CHAPTER I.

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.