Having now related how I became a soldier, almost in desperation and misanthropy, I shall soon show how such emotions gave place to better, to braver, and to higher aspirations, fanned by that blessed hope which never dies in the heart of youth.
I learned—but not for a long time after this period—that when news of the step I had taken was brought by the sorrowing old Rector to Netherwood, it gave great satisfaction to my worthy grandfather, and still more to my affectionate cousin Tony, who drained a full bumper to the health of the Frenchman whose bullet should rid them of me for ever; and then Sir Basil was actually barbarous enough to shake him by the hand and say—
"Zounds! Tony, my boy, you may be heir to my title as well as acres, and die a baronet yet!"
After travelling eighteen miles we reached Rothbury, a quaint old market town of Northumberland, pleasantly situated in a valley overlooked by a lofty ridge of rocks. Our head-quarters were here, but some of our troops were billeted at Bickerton, Caistron, and other townships of the parish.
The Coquet flowed through the town, and every morning one of our first duties was to take our horses there to water, which was done by beat of kettledrum, for as yet the Greys, being Horse Grenadiers, had no brass trumpets.
On the morning after our arrival at Rothbury, I was brought before my commanding officer, Colonel George Preston. Tall, handsome, and venerable in aspect, he was a noble veteran officer, though somewhat of an eccentric character in his way. He was now far advanced in life, and had been from his boyhood in the Scots Greys, having entered the regiment as a kettledrummer in the last years of Queen Anne.
He was a captain at the battle of Val, where, at the head of only thirty Greys, he made so furious a charge upon a great body of French cavalry, that he routed and drove them fairly off the field. He then pulled out his purse, and gave each trooper a ducat with his left hand, for his right was so swollen by the vigorous use he had made of his broad sword, that the hilt had to be sawn in two by the regimental armourer before he could be released from it.
Under his old-fashioned scarlet uniform, which was cut somewhat in the mode of Queen Anne's days, he wore a buff coat, and this was, no doubt, the last appearance of such a garment in any European army.
He received me gravely but kindly, and said,
"So, boy, you have resolved to become a soldier?"
"Yes, noble sir," said I; for as Charters had informed me, this was then the mode of addressing the commanding officer of a regiment.
"You are very young, and seem somewhat different from the common run of our recruits. Your name is rather uncommon, too. I presume that your parents——"
"They are in their graves. I have none to advise or regret me—none whom I can regret."
(Did no thought of Poor Ruth arrest this sweeping speech?)
"Good! you are then the best of food for gunpowder. Your age——"
"I am about eighteen, sir."
"You look older than that—in face, especially."
"Sir, those who have undergone such years as I have, frequently do so."
In truth, I looked older than my age. My figure was tall, well formed and developed, while my face had a matured expression, and somewhat resolute aspect, especially about the eyes. Colonel Preston, though a stern man, and a strict disciplinarian, felt a deep interest and pride in his regiment, and thus he narrowly examined every recruit before passing him into the ranks, and every man's name and character there, were graven on his memory.
"I like both your spirit and bearing, boy," said he. "Sixty years ago, I was a poor and penniless lad, so I e'en became a private trooper in the Scots Greys, and behold me now! I am Lieutenant-Colonel of the regiment, and hope, please God, to die a General, and go to my grave under a salute of cannon. Ere long, my lads," he continued to me, and several other recruits, who had just been ushered into the Orderly room, "we must all be in France or Germany, and there we shall find what the fortune of war has in store for us. Remember that the sword of a brave man is always sharp, but that of a coward for ever wants grinding! Stand by me, my lads, and I shall never fail you, and in me you see a living example of the reward that may await sobriety, steadiness, and a strict obedience to orders. Put Basil Gauntlet into Captain Lindsay's troop; attach the rest to Captain Cunninghame's. The tailor and the roughrider will soon make dragoons of them all."
I was conducted to my billet. Fortunately it was in the same tavern where Kirkton and Charters were quartered, and with them I shared the first instalment of my pay, which at that time was small enough, when a cornet had but a half-crown per diem, and a lieutenant-colonel of Dragoons only eight shillings and six-pence!
My bounty-money was soon dissipated, for under pretence of fraternising with me, or teaching me many matters that might be useful, several of those rogues who are usually known in barracks as "old soldiers," or "knowing ones," stuck close to me and to the other recruits, so long as our cash lasted.
The next day saw me arrayed in full uniform. The largest mirror in the tavern (it measured only six inches each way) by no means afforded me sufficient scope for the admiration of my own person in this new attire; though I could view it, when reflected at full length, in the shop-windows, while passing along the streets, into which I at once issued, as Kirkton said, "to exhibit my war-paint."
In those days—this was in the year before we fought at Minden—the Greys wore double-breasted scarlet coats, lined with blue, having slit sleeves; long slashed pockets were in each skirt, and a white worsted aiguilette dangled from the right shoulder. We wore long jack-boots, and tall grenadier caps, with the Scottish Thistle and circle of St. Andrew in front. Our cloaks were scarlet lined with blue shalloon, and in front they had rows of large flat buttons set two and two, on white frogs, or loops of braid. On our collars we wore a grenade in memory that at its formation, a portion of the regiment had been armed with that formidable weapon, the same as the Scots Horse Grenadier Guards.
