Shouldeer to Shoulder

In the Highlands a Hundred Years Ago.

SHOULDER TO SHOULDER.

Book I.

IN THE HIGHLANDS A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

Never for a moment—as we sat together in the twilight—could the dear old man have imagined that, just thirty years after his death, his grandson would be here, in a wigwam, writing the story of his romantic life.

That story, let me tell you, is also the story of the old days, when

"Wild war's deadly blast was blowing";

the story of the times when Napoleon was still the world's hero, his glory putting in the shade even that of Wellington himself, and many another great and notable general.

Ah, me! how long ago it seems now since I used to lift the "sneck" of Auld-da's door, and slip quietly in, just as the shades of evening were deepening into night.

"Is that you, Williamie?" he would say, without turning his head.

"Yes, Auld-da"; and, next moment, I would be sitting on the "creepie"* by his feet, with my arm leaning on his knee, waiting for a story.

* Creepie: a low stool.

A little, little boy, they tell me I was then, with pale face and dark-blue wondering eyes. Not over strong, you may guess, because I lived in the realms of romance, and because fairy tales—stories of water-kelpies, that lurk in the darkest pools of forest-shaded rivers, and eat men's flesh at midnight; stories of brownies and spunkies, that bob their lights before belated travellers to lure them far across the moor to the bog, in which they sink and perish—and all the legends of my native Scottish land were, to me, as dear as the very air I breathed.

But, pale-faced though I was, and not likely, then, to grow up an athlete, I was my grandfather's favourite.

In Scotland, far north, although in the sweet summer-time one can see to read nearly all night long, yet in winter,

".... When the rain rains cauld,
And frost and snow on every hill,"

the days are very short indeed, and gloaming comes on at four in the afternoon, or even earlier. But, then, there is all the long, delightful forenights to spend by the cheerful low fires of peat and wood; so, with games and music, one never does feel weary, and bed-time comes far, far too soon.

* * * * *

A very humble cottage was Auld-da's—only a but and a ben, with attics—but it was sufficient for all his needs; and his little garden, where, in the soft, sweet summer time, old-fashioned flowers grew in banks, where the honeysuckle twined over the hedge, and the roses trailed above the porch, was pleasant indeed.

A better or a bigger house than this might have been his, had he cared for it, but he dearly loved the children, as he called my brothers and sisters, and liked to be near us all.

Very old he was, as I remember him. Probably bordering upon eighty. But he bore his years well, though winter's snows had whitened his hair and furrowed his war-bronzed face.

When not working in his garden, he was ever, ever reading, and, strange to say, with the exception of the weekly paper, his books were only two. One was the Bible, which, every year of his life, he read from beginning to end, always, he used to tell us, discovering some new truth or truths in it; the other, a very large, well-thumbed volume, called Looking unto Jesus.

But at eventide, when

"The day was done, and the darkness
    Fell from the wings of night,
As a feather is wafted downwards
    From an eagle in its flight,"

then my aunt, who kept house for her father, took the books away, and left him for a while to sit in his easy-chair and look at the fire.

And this was my hour—"the children's hour," as Longfellow so prettily calls it.

It is pleasant to sit and look at a fire on a low hearth, just between the dark and the daylight, and, child though I was, I knew, as if by instinct, that scenes in his past life were rising up before him in the peat fire's fitful glow.

"Tell me a story."

"Tell you a story, Williamie, laddie? Was that it?"

He bends down to move a log, and a merrier light bursts up through the curling smoke, and throws the room behind us into darker gloom.

"Yes, auld-da, and mind it must be all true."

"Tell me," I would say if he paused to consider. "Did you ever kill a man?"

This was a blood-thirsty query to put, but I think it comes natural to all little boys to revel in thoughts of gore.

My question, however, was one that my grandfather could seldom be prevailed upon to answer directly.

"O, Williamie!" he might begin. "War is a terrible, terrible thing——"

But that was the very reason I wanted to hear about it.

The old man would often recite to me whole plays, from beginning to end; for he was possessed of a marvellous memory. But ever my thoughts would revert to fighting and slaughter by land and by sea; so, nolens volens, he had to return to war.

It was thus, during these delightful twilight hours by the low hearth in winter, or out in the woods when summer days were fine, that I learned, bit by bit, the whole story of my grandfather's life, and that, too, of many and many of his messmates.

"For a boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

* * * * *

Whatever my lot in life, I never could forget that kind Auld-da, who, next to my parents themselves, was the dearest and best friend I ever knew. But were I inclined to forget those old days I could not, just for one reason which may seem strange to many. There grows, then, in my orchard an old apple-tree—long may it flourish—which every year is laden with fruit. The apples are a species of codlin, somewhat pear-shaped but raised in ridges, very white on one side, very rosy on the other, and the scent is like that of no other in all my place. Well, I never pass that tree when autumn winds are bringing down the nearly-ripe fruit, without my thoughts reverting to the days o' auld lang syne.

That was the apple, laden with which, Auld-da used to return from the city of Aberdeen, every quarter day.

These were red-letter days to my sister Leonora and me, for the old Highland soldier, my grandfather, would be up betimes, and after an early breakfast, would start alone for the distant city of Aberdeen, to draw his half-pay, or retiring allowance. There were coaches running on the road, grand old-fashioned four-in-hands, that could take one into town very quickly. But these the sturdy veteran despised. Many a weary march he had made in his soldier days; he was not going to fail now.

So, wet day or dry day, in sunshine, sleet or snow, away he would trudge. A stick he carried, but it was but to twirl in his hand, and I never saw it touch the ground.

How eagerly Sissie and I used to watch for his home-returning—not, mind you, reader, for the sake of the apples and nuts, not for the sake of the prospective and certain half-crown each, that he always gave us, but for sake of the dear old man himself. Sometimes we would see him, in the winter-time, when a whole mile off, a little black dot, which by-and-by became a man walking sturdily towards us, between the great white banks left by the snow-plough. Then how madly we would rush to meet him and lead him home and into my mother's house, where dinner was waiting, and where he would spend the evening up to nearly the midnight hour.

Auld-da preached me many a sermon in the long forenights. I think I have never quite forgotten them. They were spoken so earnestly and with such an air of truth and experience. And the burden of almost every such discourse was love and trust and hope in the goodness of a Heavenly Father, and in Him who died.

I must not give you the impression, however, that Auld-da was a solemn man—by no means, only in his thinking, philosophising moods. Out of doors he was always as merry as merry could be. He would often visit the servants working in the fields, especially in the harvest, and the droll old stories he told them kept all hands laughing continuously.

In the hey-day of his manhood he had been—like all true soldiers of those good old times—a splendid swordsman. His claymore and pike were as sharp as razors. With that claymore he could have cut a horse's head off with one blow, or broken the bayonet from the musket of a charging enemy, and slain him where he stood.

One piece of clever swordsmanship in my grandfather's younger days, unknown now, I believe, was as follows: The performer, who had to be extra expert, stood facing the edge of an open door, and bringing his face or nose within two inches—the sword's breadth—of the door-edge, cause the claymore to describe circles without touching either door or nose. The sword's edge being very keen, this was a trick that required a steady hand, a steady head, courage, and a supple wrist. If anyone who reads this would like to try the trick, I advise him to practise with a paper-cutter in the first off-go.

We have heard of people being born with silver spoons in their mouths: my grandfather was not, but Highlanders seemed in those days to be born with swords between their lips. Their performances with the claymore would have eclipsed those of the Arabs, and they are perhaps the finest swordsmen in the world.

When out in the harvest-field, it used to give my grand-da great pleasure to be allowed to put an edge on the men's scythes. The servants declared that after this they cut like razors, and the labour was lightened by one half.

But such was my grandfather in his green old age. No Pharisaical Christian he, but a believer in the truest sense of the word, happy and contented, ever looking forward with faith and joy to a brighter world beyond the tomb.

* * * * *

He wore away at last in his 89th year, and I think the last words he spoke were to me.

I stood by his bedside trying in vain to repress the tears.

I laid my hand gently on his, as it lay cold and white on the coverlet.

"Do you know me, Auld-da?" I said.

"O, yes," came the answer, faint but clear. "Don't I know my own laddie! Mercy! Mercy!"

Shortly after this he expired, and my parents led me heart-broken from the room. Beside the Bass o' Ury—a strange green knoll in the grave-yard, said by some to have been the burying-place of chiefs of old—my dear Auld-da lies sleeping, and the river sings his lullaby.

Near him, alas! lie my father and mother too. Is it any wonder that the place should be sacred to me, or that, slightly altering the words of Thorn, the Inverurie poet, I should say:

"Move noiseless, gentle Ury, around his lonely bed,
And I'll love the gentle Ury, where'er my footsteps tread
For sooner shall thy fairy wave return from yonder sea,
Than I forget yon lowly grave and a' it hides from me."

MY HERO—BONNIE PRINCE CHARLIE.

There was one subject, and one only, upon which, boy though I was, I dared to differ from my grandfather. And that related to Bonnie Prince Charlie and the so-called "rebellion" of 1745.

If it was rebellion for Prince Charles to attempt in fair and honest fight to win back the throne that belonged of right to the ancient Stuart line, then was I, at the age of seven, one of the rankest little rebels that ever waved a wooden sword and cut off the heads of tansies, imagining every one of them to be a fallen foe.

Nor could you have wondered at it, had you but heard the sweet and plaintive songs my mother sang,

"As she rocked me in my cradle,
    Or crooned* me on her knee—
And I would not sleep, she sang so sweet,
    Those dear old songs to me."

* Crooned: sang low lullabies.

It has been said, dear boy and girl readers, that I, the author of this book, have Jacobite tendencies. This is not the truth. I love the Queen as only Scotsmen can love her; I have served her loyally, and would to-morrow, or to-night, spill my last drop of blood fighting for her and my native land. I love her all the better because she has some of the old Stuart blood in her veins. But—listen—had I been a man, or even a lad, in the —45, I would have done as my ancestors, the Gordons, did, side by side with those of Lord George Gordon Byron—I would have fought till the bitter end for Bonnie Prince Charlie.

Yes, and I love the Queen as much as I hate and despise the atrocious memory of ——, but stay! I will not even write his name in the same sentence as that of her kind Majesty.

The memory, I was going to say, of the "bloody Duke of Cumberland," who stained our Highland heather with the blood of old, white-haired men and helpless babies.

It is told of this fiend, that, while walking across the fatal field of Culloden after the battle, and accompanied by one of his officers, a poor Highland soldier sat in the agonies of death against a bank, looking towards them.

"Shoot me that grinning Scot!" cried the Duke.

The reply of the officer was that of a brave Englishman and a true soldier.

"Your Grace," he said, "I am your humble servant, but not your executioner."

The inhuman coward—all cruel men are cowards—then seized a musket from one of his attendants and, rushing forward, shot the man himself.

* * * * *

One hundred and fifty years have passed and gone since the battle in which the once bright sun of the Royal Stuarts set behind the red clouds of battle on Culloden Moor, but the memory of the terrible atrocities committed by the Duke and his minions dwells in the hearts of the Highlanders, as if they had been committed but yester e'en.

Tourists to the land of green heath and shaggy wood see or know little, if anything, of this. The Scots are far too proud to speak of what their forefathers suffered after the "rebellion," to strangers or foreigners. But in many a humble cottage home, by mountain, stream, or sea, those sweet old Jacobite songs are still sung, and their pathetic music, and no less pathetic words, never fail to bring the "saut,* saut tear" to the eye of the listener.

* Salt.

And the songs never fail to lead to a story of the terrible times, told by the low fire of logs and peats that burns upon the hearth; told, in all probability, by the head of the house to the big-eyed, eager-faced bairnies that gather round his knee, and drink in every word. But the ending of the true tale is invariably somewhat as follows:

"And now, children, let us thank our Heavenly Father that we live in times of peace, under the reign of a pious Queen, and shall never see the babe torn from the young mother's arms to be tossed on bayonets, while she is dragged to death and worse. Come, bring the Book, and then for bed."

The Scots are of the poetic temperament. This, among those who dwell amidst the wild mountains, is somewhat imbued with superstition, but all are musical to the core and from the core. There is just this difference between the Celt and the Saxon, or purely English—the latter have no natural love for music until it is taught to them; even then, seldom indeed it is a sacred fire burning on the heart as its altar, but your Celt, be he Scotch or Irish, sings without book-teaching, sings as naturally as does the mavis in the bonnie woods, or the lintie on the golden furze.

Ah! me, but those old, old songs are plaintive and sorrowful even to a degree, yet tender and sweet beyond compare. They seem to have been written with the very heart's blood of the heroes who died for their native land.

But the fate of Prince Charlie, instead of crushing the patriotism of his countrymen, only intensified it, and around his memory are woven many of the sweetest, saddest ballads we possess. Some South Britons pretend to despise these—Germans or Italians do not—but bide a wee till war comes, and this country has to bleed and to suffer, and then even John Bull will know the power that song has, either to cheer the soldier in his camp, or lead him on to death or victory.

On hearing the soldiers singing in their camp on the night before the battle of Inkermann, someone feelingly wrote:

"'T was strange in that dark hovel drear,
With war's impending horrors near,
Those homely, doric tones to hear;
            Or list the vocal flow
Of sad, but sacred, home-love, blent
With chivalrous and hold intent,
And thoughts on deadly conflict bent,
            And battle's wildest throe.

"No recreant will that soldier prove
    Within whose valiant breast
The gentle thoughts of woman's love,
    With warlike ardour rest."

Well, I am not ashamed to confess that it was the songs sung by mother, or "crooned," rather than sung, that made a little rebel of me at seven years of age. But the stories of the awful tragedies and sufferings of the clans, with many of which I count kinship, had much to do with it. The story of our Prince and his deeds of valour took strong hold of an imaginative child.

That sweet old song, "He's owre the hills that I lo'e weel," how well do I recollect it of my father, as he sang it. Let me give but a verse or so, it is so expressive of the feeling of those by-gone warlike days.

HE'S OWRE THE HILLS THAT I LO'E WEEL.

HE'S OWRE THE HILLS THAT I LO'E WEEL.

DUET.

1st VOICE. With animation.

He s owre the hills that I lo'e weel. He s owre the hills we

2nd VOICE.

daur na name; He's owre the hills a - yont Dumblane, Wha soon will

get his welcome hame. My Fa-ther's gane to fight for Him, My

brith-ers win - na bide at hame, My mith-er greets* and

prays for them, And 'deed she thinks they're no to blame.

    He's owre the hills. &c
The whigs may scoff, and the whigs may jeer,
But ah! that love maun be sincere,
Which still keeps true whate'er betide,
And for his sake leaves a' beside.

* Greets—Weeps.

There is something so thoroughly expressive of true patriotism in those last two lines:

"My mither greets and prays for them,
And 'deed she thinks they're no' to blame."

That Scottish mother is like a Spartan of old. The Spartan handed her son his large shield before he went to battle. "Go, my son," she would say, "to battle against the foe. You fight for the ashes of your fathers, for the temples of your gods. Here is your shield. Come back with it or on it."

And the Highland mother says, "Here is your sword, my own boy. Never heed my foolish tears. Go fight for your Prince, and lawful King, and I will stay at home to pray."

And even the young soldier's sister must speak with a dash of naiveté and pluck:

"What lads ere did, our laddies will do,
Were I a laddie, I'd follow him too."

* * * * *

But the martial fire and spirit in that true soldier-song:

"Cam' ye by Athol, lad wi' the philabeg,*
    Down by the Tummel and banks o' the Garry,
Saw ye the lads, wi' their bonnets and white cockades,
    Leaving their mountains to follow Prince Charlie?"

so fired my young blood, as my father sang it, that it took a whole hour in the field of tansies with my wooden sword to allay my excitement.

* Kilt.

I followed all the story of our Prince, and the humour of Johnnie Cope's defeat used to make me chuckle with glee. In my imagination I could see the wild and impetuous rush of the Highlanders, dashing on like a mountain torrent that nothing could withstand. Wedge-shaped was their first formation, firing their pistols but once, then dashing them at the heads of the foe, as they drew their claymores and dirks, and charged, while slogan after slogan rent the morning air. I could see the foe as they backward reeled, dazed and astonished; I could see the Prince, with his bonnie yellow hair floating on the breeze, as he led on his fiery soldiers. Then the flight and the race.

Ah! it was in the race that Johnnie Cope, the general, showed his skill. He won that, though he couldn't win the fight. He not only outstripped his pursuers, but took the cake from his own followers. They literally were his followers now. And the song makes Cope say of the Highlanders:

"If I'd stayed any longer,
They'd have broken my legs,
So I bade them good-day
                            In the morning."

But then, my hero's story took the wrong turning. The clansmen quarrelled among themselves, and many forsook his cause. Thus—disaster.

A disaster that culminated at Culloden.* In his beautiful song—wedded to music so charming—the Anglo-Scottish bard, Lord Byron, speaks of the Gordons, his ancestors, thus:

"Shades of the dead, have I not heard your voices
    Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?
Surely the soul of some hero rejoices,
    And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale.
Round Loch-na-garr, while the stormy mist gathers,
    Winter presides in his cold, icy car;
Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers!
    They dwell 'mid the tempests of dark Loch-na-garr.

"Ill-starred, though brave, did no vision foreboding
    Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?
Ah! were ye then destined to die at Culloden,
    Tho' victory crowned not your fall with applause?
Still were ye happy, in death's earthy slumbers;
    You rest with your clan in the caves of Brae-mar,
The pibroch resounds to the piper's loud numbers,
    Your deeds to the echoes of dark Loch-na-garr."

* To English readers: The "o" is long, as it is in Balmoral and Oban.

But the sorrows of my hero Prince made him all the dearer to me.

I used to cry when my mother sang that touching ballad, "O, wae 's me!* for Prince Charlie."

* Woe is me!

I could in fancy see the little bird coming to the hall-door, and singing my Prince's sorrow, and the old man, whose son was slain, weeping as he listens to that "lilt o' dool and sorrow."

"O! when I heard the wee bird sing,
    The tears came dripping rarely,
I took the bonnet aff my head,
    For weel I lo'ed Prince Charlie."

And the birdie sings on:

"Dark night came on, the tempest howled
    Got o'er the woods and valleys,
And where was't that our Prince lay doon,
    Whose home should've been a palace?

"He rolled him in his Highland plaid
    That covered him but sparely,
And slept beneath a bush o' broom,
    O! wae 's me for Prince Charlie!"

But my mother consoled me when she told me of his wanderings through the Highland wilds, and that although

"O'er hills that were by right his own,
    He roamed a weary stranger;
On every side pressed hard by want,
    On every side by danger,"

still he ever found a kindly welcome in the houses, or rather huts, of the peasantry, who shielded him and bielded him, though thirty thousand pounds was offered for his head. Then came his romantic escape and "Flora Macdonald's Lament."

But one winter's evening—I mind it well—while I sat at Auld-da's fireside, I broached the subject of Prince Charlie for the first time—-and for the last.

He kicked a burning log till the sparks flew up the chimney, and I could see a red spot burning on his cheek.

But he soon cooled down.

"Ah! dear boy," he said, "never speak of the Pretender to me. Your father's kin were rebels to a man, but your mother's forbears, the Robertsons of the Braes of R——, were royalists all.

"It was for this very reason that, when compelled to become a soldier, I joined the 1st Regiment or Royal Scots.

"So old is this regiment, Williamie, that it was called for fun, 'Pontius Pilate's Guards.'

"That regiment was at Culloden, on the right and royal side, and in it fought your ancestors, boy, and mine. Robertsons even from Struan itself.

"The Duke of Kent was my colonel. The Duke of Kent was our dear Queen's father, a daughter of the regiment we well might call her."

* * * * *

I remembered then that once when the Queen was ailing, I had seen the old man shed tears, and it occurred to me now to put the following silly question:

"Auld-da, do you love the Queen—much?"

At this moment I think I can see the mild blue eyes he turned upon me.

"Love her, boy? Love my Queen? Don't I pray for her every night? And I had the high honour of once talking to her when she was little more than a baby. She a baby—I a simple soldier. Yes, boy—I—love—the Queen.

"Her father was the means of saving my life," he said, after a pause.

"Tell me that story."

"Not to-night. Some other time.

"But as for your Prince Charlie," he added, giving that log of wood another kick, "why, that much for him and his cause, which ended even as that log will end, in smoke and sparks——"

"And in blood," I ventured to put in.

He paid no heed to that remark.

"There's a verse of an old Scotch song," he said, "that goes thus:

"'O, but you've been long o' coming,
    Long, long, long o' coming;
O, but you've been long o' coming,
    But you're welcome, Royal Charlie.'

"Well, we soldiers of the gallant 1st used to sing that, but we put the 'royal' in the right place:

"'O, but you've been long in coming,
    But you're royal-welcome, Charlie.'"

I was silent for a time, now. I was watching the sparks and the rolling smoke.

But I was just as much a rebel as ever.

"So," I said at last, "my father's clan, the Gordons, fought at Culloden, and my mother's, the Robertsons, also."

"True, boy, true, and both under a different banner."

"How funny!"

"Ah! laddie, war is a terrible thing, and there was little fun at Culloden, and less after it.

"And our family on the Braes of R—— would have been killed, and their houses laid in ashes by the Pretender's flying and vanquished troops, had not a special Providence seemed to intervene.

"And thereby hangs a tale, dear child."

"A story, Auld-da? A story with fighting in it? O, tell us, tell us."

"To-morrow, then, boy, to-morrow, if we are both spared."

So I said good-night, and left him dreaming over the fire, thinking over the earthly past, and the future that, for him, was all beyond the grave.

THE FIRST ACT IN A TRAGEDY—A WILD AND LAWLESS
MAN—MUIRACHIE THE DWARF.

Next day seemed a long one to me. And school, with its tasks, its books and its slates and its drawing, was very irksome. As soon, however, as I got clear out and away, I started to run. For a whole mile I went on at a jog-trot, and finally plunged into a wood. The rest of the boys who came my way I had by this time left far behind. I did not care much for them anyhow; I much preferred to be alone, because the birds and the beasts, and all kinds of creatures, seemed to speak to me, and even the wild flowers nodded as I passed; while the feathery larch-trees and the pines whispered many a secret into my listening ear.

Besides, these lads were but lowland farmers' sons, and their chief conversation was about horses and cattle and crops. I rather glorified in the fact that I hated and despised all such menial ties, and that I could trace my descent through a long line of men who had fought in many a blood-stained field, both in their own country and far abroad.

These boys had not grandfathers who could tell them stories to make their flesh creep, and their hair stir as if the wind were blowing through it. Their grandfathers were old, feeble men, who hadn't a soul among them above a turnip or a leek; who had never been ten miles, in all their lives, beyond the fields that grew the corn for their porridge; men who were not only old, but looked old, bent and grizzled, and who, when you talked to them, put one hand behind an ear and yelled, "Eh—h? what d' ye say? Canna hear a single wird," and then stumped off looking uglier and sourer than ever. But my Auld-da was a hero and a warrior to boot.

As I trotted home that afternoon, with the stout saugh (willow) wand I carried, I smote off the head of many a tansy, but I spared the thistles.

I spared them because their pink or crimson blooms looked so bonnie against the green of the ferns; because they scented the evening air with their sweet perfume; because they made beds for the bumble-bees, but most of all, I spared them because they were the emblems of my native land—the land I had already learned to love.

I am sure Auld-da liked his "laddie," as he fondly called me, to come in of an evening and listen to his stories, or even his soliloquies. It is better even to speak to a boy than talk to a burning peat.

"Finished your dinner already, laddie?"

"Yes, Auld-da. It was only porridge and milk; that soon goes down, you know.

"Weren't you going to tell me a story, Auld-da?" I said, after a pause.

"A story! Well, boy, I have nothing but the truth to relate."

Though a Celt of Celts, Auld-da had no superstition. That had been born in him, no doubt, but contact with a rough world had worn it away long, long ago. But he had a genuine love for history and for poetry, and could repeat many of the longest poems of Burns and of Scott, ay, and even lengthy extracts from Ossian, but this, best in the Gaelic language.

"Well, Williamie, you know," he began to-night, "when the Pretender landed——"

"No, no," I cried, "you must begin your story quite like a story, you know."

"Shall I begin," he said, as he stirred up the fire till our shadows danced on the opposite wall, "shall I begin with the words, 'Once upon a time'?"

"O, no, Auld-da! that is only fit for children. I'm nearly a man, you know. I'm quite seven. But tell me, in the first place, where our people lived in those old days."

Auld-da looked at me and said:

"I seem to be there now, laddie, high up among the wild hills; far above are the dark woods, but far above these the mighty mass of bold Ben Wyvis, that sternly stands with his snow-clad shoulder to the west. Sailing round and round in the blue silence of the sky, is an eagle—Jove's own bird, they say—and not a sound save his wild scream pierces the stillness of the scene."

"A bit of poetry now, Auld-da? I beg."

"Well, well," he says, smiling.

"What lonely magnificence stretches around,
Each sight how sublime, how awful each sound,
All hushed and serene as a region of dreams,
The mountains repose 'midst the roar of the streams."

I am not sure that I can give my grandfather's exact words, but I can follow the thread of his narrative as if told to me only the day before yesterday.

"But," he continued, "that which I have tried to describe to you was the wildest portion of the scenery, and lay far back and above the bonnie Braes of R——. And what I am about to tell you of happened many, many years before I was born. My people had not come from Struan a very long time. The house they occupied then was rather a pretentious sort of a building, and stood well up on a brae-land, and not far from a lovely and well-wooded dingle, where in spring and summer it was a treat to listen to the song of merle and thrush. At the bottom of this dingle was a fishing-stream, that, as a rule, ran singing over its pebbly bed to mingle its waters with the river that should bear it onwards to the sea.

"This river is and was the Beauly,* and not far from the bonnie banks, all among its woods and wilds, stood the castle of the Frasers of Lovat—Belladrum.

* Beauly: pronounce Bewley.

"Simon Fraser, the Lord of Lovat, was a cousin of my father's father, and it was on his account, I believe, that our people had come from Struan to settle in his lovely district, on a farm under the rebel lord.

"The town of Beauly, now so charming and pretty, was then but a hamlet, and the road leading along the south bank of the bonnie bay was little more than a bridle-path.

"My father's father, boy, was then a young and stalwart man. He lived, I may tell you, to the patriarchal age of 101, and was found, one day, sitting in the forest, his back against a pine-tree, his snuff-box in his hand—dead."

"Dead, Auld-da?"

"Ay, dead, dear boy. God had taken him. Every forenoon, in summer, he used to go for a walk into the cool, green depths of the wood, but that day he was missing, and that is how they found him.

"But, as I say, some years before the war broke out, and the fiery cross was sent through the glens to call the clans to arms, he was living a very peaceful life indeed. My father and sisters were but little tow-headed mites, my grandmother—Heaven rest her soul—was not very old. But a younger sister lived with them, and it is around her that this true story centres. Fiona* was her name. Fiona Stuart, just turned eighteen, with dark-brown eyes and tresses like the raven. They said she looked like some beautiful Italian girl, and the blue-eyed maidens of the braes and glens called her Gipsy. They were jealous of her beauty, as well they might be, for there was not a lad, far away or near, who did feel happy for all the week, if he got but a word or a smile from Fiona at the little church on Sunday.

* Pronounce Feeona

"At this time there was living at the castle a wild young Highlander, called Raoul McIvor, but usually known as Raoul Dhu, or Black Ronald. He was a great musician, both on pipes and violin, and this is, perhaps, the reason that he was so much and so often with Lord Lovat. Those were the high-drinking days, which I trust will never come again, and Raoul Dhu was nothing if not a bacchanalian and a reveller. In this respect he was eminently suitable as a companion for my grandfather's cousin, the arch-rebel Lovat.

"Raoul was a tall and handsome Highlander, who spent most of his time on the hills or lakes, shooting or fishing.

"One day he crossed our people's farm, and entered to beg for a glass of water. By his side was a splendid deerhound, which Fiona bent down to caress, her beautiful hair flowing over the dog's shoulders as she did so.

"'If you would care for that dog,' said Raoul, with an affectation of gallantry, 'you shall have him.'

"The dignity of this Highland maiden was offended. With cheeks on fire, she stood erect and angry. She looked at him just once, thanked him with a word, then court'sied and withdrew.

"Just then her brother-in-law entered.

"'What!' he said, 'is it water you are drinking in the house of a Robertson? Sit down, sir. You're a friend of my kinsman, Lord Lovat, but were you an enemy, no one leaves my house without bite and sup.'

"Raoul gladly took a seat, and so agreeable did he prove himself to be, that when at last Robertson bade him good-bye, it was with an invitation to return.

"So, laddie, Raoul Dhu came and came again; and, as he also took to visiting the little church on Sunday, some said he was about to become a Protestant.

"'Pooh!' said an old man, who was reputed to be gifted with the second sight; 'Raoul Dhu worships but one saint, and that is St. Fiona. Yet the sweet bit lassie will never wed a rake like Raoul Dhu.'

"If she would not, it was no fault of his. But Fiona gave him little encouragement, indeed.

"Raoul learned the meaning of her indifference one afternoon. The girl was walking near the edge of the great forest, that stretched away and away for many a mile towards the wild mountains. She was alone, if one can be called alone who has a book and a faithful collie dog.

"Perhaps Fiona did not know, so absorbed was she in her book, how far she had come. But she was startled at last by the report of a gun close by her.

"Next moment, a poor, bleeding hare rushed almost into her arms. The creature was crying in a most human way, as wounded hares do. Fiona bent over it, but its eyes were already glazing, and the beautiful creature died in her arms.

"She was still bending over it, and, I believe, shedding tears—her honest collie doing his best to comfort her—when she heard footsteps behind her.

"'Fiona!' said a voice she well knew.

"'Raoul Dhu,' she answered, 'was it you who killed this gentle creature?'

"'Sport, Fiona! Sport, my fair one!'

"There was something in his voice that offended her.

"She stooped once more, just to touch the hare, as if in pity for its fate, then bowing, was about to go.

"'One moment, Fiona. I would speak with you. I—I—I am a blunt, outspoken man, Fiona, and, when dealing with men, more fond of giving blows, I fear, than of making fine speeches. Fiona, I love you, and there's an end to it. You must marry me.'

"'Ronald McIvor,' she answered, with dignity, 'maidens of my clan are not accustomed to be dictated to, even by their kinsmen. As to marrying you, that I would never think of, even if I were free; but I am not. My heart is not my own to give. It is far, far away with my soldier boy, with ma ghaol ma chree, my Ian* Robertson. He is now fighting for his King and country in a foreign countrie.'

