FIGHT.

It is quite early on the morning of a bright and lovely summer's day.

On board the brave old transport Salamanca seven bells have only just been struck. The officers are briskly walking about the quarter-deck, up and down, up and down, in that eager and hungry expectancy with which Britons, be they soldiers or sailors, await a summons to breakfast.

The sea is almost calm now. Only a gentle breeze ruffles its waters, and the sunshine is sparkling on every wave.

But only yesterday, and down to yester eve, it blew so fiercely that the good ship was scudding along almost under bare poles, and rolling and plunging enough—the seamen said—to drag the masts out of her and haul them overboard. There was one consolation, however, even when the gale was at its worst. The Salamanca had plenty of sea-room, for she is crossing the wide Atlantic with troops to assist in the American war, in Canada.

Far too much elated at the success of the first great War of Independence, the Americans had gone to war with us again, and would not be content, so they vowed, until they had captured Canada, and thus "cabbaged," as they termed it, "the whole boundless continent."

Pity indeed that two nations such as America and Britain, speaking the same language, holding fast by the same religion, brothers in every sense of the beautiful word, should ever long to imbrue their hands in each others blood.

The Salamanca is under easy sail this morning, for she is a fast ship of her kind, and the captain judged, rightly too, that she must be far ahead of the other transports, and of the line-of-battle ship the Warrior, which was acting as their convoy.

But hark! there is a hail from the main-top-mast cross-trees.

"Sail in sight!"

"Can you make her out?"

There is a long pause, while the out-look scans her. And there is anxiety visible enough on every countenance; for the vessel is three-quarters of the way across, and this sail may be a Yankee cruiser.

"Can't you make her out?" was shouted a second time.

One moment.

"Yes, sir; it is the Warrior."

A cheer rises from the deck fore and aft, then the steward's bell rings, and the officers go tumbling down to breakfast.

A little child, three years of age—a sailor's pet she is, if ever sailors had a pet—is perched high up on the shoulders of sturdy, giant McLeod. In fact, she has a little leg, with well-bronzed knee, over each shoulder, as if she were a kind of top-gallant bulwark to the bold doctor.

The doctor has been her horse for the last half-hour, and she has been riding him up and down the deck.

But now her excitement knows no bounds, and she clutches the doctor by the hair with one hand, while with the other she waves on high a little flag that one of the men made for her.

"Hillo! the Walliol," she cries.

But now Dr. McLeod lowers her from her perch, for she, too, is ready for breakfast.

"Good-morning, Sergeant," he says, as he meets my grandfather. "Here is your little daughter. We have been having such glorious fun, but if it continues like this every morning, I won't have a hair on my head! How do you get on with the women, Sergeant?" continued the doctor. "Better, I trust. Have you got them to wash their faces every morning yet?"

He referred to the soldiers' wives.

"Just hold on half a minute," said grandfather, laughing, "and you'll see the strangest parade, perhaps, you ever clapped eyes on. You see," he explained, "I have ordered every woman on board to appear on deck for inspection, bareheaded, with bare necks and naked feet."

The latter would be called "Trilbies" nowadays.

"And to show there is no unfairness," he continued, "I have put my own wife at the head of them."

Next minute about thirty soldiers' wives appeared on deck just as my grand-dad described, and at their head, in the same strange deshabille, my grandmother.

They were drawn up like so many Amazons, their own husbands laughing and chaffing a little.

"Chin up, Maria!" cried one soldier.

"Attention! Jeannie, my lass!" came from another.

"Dress, Betsy," said a third.

"Dress, indeed!" answered Betsy with a saucy toss of her head. "I wish we could."

"Silence! Attention!"

That was my grand-dad's voice.

"Now, Mrs. Robertson," he said, "do your duty!"

Armed with a sergeant's pike, my grandmother commenced the inspection, and, stopping for a few seconds in front of every woman, carefully scrutinised her, literally from top to toe.

Had any one of them appeared even with unclean hands, either she herself would have been punished by being kept below, or punished by proxy—namely, by the stopping of her husband's grog.

When Dr. McLeod went below and reported what he had seen, there was a good deal of laughing.

The adjutant, however, approved of the plan, and complimented grandfather on his originality.

It certainly was successful, for the women after this took much more interest in their personal appearance. But the "barefoot squad," as Jack Tar called them, was drilled just the same all throughout the voyage.

* * * * *

In those days there were no ocean greyhounds, as our fleetest Atlantic liners are now called. The voyage across the sea was therefore a long and a weary one.

The Salamanca, however, did not get out without adventure, for in the gulf of the St. Lawrence she was separated from the other transports in a dense fog, and for many a week saw no more of the Warrior or any other ship.

Finally, in the darkness of a wild and stormy night, they ran on the rocks off the island of Anticosti.

Daylight revealed the peril of their situation, for both wind and waves were high, and there was every sign that the vessel would soon break up. It was a terrible time and a trying.

At last a boat was lowered and manned by bold British bluejackets, who pulled shorewards and round a little cape to seek for a landing-place.

How long the time seemed! Hours and hours passed by, and yet there were no signs of their return. The soldiers and their wives were huddled together under the lee of the bulwarks forward, and the children crouched beneath their shawls and plaids.

At long last there was a cheer. The boat could be seen coming round the point.

Luckily their report was a good one. They had found a spot where a landing could be effected.

The women and children were sent off first, then the soldiers, then stores, and last of all, just as the vessel was slipping off the rock, the sailors left her.

Far over the wooded western shore the sun was setting and daylight would soon be at an end.

The last boat was not sixty yards away from the vessel when she slipped back. For a moment or two her jib-boom was stretched high in the air like the naked arm of a drowning man extended in agony, then she went down with a sullen boom like the roar of a distant gun.

