Part 1

[Illustration:

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 153.—VOL. III. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 4, 1886. PRICE 1½_d._]

‘ON GUARD’ AT WINDSOR CASTLE.

Though the honour implied in the protection of the principal residence of the sovereign is considerable, military duty at Windsor is not by any means held in high estimation by soldiers, that is to say by those whose lot it is to perform the ordinary functions of ‘sentry-go’ around the castle. In a word, the duty is ‘hard.’ This term, applied to peace-time soldiering, means that the men have few ‘nights in bed’—the criterion by which such service is invariably judged. At some stations the rank and file have as many as twenty of these coveted consecutive nights in barracks; but at Windsor the present writer has at times enjoyed the honour of passing every third night on the exposed terraces of the castle; and as the ‘Queen’s Regulations’ lay particular stress on each soldier having at least one ‘night in bed’ before going on guard, it will be granted that the Windsor duty is not unjustly considered somewhat trying. Perhaps a glimpse at the inner life of the Castle-guard may interest some readers.

The armed party, which consists of some fifty soldiers, is under the command of an officer, assisted by two sergeants, together with as many corporals, and it enters upon its twenty-four hours’ tour of duty in the forenoon. A drummer-boy also ‘mounts:’ his chief employment being to go messages and to carry the lantern used in making the nocturnal ‘rounds.’ When the guard marches into the lower ward of the castle, after having in its progress considerably enlivened the quiet streets of Windsor, the ‘old’ guard is formally relieved, and the men not immediately required as sentinels take possession of the guardroom—a large, comparatively modern building, in the vicinity of the antique Curfew Tower. With a view, probably, to the preservation of discipline, the two sergeants are provided with a ‘bunk,’ a small portion of the area of the apartment partitioned off, and fitted with a miniature guardbed. Here they often employ their time in the making up of pay-lists, duty-rosters,[1] and the like. On entering the guardroom, the privates quickly divest themselves of their valises and folded greatcoats; for it is now admitted by the authorities that a sentry may march about quite ‘steadily’ without being constantly burdened with his kit. The valises are suspended from rows of pegs furnished for this purpose; and—what might in fine weather seem surprising—the greatcoats set free from their tightly buckled straps. Ostensibly, the ‘loose’ coats are necessary to spread out on the guardbed, so as to slightly soften that uneasy couch, as well as to prevent dust, which may there have lodged, from adhering to the tunics of recumbent guardsmen. But the real reason for shaking out these garments frequently is to allow them to dry, because in many cases they have been liberally sprinkled with water before being buckled up, to insure a more compact ‘fold.’

A stranger to things military, on surreptitiously glancing in at the guardroom door early in the day, and while the sentry’s back was turned, would notice a large number of white basins drawn up on the tables and ‘dressed’ with extraordinary precision. These vessels are placed in position for the reception of the soup, which is served shortly before mid-day, and they bring us to the important subject of the culinary department. There are four cooks connected with the castle guard. One is ‘corporal of the cooks;’ another is ‘standing’ (or permanent) cook; and the remaining two are merely sent daily on ‘fatigue’ from the barracks. The provisions are conveyed to the castle in a barrow of peculiar construction, and deposited in the cookhouse—a place not at all resembling a conventional kitchen, but both in situation and appearance very like the dungeons one is occasionally introduced to when visiting ancient strongholds. In this dismal region are capacious ‘coppers,’ in any one of which soup, beef, vegetables, or tea can be prepared.

To return, however, to the proceedings of the members of the guard. When they have satisfactorily arranged their equipments and, above all, thoroughly repolished their boots, a corporal calls for silence. This obtained, he begins to make out the duty-roll, or ‘detail’ as it is usually termed, of the sentries; and when the detail is completed, he affixes to the wall in a primitive fashion—with pieces of damped ration bread—a short abstract, in which the men are represented by figures. To the uninitiated observer, the purport of this might be rather puzzling. After a particular numeral, for example, is inscribed the word ‘Cocoa.’ The soldier to whom it refers has assigned to him the task of preparing the beverage named, which is issued to the guard at midnight—the ‘standing’ cook having the privilege of every night in bed. The abstract is attentively perused by the men, who sometimes take private memoranda of the parts of its contents that apply to them individually. Not unfrequently this is done with a pencil on their pipeclayed gun-slings, in such a position as not to be apparent to the inspecting officer.

