The Laird’s Luck by Arthur Quiller-Couch

Produced by Ted Garvin, Josephine Paolucci and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. THE LAIRD’S LUCK AND OTHER FIRESIDE TALES BY A.T. QUILLER-COUCH (Q) CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS NEW YORK 1901 THE LAIRD’S LUCK THE TWO SCOUTS I THE FORD OF THE TORMES In the following chapters I shall leave speaking of my own adventures and say
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  • 1901
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Produced by Ted Garvin, Josephine Paolucci and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.





[_In a General Order issued from the Horse-Guards on New Year’s Day, 1836, His Majesty, King William IV., was pleased to direct, through the Commander-in-Chief, Lord Hill, that “with the view of doing the fullest justice to Regiments, as well as to Individuals who had distinguished themselves in action against the enemy,” an account of the services of every Regiment in the British Army should be published, under the supervision of the Adjutant General_.

_With fair promptitude this scheme was put in hand, under the editorship of Mr. Richard Cannon, Principal Clerk of the Adjutant General’s Office. The duty of examining, sifting, and preparing the records of that distinguished Regiment which I shall here call the Moray Highlanders (concealing its real name for reasons which the narrative will make apparent) fell to a certain Major Reginald Sparkes; who in the course of his researches came upon a number of pages in manuscript sealed under one cover and docketed “Memoranda concerning Ensign D.M.J. Mackenzie. J.R., Jan. 3rd, 1816”–the initials being those of Lieut.-Colonel Sir James Ross, who had commanded the 2nd Battalion of the Morays through the campaign of Waterloo. The cover also bore, in the same handwriting, the word “Private,” twice underlined_.

_Of the occurrences related in the enclosed papers–of the private ones, that is–it so happened that of the four eye-witnesses none survived at the date of Major Sparkes’ discovery. They had, moreover, so carefully taken their secret with them that the Regiment preserved not a rumour of it. Major Sparkes’ own commission was considerably more recent than the Waterloo year, and he at least had heard no whisper of the story. It lay outside the purpose of his inquiry, and he judiciously omitted it from his report. But the time is past when its publication might conceivably have been injurious; and with some alterations in the names–to carry out the disguise of the Regiment–it is here given. The reader will understand that I use the_ IPSISSIMA VERBA _of Colonel Ross_.–Q.]



I had the honour of commanding my Regiment, the Moray Highlanders, on the 16th of June, 1815, when the late Ensign David Marie Joseph Mackenzie met his end in the bloody struggle of Quatre Bras (his first engagement). He fell beside the colours, and I gladly bear witness that he had not only borne himself with extreme gallantry, but maintained, under circumstances of severest trial, a coolness which might well have rewarded me for my help in procuring the lad’s commission. And yet at the moment I could scarcely regret his death, for he went into action under a suspicion so dishonouring that, had it been proved, no amount of gallantry could have restored him to the respect of his fellows. So at least I believed, with three of his brother officers who shared the secret. These were Major William Ross (my half-brother), Captain Malcolm Murray, and Mr. Ronald Braintree Urquhart, then our senior ensign. Of these, Mr. Urquhart fell two days later, at Waterloo, while steadying his men to face that heroic shock in which Pack’s skeleton regiments were enveloped yet not overwhelmed by four brigades of the French infantry. From the others I received at the time a promise that the accusation against young Mackenzie should be wiped off the slate by his death, and the affair kept secret between us. Since then, however, there has come to me an explanation which–though hard indeed to credit–may, if true, exculpate the lad. I laid it before the others, and they agreed that if, in spite of precautions, the affair should ever come to light, the explanation ought also in justice to be forthcoming; and hence I am writing this memorandum.

It was in the late September of 1814 that I first made acquaintance with David Mackenzie. A wound received in the battle of Salamanca–a shattered ankle–had sent me home invalided, and on my partial recovery I was appointed to command the 2nd Battalion of my Regiment, then being formed at Inverness. To this duty I was equal; but my ankle still gave trouble (the splinters from time to time working through the flesh), and in the late summer of 1814 I obtained leave of absence with my step-brother, and spent some pleasant weeks in cruising and fishing about the Moray Firth. Finding that my leg bettered by this idleness, we hired a smaller boat and embarked on a longer excursion, which took us almost to the south-west end of Loch Ness.

