PHILIP ROLLO;

OR,

THE SCOTTISH MUSKETEERS.

BY

JAMES GRANT,

AUTHOR OF "ROMANCE OF WAR," "JANE SETON," &c. &c.

"'Tis a tale of campaigning, of love, and invading, Of marches, of routes, bivouacs, enfilading; Of batteries and breaches, howitzers and mortars, Of posts and intrenchments; of in and out quarters; Of advancing in line, by columns, divisions, And fighting whole days without rum or provisions."

IN TWO VOLUMES,

VOL. II.

LONDON: GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & CO., FARRINGDON STREET. 1854.

M'CORQUODALE AND CO., PRINTERS, LONDON.—WORKS, NEWTON.

CONTENTS OF VOL. II.

Book the Eighth

CHAPTER

I.—A Discovery II.—The Arms of Expectation III.—The Rose Leaves IV.—Winter Quarters—The Secret of Gabrielle V.—The Dogger VI.—The Capture of Burg VII.—St. Mark's Day VIII.—The Fireship

Book the Ninth

IX.—The Sisters X.—The Forest of Eckernfiörd XI.—Ulrick, Count of Merodé XII.—Proving the maxim, that advantage may be taken in Love, as well as in War XIII.—The White Powder XIV.—The Nuns of St. Knud XV.—Comforts of War XVI—Bombardment of Kiel XVII.—A Horrible Adventure XVIII.—Suffocation—The Dark Pit XIX.—The Castle of Kiel

Book the Tenth

XX.—The Highland Outpost XXI.—The Dying Soldier XXII.—Count Kœningheim's Story—The Lily of Culbleine XXIII.—The Cousins—the Story continued XXIV.—The Raid of Macallum Mhor XXV.—The Battle of Glenlivat—Conclusion of the Count's Story

Book the Eleventh

XXVI.—Wallenstein XXVII.—The Major of Musketeers XXVIII.—The Castle of Helnœsland XXIX.—The Serpent in a New Skin XXX.—Bernhard's Offer XXXI.—How Bernhard delivered the Letter XXXII.—Can she Escape now? XXXIII.—The Crape Scarf of M'Alpine XXXIV.—The Pistol Shot XXXV.—The Midnight Funeral

Book the Twelfth

XXXVI.—Helsingor XXXVII.—Stralsund XXXVIII.—War XXXIX.—The Frankendör XL.—The Kirk Bell of Gometra—the Sortie

Book the Thirteenth

XLI.—The White Flag XLII.—Retribution XLIII.—The Jesuit XLIV.—The Black Lake of Stubbenkamer XLV.—The Black Plague XLVI.—The Plague Spot XLVII.—Last Assault of Stralsund XLVIII.—The Sun shines again

Notes

I.—The Scots in Denmark II.—The Scottish Flag III.—The Highland Purse IV.—Mackay's Officers

PHILIP ROLLO.

CHAPTER I. A DISCOVERY.

A week glided away at the quiet old castle of Nyekiöbing.

Every day the old queen rode forth on a fat Danish horse, accompanied by Ernestine and other ladies; every day, at the same hour as yesterday, the guard presented arms at the gate—the officers saluted—the drum rolled—the pipe yelled, and for the remainder of that day all became quiet again. A few ships now—but very few, for war had desolated the cities of the coast—spread their white sails on the waters of the Sound, and listlessly we watched them from the lower ramparts, where moss and grass grew under the wheels of the unused cannon. I saw Ernestine frequently, but always briefly and in presence of her father; so that no opportunity was afforded to me for addressing her as my heart wished, and as vanity and hope told me she, perhaps, expected.

As our commandant, Ian was, more than I, about the queen's little court; I envied his opportunities of enjoying the society of the two charming sisters; and I frequently saw him in the garden with Gabrielle leaning on his arm; for, though grave and somewhat thoughtful, he told me that he loved her prattle, for it reminded him of Moina. When not on duty I rarely saw the venerable widow of Frederick II., and she spoke to me seldom; but on these occasions it was invariably to make some remark on her late son-in-law, the king of Scotland, James VI., or on his gallant retinue—the chancellor, old John of Montrose, and the three hundred Scottish nobles and cavaliers, who accompanied him to Upsala, when he espoused her daughter Anne, and when so merry a winter was spent by the whole Danish court.

From King Christian couriers came frequently, and it was evident that they bore evil tidings, which were industriously concealed from us.

One day the Count of Carlstein met me hurriedly; I observed that he had on his belt with his sword and poniard, as well as a stout corslet, which the Baron Fœyœ had given him.

"I am about to leave you, captain," said he.

"Leave us, count—for whence?"