* Ian, pronounced Eean.

"Her heart was far away, as she said, and her eyes, also, at that moment had a far-away look in them. She was gazing southwards and eastwards, over the mountains, over the sea. But it was not the landscape she was gazing on. She saw not that, she saw but her soldier—an officer he was in the bold and gallant 1st. Saw him, too, as he stood before her on that last sad day when she bade him adieu.

"Raoul thought she never, looked more beautiful than she did then. But the love of wild and lawless men like this is like that of the wild beasts of the jungle, hardly, at times, to be distinguished from anger and hate.

"'He is a traitor,' he cried; 'a traitor to his lawful King—not your hateful, cow-lipped George, but a royal Stuart who will soon be here to claim his own. I hate your Ian, and, if we meet, I will sheath my dirk in his bosom.'

"'You dare not!'

"She was like a beautiful lioness at bay now.

"'I dare not! What is that, Raoul Dhu dare not?'

"He seized her arm in his passion and fury, so cruelly, too, that she screamed aloud.

"But help was at hand.

"Neither Fiona nor Raoul Dhu had noticed some creature that had leapt the green turf forest fence, and was creeping nearer and nearer through the long strong heather.

"It was a boy, or young man—you scarcely could have told which. A face wild and uncouth, though not unpleasant, a head all unkempt, a broad chest and long, long arms, as wiry as the sapling oak.

"He was close behind Raoul when Fiona screamed.

"Next moment he had sprung like a tiger on the strong man's back, and those sinewy arms of his tightened round his neck and held it as in a vice. Raoul's face grew almost black. He writhed and strained, and finally fell to the ground.

"The dwarf, for in height he was but little more, held a little longer, then slowly relaxed his grip and rose from the ground.

"'O, Muirachie,' cried Fiona, 'you have killed him!'

"'She'll no pe deaded whatefer, Miss Fiona. No, no. When ta dew falls ta rascal Raoul Dhu no pe deaded. O, no. Come, come!'

"I fear that poor Muirachie's English was not of the purest, but he did his best, and none can do more.

"A quarter of an hour after this Fiona was safe at home.

"She did not tell the adventure quite as it happened. Well she knew, that if she had done so, her stalwart brother-in-law would have followed Raoul and dirked him, even in the drawing-room of his kinsman, Simon Fraser, of Lovat.

"And now," said Auld-da, "the curtain drops, dear boy, on the first act of this Highland tragedy. An interval of four-and-twenty hours, Williamie, must elapse between the first and last acts."

Auld-da was a good disciplinarian, and I knew his word was law, and so I said, "Good-night!" and went home to bed—to think and dream.

THE DUKE AT FONTENOY—CULLODEN MOOR—THE CAVE—A
BRAVE HIGHLAND LASSIE—A RACE FOR LIFE—"TO
HORSE! TO HORSE!"

"The wild and lawless times came soon after this, my laddie," said Auld-da, next evening, when I was once more seated by his knee.

"Plenty of fighting I hope, Auld-da?"

"Alas! yes, fighting and trouble too. But let me tell you. Your Prince Charlie landed, and the fiery cross was sent through the glens to assemble the clans near Braemar. How quickly the clans answered the summons is historical. Would it had only been in a better cause, but, dear boy, I can see the finger of God in it now; ay, and in all the trouble that followed."

I sat uneasy on my stool for a moment as Auld-da said this, for I could not help thinking of all the Bloody Duke's atrocities after the terrible fight of Culloden, but I did not dare to interrupt the dear old man.

"With the rebellion itself, boy, I have nothing to do at present, except in so far as it affected your mother's ancestors and mine.

"Just a word or two, however," he continued, after a thoughtful pause, "about this Duke of Cumberland. I do not want to defend his terrible conduct after the victory of Culloden. No Englishman that I ever yet met has done that, but the Duke has been called a coward because of his cruelty. He was a brave, dashing man and an able leader nevertheless, and he was probably the only Saxon who could have quelled the rebellion.

"Have you heard of the battle of Fontenoy, laddie?"

"Only at school, Auld-da; and at school everything is so dry, you know."

"True, true, and to have the cane and the 'tawse'* over a poor boy's head is not the best way to develop his mental powers, or brighten his memory.

* A leather strap with which the boys were flogged on the hands.

"George II., then, was reigning in 1745, and the Duke of Cumberland was his son. In the spring of this year Louis XV. collected a great army of 76,000 in Flanders, under the command of Marshal Saxe, a man of undoubted military genius. In the early part of May, Saxe laid siege to Tournay. Now the British were then in alliance with the Dutch and with the Austrians. But neither came up to the scratch at the time their men were wanted most. Britain sent nearly 30,000 men to Europe—fellows who could fight—and among these were the Royal Scots. The Dutch had promised 50,000 men, and sent 23,000; while the Austrians only mustered eight or nine squadrons of cavalry, under the command of Marshal Konigsagg, who wanted everything his own way, and looked upon our Duke of Cumberland as little more than a boy.

"Prince Waldeck commanded the Dutch, and at his earnest supplication, Cumberland marched to relieve Tournay.

"The Allies, having made up their minds to do so, ought to have struck at once, but instead of that they shilly-shallied and dilly-dallied till Marshal Saxe was prepared and ready for battle. For this clever general left 5,000 men to continue the blockade of Tournay, and with 60,000 soldiers marched to near Fontenoy, where he quietly chose his own battle-field, and as quietly entrenched it, on the braes that slope upwards from the right banks of the Scheldt. It was a splendid position. Fontenoy and a valley lay in their front. Both Fontenoy and the village of Antoine were strongly garrisoned and fortified, and there were redoubts between the two.

"On the 10th of May, nothing daunted at the terrible obstacles to be overcome, Cumberland advanced and drove in the French outposts. Then night fell, and his army lay on their arms till four next morning, when the battle began in earnest.

"The Duke, in person, led the Hanoverians and British, advancing against the French left. But now blundering began; for Ingoldsby was sent to clear a wood, and, mistaking some sharp-shooters who occupied it for a whole division, retreated.

"Meanwhile the Dutch, under Prince Waldeck, had been sent to attack the French right, also Fontenoy itself, supported by one of our Highland regiments. Those Dutch fight well at times. They did not that day. They proved arrant cowards. The Highlanders positively prodded them on to fight, but at last they fairly gave way, leaving this single Scottish regiment to face a hail of shot from the batteries and 5,000 French foot.

"This regiment had to retreat, or rather they were called upon to support the Duke, who had dashed on with his brave troops.

"The fighting now, in battery and in redoubt as well as in the open, was close and awful. The British and Hanoverians lay in heaps, and the French suffered too.

"But victory seemed in the hands of the Duke, and even Marshal Saxe thought he had lost the day; till suddenly an officer rode up to him just as he was about to seek safety in flight.

"'Sir, sir,' he cried, 'the Dutch are not coming up; they are leaving those brave English and Hanoverians to their fate.'

"'Good! send, then, all the troops from Fontenoy and Antoine to our assistance, and sad shall the fate of the brave English be.'

"Saxe therefore endeavoured now, with all his troops—notable among whom was an Irish regiment—who, as Walter Scott says,

"'Move to death with military glee.'

"Yes, to death, but would it not be to victory also? Ay, boy, for the British and Hanoverians now got massed, and, in this condition, were attacked by artillery and by foot, in front and on both flanks—truly a terrible tulzie. How well we fought is a matter of history, for when obliged to retire at last, the Duke left behind him 4000 British dead and wounded, and 2000 Hanoverians.

"But no prisoners save the wounded fell into the hands of the French, and never a standard.

"The Duke, in this fearful battle, had been the first to advance, and he was the last to retreat.

"So you see, boy, the Duke was no coward."

"But what cowards the Dutch were, Auld-da," I replied evasively.

"True, boy, true; and so terribly enraged at them were the British, that had there not been an enemy coming up behind, they would have fallen upon them in force, and the strangest battle in history would have been fought.

"But now, lad, let us return to the Braes of R——, when the fiery cross was carried through Strathglass and the glens around. Several families made no response. Among these were our own Robertsons, despite the fact that Lord Lovat was a cousin.

"Even before this, Raoul Dhu had shown his enmity to our family in many ways. He had taunted my father's father.

"'Charlie our Prince,' he said one day, 'will soon be landed. Of course, Robertson, you will be the first to join his standard?'

"'Indeed and indeed, Raoul,' was the bold reply. 'I'll be after doing nothing of the sort.'

"'What, not follow the fiery cross!'

"'I'll follow no cross save that which our Saviour carried, Raoul. If the Prince does land, it will only be to bring ruin and bloodshed on our poor country; to give the eyes of our young men to the ravens, our women and children to rapine and massacre. No, Raoul, I will not follow that cross. And I'd tell Lord Lovat that to his face, and the Chief Lochiel as well. Verily theirs is a losing cause——'

"'Is that why you will not fight, Robertson?'

"'No, Raoul Dhu, the Robertsons never were cowards, but would spend the last drop of their blood in a cause that was just. If you dare say the reverse——'

"Robertson drew himself up and fingered his dirk.

"'If I dared?' said Raoul, 'What then?'

"'I'd stretch you dead among the heather.'

"'Ah! my friend, Raoul Dhu takes a lot of frightening, but I speak for your own sake when I tell you that, if you join not our standard when it flutters on the Braes of Mar, Heaven help your wife, your children, and the beautiful Fiona as well. Good-day.'

"One evening, about a month after this, Muirachie the dwarf came rushing in panting and breathless.

"'O,' he cried in Gaelic, 'I have heard——I——'

"'What is it, Muirachie?'

"'O, the pretty lady, master, I have heard that Raoul Dhu means mischief.'

"'Let him come, my lad; he'll find the Robertsons can hold their own.'

"But if Raoul meant mischief then, he had no chance to carry it out, so quickly was he marched off from the glen with Lord Lovat's forces.

"Well, the summer passed away quietly enough, and there were few young men left about even to till the land or gather in the scanty harvest.

"Report and rumour reached our family, sometimes of victory to the rebels, sometimes of defeat, but there was nothing reliable. News came slowly in those days, boy, and oftentimes the glittering swords or bayonets of a foe far outstripped the runner.*

* Runner: a message-bearer or postman.

"But although from first to last Robertson felt certain that Charlie's cause would be defeated, he never attempted to minimise the danger. Well he knew that a beaten rebel army would do all in their power to destroy any of the loyalists they came across.

"Robertson would fight to the last, however. When peace returned he would be safe.

"The farm he held in no way resembled a fort, but, nevertheless, if strengthened on three sides by ramparts and palisades, a few resolute men would—Robertson believed—be able to hold it for a day, if not two, against stragglers from a beaten army.

"Winter came on, and a dreary one it was.

"Robertson determined now to strengthen his place, for rumours were floating in the air that Prince Charlie was in full retreat back through Scotland, pursued by the implacable Duke of Cumberland.

"All the men, Williamie, that your ancestor could muster were ten, including Muirachie, the faithful dwarf.

"But trenches were thrown up, and a strong, loop-holed, wooden fence, and, on the whole, the farm soon looked quite formidable.

"The men were principally shepherds, but strong, hardy fellows, and all were accustomed to shoot, for many a hare, and many a deer even, they had brought down on Lord Lovat's estate.

"No doubt the Prince would make one last stand at Inverness, or near it, and the man most to be dreaded, if he were not already slain, was Raoul Dhu. Even Fiona knew this, and shuddered when she thought of the revenge he might take on her and hers.

"Then came the fearful battle at Culloden Moor, only a few miles from Inverness.

"Ill news flies apace, and it was speedily known that the clans were beaten and scattered.

"They ran in all directions, the Prince himself flying from the fatal field on horseback.

"Then stragglers, war-worn and weary, began to come into Beauly.

"Some passed on up the glens; others stayed in the village to rant, and revel, and drink.

"It was just a day after the fight that, in the midst of a posse of these revellers, there appeared a tall, dark man, in tattered dress which was all blood-stained.

"It was Raoul Dhu, and a dozen hands at least were held out to bid him welcome.

"He tossed off a bumper of fiery whisky, and, throwing himself into a chair, assumed a nonchalant air.

"'Yes, my lads,' he said, 'we are beaten, but I will not have it that we are vanquished. Our cause is not lost. We shall rise again. I swear it on my dirk.'

"As he spoke he drew the dagger from its scabbard, and kissed its hilt.

"'Scotland ought to have risen to a man. Why did it not?'

"'Shame on all cowards!' cried the men. 'Where shall we find one? We will fling him dead into the nearest loch.'

"'Pah!' said Raoul, 'they are too numerous. There is Robertson of the Braes, not three miles distant.'

"'Ay, ay,' shouted the rebels. 'Robertson! Robertson! let us dig the fox out, give his house to the flames, and his flesh to the eagles!'

"'Stay, men, stay. We must not be rash. Rashness lost us many a fight. Let us wait till night falls. Few of Prince Charlie's brave fellows have come this way. No red-coats will follow. They will go Badenoch way, after the main body. And, see here, at Robertson's farm is one bonnie birdie that I wanted to cage before the —45. She must be treated kindly, and put under my protection. But when night falls I am with you.

"'Now, piper, play up, and we shall dance.'

"No one who had seen that Highland reel so mad, so merry, could have believed that these very men were vanquished soldiers, who might soon be surrounded by the Duke's troops, and cut to pieces.

"There was a spy among them, though, hidden in a corner—none other than Muirachie himself. At a time when the revelry was at its wildest he managed to escape unseen, and hurried away to the Braes.

"On hearing the news that the dwarf brought, Robertson immediately called in his men, closed his ports, and prepared for action.

"Well he knew he had to play a dangerous and deadly game, for Raoul Dhu's band of revenge-seeking rebels would doubtless be increased by scores, when it commenced its march to the Braes.

"His difficulty was to know what to do with his children, his wife, and sister-in-law. Rather, he told his men, than they should fall into the power of those drunken and infuriated rebels, he would shoot them with his own hand.

"'No, no, Mister McRobb'—it was faithful Muirachie who spoke—'it is mysel' that knows ta place to hide ta poor leddies in whetefer.'

"'Place of concealment? Where? where?'

"'Ta whisky-still down ta glen.'

"'You can guide them there?'

"To pe surely, Mister McRobb. Muirachie can do it.'

"The shades of evening were already falling, and there was no time to lose. In a few minutes, therefore, Robertson's family had commenced a perilous descent towards the stream, and soon, guided by Muirachie, found themselves within a cave. It was so concealed as to render detection impossible.*

* In the same still, since those days, many and many a gallon of whisky has been made and smuggled. It is only a few years since it was discovered and raided by the Excise.

"Muirachie lit a big oil lamp which, at all events, rendered the dungeon a little less dreadful. Then he hurried away.

"'I must help ta kill ta foe,' he said as he took his leave.

"'Can they possibly hold out till the Royalist soldiers arrive?' This was the question that Mrs. Robertson anxiously asked her sister as soon as they were left alone.

"'No,' answered Fiona; 'if we have to await assistance, all will be lost and your husband slain.'

"'Sister, sister, what shall we do?'

"'Not wait for assistance,' was the calm response, 'but seek it.'

"'What mean you, Fiona?'

"Fiona had hastily proceeded to wrap herself in a Highland shepherd-tartan plaid. She next put on her head a bonnet of the shape now called Tam-o'-Shanter, and under this she soon tucked her bonnie hair. Then she seized a crook that she found in a corner.

"'Sister Mary,' she said resolutely, 'the 1st regiment is with the Duke. If not already dead, my Ian is there. I am going to seek the Duke's assistance to save us.'

"'But, girl, girl—

"'Detain me not a moment,' she cried. 'Every minute is precious. A minute lost may mean a life. Pray for me, Mary; that is all you can do.'

"She was gone, and poor Mary threw herself on a rude bedstead to weep and to pray, her children crowding round and trying to console her.

"There was a struggling moon shining through the rifts in the dark and threatening clouds, and giving now and then a little light, and the wind moaned drearily among the silver birchen trees hardly yet in leaf.

"But a louder moan soon fell on Fiona's ear as she staggered down the dangerous steep. It was the roar of the stream beneath. To her it was a hopeful sound. Though falling oft, and bruising her tender limbs, she kept steadily on, and the streamlet guided her to the river, and in another hour she had passed Beauly on the left, and was hurrying along the road that leads to Inverness.

"No braver deed was ever done by any girl, I think," continued Auld-da, "whether Scotch or English. Indeed, I doubt whether an English girl would have attempted it, or been possessed of the strength to carry it out.

"Once clear of the town, and a mile or two on the road to Inverness, a distance of about fourteen miles to the camp, near Culloden, lay before her, and now the danger and horror began. The night seemed to grow rather darker. Fiona had the eyes of an eagle as far as sight was concerned, and she needed these to-night, and ears as well as eyes. For a time all was silent, and she walked on briskly enough. Down to the left she could hear the low sob of the sea on the beach, and she even caught glimpses of it now and then, sleeping quietly under the stars; to her right were birchen woods, and the night wind soughed mournfully through their drooping branches, while the stems of the trees could be seen against the heather, like spirits that seemed to walk and move as she ran briskly on.

"Now and then an owl flew overhead, and its weird cry was startling in the extreme.

"More than once she stumbled over guns and belts, and even claymores, that had been thrown hastily away by the fugitives.

"A sudden thought seemed to strike her, and, bending down, she picked one of these swords up. If attacked, this Highland maiden meant to sell her life dearly.

"But what is that dark object by the wayside? She stops to gaze fearfully towards it. A low groan is borne to her ears, and a voice saying in piteous tones, 'Water, water, in Heaven's name!'

"There is the sound of a rippling rill near; she hesitates not a moment, but, doffing her Highland bonnet, turns it outside in and fills it.

"A ray of moonlight falls upon the form of the wounded soldier who has crept off the wood to die. He blesses her as he drinks, and whispers 'Farewell!' But now she hears voices, and, drawing her plaid close round her, she crouches beneath a tree.

"They were not red-coats, she could see that at a glance, but kilted rebels, and as soon as they passed, she hurried on once more.

"She sees many a sad sight in the darkling, and meets many men flying onwards to the west. All these she avoids.

"But a very narrow escape she has from death or worse. She remembers there is a near cut through a part of the wood that will save her miles, and, knowing every inch of the country, determines to take it.

"Suddenly, on turning round the corner of a rock, a glare of light from a camp-fire falls on her face and form. Around this sit or lie half a score of reckless Highlanders, some with recent cuts upon their faces that made them hideous to behold.

"'A spy! a spy!' cried one.

"A spy! A spy!" cried one.

"'Spy or not spy, a right fair maid. By my soul I shall catch her dead or alive.'

"A pistol shot or two rang out as Fiona dashed back into the darkness of the wood, and a bullet whizzed closely past her ear.

"For the first time now since she had departed, the danger of her situation rose up before her mind. What a fearful thing it would be to fall into the clutches of these reckless and lawless men! Fear lent speed to her feet, and she flew on, hardly knowing or caring whither. Her pursuer, coming straight from the firelight, could at first see but indistinctly; but he soon recovered sight, and ran like a deer after the figure in front. The wood was now more open, and this added to the chance of her being caught. It was, indeed, a race for life.

"And now she sees the wood again but a little way ahead, and increases her speed. If she can once get into the shade of the trees, she thinks she will be safe.

"The increase in speed was but a last spurt, however, and now she feels her strength fast failing her. She stops and presses a hand to her brow.

"'God give me strength!" she mutters.

Next moment she has turned on her pursuer like a tigress at bay.

"'Stand!' he cries, 'or I'll dirk you.'

"'Come a yard nearer,' she shouts, 'and you are a dead man!'

"But dirk in hand he rushes in.

"The girl's claymore gleams for a moment in the uncertain light; then comes a dull thud.

"The man falls heavily on his face.

"Killed or wounded she stops not to see, but goes hurrying on, and next minute she is safe within the shadows of the friendly wood.

"On she walks now, but cautiously, and has the good luck soon to reach the road once more, only two Scots miles from Inverness.

"But the town she must avoid. There is greater danger there than in the darkling forest.

"The moon has sunk, but the stars are very bright, for the sky has cleared. And far in the east and south she espies a glare in the sky.

"'That must be the Duke's camp!' she thinks.

"Joy now takes the place of fear, and she walks bravely on, her head erect, as becomes a fearless Highland maiden, but her hand upon the claymore.

"She is near the camp, but still in the darkness, though watch-fires light the bush around her. Suddenly there is a rattle as of a musket being brought to the shoulder.

"'Who goes there?"

"'Friend.'

"'The watchword. Speak quickly, or I fire.'

"'I'm a woman!' cried poor Fiona. 'You will not shoot a girl. I have a message for the Duke."

"'Advance, girl.'

"She drew near to the sentry, who was one of the 1st, or Royal Scots. Loyal Scots would have been a good name for them in those days as well as ever since.

"The sentry held up a light.

"'I must do my duty,' he said. 'Hand over that claymore. Why it drips with gore! Are you a rebel?'

"'I am not; I am a loyal and royal Scot.' But she added, 'I fear I have slain a rebel.'

"Hearing voices, three figures muffled in cloaks, with swords that clanked upon the ground, came from a tent and approached the spot.

"'Captain McDonald,' said the sentry, 'this is a young lady who claims audience with the Duke."

"'The Duke cannot be seen, Miss Stranger,' said the officer, 'but come to our tent. We would hear your story.'

"A young officer was sitting writing at a rude table in the tent as the party entered. His back was towards her, but as soon as she spoke he started to his feet and looked at her.

"'What, Fiona!'

"'It is I, Ian. O, thank Heaven you are safe!'

"The officer had taken the girl in his arms, and was gazing fondly in her face.

"But now her eyes swam, and all became dark. When she again looked up, Ian was bending over her as she lay on a plaid.

"'Have I been long ill?'

"'Only a few minutes, Fiona, ma chree.'

"'Then there may still be time to assist my dear brother-in-law, his wife, and children. But see, Ian, day is already breaking. You must to horse if precious lives would be saved.'

"And hurriedly now she told her lover and his comrades all the story.

"Not more hurriedly than Captain McDonald gave the orders that followed.

"'To horse, to horse, immediately, sergeant!' he shouted. 'Thirty men armed to the teeth. If not here within ten minutes, I will cleave the last man with my sword!'

"And now, laddie," said Auld-da, pausing, "have you had enough for to-night?"

"No, no, no," I cried. "Tell me how it ended."

ROYALS TO THE RESCUE—THAT FAITHFUL DWARF—HAND
TO HAND WITH DIRK AND CLAYMORE—"THE
RED-COATS ARE COMING!"

A glimmer of coming daylight was spreading high up in the east, and one by one the stars were paling before it, as that warlike band galloped away from the camp: thirty-three in all were they. Good men and true.

"The largest and strongest horse carried Ian, and behind him sat Fiona herself, for she was the guide.

"And now, dear boy, we must go back a few hours in this true story, to see what happened to sturdy Robertson and his faithful men.

"It was nearly twelve o'clock, and the honest farmer was beginning to think that after all no attack would be made on his little stronghold, when suddenly Muirachie grasped his master's arm.

"'Hist!' he said in Gaelic, 'they are coming, I can hear their footsteps.'

"At the same moment the faithful dwarf's collie, Kooran, sprang up with a growl, and would have given voice had not Muirachie seized her by the muzzle.

"Next moment, the tramp of armed men could be heard by all.

"'This side, this side,' whispered Robertson. 'Each man to a loop-hole, but do not fire till I give the order.'

"Raoul Dhu was the first to advance towards the farm.

"'Hullo! fortified, are you?' he muttered, and drew back

"Robertson could have shot him where he stood, but generously permitted him to retreat.

"'Come forth, you traitor to your lawful King and country,' cried Raoul now. 'Come forth, I say, and I'll fight you with dirk or claymore.'

"There was no response from the darkened fort.

"'Shut up your women folks. We don't want to kill females and children, and we're going to fire. But, Robertson, we'll hang you and all the traitor hounds you have beside you, and Fiona shall be mine.'

"Then came a lull for the space of five minutes at least.

"It was the stillness that precedes a storm. A long line of smoke and fire followed it, but the bullets hardly pierced the palisade. It was briskly replied to from the forts, and more than one man was seen to fall.

"Raoul and his men sought shelter now, and for the next half hour an intermittent fire was kept up from the bush.

"It was not even replied to, for, determined not to waste his ammunition, Robertson had caused his little force to lie down, and the bullets pattered harmlessly on the walls behind them.

"In their cave, half down the wooded ravine, Mrs. Robertson heard the firing, and even the loud, threatening voices of the assailants, but, woman-like, she could but weep. O, yes, she prayed also, as perhaps she had never prayed before, and even caused her little ones to kneel down and add their voices to hers in supplication.

"It seemed, for two long hours, or probably nearer three, that those prayers had been heard, and that the attack on the farm was relinquished.

"Then, in the distance, those in the fort heard a murmur of many voices coming nearer and nearer up the brae.

"They carried torches, too, which they wildly waved aloft. By this light Robertson noted that Raoul's attacking force was now full fifty strong.

"The defenders did not wait for the onslaught this time, but poured a withering fire into the advancing ranks. Volley after volley; but though many were seen to reel and fall, the rest kept rushing on, the commander shouting:

"'Ready, lads, with the axes; and failing that, we'll rout them out with fire and smoke.'

"Soon the hatchets were thundering on the palisade, and those who wielded them were comparatively safe from the port-hole fire.

"Something must be done, and that at once.

"'Follow me!' cried Robertson.

"The rebels, in the glare of the torchlight, could see nothing of the raid that your ancestor and his men now made from a door to the east, and the very closeness of their ranks made Robertson's fire most deadly. Two volleys were poured in at short range. So short, indeed, that one bullet probably killed or wounded two men.

"'Now for the claymores!' shouted Robertson.

"The attack followed close on the shout, and men fell before it as if mowed down by the reaper's scythe.

"They fled now to the adjoining copse, and the defenders poured a volley after them into the wood.

"But that copse was not to protect them, for somehow a fallen torch set a light to the undergrowth, and the fire was speedily raging and licking up everything before it.

"The attacking party was obliged to fly, but, lit up by the glare, many became an easy prey to the defenders, who were once more behind the palisade.

"But startling now was the voice that Robertson heard at his elbow.

"'O, mister, mister'—it was the dwarf who spoke— 'ta leddies, ta leddies and children!'

"'What! You think the fire will reach them?'

"'To pe surely, mister. They will pe smother in ta cave whatefer. But Muirachie will save them.'

"He waited no word of command. He simply disappeared.

"But what had now become of the besiegers? Will Raoul was not the man to be easily discouraged, though his men were worn out, and none would return. He had, therefore, to lead them back to Beauly, and there revelling and drinking were resumed. Such was the custom of the period. Then sleep followed.

"Day had broken and morning well advanced before Raoul Dhu resumed his attack. It was still more determined than that which had gone before it, and to the horror of the defenders it was seen that the rebels had armed themselves with a battering-ram. Moreover, they had crept up the side of the ravine, and had their instrument planted almost before Robertson could fire a shot.

"Nothing, it seemed, was able to save them now. Their destruction was but a matter of time.

"Crash! crash! crash! went the ram, and the palisade flew into flinders before that iron-shod beam.

"One volley more was fired, then the Robertsons retreated to their last trench.

"They would die fighting, at all events.

"And the end speedily came, dear boy."

"What, Auld-da," I cried, excitedly, "did Raoul Dhu slay the poor men?"

"The end came, dear boy, thus," said Auld-da, in his quiet way: "Raoul Dhu, who seemed to possess a charmed life—for his mother, they said, had been witched at the time of his birth—dashed though the breach followed by his men. He seemed surprised to find an inner trench that had still to be stormed. But with a wild shout the rebels leapt at it.

"It would be hand to hand now with dirk and claymore, and, overpowering them by numbers, the enemy would make short work of the defenders. Even at this awful moment Robertson had time to think of those he was about to leave behind him.

"'God help my wife and bairns!' he cried, as he drew his dirk.

"There was no more shouting, for, when hand to hand, laddie, men do not shout. There were sounds, however, in that trench and above it, that would have made your blood run cold. The clash of steel, the dull thuds of dirks driven home, short cries and groans, gaspings and oaths. Oh! war is a terrible thing, my boy.

"But hark! Just at this moment, when all seemed lost, high above the din of the hand-to-hand conflict rose a soldiers' cheer.

"'The red-coats are coming!' shouted Raoul Dhu. 'Back, men, to the opening! Quick!'

"The red-coats were coming. Ay, and they had come, and next minute were pouring in through the opening in the palisade.

"But let us drop the curtain, laddie, over the scene. It is too dreadful to describe.

"Suffice it to say that no quarter was given. Every rebel inside that palisade was slain.

"Ian, Fiona's lover, and Raoul Dhu seemed to single each other out, and fought for many minutes with all the beauty and coolness of skilled swordsmen; but Ian's sword found flesh at last, and Raoul Dhu fell to the ground, pierced through the chest.

"With one foot on his foe, and right arm drawn back, Ian was about to give the coup de grace which Raoul, too proud to sue for mercy, calmly awaited, when Fiona herself rushed upon the scene, and threw herself on her lover's breast.

"'No, no, no!' she cried. 'For my sake, kill him not! To slay a fallen foe were murder. Spare him.'

"'I will,' said Ian, and he sheathed his sword."

"But, Auld-da," I persisted, "the sword was all dripping with blood and gore, wasn't it?"

"Haven't you had enough of that, laddie?" said Auld-da, smiling. "I'll tell you no more, because my story is ended. You see, my boy, God had heard the children's prayers."

"But what became of—of—of everybody, Auld-da?"

"That is soon told. Raoul Dhu was taken prisoner, and, I believe, afterwards suffered the extreme penalty of the law at Edinburgh.

"When peace was once again restored, Ian was married to Fiona in the little church adown the glen, for the soldier was now on leave.

"The children grew up; my father was one of them, my Uncle Peter another.

"The farm, however, was burned, and, sad to say, poor Muirachie lost his life in attempting to save the cattle.

"Then the Robertsons went higher up, and nearer to the forest.

"It was there that I was born, boy. But I shall tell you no more to-night. Old men like me tire soon."

And so I left him dozing over the fire.

A HIGHLAND SCHOOL A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

I went home the other day.

Home to Scotland, I mean. For though I may be found all winter long at work here in my wigwam, in one of the sweetest sylvan nooks of bonnie Berks, "My heart's in the Highlands," as the old song says.

