Shoulder to Shoulder:

A STORY OF THE STIRRING TIMES OF OLD.

BY

GORDON STABLES, M.D., C.M.

(Surgeon Royal Navy),

AUTHOR OF "ON TO THE RESCUE"; "HEARTS OF OAK"; "EXILES OF FORTUNE"; ETC. ETC.

"Be Britain still to Britain true, Amang oursels united; For never but by British hands Maun British wrangs be righted."—BURNS.

NEW EDITION.

LONDON: JOHN F. SHAW AND CO., 48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.

COPYRIGHT BOOKS UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME.

THE CRUISE OF THE ARCTIC FOX DR. GORDON STABLES. CLEARED FOR ACTION W. B. ALLEN. EXILES OF FORTUNE DR. GORDON STABLES. A REAL HERO G. STEBBING. A TANGLED WEB E. S. HOLT. BEATING THE RECORD G. STEBBING. THRO' UNKNOWN WAYS L. E. GUERNSEY. IN SHIPS OF STEEL DR. GORDON STABLES. IN CLOISTER AND COURT E. EVERETT-GREEN. THE UGLY DUCKLING HANS ANDERSEN. ODEYNE'S MARRIAGE E. EVERETT-GREEN. ENGLAND'S HERO PRINCE DR. GORDON STABLES. ANDERSEN'S FAIRY TALES H. C. ANDERSEN. FACING FEARFUL ODDS DR. GORDON STABLES. SHOULDER TO SHOULDER DR. GORDON STABLES. EDGAR NELTHORPE ANDREW REED. WINNING AN EMPIRE G. STEBBING. HONOUR NOT HONOURS DR. GORDON STABLES. IDA VANE ANDREW REED. GRAHAM'S VICTORY G. STEBBING. THE END CROWNS ALL EMMA MARSHALL. HER HUSBAND'S HOME E. EVERETT-GREEN. FOSTER SISTERS L. E. GUERNSEY. DOROTHY'S STORY L. T. MEADE. A TRUE GENTLEWOMAN EMMA MARSHALL. BEL MARJORY L. T. MEADE. WINNING GOLDEN SPURS H. M. MILLER. ON TO THE RESCUE DR. GORDON STABLES. DASHING DAYS OF OLD DR. GORDON STABLES. TWO SAILOR LADS DR. GORDON STABLES. IN SEARCH OF FORTUNE DR. GORDON STABLES.

ENGLAND, HOME, AND BEAUTY DR. GORDON STABLES. HEARTS OF OAK DR. GORDON STABLES. OLD ENGLAND ON THE SEA DR. GORDON STABLES.

LONDON: JOHN F. SHAW & CO., 48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.

CONTENTS.

Book I

IN THE HIGHLANDS A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

CHAPTER

I. AULD-DA

II. MY HERO—BONNIE PRINCE CHARLIE

III. THE FIRST ACT IN A TRAGEDY—A WILD AND LAWLESS MAN—MUIRACHIE THE DWARF

IV. THE DUKE AT FONTENOY—CULLODEN MOOR—THE CAVE—A BRAVE HIGHLAND LASSIE—A RACE FOR LIFE—"TO HORSE! TO HORSE!"

V. ROYALS TO THE RESCUE—THAT FAITHFUL DWARF—HAND TO HAND WITH DIRK AND CLAYMORE—"THE RED-COATS ARE COMING!"

VI. A HIGHLAND SCHOOL A HUNDRED YEARS AGO

VII. HARD TIMES FOR A TEACHER.—THE TAWSE—LITTLE RACHEL—A DROLL ADVENTURE—MY GRANDFATHER STUCK FAST IN THE CHIMNEY

VIII. THE CONSPIRATORS—A DEED OF DARKNESS—A FEAST TO FOLLOW—STRANGE SCHOOL-CUSTOMS—A FIGHT IN THE FOREST—LAST DAYS AT SCHOOL

IX. LEAVING HOME—A HUMBLE TRADE—"I'LL NOT SERVE UNDER A FRASER OR LOVAT: I AM A ROBERTSON AND A LOYALIST"

X. THE KING'S SHILLING—IN CORNEY'S CAVE—"SURRENDER IN THE KING'S NAME!"—CAPTURE AND ESCAPE

XI. SWORN TO SHOOT AT SIGHT—AN ADVENTURE ON THE ROAD—"PLEASE, SIR, ARE YOU THE COLONEL?"—"WE'LL CALL YOU JOHN"

Book II.