"The king generously gave me liberty, and, while the great game of glory and fortune is being played so well by Wallenstein, by Tilly, and Merodé, can I remain inactive here at Falster? Another column of Christian's army has surrendered to the soldiers of the empire."

"Another!" I reiterated, thunderstruck by the intelligence; "which?"

"That which retreated first by the Limfiörd. Tilly overtook it, and forced every regiment successively to lay down its arms. The old corporal has sworn by our Lady of the Seven Sorrows, that ere Yule-day every inch of Danish earth shall be under the dominion of Ferdinand. Christian has fled with all his court—fled none know where, and Denmark is all but conquered! Kœningheim has sent word that Tilly expects to see me daily."

"Can all this be true, Baron Fœyœ?" I asked the steward incredulously, as he joined us at the castle gate.

"About as true as that the Norwegian bears speak very good Danish," he replied, twisting his yellow mustaches and looking spitefully at Carlstein.

"No doubt such tidings are very unpleasant for you, Herr Baron," replied the count, with a haughty and somewhat provoking smile; "but I beg again to assure you that all laid down their arms without firing a shot—all save the Scottish battalions of Lord Nithsdale and Sir James Sinclair of Murkle, who obtained leave to march into Sweden, and join the banner of the young and gallant Gustavus Adolphus."

"It is impossible!" said the stout baron passionately, as he stamped about in his calfskin boots; "it is impossible, and I will never believe it!"

"I had it from the best authority," said the count, still smiling; "Bandolo has been here."

"Bandolo!" I exclaimed; "I had quite forgotten that wretch."

"Well, then, he who is to Tilly what Father Joseph is to Richelieu, has been here."

"Bandolo here,—on this island of Falster?" said the baron, turning angrily to me. "Now, by the holy Dannebrog, mein Herr, your kilted sentinels must be no better than moles or blind bats!"

"A single company of soldiers cannot furnish sentinels for the whole island, Herr Baron," I replied, with some asperity; "there are here a hundred little creeks and bays where a boat may land a man unseen, and sail again. But I thought this rascal died at Heilinghafen."

"He bears a charmed life," growled Fœyœ.

"The deil is aye gude to his ain, as we say at home," said the count; "but to me this rogue appears at present a very amiable and estimable character—ha! ha!"

The passionate old baron took this merriment in deep dudgeon, and retired abruptly.

"Tilly, who knows every thing," continued the count, "on learning that I was here and at liberty, sent a small skiff across the Belt for me—yonder it is afar off, floating like a seagull. At night it will be here to take me to the isle of Fehmarn, where my honour and the emperor's service require my instant presence; for Wallenstein is about to take command of the whole army, and the most brilliant conquests are expected. Ere another year is past, the Swedish rocks and Norwegian Alps shall have echoed to the trumpets of the Empire. I will gladly avail myself of the good queen's offer to leave my daughters here; for in this cold season they could not cross the Belt in an open boat, exposed to the mist by day and dew by night. However, that they may not be dependent even on a queen, I have given Ernestine five hundred doubloons, and, in case war or disaster should reach this peaceful isle, you will protect them—will you not, sir?"

"Oh! count—to the last drop of my blood will I guard them; and, if I request it, they shall never lack protection while one brave heart survives in the regiment of Strathnaver."

"The mother of Ernestine was of Spanish Flanders; Gabrielle of France—as I have told you, but——"

"We will never forget that they are the daughters of a countryman—of a brave soldier."

"Enough, captain; in the care of Scottish cavaliers they are safe."

"Yes, count—doubt not that if poor Rollo is knocked on the head, that in Ian Dhu, the Lairds of Kildon or M'Coll, they will find steadfast friends."

"Rollo!" said he, with a start and a smile, "your Highlanders call you M'Combich, and I have never heard your officers name you otherwise than Philip; my name," he added, taking my hands in his, "is also Rollo!"

"Yours, count?"

"Yes, my ancestors were a branch of the Rollos of Duncruib, in Perthshire."

"Astonishing! we all spring from the same stock."

We shook hands, and would have made other inquiries, but there was no time.

"My nom de guerre is Rupert-with-the-Red-Plume," said the count, as we walked into the castle.

"A name that all men know of, from the shores of the Baltic to the mountains of Carinthia. We have all been so familiar with it, that we never thought of inquiring whether you had another."

"My story is a strange and a sad one; some time I may tell it to you; but not just now."

My soul rose to my lips, and I was about to divulge the secret of my heart—to tell him how I loved Ernestine, and would strive by good works and gallant deeds to make myself worthy of her; but he left me hurriedly, and the opportunity passed, like many others which never return again.