Well, I work here for my boys and my girls, that is, for the thousands—I think I may say thousands at least—of lads and lasses who do me the honour of reading my books and stories.

England has endeared itself to me by many a tie of friendship and of love. But home is home, you know, and so in spring-time, when the light green tassels droop from the larch-trees, with their tiny crimson buds, when the mavis makes the woodlands ring with his glad clear notes, and the linnet sings its own sweet wee love-song among the banks of golden furze that hug the ground on our Scottish moorlands—I go home. And I go home again in autumn, when the purple and crimson of heather and heath cover mountain and brae, and the whirr of the gorcock is heard on the hills. When streams roll wilder as they dash onwards to the sea, and solemn pine forests nod dark in the breeze.

Waxing poetical, I do believe! Well, I am taken that way sometimes.

Anyhow, I went home the other day, and as I sat on a rock high up in the Deeside Highlands, and gazed around on scenery that, for wild and lonesome grandeur, is hardly to be surpassed in all broad Scotland, I do believe that the tears would have dropped from my eyes, had not the Wizard of the North come to my aid, and bade me declaim as follows:

I had to stand up to do it, mind you.

"This is my own, my native land.
    *     *     *     *     *
"O Caledonia! stern and wild,
Meet nurse for a poetic child!
Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
Land of my sires! what mortal hand
Can e'er untie the filial band
That knits me to thy rugged strand?"

"Well," said a voice close behind me, "after that I think you had better come home and take tea with me."

I was so taken aback, and so shy at being caught rhapsodizing, as one might call it, that had there been a fox's burrow anywhere near, I should have dived head first into it.

The speaker was the village minister, a good and clever little man, who plays and sings, and does any number of nice things.

Of course, I would go and have tea; so down the mountain-side we went together.

There was nobody else at the minister's house except an old maiden lady, who spends most of her time in visiting the poor and—gossiping.

I soon found out that she and I were not on the same platform as regards boys.

"O, I hate boys," she said emphatically.

"Well, I don't," I observed mildly.

"O, but I do," she snapped, "and I never see a boy without thinking of a monkey. Boys are noisy, chattering, howling, whistling, teasing brats, and never out of wickedness except when asleep. Gentle or simple, they are all the same at heart, just as full of mischief as this delicious new-laid egg is full of——"

She cut the top off, viciously too, as if the poor egg had been a boy.

There was a chicken in it!

Well, I couldn't stand it any longer. I just laughed and laughed, and leant back and laughed, till the minister's chair began to crack. Yes, and the minister joined me too, right heartily.

But Miss Steelyard pierced me through and through with those indignant little grey eyes of hers, till I began to think I'd gone too far.

"Ah! well, Miss Steelyard," I said winningly, "I suppose there are boys and boys."

"No, I won't admit it," she snapped. "They are all boys, every one of them—'deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked.'"

Well, I wasn't going to stand that.

"For my own part," I said, "I rather like a boy who has some spirit, and who even plays tricks. There is never any saying what a bad boy may turn out. He might stand at the head of a great republic, Miss Steelyard."

"O, yes," said this lady, witheringly, "or dangle at the end of a long rope."

As I saw there was no soothing the old maid, I sipped my tea in silence till the parson changed the subject to trout-fishing.

But I maintain, nevertheless, dear readers, that there are boys and boys.

To which of these catalogues my grandfather belonged when he was a boy, it is not for me to say, but for you to judge.

* * * * *

It was about thirty-five years after the terrible events I have tried to record in last chapter, before my grandfather—plain John Robertson, but called Ian when his foot was on his native heath—saw the light of day.

The day before his birth there had been several strange happenings, all duly related by his mother's nurse, an ancient dame, called Yonish MacPhee. Her name was not MacPhee—fa—fi—fum, though it might have been, for Yonish wore a mob-cap, and dreamt dreams and saw visions.

Come to think of it, I dare say the mob-cap had not much to do either with the dreams or visions, but it was a weird looking head-dress of bleached cotton, with flaps all round the front, that sometimes almost hid her thin yellow face, and sometimes blew right back on her neck, or stuck straight out like the lugs of an oar-eared rabbit. No wonder people said she was a witch. Anyhow, the day before his birth, Yonish saw four magpies sitting all in a row on the limb of a dead tree. This was a bad omen!

Then about fifty red-deer came out of the forest and ate up about half an acre of green springing oats. This was good for the deer, but bad for the farmer. Yonish would have gone to "hush-oo" them away, but they would have tossed the old lady on their horns, and played skittles with her.

That day, too, a raven set upon the chimney and croaked, the cream turned sour, and the nanny-goat let down no milk.

But in spite of all these omens, grandfather was declared to be the finest child ever seen in the parish, with his father's nose, and the very blue eyes of his mother. I myself won't take the nose in, because I have been told that my great grandfather's nose was very large. He snuffed, and there was no want of accommodation for the snuff.

That is the mildest way of putting it.

Well, then, my grandfather began to grow up. I have no authentication of this. I simply reason from analogy. Most boys do grow, for they have not much else to do or think about.

From swaddling bands to kilts. And having arrived at the latter stage, he began to take notice of things, putting this and that together as it were, and drawing his own conclusions.

At seven years of age he was sent to school, and then his mind began to expand as well as his body. It was a day-school, of course, and stood about a mile and a half from his father's house.

I dare say it was a very humble sort of an edifice; it was pulled down long ago. But this school was kept up by the Kirk, and the curriculum was of no mean order.

It stood a little way off the road, I have been told, and was a long, low, stone building, thatched with heather, and not unlike a tiny church, for the door was in the eastern gable, and there were two windows at each side with real glass in them, each pane being very green and with a bull's eye in the centre.

Those windows did not draw up nor down; and when the dominie wanted ventilation he simply opened the door "wide to the wall."

The scholars, as they were called, were about thirty or more, and came from far and near. They were of both sexes, the girls occupying one side of the school, the boys the other. Near the far gable, and close to the fire, there was a kind of little pulpit, and here the dominie reigned serene, monarch of all he surveyed.

Here too, in a drawer, was the tawse—terrible weapon of punishment, especially on a cold day when one's hands are blue: flogging, in the English sense, was never permitted in Scottish schools. The palms or fingers were warmed with the brutal tawse, and oftentimes boys were slashed around the bare feet and ankles, and their howls for mercy would be heart-rending. But mercy was unknown to the souls of those old-time dominies. My own knowledge of Latin was all flogged into me with the tawse, and I used to believe the dominie had no soul, only just a gizzard like a hen or a cock.

When young Ian first went to school, he thought he knew a thing or two; for he had been taught at home, and could already read the New Testament and make pot-hooks and figures on a slate. He thought he knew as much as the teacher, but he was very soon undeceived.

Why, this dominie could not only read Virgil and Horace, but he could even talk good English. So could the boy Ian.

But Gaelic was always spoken in the play-ground, and English and Gaelic in school.

On Fridays not a word of Gaelic was allowed to be uttered.

The schoolmaster was said to be an angel out of doors, but a perfect—well, not an angel—in the school-room.

There was a sturdy independence about Ian, that did not tend to make the dominie love him. The first day he came, the teacher had him up, and addressed him in English.

"How old are you?"

"Seven."

"Say seven, sir."

"Seven, sir."

"What is your name?"

"Ian."

"Ian, Sir."

"No, Ian Robertson."

"Say, John Robertson."

"Shan't! My name is Ian."

"Well, you'll have a touch of the tawse."

"Does she hurt?"

"'Deed, indeed she does. Now what's your name?"

"Sir John Robertson."

Then the boy's tongue went off at a tangent as it were, and he rattled off the following gibberish:

"Sir John Robertson is my name
    And Scotland is my nation,
Forest Farm's my happy home
    And heaven my expectation."

Sir John, as the boys determined to call him, was now permitted to take his slate and sit down.

But he was very sulky for a time.

Why had he been sent to school? he asked himself.

What was the good of school, anyhow? He would have but little time now to catch humble-bumble bees, to chase young rabbits, to look for birds' nests, to fish, and to climb trees.

How beautiful it was out of doors! How sweetly the sun shone in through the green glass of the windows. He had half a mind to bolt and run for it. He was sure enough the teacher couldn't catch him. But—hillo! here was a boy going to get a thrashing. There was some fun in that. Not for the culprit, however, for he spat in his hands and pulled down his sleeves when the dominie went for the tawse. But what a face he made, and how he kicked and jumped and cried when he got the first tingling "pandé." My little boy grandfather had to thrust his bonnet into his mouth to prevent himself from laughing aloud.

But, just as "pandé" number six was descending, the culprit's courage failed him, and he quickly drew in his hand. Down came the tawse on the dominie's own leg. All the boys and girls tittered, and the boy was whacked all the way back to his seat, where he cried the whole afternoon.

Ian then took to drawing little men and women on his slate. He gave each a long tail, and then held them up for the other boys to laugh aloud at. He thus succeeded, beyond even his expectations, in getting no less than three boys tawsed.

School was fine fun after all.

It was also a treat for young Ian to see how deftly the dominie threw the tawse. He was a demon bowler. When he noticed a boy, say at the other end of the school, talking or laughing, he rolled the tawse up in a ball and sent it whirling towards the urchin with an astonishing accuracy of aim, the result of long practice. The tawse would alight in the culprit's lap, and he had to carry it up—it felt like carrying a snake by the tail—and, presenting it to the pedagogue, receive his "pandés" and go back to his seat a sadder and a wiser loon.

These "pandés" reddened all the palms, and sometimes even blistered the wrist. It was ten times worse for hours to come than the feeling one experiences after a snow-ball fight.

But young Ian's first day at school came to an end at last.

"School's out!" cried the teacher.

This wasn't very elegant English, but it had a grand effect. Books and slates and Bibles were bundled away; and a rush was made for the door. Here a block occurred, of course, but finally all were free to yelp and yell, and dance and scream, till the rocks re-echoed the pandemoniacal noise.

But Ian stopped to speak to no one. He didn't like boys over much, and he hated girls, because they were so silly and couldn't do anything as it ought to be done.

So my little morsel of a grandfather flew off like a hare to the hills, his bare legs brushing the heather, and his bonnet under his arm, because a big boy made a grab at it before he left the play-ground.

When the children had all gone, the dominie put away the "tawse," locked up the school, and retired to the bosom of his family.

HARD TIMES FOR A TEACHER—THE TAWSE—LITTLE RACHEL—A
DROLL ADVENTURE—MY GRANDFATHER STUCK FAST
IN THE CHIMNEY.

There wasn't much bosom about the dominie's family, for the matter of that. Only his wife, a great kind-hearted woman, his little daughter Rachel, and the collie dog.

Dominie Freeschal himself was not much of a man, "judged by points," as doggy people say. He lacked size and bone, and he was thin——and quite out of show-form, so to speak.

He was supposed to be "powerfully learned," however, and powerful with the tawse. In those good old times some of Solomon's dicta were construed very literally indeed.

"Spare the rod and spoil the child" didn't mean that you were to lock up the tawse in the desk, and make a pet of the boy.

Quite the reverse.

A "scholar" might consider himself very lucky indeed if he did not have a sound whacking once in three days. And even the parents expected that the dominie would do his duty towards his pupils in the way of flagellation, and do it handsomely too.

"Now, Mister Freeschal," said a father one day, "I'm going to be after sending my little son to your school, and it's a little nickem he is whatsoever, so you'll not be letting him over you at all, for he is entirely over his mother."

"I'll see to it, Sandy," was the dominie's reply; and he did.

Another day, another father came to see the schoolmaster on business.

"I've a complaint to make, Mister Freeschal."

"Well," said Mister Freeschal, "it's myself that is sorry for that same. What is it, Mister Young?"

"It's that you don't thrash Tonal enough. Now for more 'n two weeks he hasn't been crying, for his face is as clean at night as in the morning evermore. I'm indignant, sure, and if you'll not be doing your duty by the boy, I'll not be after paying you."

And off he went.

That same afternoon, young Tonal was called up and told to spell the words "believe," "deceive," and "relieve."

In each case poor little Tonal had the misfortune to misplace the "i."

A hush fell over the school as the dominie marched off to the desk for the tawse, for every one could tell by the swing of his coat-tails that he meant business.

Young Tonal licked his palms and prepared for the inevitable.

"You're wrong in your orthography" (the dominie put the emphasis on the "graphy"). "Now I'm not going to deceive your father, nor take his money for nothing; but I believe I'll relieve my feelings by whacking you well. Hold out your hand."

And Tonal went home with a dirty wet face that night anyhow. But as will presently be seen, the dominie had succeeded in stirring the boy's blood and making a conspirator of him.

There are exceptions to every rule, however, and one day a boy's mother believed that the dominie had tawsed her lad too much, so she went to the school to relieve her feelings.

She was no great beauty, certainly, but a plain-faced, fair-haired woman, with sinews as tough as gun-tackle.

I think the dominie quailed as she entered the school-room.

"And it's you that'll be after beating my boy black and blue, is it, you miserable oshach?"

She waited for no reply, but just went straight for Mister Freeschal with a broom-handle, which she carried under her arm; and I'm really afraid that the boys and girls grinned as the dominie fled round and round the school, and finally took refuge in the pulpit, or desk.

Mrs. Nairn, for that was the good lady's name, had a visit from the minister next day, and it is said she received a most severe heckling, but, nevertheless, the teacher never dared touch that boy again. Johnnie Nairn became quite a hero, and the other pupils used to say:

"O, Johnnie, it's me that would like to have such a mother as you've got."

Sometimes a boy would be "one licking to the good." This happened when the dominie made a mistake and whacked the wrong youngster.

"Never mind, my lad," the schoolmaster would say; "you're one to the good. Don't forget to remind me of it next time I'm going to tawse you."

And the boy never did forget.

The teacher was no great favourite, you may be sure.

I suppose he ruled his wife by psychal force; it certainly could not have been by physical, for she weighed at least two of him.

There was a long peat-stack that the boys had to pass on their way from school, and near this Mrs. Freeschal would often be found, and she had always a kind word and a smile, and sometimes a pea-meal bannock for the urchins whose faces were all begrimed with tears.

In his daughter, Rachel, the dominie was quite bound up. She was a little thing of eight, with long fair hair, blue eyes, and brown bare legs and feet.

She ruled the boys as if she'd been a little queen, and even the girls had to be sweet to her. Some boys were so much in love with Rachel that if she gave one a smile and tossed her head defiantly and imperiously at another, there was sure to be a fight between the rivals on the way home that evening, resulting in torn kilts and bleeding noses, and sometimes a black eye.

This black-eye business was serious, because, whenever the dominie saw a boy so disfigured, he went for the tawse at once, and no questions were asked or answered. So before two boys began to fight it was no unusual thing to bargain that there should be "no hitting in the face."

* * * * *

Now it came to pass that before my little sturdy mite of a grandfather had been at this seminary quite six months, he had fought himself half-way up the school, that is, he could thrash about fifteen boys, and fifteen could thrash him. But he was conquering one every week at least.

So as he was so brave, and because he used to take his tawsings manfully and never cry, he began to be looked upon as a kind of hero in Rachel's eyes.

Rachel's father, when he paid a visit to Beauly, always came back with a pocketful of brandy-snaps and sugar-bools* for his wee daughter. Of course she ate most herself, but had always a few to expend on her boy favourites.

* Sugar-marbles.

The dominie didn't like boys not to cry when tawsed, and used to devise other modes of punishing them.

One of these was "keeping them in." That is, locking them up for an hour or two in the schoolroom after hours. There was an awful legend, too firmly believed in by the boys, that once upon a time a lad was locked up and forgotten, and how he fell asleep, and the rats ate two of his toes clean off.

So this mode of punishment was no favourite with the pupils, you may be sure.

One day Rachel slighted my grandfather—who thought he was madly in love with her. She put the point of her little tongue out at him and immediately after smiled most sweetly on a bigger boy, Kenneth McRae.

Of course my grandfather determined to fight Kenneth, but not content with that, he was so incensed at his heroine that he called her "little wretch," and she began to cry.

There was a drum-head court-martial at once. It was in vain that my grandfather pleaded that he meant "little Rache"; he was convicted, had six pandés on each hand, and was condemned to be kept in that beautiful spring evening for a whole hour after it was dark.

Rachel cried all that afternoon, and nobody could tell why.

The punishment was more than the boy could bear with anything akin to equanimity. It was bad enough while the sun still shone, but when that luminary began to sink, encrimsoning the clouds, and making the bull's eye in each pane of glass look like a little setting sun itself, then he began to grow impatient, to say the very least of it. If the dominie were to release him at once, then there might still be time to go home by the hill and the forest, because there were many birds' nests to visit.

I am not holding the prisoner up as a paragon of virtue in the way of bird-nesting. He did not rob them, simply because it had never occurred to him that there was any fun in making a collection of eggs. He had seen one such collection, and also a lot of stuffed birds at a barber's shop in Beauly, and being at heart a naturalist, he was much disgusted; the eggs had lost colour, and seemed dreadfully out of place, and the birds were dusty, their necks and legs all awry, and a perfectly idiotic stare in their glass eyes.

But I must give my daft morsel of a grandfather his due, and say he never robbed a nest. He would watch these nests from the very foundation; watch the strange architecture day after day till they were lined, and his pleasure at seeing the first bonnie egg was very real indeed. The birds, he told me, seemed all to know him, and look upon him as their champion. And so he was. If ever he met a much bigger boy in the forest, he lured him away in a diplomatic kind of way which was nearly always successful; if the boy was about his own size, he ordered him off, or stripped and fought him. So even at this early age I think my hero was an embryo soldier.

Well, on this particular evening he was sitting on a stool bemoaning his sad fate, when something like the tapping of a woodpecker fell on his ear.

He looked quickly up.

There was a face at the window, looking in at him through a hole which a snow-ball had made last winter.

"Ian!"

"She has come to laugh at me, I suppose," he said to himself.

"Ian!"

It was a still small and pitying voice. Sorrow in it, but no anger.

He went quickly towards the broken pane.

"Ian, I'se sorry for you."

"O, don't say that! I don't mind a tawsing, but kind words would make me cry. I wouldn't like to cry before you."

"No; you's a brave boy, and never cries. Ian! am I a little wretch?"

"No——o——; you're little Rachel!"

"Ian, put your mouf (mouth) up to the broken hole. Don't be sy (shy); I'm not going to tiss you. Boys is always sy."

Ian put his mouth up to the hole anyhow, and Rachel popped a sugar-bool in it, and watched him eat it with quite a womanly interest. Then she fed him with brandy-snaps, and finished off with two more bools.

"Now I'se off!" she cried. "I'se going to Beauly to fetch mammy and daddy home, then you'll be free."

Away she went, and the schoolroom looked darker now and more lonesome than ever. The sun had set too, leaving only a few red bars of cloud athwart the forest horizon.

He began pacing up and down like a caged wild beast, But he wasn't that quite. He felt a hero after the brandy-snaps and sugar-bools, and Rachel's kindly words.

"I won't stop here," he cried aloud. "There might be ghosts, or anything."

He gave the door a kick, and, as he did so, discovered that the key was in it, though on the outside.

Even had he known this before Rachel came to feed him, he was too manly to have asked her to rescue him. It would have brought trouble on her.

He began to think.

Ha! what a happy thought! He would climb up the chimney, slide down over the roof, and then turn the key and let himself out. It was a funny idea, but the very humour of it commended itself to him.

There was still light enough to read a portion of the good Book by; so this droll little grand-dad of mine sat down by the window, and read aloud for some time. Then, jumping up, he prepared for action. He stripped off his jacket, and vest, and kilt. He seldom wore a cap, only a towzie head of yellow hair.

He had nothing on now but his shirt; that would get black enough, but he could wash it in the burn.

He peeped fearfully up the chimney now, and could see the sky. He shuddered a little, but went boldly up, head first.

Alas! and alack! I don't quite know what "alack" means, but it doesn't matter. Anyhow, my grandfather stuck fast in the chimney.

Here was a plight, and he was half-choked, too, with the falling soot.

O! the agony of the next two hours! He gave himself up for lost; if he didn't die in the chimney, of soot-suffocation, he would be roasted alive next morning, when the fire was lit.

He said his prayers over and over again; then singular to say, he fell asleep, sound and fast.

How long he slept he could not tell himself, but, when he awoke, he made one more struggle for life and liberty, and succeeded. The rest would be easy.

But now let me tell you what befell the dominie. His wife, and he, and Rachel when she arrived, first stayed at a friend's house for supper, and at eight o'clock he set out alone to walk home, the whole of his family—that is, the whole lot of the two of them—remaining in Beauly for the night.

He had not forgotten his prisoner. He would get home by nine, he told himself, and, if the young rascal did get a scare, it would serve him right. Ah! little did he know just then where the scare was to come in. Now, those were the stupid old drinking days, when people believed that spirits warmed them and did them good, and all such silly nonsense. So when the dominie met a friend who invited him into an inn, poor prisoner Ian was soon forgotten.

It was long past twelve, but almost as bright as day, owing to the big, round moon that was shining, when the dominie rather unsteadily approached the school.

At this very time my grandfather was about to slide down, and so he saw the dominie advancing. Something must be done speedily. Like most people in this wild land, the schoolmaster was superstitious, and Ian seemed to know this.

First, then, he emitted the low, mournful cry of a barn owl. Next moment, with an eldritch yell, he dropped from aloft, right in front of the dominie. Such a sudden apparition, black from head to foot, was enough to frighten anyone.

The dominie was more than frightened—he was appalled; his hat fell off, his eyes bulged out, his arms were half-raised, and he looked like a chicken trying to fly.

"Wha—wha—where d'ye co—co—come from?" stammered the dominie.

My tricky little grand-da shrieked again, and pointed aloft; then down dropped the dominie, in a dwaum.*

* A dwaum: fainting brought on by fear.

Boy-like, Ian couldn't help giving the dominie's hat just one good kick; then he turned the key, gathered up his clothes, and made off towards the stream that ran through the ravine.

A bath at such a time of night was rather risky, but the occasion demanded it.

Next day Ian went to school as usual. The dominie eyed him narrowly, but said nothing. No doubt he thought that the adventure with the black sprite, or imp of darkness, was all a dream.

THE CONSPIRATORS—A DEED OF DARKNESS—A FEAST TO
FOLLOW—STRANGE SCHOOL-CUSTOMS—A FIGHT IN THE
FOREST—LAST DAYS AT SCHOOL.

My grandfather grew, and kept on growing.

But Ian grew not merely in height, as some lads, who never take exercise nor the cold morning-tub, do, till they become lanky and thin and lantern-jawed, or fat and pasty, with faces like half-cooked dumplings, but in strength as well.

And though he was wild enough when free, he stuck to his books and slates at school.

He continued, however, to fight his way to the top of the school. But, though he was often tawsed, he was never kept in again.

This was very satisfactory, for that terrible adventure in the chimney he never could forget. The tawsing, however, was far from pleasant, and so when one day Tonal, the boy whom the teacher thrashed so unmercifully as to make the lad bear malice, came up to my grandfather in the play-ground, and said mysteriously that he wanted him that evening to go with him to the dark forest, where he would tell him something, a ready consent was given; for even at this early age my grandfather was fond of adventure.

Tonal, who was a great friend of Ian's, led him that night into a gloomy defile before he uttered a word. Then after looking around him, as if he feared they had been followed, he whispered words in grandfather's ears that made him start.

"You don't mean it surely?"

"I do," said Tonal, nodding.

"And the other boys are afraid?"

Tonal nodded again.

"You and I are friends, Tonal, aren't we?"

"Better than brothers."

"Then I will help you."

The two young rascals then shook hands in a most tragical way, as if the deed they were about to commit were nothing less than arson at the least.

Just three days after this, Tonal drew a caricature of the dominie, with a bottle of whisky sticking out of his pocket. This he held up for the inspection of the other boys, who tittered and laughed; then down flew the tawse, and Tonal picked it up and marched boldly to the front.

But the slate also had to be produced.

This was mutiny. Ten pandés on each hand, and to be kept in!

It was early spring, and night fell about eight o'clock, and a dark night it was.

Tonal would have been very much afraid in the lonesome schoolroom, had not the thoughts of what was to come buoyed him up.

At long last, the key turned softly in the door, and a mysterious voice gave the watchword:

"Hist!"

"I've got it," said Tonal, touching Ian's hand with the cold, snaky tawse.

"Well, come on then; I'll run and give the key back to little Rachel."

"Wasn't it in the door?"

"No."

Rachel was waiting at the peat-stack. She was trembling with fear.

"O, you good little Rachel," said my grandfather.

Then a sudden impulse caused him to take her in his arms and give her a rough kind of a hug. He had never gone so far in his sweethearting before, and now, though it was too dark to see it, his face was as red as a Christmas turkey's.

Rachel hurried back to hang up the key, and the boys flew off to the forest.

In a little glade a fire had already been laid, and soon its gleams were illuminating the brown stems of the pine-trees, and sparks like golden snow were carried high aloft in the rolling smoke.

With much pomp and ceremony, the conspirators laid the tawse on the gleaming wood, and sat down in silence, like a couple of stoical Indians, to see it consumed.

It had always felt like a snake; how like one it seemed now, and how it twisted and writhed, and twined and turned. It settled down at last into a fiery serpent, then it gradually crumbled away and disappeared.

After this the boys gave three such wild cheers that the very birds were scared, and some flew, screaming, away into the black darkness beyond.

A little feast now followed. They had provided themselves with bannocks and butter, with potatoes to roast, and a huge mountain trout to grill over the clear embers.

There is no doubt about one thing, they were entirely happy around this camp-fire, and, boy-like, must commence to talk about their prospects. Tonal was two years older than grandfather, and he was determined to be a soldier.

"I can beat the drum a little, you know, so they are sure to take me. And I may be a drum-major yet, you know."

"Well, I'm going to be a farmer," said my grandfather, "and have as many sheep as there are pine-trees in the forest. Then——"

"Then what?"

"Well then, you know, I'll marry Rachel."

Poor boys! Little did they know that

"There is a divinity that shapes our ends,
    Rough hew them as we will."

* * * * * *

The events that immediately succeeded their feast in the forest may soon be told.

1st. Tonal had already told his father, a very humble and poor cottar, that he would enlist.

"If it be the will of Heaven, go, my boy, and the Lord be ever with you."

This was of course spoken in Gaelic.

So Tonal did not go back to school to face the dominie's wrath. He would rather face the French.

2ndly. My grandfather did go back to school.

3rdly. The dominie went straight to Beauly and bought a bran-new tawse. But O, the irony of fate, my grandfather was the very first it was tried upon. And he didn't like it either.

Nevertheless, in spite of his frequent tawsings, this ancestor of mine continued to grow. It is just possible I am showing the worst side of his character. Perhaps I shouldn't. For he must always have been good-hearted. The boy is the father of the man; the boy I might say is the grandfather of the man.

I know one thing for certain, and that is this: he dearly loved his father and mother, and brothers and sister. He had only one sister.

The farm on the Braes was a good one and prolific, and Ian's sturdy father was revered and respected, an elder of the church, and one who brought up his children in the fear and admonition of the Lord, as it was termed. Every evening there were prayers, and morning prayers also. But this was quite the reverse of making the children restricted or sad.

Many a jovial dance was got up in the long winter evenings at Robertson's house, and on such occasions the father was as merry as the young people, and if he wasn't dancing among them he was beating time to the music of fiddle or bagpipe.

In the Highlands of Scotland the winters are usually long and stormy, but the peasantry and farmers have many pleasant ways of making it pass; so that, when at length he went out into the world, my grandfather had a very happy home to look back to.

School life, despite an occasional tawsing, was far indeed from unbearable.

There were one or two strange customs connected with the little Highland school that do not prevail nowadays. How would my reader like, for instance, to carry a peat to school with him every winter's morning? But this was what my grand-dad and all the other boys had to do. The girls were exempt.

If a boy forgot to bring his peat, he had his hands well warmed with the tawse, and he was not likely to forget next day.

These peats kept up not only the school fire but the dominie's family fire also.

Well, there was no disgrace in bringing a peat to school. Even the minister's son had to do it.

But the other custom I only mention to condemn.

It was a great cock-fight that took place before Christmas, or Old Yule rather, every year.

Every boy on this great day brought a cock to school with him, and the boy whose cock should be victor was proclaimed king of the school for the whole year, and was exempt from tawsing, except for specially aggravating conduct.

The cocks that were killed became the property of the dominie.

The fight, I am sorry to say, created considerable excitement in the parish, and the boys' parents came from far and near to witness it. I have been told, though I can scarcely believe it, that even the minister himself came to see the fun.

Sad fun; yes, and cowardly, cruel fun!

Nevertheless, when, on the evening of a great fight, my grandfather was duly crowned king, no prouder boy perhaps ever lived.

Even the cock that won him the honour and glory clapped his wings and crew over and over again, and to complete my grand-dad's happiness, little Rachel looked upon her hero as sweetly as an angel could have looked, though it could only be an angel of darkness who would attend a cock-fight.

As he sat next Rachel that evening, at a party which the dominie got up for the occasion, Ian felt his cup of bliss was not only full but overflowing. Rachel had on a lovely snow-white frock and scarf of Fraser tartan, and Ian was dressed in his Sunday's kilt with an eagle's feather in his bonnet.

As king he was asked to open the ball, and of course choose his partner.

Now duty whispered to him, "Ask Mrs. Freeschal to dance."

But duty was left in the lurch for once. One glance at Rachel's bonnie face, and next moment both were whirling through that very mazy dance—the Reel of Tulloch.

Tom Grahame, a much bigger and older boy than Ian, looked on at the dance with the green eye of jealousy.

When it was over, and the king was escorting his little queen back to her seat, Tom stole up behind his majesty and whispered darkly in his ear.

And these were the words he whispered:

"It's myself that will thrash you to-morrow within an inch of your life."

"Sure, then, Tom Grahame," was young Ian Robertson's reply, "the threat that you throw on me won't keep me awake, and when I sleep it isn't dreaming about you I'll be. Good-night till the morning."

That was a happy evening anyhow, and when he went to school next day my grandfather had almost forgotten all about the coming battle.

Boys will be boys, and they were just as combative in those days as now. Perhaps more so.

At this school, when any pitched battle was to be fought, the belligerents and their friends betook themselves to the forest.

There were no rules of the ring. A fall decided the end of a round; but if the two fell together, they were allowed to fight it out on the ground like a couple of bears.

"Is it to be hitting in the face or not?" said big Tom Grahame.

