CHAPTER III.

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.