Fear of the Danish burghers in the town made us circumspect, and at midnight I saw him embark in a small dogger manned by four or five men, who immediately put to sea, and long before the morning sun shone upon the waters of the Baltic, which widen there between the Danish isles and Pomeranian shore, the little vessel, speeding before an eastern wind, had vanished at the horizon towards the isle of Fehmarn.

He was gone, and I had forgotten—so much had I been occupied with my own thoughts—to narrate to him that conversation between Tilly and Bandolo, which I had overheard in the bed-chamber of the former at Luneburg. Thus, though Carlstein was not ignorant of the spy's great ambition, to settle down in private life as a count of Hanover, he had no idea that the expected coronet was to be shared with his own daughter—with Ernestine; for, with all its presumption, the project seemed so mad and ridiculous, that it had never until that night made much impression on my mind.

CHAPTER II. THE ARMS OF EXPECTATION.

On the day after their father's departure, I saw neither Ernestine nor Gabrielle. They were no doubt discomposed by his sudden absence; but they had been so used to see him go and come again, and generally little the worse save a slash or two, that in the evening I expected to meet them in the garden adjoining the royal residence of Nyekiöbing, the spacious donjon tower of which, with its heavy battlements and grated casements, overlooked it. I was not disappointed. From the window of my apartment I saw them walking there, and hurried to meet them.

It was a beautiful autumnal evening; the low flat shore of the island was bordered by a stripe of golden sand, encircled by the glittering waves of a dark blue sea, on which the sunburnt woods of the past summer cast a long and lingering shadow. Behind the yellow beach and its shady woods of brown, the sun like a golden targe began to sink, and as it sank, a million of sparkles seemed to shoot from its descending disc; down, slowly down it went; the wavering rays shot further upward; they played upon the clouds above, and lingered long there after the sun itself had disappeared; then a deeper blue spread over the waters of the Guldborg Sound—those waters among which (as the old queen once told us) Grön Jette—or the Green Giant—shot a beautiful mermaid, whom he had pursued round Falster for seven years and a day; the woods appeared in darker outline against the lurid sky, and their crisped leaves rustled in the rising wind, as the evening deepened.

Gabrielle was looking sadly towards the sea, as if she was pondering on the path their father was pursuing; but Ernestine had seated herself, and was embroidering on the cover of a large Roman missal, a coat of arms with gold and variously coloured thread. Poor Ernestine's ideas of Catholicism were not very well defined, and consisted more in forms than belief; for nearly all that her Spanish mother had taught her in infancy, the mother of Gabrielle—a French or Belgian Protestant—had left no means untried to obliterate; but Ernestine loved to do all that she thought would please her mother who was in heaven; she loved, as she said, to consider herself "the peculiar care of the mother of God;" she read more prayers than usual in the month of May, and decorated her little altar with the lilies of Mary; but her opinions were very vague and undecided. She and Gabrielle said their prayers every night and morning together on their knees, and before a crucifix; yet Gabrielle did not consider herself a Catholic. Ernestine seemed the most devout in

the queen's train when in the Lutheran church of Nyekiöbing, yet she would have repelled with scorn the imputation of being a Protestant. They had both been taken frequently to task by Father d'Eydel, but his asceticism and his harangues rather terrified them; and, being almost entirely occupied by military duty and dreams of ambition, the count had permitted them both to please themselves. Ernestine had an intense love for Gabrielle, and her regard for Gabrielle's mother had only been second to that which she bore her own.

There was but one heart—one soul seemed to animate these two winning creatures.

"Herr Kombeek," said Gabrielle, hastening to me; "you saw our father before he left this, and can tell us his last messages?"

"The most tender love to you, and that you were both to keep light hearts till his return. But you must not call me that name now, Gabrielle. Mine is the same as your father's—the same as yours, as I have just discovered—Philip Rollo."

"Oh, that is charming!" exclaimed both the girls looking up, one with her blue eyes, and the other with her black, beaming with pleasure.

"Your father——"

"Our poor father!" said Gabrielle sadly, as the tears rose again to her eyes, and she turned towards the sea.

"He deputed me to be your guardian."

"You!" said Gabrielle, with a sunny smile of wonder in her bright blue eyes.

"You!" added Ernestine, with a flash of astonishment in her dark orbs, which were red with weeping, although she proudly endeavoured to conceal it.

"I—there is nothing so surprising in that surely, except to myself—that I should have so great an honour, so supreme a happiness.

"A rare guardian—as if we were mere children, who could not look after ourselves!" they said, laughing.

"Besides, there is that dear old queen," added Gabrielle.

