CHAPTER XIV

SHIRAZ.

The landing-place was Bushire, a well-frequented town, with a harbour, on a long and sandy peninsula, one hundred and twenty miles westward of Shiraz, and in storms or high tides it is completely surrounded by water.

The vessels of the expedition came to anchor in the roads, under the protection of the isle of Karrack, as ships drawing above eighteen feet of water cannot enter the harbour. The town, which is triangular in form, is defended by a mud-wall on the land side, armed with cannon. Gillian, as, with Colin, he stood apart from the rest, comparing notes, could see that it occupied a slight eminence, shelving gently down on each side, and that though mean in reality, it presented rather a handsome appearance to the seaward.

Its streets were narrow; the principal mansions were flat-roofed and terraced, while the minor dwellings were merely unroofed enclosures formed of reeds; and not a dome or minaret rose to break the monotony of the view, which was terminated in the distance by the ever-snow-capped mountains of Ardshir.

The boats were hoisted out, and cavalry, infantry, and artillery, with all their baggage and stores, began the work of disembarkation together. As the troops were crowding towards the gangway and side ladder of the _Indus_, Gillian saw pretty Mrs. Hartley descending it among the first who went. On this occasion she nodded smilingly to him, and said, while her eyes shone with a peculiar brightness of expression, which was, indeed, her own,

"I shall send your sketch of the island to mamma, as a souvenir of our voyage together in the _Indus_."

He touched the sling of his rifle in salute, and the fair bright English face passed away from him for the time.

Gillian had now become completely accustomed to his knapsack and accoutrements, for MacAra had frequently held deck parades in heavy marching order. At first his shoulders had ached, and were black as if bruised, and his arms were so stiff that he had to ask his comrade to put off or on his plumed bonnet; now all these seemed as a part of himself, though on the first day's march he felt his heart thumping painfully at his ribs, over which the tight breast-strap was buckled.

In other ships alongside the _Indus_, the pipers of the regiment could be heard playing "Seaforth's Gathering," the same wild air that, in the warlike days of old, had many a time and oft summoned the MacKenzies to Tullochard, when the bale-fire of war smoked on its lofty summit.

In Bushire, MacAra "handed over" his detachment to the commanding officer, and Gillian with his comrade were pleased to find themselves placed together in company of the former.

Bushire was taken almost without opposition, the Persian troops in the place taking to flight ere the cavalry of the expedition could get their horses on shore; and on the 3rd of February the inland march began.

As the Highlanders moved off with the first division, the pipers, accompanied by all the brass drums, struck up "High Alisdair."

"That is the march of King Alexander, who gave to the MacKenzies the stag's head that is now on your sporran," said Colin; "the same Alexander who hunted in Kintail, and was killed at Kinghorn."

For, strange as it may sound to English ears, our Scottish regiments often muster, march and charge at times, to airs, perhaps, a thousand years old--the oldest and grandest of all being the march of _Gillichroisd_, or the "Follower of Christ."

Gillian was but a small unit in Outram's army--a nameless private--true! yet, when he thought that the soil he trod was Persia, the land of that Cyrus who conquered Lydia, turned the current of the mighty Euphrates, and slew Belshazzar; the land of the Selucidæ, and many other warlike dynasties, high and great thoughts rose within him; and when he heard the trumpets of cavalry, and the bands of the other regiments filling the morning air with martial music--the native infantry clad in silver grey, faced with white, the Bombay rifles in green, the picturesque battalion of Beloochees; and more than all, while he looked along the still more picturesque column of the 78th on the march, with the black waving plumes and graceful tartans, and thought of all the past and of the scenes in which those kilts and bonnets had so often led the way to death, but never to disaster or defeat, there swelled up in his heart a glow of passionate triumph, which, though difficult to describe, is second to none that Heaven implants in the human heart.

The chief, that pet phrase for the colonel, now common to all our line regiments, who have caught it up from the Highland corps, rode at the head of the column. He was a worthy cadet of "the princely House of Hamilton," as Scott has it, and was yet to win for himself a glorious name in the terrible wars of India.

"A braver or a better man is not in the British army," said Captain MacAra to Gillian, whose superior bearing he had frequently remarked; "if Hamilton has one fault, it is too great an eagerness for battle; and many a time, on our long and dusty marches in Central India, I have seen him marching on foot, while the knapsacks of the failing and the weary were slung on the back of his horse; so Lamond, you may well be proud to serve under him."