As soon as every one has mastered the corporal’s hieroglyphics, a sergeant issues from the bunk already alluded to, bearing the ‘order-board,’ which is of rather portentous dimensions. As the great majority of the men know the regulations off by heart, they are read in a slightly hasty and perfunctory manner; though, with true military exactness, not a word is omitted. There is little in the list of orders that calls for special remark; but one paragraph is, we imagine, almost if not quite unknown elsewhere; it relates to the conduct of the corporals when marching round the ‘reliefs.’ If, when so marching along with his men, Her Majesty the Queen should meet or pass the party, the non-commissioned officer is directed to halt his subordinates, draw them up in ‘open order,’ and see that the appropriate salute is rendered. The curious order which prohibits soldiers from ‘working at their trade while on guard’ is of course represented on the board; but as a matter of fact, some men pass a good deal of their spare time in the not very martial occupation of making beadwork pincushions. These articles, however, command somewhat tempting prices, especially in the metropolis.

While the men of the guard have thus been engaged, the commandant has taken over his quarters, adjacent to the guardroom, and reached by a pretty long stone stair, well worn by the iron-shod heels of many generations of corporals and drummer-boys. Soon after mounting duty, the officer is joined by his servant, who brings with him a portmanteau containing various comforts. A cooking department is also required in the case of the officer, whose meals, however, are conveyed to him by the messmen from barracks. Before long, the steps of a corporal ascending the stair warn the captain of the guard that the hour approaches for him to march off the ‘second relief.’

The ‘posts’ are numerous. One sentinel paces about in front of the guardroom, much of his attention being devoted to saluting the Knights Pensioners of Windsor, who reside in the lower ward of the castle. Another soldier has ample leisure to examine the architectural features of the celebrated Round Tower, at the base of which he is stationed. A third takes post on the North Terrace, where a splendid prospect enlivens the monotony of his vigil, and whence, if of a philological turn, he can contemplate the windings of the river which are said to have given the place the name Wind-shore, or Windsor. Or, if historically inclined, he may recollect that the North Terrace was once the favourite promenade, for an hour before dinner, of Queen Elizabeth, to whom it is alleged the English soldier was originally indebted for his daily ration of beef. Then there are two sentries on the eastern façade of the castle. These men are in close proximity to the royal apartments. By night, they do not challenge in the ordinary manner, but by two stamps with the right foot; and they are charged to pronounce the words ‘All’s well’ in an undertone. The grand entrance to the upper ward of the castle is in the keeping of a ‘double’ sentry, as is also a gate near at hand; and there are several other sentry-posts which it would be tedious to visit in detail. In each sentry-box hangs a heavy watchcoat, which the soldier may put on when he thinks fit, and of the large buttons on this cloak he is expected to take sedulous care.

By night, the sentinels around Windsor Castle are slightly augmented in number; but it will only be necessary here to notice one nightpost, the cloisters of St George’s Chapel. This is a somewhat eerie quarter in the small-hours. There is a military tradition to the effect that the cloisters are occasionally visited by shadowy and unearthly forms, to the perturbation of young soldiers. The writer has had no experience of these supernatural visitants; but he has noticed, when marching round the relief, an unusual alacrity on the part of some men to quit the cloisters.

While the men on guard are engaged in their usual routine, the officer is not altogether idle; he inspects and marches off the relieving detachments at intervals of two hours; and in the afternoon visits the sentries, taking pains to ascertain that they are familiar with their instructions. At eleven o’clock at night he makes his ‘rounds,’ preceded by the drummer-boy with his lantern, as well as by a corporal bearing a bunch of keys, wherewith to open a number of iron gates in and near the castle; and when the rounds return to the lower ward, the captain of the guard is at liberty to retire for the night.

In the morning, such members of the guard as may be slumbering are roused by the arrival of the cooking-party; and soon afterwards the officer’s man, with his portmanteau, appears on the scene. Before long, a sergeant comes forth from the ‘bunk,’ uttering the mandate: ‘Get these coats folded.’ During the period when the equipments are being operated upon, the senior sergeant is engaged on the ‘guard report.’ One important part of this is already in print upon the form, and it commences by saying that ‘Nothing extraordinary has occurred during my tour of duty.’ When the sergeant has carefully finished the report, he takes it to the officer for signature, and on his return calls out: ‘Fall-in the guard.’ The men, who are already fully accoutred, promptly form-up outside the guardroom; and the commandant is seen descending the stair from his quarters. Then the ‘new’ guard arrives. In the course of half an hour, the first stroke bestowed by the big-drummer on his instrument announces to the ‘old’ guard that their tour of duty is at an end.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] _Roster_, in military language, is the list of persons liable to a certain duty.

BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.

BY FRED. M. WHITE.

IN TWENTY CHAPTERS.—CHAP. XVII.