"As the fight is for a lady," replied my gallant grandfather, "I'm going to hit wherever I can, and you may do the self-same."

That was really the most terrible school-combat that had taken place for years.

Tom Grahame was a vengeful tyke, and fought with fearful fury. But Ian was more skilful, and punished his adversary so well that the fight would have ended in his favour, had not Tom used his foot in a most unhandsome fashion.

Down rolled poor Ian, and while the other boys shouted "Unfair!" Tom threw himself on top of my little progenitor, and mauled him terribly.

Then in desperation Ian pulled out his kilt pin, and popped it straight into his big antagonist's chest.

This decided the fight. It nearly decided the fate of Tom Grahame also. The big pin had done its work so well—or ill—that Tom was confined to bed for a whole month.

Filled with remorse, my grandfather went every day to see him, and so did the doctor, till he was out of danger.

But Ian became Tom's nurse, in a manner of speaking, all throughout his illness, and, strange to say, between those two boys sprang up a friendship that lasted for many and many a year, until deep seas rolled between, and, as will be seen as we go on, years after this. Ever after, however, as long as my grandfather remained at school, he was known by the nickname of Preen Mhor.*

* Big pin.

* * * * *

One day, and well did my grandfather remember it Mr. Freeschal paid a visit to the farm, and was kindly welcomed in.

"It's about your boy I've come to speak," said the dominie.

"Why, surely, he hasn't gotten into any more mischief, has he?"

"O, no, and if it was that same, it isn't complaining to you I'd be; I'd tawse him well."

Robertson senior held out his snuff-box, and the dominie, after tapping the lid in a sociable kind of way, took a hearty pinch, and returned the mull.

Meanwhile Mrs. Robertson was bustling about getting ready the evening meal, for Highlanders are nothing unless sociable.

"Your boy," said the dominie, "is about past my lore. He knows about as much as his master."

"It's myself that is delighted, Mr. Freeschal!"

"Yes, I've done well for him, and there isn't a boy in all Great Britain, France, or Ireland, who can beat him at figures or grammar, and his writing is just copper-plate itself, only, if anything, better. I could teach him Latin and Greek, you know, if it is a parson you'd be making of him. If not, I tell you, as an honest man should, that it would be taking your money for nothing to keep him longer with me. And that's what I've come to tell you."

"Well, well, Mr. Freeschal, you have made us all happy, and of course you'll stop to supper?"

There was some pretty play for nearly a minute after this, the dominie expostulating, the farmer's wife beseeching. But it ended in the dominie staying, which he had meant to do from the first.

By-and-by the minister himself dropped in and took a friendly chair and a friendly bit of food.

During the evening, which was a very jovial one, young Ian's future prospects were freely discussed, but nothing definite was arrived at, except that to educate my grandfather any further would only tend to weaken his brain.

Strange reasoning this was, only it contented those simple souls, and that was enough. There is a good deal of truth in Pope's lines—

"From ignorance our comfort flows,
    The only wretched are the wise."

This would be considered somewhat dangerous doctrine nowadays.

* * * * *

Grandfather's last days at school soon arrived, and both teacher and his companions were better to him than ever; and Rachel, now a demure little maiden of fourteen, told Ian in confidence that he was going away out into the world now, and that it just felt to her like death or growing old, neither of which she considered very desirable.

When the very, very last evening came, she bade him good-bye at the corner of the old peat-stack, and though my grandfather did all he could think of to comfort her, he had to part from her at last in sorrow and tears.

LEAVING HOME—A HUMBLE TRADE—"I'LL NOT SERVE
UNDER A FRASER OF LOVAT: I AM A ROBERTSON AND
A LOYALIST."

It was with a heart filled to overflowing that Ian Robertson, my fifteen-years-old grandfather, left his old home on the Braes and started on his journey to the distant town of Inverness.

I purposely pass over the parting with his mother, father, brothers, and sister, because I do not wish to have my pages blistered with tears.

Sturdily did the boy march off, however, with all his chattels tied up in a bundle swung over his shoulder on the end of a stick, and a five-shilling-piece in his pocket.

Ah! well, many a brave boy has begun the world on less than five shillings, and Ian was not the lad to be daunted.

He paused at the turn of the road to wave his bonnet back at the old farm, and half a mile farther on he mounted a rock that placed him within view of the old schoolhouse and school. And—why yonder was Rachel her own little self standing right on top of the peat-stack and waving him adieu!

His heart went right away back to her with every wave that he gave his blue bonnet, and it was only with a considerable effort that he plucked up courage at last to jump down and continue his journey.

Ah! those partings of youthful days, how sad they are, and brave is the sensitive boy who can bear them.

Now, the reader, I hope, will think none the less of my hero when I say that, having arrived at a little pine wood, he looked up and down the road to make sure nobody saw him, then entered the plantation, and knelt down to pray.

He prayed just then as he had never prayed before, and felt that in that prayer he was giving himself all away to God.

I am not going to repeat a sentence of the prayer. Indeed, though I know the soul and substance of it, I could not if I tried. "Out of the fulness of the heart the mouth speaketh," you know. It was that way with the boy now.

We are told that the prayer of a righteous man availeth much. Well, I have not painted my grandfather as a saint; but I do most firmly believe that the prayers of sinners are listened to as well as those of better men.

Anyhow, I do know this—my grandfather, even in his boyhood, had faith, and as he rose from his knees, he felt brighter and happier and more hopeful than ever he remembered feeling before.

Whether or not his prayers for guidance for his every footstep in life were heard, my story has yet to reveal.

* * * * *

Towards the evening of this eventful day, this tired and weary boy-grandfather of mine, with his red bundle on his shoulder, drew near to his destination.

He was about to learn a trade. There is no money to be made nowadays out of business—at all events, few professional men make large fortunes—and it was just the same in the good old times of which I am writing.

And what was my respected grand-dad going to be? Why a staymaker, of all trades in the world. A corset is the new name of stays, as I need not tell you.

There was nothing romantic about the trade, and certainly not a vestige of romance about the little old snuffy man he had come to act as boy for. He lived above his shop and workshop, in a dingy house in High Street, all alone with his wife and the cat.

Nevertheless they gave him a kindly welcome, and a hearty supper also.

After this he was lighted down to his bedroom, and as soon as he had got into bed, Mr. Craig, the staymaker, came and blew out his farthing dip.

His bed was a hard one, a mere shake-down on the floor under the counter. As soon as the light was out the rats began to scamper about and quarrel and fight and squeak. This wasn't pleasant at all, but the boy soon fell fast asleep, and did not waken till it was broad daylight.

Well, next day his work began, and very hard it was; and very few were his holidays, for not even on the Sabbath day was he allowed to go for a walk.

At the end of six months, so proficient was he that he could almost make a pair of stays himself.

Perhaps it was a pity that this tow-haired little grandfather of nine didn't stick to staymaking. Why, there were wonderful possibilities connected with the business. He might have become a millionaire and been thrice Lord Provost of Glasgow city.

But fate willed it otherwise.

One day he was sent with a parcel of finished work to the house of a lady of some pretensions, who lived on the bonnie banks of Ness, in quite a charming house, surrounded by beautiful grounds.

My grandfather was dressed very neatly, and looked extremely well. So much taken with the lad was the lady, that she began to question him as to his birth and parentage.

"Why," she said, "you are a third cousin of our own. For poor brave Lord Lovat, who was martyred on Tower Hill, was a cousin of my husband's father. How strange!"

"Can you write and read well, boy?"

She made him do both.

"Why," she cried in amazement, "it is shameful that a boy of your abilities should be learning the trade of a staymaker. It is as bad as being a tailor. Come back to-morrow; Mr. Fraser himself will be at home, and I will speak to him about you."

My grandfather thanked her and retired.

That night, in his little bed among the rat-holes he dreamt that—well, I almost forget what he did dream, but I think that there were powdered footmen in it, and a coach-and-four, or something equally stupid.

"So, boy, you'll be going to leave us," said Mr. Craig, next night, when he came back from Falkirk Lodge, and told the staymaker and his wife how kind his newly-found cousins had been to him.

"You'll be going to leave us. Well, it's no me that will stand in your way. But come to see us sometimes. We like you, lad, and as long as you live in Inverness you shan't want a friend."

He did need a friend very much ere long, as we shall see.

Mrs. Fraser was a very amiable lady indeed, and my grandfather liked her from the very first. But Fraser himself was haughty and affected, and soon gave the boy to understand that he was little better than a menial, and taken, not really out of charity, but because he and his lady would permit no cousin of theirs, in whose veins flowed the Fraser-of-Lovat blood, to work in a shop like a common "snob."

Ah! well, he might have been like one, but he was independent while with Mr. Craig, even though as poor as one of his bed-fellows, the rats.

I have ever failed to see that there was anything to be ashamed of in poverty.

"Is there, for honest poverty,
    That hangs his head, and a' that?
The coward-slave, we pass him by,
    We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,
    Our toils obscure, and a' that;
The rank is but the guinea-stamp,
    The man's the gowd for a' that!"

My grandfather then began life at Falkirk Lodge, by being clerk to his Cousin Fraser, and amanuensis to his wife.

It was a pleasant enough sort of existence, and the work was not hard. He had plenty of liberty also, and was even permitted to keep a dog, called Dash, that poor old honest Craig had given him. And Dash was a lovely collie.

I think Dash was about the best friend that the boy had even now. For Mrs. Fraser went much into society, and Ian had to go with her as a sort of poor relation.

His manliness resented this, but he never complained, for the lady was most kind.

But something very strange happened about six months after my boy-grandfather came to reside at the Lodge. For one evening Fraser came home unusually elated.

"It is done," he cried, "done, my dear. All finished and done."

Here he embraced Mrs. Fraser.

Then he turned round to Ian.

"Leave the room," he said haughtily.

My grandfather bit his lip, and turned a trifle red in the face. But he turned to go.

Just as the lad was leaving, this proud Fraser called him back.

"Here," he cried, "I don't want to be rough with you. Take this shilling and spend it as you please."

"Donald," he added, addressing a servant, "you see I am not a bad-hearted fellow, and I've had good news to-day, so I give my little kinsman a shilling, and here is one for you."

Donald put the shilling in his pocket.

Ian, my plucky grand-dad, felt inclined at first to throw the shilling in the grate, and run right away back to his old friend Craig. But Mrs. Fraser looked so gentle and kind that he had not the heart to vex her. So he followed Donald's example, and put the coin in his pocket.

Then he walked out.

That same evening he happened to enter the great kitchen, that was honoured by the title of servants' hall.

"Ha!" cried the butler, "here comes another young soldier..

"And he's going to fight the French,
For King George upon the throne."

Ian looked so puzzled that everybody laughed.

"I'm no soldier," said my grandfather, "and don't want to be."

"Och!" cried Donald, "that won't do at all. For sure you took the King's shilling as well as myself did."

"Yes, you are enlisted," said the butler, "right enough. Haven't you heard that master has been made Captain in the Black Watch, and wants to take all the young Highlanders with him he can get?"

Then my grandfather's wrath was aroused. He brought his sturdy little fist to the table with a bang.

"I will not serve under a Fraser of Lovat," he cried. "Cousins of ours though the Frasers are, they were rebels. I am a Robertson and a loyalist."

Then he dashed out, regardless of the platoon fire of laughing that followed him.

Captain Fraser was away for a whole week, and when he returned he was in uniform.

My grandfather met him respectfully in the hall.

"Salute your officer!" said Fraser haughtily.

"You are not my officer, sir."

"You are a soldier legally enlisted, young man, and to-morrow you join your company at Fort Augustus. I am not going to make you a private soldier, for my own sake. You will still be my clerk, and if you behave well, your promotion will come."

My grandfather made no reply.

Had he tried to, the words would have been those of anger.

He simply bowed, and walked out.

It was a beautiful morning in spring. The sky was soft and blue, the air was balmy, and the rippling of the river, not far off, soothed his mind.

Far, indeed, was he from being happy, however, and as he stood on the cool green walk of the old garden, gazing upwards at the sky, he felt that he would have given a good deal for the luxury of a hearty cry. But then we can't always cry when we wish to. Presently, a soft warm muzzle was thrust into his hand, and looking down, lo! there were the brown eyes of his favourite collie, Dash, turned upwards to his—anxiously—enquiringly.

They said as plainly as dog's eyes could talk, "What mood are you in this morning, master? for I am ready for anything. I shall remain quiet and sympathise with you and love you, or we can go for a grand old game of romps together."

Dash's appeal was irresistible, and next minute Sidney and he had left the garden together, and side by side were scampering over the fields and by the hedgerows, with the glad sun shining down on them, shining into their very hearts, while the wild flowers, that grew everywhere around them, seemed part and parcel of their young lives.

Yes, Dash, like Ian himself, was young. O, give youth a young dog, I say; the natures of the two are in unison, their minds are en rapport, and let your old dogs go pottering around with elderly people. But little more than a year had yet passed over Dash's smooth head and bonnie brow. Life to him as yet was all a bright and beautiful show, in which every creature that moved was just as happy and full of fun as he himself was. "What were the cocks crowing for?" he would have asked you. "Why did the birds sing so sweetly and so merrily?" Why? because they were all so brimful of happiness and joy, that they would have died if unable to give vent to their feelings. Even the trees sang softly to the passing winds, and the dimpled ponds and purling brooklets laughed gladsomely upwards at the blue sky and the fleecy, floating clouds. Everything was joyful like the dog himself. He went scampering on in front of the boy, and picked up a round stone that he found on the grass. "Why, Mr. Stone," he seemed to say, "don't you join in the general jollity all around you? Why should you lie there so still and quiet when Nature all is gay? I'll teach you a lesson."

And he tosses the stone high in the air, catching it ere it fell, though it makes his teeth bleed just a little. Then he rolls it in front of him, ever so funnily; then he covers it with grass, and rolls and tumbles over it; then pretends it is lost entirely, and that there isn't a ghost of a chance of ever finding it again at all. Then—"Wow!" he has found it again, and once more the fun grows fast and furious, till my grandfather forgets his grief, and is fain to laugh aloud and take a hand in the sport, and round and round they "whish" and run, a madcap collie and a madcap boy.

Soldiers and all are forgotten for the time being; grief and sorrow are no more real now than half-forgotten dreams, and that dreadful old Cousin Fraser, who had arisen on the horizon of the lad's life, vanishes like a darkling cloud when it meets the moon.

On and on they scampered, the madcap collie and the madcap boy. On and on. They neither knew nor cared whither.

But they brought up at last in the midst of a wild, hobgoblin kind of a heathy moor, where the sun shone very brightly; and here Dash threw himself down to rest and pant, his pink ribbon of a tongue hanging out at one side of his mouth across teeth whiter far than alabaster.

THE KING'S SHILLING—IN CORNEY'S CAVE—"SURRENDER
IN THE KING'S NAME"—CAPTURE AND ESCAPE.

My grandfather found himself at long last among the birchen woods that in those days lay not far off the bay that leads to Beauly. The day was already far spent, and Dash and he were getting hungry.

Suddenly he sat down upon a stone close to the sea, and Dash laid his beautiful muzzle on his knee and looked up sympathisingly in his face.

"Whatever is to be done now, doggie!" said my grandfather.

"Never mind, master, never mind."

That is about all the advice a dog can give one in times of trouble, but the look of unquenchable affection that is conveyed by the eyes is better far, and more soothing, than the set phrases of sympathy vouchsafed to one from human lips.

"Here I am, Dash, in one of the prettiest of pickles. I've turned my back on Inverness, on Falkirk Lodge at any rate, and now here I am with nothing in the world except what I stand up in, just as poor as you, Dash, and as hungry as a hawk. What a fool I was to leave the Craigs. I wasn't so very unhappy there, Dash, even though I did sleep under the counter; the rats daren't come near me when you were there. Heigho! hungry and tired, and nothing to get food with.

"O yes, by the way, there is that shilling."

He took the coin from his pocket and looked at it.

"That shilling, Dash, would keep you and me alive and well for three days. But I would not break it to save my life—no, nor your life, Dash. The King's shilling! Well, if I had wanted it I would have asked for it, and could have fought for my country as bravely as did the Robertsons of old.

"Dash, I could be a soldier, but never, never a slave!

"There goes the King's shilling."

He flung it far into the sea as he spoke.

"Some cod-fish may swallow it, Dash, and I hope it will agree better with him than it has with me. Come, doggie, we'll gather some dulse."*

* A kind of edible seaweed.

Dash didn't care for it, but he made pretence to eat some just to please his master.

There was a fisherman's hut not far off, and near the door, sitting at her knitting on an upturned coble, a buxom fisher-lass.

My grandfather drew near, and addressing her in Gaelic, begged for a drop of water for his dog.

"My father and I are just going to have a bit of dinner; you and the doggie must come in and take pot-luck." That was the lassie's reply.

"To be sure," cried her grey-bearded father from the doorway, "the lad must come in and the beastie too. What says the Good Book? 'Be ye careful to entertain strangers, for some have entertained angels unawares.'"

My grandfather thanked them, and gladly entered the hut. "But," he said, laughing, "Dash here may be an angel, but there isn't much angel about me. Why, I'm a runaway. I'm not sure, indeed, that I'm not a deserter."

Then he told the good people all the story.

And the old man's wrath was aroused.

"Is it," he cried, "is it that they would be making a soldier of you by force? The villains! Let the French do that, but Britons will never bow to it!"

My grandfather thought that meal the most delicious he had ever eaten in his life. And it was only boiled haddock and potatoes after all.

Dash was of the same opinion.

"Now, boy," said the old man, as he bade him good-bye, "go home to your people on the Braes, and defy your proud Cousin Fraser. Pride always goes before a fall. The Lord Himself be with you, laddie. Good-day, good-day."

* * * * *

It now occurred to my grandfather that the old fisherman's advice was very good indeed, and that he had best go and see his people.

He walked briskly on now, with Dash galloping and barking around him.

Something would turn up.

In the bright lexicon of youth, there ought to be no such word as "Fail."

"Dear boy, you're welcome home."

These were his father's first words.

"If nothing better happens, why, you can join your brothers at the farm."

Ian had half expected a scolding, and the tears came to his eyes as his mother embraced him. He spent three or four very happy days at the farm, and visited many times and oft his old friends and his old haunts.

Rachel had grown wonderfully, and was a trifle more reserved and shy, pretending to take more interest in the dog than in his master.

"Love me, love my dog."

There is truth in that old saying.

But there was one friend he missed, and that was Tom Grahame, the boy he had nearly slain with his big kilt pin.

The boy had gone south—nobody knew his destination—to seek his fortune, as resolute young Scotch lads did in those days, and do still.

Meanwhile, to return for a moment to Falkirk Lodge, the wrath of the newly-fledged Captain Fraser knew no bounds.

He was deprived of the services of a good clerk, and his company of a soldier.

He wrote at once to the commandant at Fort Augustus, describing poor Ian, from head to foot, from his blue bonnet to his brogue sheen,* and branding him as a deserter.

* Highland boots or shoes.

Now every soldier was valuable in those warlike days, so the commandant lost no time in attempting to arrest my grand-dad. He was just sitting down to dinner one day, when little Rachel rushed in.

"O Ian, Ian," she cried, the tears rolling over her cheeks, "the soldiers are coming, three of them with guns and bayonets and all. O, where can you hide? They will hang you and shoot you and all."

This was a time for action and coolness too. There was no fear about Ian. But quite the reverse. He comforted and reassured poor Rachel.

"They can never take me," he said; "I am no deserter, but I want some fun. I'll go to the forest, father; the soldiers will tire looking for me in a week's time. Put some food for me now and then in Corney's Cave. Don't cry, Rachel. This is quite a romance. Dash and I will be playing at being outlaws. Good-bye."

He sprang out by the back door, just as the feather bonnets and bayonets of a sergeant and a file of soldiers appeared on the brae.

Dash went with him.

Corney's Cave was the very place in which Ian's father and grandmother and Fiona had been hidden during the terrible fight at the old farm, after Culloden. Though used as a whisky-still, it was at present out of employment. There was no fear of any smoke being seen, as this found its way, by a kind of natural chimney in the rocks, into a shepherd's hut.

Here my grandfather could lie quiet for a month or more, if he chose, without the possibility of being captured.

He lit himself a fire, for there was plenty of dry peats and wood in a corner; then making Dash lie down, he went out to pull heather for a couch. He was very systematic with his work. The heather was tied up in little bundles, and when about two score of these were placed side by side, the green ends upwards, they formed a bed that many a fugitive king, in olden times, would have reposed upon with delight.

Just before darkling, Dash emitted a low growl, and next moment a tiny, bare-headed gillie crept into the cave.

He brought plenty of cakes and cheese and milk for Ian and Dash. He also told my grandfather all about the soldiers. They had searched all day in the forest, but had now returned to Beauly, as no one on the Braes or near there would give them food.

Then the lad said good-night and slipped away as silently as a heather newt.

It was certainly lonesome enough in that cave, and but for the presence of Dash, I believe my grandfather would have dreaded a visit from ghosts or water-kelpies.

As it was, after making up a good fire, which lit the whole cave up in the most cheery way, Ian and Dash enjoyed a hearty supper.

Then he said his prayers and lay down to sleep, a Highland plaid his only covering.

He had "backed" the fire and stowed away a kindling peat, so he had no fear for the morrow.

For quite a long time he lay awake, thinking and wondering how all this was going to end. The strangeness of the situation and his surroundings, no doubt, helped to make him wakeful. The fire burned lower and lower, the black roof at one moment enveloped in shadow and darkness, and next, lit up with flickering gleams of light. Outside was the low moan of the wind and the murmur of the stream over its stony bed; but presently these sounds seemed to draw farther and farther off, and soon were heard no more.

For Ian slept.

He strolled only a little way from the cave next forenoon, but as the sun began to sink in the west, the irksomeness of cave-life became unbearable, and he determined to risk all and treat himself and Dash to a stroll in the forest. Among those grand old trees, with the green, cool moss beneath his feet, he forgot his troubles, and soldiers were soon banished from his thoughts away.

He had a rude awakening.

For while lying on his back listening to the sweet even-song of the birds, and watching the crimson light of the westering sun, flickering on the branches of the lofty pines, Dash suddenly sprang up and barked. Ian was on his feet in a moment.

"Now we have you! Surrender in the King's name!"

"Surrender, in the King's name!"

So near were the soldiers to him, that he seemed to look down the muzzles of their muskets.

They fired as he darted off through the woods, and one bullet whistled close past his head. Then the chase began.

As well might they have attempted to follow a red-deer on foot.

Ian soon left them far behind. Then patted Dash's faithful head, and took matters very leisurely.

They made a long detour, however, and only Apache Indians could have followed their trail back to the cave. Here was the wee gillie waiting by the fire. He was very glad to see Ian, and told him all the news. My grandfather kept him quite a long time chatting by the fire and he promised to come again after dusk next evening.

The place looked gloomier when the gillie went, but Ian heaped more wood on the fire, and the excellent supper sent by his mother made him feel once more happy.

It wasn't such a disagreeable life, this, after all. Many a better man than he had been an outlaw, he told himself. There was King Bruce, for instance, and Sir William Wallace, and many a brave knight besides on whose heads a price was set, and who lived in caves and forests, just as he was living now.

Ah! brighter days would come.

For a whole week poor Ian stuck to his cave, only venturing out after dusk.

The soldiers still hung around the woods, so the gillie told Ian, and the sergeant had even declared that he would stop "till Doomsday in the afternoon," rather than return without his prisoner.

Ian thought that cave-life till Doomsday in the afternoon would become rather monotonous. However, he unluckily made up his mind, one evening, to pay a visit to his old dominie's house.

The soldiers would hardly be in that neighbourhood.

So, as soon as gloaming, and the gillie had come and gone, and darkness was creeping down and filling up the glens, he crept out of his hiding, and made his way up the steep rocks, and on to the brae-lands above. Although it must have been well on to nine o'clock, much to his joy he noticed lights still glimmering in the dominie's window.

He had left Dash tied up, and walked very cautiously, frequently looking round when he heard the slightest sound. There was just one little copse to pass through, then he should be safe.

Alas! he had no sooner entered, than he was seized and thrown down.

His captors were the soldiers.

They bound his hands behind his back, then told him to march.

The men chatted right merrily all the way to Beauly, but Ian spoke hardly a word.

No, he had not let down his heart. Not a bit of it; he was only meditating how best he could escape.

"Well," said the sergeant, as they neared a small inn—the landlord and his daughter were well-known to Ian's father—"Well, lad, you have led us a nice dance, but I bear no ill-will. Come in here with us, and we'll wet your whistle."

Ian didn't want his whistle wetted, but he had to enter all the same.

They were kindly received, and shown into the best room.

"Poor boy," said the girl, aloud, "and have they caught you after all?"

But she took the opportunity of whispering in his ear, "Pretend to sleep, and fly when I put out the lights."

"Yes, we've caught the young rascal," said the sergeant, "and I've a good mind to catch you also."

But Ellen glided off like an eel, and presently returned with cakes and cheese, and a huge black bottle, and I need hardly say what that contained.

They forced Ian to drink some, though he had never touched spirits before.

After this, the men proceeded to make themselves merry. And right merry they seemed to be. As Ian passed his glass as often as any of them, though he managed to spill it, instead of drinking it, they patted him on the shoulder, and told him he would make a splendid soldier. The lad volunteered a song, and was rapturously encored. Then he kept up the delusion by talking nonsense.

Presently he pretended to tumble off his chair.

My grandfather now began to snore aloud.

"He's safe enough, anyhow," said the sergeant. "So, lads, another toast."

By one o'clock the fun grew fast and furious, and presently in came Ellen.

"Now, soldiers, it's bed-time."

"No, no, no."

"Father will give you no more to-night. Pay, and go to bed."

"We'll sit here till morning dawns, my beautiful, winsome, charming——"

Ellen cut short the oration in true Highland fashion, by a sounding slap across the speaker's cheek.

"Ye'll sit in the dark, then," she cried, and out went the candle.

Now was Ian's chance. In the confusion that followed, he made his way to the door, and by two o'clock was safe and sound once more in the cave.

Dash was delighted, and, the fire being replenished, both had supper, and then went to sleep together on the heather couch.

When he awoke next morning, Ian could hardly believe for a time that his adventure had been aught else save a troubled dream.

SWORN TO SHOOT AT SIGHT—AN ADVENTURE ON THE
ROAD—"PLEASE, Sir, ARE YOU THE COLONEL?"—"WE'LL
CALL YOU JOHN."

When the faithful little gillie returned to the cave that night, he brought with him a kindly letter of advice from the dominie. He had seen the soldiers that very forenoon, and so incensed were they, that they had sworn to shoot my grandfather on sight, without further parley. And there was no doubt they meant to carry this awful threat into execution.

"Now, dear boy," the latter continued, "I advise you to make an attempt to leave the place as soon as possible. By day will be safest, for then the soldiers are there in the forest. At night they keep watch around the houses. If you get safely to Inverness, go to see a man of law called John Chisholm. Take this letter with you, and he'll receive you kindly, and tell you what is best for you to do."

"My daughter Rachel encloses a little note for you. So sorry that neither of us can see you, but it would not be safe. Good-bye, and the Lord be with you."

Next day the gillie came at eleven o'clock.

"The soldiers," he said, "are scouring the forest. Now will be your chance."

A short time after this Ian entered his father's house and took a hurried farewell of all. A most affecting farewell it was, and many were the tears that were shed.

Even poor Dash knew that the parting had come, and sadly woe-begone he looked.

"Be kind to dear Dash, sister," were among the last words the lad said.

Then he hurried away from the home which it would be many and many a long year before he should see again—if ever.

Rachel's note was to my grandfather a very precious one, though simple:

"DEAR IAN,—Fly quickly, O, fly. They will shoot you dead if you don't. With fond love and prayers I send you a four-bladed clover.

"But, dear Ian, trust more in God than even the four-bladed clover.—Your little RACHEL. Amen! so let it be."

My grandfather put the letter in his bosom and hurried on.

At Beauly he was well known, but not a soul would have thought of giving him away.

He went in to thank Ellen for assisting him to escape, and stayed and chatted quite a long time.

So safe did he feel, that he must even visit the little old fisherman on the border of the bay, and bid him and his daughter a long farewell.

A little farther on he overtook three Forty-second soldiers. He would have darted into the woods, but he sighted them all at once on rounding the bend of the road, and one happening to look round sighted him.

With country courtesy, they waited till he came up, and his heart beat high and uneasily as he joined them.

Would they recognise him and make him prisoner? That was the thought uppermost in his mind. But his fears were for a time set to rest, till one of them began to laugh.

"Can't help thinking how neatly Sergeant McGregor was done," he said in Gaelic.

Then the others laughed, and one turning round to Ian said, "Do you come from Beauly?"

"From far beyond," replied grandfather evasively. "But," he added, "I didn't stop long enough to get any news."

"Ah, well, you know, the sergeant and a file were after a deserter, not much older, maybe, than yourself."

My grandfather felt his colour come and go, while his heart thumped wildly against his ribs.

"Why," cried another soldier, "by all descriptions, this young fellow would pass for the deserter."

Then all laughed, and Ian laughed too, as if he enjoyed the joke immensely. But he found courage to say—and he spoke the truth when he said it—

"I've never been a soldier yet, but if I were I should stick to my colours."

"Good, my boy, good, and it's a soldier you ought to be."

My grandfather knew now the crisis had passed, so he said to the first speaker:

"Tell me the story, soldier."

"O, McGregor of ours and his men had been watching the woods for, maybe, a month. But they collared their man at last and led him down to the Charlie Stuart Inn, at Beauly, and so they all marched inside. Well, the deserter was just rolling in money that his father had given him, for they do say he is a near connection of the Lovat family. So he ordered a splendid supper, and he made all the three of them so full with one thing or another, that before two in the morning they went comfortably to bed beneath the table.

"Then," continued the soldier, "the young rascal of a deserter coolly blackened all their faces till you couldn't have told them from negroes, rammed their muskets up the chimney, with their butt-ends stuck in the fire."

"Didn't they go off?" said Ian.

"I tell you they were all asleep under the table."

"But the guns, I mean."

"Well, I suppose they did after a bit, but they didn't waken the men."

"And the deserter went off, of course?"

"Yes, and he's safe in the woods now."

"Is he, indeed?" said grandfather, hardly able to suppress a smile.

"It will never be let down on McGregor," added the soldier. "It was the girl Ellen who waked them next morning, and when they looked at each other and found they were all black men, I—I—ha, ha, ha, I would have given worlds to have seen the fun."