Everywhere the proud motto of the corps met my eye; on the standards and kettledrums, on our caps, carbines, and pistol-barrels, and on the blades of our long straight broadswords, I read the words—
SECOND TO NONE!
That short sentence seemed full of haughty spirit; it gave me a new life, and fired my heart with lofty inspirations. I repeated it, dreamed and pondered over it, and as our departure for the seat of war was daily looked for, I longed for active service, and for the peril and adventure ever consequent thereto.
The brusque manners, rough words, oaths and expletives used by some of my comrades, certainly shocked and somewhat blunted my chivalry. To be sure all gentlemen then swore to their hearts content: and I am sorry to say the army carried the fashion to an extreme, and there a quiet fellow was sure to be mocked and stigmatized as a methodist or quaker.
In all the many wars which succeeded its first formation, when it was raised by Sir Thomas Dalyell and Graham of Claverhouse, in 1678, to fight against the hapless covenanters, our regiment had borne a great and glorious part. At the battle of Drumclog and at Airsmoss where Richard Cameron the field-preacher fell, the Greys were, unhappily, the terror of their own countrymen; and even now, after the lapse of so many generations, traditions of those dark days still lingered in our ranks—handed orally down from veteran to recruit.
In better times they had served in the wars of Anne and of the earlier Georges, and always with honour, for in every campaign they captured a colour, and at the battle of Ramillies surrounded and disarmed the French Regiment du Roi, capturing no less than seventeen standards.*
* Fact: vide "Regimental Record."
Our officers were all gentlemen of high spirit, who belonged to the best families in Scotland; and so attached were their men to them, that the corps seemed to be but one large family. Punishments—especially degradations—were almost unknown; yet "auld Geordie Buffcoat," as they named Preston, was one of the most strict colonels in the service.
Every regiment has its own peculiar history and traditions, just as a family, a city or a nation have; these are inseparably connected with its own honour, achievements and badges, and with the military glory of the country, and thus inspire and foster the fine sentiment of esprit du corps.
But to resume:—
We marched southward by easy stages, and during the spring of the year were quartered at Newmarket, where the inns have ever been proverbial for the excellence of their stabling and other accommodation, and where the race-ground and extensive heath were so admirably adapted for training the cavalry, who were all subjected to severe drill in anticipation of foreign service.
By this time I had gone from squad to squad, rapidly through all the phases which a recruit has to pass—position-drill and sitting up till my spinal column was erect as a pike; club-exercise to expand the chest and strengthen the muscles of the arm. Then came pacing and marching; then equitation, embracing all the skilful and ready aids by which to guide and control my horse in all his paces, and to acquire a firm seat in every variety of movement—to govern him also by my legs and bridle hand, so as to leave my right at the fullest liberty for the use of my weapons. Then I had the exercise of the latter to acquire—the sword, carbine, and pistol. Other hours were devoted to lance, post, and stick practice. Even a smattering of farriery was not omitted; so the first six months which followed my début as a Scots Grey left me little leisure for reflection, or for the study of ought else than would conduce to make me a perfect dragoon, skilled in all the science of destroying human life. I learned, moreover, that a perfect dragoon is not made in a day.
Colonel Preston daily superintended in person the training of his recruits; and the presence of the fine old man, with his mingled kindness and enthusiasm, kindled a kindred spirit even in the breast of the dullest fellow among us.
It seemed to me—but it might be fancy—that he took particular interest in myself, for he frequently spoke to me with such words of encouragement or praise, that my young heart swelled with gratitude; and I felt certain when the time came, that I would follow the brave old man, even to the cannon's mouth, with the devotion of a son, rather than the mere obedience of a soldier.
An anecdote of our veteran colonel, then current, related that when George II., who frequently displayed much favour and partiality for the Greys (notwithstanding his hatred of the Scots), was reviewing them in Hyde Park one day before the Marshal Duke de Broglie and a prince of the House of Bourbon, Louis Philippe, Duke of Orleans, he said—
"Monseigneur le Prince, did you ever see a finer regiment?"
"They are fine indeed," replied the Prince, as the royal staff passed along the line; "but pardon me if I think them inferior to our Gendarmes de la Garde. Did your majesty ever see them?"
"No," replied the king; "but I have little doubt that my Scots Greys have—eh, Colonel Preston?"
"Yes," said the Colonel, grimly, "we have seen them."
"Where?" asked Louis Philippe.
"At Dettingen, when auld Jamie Campbell, who was killed at Fontenoy, led us to the charge against them."
"Well—well," said the king, impatiently, "and what followed?"
"We cut them to pieces, and there I took their white standard, cleaving the bearer down to the breeks; and the prince, if he chooses, may see it now, hanging in Westminster Hall."
At Newmarket my chivalry received a severe shock, by being present at the execution of a Light Dragoon who was shot for desertion. He had been sentenced to three hundred lashes by a regimental court-martial. On this, he appealed to a general court, which, instead of confirming the former sentence, inflicted the penalty of—death!
It was long before I forgot the horrors of that scene; the grey light of the early morning—our pale faces on parade—the ominous silence—the almost whispered words of command—the pallid prisoner, as he knelt beside his black deal coffin, and the shriek with which he fell within it as the death volley rang across the far extent of the open heath, and then the trumpet sounding to form open column and pass the poor corpse by files, announced that all was over.