OFF TO JOIN HIS REGIMENT.

I. FIRST MONTHS OF SOLDIER-LIFE—THE PLEASURE OF DRILL—A PASSAGE OF ARMS—EN ROUTE FOR EDINBURGH CASTLE—AN OLD-TIME TROOPER

II. THE VOYAGE OF THE "VENGEFUL"—TERRIBLE SUFFERINGS AT SEA

III. LIFE AT THE CASTLE—A DANCE ON THE DINNER-TABLE—HOW A QUARREL WAS SETTLED—A DROLL DUEL AND THE ENDING THEREOF

IV. WHAT A BATTLE SEEMS LIKE TO THE SOLDIER—TERRIBLE TIMES IN PARIS—CIVIL WAR AND MURDER

V. FIGHTING AT TOULON—TERRIBLE SORTIES—EVACUATION—OFF TO CORSICA—CAPTURED BY BRIGANDS—CAPTAIN DRAKE'S FIRST FIGHT

VI. MY GRANDFATHER IS PROMOTED—AN UNLUCKY ESCAPADE—SAVED BY A RIBBON—MASSACRE OF FRENCH NOBLES—NAPOLEON BONAPARTE TO THE FORE

VII. POLICY AND AMBITION OF NAPOLEON—REBELLION IN IRELAND—ATTEMPTS AT INVASION—THE WHOLE WORLD OF EUROPE IN A BLAZE

VIII. GRANDFATHER GOES ON FURLOUGH—A CHANGE AND MANY A CHANGE—POOR LITTLE RACHEL—BATTLE OF ALEXANDRIA—THE GALLANT 42ND—NIGHTFALL ON THE FIELD OF BATTLE

Book III.

FROM WAR TO GENTLE PEACE.

I. THE DUKE OF KENT AS GRANDFATHER KNEW HIM—DISCIPLINE AND THE LASH IN THE BRAVE DAYS OF OLD—TONAL'S DILEMMA, AND HOW HE GOT OUT OF IT

II. AWFUL CONDITION OF GIB—GRANDFATHER STABBED—A VENDETTA—THE DUKE WAS THE BEST-HATED MAN ON THE ROCK

III. MYSTERY—A GRUESOME BOX—A MEETING OF CONSPIRATORS—TERRIBLE THREATS—THE MUTINY

IV. WARNED BY A DYING SOLDIER—MORE MUTINY—HE FELL FORWARD DEAD—WAR BREAKS OUT ONCE MORE—NAPOLEON'S PLANS AND MOVEMENTS—MURDER!

V. NAPOLEON'S SCHEME FOR INVADING BRITAIN—A BRIGHT PROMISE—GRANDFATHER MEETS HIS FATE

VI. AN IRISH FAIR AT DUNDALK—GREAT FUN AND NO END OF FIGHTING—THE BOMBARDMENT OF COPENHAGEN—GRANDFATHER GETS MARRIED

VII. THE FRENCH IN SPAIN AND PORTUGAL—BRITISH TO THE RESCUE—SIR ARTHUR—SIR JOHN MOORE—SPLENDID GENERALSHIP OF NAPOLEON

VIII. TREACHERY AND FOOLERY—A RACE FOR LIFE AND A RUN FOR THE SEA—TOM GRAHAME'S BABY—SORROW, SUFFERING, AND DANGER—IT MUST BE DEATH OR VICTORY

IX. FIGHTING AGAINST FEARFUL ODDS—DEATH OF MOORE—THE EMBARKATION—A WIFE AND A NEW SET OF BAGPIPES

X. "I'M A SOLDIER'S WIFE; I'LL SHARE A SOLDIER'S TOILS"—GIRL HEROINES—STORMING OF BERGEN-OP-ZOOM—STRANGE ADVENTURES—BORN ON A BATTLEFIELD

XI. ACROSS THE WIDE ATLANTIC—A STRANGE PARADE—THE BAREFOOT SQUAD—SHIPWRECK—A FEARFUL FIGHT

XII. RED-EYE, THE INDIAN CHIEF—A TERRIBLE ADVENTURE WITH A BEAR—BAD NEWS!—STOLEN OR KILLED BY INDIANS

XIII. "WHERE IS RED-EYE? I WILL KILL HIM!"—A SOLEMN SCENE—THE MOONLIT FOREST

XIV. THE FIGHT WITH SAVAGES—A LONE GRAVE IN THE FOREST—RETURN OF SPRING—NAPOLEON AT ST. HELENA

To

DR. JOHN ROBERTSON

THIS BOOK IS INSCRIBED, WITH MANY A KINDLY WISH, BY HIS COUSIN,

THE AUTHOR

Book I.