And talking thus cheerfully they reached Inverness, but my grandfather was not at all sorry when at last they bade him good-bye and went off.

* * * * *

John Chisholm was a florid-faced, white-haired, very fat man.

But good-hearted, and reputed the cleverest lawyer in the capital of the Highlands.

He bade my sixteen-year-old grandfather be seated.

Then he mounted a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles and quietly perused the dominie's letter.

After this he looked at my grandfather over his glasses and said:

"Humph!"

Well, that expression "Humph!" isn't even here or there.

"I assure you, my boy, I'm a sort of sorry for you. You have been completely sold, or rather bought, and there is only one thing I can advise."

"Yes, sir?"

"Are you averse to becoming a soldier?"

"O, no, indeed, sir; I think I'd rather like going to the wars.

"But," he added manfully, "I'd rather be shot than fight under my rebel-cousin, Fraser."

"Bravo! Well, go and be shot like a good boy."

"I'm afraid I don't quite understand, sir."

"Don't you? Why, go straight away to Fort George, where there is a recruiting-squad of that grand old regiment, the 1st Royals, stationed, and enlist. Nothing can be more simple."

My grandfather thanked him profusely, and took his leave.

That night he slept in his old bed beneath Mr. Craig's counter. Mr. Craig, his wife, and the cat were all delighted to see him, and gave him quite a hearty welcome, and when they parted next day, the old lady took what she called an eternal leave of him.

"We'll never see you more, poor boy," she said.

And she never did.

The recruiting-sergeant of the 1st Royals was a most dignified and dashing soldier, with a long powdered cue dangling over the upper part of his spine, and covering his scarlet jacket with a layer of snow-white dust. He was in the square when my grandfather entered the gloomy portals of this renowned fort, and was pointed out to him by a sentry.

"That is the sergeant with all the ribbons a-fluttering from his cap."

Ian approached somewhat timidly.

He saluted, and being the first military salute ever he had made, I dare say it was rather an awkward one.

"Well, my man, what can I do for you?" said the gallant non-commissioned officer, bending as far as his high stock would permit him to do.

"Please, sir, are you the colonel?"

The sergeant laughed, and a smile rippled over the faces of a few men near by.

"No, lad, I'm only a general. The colonel has had a shave, and gone to bed for fear of catching cold after it. Perhaps I can do for the time being. What is your business?"

"I've come to enlist, if you please."

"Enlist! Why you do the grand old regiment an honour which it will not soon forget. But come along, lad; I must, have my little joke. Follow me, and I'll make a man of you before you are five minutes older."

He led the way in through a narrow passage, and my grandfather soon found himself in a long narrow room, with a ceiling so low that he could have touched it. There were a table, some forms, and a chair in it, and at the former the smart sergeant sat down, and pulled towards him some official-looking paper, an ink-bottle, and a huge quill pen.

"Now, then, I want to know something about you."

"Well, sir, my father—

"O, come, come, I don't want you to go back to Noah altogether. Give me your name, age, &c., place of birth, and everything else."

My grandfather did so. The sergeant wrote all down. Then he shoved a shilling across the table.

"I beg your pardon, sir, but I don't think I should take that."

"Not take the King's money?"

"No, sir; I got the King's shilling before, and Dash and I threw it into the sea."

The sergeant dropped his quill pen as suddenly as if he had been shot.

"What!" he cried, "you've enlisted before?"

"It was not enlistment, sir, it was fraud; my lawyer, Mr. Chisholm, told me so."

"Come," said the sergeant, "this gets interesting. A boy who has a lawyer should be an ensign to begin with, to say the least of it. Tell me all about it, boy."

Then he got the whole story, and laughed heartily at it.

"You'll take this shilling, nevertheless, my boy, and I've no doubt you'll pass the doctors all right. But," he added, "as you seem to have some qualms of conscience—a very awkward possession for a soldier to begin life on—here is another shilling out of my own purse, to send back in a letter to your pretty cousin, whose nose I'd dearly like to pull.

"You may write to him here, and I'll sign it.

"Tell him you return his coin, and that his kilted warriors needn't knock about the damp woods any longer looking for you, as you now belong to the oldest regiment in Britain, and the finest that ever crossed bayonets with a warlike foe."

Ian did as he was told.

"How beautifully you write, boy!" the sergeant said, as he peeped over his shoulder. "It's my opinion you'll soon be an orderly."

My grandfather smiled, though he had not the faintest notion what was meant by an orderly.

"My mother always thought me very orderly, sir."

Again the facetious sergeant laughed.

"Well, now," he said, "I'll put you in charge of a soldier who will see you all right, and put you up to getting your kit and everything else.

"But one thing I must tell you, and I would tell you a good many if I had time. You must always do your duty briskly, heartily, and pleasantly, and be obedient to orders. We've all got to do that, lad. You will only be a small cog in a mighty great wheel. That wheel is the British Army, that rolls round the world and crushes everything that dares to oppose it.

"Your name is Ian?"

"Yes, sir."

"And the English is 'John.' Keep the Ian till you go back home again—if ever you do. We'll call you John. And now, my brave lad, I shake hands with

"PRIVATE JOHN ROBERTSON, OF THE 1ST ROYALS."

Off to Join his Regiment

Book II

OFF TO JOIN HIS REGIMENT

FIRST MONTHS OF SOLDIER-LIFE—THE PLEASURE OF DRILL—A
PASSAGE OF ARMS—EN ROUTE FOR EDINBURGH CASTLE—AN
OLD-TIME TROOPER.

Private John Robertson had been for three whole months in Fort George, and drilling every day. Yes, those were stirring times, and soldiers were so valuable that they had, figuratively speaking, to be made by machinery.

Nobody likes to be drilled for the first time, or to form part in the awkward squad of "Jockie Raws" as they used to be called.

I think that from the very first my grandfather considered himself better in every way than the lads he was drilled with. Well, there is no harm, but quite the reverse, I think, in a young man having a good opinion of himself. But these companions of his were young fellows who had been shepherds, plough-boys, or mechanics, and few of them had very much English to bless themselves with, although I grieve to say they soon learned bad words.

"You would make good men when trained," the drill-sergeant said, "but," he added, "you are far from a pretty picture just at present."

Well, they were of all shapes and sizes, and they wouldn't "dress." They kept their thumbs to the seams of their trousers, and their heads in the air, but when told to dress* they sidled about like crabs, and their eyes went squinting right and left in the most comical way imaginable.

* Dress: form in a straight line.

One would have pitied that smart sergeant.

At times his brows were lowered till you could hardly have seen an eye in his head. At times he beat his legs with his cane.

"Oh! oh! oh! what are you doing?" he would cry. "Take the time from me. McLeod, you are out of step. Donaldson, you dunce, you ought to be shot."

There was a captain here who used to watch Sergeant Brown drilling his awkward squad, and much amused he seemed to be. But he was even more irascible than Brown. For instance, there were times not a few when, losing his patience altogether, the sergeant would advance a few steps towards his "Jockie Raws," and switch one across the face with his gloves.

Then forward Captain Drake would dash.

"Don't soil your gloves, Sergeant," he would shout. "Don't even lose your temper; I never lose mine at all, at all."

But next moment he would dash his fist straight out at the man whom the sergeant had flicked, and no matter how big he was, down he rolled, and took up ground on his back in the square.

Yes, Captain Drake had a beautiful fist, and those were rough times for recruits and soldiers generally.

* * * * *

The words I am now going to write are purposely put parenthetically, so that if they look too like a little bit of preaching they can be skipped. There is an old saying then: poeta nascitur non fit. The poet is born not made. This is certainly true. But we hear often enough the same thing said about the soldier. "Some men are soldiers born." This is not so true. Anyhow, depend upon it that, given the raw material, a good soldier or a bad can be made out of it. A soldier can be made or marred. Some who read this book will themselves become officers in the army. I pray them, therefore, never to forget that good soldiers are made by kindness and encouragement, and marred by rough treatment. Find out the good that is in a man. Fan that.

Whether my dear Auld-da was a good soldier or an indifferent, his story will tell; and tell, too, I have family pride enough to believe, in his favour.

In those wild and warlike times it was most difficult, be assured, for a young fellow to rise from the ranks, and having so risen, to keep on and on through good report and ill report, and never be broken.

But I am of opinion that it was the words of kindness and encouragement he received that first helped this soldier-grandfather of mine to step out of the ranks and prove himself worthy of the trust and confidence of his superiors.

And just one last word: just as often as not those very superiors were far indeed from being patterns themselves.

* * * * *

I am sure that my grandfather was very proud indeed when he first handled a musket. I know this from experience, having myself been a full private in the Volunteers when I was in my teens. But when one gets one's rifle and learns how to handle it—unloaded I mean—the very exactness and detail of the motions are delightful. Then comes company-drill, which seems to a beginner as senseless as the first steps we learn at a dancing-school. But battalion-drill stirs the blood, methinks, especially if you have a few miles' march to the field of parade, with plenty of room for manœuvres. And what can be more jolly than skirmishing in an open country? Nothing in the form of exercise is more exhilarating, whether it takes place when the summer sun is glistening on the greenery of the woods, or in winter when the crisp dry snow covers all the land as if with a white cocoon. Why, the very trumpet or bugle calls inspire you, and if you are blessed with a good imagination you can easily believe you are engaged in actual warfare, instead of only playing at being soldiers.

But the prettiest exercise of all, in my opinion, is that with the bayonet. It has to be seen or experienced to be believed in.

Well, my grand-dad, of course, went through all these; yes, and he and his companions in arms were kept very hard at it too. It was no child's play learning to be a soldier in the latter end of the eighteenth century. Pretty early to bed and precious early to rise, drill, drill, drill all day long in summer's sun or winter's snow, and with about a score of masters—more or less—to serve, Tommy Atkins's life was then no sinecure.

Although my grandfather often used to say in after-days that with his good sword he could shiver spear or pike, and bend or break an enemy's bayonet off his gun, still he took very much to bayonet-exercise at first, and delighted the heart of his drill-sergeant.

Even at this early age, in a passage of arms at the New Year's fete, the lad quite distinguished himself by his skill and agility. And his instructor was a proud man accordingly. But his pupil had the high honour of being called to a box occupied by ladies of title and rank, and literally caressed by them. I dare say he felt a trifle shy, especially when such remarks as the following were made in his presence, and while he was being turned round and round for inspection.

"Doesn't he look a perfect picture, Lady Jane?"

"A love of a lad!"

"And a perfect angel with the bayonet!"

"Look at his dainty cue!" The lady lifted it on her closed fan as she spoke.

"And cheeks like raspberries!"

"Heigho!" sighed a stout old lady, in a comfortable chair, "if I were only a hundred years younger I'd be a soldier myself."

"I dare say you have a dainty little dear of a sweetheart, haven't you?" asked a lady.

My sixteen-year-old grandfather dropped his eyes.

"Yes, did you say? And what is her pretty name?"

"Rachel."

"How sweet! And now we'll let you go."

He saluted and left.

"Bless the little innocent!" were the last words that he heard.

"Find it rather hot up there, Robertson?" said the captain who used to knock the recruits down.

"Just a little, sir."

"Ha, ha, good thing ladies don't often mix with our soldiers. Blame me if pretty Lady Jane yonder wouldn't spoil a whole battalion.

"By the way, young cockalorum," he added, "would you like to be a mess servant or my servant. You'd have less to do. Speak out. Nobody wants to force you."

"Then, sir, I'd rather stick to ordinary duty."

"Quite right, my lad. Quite right. Well, look here, you play so prettily with the bayonet that I think it would do you good to learn sword-exercise. I'll send for you sometimes, and give you a lesson. So shall Sergeant-Major Rae after we get down to Edinburgh. He is nearly as good as myself with the broadsword."

This on the whole had been a very happy day for grand-dad, and when he turned in that night, he thought everyone had been so kind to him, especially Captain Drake.* He made a firmer determination than ever, therefore, to stick hard to drill, and just learn all he could, and, as his sergeant said, look upon himself as still merely a schoolboy.

* For obvious reasons names of officers who figure in this story must be fictitious.

Some of the recruits had got to be wild and reckless even already. They were rather encouraged than otherwise by the older soldiers.

Swearing, I am sorry to say, or the use of very ugly language, was all too prevalent in the British Army in those days. So was drinking. But apart from the use of expletives, the privates were in the habit of passing very rude remarks, indeed, about their officers and superiors generally. It is conduct of this kind that often leads to mutiny in regiments, but in the old war-times the officers were often much to blame for such a state of affairs.

There were many happenings, too, that would scarcely be permitted in our time.

One day, as my grandfather was doing sentry-go by a gate near the square, he noticed Captain Drake coming from the direction of the officers' mess, and a couple of unarmed privates, under the charge of a sergeant, marching from the men's side of the square.

They took up a position within hearing distance of my grand-dad, and Captain Drake, note-book in hand, confronted him.

"Been at it again, Sergeant?"

"Yes, sir, and I've warned them ever so many times, but they will keep on argle-bargling."

"Any insubordination? They keep quiet when you speak to them?"

"Yes, sir, and 'no' to your first question. Only to-day McGruer threw a spoon at Pope's head."

"Hit him?"

"Yes, Captain Drake; you can see the mark on the bridge of Pope's nose now."

"The Pope's nose, eh? Ha, ha. Well, did Pope throw anything back?"

"The salt-cellar, sir. Missed McGruer and brought up on big Playfair's head. Big Playfair went for Pope, and there was five minutes of a rough room, sir."

"Well, Playfair can't be blamed. This isn't a case for the halberts, Sergeant. The men shall punish each other."

"You shall fight, men, and fight fairly, and after this there must be peace, and I'll flog the man who breaks it. Nine o'clock to-morrow, Sergeant."

Captain Drake turned on his heel and marched off.

At nine o'clock next morning, sure enough, the two men, stripped to the waist, stood confronting each other in fighting attitude.

All the junior officers, were present, and one or two of the seniors.

At a given signal the men commenced. It was an ugly scene, as all such are. Many rounds were fought, and much blood was spilt, to the delight of the spectators, but at last McGruer was knocked out of time. Presently the men shook hands, and I am bound to record that peace was maintained between them ever after.

* * * * *

The company got the route at last, and on a cold, blustering morning in December were marched to Inverness, and embarked the same evening on board the packet for Leith.

The packet was a full-rigged ship. She carried a few guns—more, I think, for show than defence, for the vessel was a mere tub. She had seen better days, no doubt, and though little over seven hundred tons, was reputed to have fought more than one battle against the French or Dutch—it does not matter which, for grandfather himself did not know.

We live in comparatively comfortable times, for the voyage from Edinburgh to the beautiful capital of the Highlands can be easily accomplished by steamer in a day. And now we shall learn something about this short voyage as accomplished in an old trooper.

About fifty soldiers in all, probably more, were crowded down below forward, although they had the option of sleeping on deck near the fo'c's'le, if they chose. The officers, including Captain Drake himself, were, of course, aft in the saloon, and had state-rooms such as they were.

But the upper-deck, all between the fore and mizen masts, was crowded with sheep, cattle, and a few horses. A kind of rude bridge ran athwart-ships just abaft the main-mast. It was little more, indeed, than a plank, easily unshipped, from which the officer of the watch could abuse the sailors who were working the ship.

"Hee—hoy—oy! Yo—yea—ea!"

It was the sing-song of the men setting or shifting sail, as the good ship Vengeful got stretching out into the Moray Firth, and began to feel the force of the cold, wild wind that blew from north and east.

Note that I have said "good ship Vengeful." In many respects she was far, indeed, from being a good or a safe ship, so it is out of courtesy to the old craft that I call her so. I cannot help, somehow, always looking upon a ship as a living thing. Well, many a storm had this ship braved, many an adventure had she taken part in. From her lofty sides she had poured a hail of fire and shot that scattered death and destruction along the decks of our saucy foes. She had done her duty, and should I despise her in her old age? No. And once more I dare to call her good.

Well, she sailed away, and as the short winter's day drew near its close, she was still staggering on up the Firth, but well to the north, with Kinnaird's Head so far distant that there was little probability of her rounding the point for a day or two to come.

My hero had never been to sea before, and had he lived for over a hundred years, it is unlikely that he could have forgotten that first rough night.

There was little pleasure aft even in the saloon. A few gathered round the table, and pretended to enjoy dinner with the ship's officers, but all save Captain Drake himself, who was an old sailor, retired at the earliest opportunity.

The saloon was deserted now, save by the skipper himself and the ship's cat. And the great lamp swung in its gimbals, the rudder-chains creaked, the ship's timbers groaned, and every time a big sea struck her on the bows, she shook for minutes after like some creature in the agonies of death.

The mate came below in a sou'-wester and dripping oilskins, and stood in the doorway for a moment with a smile on his rosy face.

"All alone, sir?"

"All alone, mate. Soldiers have turned in."

"Best thing they could do, sir."

"Think it's going to be a dirty night, then?"

"Sure of it. Later on, you know. Fact is, sir, it is a blowing half a gale now, and increasing every hour."

As he spoke, the first officer opened a cupboard, and helped himself and his superior to something in tumblers that looked like coffee, but wasn't.

Then he sat down on the edge of a chair. Sitting on the edge of a chair was looked upon as partaking of deference to a superior, in those days.

"Bring yourself properly to anchor, mate," said the captain cheerily.

Then the first officer drew his chair up to the table, and both lit their pipes.

"Second mate's watch, I think?"

"Yes, just relieved me. I'll go on again at midnight, sir, 'cause I expect it'll be a case of batten down."

"And those Swedes (soldiers), sir. Why, I pity them more'n the cows. Mostly all on deck at present, and wet to the skin. What they'll do when I batten them down is more 'n I can tell."

The mate spoke nothing but the truth, and not all the truth.

Come with me, in imagination, along this old-time trooper's decks, and we shall see a little of sea-life in the days of yore.

THE VOYAGE OF THE "VENGEFUL"—TERRIBLE SUFFERINGS
AT SEA.

As we crawl up the companion steps that lead from the saloon door to the upper-deck, and leave the companion, we are glad we are in the possession of good sea-legs.

We stand by the bulwark here a few minutes, clinging to the stays, until our eyes get more accustomed to the darkness. Yonder, high overhead, is a morsel of a moon, and the dark, goblin-like clouds are positively racing across its disc.

Look we seawards, and we find the horizon is almost close aboard of us, only the waves between tossing their white manes as they madly gallop past us.

Whew—ew—ew! How the wind whistles through the rigging, and across the scanty canvas!

With uncertain steps we stagger forward. Here is a very narrow gangway betwixt the weather bulwark and the lashed planks that hem or pen the cattle in. They are slipping, and sliding, and moaning low in their shivering misery. We hold our lantern up for a moment, but their pleading eyes appal us, and we hurry on.

Now and then, a bigger wave than usual sends the drenching death-cold spray high above us, and we are fain to cower beneath the bulwarks. But we are past the cattle-pens at last, and, but for our lantern, would stumble over not one man, but many. All young—several, among whom is my grandfather, only boys. He is lying there near the bowsprit, and quite exposed to the elements, his head pillowed on a coil of ropes, but, like most of the others, fast asleep.

Why do they not go below, where they may at least be dry and warm?

Warm! Yes; but I doubt the dryness. Come below and see.

The broad steps are black and slippery, the forehold has a cook's range in it. This is forward. Hammocks all filled, and a bobbing lantern hung more aft. The deck is so low that we clutch the beams overhead to balance ourselves as we examine this floating black hole. All round underneath the hammocks, on lockers, on boxes, on the wet and fulsome deck itself, lie soldiers in every attitude of prostration. Only a few are sitting up. Of these, some are uttering maudlin sentiments, or waving their arms and singing songs we should not hear, while others are playing cards in the uncertain light. But one or two—strange sight in such a place—are kneeling down in prayer.

We cannot stay long down here. The odour would make us sick, sailors though we be. We cannot wonder now that the other recruits prefer the cold, the darkness, and spray on deck.

But listen! The storm rages now more wildly than ever, and we can hear the bo's'n's pipe, "All hands shorten sail!"

This is the order, and men spring from their hammocks and, hardly waiting to dress, rush roughly past us.

Now, all is noise and confusion.

As long as she can, the Vengeful must continue tacking. To lie-to might mean drifting on a lee shore, and no soul could be saved if the good ship once beat her sides against the dark rocks.

An hour passes by. There is no abatement in the terrible gale.

The men are working at the pumps, cheering each other as they do so with snatches of wild song and a merriment that seems sadly out of place. Quite a mill-stream of dark water is rushing over the side, and the jerk, jerk of the pumps can be heard high above the roar of the storm, beating a kind of harsh accompaniment to the men's rough music.

No leak is sprung, yet so fast does she make water that the men are kept steadily at the pumps.

And now comes the order to batten down.

"Rouse up, you lads! Rouse up and tumble down below. Quick's the word."

My poor grandfather feels a foot in his ribs, and, hardly knowing where he is, staggers up, and is almost carried below in the rush.

Luckily we are not down there now. The hold of a slave-ship were surely sweeter far. And there imprisoned they must remain. If daylight brings a lull in this storm the hatches will be thrown open, if the ship founders down they must go—drowned or smothered—like rats in a hole.

And surely this is what it is coming to.

For, hark! again the bo's'n's pipe.

We strain our ears to catch the order.

"Hands lighten ship!"

Yes, the cattle and sheep are to be thrown overboard into the boiling sea, else the ship will sink.

O, the pity of it! and O, the cruelty and terror!

The poor sheep mute, as they always are, in the agonies of death, are speedily disposed of.

Then comes the worst and saddest sight of all, as the struggling, maddened, and bellowing cattle are hoisted with block and tackle, and dropped into the sea.

But this is slow work, and danger presses. A gangway is opened at great risk in the bulwarks, and the remainder of the poor beasts literally slide off the decks, and for minutes you may hear their bellowing far astern, amidst the wash and the dash of the billows.

* * * * *

Then the ship plunges on, and the men resume their work at the pumps: and resume their songs.

Daylight breaks at last. Very slowly, but as it spreads over the sea from east to west, the terrible turmoil of that awful sea is awe-striking. The waves indeed seem mountains high, and tower green and threatening over the ship as if bent upon engulfing her.

The hatches are thrown open later on, and the poor, half-dead soldiers permitted to breathe once more the breath of heaven, and see the light of day.

Truly it has been a fearful night. Nor has it passed without loss of life, for one poor sailor has "lost the number of his mess," as seamen say. He got entangled among the cattle, and was literally rushed overboard with the poor beasts that had been doomed to death.

The storm lulls in a few hours now, and though the darkling land is seen miles to the south, and the wind is still unfavourable, all danger is over for the time.

Five days after this, having encountered head winds, and gale upon gale all the way, the Vengeful sails up the Firth of Forth and anchors off Leith.

Perhaps never were soldiers more glad to get on shore than those poor sea-beaten "Jockie Raws" are, my grandfather included.

But soon, safe in Edinburgh Castle, their sorrows are all forgotten, and they are once more the careless, happy-go-lucky young soldiers, just the sort of boys that were needed to fight for their King and country in the brave days of old.

LIFE AT THE CASTLE—A DANCE ON THE DINNER-TABLE—HOW
A QUARREL WAS SETTLED—A DROLL DUEL AND
THE ENDING THEREOF.

If anything could inspire an enthusiastic young soldier like my grandfather with warlike ardour, it was residence in such a romantic and mighty castle as that of Edinburgh. Its history is one of the greatest and grandest that has ever been penned, and its associations full of romance.

His friend, Captain Drake, lent him books about it, and these, boy-like, he gloated over. They did him good in more ways than one, as books and papers invariably do the soldier who cares to read, for they kept him away from the temptations that are inseparable from every large town or city.

But even a private soldier can choose his companions, though, in barracks or out of barracks, this is sometimes hard to do.

Grandfather John, however, was fond of walking about by himself. He could not be called quite alone, however, if he had a book and his own thoughts. So he would climb the lofty hills on the Salisbury Crags, and when tired of gazing at the lovely scenery, set himself to read or think. Oftentimes, even when reading, his thoughts would wander home to the bonnie Braes of R—— and his old school life, and his droll adventures would rise up before his mind's eye, as well as that cosy fireside in his father's house, by which he used to spend the long forenights of winter.

Letters were dear to send in those days; they were dear indeed when received—dear to the heart, I mean. The boy used to save up for the postage, and this would take him, as a rule, a fortnight at the very least.

He still kept Rachel's little letter and four-bladed clover. Indeed, he had invested in a little case for it, and wore it around his neck as an amulet on a ribbon of blue.

Sentimental was he? Well, perhaps; but I for one like a lad none the less for that.

Captain Drake and the drill-sergeant continued to be very good friends to John.

Under pretence of giving him some writing to do, such as copying letters, the captain frequently took the lad to his rooms, and after the work was done he would talk to him, and tell him strange, wild stories of the life he had led, and of the countries in which he had served.

I have no means of knowing whether these stories were true or merely fiction, or part of both; however, they served their turn, and amused the reciter as well as the listener.

I do not think that my grandfather's musical abilities were ever of a very high order. In fact, like the illustrious Duke of Wellington, he pretended to despise music. I think it was His Grace who used to say that of all sounds music was the least disagreeable.

But when I was a bit of a boy, Auld-da often used to get me to sing for him.

He was an adept at dancing, however, not only Highland reels and flings, but hornpipes, and it soon was admitted that no lad in the whole castle was more nimble among the feet than he.

Hornpipes are hardly known nowadays, but they were in great repute, both on sea and land, in those old war times.

Captain Drake saw the lad dancing one day, and was rather taken aback.

Now although I do not think that betting, or wagering as it was called, had grown up into a national sin and science during the Napoleonic wars, still many a strange bet was made.

One evening, for example, at mess, someone said something about dancing. I rather think it was Dr. McLeod—a stalwart junior surgeon who stood six feet in his stocking-soles, and was well built besides. In those same stocking-soles McLeod often treated his messmates to the Highland fling or sword-dance after dinner.

On the evening in question the swords he danced across, to the music of the bagpipes, were almost as sharp as razors.

"Well, McLeod," said Drake, "that is very clever, but I am willing to wager a week's pay I can find a private in my company who can beat your performance, and not cut his feet either."

The wager was taken at once by Major Lloyd. "But what is the dance to be?" he asked.

"Well, he shall dance a ranting hornpipe on the dinner-table, without breaking either a plate or a bottle."

There was a chorus of laughter. The thing was deemed an impossibility.

The wager was accepted after this by three or four officers.

Next afternoon Captain Drake had an interview with my grand-dad, and told him what had happened.

"Now, lad," he said, "my honour is in your hands, or rather feet. Can you do it?"

My bold young progenitor's face glowed with excitement, and his eyes sparkled merrily.

"Yes, Captain Drake. Yes," he cried, "and be so happy to please you."

The music was to be the fife, then a great favourite in the service, and after dinner the performers came in.

The cloth was not even removed, and the long, strong table was crowded with plates, dishes, and bottles.

My brave little grand-dad was not daunted by this fragile array. He had been provided with a pair of dancing-pumps. He bowed to the company, as the fifer struck up, and at the end of the first measure sprang from floor to table as lightly as an indiarubber ball.

Not a step that he did not dance, and there were eleven, and not a portion of the table that he did not traverse to the mad, merry lilt of the fife. Yet never an article was broken or even touched.

The continued laughter ended, just as the hornpipe was finished, in one wild burst of applause, which seemed to shake the very castle walls.

Big McLeod was a droll fellow, and a very great favourite with the officers.

"I'm beaten, and we're all beaten. Bravo! little man. If you can fight as well as you can dance, what a rare soldier you'll make. Hurrah! Play up again, fifer!"

And this bold, gay surgeon flung my ancestor on his brawny shoulders, and went capering round the room with him, singing an old Irish ditty to the old Irish music:

"'T was then, my boys, the merry pipes
    Struck up a lilt so gaily O!
Och! 't was rare to see old Father Phipps
    Beat time with his shill-ail-ee O!
                                Fill-a-lill-laie,
                                    Liltie-laie,
    Beat time with his shil-ail-ee O!"

* * * * *

Next morning Captain Drake gave my youthful progenitor five shillings, but told him not to say a word to anybody.

The boy's eyes filled so suddenly with tears that the captain was surprised.

"What! boy, you're not going to cry!"

"Oh, no, sir—at least—only tears of joy, sir. I'll be able to write home now."

The officers' mess at the castle was a large and somewhat mixed one. The officers and men of various regiments lay here, and would for some months to come.

It was a mixed one, and it was a merry one, but I cannot say that peace always reigned in the castle.

The officers had many ways of amusing themselves, both at home and in the city. The play was a favourite resort, but balls and parties were frequent enough.

Now, whether or not in those olden times men were braver than they are now, I am unable to say. But one thing is pretty certain, life was less valued, and among officers, and even civilians, quarrels that in our day would be disposed of by a few words of explanation were apt to lead to duels, that might or might not be fought to the bitter end, either with pistols or broadswords.

I think that the worst kind of cowardice of any is that displayed by the man who is afraid of being thought afraid. And an individual of this small moral calibre is apt to be touchy, and apt to take offence where none is meant. I have met such people often enough. I have one in my mind's eye at this moment who belonged to the flagship—well, let me call her the Dockemshort. A little fellow, and no great favourite in our mess. He seemed to carry his eyes upon stalks, like the lobsters, and was always on the outlook for someone who might attempt to hurt his dignity.

In our times we settle disputes by arbitration; in our grandfathers', or great-grandfathers' times, what was called honour was a far more tender article.

Walter Scott makes two of his heroes who are about to fight address each other thus:

"'Can nought but blood our feud atone?
    Are there no means?'
                                'No, stranger, none.'"

There were two officers in this mess who seemed directly antithetic.

One was honest, gigantic McLeod, the surgeon. He was good-natured and lovable, and hated duelling, or fire-eating, as he termed it.

The other was Lieutenant Blood—well-named, by the way. A little fellow, and fiery. He was, when in his cups, somewhat of a braggart, and would even boast of the number of times he had been out—not only with his own countrymen, but with Frenchmen, Prussians, or Russians, or anyone who would oblige him.

Well, at a ball, given in honour of something or of somebody, Blood became greatly incensed at McLeod for having danced too often with a beautiful young lady that he—Blood—had cast eyes upon.

McLeod and she were talking together, in a green, quiet corner, when Lieutenant Blood strutted boldly up. He took no notice of McLeod, who looked kingly in his uniform, and on whose arm the lady was at that moment leaning.