An open plain, some forty miles in extent, lies between the mud-wall of Bushire and the chain of snow-clad mountains separating it from Shiraz. On this plain nothing was visible but occasional clumps of palm-trees, though in the gardens, three miles distant from the town, pomegranates, oranges, and aloes grew in luxuriance together.

During the first two days' march our troops encountered some of those unpleasant incidents peculiar to a tropical climate. Tempests of wind swept across the advancing columns, bearing with them mighty clouds of fine white, whirling dust, which penetrated not only the ears, eyes, and nostrils of the soldiers, but seemed to force its way through the very pores of the skin.

"I'd give a month's pay for a good glass of beer," said Colin MacKenzie, as he looked ruefully at his feather-bonnet, and shook its black plumage which the dust had turned to white; and thirsty indeed were they all; for though the heat was moderate, the dust was stifling, all the more so, when kicked up by so many thousand marching feet. They were literally enveloped in it, as in a dense and blinding cloud, amid which, at times, the columns seemed like masses of shadowy spectres.

The sun set in dun and dusky-looking clouds when Sir James Outram ordered the troops to halt and bivouac, but in the order of march. It was in an open and comfortless place; but each battalion piled arms by companies, date-trees were hewn down, dry branches collected, and fires were lighted. Round these the officers and men sat or lay in groups, cloaked or great-coated, and strove to make themselves as comfortable as circumstances would permit. This was on the 4th of February, and all were full of hope that on the morrow they would thrash the Persians, who were said to be in position, and in some strength, about nine miles distant.

After supping on a single ration biscuit, and a draft of cold water from his canteen, Gillian reclined upon his knapsack, and, as usual, began to indulge in reverie. Far away from the singular scene around him, where the glare of the watch-fires produced a Rembrandtish effect of strong red light and deep shadow on the groups of soldiers, the kilted Highlanders, the dark sepoys in their blue great-coats, the wild Belochees in their scarlet turbans and Asiatic costume, the piles of glittering arms, with all their bright bayonets fixed, and the distant figures of the cavalry videttes thrown out in the direction of the enemy--far away from that Persian bivouac and the snowy hills of Shiraz, his mind sped home--home to Dove, back to that bright eve of sunshine when they first acknowledged their love for each other, and that bitter eve of gloom and sorrow when they parted, it would seem, for ever.

How wondrously changed were all his surroundings now! He should never, never see her more, even as the wife of another.

He strove to thrust aside such thoughts, and to listen to the heedless banter and the songs with which his comrades strove to while away the time; and merrily many of them sang, though, for all they could foresee, that night might be their last in the land of the living.

And now Colin struck up an old ditty--a reaper lassie's song--he had learned from his mother, and sung it to that air which is still used as the march of the 55th, or old Stirlingshire.

"To win my love in glances soft, the woodland laddie came; He vowed he'd ever be sincere, when thus he told his flame: 'The moon is bright, my winsome lass, as bright as moon can be, To the woodland come, my lassie dear--to the greenwood come wi' me.'

"My lad wi' love was sae distressed, I could na' say him nay, My lip he pressed, my hand caressed, as we gaed owre the brae: 'My soldier-lad, thou'rt brave and braw, and blythe as blythe can be, And I to yonder fair greenwood, will gang my lad wi' thee.'

"Our bridal day has come to pass; such joy was never seen, For I am called the greenwood lass--the soldier-laddie's queen! I bless the day, sae fresh and fair, I tauld my mind sae free-- And went to yonder gude green wood, my soldier lad wi' thee."

The last line of each verse was chorused, and in this homely ditty, which woke the echoes of the date groves of Shiraz, none joined more heartily than an old staff colonel, who had reined up his horse near the company of MacAra, and with kindly interest expressed in his war-worn, grey, but handsome face, was looking at the Highlanders.

"The general's orders are, that we march at daybreak," said he to Captain MacAra; "where can I find Colonel Hamilton?"

"At the head of the column," replied the captain.

"Come here, young man," said the Colonel to Gillian, as he dismounted; "hold my horse for a few minutes."

Gillian started to his feet mechanically, but the expression of his face was rendered fully apparent in the light of the fire that blazed close by them. On seeing the angry and haughty flush that suffused his features, the old field-officer glanced at him inquiringly and curiously; but ere Gillian could take the reins, MacKenzie started forward and said:

"Allow me, Lamond--I understand cattle better than you."

"Thanks," muttered Gillian, as he wearily resumed his place on the sod; "I thought I had got over all this sort of thing, and must school myself, in time, to do so."