In the Highlands a Hundred Years Ago.

SHOULDER TO SHOULDER.

Book I.

IN THE HIGHLANDS A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

CHAPTER I. AULD-DA.

Never for a moment—as we sat together in the twilight—could the dear old man have imagined that, just thirty years after his death, his grandson would be here, in a wigwam, writing the story of his romantic life.

That story, let me tell you, is also the story of the old days, when

"Wild war's deadly blast was blowing";

the story of the times when Napoleon was still the world's hero, his glory putting in the shade even that of Wellington himself, and many another great and notable general.

Ah, me! how long ago it seems now since I used to lift the "sneck" of Auld-da's door, and slip quietly in, just as the shades of evening were deepening into night.

"Is that you, Williamie?" he would say, without turning his head.

"Yes, Auld-da"; and, next moment, I would be sitting on the "creepie"* by his feet, with my arm leaning on his knee, waiting for a story.

* Creepie: a low stool.

A little, little boy, they tell me I was then, with pale face and dark-blue wondering eyes. Not over strong, you may guess, because I lived in the realms of romance, and because fairy tales—stories of water-kelpies, that lurk in the darkest pools of forest-shaded rivers, and eat men's flesh at midnight; stories of brownies and spunkies, that bob their lights before belated travellers to lure them far across the moor to the bog, in which they sink and perish—and all the legends of my native Scottish land were, to me, as dear as the very air I breathed.

But, pale-faced though I was, and not likely, then, to grow up an athlete, I was my grandfather's favourite.

In Scotland, far north, although in the sweet summer-time one can see to read nearly all night long, yet in winter,

".... When the rain rains cauld, And frost and snow on every hill,"

the days are very short indeed, and gloaming comes on at four in the afternoon, or even earlier. But, then, there is all the long, delightful forenights to spend by the cheerful low fires of peat and wood; so, with games and music, one never does feel weary, and bed-time comes far, far too soon.

* * * * *

A very humble cottage was Auld-da's—only a but and a ben, with attics—but it was sufficient for all his needs; and his little garden, where, in the soft, sweet summer time, old-fashioned flowers grew in banks, where the honeysuckle twined over the hedge, and the roses trailed above the porch, was pleasant indeed.

A better or a bigger house than this might have been his, had he cared for it, but he dearly loved the children, as he called my brothers and sisters, and liked to be near us all.

Very old he was, as I remember him. Probably bordering upon eighty. But he bore his years well, though winter's snows had whitened his hair and furrowed his war-bronzed face.

When not working in his garden, he was ever, ever reading, and, strange to say, with the exception of the weekly paper, his books were only two. One was the Bible, which, every year of his life, he read from beginning to end, always, he used to tell us, discovering some new truth or truths in it; the other, a very large, well-thumbed volume, called Looking unto Jesus.

But at eventide, when

"The day was done, and the darkness Fell from the wings of night, As a feather is wafted downwards From an eagle in its flight,"

then my aunt, who kept house for her father, took the books away, and left him for a while to sit in his easy-chair and look at the fire.

And this was my hour—"the children's hour," as Longfellow so prettily calls it.

It is pleasant to sit and look at a fire on a low hearth, just between the dark and the daylight, and, child though I was, I knew, as if by instinct, that scenes in his past life were rising up before him in the peat fire's fitful glow.

"Tell me a story."

"Tell you a story, Williamie, laddie? Was that it?"

He bends down to move a log, and a merrier light bursts up through the curling smoke, and throws the room behind us into darker gloom.

"Yes, auld-da, and mind it must be all true."

"Tell me," I would say if he paused to consider. "Did you ever kill a man?"

This was a blood-thirsty query to put, but I think it comes natural to all little boys to revel in thoughts of gore.