"Pardon me, Miss Niven, but I believe the next dance is mine, and with your fair hand."

"Not this time, Captain. I have my partner here."

McLeod looked down; there was a smile in his eye. Blood looked up; there was mischief in his.

Nothing was said till next evening, when dessert was about half through.

"O, by the way, McLeod," cried the fire-eater suddenly, "I consider your conduct last night as simply abominable."

"Hullo! Hullo! Hullo!"

This from his messmates.

"You absorbed the whole of Miss Niven's attention, and you did me out of several dances."

"But the lady liked it," said the surgeon, with a smile.

"I don't believe the statement, and I don't believe you."

Blood snapped his fingers in the air.

"Pass the salt, Jones," said the surgeon quietly. "I'm going to catch it."

Jones made some remark about putting salt on sparrows' tails, and Blood's eyes looked daggers.

"I—I—I—" he began.

"Toot! toot!" cried the doctor. "Don't get nervous, Blood, or I shall have to put you on the sick-list."

"Now, to tell you the truth," he continued calmly, "Miss Annie——"

"Miss Niven, sir!"

"Well, she's Miss Niven to you, she's Annie to me. But she said in my ear, with her face very close to mine, that she did not care to dance with you, because you barely reached to her waist."

"For that insult, sir, you shall give me sa-tis-faction. You understand?"

"Sa-tis-faction!" repeated McLeod provokingly. "You mean you want to fight me with pistols. I'm not going to fight. Excuse me for calling the attention of my messmates to the insignificance of your person compared with mine. Figuratively speaking, Blood, you're only one target, and I'm three. And unless your hand shook much more than it usually does of a morning, you'd hit me. No, I'm not going to fight you, Blood. Annie wouldn't like it."

"McLeod, you're a coward!"

Every officer sprang to his feet in a moment.

"That settles it," shouted the surgeon. "Waiter, throw up that window. Quick!"

With an agility that no one would have given him credit for, McLeod sprang on to the table and over it. There was the crashing of bottles and plates, but next moment the giant had seized the pigmy by an arm and a leg, and thrown him like a curling-stone right through the open window.

There was no duel next morning. Blood was on the sick-list for a week; but he never said "Duel" to the doctor again.

* * * * *

Even Captain Drake himself, kind-hearted though he was, found himself one evening involved in a dispute with a friend at dessert.

Captain O'Reilly was an Irishman, but one of the merriest and best-natured men in the Service.

I suppose wine was to blame on this occasion, as on many others. O'Reilly had been away over the hills fishing all day, and feeling tired, had exceeded somewhat. Like most of his countrymen, he was most patriotic. Ireland has many grievances even now. She had far more then. But the quarrel commenced with a slight O'Reilly threw at the English, just after someone had sung a charming and patriotic old Irish song.

Blood was the first to take the battle up.

"English music," he alleged, was "as good as Irish"; and Captain Drake sided with him.

The argument grew so warm that O'Reilly called the English a nation of musicless louts and shopkeepers. Then Drake retired.

"He means challenging me," said O'Reilly heatedly, as the door closed.

Now Drake meant nothing of the sort.

"He means to challenge me. But, by this and by that, I'll be first with it. Doctor McLeod, will you be my second?"

"I'd rather not, O'Reilly."

"Certainly you can't," said the president, "because you see, doctor, you'll have to be on the ground with your instruments, to extract the bullets after the gentlemen shoot."

"The better plan," said big McLeod, laughing, "would be to extract the bullets before the shooting begins."

"I won't be laughed down," shouted O'Reilly.

"Then," retorted the doctor, "do as the sparrows do: dicht your neb and flee up."*

* Wipe your bill and fly up.

"I shall second Captain Drake," cried Blood.

"And I shall second O'Reilly," said Major Jones, a quiet little Welshman.

Things were speedily arranged, although Captain Drake would far rather have had them arranged in quite a different way.

The morning broke bright, and clear, and balmy. The blackbirds were singing on bushes that clung to the cliffs, as Captain Drake opened his window and gazed eastwards, where the sunshine was glittering on the sea.

"Heigho!" he said half aloud, "what a pity that men should thirst for each other's blood on a day like this. I can't make out what was the matter with O'Reilly last night. I dare say I must shoot him, however; but I'm very sorry."

"Come in."

This was shouted aloud, and next moment his servant entered his room with a cup of hot milk, and told him that young John Robertson wanted to speak with him.

"O, yes, of course. He is coming to the park with us to carry my extra garments. Send him in."

"Well, lad, you're early."

"Because I was told to see you alone, sir."

"Leave the room, Spence."

"Now, John, what is it?"

"Lieutenant O'Reilly's servant gave me this note for you, sir. I was to let no one see me deliver it."

As soon as Drake read it, he flung himself into a chair, stretched out his legs, and laughed right heartily for fully fifteen seconds.

"Go now, John," he said, as soon as he could speak, "Come back in half an hour, and we'll be ready for the march."

The note was from O'Reilly, and ran thus:

"DEAR DRAKE,—My morning reflections embitter my soul. Sorra a bit of spite have I at you at all, at all. But listen, my boy: When the word is given, just you fire at my second, and I'll fire at yours. That'll settle it, and maybe settle the seconds too.

"Thine to the spine,
        "PATRICK O'REILLY."

The only one on the field of battle who was really frightened was my grandfather. So he told me. He had never believed it possible that two friends could stand up in this cool-blooded way to take each other's lives. However, the duel proceeded.

Drake, when he shook hands with O'Reilly, gave that officer's hand a squeeze which he fully understood. The word was given.

Bang—bang, went the pistols; Drake deliberately firing at Jones, O'Reilly letting off on Blood. Next moment little Blood sprang two feet in the air, and fell sprawling to the ground.

"By this and by that," cried O'Reilly, "I'm feared that I've kilt the little man entirely."

"Hurry, Doctor, hurry," gasped Blood, "I'm shot clean through the heart. Extract the bullet if you can."

"With pleasure!" said the doctor.

The coat was taken off. There was a hole in that, and a hole in the shirt, but no hole in the heart; no hole in the skin. The bullet had hit the busk of the little man's stays, glanced off and gone goodness—or badness—only knows whither.

The principal and the other second, Jones, past whose ear Drake's bullet had whizzed, declared that honour was satisfied, and O'Reilly shook hands with his friend once more, and all left the field about as merry a party as ever drew pistols with deadly intent. No, not quite all, for little Blood appeared considerably crestfallen.

But why? Well, it had been discovered that he wore stays, and I do believe he would have preferred a flesh-wound to that discovery by his messmates.

Nor did he get leave to forget it. That evening, at dinner, quite a ripple of chaff ran round the table at this dapper little officer's expense, and I fear that big McLeod began it.

"I think, Blood, you had a wonderful escape. But for the steel busk in your stays, you would now be an ensanguined corpse."

"I move," said Jones, "that we all wear stays. Couldn't we petition the Horse Guards?"

The president, Colonel ——, thought it time to hold up his hand, though he smiled as he did so.

But Lieutenant Blood had done with duelling for a time at all events.

WHAT A BATTLE SEEMS LIKE TO THE SOLDIER—TERRIBLE
TIMES IN PARIS—CIVIL WAR AND MURDER.

"And so," said Drake one evening, to my grandfather, shortly after the memorable duel in the park, "so you were really frightened?"

"I was sir, and I'm——"

He said no more, but hung his head.

"You are ashamed of being afraid. Eh?"

"I think so, sir. I'm afraid, too, that I'll never make a soldier."

"Nonsense, lad, nonsense. Right well do I remember my own first fight. It was my first real fight, too. It is some years ago now, and I was still an ensign, when clouds of war began in the East. I knew nothing at all about fighting then, and I didn't know the least little bit about politics.

"Indeed," he added laughing, "I don't know much about politics yet, and don't want to. I know we have a King and a Parliament, and that when most of them say one way, then they poke up the British lion, then come busier times in the dockyard and busier times in barracks, war is declared and we soldiers go away to fight, but to each of us, individually, a battle is all a muddle. It is just marching and counter-marching, shooting and fighting, advancing and retreating, and so on and so forth—a most puzzling complication. Sometimes, when you feel sure that you have beaten the enemy pretty nearly off the face of the earth, you find that it is your side that has been beaten, and that you have to retreat. At other times when you lie down exhausted after a hard day's fearful fighting, not caring whether you ever awake again after you get to sleep on the hard, cold ground, because you think that your side has sustained defeat, you are gloriously surprised to find out next morning that victory is crowning you with glory, that the enemy is in full retreat, and your regiment has received orders to follow them up."

"Along with other regiments, I suppose," my grand-daddy ventured to remark.

"Yes, yes, of course with other regiments. But perhaps it is a foggy, muggy, miserable morning, and you can't see any other regiments, only a mounted officer or orderly galloping here and there in the mist, looking more like a ghost than a man. That is war, lad, but that isn't the worst of it.

"But let me see. What was I going to tell you about?"

"Your first fight, and your first fright, sir."

"O, yes, so it was. Well, there had been a terrible Reign of Terror in France. Some day you may read an account of those massacres, treason, treachery, and all combined. I know all about it by heart, but it isn't wholesome reading for young fellows like you, so I shall say little about it.

"But, briefly, boy—for I can see by your eyes that you want to know a little—in 1792 war broke out between France and Austria, and fighting began on the Flemish frontier.

"The French had little honour and glory in their first battles anyhow. The Austrians walked through them, or would have done, had they waited, but, instead of that, they not only bolted like so many rabbits, but even murdered their own officers.

"Revolution was smouldering then in Paris. The armies of France lay idle in front of the foe, afraid to attack, ashamed to retire.

"Then, as the time flew past—by weeks and months—and nothing was done against the foe, the people of Paris became madly incensed against the King and his profligate court, whom they accused of treason against the people's rights.

"King Louis behaved like a fool, if he was not one out-and-out. He could not recognise that the people had a mind and a will of its own—that his subjects were not slaves. His Parliament, or Assembly, desired to banish the priests that resisted its will. The King would not submit. The people feared invasion, hardly knowing the day or hour when the enemy should conquer and drive in their armies, and appear before their gates; the Assembly, therefore, called for volunteers to drill and make ready, and even encamp outside the city. The King saw no necessity. He even dismissed the Minister whom the populace delighted to honour and obey.

"This enraged the people beyond measure, and the streets of Paris were filled with a yelling, haranguing, and, I fear, blood-thirsty mob.

"This mob, at midsummer, actually forced its way into the Tuileries.

"Even this had not the effect of arousing the King to a sense of impending danger. He was surrounded by his priests, his profligates, and worse.

"But now the Austrians got allies. The Prussians joined them, and France was invaded in earnest. Here was an army of fifty thousand Prussians, commanded by the brave Duke of Brunswick, marching along the banks of the Moselle, with an army of Austrians, or two rather, pouring in from Belgium and the Upper Rhine.

"And now the end began to draw near, for in the name of the Emperor of Austria, and the King of the Prussians, a proclamation was issued to the people of France.

"This manifesto declared that the allied armies were marching on Paris to take the part of the injured King—so they called him, or thought him.

"'The city of Paris,' it went on, 'and its inhabitants, without class distinction, are hereby warned that they must submit immediately to their King, Louis XVI.; set that Prince at entire liberty, and show him, and all the Royal Family, that inviolability of respect which the law of Nature and of nations imposes on subjects towards their sovereigns. Their Imperial and Royal Highnesses will hold all the members of the Assembly, the Municipality, and National Guard of Paris responsible before military tribunals for all events, and with their heads, without hope of pardon.'

"They—the allies—further declared that if the Château of the Tuileries were forced or insulted, or the least violence offered to the King or Queen, or any of the Royal Family, and provision not at once made for their preservation, safety, and liberty, they—the said allied armies—would deliver the city of Paris to military execution and total overthrow.

"This proclamation was issued on the 25th of July."

"O dear! said my innocent grandfather, that was nearly as bad as Culloden, and the massacres that followed."

Captain Drake laughed.

"Wait a moment, lad, and make sure.

"That proclamation decided the fate of the King. The awful Bastille, which had been so long the city's terror, had already been destroyed, and, as soon as word was brought that the Duke, with his Prussians, had crossed the north-east frontier, Danton, who was leader of the demon democrats of Paris, assembled his ragged but desperate army, to destroy for ever the monarchy that the invaders seemed bent on supporting.

"The Republic was won* in a single day by the populace of Paris, amidst the roar of cannon and the flash of bayonets.

* Vide FYFFE'S Modern Europe, vol. i.

"On the 10th of August Danton let loose the armed mob upon the Tuileries. Louis quitted the palace, without giving orders to the guard either to fight or to retire.

"There was nothing to defend, for the monarch no longer hoped for anything beyond his life; but the guard were ignorant that their master desired them to offer no resistance, and one hundred and sixty of the mob were shot down by them before an order reached the troops to abandon the palace.

"The cruelties which followed the victory of the people indicated the fate in store for those whom the invaders came to protect.

"It is doubtful whether the foreign Courts would have made any serious attempt to undo the social changes effected by the Revolution in France; but no one supposed that those thousands of self-exiled nobles who now returned behind the guns of Brunswick had returned in order to take their places peacefully in the new social order.

"In their own imagination, as much as in that of the people, they returned with fire and sword to repossess themselves of rights of which they had been despoiled, and to take vengeance on the men who were responsible for the changes made in France since 1789.

"In the midst of a panic .... Danton inflamed the nation with his own passionate courage and resolution; he unhappily also thought it necessary, to a successful national defence, that the reactionary party at Paris should be paralysed by a terrible example.

"The prisons were filled with persons suspected of hostility to the national cause, and in the first days of September many hundreds of these unfortunate persons were massacred by gangs of assassins, paid by a committee of the Municipality. Danton had made up his mind that the liberty of France could not be saved without striking terror into the hearts of its enemies .... and the sword, once drawn, was not sheathed until the best voices of France were silent, and the exercise of power had become but another name for the commission of crime.

"The Republic was then proclaimed, and the war became a crusade of Democracy.

"You see, my lad, France, not content with having banished Monarchy, and turned herself into a Republic, would fain have murdered every king and queen in the world, and set up puppet—puppy, if you like the word—presidents in their place.

"The leader of the French army was Dumourier, who, after checking Brunswick, carried the war into Germany itself, which was then in a poor condition to defend itself.

"But I see you are getting tired, lad, and want me to come to my first fight."

"No," said my grandfather. "I like to hear you speak, sir."

"I only want to tell you what drew Britain into the turmoil.

"Well, the French, after crossing the frontier, won the battle of Jenappes, and the Austrians abandoned the Netherlands.

"After this victory the French became excited by the fever of conquest. Savoy and Nice were annexed. Corsica had already been reconciled.

"And now, elated by their luck, there was no saying into what country they might not carry fire and sword. And not only fire and sword, but Revolution in its blackest and bloodiest garments.

"For it was decreed that in every country which should be occupied by the armies of the French Republic, the generals thereof should announce the abolition of all existing authorities; of nobility and every feudal right and monopoly; proclaim the sovereignty of the people; form provisional Governments therefrom to which no officer of a former Government should be eligible.

"Well, as the agents of the French were fostering sedition in every state, and stirring up bad blood even in Britain itself by the preaching of the Rights of Man, and as the people of this country could not forget the fearful massacres of September, we began to get impatient and to thirst for war.

"When a country thirsts for war, lad, an excuse soon comes.

"There was a peace party in Britain, but as soon as news came to London that the French King had been executed, war became inevitable, and was declared on the 3rd of February by the French, just to be beforehand with the British.

"Pitt, our Prime Minister, spared no pains now to isolate France, and to crush her by raising a great coalition against her. Holland at once joined us, then, later on, Naples, Tuscany, Spain, Portugal, and the Papal States.

"But there were two parties in France itself—the Girondins, who would have saved the King, if they could have at the same time kept up their own influence in Paris. But the populace and Mountain party saw through their falseness.

"And next came defeat and disaster, and even treason.

"The French General Dumourier opened the ball against Holland, but as the Austrians had beaten the French at Maestricht, and they were in full retreat before the foe, he had to return and fight the Austrians near Brussels.

"He was defeated, and Flanders was opened up to Austria. Then came the treason of this scoundrel Dumourier, for he coolly proposed uniting his beaten army with the Austrians, and to attack the Paris Convention, and restore Monarchy. He did not succeed, however, with his army, and was obliged to fly to the Austrian side, and was shot at, while he fled, by his own men.

"This treasonable coward brought ill-luck to the French, and they soon lost all they had won in the autumn before, except Mainz, which was garrisoned by a brave Republican army of 17,000.

"Castine, a French general, had to fall back upon Weissenburg.

"But worse than this happened to France, for civil war broke out. The large province of Vendée, a peasant people, were ordered to raise 300,000 men. They refused. They had not been pleased at the expulsion of the priests from Paris. They would rather fight the Parisians, and in this they were encouraged by their Church, and the Royalists still among them. So a civil war was inaugurated.

"The Government of Paris had only raw levies to send against them, composed for the most part of gutter-grubbers and cut-throats, and these the Vendéans soon put out of existence.

"Hitherto the Gironde party had held sway, but now, with Britain and Austria thundering at the northern gates of France, laying siege to Condé and Valenciennes, and driving the French army back before it, the Girondes lost the confidence of the people, and were openly charged with causing all the terrible troubles, even down to the civil war of La Vendée. The Convention was surrounded by armed men calling themselves a Commune, and the Mountain party arrested and crushed the Girondes.

"They escaped, however, and now civil war commenced in terrible earnest, Lyons, Marseilles, Normandy, and other departments rushing to arms to attack Paris. The Royalists, of course, thought they saw their opportunity, and joined these against the Mountain party.

"After the Lyons revolt, Robespierre the Bloody stepped upon the stage, and the Reign of Terror—far too awful even to think of—commenced.

"Well, my lad, it was early in the year 1793 that I first saw real service, and this was at Toulon."

"Tell me," said my grandfather eagerly.

And Captain Drake continued his story.

FIGHTING AT TOULON—TERRIBLE SORTIES—EVACUATION—OFF
TO CORSICA—CAPTURED BY BRIGANDS—CAPTAIN
DRAKE'S FIRST FIGHT.

"Well, John, lad," Captain Drake went on, "when I embarked for the fair land of France, soon after the declaration of war, though many years older than you are now, I had never seen a shot fired in anger in all my life.

"With the 2nd battalion of our Royal Scots I embarked at Toulon.

"This great seaport was then held by the Royalists of France. Held against the army of the French Republic I mean, and held, I fear, in a somewhat shaky way.

"These Royalists had gone so far as to proclaim a successor to their murdered prince, and they prayed the British to come to their assistance.

"This we speedily did, Lord Hood taking possession of the place, to have and to hold in behalf of 'Louis XVII.'

"But, not long after this, it was entirely invested by the Republican forces. A stern and obstinate resistance was made, and for a time we were, as a rule successful.

"Sortie after sortie was made, and successfully too, and the Royalists behaved with the greatest gallantry, as they have always done, my boy, and ever will."

"Were you in those sorties?" asked John.

"No, lad; I was kept engaged behind the ramparts, for my first fight had not yet come.

"But the Republicans got so numerous, and our forces were so small compared to the great extent of fortification we had to protect, that it was at last deemed expedient to evacuate the place.

"If the whole truth must be told, as it always should be, even at the expense of one's amour propre, the loss of Toulon was mainly caused by the terrible artillery-fire conducted by a young officer called Napoleon Bonaparte."

"The Napoleon Bonaparte?"

"No other, lad. No other."

"Then we were beaten at Toulon?"

"Certainly; that is plain English.

"Hood was obliged to evacuate. Discretion is the best part of valour, and, had he not done so, the Republicans would soon have seized the place, and not a French Royalist or a Royal Scot would have been left alive.

"But we embarked the Royalists on board our ships. We fired the Trench shipping, and blew up the magazines and arsenals.

"Ay, boy, and that was a sight I am not likely to forget till my dying day.

"But all were got safely on board at last, my own company, or rather the company to which I belonged, being the very last to leave the dockyard gates.

"It was about a year after this that an expedition was fitted out to go to Corsica. The Corsicans, as I have already told you, assented in a half-hearted kind of way to be under the dominion of the French Republic, but some of them now saw the error of their ways, and would rather hand the island over to Britain. These were in the minority, however, so we prepared to fight.

"In addition to the 1st Royals, we had six good regiments along with us.

"Well, I wasn't much of a sailor just then, and the first part of the voyage, anyhow, was far from agreeable. We were in troopers, guarded by ships of war, which kept a good look-out, I can assure you. The French had still some craft afloat, and I, for one, had no great wish to take part in a naval engagement. I hardly know, indeed, what part we would have taken; I dare say it would have been the part of 'cut and run.'

"However, we saw no foe except the elements. Crossing the Bay of Biscay was a fearful experience. The Bay has a bad name, anyhow, and this time it appeared determined to maintain it. It was not that the wind was terribly boisterous, but the waves were hills high—a seething, boiling, foaming mass. I dare say that if I were a sailor I could describe it in more nautically romantic language. It seemed to me, however, that when we got between two seas we would wallow there for a time, and then founder. Then, when we got on top of a billow, and could see about us a bit, that billow behaved in the most heartless manner, shook itself, in fact, and shook us too, then kicked us down once more into the trough of the ocean to wallow once more. Our ship rolled at times till her yard-arms stirred up the water as a Highland bull tosses a bundle of hay; then she would pretend she was going down, head first, like a sea-unicorn, scaring me out of my wits; after this, by way of a change, she would cock herself up on one end—the stern, I think seamen call it—like a poodle begging with a bit of bread on its nose.

"You may smile, John, lad, but it was no smiling matter to us. If that be the way Britannia rules the waves, I'd rather stay at home, I thought, and keep a farm. But we got into beautiful water after we passed Gibraltar. Beautiful weather, too. The poet calls the Mediterranean the Blue Levant, and no sky was ever bluer than the ocean around us was now. The worst of it was that it fell dead calm. For my part, I thought that was the best of it—I wasn't in any great hurry to fight the Corsicans.

"We got there at last all the same, and on the 22nd of May our guns shook the town of Bastia like a select assortment of juvenile earthquakes, and there was some fighting. They told me after the battle that we had taken the town in fine style, though, for the life of me, I couldn't see where the fine style came in.

"But there was more to be done yet. As for the Bastians, they were like a parcel of well-whipped schoolboys, and ready to promise anything. They gave over not only the city, but all the island, to the British. A rough lot they were, but they gave us fairly good dinners and dances. Then there was very beautiful and wild scenery further inland, and we got up shooting parties, though—bar rats, and rabbits, and half-wild pigs—there wasn't much to shoot.

"One day I got separated from my companions, and lost myself in a wood. I wandered on and on till nightfall, when I found myself in a kind of rocky glen, and close to a rude sort of a cottage without a chimney. Smoke was curling up through the roof, though, and some goats and a cow were near by.

"I was very hungry, and here I thought was a chance of getting a bite and sup, so I went boldly up and knocked.

"The door was opened after a time, but only just a little way, and one of the most awful-looking faces I have ever seen peeped round the edge. It was that of a blear-eyed hag, with dark, dishevelled rags of hair, a nose that had been smashed, and a huge cavern of a mouth, studded, apparently, with rusty nails instead of teeth.

"I suppose I didn't look very terrible; anyhow, seeing it was 'only me,' she threw the door quickly open, seized my rifle with one hand, and clapped a pistol to my brow with the other.

"A bleared-eyed hag clapped a pistol to my brow."

"She speedily disarmed me, and then dragged me in and pointed to a stone in a corner near the fire. Of course I sat down, and as I didn't understand a word she said, I made signs that this Corsican lady understood, for she handed me a huge bowl of milk and some fruit.

"After this I made up my mind that it was time to go. My rifle stood near the door, and I made for that. But I never reached it. The hag seized me by the coat-tails and seated me again so roughly on the stone that I believed a bone was broken. I was a prisoner, evidently, and guarded by a woman. What a humiliating position for an officer of the 1st Royal Scots!

"But the worst was to come.

"I could see that she expected company. She stuck an extra pistol in her leathern cingle, and gave me a nod, as much as to say, 'That's for you, my pretty boy, unless you're good.' Then she set about cooking a savoury stew.

"In about a couple of hours' time I heard voices singing in the distance. They had lit two huge lamps, and immediately after the door was opened, and in walked three brigands, armed with knives and shooting-irons.

"I thought they would despatch me at once, but instead of that they stuck their hands to their sides and laughed till the shanty shook again.

"They ate like ogres, but every now and then they looked at me and laughed again. Well, there was no laughing in my heart, especially when they took to drinking next.

"But my time soon came. One fellow advanced and pulled my hat off and placed it on his own dirty head, another took my necktie, and the third my boots. Thus by degrees they stripped me naked, and that old hag looking on and enjoying the fun.

"I was afraid they would now turn me out of doors, and had made up my mind to struggle and die first. But this was not to be my fate.

"For, still laughing as if it were the best joke on earth, they rigged me out as a brigand, though a very ragged one, and stuck a huge broad-brimmed hat jauntily on my head.

"I was next led to the door, and a fellow beckoned me to follow him.

"It was a lovely star-lit and moon-lit night, with never a breath of air, a night that under other circumstances I would have enjoyed to the full.

"My guide led me on and on for nearly an hour, till at last, coming to the brow of a hill, I saw the lights of Bastia and our ships far down beneath. Then the guide disappeared.

"I had to make the best of a bad job now. So I hurried off down towards the town. Luckily our temporary barracks lay on the outskirts, for if I had been obliged to walk through the town, my adventures might have ended by someone shooting me.

"The windows of our mess-place were all open wide, and two figures were walking on the grass, Dr. McLeod and Lieutenant O'Reilly, both smoking.

"I ran towards them.

"The doctor clubbed his big fist to knock me down.

"'It's only me,' I cried; 'for goodness' sake go and tell my servant I want him at once.'

"Instead of doing anything of the sort, the doctor seized me by the shoulder, while O'Reilly caught me by the hand, and thus they ran me right into the mess-room.

"Everybody, including the colonel, was on foot in a moment; and when they saw it was only me, why the laughter of those brigands was nothing to be compared to the chorus that rang out now on all sides of me.

"When they had nearly finished, I told my dismal story, and glad enough I was to get away at last, throw off my brigand rags, and have a bath.

"But my strange story ran all through our little army—a dozen different editions of it—and it was months before I heard the last of it.

"But to return to our Corsican war, John, and my first real fight. Though the Bastians there were agreeable to give over the island to Britain, a town called Calvi still held out. It stands at the head of one of the best of Corsican harbours, and commands it.

"Calvi was going to fight. Calvi did fight, and as it could not be taken from the sea front, General Stuart determined to storm it from one side.

"A battalion of picked men was therefore formed, and embarked on board our ships with artillery and war material of every kind.

"Our Royal Scots were among the chosen, and hard indeed was the work before us.

"We were landed quite three miles from Calvi, which was as well fortified by Nature as by art.

"The road to the town and its outworks, which we had to make, led along the mountain-sides. These ended in precipices. But over these hills, and along the edge of fearful chasms, our guns had to be dragged, and batteries constructed on the very top.

"Then our fire began, and continued until at last we effected a breach in the walls of the biggest and strongest outwork, called the Morello.

"The storming of this tower and wall was entrusted to the Royals.

"The Corsicans could fight well behind walls, and the evening before the attack nothing was spoken of in our mess except the coming battle, and engagements of a similar kind that older officers than I had taken part in.

"'Ah!' said a grey-haired major, 'your work to-morrow will be mere child's play to some of the experiences I had when a youngster out in America. Driven back pell-mell again and again, sometimes under a feu d'enfer that decimated our brave lads, and tore whole regiments almost to pieces.'

"This didn't tend to raise my spirits, anyhow, and I did not sleep a very great deal. When I did doze off, it was to dream I was storming terrible heights and facing fearful odds, with guns roaring around me, and men falling dead or wounded on every side. The guns in my dreams, however, were real enough, for our artillery were firing at the breach—though with uncertain aim—to prevent the enemy from repairing it.

"Next day was one of trial for me. That is for a time, and so it may be with you, lad, when you first come under fire.

"I told you I was scared, and now I'll tell you where and when the fright and nervousness came in. It was before we rushed on to the storming, and while we stood to arms, waiting for a whole hour before the signal to engage came.

"I pretended to laugh and chaff lightly with my fellow-officers. I dare say older heads saw through this mean pretence of courage and sang-froid. Perhaps I was a bit white about the gills. Well, there were several men in the ranks, probably, whiter than I was.

"But the signal came at last.

"'On, lads!' shouted the officer in command, drawing his sword, and pointing to the breach.

"There was a wild cheer, and our fellows rushed forwards with bayonets fixed. But the climb took the wind out of us, and silence succeeded the cheering.

"As our men began to fall here and there, and the guns roared loud in front of us, I think my heart made several attempts to jump out of my mouth.

"Then came the main charge—in the deadly breach. Our fellows did not cheer now. It was a slogan, a wild yell, that we uttered as we ran in and on.

"Now all fear had vanished. I only saw the foe in front of me. I heeded not the volleys, the blood, the clash of steel; I had no thought but that of getting hand-to-hand with the fierce defenders.

"They were borne backwards at last by the fury of our attack. Then, all at once, the cheering was renewed, and I knew we were victorious. When I looked up I saw our flag fluttering in the breeze, and, though very much out of breath, I felt not only exceedingly happy, but proud as well.

"Perhaps my pride was excusable, for I had done my share, despite the restless night I had passed, and my absurd state of 'funk' while waiting for the order to advance.

"But I had no more fighting for two years, during which time our Royals held the stronghold.

"And now, lad, off you trot, for there goes the first bugle for dinner."

MY GRANDFATHER IS PROMOTED—AN UNLUCKY ESCAPADE—SAVED
BY A RIBBON—MASSACRE OF FRENCH NOBLES—NAPOLEON
BONAPARTE TO THE FORE.

Promotion was quick in those days; that is, if a young soldier were really deserving.

I have always thought my grandfather one of the smartest men for his years that I ever knew. He was smart in appearance, soldierly in bearing, and most particular as to his toilet, and this without any signs of pride.

It was these very traits in his character that first brought him into notice with his officers. They could trust the young fellow, and if he was commissioned to do anything, or to carry a message, he did his duty most thoroughly. Well, if a thing is worth doing at all, it is worth doing well.

He was soon so perfect in his drill that he was made corporal.