"Nay, ladies, if the wild musketeers of Merodé, or Tilly's savage Walloons—if some exasperated Holsteiners or discomfited Danes, paid a visit in the dark to this castle by the sea; or if the boors revolted under some popular ruffian, as they do at times, and assailed the dowager's court, because her son the king will not make peace with an emperor, who has sworn to conquer Denmark as he has conquered Bohemia, you might find there were worse protectors than Philip Rollo and his company of kilted musketeers."

"And your tall kinsman that wears the eagle's-wing," said Gabrielle, with a faint blush.

"I thank you for remembering me, though he in his vanity forgot me," said Ian laughing, as he stepped forward and saluted the ladies, while Phadrig Mhor, his tall henchman, remained a few paces behind; "but harkee, Philip, here hath Phadrig Mhor just learned from a fisherman, that the king is concentrating forces in Laaland to attack Pehmarn."

Ernestine gazed at him anxiously.

"He will certainly recall us. Our swords will rust and our tartans become moth-eaten in this mouldy old castle. Dioul! was it to guard an old woman that we came to Denmark?"

"Are you not very happy here, Herr Major?" asked Gabrielle timidly.

"Doubtless he is, madam," said Phadrig, who had picked up a little German in these wars; "but while we stay here, I will continue a sergeant. Dugald Mhor Mhic Alaster, Gillian M'Bane, and Dunachadh Mhor of Kilmalie, will all be mere musketeers; while our Scots lads in Sweden and Germanie are all becoming colonels of foot and rittniasters of horse. Huich!" he added, cutting a Highland caper, at which the girls laughed excessively; "Clanna nan Gaël an' guillan a chiele!"

"Right, Phadrig!" said Ian, with sparkling eyes, as he caught our sergeant's enthusiasm; "here's to our Highlandmen, shoulder to shoulder!" he added, drinking a handful of pure water which bubbled into a stone basin near him.

"I am weary of this place already—my sorrows be on it!" grumbled Phadrig.

"Discontented rogue!" said I; "thou wilt never be pleased, I fear. Have we not the best of Danish beef, of Rostock beer and German wine, with easy duty and dry quarters to boot?"

"Phadrig is a true Highlander," said Ian, giving his foster-brother a slap on the shoulder; "he snuffs the distant strife like the erne or gled. A true Highlander, M'Farquhar, thy sword is as ready for a foe, as thy purse for a friend. But away to our company, and in case the king summons us, look well to the hammer-stalls and collars of bandoliers; for orders may come to embark in an hour; and, if we unfurl our colours, Count Tilly must keep sure watch at Fehmarn." Phadrig retired, flinging up his bonnet as he went.

"It is to Fehmarn our father has gone," said Gabrielle, in a tremulous voice; "surely—I hope you will not go there."

"We must go where the king commands us; but fear not, lady, for your father, the count. He bears a charmed life; I could almost vow be was gefrorn, as the Germans and Walloons call it—bullet proof. But, come—I have brought some bread for you to feed the golden fish in yon old mossy basin," continued Ian, offering his hand to Gabrielle to lead her away; for he knew well that I wished to be alone with her sister, and a few days residence at Nyekiöbing had made a wonderful change in his sentiments regarding these two girls. I saw the colour mount to the fair brow of Gabrielle, and a smile of pleasure play on her rosy mouth as Ian led her away.

In the garden there was a pond or large basin, built of stone, and sunk in a thick carpet of rich moss and grass, surrounded by Gueldre rose-bushes; water filled it to the brim, and therein a few gold fish shot to and fro, and now and then a stray frog croaked or swam among the leaves that floated on its surface.

In this garden the great beeches and tall solemn poplars stood in rows, with black branches old and gnarled. Like the castle itself, the aspect of the garden was dreary and antique, for the hand of Time had passed over every thing; but when I sat beside Ernestine, all seemed to grow beautiful and bright; the scentless roses gave forth perfume; leaves covered the trees; the still stagnant bosom of the pond became limpid and sparkling, while the old castle walls shone redly and joyously, though the last flush of the west was dying upon their broad fagacle.

As Ian and Gabrielle retired, I drew nearer Ernestine, and for a moment saw the blood suffuse her face and white neck as she stooped over her needle, and my thoughts were beginning to be very much perplexed, when a fortunate incident gave a sudden—I may say glorious—turn to the conversation.

"What a very remarkable coat of arms!" said I.

"They are my arms of expectation," said she, looking up with a waggish smile.

"Your arms of—pardon me—but I do not understand."

"You know that I am half a Spaniard."

"And half a Scot," I added, placing a hand timidly upon her left shoulder.

"Well—it is the fashion in my mother's country to divide their shield per pale, thus—placing their paternal arms on the sinister side."

"On my honour, Ernestine, you are quite a little herald!"

"And leaving the dexter blank for those of——"