My protectors proved to be two of the Second Dragoons, or Scots Greys—a corporal and a private—who had been escorting a couple of prisoners, captured smugglers, to the Tolbooth of Dunbar, and who were proceeding to rejoin their regiment, which was then quartered at the nearest market town on the English side of the Border.
"Kirkton, what did that fellow with the jockey cap call himself?" asked the corporal.
"I scarcely heard; but he said he was a justice of the peace."
"A rare one, certainly! But he cannot meddle with us, Tom, for we are on duty until we rejoin. Why did he attack you, my lad?" asked the corporal, turning to me; "were you poaching?"
"No," said I, angrily, though the state of my attire perfectly warranted the inference; "but here is the inn."
It was a common wayside hostelry, where the Berwick stages changed horses in those days—a two-storied house, with a large stable-yard behind and an ivy-clad porch in front; over the latter hung a square signboard that creaked in the wind on an iron rod, and bore a profile of the Marquis of Granby in a bright red coat and white brigadier wig, with the information beneath, that within was "good entertainment for man and beast."
The landlord knit his brows and muttered something surly, under his breath however, on seeing the two dragoons approach; but Jack Charters, the corporal, presented a slip of printed paper, saying—
"How are you, old boy? Here is our billet order."
"From whom?" growled Boniface.
"The billet master. To-morrow it will be from a constable, but then we shall be in England."
Perceiving that the host scowled at the document—
"It is quite correct, my dear friend," began the corporal, in a bantering tone, "and quite in the terms of the Billeting Act, which extends to all inns, livery stables, and houses of persons selling brandy, strong waters, cider and metheglin, whatever the devil that may be."
And then, laughing merrily, they rode straight into the stable-yard, where they unsaddled, stalled and groomed their horses with soldierlike rapidity, and taking care to stand by while each had its feed of corn, for they knew too much of the world to trust to an ostler's nice sense of honour.
Then we repaired to the bar of the inn, where the entrance of a couple of dashing dragoons in braided uniforms and high bearskin caps, with all their accoutrements rattling about them, created somewhat of a sensation.
The rosy-cheeked barmaid smiled with pleasure, the plump landlady curtsied twice, even the ungracious host pushed forward a couple of chairs—I was permitted to find one for myself—and several bumpkins took their long clay pipes from their mouths, and gazed with admiration, for the appearance of two scarlet coats in this peaceful quarter of Great Britain was quite an epoch in its history.
"Bustle, landlady, if you please," said the corporal, "and get us something to eat by way of supper."
"Supper for three," added the private, with a quick glance at me; "nay, no refusal, my lad," he added, interrupting some apology I was about to make, with an empty purse, an aching heart, and a burning cheek; "many a time I have known the pleasure of supping, yea, and dining too, at a friend's expense."
These dragoons were men who had an air, bearing, and tone far above their subordinate rank in the service, and there was a mystery about this that could not fail to interest me.
They were both bold and handsome fellows, with eyes that looked steadily at men, and saucily at women; slashing troopers, with long strides, huge spurs, and steel scabbards that made a terrible jingling.
The corporal pinched the landlady's chin, and then gave the landlord a slap on the back which nearly made him swallow a foot-length of his clay pipe, as they seated themselves.
"For shame!" said the barmaid, as our enterprising non-commissioned officer slipped an arm round her waist; "I fear you are a very bad fellow."
"I would rather be that than a sad fellow," said he; "but get us supper quick, my pretty one; we have had a long ride on a cold February day; but pray don't make a fuss, my dear—for me at least; I have long been used to take the world as it comes."
The landlord, who had not yet digested his mouthful of pipe, grumbled, as if to say that "private soldiers were not the kind of quests they were used to make a fuss about;" but he dared not speak aloud, for the aspect of his two unexpected visitors rather awed him, and the female portion of the household were all in their favour.
A piece of roasted beef, cold, some bread, and the materials for manufacturing whisky toddy, were rapidly laid for us within a snug recess that opened off the bar. A large fire which blazed within the wide arched fireplace, filled the whole apartment with a ruddy light, that was reflected from scores of plates in a rack, and rows of polished tin and pewter mugs and tankards; but I selected a seat that was in shadow, for Farmer Flail, who was seated in an arm-chair close by, and had wakened up at the noise of our entrance, had dozed off to sleep, and I had no wish to be recognised if he awoke again. Although I was scarcely a mile from the avenue of Netherwood, old Roger Flail was the only person in that district who knew me.
"The last time I was in this quarter, a strange affair happened," said the corporal.
"How?" I inquired.
"Our chaplain fought a duel."
"A duel—your chaplain?"
"Yes—with a cornet of Eland's Horse."
"About some point of scripture?"
"About a pretty girl, and the poor cornet was run through the body, and left dead, near the gate of a hall—Netherwood, I think 'tis called."
"Were you in the Greys, then?" I inquired.
"No—I was in the Dragoon Guards, and I had not the honour to be a corporal," he replied, while a dark expression stole over his handsome and sunburnt face.
"Have you seen service?" I asked.
The troopers laughed.