"How, brothers, row; the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near, and the daylight is past."

The stream did run high, or rather the tide, and although there were no rapids, there were rushing waves, and breakers too.

The last boat rounded the point safely, however, and presently they could see the lights waving on shore to guide them on.

And never, perhaps, were tired sailors more glad to get on shore, and seat themselves around a cheerful campfire.

I cannot remember how many days or weeks these shipwrecked men and women remained here, but it was a dismal time, for the fogs closed around them again and buried all the distant shores.

Moreover, the bears were in scores, and the poor children were nearly frightened to death; for so bold did the brutes become that they made dashes at night, and carried away provisions in the very glare of the campfires.

They were rescued at last, however, and taken on board another transport.

Then they were hurried on up into the interior, where fighting was going on, and where their services were very much needed indeed.

* * * * * *

Although geography ought to be studied from globes, still maps are very useful, although at times puzzling, as they very often give wrong impressions of the lay of the land and the bearings of one country to another. I should always take the part of that boy or girl who hated geography or history, for this reason: it is taught—if teaching one can call it—from a wrong basis at our schools and seminaries. It is rendered neither pleasant nor interesting, but, on the contrary, hateful. I should just as soon expect a youngster to get by heart the first chapter of the Book of Numbers, and feel interested in that, as in the geography and history as taught in schools.

I will tell you, however, where a map becomes a comfort and a necessity, and that is when a war is on. Indeed, I believe that war teaches most people about all they know about any place.

I have mentioned the river St. Lawrence. Now although some little boys may imagine that the St. Lawrence is somewhere down in Surrey or up Yorkshire way, I can assure them it is in no such place.

Just for once in a way take a glance at your map. What a mighty ocean that is which stretches right away, without bounds or limits or even an island to break its monotony, from the south of England to Newfoundland. Some idiots call it the herring-pond, in an off-hand kind of way as if such an ocean were a mere mill-dam compared to the seas they have crossed. Such people have probably never been a mile from a cow's tail in all their low little lives.

The Atlantic is a mighty and wonderful expanse of water, and although crossed by thousands of ships, I have sailed in a bee-line on this great world of waters for a whole week without seeing a craft of anything.

Only the dark heaving waves, only the boundless horizon, only the sky. Its very lonesomeness has made me feel eerie.

O, if that ocean had a voice other than that of its booming billows, what a story it could tell! What sufferings it has seen, what founderings, what battles, what agonies! And what strange mysteries! So pray do not talk of it slightingly, if you wish to lay claim to having more brains than could be held in a walnut-shell. But when going to the St. Lawrence you sail on and on till at long last you round the great Bank of Newfoundland, then bear north and west, till you skirt the huge island itself, which is as large as the whole of Ireland itself.

When past this you are in the Gulf, and so you sail on and past Anticosti, where my grandfather, grandmother, and my three-year-old mammy were wrecked. You are in the river now, but still a mighty long way from Quebec itself. But, if you clap your eagle eye on the map, you may be surprised to know that the distance from Toronto to the mouth of the St. Lawrence is nearly as far as from Cork to the middle of the Atlantic, and Lake Erie farther still. You will note also that New York itself is far nearer to Toronto than Quebec itself.

Well, the United States had been casting sheep's-eyes at our big sister Canada. But Canada is our love, not theirs. She belongs to this other boy—to John, and not to Jonathan—and if John catches Jonathan making love to his sister Canada, O my! won't Jonathan catch it, that is all! The boundary-line of the United States is a perfectly straight one from the shores of the Pacific to the Lake of the Woods in Upper Canada. Well, all Jonathan wanted was to extend that line on the straight to the Atlantic Ocean.

But Sister Canada wouldn't have it.

"If you come a step nearer, Mr. Jonathan," she says, "I'll scream, and wild cats won't be in it."

You see, reader, it is not a very difficult thing to make a map on paper with pen and ink. But when the same job is attempted on terra firma, with a sword for a pen and blood instead of ink, why the case is considerably altered.

Such a map, however, the Americans determined to make, a year before my grandfather's battalion crossed the ocean.

At this time, instead of having ships on the great lakes and soldiers on shore, we had neither to speak of.

So, in the early part of 1813, General Dearborn, who commanded the American forces, had set the ball in motion. He advanced upon York—a town and stronghold on Lake Ontario.

We had barely a thousand men there, and, as the Yankee was supported by a flotilla of gunboats, the Canadians decamped, leaving their military stores for Dearborn.

"That is a good beginning," he said to himself. So, in his flotilla, he loaded up those stores, and with artillery, cavalry, and infantry—about seven thousand all told—he set sail for Niagara, and, after some hard fighting, captured Fort George. General Vincent, of the British or Canadian side, had only a handful of troops, so could not well oppose Dearborn. But Vincent, after clearing out of Fort George, collected all the troops he could find, to the number of about eighteen hundred, and determined to make a stand fifty miles up the strait at Burlington Bay.

This was another chance for Dearborn to annihilate a few more Britishers; so he marched to attack brave Vincent with nine guns and three thousand men. But Vincent himself did the attacking this time; and Colonel Harvey, of ours, was chosen to lead a midnight bayonet charge on Dearborn's camp. It was an awful fight, but it did not last long. Harvey was victorious; though he had only seven hundred men, he scattered the enemy in all directions, littered the ground with their dead and wounded, and took four guns and over one hundred prisoners.

This, then, was the beginning of this new American war; and, though it must be admitted the Yankees fought bravely at times and met with many successes, they really had reckoned without their host. That host was Canada; and so pluckily did she fight that they were utterly beaten.