When Maxwell came to himself it was broad daylight. He was lying upon a straw mattress in a small room, containing no furniture besides the rude bed; and as he looked up, he could see the rafters, black with dirt and the smoke of ages. The place was partly a house, partly a hut. Gradually, as recollection came back to him, he remembered the events of the previous night, wondering vaguely why he had been selected as a victim for attack, and what brought him here. By the clear sound of voices and the rush of water, he judged himself to be in the country. He had no consciousness of fear, so he rose, and throwing open the heavy door, looked out. Towering away above his head were the snow-capped peaks of mountains, and below him the spreading valley of the Campagna. Wood upon wood was piled up before him, all aglow with bright sunlight, the green leaves whispering and trembling in the breeze. The hut was built on a long rocky plateau, approached by a narrow winding path, and ending in a steep precipice of two hundred feet, and backed up behind by almost perpendicular rocks, fringed and crowned by trees. In spite of his position, Maxwell drew a long breath of delight; the perfect beauty of the scene thrilled him, and appealed to his artistic soul and love of the beautiful. For some time he gazed upon the panorama, perfectly oblivious to his position, till gradually the sound of voices borne upon the wind came to his ears. He walked to the side of the hut and looked around.

Seated upon the short springy turf, in every picturesque and comfortable position the ingenuity of each could contrive, were four men, evidently, to Maxwell’s experienced eye, banditti. They seemed peacefully inclined now, as they lounged there in the bright sunshine smoking, and renewing the everlasting _papilito_, without which no such gentry are complete, either in the pages of fiction or as portrayed upon the modern stage. With the exception of one, evidently the leader, there was nothing gorgeous in their costume, it being the usual attire of the mountaineers; but the long carabines lying by their sides and the short daggers in their waistbands spoke of their occupation. Maxwell began to scent an adventure and enjoy the feeling; it would only mean the outlay of a few pounds, a little captivity; but when he approached nearer, and saw each bearing on some part of his person the gold moidore, his heart beat a trifle faster as he stepped forward and confronted the group.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ he asked, in the best Italian at his command. ‘I suppose it is merely a question of ransom. But it is useless to put the figure too high. Come, what is the amount?’

The brigands looked to each other in admiration of this coolness. Presently, the leader removed his cigarette from his mouth and spoke: ‘You have your watch, signor, and papers; you have your rings and purse. It is not our rule to forget these with an ordinary prisoner.’

Maxwell felt in his pocket, and, surely enough, his valuables were perfectly safe—nothing missing, even to his sketch-book. For the first time, he began to experience a sensation of fear. ‘Then, if plunder is not your object, why am I detained?’

‘Plunder is not a nice word to ears polite, signor,’ the leader replied with a dark scowl. ‘You are detained by orders. To hear, with us, is to obey. You will remain here during our pleasure.’

‘But suppose I refuse to remain?’

Without rising, the brigand turned on his side and pointed towards the sheer precipice, and then to the wall behind; with a gesture he indicated the narrow winding path, the only means of exit, and smiled ironically. ‘You may go; there is nothing to prevent you,’ he said; ‘but before you were half-way down the path yonder, you would be the target for a score of bullets, and we do not often fail.’

Maxwell was considerably impressed by this cool display; and indeed, when he considered the matter calmly, there appeared no prospect of immediate escape. Remonstrances or threats would be equally unavailing, and he determined to make the best of his position. ‘Perhaps you would not mind telling me why I am here, and by whose orders you have arrested me. It would be some slight consolation to know how long I am to stay. I am anxious to know this,’ he continued, ‘because I am afraid your mountain air, exhilarating as it is, will not suit me.’

The group burst into loud laughter at this little humour: it was a kind of wit they were in a position to appreciate.

‘It is impossible to say, signor. We only obey orders; we can only wait for further instructions as regards your welfare—or otherwise. We were told to bring one Maxwell here, and lo! we have done it.’

‘I see you are brothers of the League,’ Maxwell replied; ‘and for some act of omission or commission I am detained here. You can at least tell me by whose orders you do this.’

‘Signor, they say you are a traitor to our Order.’

‘That I am not!’ Maxwell cried indignantly. ‘Tell me why I am here, and at whose orders. There is some mistake here.’

‘Not on our part, signor. The instructions came from London. I only received them last night. You will be well treated here, provided you do not make any attempts to escape. For the time, you are our guest, and as such, the best I have is at your disposal. If orders come to release you, we shall conduct you to Rome. We shall do everything in our power to serve you. If, on the other hand, you are tried in the balance and found wanting, we shall not fail to do our duty.’ He said these last words sternly, in contrast to the polite, grave manner with which he uttered the first part of his speech.

Maxwell had perception enough to comprehend his meaning. ‘You mean that I should have to die,’ he observed. ‘I suppose it would be a matter of the utmost indifference to you, either way?’

‘As a matter of duty, signor, yes,’ he answered gravely; ‘though I do not wish to see a brave man die; but if the mandate came to that effect, I must obey. There is no refusing the word of the League.’

‘Then I really am a prisoner of the League,’ Maxwell returned bitterly. ‘Well, the cause of liberty must be in a bad way, when the very members of the League treat brothers as I have been treated.’