"Seen service!" repeated the corporal; "I have seen everything—the devil himself, I believe; but we have both smelt powder in Flanders, and hope to do so soon again. Another slice of the beef, my boy? No more, you say? At your age, I could have eaten a horse behind the saddle."
I begged to be excused; I had but little appetite.
"I hope you can drink, at all events," said Tom Kirkton, the private, pushing the jug of hot water and the whisky bottle towards me; "make your brewage and be jolly while you may."
Then while stirring his steaming punch, in a lull, deep, manly voice, he began to sing, while the corporal clanked his spurs and clinked his glass in tune to the favourite camp song of the day.
"How stands the glass around?
For shame, ye take no care, my boys!
How stands the glass around?
Let mirth and wine abound!
The trumpets sound,
And the colours flying are, my boys,
To fight, kill, or wound;
May we still be found,
Content with our hard fare, my boys,
On the cold ground!
"Why, soldiers, why
Should we be melancholy, boys?
Why, soldiers, why,
Whose business 'tis to die?
What, sighing?—fie!
Shun fear, drink on, be jolly, boys!
'Tis he, you, or I,
Cold, hot, wet, or dry,
We're always bound to follow, boys,
And scorn to fly.
"'Tis but in vain
(I mean not to upbraid you, boys)
'Tis but in vain
For soldiers to complain;
Should next campaign,
Send us to HIM who made us, boys,
We're free from pain;
But should we remain,
A bottle and kind landlady
Cures all again."
As he concluded, Kirkton kissed the hostess, and ordered another bottle.
"When I was in the Dragoon Guards, at the siege of Maastricht," said the corporal, with something sad in his tone, "six of us sang that song one night in my tent; before the noon of next day, there was but one alive of all the six—myself—who could better have been spared."
"You look downcast, my lad," said Kirkton to me.
"Ay," added the corporal; "what is the matter? have you done aught that is likely to make you seek a healthier atmosphere?"
"Don't jibe the poor fellow, Jack," said the other on perceiving a flush of annoyance cross my face.
"Is love at the bottom of it?"
"See how he reddens—of course it is."
"You mistake," said I, with a bitter sigh; "my funds are at zero."
"Is that all?" observed the corporal, laughing; "mine have been so many times, for Fortune is a fickle wench; but, egad! the dice-box, a little prize money, a present from a pretty woman, or something else, always made the silver rise again to blood heat. Well—and so your purse is empty?"
"As you see—there is but a shilling in it."
"When mine was thus, I took another in the king's name, and then I had two—by that stroke I exactly doubled my fortune. What is your profession?"
"I have none."
"Relations?"
"Yes," I replied, flushing to the temples with anger.
"Friends, I should have said."
"None."
"Right!" exclaimed Corporal Charters, bitterly; "friends and relations are often very different people."
"Come," added Kirkton, "be one of us—you are just a lad after old Preston's heart."
"Old Preston—who is he?"
"Zounds, man! don't you know? He is Colonel of the Greys—our idol! we all love the old boy as if he was our father—and a father he is indeed to the whole regiment. Come, then, I say, be one of us—the lads who are second to none."
"Second to none!" echoed the corporal, draining his glass with enthusiasm, for this is yet the proud motto of his regiment; "you have still your brave heart, boy—the king will give you a sword, and you will ride with us against the French as a Scots Grey dragoon."
The fumes of the potent alcohol I was imbibing had already mounted to my head; the idea of becoming a soldier had frequently occurred to me, and these troopers had only anticipated a proposal I was about to make them.
"I will—I will!" I exclaimed, and gave each my hand upon the promise. Another jorum of punch was ordered, and long before it was finished, I found myself wearing the corporal's grenadier cap and aiguilettes, girded with his comrade's sword and belt, seated on the table, and singing most lustily, I know not what.
Then I thought of Ruth, and becoming sad related to them my love affair, at which they shocked me very much by laughing loudly, and for their own amusement made me describe her hair, eyes, hands and voice again and again, as I had drunk too deeply to perceive how they quizzed me. However after a time, it seemed to me, that they too became maudlin, as they rehearsed several of their tender experiences.
"There was a time," said the Corporal, "when I too imagined I could love a girl for ever."
"For ever is a long time, Jack!"
"I still love with ardour—"
"For a day," suggested Kirkton, and then he added, with a tipsy air of sentimental sadness, "love sheds a halo over everything, and brings us nearer heaven."
"Indeed! By Jove, it nearly sent me the other way once, and almost brought me to a General Court Martial."
"Oh—you mean your scrape with—"
"The countess—yes—but silence on that matter, Tom," replied the corporal, whose face flushed, and he gave a bitter smile.
There was a pause during which, though very tipsy. I surveyed him with interest, for every line of his face expressed stern loftiness, and then something of sadness and mortification.
"Well—well," said Kirkton, "drink and forget."
"No—no more for me, and you, Tom, have had quite enough."
"Bah! another glass—for sobriety, there is not my equal in the service—in the Greys most certainly—"
"How stands the glass around?
For shame, ye take no care, my boys!"
Of this night I remember no more, than falling asleep—I am ashamed to say—across the table, during Kirkton's song, completely overcome by what I had imbibed; and thus ended the first episode of my new career.