That was a proud day for him, when he was told off to drill a squad of Jockie-raws in the barrack-square, in Dublin. His foot was now on the first step of the ladder of fame, and he was determined that it should not slip.

But now, as a corporal, he had more temptations to battle against than before. He was taken more out, and even the sergeants, who, as a rule, have more pride of place than their superiors, did not hesitate to make a companion of him, and a confidant as well.

"Robertson will soon be one of ourselves." That was what they said, or prophesied.

Another thing in honest John's favour was the education that had been drilled or driven into him by Dominie Freeschal. His correct English and his penmanship were specially in his favour, and he was often employed by the senior officers to write from dictation.

He was by no means loth to do this, not because it excused him from duty—which he dearly loved—but because it brought him into contact with men from whom he could not help learning much. Moreover, the work was not unremunerative from a pecuniary point of view. The officers of the Royals were too proud to accept the services of a writer for nothing.

* * * * *

When but little over twenty years of age, this progenitor of mine, to his intense delight, found himself the proud owner of a sergeant's sash and pike; and now, as I do not wish to hold him up to the reader's notice as a paragon of virtue or a plaster saint, I must record an adventure that he had, not long after his promotion, which was very nearly being his ruin, and, but for a lucky chance, would have broken him, and reduced a really able non-commissioned officer to the ranks.

Had it ended thus, he assured me himself, he would never again have returned to the Highland home where his father and mother and people dwelt.

Sergeant John Robertson had been for some time a Freemason. I am not a Freemason myself, so cannot tell you what a Royal Arch is, or whether it requires but one stone to compose it, or a thousand of bricks. Anyhow, that was the rank the young soldier held in the lodge to which he belonged, and I dare say there was nothing in it to be otherwise than proud of.

The regiment, or a portion of it, had been sent to the south of Ireland, for the French had threatened an invasion, and it was our purpose to give them a warm reception, and to prevent anything like a rising of the Irish malcontents to meet them.

One day, grandfather was sent from the camp to march a squad of Royals to a neighbouring town, a distance of about twelve miles. He was early astir, and he, with his men, accomplished the journey in a little over three hours. He was to come back alone, after delivering the squad at the barracks.

This, having dined, he prepared to do, but as ill-luck would have it, he forgathered with a squad of another sort, some Highland sergeants, one of whom, to his great surprise and delight, was none other than Tom Grahame, the boy—boy now no longer—with whom he fought for Rachel Freeschal, and whom he had stabbed with his kilt-pin.

My grandfather did not know this tall kilted warrior, who came up to him in the street and held out a hand to shake.

"Preen Mhor, and is it really yourself I see before me? Why, Ian, don't you remember the lad you stuck the big pin into and nearly killed, all for the love of sweet little Rachel?"

"Tom Grahame, is it you?"

The delight was mutual, and naturally enough the two linked arm in arm and marched off to a neighbouring inn, to talk about those dear old times that seemed so far away now, and the people they might never see again. This was indeed a happy meeting.

Ah! dear me, though, I'm sure it would have been happier had they taken nothing stronger than water.

But other sergeants dropped in, and now the company numbered five withal, and a merry afternoon they spent.

My grandfather was not used to strong drink, and it is no wonder, therefore, that the fiery stuff he swallowed should have flown to his head.

He had put an enemy in his mouth, and it had stolen away his brains.

The Highland sergeants gave him what is called a Scotch convoy. They walked with him to the third mile-stone, then they all walked back half a mile to an inn. Here a bottle of usquebaugh was bought, and at the fourth mile-stone the contents were discussed and the bottle smashed. Taking a hearty leave of poor Tom and his companions, my very naughty grandfather went on by himself. Presently, as the sun began to wester, he thought he would treat himself to a little song, and did. And now he heard the sound of horses' hoofs clattering up behind him, and next minute a gentleman's servant pulled up alongside.

"Soldier," he said, "you look tired; will you have a ride? This horse can carry you and me both, and never turn a hair."

"Thank you very much. How far are you going?"

"Within two miles of your camp. Leastways I take it to be yours. My master is Colonel W——, of the 42nd, stationed in the town you've been to, but he lives out this way for the present.

"Are you too unsteady," he added, "to get up behind?"

"Not a bit of it," said my grandfather.

So he mounted, and on they rode, chatting cheerily.

By-and-by they came to an inn, and naturally, let me say hypothetically, my grandfather asked the man to drink, and I suppose had some himself.

Inns must have been plentiful enough along that road, for they had not ridden a mile farther before they came to another little hostelry.

This time the man ordered the "noggin," but as soon as this was disposed of, he said rather gruffly to my grandfather, "Pay for that."

"Pay yourself—you called for it. I paid the last, and I'll pay the next."

"What! You won't pay it?"

"No."

"Then get off my horse."

This was too much for Highland blood, especially Highland blood fired with Irish whisky. Sergeant John seized the man by the neck and a leg, and in two seconds threw him off the horse. He managed to wrench the reins from him as he fell.

He just stopped long enough to toss a coin to the gaping landlord, then struck his heels in the horse's ribs, and, uttering a yell like a Mexican cow-boy, dashed madly off.

He felt more inclined to sing now than ever, though what he did sing I cannot say. Something madly Bacchanalian, I have little doubt. And as he sang he waved his pike and slew imaginary foes.

Now, not far from the house where lived Colonel W——, was a narrow bridge over a stream, a high old Gothic sort of structure from which quite half a mile of the road could be seen.

Some men working here, noticing what they thought was a mad soldier on horseback, quickly formed across the road, and, at considerable risk, succeeded in stopping my grandfather's gallop.

His career was stopped for one night, and he was made prisoner. Before this, however, the servant himself was seen in the distance, and honest John at once rushed to meet him. He merely meant to frighten the man, but this he succeeded in doing entirely to his own satisfaction, if not to that of the unfortunate servant.

The rest was all a blank to my soldier grand-dad, till he awoke next morning in a strange room, and found a sentry standing beside the window with fixed bayonet.

"Am I a prisoner, then?"

"You are, indade, sorr. Don't ye moind what ye did at all?"

"Nothing terrible, I hope?"

"Well, as near as a toucher, Sergeant. Sure, if you hadn't been caught, it's a big hole you would have drilled in the colonel's servant, and kilt him entoirely."

The prisoner's agony of mind for the next two hours may be better conceived than described.

He was then brought to the colonel's own room, and, much to his astonishment, received with kind words and a smile.

"But now give an account of this sad affair," he said. "My servant gives me his version, I would like to hear yours."

"I will tell you all I remember, sir, and you will then see that the fault was altogether mine, and your servant not at all to blame."

He then told the story as we know it.

"And that is the truth, Sergeant; the whole truth?"

"O, no, sir, not the whole truth."

"And what have you kept back?"

"Why, nothing that I can think of. I have brought myself as far as the bridge; after that it is all a blank."

The colonel smiled.

"Well," he said, "if I report you to your regiment, you are fully aware what the consequences will be."

My grandfather hung his head.

"I will not report you. There is a morsel of ribbon in your jacket. I well know what that denotes. I am myself a Mason, as—as you know. I will forgive you."

"O, sir, what can I do to show my gratitude? Anything, sir, in the world——"

"Stay, don't be too profuse. But there is one thing I wish you to do. Promise me, on your honour, that you will not let temptation overcome you again."

"On my honour as a soldier, sir, I promise you, but——"

"But what?"

"I had already made the same promise to myself, and I have prayed for help."

"Good. Go back now to your camp. You shall hear no more of this. Good morning."

"Good morning, sir, and a thousand thanks."

I have only to add that the promise he made to Colonel W—— he stuck to, not only for a time, but throughout his whole career. He may, and doubtless did, take his "ration of grog," but never again did he exceed.

I cannot say the same for many of the other sergeants, however, for those were hard, wild times. His own colonel said to my grandfather one day long after this:

"I have never seen you even once the worse of liquor, Sergeant Robertson. And I verily believe if I set you astride a wine-cask, like Bacchus, I would find you all right in the morning."

My grandfather's thoughts reverted to that wild night when returning from K——, but he answered never a word.

* * * * *

To hark back a little way, or rather a few years, and that is indeed but a short time in a war that lasted for twenty twelve-months. Captain Drake told us then how Hood had to leave Toulon after burning the French fleet. He said nothing, however, about the horrors of bloodshed and massacre that followed the entry of the French Republican forces. Such stories are perhaps best left untold.

The burning of the fleet, however, gave us full power in the Mediterranean. But the Vendéans, though promised help from the British, were soon overpowered, then Lyons fell.

After Robespierre himself had met his deserts in 1794, a new Government reigned in Paris.

In June, 1795, the British fleet landed the old nobles of France and an army in the Bay of Quiberon, in South Brittany. The people here were loyal to the backbone, and the expedition would be supported not only by British ships, but by British money.

But, alas! those nobles spent time quibbling and quarrelling as to who should command their forces. Then General Hoche swept down on them like an eagle, captured their fort, and hurled them back towards the sea.

In their fright the fugitives threw themselves into the waves, and many of these were saved by our boats, but all the others who were not killed in battle were made prisoners, and, horrible to relate, six hundred of these were massacred in cold blood.

* * * * *

In the early part of 1796, that bright particular star, Napoleon Bonaparte, whom we last heard of at Toulon as a young artillery officer, began to blaze on high, for we found him in command of the Italians—Italy at that time was not of much importance, and sadly priestridden. He had advised the Directory, as the French Government was now called, to make a threefold attack on Austria. Peace had been concluded with Spain, while Holland and the Lower Rhine were at peace, owing to the Treaty of Basle.

It will do the reader no harm to know that the French General Jourdan was to enter Germany by Frankfort; Moreau to cross the Rhine at Strasburg; and Napoleon himself to face the Austrians and Sardinians on the mountain slopes forty miles to the westward of Genoa.

Napoleon had 40,000 men on the hills above the coast 'twixt Nice and Genoa. The Austrians had an army of equal strength to face this force, and the Sardinian army besides.

To sever these two armies Napoleon fought for four days, then getting betwixt them he left a force to watch the Austrians, while he swooped down on the Piedmontese, driving them back towards Turin with terrible slaughter. The Government was terrorised, and glad to make peace with the young and artful general, giving up to him the fortresses of Coni, Ceva, and Tortona, most important strongholds, because they commanded the entrance to Italy itself.

But Napoleon got also the town of Valenza, at which place, or near it, General Beaulieu was led to understand the French would cross the Po. Here he concentrated his forces and waited to give Napoleon battle. But the latter was cleverly playing his own game. He crossed fifty miles lower down.

There were no telegraphs in those days, so Beaulieu got no inkling of the awful truth until he heard the roar of Napoleon's guns in his rear. It was a grand fight, that at Lodi.

Sword in hand at the head of his grenadiers, the future Emperor of the French crossed the Bridge of Lodi, and the Austrians were fearfully beaten.

Then into Milan itself marched Napoleon in triumph. And the Milanese had to purchase their freedom, not only with vast sums of money, but even with the spoils of their beautiful churches. Napoleon next marched into Central Italy, being determined to drive the armies of Austria completely out of the field. He advanced upon Mincio. In the battle fought by the Austrians and French at Borghetto, Beaulieu was again badly thrashed, and forced to fly into the Tyrol, leaving the French to invest Mantua.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A hundred and seventy captured flags.

"A hundred and fifty thousand prisoners taken in battle.

"Six hundred field guns.

"Five hundred and fifty siege guns.

"Five pontoon bridges.

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

"Armistice with the King of Sardinia.

"Convention with Genoa.

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

"Preliminaries of Leoben.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course, we didn't.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

The

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

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

The year 1799 was no less bloody than its predecessor.

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

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

A second coalition now threatened France.

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

"War is a terrible, terrible thing!"

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

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

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

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

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

He found it deserted, and the windows boarded up.

He entered a shop close by, to make enquiries.

The people had only recently arrived from the south.

But a woman was there shopping.

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

"And where have they gone?"

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

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

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

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

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

"You don't remember me?"

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

"And where have the Frasers gone?"

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

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

He knew what a shilling was, though.

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

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

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

Grandfather started off now to walk to Beauly.

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

"Does your people know you are coming?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

He went on and up the brae.

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

Would the dog know him?

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

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

Both ran out to meet him.

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

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

So away went my soldier grandfather.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We were off for Alexandria itself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Indeed this French Legion was all but annihilated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The old man paused a moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"'Ian Robertson. Ian, Ian.'

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

"'Ian, it is I. Come.'

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

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

"He was dying, that was evident.

"'Have you—water?' he gasped.

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

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

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

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

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

"I closed his eyes, and stretched his limbs.

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

Well, peace had come.

Query: How long would it last?

From War to Gentle Peace.

Book III.

FROM WAR TO GENTLE PEACE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Duke turned on his heel and walked away.

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

"What are they, Sergeant?"

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

"Not—eh—bats, Sergeant?"

"No, sir."

"Bring me one to look at."

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How, sir?"

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next day this man came to my grandfather.

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

He was sent to duty next day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He cooled down almost immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The colonel rode back. He was pale as death.

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not a soldier or sailor was saved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tonal was delighted when the plan was laid before him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, and so we shall stick to Gibraltar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Put not your trust in princes!

Arrived at Gib, the Duke commenced work at once.

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

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

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.

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.

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?

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.'"

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."

THE FRENCH IN SPAIN AND PORTUGAL—BRITISH TO THE
RESCUE—SIR ARTHUR—SIR JOHN MOORE—SPLENDID
GENERALSHIP OF NAPOLEON.

Bold Bonaparte—for bold as well as wicked he was—commanded Portugal to declare war against England, and to confiscate all British property she could lay her hands on. The first part of this order Portugal did not mind obeying, but the last she would not comply with. Perhaps she feared reprisals.

Now this refusal was just what Napoleon had wished for. Fact is, he wanted to add Portugal to his own territory.

So now he recalled his ambassador from Lisbon, and marched Junot right away down at the head of a large army.

The Royal Family fled when this army drew near, all their valuables being already on board ship. This was what the Scourge of Europe called a reprisal for our having taken the Danish fleet.

If Bonaparte's real aims were not at first suspected by Spain, they very soon became apparent enough. He had established himself at the head of the Portuguese Government, but Spain, after all, was the big target he was aiming at.

The Queen of Spain and her head minister expected that Napoleon would clear out of Spain, having taken Portugal. Napoleon had no such intention. Now the Queen had a husband, King Charles IV., but he was a mere noodle, and did not count. She also had a son, Ferdinand, who was, for various reasons, at enmity with her. It was put into this noodle-king's head that his son wanted to usurp his throne, and he wrote a simple letter to Bonaparte, telling him that Ferdinand and his accomplices had been put under arrest, and would be tried and excluded from the succession.

This was really playing into Napoleon's hand, who seized the pretext of throwing a great army on the border, nominally to protect the royal rights of Ferdinand, the Crown Prince. This army entered Spain in the end of December, 1807, and the Spaniards welcomed it with joy. At last they would be delivered from the thraldom of the hated minister and the Queen.

Meanwhile Ferdinand and his father became friendly.

The French army continued to march south and south, and one way or another got hold of the frontier fortresses. Then they marched towards Madrid itself, and the terrified King abdicated in favour of his son Ferdinand.

To make a long story short, the Spaniards at length discovered—when too late—what sort of a man they had to deal with. Riots broke out in Madrid, and Frenchmen to the number of about a hundred were killed.

Murat, who commanded the army of occupation, exacted a terrible vengeance on the unfortunate insurgents. They were driven into the square, and, while they tried to defend themselves as brave men will, they were slain by repeated charges of Murat's horse. When they laid down their arms they were shot in cold blood.

The wolf Napoleon now threw off the sheepskin, and it ended in both the King and his son being exiled.

But the wolf had still to deal with the patriotic and brave people—patriotic to a degree. This people rose en masse, and a war of independence was proclaimed by the Spaniards against the invader, from end to end of their ancient and heroic land.

* * * * *

The noble struggle of Spain and Portugal for freedom forms one of the romantic dramas in the history of this nineteenth century.

I wish it were mine to tell my readers the whole sad and glorious story, not in the ponderous English that historians deem it the correct thing to use, but in language—-simple, terse, and plain, yet pleasant—that even a boy might read.

I do not wonder at my grandfather saying to me so often, "O laddie, war is a terrible, terrible thing." I was but a child then, and could only see the glory-side of war.

What a fiend in human form the French General Loison must have been! At Evora, we are told,* "he acted like the lowest bandit. He robbed the convents with his own hands. He ransacked the bishop's library, with some of his officers, to discover concealed valuables behind the books, tore off the gold and silver clasps, and, on finding but little treasure, destroyed piles of valuable manuscripts. They took away gold and silver coins out of the cabinet of medals, and the jewels that adorned statues and relics, and Loison even filched the archbishop's ring from his table.

* CASSELL'S History of England.

"Never was there a nation, calling itself civilized, which so universally carried robbery and licentiousness into the countries which they wantonly invaded."

But while Loison was carrying on thus at Evora, another officer, called Margaron, was butchering the inhabitants of Leiria.

There they not only killed all they could find—men, women, and children—but even tore open the graves in search of pillage.

In fact, wherever the French appeared, they appeared as agents of lust, rapine, and destruction; and the peasantry, roused by their conduct to a fury of vengeance, fell on them wherever they could find them, and massacred them without mercy.

But the hour of retribution was at hand.

Probably, reader, being more used to fighting, the people of these islands were more courageous then than they are now.

In these days, we can hear the screams and wails of men, women, and children, as they are murdered wholesale in Christian Armenia, without even dreaming of going to assist them. Their heart-rending appeals arouse in us not half the sympathy that the pitiful squeals of a pig being slaughtered do.

But in those sad days the people of these islands responded to the cry of Spaniards and Portuguese at once.

They would make no more war in either country, but do their best by sea and land to extinguish the terrible fire-brand Napoleon, who had set the whole of Europe in a blaze.

Sir Arthur Wellesley, who became afterwards the great and famous Duke of Wellington, arrived at Corunna, and concerning his doings and successes there against the French I must refer you to history.

But Sir Arthur was a soldier born, if ever there was one. It was not simply that he was brave, which he was. A savage may be brave, and generally is. This general possessed tact and the genius of painstaking. Had we been as careful with our commissariat during the Crimean war as Wellesley was with his, our poor troops would not have died like rotten sheep, succumbing to cold and hunger and disease.

* * * * *

The happy life that my grandfather had led for many months had all too soon to come to an end. Leonora and he must bid each other farewell—a long and eternal farewell, it might be. He was going to take part in the great Peninsular war, and do his duty as no one doubted for a moment that he would.

So Leonora once more took up her abode with her mother in the cosy little cottage at Booterstown, and John, her hero, went away to fight the French.

From his great intimacy with Wellesley's private as From his great intimacy with Wellesley's private as well as public character, I think my grandfather must have served for a time under him. Never could there have been a stricter officer than this general. Yet for all that he was trusted and beloved by his men, whom he so often led to battle and to victory.

It is with Sir John Moore's expedition, however, we have at present most to do.

This brave general had been ordered to advance with his 20,000 men into Spain as far as Burgos, and there assist the armies to expel the French. They were, he was given to understand, to receive, later on, a reinforcement of 10,000 men, then sailing from England to take part in this unhappy war.

This was in October, 1808.

In the following mouth Napoleon himself crossed the Pyrenees. The Spaniards had been so far victorious during the previous summer that they had compelled the enemy to fall back upon and cross the river Ebro.

Napoleon considered that he himself alone was equal to a whole army, and there is no doubt this was true enough.

The beaten forces that he would now join lay between the Pyrenees and the Ebro. He would soon change the tune of the haughty Spaniards, penetrate the centre of their army and defences, hurl it to right and to left of him, then advance in a bee-line to Burgos and Madrid itself.

As an example of what the great game of war is, I may instance Napoleon's advance upon Burgos. No doubt he had spies everywhere, and knew where the Spanish armies lay as well as they did themselves. As in the simple game of draughts, so in the game of war, you must think ahead. You must think, as it were, with your opponent's mind. "If I move there," you will say, "what will my opponent do, and what will be the consequence?"

Napoleon said to himself, "As soon as I reach Vittoria, General Blake, with the left wing of the Spanish army, will move from the Ebro, and try to outflank me and cut me off from the Pyrenees. I hope he will."

Blake did, and marched eastwards.

Had he gone far enough, or so far as to lose his line of retreat, he would have been surrounded by the French, and his army massacred to a man.

Luckily for him, the French themselves attacked too soon, and although Blake was badly beaten at Espinosa, on the upper waters of the Ebro, he was able to retreat with his sadly beaten forces into the mountains of Asturias.

Marshal Soult, the great French general, now charged the centre of the Spanish lines. The battle was bloody while it lasted, but victory fell to Soult, and Burgos was captured.

General Ney was next despatched to attack the remainder of the Spanish forces that, like a new broom, were to have swept the enemy clean out of Spain.

On the 4th of December Napoleon captured Madrid itself.

The Emperor of the French had therefore carried out his little programme with beautiful tact and precision and completely destroyed the great Spanish line of defence long before it could be reinforced by British troops.

Having read so far, you will easily understand the why and the wherefore of Sir John Moore's unfortunate campaign.

To begin with, this expedition of Moore's was at least a month too late in starting, and it had difficulties to contend with from the very first, that were almost insurmountable.

Probably Sir Arthur Wellesley might have made a quicker and more dashing march, and a better-conducted one. As it was, when Sir John started from Lisbon he found that he could not procure sufficient conveyances for his baggage and impedimenta, so that these had to be cut down to the lowest figure.

Many of the women and children were left behind. It was the custom in those days to permit the most deserving soldiers' wives to accompany their husbands, a custom that we nowadays cannot but marvel at. Women on the war-path make the worst of all species of baggage.

The army was ordered to pay the utmost respect to the people, and to treat none of their ways and customs with anything like disdain.

The next difficulty was that of provisions. This caused much trouble and delay, because the French had harried the country through which they must pass.

The army then had to advance in divisions and by different routes.

The weather was rainy—wet and bad. The roads were in a fearful condition to drag artillery over, or even for men to march through.

It was not until the 11th of November that Sir John managed to drag his army across the frontier and reach Ciudad Rodrigo. Two days after this he entered Salamanca.

At Salamanca Sir John Moore had to make a halt, for two reasons. First, owing to the abominable condition of the roads, he had been obliged to send the most of his artillery round by Elvas, and he must here wait till they joined. Secondly, he had to wait for the reinforcements which, after innumerable delays, had been permitted to land at Corunna. These were the 10,000 men under Baird, including those of the Royals my grandfather was attached to, and which also included the 42nd—the "gallant Forty-twa."

Ill-luck seemed to cloud, then, this expedition from the very first. Sir John had expected that he would speedily join the already victorious armies of Spain, and assist in sweeping the French back across the Pyrenees. Where were those armies? With what or whom was he to co-operate?

But he could get no correct information. The Spanish Junta were taking it easy. They vainly imagined that they hardly now required the assistance of the British. Were their own victorious troops not lying defensively on the frontiers? Were not these able to overthrow the French?

How little they knew the French, or rather Napoleon.

At Salamanca Sir John Moore seemed to be completely befogged, and the state of his mind at this time was certainly not an enviable one. Just think of it for a moment, reader. The French were within twenty leagues of him, having captured—so he was told—Valladolid.

Mr. John Hookham Frere at this time—worse luck—was ambassador at Madrid. From him poor Sir John Moore could get no information. Sir David Baird had not got away from Corunna, and Sir John Hope had not yet got past Madrid with the guns. In fact Moore was isolated.

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.

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.

"Hurrah! my lads," he shouted; "remember Egypt! Down with the foe!"

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.

"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 contest on the summit of the Antwerp bastions was long and bloody.

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"?

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.

They had run up a heavy bill which it would take a long time for their country to clear; they had lost in all over fifty thousand men, and last, but not least, they had earned for themselves the hatred of every man and woman in Canada, and that hatred, I fear, is a fire that is smouldering till this very day, as the extraordinary activity of the Canadians and their splendid rush to arms during the-war scare in January, 1896, fully prove.

The word "never" is a long one, for neither men nor nations know what may be in store for them in the future, or how near to them the future that shall work such changes may be; but it is the general opinion, both here and in Canada, that America will never be able to conquer Canada. She will never be a great naval Power either. She certainly will not be if she crosses arms with Britain. It will add to her wealth, as well as her power, to keep the peace with her old mother, Britain.

And now, my intelligent reader, I consider that there has been blood enough spilt in these pages of mine to satisfy any gore-loving lad that ever sat by a cosy fire on a winter's evening.

But I must give you a sketch of just one fight that occurred on the Canadian frontier, and, after you have read it, I wish you to ask yourself the question: Ought two nations, who can fight so terribly as this, to be other than friendly?

The fight was about a battery that the British had erected on a commanding hill at the battle of Chippewa. "The action," says Alison, quoting from General Drummond's official account, "began about six in the evening, and the whole line was soon warmly engaged, but the weight of the conflict fell upon the British centre and left."

Notwithstanding the utmost efforts, the latter was forced back, and our General Riell was severely wounded and made prisoner. The 89th, Royals, and King's regiments opposed a determined resistance, and the guns on the hill, which were worked with prodigious rapidity, occasioned so great a loss to the attacking columns, that General Brown (American) soon saw that there was no chance of success until that battery was carried; and a desperate effort was resolved on to obtain the mastery of it.

The Americans, under General Millar, advanced with the utmost resolution, and with such vigour that five of the British cannon at first fell into their hands.

So desperate was the onset, so strenuous the resistance, that the British artillerymen were bayoneted by the enemy in the act of loading, and the muzzles of their guns were advanced to within a few yards of the English battery.

This dreadful conflict continued till after dark, with alternate success, in the course of which the combatants fought hand to hand, by the light of the discharges of the guns, and the artillery on both sides was repeatedly taken and retaken.

At length the combatants sank to rest, from pure mutual exhaustion, within a few yards of each other, and so intermingled that two of the American guns were finally mastered by the British, and one of the British by the Americans.

During the period of repose the loud roar of the battle was succeeded by a silence so profound, that the dull roar of the Falls of Niagara, interrupted at intervals by the groans of the wounded, was distinctly heard.

Over the scene of this desperate strife the moon threw an uncertain light, which yielded occasionally to the bright flashes of musketry and cannon when the combat was partially renewed.

But British Drummond took advantage of the lull in the awful storm to bring up his right, so as to support the centre.

The American general now saw that all his efforts were in vain, and at midnight the bugles sounded the retreat; the blood-red hill and their guns were left to the British who had so manfully defended them.

I think you will agree with me that the answer to the question I requested you to put to yourself must be: "No—No—No."

"I re-echo," said a well-known man on January 25th, 1896 (Burns' birthday), "I re-echo and I reciprocate, from the bottom of my heart, the noble words which were spoken by the American Senator Walcott, amidst uwonted applause, in the hall of the Capitol at Washington, when he said: 'Blood is thicker than water, and until a just quarrel divides us, which Heaven forbid, may these two great nations, of the same speech, lineage, and traditions, stand as brothers shoulder to shoulder in the interests of humanity by a union compelling peace.' That always has been, that always will be, the wish of every Briton. The two nations are allied, and more closely allied in sentiment and in interest than any other two nations on the earth. While I should look with horror upon, anything in the nature of a fratricidal strife, I should look forward with pleasure to the possibility of the Stars and Stripes and the Union Jack floating together in defence of a common cause sanctioned by humanity and by justice."

In God's name, then, let us have peace with our brother Jonathan, and heartily shake

HANDS ACROSS THE WATER.

RED-EYE, THE INDIAN CHIEF—A TERRIBLE ADVENTURE
WITH A BEAR—BAD NEWS!—STOLEN OR KILLED BY
INDIANS.

The war in Upper Canada may be said to have ended before the winter of 1814-15. Ended indeed in General Drummond's terrible but abortive attack or assault on Fort Erie, in which he lost about five hundred in killed and wounded.

The general, although reinforced, dared not attack again, "but," as Alison says, "contented himself with drawing closer the investment, and cooping the large American army up in a corner of British territory, where they were rendered perfectly useless during the remainder of the campaign."

Meanwhile, however, ships were being built, and gunboats too, both for the British and Americans to float and fight on the great inland seas and lakes, and this with the intention on the American side to make one more effort to conquer Canada in the ensuing spring.

If, however, I were to tell you of the battles, by land and sea, which took place this year between Britain and America, further south than Canada, although I might succeed in interesting some of my readers on this side of the Atlantic, I might irritate my good friends on the other.

While the good weather lasted, and the bright and beautiful Indian summer, life in camp, in log huts, or in houses was delightful enough to my grandfather and his wife, with my little mother, Mary Robertson, to say nothing of Tonal's Spanish wife herself.

The woods and forests, the lakes and streams, and the rugged hills were clad in all the glory and colour of a late autumn.

My mother was a true fille du regiment, and continued to be as much a favourite and as much beloved by officers and men on shore as she had been at sea.

The Indians in those times were far more numerous in the forests and hills, in the great lake districts, than they are now. Neither British nor Americans have ever meted out to them any very great measure of justice. In fact it has been very much the reverse. We have driven them back, back, back, before us; we have taken their territories over and over again; we have cheated and robbed them, and when they have retaliated and taken the revenge that red men always will, we have declared against them a war of extermination, or almost; we seemed to forget that they were human beings, and shot them down like wolves.

These poor, brave creatures assisted us greatly in the war against America. But they fought in a savage way, and mutilated even the wounded in a shocking and fearful manner. For the braves must have scalps to hang on poles, far away where their wigwams stood in forest glade, or by the peaceful streams that meandered through their territory.

These Indians, now that comparative peace had come, still lingered around our camps. They were, alas! too often led into excesses by the fire-water of the pale-faces.

Strangely enough, the child Mary exhibited not the slightest trace of fear in the company of these dusky warriors. She would even toddle off at times to their camp, and not be seen again for hours, when some of the Royal Scots, being sent in search of her, were sure to find her chatting gaily to squaws or braves, in their tents or by the log-fires.

But there were Indians also who hated the British, and hated also those tribes who had fought for the pale-faces, such as the Chippawas, the Wyandottes, and Minsees. With these, I believe, we were friendly on the whole, but far away in the west and north, was a tribe or branch of the Micmacs, whose hand appeared to be turned against everyone, and who were constantly on the war-path. They lived chiefly by their bows and arrows or spears, but of late years had made use of guns also, so that they were now considered still more dangerous and deadly.