My question, however, was one that my grandfather could seldom be prevailed upon to answer directly.

"O, Williamie!" he might begin. "War is a terrible, terrible thing——"

But that was the very reason I wanted to hear about it.

The old man would often recite to me whole plays, from beginning to end; for he was possessed of a marvellous memory. But ever my thoughts would revert to fighting and slaughter by land and by sea; so, nolens volens, he had to return to war.

It was thus, during these delightful twilight hours by the low hearth in winter, or out in the woods when summer days were fine, that I learned, bit by bit, the whole story of my grandfather's life, and that, too, of many and many of his messmates.

"For a boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

* * * * *

Whatever my lot in life, I never could forget that kind Auld-da, who, next to my parents themselves, was the dearest and best friend I ever knew. But were I inclined to forget those old days I could not, just for one reason which may seem strange to many. There grows, then, in my orchard an old apple-tree—long may it flourish—which every year is laden with fruit. The apples are a species of codlin, somewhat pear-shaped but raised in ridges, very white on one side, very rosy on the other, and the scent is like that of no other in all my place. Well, I never pass that tree when autumn winds are bringing down the nearly-ripe fruit, without my thoughts reverting to the days o' auld lang syne.

That was the apple, laden with which, Auld-da used to return from the city of Aberdeen, every quarter day.

These were red-letter days to my sister Leonora and me, for the old Highland soldier, my grandfather, would be up betimes, and after an early breakfast, would start alone for the distant city of Aberdeen, to draw his half-pay, or retiring allowance. There were coaches running on the road, grand old-fashioned four-in-hands, that could take one into town very quickly. But these the sturdy veteran despised. Many a weary march he had made in his soldier days; he was not going to fail now.

So, wet day or dry day, in sunshine, sleet or snow, away he would trudge. A stick he carried, but it was but to twirl in his hand, and I never saw it touch the ground.

How eagerly Sissie and I used to watch for his home-returning—not, mind you, reader, for the sake of the apples and nuts, not for the sake of the prospective and certain half-crown each, that he always gave us, but for sake of the dear old man himself. Sometimes we would see him, in the winter-time, when a whole mile off, a little black dot, which by-and-by became a man walking sturdily towards us, between the great white banks left by the snow-plough. Then how madly we would rush to meet him and lead him home and into my mother's house, where dinner was waiting, and where he would spend the evening up to nearly the midnight hour.

Auld-da preached me many a sermon in the long forenights. I think I have never quite forgotten them. They were spoken so earnestly and with such an air of truth and experience. And the burden of almost every such discourse was love and trust and hope in the goodness of a Heavenly Father, and in Him who died.

I must not give you the impression, however, that Auld-da was a solemn man—by no means, only in his thinking, philosophising moods. Out of doors he was always as merry as merry could be. He would often visit the servants working in the fields, especially in the harvest, and the droll old stories he told them kept all hands laughing continuously.

In the hey-day of his manhood he had been—like all true soldiers of those good old times—a splendid swordsman. His claymore and pike were as sharp as razors. With that claymore he could have cut a horse's head off with one blow, or broken the bayonet from the musket of a charging enemy, and slain him where he stood.

One piece of clever swordsmanship in my grandfather's younger days, unknown now, I believe, was as follows: The performer, who had to be extra expert, stood facing the edge of an open door, and bringing his face or nose within two inches—the sword's breadth—of the door-edge, cause the claymore to describe circles without touching either door or nose. The sword's edge being very keen, this was a trick that required a steady hand, a steady head, courage, and a supple wrist. If anyone who reads this would like to try the trick, I advise him to practise with a paper-cutter in the first off-go.

We have heard of people being born with silver spoons in their mouths: my grandfather was not, but Highlanders seemed in those days to be born with swords between their lips. Their performances with the claymore would have eclipsed those of the Arabs, and they are perhaps the finest swordsmen in the world.

When out in the harvest-field, it used to give my grand-da great pleasure to be allowed to put an edge on the men's scythes. The servants declared that after this they cut like razors, and the labour was lightened by one half.

But such was my grandfather in his green old age. No Pharisaical Christian he, but a believer in the truest sense of the word, happy and contented, ever looking forward with faith and joy to a brighter world beyond the tomb.