In a few minutes the old Colonel returned, and sprang on his horse, and waving his hand, exclaimed, as he rode off:

"To-morrow we may be face to face with the Persians, so '_Clanna nan Gael anguillan achele!_'"

From this cry--the favourite toast, meaning "Clansmen, shoulder to shoulder," they learned that he was a countryman of their own.

Weary with the long and dusty day's march, Gillian strove to sleep; but in addition to the strangeness of the place, and his general surroundings, there was the sensation of still being at sea, and on board the _Indus_; he had yet "the roll of the ship," thus the ground on which he lay seemed to heave beneath him, to rise, fall, and oscillate.

At last he dropped into a kind of dull waking doze, and not till rain began to fall was he aware that, in addition to his grey great-coat, he was covered by that of Colin Mackenzie, who had spread it over him.

"I cannot permit this," he exclaimed, starting up.

"You've not been used to this kind of work, Lamond," said the other; "many a night, when stalking deer or driving cattle, I have slept on the slopes of Tullochard with only my plaid about me."

"You are a good, kind fellow, Colin!"

"I have known misfortune, so have you--I can see that with half an eye."

And now the rain began to fall as surely it had never fallen since the flood. Long, long did our Persian army remember that dreadful thunderstorm in the plain of Shiraz; mingled with hail, the rain came down in blinding torrents, drenching to the skin officers and men, for all were alike tentless and shelterless, while from the snow-clad hills there came an icy wind that rendered their sufferings all the greater; but nothing could daunt the ardour of such troops, especially when led by such a general as Outram--"Old Jamie Outram," as they loved to call him.

The infantry drums beat, and the cavalry trumpets blew "boot and saddle," though the troopers were booted and the horses saddled (as they had been throughout that wretched night), when the grey dawn of the 5th of February stole into that wet and desolate bivouac, and the brigades stood to their arms. All loaded muskets were discharged in the air and reloaded, to preclude any missing fire when the march to the front was resumed, after each man had breakfasted on a pulpy biscuit, the rain having soaked everything in their haversacks.

Riding by her husband's side, among the staff of the 1st Division, Gillian saw the pretty Mrs. Hartley well-mounted, pass to the front, caracoling her horse, and laughing merrily, sitting square in her saddle, patting the neck of her horse as he arched it, in impatience of her tiny but restraining hand. Where or how she had passed the night he knew not; but her bright auburn hair was coiled smoothly under her smartly-veiled hat, and her well-fitting habit was as fresh as if she had only come out of "the Row." Despite Captain Hartley's wish, she would not remain with other ladies on board the _Indus_, but insisted on accompanying him into the field--an affectionate obstinacy which was yet to cost them both dear.

About midday the bugles of the advanced guard sounded a halt, and then every eye brightened, and every heart beat high with expectation, as a murmur ran along the columns that "the enemy were in front;" and ere long the Persians, in grey-looking masses, were seen in possession of a strongly-intrenched position, where ever and anon the steel of their bayonets and swords flashed out as the occasional gleams of a watery sun fell on them.

"The brigades will deploy from column into line," was now the order of Outram, whose firm dark face, with lip compressed, and thick grizzled moustache, seemed to glow with ardour, as his staff galloped hither and thither to the leaders of brigades and regiments; but barely was the order of battle complete, when, to the intense annoyance of all, the Persian masses seemed to break, and then, by the wavering and uncertain gleaming of their arms, it was evident that they were in full retreat, and without firing a shot!

"Forward, the cavalry!" was then Outram's order.

Cheerily the trumpets rang out, and unsheathing their swords as they galloped off, the Horse of Brigadier Housen swept forward in hot pursuit. He narrowly escaped a ball which pierced his saddle; but many of the Persians were cut down on every hand, and the military Governor of Bras-joon, a dark and fierce-looking man, wearing a dark fur cap and plume, a blue frock and large epaulettes, was made prisoner.

On the 7th of February the march was resumed, yet the Persians still avoided all collision with our troops, who could see them, but at a vast distance, still continuing their retreat into the dark defiles and woody fastnesses of the snow-capped mountains that overlook the plain of Shiraz.

In that open spot--open save where a few scattered date-palms grew, the army again halted and bivouacked for the night. Arms were piled, fires lighted, and the out-pickets posted in the direction of the mountains.

Gillian was on duty as an advanced sentinel, and as the darkness was closing, he stood, as in duty bound, with arms "ordered," and his eyes fixed on the distance, where a range of red sparkling dots along the mountain slopes indicated the watch-fires of the Persians. Weary with the toil of the past day's march he would gladly have slept; but now he had to keep himself most keenly awake and alive to all about him for the single hour he was posted, such being the period when sentinels are in front of an enemy. The sound of horses' hoofs made him spring to attention and challenge, and he found himself face to face with the old staff-colonel, whom he had often observed hanging about the flanks of the Highlanders when on the march.