Their wigwams stood on the shores of a beautiful, lonesome sheet of water, embosomed by woods, and to which they had given the euphonic name Eeowreeva, or Yewreeva, the Great Pike Lake. Here these red men had lived for many generations, more than Red-Eye, a friendly Micmac, who often visited the camp, could count on his fingers. They loved their home in the wild west, Red-Eye said, because no pale-face had ever yet come to see and seek their land.

This land, and all the hills and forests around it, was no reservation. It was simply a country into which the pale-face had not as yet penetrated.

But Red-Eye, or Led-Eye, as Mary called him, was no beauty to gaze upon. On the contrary, it was believed that, although he prided himself on the distance he could throw a spear, or his skill with a tomahawk, his chief pride lay in his stern and dreadful face, and in the number of scars he had on his body, many of which, he assured my grandmother, whom he often visited, had been received in fights and encounters with wild beasts, with bears and panthers, that he had followed, even to their very dens, and killed. In his own country he had been a chief.

Little Mary, my mother, used to listen with rapt attention to this semi-civilised savage's account of his adventures, as he squatted near the fire, wrapped in his great striped blanket.

But she must have been too young to understand much of what was said.

A strange sort of friendship, however, sprang up between the two.

Their love-making, if so it could be called, was droll in the extreme.

"Po' Led-Eye," she said one day, as she stood beside him, nursing one of his hands, on which were the marks left by a panther's teeth. "Po' Led-Eye. And the nasty wild beast cut you so! Did you kill the big cat, Led-Eye?"

"Ugh! child, yes, I kill he quick. With my spear I kill he. Hold my spear so."

"Ah! Ah! wild cat was all toveled (covered) wi' blood, wasn't he, Led-Eye?"

"Blood in streams!" said Red-Eye.

"O, how nice! Anazle (another) big tut (cut) on 'oo blow (your brow), po' Led-Eye, what make that tut?"

"The spear of a chief, child of my heart."

He smoothed her long fair hair as he spoke, and glanced lovingly into her blue eyes.

"Child of my heart! Hair like sunset clouds. Eyes and cheeks like stars and flowers. Child of my love!"

"'Oo iss, of tourse. Child of oor love. But 'oo kill the tief (chief) that troo the spear and cuttit oo blow. You kill him, quick, quick?"

"I kill him, plenty quick."

"And he bleeded all over?"

"Ugh! I wash my hands in his blood."

My little mother jumped for joy.

"How nice! how nice!" she cried, clapping her hands. "Tell the chile of oo love mo' stolies."

"Mary, Mary," cried my grandmother, "come here this instant, till I get you ready for bed."

"I think," said Tonal to my grandfather, as they lay on their blankets by the fire, "I think that Mary would grow up a splendid savage. Come here, Mary, and sit on my knee. Your mother won't put you to bed for just a little while, I'm sure."

"Not if she's good."

"I sit on oo knee bymeby, when po' Led-Eye does (goes) away to feep (sleep)."

"You like Red-Eye best, then?"

"Of tourse. Led-Eye mo' ugly as you.

"Nevah mind," she continued, patting the savage's cheek, "when I dlows (grows) up, I lun (run) away to the woods and be oo queen."

"It's all settled then, John," said Tonal.

"It would seem so, Tonal."

But Red-Eye's love-making did not end in mere words. Words are only froth, acts alone are solid, and he used to bring the "child of his love" many beautiful things from the forest—flowers, skins of beasts, and feathers of birds.

Once he brought her a live humming-bird, or one of an allied species. It soon died, however. Then he took much pains to cure it for her. He opened it slightly, and stuffed it with strange spices and musk. Then he rolled it in leaves, and laid it on a stone near the fire, and behold! in an hour it was embalmed and cured.

That little bird, in a tiny glass case, is on my table as I write. I would not part with it for all the world. All the world would be nothing to me, as I should not know what to do with it, but this little case, ah! what gladsome memories it brings me back.

Tonal and my grandfather used often to accompany Major Drake or Dr. McLeod in long rambles into the forests.

They would be away for two or even three days sometimes, and never return without the spoils of the chase, to the great delight of my little mother, Mary.

Part of these excursions was by boat, the other on shore.

Their guide was invariably Red-Eye.

He was a fearless fellow, and often led them into adventures that it would have been as well for them had they avoided.

On one of these occasions McLeod fired upon a great bear on a hillside. The brute was but grazed, and came rushing down upon him with a roar that seemed to rend the very rocks. Both man and bear went rolling down the brae, and powerful though the doctor was, he never could have come out of the adventure alive, had not Red-Eye been there. The Indian buried his tomahawk in the monster's neck. With a yell the bear now sprang at him, and had not O'Reilly, who was near, placed the muzzle of his gun close to the bear's ear and fired, poor Red-Eye would have told my little mother no more terrible stories.

Though badly bruised,

"Unwounded from the dreadful close
But breathless all McLeod arose."

Red-Eye appeared none the worse. He just shook himself and said, pointing to O'Reilly's gun:

"Ugh! Much good fire-stick."

But the spoils of the chase did not invariably consist of bears, or any other of the feræ, but game and pigeons. The latter were seen sometimes, not in flocks only, but in clouds, so that it was no uncommon thing for our heroes to bring them down with bullets.

I do not mean to say that the very bird that was aimed at always fell—-though with a good modern rifle and a good modern marksman this might have been the case—but so numerous were they that it was almost impossible to fire without hitting.

Some of the streams, away in the backwoods, teemed with fish. In fact, so numerous were these that one could scarcely call it sport to catch them.

One day, while my grandfather and Drake were in the woods, they got talking together about home, and the old scenes they had passed through, and the battles in which they had fought shoulder to shoulder.

Both had received letters only the day before.

"O, by the way, Sergeant," said Major Drake suddenly, "I have something to tell you.

"I had a letter from H——. You know he is a friend of the Duke—our particular Duke."

"The Duke of Kent?"

"Yes; and it seems H—— was telling his Royal Highness how your wife shot that terrible harpy on the battle-field, and saved your life.

"The Duke," continued Drake, "was enthusiastic, and he does not take wine to make him so, either.

"'Robertson,' he said, 'was one of the best non-commissioned officers I ever had on my staff, and right bravely but coolly he could do his duty in his regiment also.

"'And, H——,' he continued, 'the Highland battalion. of the Royal Scots will soon be au fait accompli, and I shan't forget my promise to Robertson.'"

"Thank Heaven," said my grandfather, "for that news! It has been my dream for years. Could I afterwards gain a captaincy in my company, and once lead it into action against the French, I would die happy. And you know, sir, I am no mere romancist.

"But, sir," he added, "with the fall of Napoleon and the restoration of the Bourbons, don't you think wars will cease all over the world, and that there won't be anymore use for Highland battalions?"

Drake laughed.

"Listen, Sergeant John," he said. "Mind, I'm no prophet, and never was, but—Napoleon is scotched, not killed."

"And pray, sir—who—or where——"

"Where did I get my information?"

"I fear I'm rude, sir, but that is what I was about to ask."

"Well, my good follow, a wee birdie told me."

That was a happy day all through for my grandfather.

Happy, that is, until eventide.

But as he was going singing up to his own log hut, with a bundle of birds over his left shoulder, he was surprised to find the men standing here and there in little groups. And he could not help imagining that they were looking at him in a kind of pitying way.

I have said little about Tonal's Spanish wife for the simple reason that there was little to tell; yet she had followed his fortunes all through the war, and proved a very great boon to the pipe-major, as he was now called.

She was here in camp.

Instead of little Mary running as usual to meet her father, it was poor Mrs. Tonal that came.

Her large, dark eyes were swimming in tears.

"O, Sergeant Robertson," she began, but the grief seemed to choke her utterance.

"Good heavens, girl, speak!" cried my grandfather. "Speak, I entreat of you! Has anything happened to my dear wife?"

"No, no," gasped the girl, for girl she was to all appearance. "She is gone to the Indian camp, but my husband has gone."

"Tonal gone?—dead?"

"Oh!" she cried, "we do not know, Mr. Robertson, but Mary, little Mary, too, has gone."

For a moment, forest, lake, and hill seemed to spin round, and my grandfather had almost fainted.

His daughter, whom he adored, lost, gone! It was too awful to think about.

He threw down his gun, threw down his game, and next moment was hurrying off to the Indian camp.

He would now, at all events, hear the very worst.

"WHERE IS RED-EYE? I WILL KILL HIM!"—A SOLEMN
SCENE—THE MOONLIT FOREST.

On his way to the wigwam camp, as that of the Indians was called, he met stalwart McLeod.

"Ah!" said the soldier-surgeon, "I see you have heard the bad news."

My grandfather's face was set and stern, but very pale.

"No, Doctor," he replied. "Tonal's wife could tell me nothing, only that her husband and my child have disappeared."

"Yes, and—but can you bear the evil news, my good fellow?"

"I can bear anything—anything except suspense."

"Well, the facts, as far as we know them, are these. Our friendly Indians had arranged to-day to hold a feast far away in the forest. They went off in their war-paint. The pipe-major, with one man—Roberts, of your company—went with them, and poor wee Mary would not be left behind. You know your wife will trust her anywhere with Tonal."

"Yes, yes. O Doctor, pardon my impatience, but go on—go on."

"The Indians went off with great rejoicing, Tonal good-naturedly playing in front of them.

"At three o'clock the scattered remains of our Indians came into the camp by twos and threes, some sadly wounded, but no Tonal, no Mary, and no Roberts."

"Killed?"

"Roberts was killed at the first volley. For the Micmacs are on the war-path, and have come from afar to take revenge on our Indians. They seem to have known the very day they would hold this feast."

"Dr. McLeod, there is treason in the camp.

"Where is Red-Eye? I will kill him!"

"Stay, stay," cried the doctor; "do not be rash. I believe Red-Eye to be as faithful as he is simple and brave."

"Where is he, I say?"

"He has gone alone into the forest to seek for your child. If there is any man in our camp who can pick up a trail, it is he."

"Dr. McLeod, sir, he will never return; and I here make a vow—and let it be registered in heaven—I will follow him to the wilds of the farther west, and, when I find him, will slay him in his tracks."

"Robertson, my boy," said the kind-hearted doctor—"for you are but a boy to me—Red-Eye may be a savage, but he is also a Christian, and to the lake-side, after sunset, he has gone every night to pray. I happened to be there but two nights ago, when he stalked silently down, and knelt with his face to the west. Me he could not see, Robertson. I have heard eloquent prayers from many a pulpit, and at many a humble fireside far away in bonnie Scotland, but I never listened to so simple yet heart-o'erflowing prayer before. And you and your little daughter were prayed for in words of such passionate tenderness that I shall ne'er forget them."

There was a reaction now.

"God forgive me, Doctor, if I wrong the man."

Then he covered his face with his hands.

"Come, come, Robertson, do not take on so. There yet is hope, you know. Come, I shall have your wife and yourself on my hands as patients, if you break down thus."

* * * * *

A party, that had gone out to bury the dead and bring in more of the wounded, now came in. They bore, on a litter of branches, the lifeless body of Roberts, a young fair-haired lad, who had joined in Canada.

His terrible wounds were all in front, showing how well he had fought.

He, like all the other dead, and some of the wounded had been scalped.

The assault by the Micmacs, it seems, had been terribly sudden.

It was a wild mêlée, and terrible tulzie, but soon over.

As neither Tonal nor the child was found in the forest, it was evident that they had been taken prisoners.

Tonal would doubtless be tortured at the stake, but how about Mary? She would either be flung into the river or over the cliff, or stripped and dressed as a papoose, then handed over to the tender mercies of some horrid squaw, to be reared as a little savage.

Poor wee wonder! she had often expressed her wish to become a savage, and roam through the woods and wilds with the braves. Little did she know then what was about to befall her.

There would be no sleep for grandfather to-night, and little for anyone else.

Preparations were being hastily made, however, for an expedition against the Micmacs. It was hoped that, secure in the depth of the forests, and in their mountain fastnesses, they would not hurry homewards, but follow the chase for a time. But this was only conjecture. If they went directly towards their own country, there was but little chance of our people being able to overtake them.

Besides, there were no good guides. The knowledge of even the friendly Indians, concerning this hostile tribe, was but small, but they would do all they could.

The expedition would not start until daybreak; so it was at first arranged. Without proper guides, rashness would only mean disaster.

My grandfather lay down for a time, but sleep was, for once, banished from his eyes.

He was restless, wildly restless. So he got up and left the hut. He left his wife asleep, for sorrow, in some, often causes drowsiness.

He would have bent down and kissed her, had he not feared it would wake her, for her cheeks were even now wet with tears.

Grandfather passed the sentry, and went on towards the lake. The sight of a placid sea or lake seems to have a soothing effect upon the nerves.

What a beautiful night it was! Not a breath of wind!

The great round moon was struggling up through a ghostly fog, and her red beams turned the waves to a yellow-pinkish hue. The forest all around looked like rolling clouds of vapour, and the ground itself was so white, that at a little distance it seemed covered with snow. It was a solemn scene!

Nothing was heard, except now and then the mournful cry of a night-bird, and the shout of a watchful sentry. But the drone of the distant waterfall filled all the air, and the very trees appeared to vibrate to its rhythm.

No life was visible anywhere.

Grandfather was alone. Alone with his grief. Alone with God.

Yes, He could see him. He loved him still.

A very bright star shone high up in the east, and appeared to look down on the sorrowing father with kind and pitying eye.

He knelt near the lake to pray. It was no presumptuous prayer.

"If it be Thy will, O Father, who have always been my Guide and Friend——"

That was the first of it.

"If it be Thy will."

And prayer should never go further than this.

As he still knelt there, and the waters of the lake grew more and more silvery every minute, as the moon rose higher and higher, a tall figure came gliding from the forest, walking in its moccasins as silently as, they tell me, ghosts walk.

"Ugh!"

Grandfather started to his feet.

The moon shone full now in the face of the Indian, Red-Eye.

"Red-Eye, it is you. What is it you carry?"

Red-Eye held his burden by the hair aloft.

An Indian head, with half-open eyes and drooping jaw.

"Red-Eye, how came you by that ghastly trophy?"

The Indian only pointed to the west, threw the head down carelessly, and sat down.

"I tire, much tire," he said, as he leant on one arm and commenced to fill his wooden pipe.

Grandfather sat down beside him and waited. He knew the habits of Indian warriors.

He felt sure the man would speak anon.

The moon was in full silver flood now, and grandfather could watch Red-Eye, and note every expression on his wild uncouth face.

"Red-Eye's heart is heavy," he said at last.

"And my heart is heavy, Red-Eye."

"Indian can love more—much more than pale-face. I loved your lost child."

Grandfather drew nearer to him. He felt he could trust this strange man. He felt that now, for the first time.

"Long ago—long before the pale-face was sent by your great white chief to fight bad 'Merican man—I live in the sunset west. Soon quarrels rise. I love one Indian. Grat Pike love her too. We fight. All braves fight—but I kill my chief. Then I fly and live in the forest. Every man want to kill Red-Eye then. For years I live so. Meemee come too, but one night she die."

He paused for a minute, as if the memory of his grief had made him dumb.

"Then when pale-faces come, I come to your camp-fire. You not trust me. You think poor Red-Eye traitor and thief. You think I steal the child for my tribe."

"No, no, no, Red-Eye! I did doubt you, but now I think my eyes have been opened."

Red-Eye pointed with his pipe to the ghastly head.

"He one scout. One spy. Yes, he belong to my tribe. Ugh! He not tell more tale."

"And whither, think you, have they taken my child and my friend?"

"When I kill he, I go after my tribe. Your child I cannot see. Your friend play in my tribe's camp."

"Tonal playing! He must be mad!"

"No. Suppose not play, then——"

Red-Eye touched his neck with the point of his finger.

This was significant enough.

Then up sprang Red-Eye, tall, defiant, determined.

"Your men ready?"

"They will start to-morrow morning early."

"Too late! They start now!"

He pulled out his knife and quickly scalped the hideous head.

The scalp he hung to his girdle.

"Come," he said.

And grandfather followed mechanically, as it were.

His head was bent downwards. He walked as soldiers walk at the funeral of a well-beloved friend.

But he was hopeless. He would never see his little Mary-again. Of this he felt certain.

The Indian led the way to the hut occupied by Major Drake, and quickly that gallant officer responded to the summons.

Dr. McLeod came out with him. Both started when they saw the tall Indian with scalp and tomahawk in his girdle.

"Red-Eye, I am happy to see you," said the doctor.

"Come now," said Red-Eye, pointing to the moon. "I will guide you to the camp of the Micmacs. Come quick."

In less than half an hour O'Reilly, Drake, and McLeod, with fully half of my grandfather's company, had fallen in.

They were silent and grave, but the look of sternness on each face told that they meant business.

My grandfather ran in to say good-bye, and bid his wife and Tonal's be of good cheer and—just pray!

Then, in double file, and still in silence, men and officers marched away, guided by Red-Eye, and soon were lost to view, swallowed up, as it were, in the depths of that great white, moonlit forest.

THE FIGHT WITH SAVAGES—A LONE GRAVE IN THE
FOREST—RETURN OF SPRING—NAPOLEON AT ST. HELENA.

At first the half-frozen leaves rustled crisp beneath the men's feet, but Red-Eye led them through the darkness of the great forest, into which hardly a ray of moonlight could find its way, and here the ground was soft, and the leaves made no noise.

Red-Eye believed he had the scalp of the only spy hanging at his girdle; but he might be mistaken, so every precaution was taken to maintain an unbroken silence.

Ten of the friendly Indians, by Red-Eye's desire, had accompanied the expedition, and these he spread out on both flanks and ahead, so that if an enemy appeared they could give timely warning, and our fellows would be ready to fight.

On and on they marched, for many weary hours; then at last, when near daybreak, Red-Eye ordered a halt. The camp of the enemy was not far distant.

Leaving the scouts well spread out, the guide now went on by himself.

He would soon return, he told the officers.

"I dare say it is safe enough, O'Reilly," said Major Drake, "but precaution is part of a soldier's duty. We will keep our fellows well together, and post sentries. This may be an ambuscade, you know."

Daybreak was already spreading up in the east-by-south, when Red-Eye once more glided into the camp.

"No good news," he said. "Red man's camp-fires are cold. But I find the trail."

He now rolled himself in his blanket, and was soon fast asleep.

The wearied men, by Major Drake's advice, did the same, and the needful rest was taken that should prove of so much importance when they got, at last, hand to hand with the Indian foe.

Weary men sleep soundly, and three hours' slumber to a soldier on the war-path will make him as fresh and strong as ten hours taken in a stuffy room.

On again; on and on all that day, through woods and wilds, sometimes climbing wooded hills, in the sides of which many huge bears had their caves, and into which they retreated, growling and threatening, as our men walked past.

Great was the temptation to Drake and O'Reilly to try conclusions with some of the monsters. But the sound of a gun in these forests, where, as Red-Eye expressed it, the very trees have ears and tongues, might have given an alarm that would have rendered the expedition all in vain.

Red-Eye himself said but little. He was too busily engaged, sticking to the trail as a pointer follows the scent of game. This trail was at times so much in evidence that even a white man could make it out; at others difficult even for the red man himself to descry. Sometimes it was divided and subdivided, seeming to go in a hundred different directions, and it required the utmost skill then to discover which was the right one.

There were rivers to be forded, also deep morasses to be crossed, while at times a lake caused a long detour to be made.

Sometimes a strange Indian was met with, and was invariably made prisoner.

At nightfall a halt was again called, and rest and food taken.

But Red-Eye seemed to need neither rest nor food. He left his party once more, telling Major Drake he would return at moonrise.

How he could find his way through the dark of the forest, with nothing save the stars to guide him, it is impossible to say.

The men lay down by their arms. No one was inclined to talk. They were tired, and sleep alone could do them good.

It was midnight before Red-Eye once more glided into camp.

My grandfather, who had slept but for a very short time, was up and watching for him.

His report was this:

"I travel many, many miles. Then I come to big, big hill. This I climb and look far to the west. Ugh! I can see plenty camp-fires light the sky, and my heart rejoices. I go nearer and nearer. Then cat-music fall upon my ear, and I rejoice more."

"Cat-music, Red-Eye?"

"Cat-music—the wild music of your people."

"You mean the great Highland bagpipes."

"It is that. It is that. Your Tonal play to the chief, and they much rejoice."

"With God's help," said my grandfather, "we'll change their tune."

The whole camp was speedily astir now. According to Red-Eye, they would have only about seven miles to traverse, but, at the slow and creeping pace they needs must travel, it would take them about three hours at least to do the journey, for they would have to be as silent and cautious as panthers.

It was midnight when they started, and the moon shone bright in every clearing. But they still had to keep well into the darkling of the woods, for it was unlikely that a savage tribe of Indians like the Micmacs would squat around their tent-fires without posting sentries and scouts.

This made one of the chief difficulties in the way of effecting a rescue.

Another difficulty was even more formidable. So, at all events, it appeared to grandfather. It lay in the fact that, if the enemy's camp was not captured by very sudden surprise, the savages would, doubtless, spear poor Tonal, while they who had possession of little Mary would strangle her.

This last thought was a horror of horrors that made my grandfather almost delirious.

If anything happened to his child, he determined that he would never return. He would follow the savages alone. Without doubt, he would pay the penalty of such rashness with his life: but he would sell this dearly.

Without adventures of any sort, though often startled by the growling of some bear, or the mournful cry of the great brown owl, they crept stealthily on. After a time, however—and how very long that time had seemed to my poor grandfather it need scarcely be told—a sound of another sort fell on the listening ears of the Royal Scots. It was the wail of the bagpipe playing a coronach, or lament.

How solemn and sad it was, rising thus from the depths of the midnight forest!

It stopped suddenly; and once more the little army marched onwards.

They could not be far off now, so double caution must be exercised.

Red-Eye soon lifted his hand as a signal for the halt. Then he touched Major Drake and my grandfather on the shoulder, and beckoned to them to follow.

When about seventy yards off, Red-Eye lay down for a moment with one ear close to the ground.

This is the savages' telephone, and it is wonderful what sounds they can thus hear.

The very earth seems to talk to them, and confess its secrets.

He crept forward now on hands and knees, the others following his example.

Suddenly a glimmer of light could be seen rising high up on the pine-trees beyond, and next moment they were looking down over a rock into the camp of the red men.

If the Indians have more acute hearing than we pale-faces, they have also better eyesight. Neither Drake nor my grandfather could distinguish anything very well in the uncertain light of the camp-fires, that darted up through the rolling clouds of smoke, and struggled confusingly with the moonbeams.

There were but two tents in the camp, which was pitched low down in an open glade, near to a little lake or pool. Both were made of green pine-boughs. The larger, near to which lay poor Tonal, now bound hand and foot, no doubt belonged to the chief and his squaw. The other, it was equally certain, contained Mary and her attendant.

Red-Eye and his companions now drew back a little, and held a whispered conversation—a council of war.

My grandfather wished to make a sudden dash on the foe, but Red-Eye shook his head.

"No, no, no," he said: "Indian too quick—kill Tonal, kill child of my heart too."

Then he proposed his own plan.

He would creep snake-like towards the camp, cut the cords that bound poor Tonal, then dash straight to the smaller tent, and seize the child.

By this time the camp would be roused, and the soldiers must come to the rescue.

This plan was adopted, and away glided Red-Eye on his truly dangerous mission.

The men were brought as close to the camp of the enemy as safety would admit of, and my grandfather and Major Drake once more took up their position on the rock from which they could see the camp-fires.

For the present, all they could do was to wait and watch.

At no period of his life, my grandfather has told me, did he ever experience such terrible anxiety as that which he now felt.

How very, very long the time seemed!

At last his head sank on the moss. He could bear to look no longer.

What a blessing it is that God is near us wherever we go, and that we can always pray.

But hark!

There is the sound of a musket far down beneath.

Then a yell.

"Like the wild scream of the curlew,
From crag to crag the signal flew."

The whole camp down yonder is in motion, the savages are rushing hither and thither like a nest of hornets. The fires are being rapidly extinguished—this is the work of the squaws. But as yet no savage knows whence the danger will come. They are already armed, however, with bow and spear and musket.

See! see!

The retreating figure of an Indian can be distinguished by them, making his way eastwards, and bearing something in his arms.

Twang go the bows, muskets are discharged, but still he hurries on.

But now, high above the ear-splitting yells of the savage foe, rises the war-cry of our men, as they dash down to the charge with bayonets fixed.

That was an ugly fight while it lasted.

A battle bloody but brief.

Our fellows spared none, their bayonets doing the work until the savages broke and fled. Then volley after volley was fired, until all had disappeared in the depths of the forest.

Dr. McLeod had fought his way to the chief's tent, and near it he found Tonal, still bound, for Red-Eye had been discovered before he had had time to cut his bonds.

"God bless you! God bless you, Dr. Mac!" he cried, as the giant lifted him on his back as deftly as one might lift a child.

"But man! man! the pipes! I'll no go a single inch without my bagpipes."

Hastily Dr. McLeod picked up the bagpipes, then speedily rushed back in the direction Red-Eye had taken.

Little Mary was running to meet him. Safe and sound she was, but crying bitterly.

"Po' Led-Eye! O, po' Led-Eye! He is all blooded and dead."

Dr. McLeod now cut Tonal's cords, then hurried to the spot where the poor faithful fellow lay. It was evident that life was fast ebbing away, but the doctor did what he could to stanch the bleeding.

He administered a little brandy, and Red-Eye seemed to revive. It was but as the glimpse of sunshine that precedes the summer storm, and of this Red-Eye appeared to be fully aware.

When my grandfather and the others ran up after the savages had fled, they found Tonal supporting Red-Eye on his breast, and the child sitting near, quietly weeping. She rushed into her father's arms.

"But O, daddy," she entreated, "tan oo save po' Led-Eye, 'fore he dies, and does (goes) away to a dark hole?"

"He is sinking fast," said Dr. McLeod, as my grandfather knelt beside the dying man.

"I will take little Mary away."

"No, no, no," cried the child; "I sit by po' Led-Eye all the time." And down she sat.

Red-Eye tried to lift his hand towards Mary. She took the poor scarred hand that she had often nursed before, and the faithful fellow seemed more peaceful now.

"Lead me—through—the darkness," he murmured—"to the land of the Great White Spirit."

These were the last words he spoke. His own spirit fled.

Grandfather closed his eyes.

His bitterest thought at that moment was that he had ever doubted this poor Indian, who had given his life to save the child.

* * * * *

So sudden had been the attack upon the savages that few of our fellows were wounded—none dangerously—and no one was killed.

The nearest route was now taken towards the camp. So a litter of boughs was made, and the corpse of Red-Eye, covered with leaves, was borne along with them. They would not bury him at a place where there was the slightest chance of the savages desecrating his grave.

But when they got once more within sight of the Fort, and not far from the camp, a grave was dug, and the Indian hero laid to rest.

Accompanied by Tonal, every morning, as long as a wild flower was to be had, my wee mother visited the grave, to place on the green mound some little floral tribute to the memory of her never-to-be-forgotten playmate and friend.

But winter came at last, and covered all the land in robes of white. As severe a winter, probably, as ever had been experienced in Canada.

But British soldiers are capable of roughing it in any climate, and few, if any, fell victims to the terrible frost.

Winter wore away, and one day Mary, the daughter of the regiment, rushed to tell her mother that flowers were growing in the woods, and that once more Red-Eye's grave was green.

* * * * *

* * * * *

If I happened to come across a village school anywhere, during my summer rambles in my caravan, in which there were boys who had never heard of Quatre Bras, of Napoleon's return from the beautiful and romantic island of Elba, and of the memorable battle of Waterloo, I should borrow the teacher's tawse or cane, and lay it on unmercifully. Not on the boys—pray do not mistake me—but on the teacher himself, unless he happened to be a much bigger and more active man than myself, in which case I—I—well, discretion, you know, is the better part of valour!

It was a lasting sorrow with my dear grandfather that the transport in which he and the rest of his company recrossed the Atlantic did not get home in time to give them a chance of sharing in the glories of Waterloo. This was partly owing to stress of weather, but mostly to the fact that she got her fore-foot on a sand-bank, and there lay for a week. This one single week made all the difference 'twixt glory and the loss of it.

Peace was proclaimed at last, and a lasting peace it proved.

The Highland battalion was no more thought of, and shortly after the war was over, not only my grandfather, but his two friends, Tom Grahame and Tonal, left the army and returned to their own country. For many years they lived within easy hail of each other, and met together, to talk of old times and of the future, almost every night.

Tonal's bonnie black-eyed bairns, and "Tom Grahame's baby," as Annie continued to be called, were brought up at the same school, and although changes came and separation too, they were friends as long as they lived.

Both O'Reilly and Major Drake retired shortly before my grandfather left the Service, and brave, sturdy Dr. McLeod took up a practice in Glasgow. His name had been mentioned in many a despatch; that was all, for in those days there were no Victoria Crosses.

One day—how well I remember it, though but a child—a hale, hearty old man came to see my grandfather, at his cottage, and a right merry afternoon and evening they spent.

"They fought their battles o'er again,
And thrice they slew the slain."

* * * * * *

Napoleon Bonaparte was sent, as you all know, to spend the remainder of his days and chafe his life away on a sea-girt rock, called St. Helena.

It is really one of the most charming islands in the tropical ocean.

It is a long time now since his grave, down in a cool, green hollow, in a grove of trees, was vacated, for the French were permitted at last to take their dead hero home.

The house, a far from pretentious one, stood and stands on a bold, bare bluff, out-looking as blue a sea as anyone ever beheld. To the left, as you approach the house, far down beneath, is the green glen where the grave was dug; but behind you, if you turn your gaze, the scenery is well-wooded and mountainous.

Truly a lovely island, but this end of it is lonesome in the extreme, and surely in such a place as this, watched night and day by ships and soldiers, this eagle-hearted genius of war must have found his punishment almost greater than he could bear.

Before visiting the house, I went to the grave, and was permitted to cull some large pink flowers, which were afterwards stolen from my cabin on board H.M.S. Valorous.

The interior of the house itself, and its rooms, reminded me of hospital wards.

Hung up near to a bed was a placard, worded somewhat as follows:

"If these walls could speak, and tell the story of the great man's sufferings in this room, it would melt the hardest heart to tears."

And this, then, was the end of a life of cruelty and ambition.

Heigho!

"So sinks the pride of former days,
    When glory's thrill is o'er,
And hearts that then beat high with praise
    Now feel that pulse no more."

THE END