‘Ah, it is a fine word liberty,’ the brigand chief replied sardonically. ‘It is a good phrase to put into men’s mouths; but there can be no freedom where the shadow of the sword dwells upon the land. Even Italy herself has suffered, as she will again. Perfect liberty and perfect freedom can only be founded upon the doctrine of universal love.’

By this time, Maxwell and the chief had drawn a little aside from the others. The artist looked in his companion’s face, and noted the air of sorrow there. It was a fine manly countenance, haughty and handsome, though the dark eyes were somewhat sombre now. Maxwell, with his cosmopolitan instinct, was drawn towards this man, who had a history written on his brow. ‘You, too, have suffered,’ he said gently.

‘Suffered!’ the brigand echoed. ‘Yes, Englishman, I have suffered, and not more from the Austrian yoke than the cruelties of my own countrymen. There will be no true liberty here while a stiletto remains in an Italian’s belt.’

‘I suppose not,’ Maxwell mused. ‘These Societies seem to me a gigantic farce. Would that I had remained quietly at home, and let empires manage their own affairs. And Salvarini warned me too.’

‘Salvarini! What do you know of him?’ the chief exclaimed.

‘Nothing but what is good and noble, everything to make one proud to call him friend.—Do you know him too?’

‘He is my brother,’ the chief replied quietly.—‘You look surprised to find that a relative of Luigi should pursue such a profession as mine. Yes, he is my brother—the brother of an outlaw, upon whose head a price has been put by the state. I am known to men as Paulo Lucci.’

Maxwell started. The man sitting calmly by his side was the most famous and daring bandit chief of his time. Provinces rang with his fame, and the stories of his dashing exploits resounded far and near. Even away in the distant Apennines, the villagers sat round the winter firesides and discoursed of this man with bated breath, and children trembled in their beds at the mere thought of his name. He laughed scornfully now as he noted Maxwell’s startled look.

‘I am so very terrible,’ he continued, ‘that my very name strikes terror to you! Bah! you have been listening to the old women’s tales of my atrocities, about the tortures my victims undergo, and the thousand-and-one lies people are fond of telling about me. I can understand Luigi did not tell you I was his brother; I am not a relative to be proud of.’

‘He is in total ignorance of your identity. That I do know.—I wonder at you choosing such a life,’ Maxwell put in boldly. ‘With your daring, you would have made fame as a soldier; any path of life you had chosen would have brought you honour; but now’——

‘But now I am an outlaw,’ Paulo Salvarini interrupted. ‘And why? If you will listen, I will tell you my story in a few words.’

Maxwell threw himself upon the grass by the other’s side and composed himself to listen.

‘If you will look below you,’ the chief commenced, and pointing with his finger across the distant landscape, ‘you will see the sun shining upon a house-top. I can see the light reflected from it now. That house was once my home. I like sometimes to sit here and think of those days when Gillana and I were happy there—that is ten years ago now. I had done my best for my country; I had fought for her, and I retired to this peaceful spot with the woman of my heart, to live in peace, as I hoped, for the rest of my life. But the fiend of Liberty was abroad. My wife’s father, an aged man, was accused of complicity in political crimes, and one day, when I was absent, they came to arrest him. My wife clung to him, and one of the brutal soldiery struck her down with the butt of his rifle; I came in time to see that, for my blood was on fire, and I did not hesitate. You can understand the rest. My wife was killed, actually murdered by that foul blow. But I had my revenge. When I crossed the threshold of my house, on my flight to the mountains, I left three dead behind me, and another, the officer, wounded sore. He recovered, I afterwards heard; but some day we shall meet.’

He stopped abruptly, shaking in every limb from the violence of his emotion, his sombre eyes turned towards the spot where the sun shone upon the roof-tops of what was once a peaceful homestead.

‘Luigi can only guess at this,’ the speaker continued. ‘To him I have been dead for years; indeed, I do not know what makes me tell you now, only that you surprised me, and I like to hear a little news of him.’

‘I have heard this history before,’ Maxwell observed. ‘It is five years ago now; but I am not likely to forget it. Still, you cannot enjoy this life. It is wild and exciting, no doubt; but your companions’——

‘I live for revenge,’ Salvarini exclaimed sternly. ‘I am waiting to meet the brutal officer who ordered his follower to strike down my wife. I have waited long; but the time will come at length, and then, heaven help the man called Hector le Gautier!’

‘Le Gautier!’ Maxwell exclaimed. ‘He, an Italian officer! Why, he is at present Head Centre of the Brotherhood in London. He and your brethren are bosom friends. He was even present at the time when Luigi told us your sad history. Surely he cannot know; and yet I trusted him too. Signor Salvarini, you bewilder me.’