"You are a young soldier for this sort of work," said the veteran, checking his horse, and looking kindly at Gillian's pale face; "but you know your duty, I presume?"

"Yes, sir; to observe the enemy closely, to communicate by signal with the picquet, and with the sentinels on my right and left."

"Exactly. You seem a good style of young man--a smart fellow, too! I should like much to have you for my permanent orderly."

Gillian was silent, but he coloured deeply.

"This would remove you from much of the discomfort, and even the perils of the service," urged the other.

"For those very reasons, permit me to decline, sir."

"My lad," said the Colonel, after a little pause, "you seem to have belonged to another sphere than the ranks?"

"I did, sir."

"Your family----"

"Are all in their graves, in India."

"Your father," continued the old man, kindly.

"Was a soldier, like myself."

"His rank--you may tell me that?"

"A colonel in the Bengal army; he was killed in action. Please say nothing of this to any one, and let us cease the subject. It is not what we choose that we do in this world; but what Fate chooses for us."

"Most true, my lad, your secret is your own, keep it. Good night."

"Good night, sir," replied Gillian, as the old officer, with something of hauteur in his bearing, rode off.

"Orderly!" said Gillian, with great irritation, when his post was "relieved;" "that d--d old fellow seems to have an inclination to insult me, Colin!"

"Nay, you misjudge him; how can you think so?" replied MacKenzie; "he looks like a kind old man; but, of course, he views you only as--as--"

"What?"

"A private soldier, like myself."

"True; and now for a snooze on mother earth."

The night was one of intense darkness; not a star was visible overhead; it was very still, too, and no sound broke the silence save the occasional neigh of a charger, or the voice of a distant sentinel challenging a passer near his post, and Gillian soon dropped into a sound sleep--yet not so sound as to prevent him dreaming, and for the first time, these many months, of Dove Gainswood.

A strange but vivid sense of the reality of her presence was impressed upon him. Her face, with all its sweetness of expression, its pale and delicate beauty, seemed bending close to his, and as she whispered to him there was tender quivering in her cherry lips that was peculiarly her own. Her voice came distinctly to his ear as she sang the last lines of "Wild Joanna,"

"When half asleep, I'm reading, Some amorous lyric rare, Lean softly down and kiss me, From the bosom of the air!

"Thus come, my wild Joanna! For well I know 'twill be, If ever soul come back again, Thy soul will come to me!"

Her lips seemed about to touch his, when he started and awoke, to be haunted, bewildered, and half-terrified by the dream and its import, as there flashed upon his memory her farewell words in the garden: "If I die, Gillian, I will come to you like the wild Joanna of my song"; but he had little more time to think of it, for, at that moment, the whole bivouacked army was startled by a volley of musketry flashing redly out of the gloom, together with the roar of two pieces of cannon in its rear.

Many men fell killed and wounded; bullets struck and overturned the piles of arms to which the soldiers mechanically rushed; thousands of voices rang clamourously on the night air; chargers plunged; drums were beaten, trumpets, bugles, and bagpipes blown; and for more than half an hour the whole force became involved in a most singular and utterly indescribable skirmishing fire with an unseen foe, for the night, we have said, was so gloomy that the darkness seemed opaque.

Vociferously yelling and blowing their trumpets, the Persian cavalry galloped about, cutting down stragglers, and MacKenzie caught by the throat a Persian bugler who was actually mingling in the ranks of the Highlanders, and blowing with might and main our British bugle calls, "incline to the right," "incline to the left," and "cease firing," to increase the general confusion and "the _fighting devil_ which lurks in the heart of every man."

The shrill yelling, the hoarse shouting and bugling ceased after a time, and satisfied with the _alerte_ they had given us, the Persians withdrew into the gloom and mist, leaving the British under arms, their hearts throbbing wildly with rage and excitement, and the bivouac strewed with killed and wounded, officers, soldiers, camp-followers, and baggage animals.

Dawn spread over the plain and on Outram's now marshalled host, and with it spread the startling intelligence that Mrs. Hartley--the pretty little woman who was daily seen riding by her husband's side among the staff--had been carried off by the Persian cavalry, and the grief and terror of the unfortunate captain were pitiable to behold.

Gillian was deeply concerned by the intelligence, for, though far removed from him, he had somehow learned to look upon her as a friend.