* * * * *

He wore away at last in his 89th year, and I think the last words he spoke were to me.

I stood by his bedside trying in vain to repress the tears.

I laid my hand gently on his, as it lay cold and white on the coverlet.

"Do you know me, Auld-da?" I said.

"O, yes," came the answer, faint but clear. "Don't I know my own laddie! Mercy! Mercy!"

Shortly after this he expired, and my parents led me heart-broken from the room. Beside the Bass o' Ury—a strange green knoll in the grave-yard, said by some to have been the burying-place of chiefs of old—my dear Auld-da lies sleeping, and the river sings his lullaby.

Near him, alas! lie my father and mother too. Is it any wonder that the place should be sacred to me, or that, slightly altering the words of Thorn, the Inverurie poet, I should say:

"Move noiseless, gentle Ury, around his lonely bed, And I'll love the gentle Ury, where'er my footsteps tread For sooner shall thy fairy wave return from yonder sea, Than I forget yon lowly grave and a' it hides from me."

CHAPTER II.

MY HERO—BONNIE PRINCE CHARLIE.

There was one subject, and one only, upon which, boy though I was, I dared to differ from my grandfather. And that related to Bonnie Prince Charlie and the so-called "rebellion" of 1745.

If it was rebellion for Prince Charles to attempt in fair and honest fight to win back the throne that belonged of right to the ancient Stuart line, then was I, at the age of seven, one of the rankest little rebels that ever waved a wooden sword and cut off the heads of tansies, imagining every one of them to be a fallen foe.

Nor could you have wondered at it, had you but heard the sweet and plaintive songs my mother sang,

"As she rocked me in my cradle, Or crooned* me on her knee— And I would not sleep, she sang so sweet, Those dear old songs to me."

* Crooned: sang low lullabies.

It has been said, dear boy and girl readers, that I, the author of this book, have Jacobite tendencies. This is not the truth. I love the Queen as only Scotsmen can love her; I have served her loyally, and would to-morrow, or to-night, spill my last drop of blood fighting for her and my native land. I love her all the better because she has some of the old Stuart blood in her veins. But—listen—had I been a man, or even a lad, in the —45, I would have done as my ancestors, the Gordons, did, side by side with those of Lord George Gordon Byron—I would have fought till the bitter end for Bonnie Prince Charlie.

Yes, and I love the Queen as much as I hate and despise the atrocious memory of ——, but stay! I will not even write his name in the same sentence as that of her kind Majesty.

The memory, I was going to say, of the "bloody Duke of Cumberland," who stained our Highland heather with the blood of old, white-haired men and helpless babies.

It is told of this fiend, that, while walking across the fatal field of Culloden after the battle, and accompanied by one of his officers, a poor Highland soldier sat in the agonies of death against a bank, looking towards them.

"Shoot me that grinning Scot!" cried the Duke.

The reply of the officer was that of a brave Englishman and a true soldier.

"Your Grace," he said, "I am your humble servant, but not your executioner."

The inhuman coward—all cruel men are cowards—then seized a musket from one of his attendants and, rushing forward, shot the man himself.

* * * * *

One hundred and fifty years have passed and gone since the battle in which the once bright sun of the Royal Stuarts set behind the red clouds of battle on Culloden Moor, but the memory of the terrible atrocities committed by the Duke and his minions dwells in the hearts of the Highlanders, as if they had been committed but yester e'en.

Tourists to the land of green heath and shaggy wood see or know little, if anything, of this. The Scots are far too proud to speak of what their forefathers suffered after the "rebellion," to strangers or foreigners. But in many a humble cottage home, by mountain, stream, or sea, those sweet old Jacobite songs are still sung, and their pathetic music, and no less pathetic words, never fail to bring the "saut,* saut tear" to the eye of the listener.

* Salt.

And the songs never fail to lead to a story of the terrible times, told by the low fire of logs and peats that burns upon the hearth; told, in all probability, by the head of the house to the big-eyed, eager-faced bairnies that gather round his knee, and drink in every word. But the ending of the true tale is invariably somewhat as follows:

"And now, children, let us thank our Heavenly Father that we live in times of peace, under the reign of a pious Queen, and shall never see the babe torn from the young mother's arms to be tossed on bayonets, while she is dragged to death and worse. Come, bring the Book, and then for bed."