Here, on September 18th, and pretty late in the afternoon, we were overtaken by a sudden squall, which carried away our mast (we found afterwards that it had rotted in the step), and put us for some minutes in no little danger; for my brother and I, being inexpert seamen, did not cut the tangle away, as we should have done, but made a bungling attempt to get the mast on board, with the rigging and drenched sail; and thereby managed to knock a hole in the side of the boat, which at once began to take in water. This compelled us to desist and fall to baling with might and main, leaving the raffle and jagged end of the mast to bump against us at the will of the waves. In short, we were in a highly unpleasant predicament, when a coble or row-boat, carrying one small lug-sail, hove out of the dusk to our assistance. It was manned by a crew of three, of whom the master (though we had scarce light enough to distinguish features) hailed us in a voice which was patently a gentleman’s. He rounded up, lowered sail, and ran his boat alongside; and while his two hands were cutting us free of our tangle, inquired very civilly if we were strangers. We answered that we were, and desired him to tell us of the nearest place alongshore where we might land and find a lodging for the night, as well as a carpenter to repair our damage.

“In any ordinary case,” said he, “I should ask you to come aboard and home with me. But my house lies five miles up the lake; your boat is sinking, and the first thing is to beach her. It happens that you are but half a mile from Ardlaugh and a decent carpenter who can answer all requirements. I think, if I stand by you, the thing can be done; and afterwards we will talk of supper.”

By diligent baling we were able, under his direction, to bring our boat to a shingly beach, over which a light shone warm in a cottage window. Our hail was quickly answered by a second light. A lantern issued from the building, and we heard the sound of footsteps.

“Is that you, Donald?” cried our rescuer (as I may be permitted to call him).

Before an answer could be returned, we saw that two men were approaching; of whom the one bearing the lantern was a grizzled old carlin with bent knees and a stoop of the shoulders. His companion carried himself with a lighter step. It was he who advanced to salute us, the old man holding the light obediently; and the rays revealed to us a slight, up-standing youth, poorly dressed, but handsome, and with a touch of pride in his bearing.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” He lifted his bonnet politely, and turned to our rescuer. “Good evening, Mr. Gillespie,” he said–I thought more coldly. “Can I be of any service to your friends?”

Mr. Gillespie’s manner had changed suddenly at sight of the young man, whose salutation he acknowledged more coldly and even more curtly than it had been given. “I can scarcely claim them as my friends,” he answered. “They are two gentlemen, strangers in these parts, who have met with an accident to their boat: one so serious that I brought them to the nearest landing, which happened to be Donald’s.” He shortly explained our mishap, while the young man took the lantern in hand and inspected the damage with Donald.

“There is nothing,” he announced, “which cannot be set right in a couple of hours; but we must wait till morning. Meanwhile if, as I gather, you have no claim on these gentlemen, I shall beg them to be my guests for the night.”

We glanced at Mr. Gillespie, whose manners seemed to have deserted him. He shrugged his shoulders. “Your house is the nearer,” said he, “and the sooner they reach a warm fire the better for them after their drenching.” And with that he lifted his cap to us, turned abruptly, and pushed off his own boat, scarcely regarding our thanks.

A somewhat awkward pause followed as we stood on the beach, listening to the creak of the thole-pins in the departing boat. After a minute our new acquaintance turned to us with a slightly constrained laugh.

“Mr. Gillespie omitted some of the formalities,” said he. “My name is Mackenzie–David Mackenzie; and I live at Ardlaugh Castle, scarcely half a mile up the glen behind us. I warn you that its hospitality is rude, but to what it affords you are heartily welcome.”

He spoke with a high, precise courtliness which contrasted oddly with his boyish face (I guessed his age at nineteen or twenty), and still more oddly with his clothes, which were threadbare and patched in many places, yet with a deftness which told of a woman’s care. We introduced ourselves by name, and thanked him, with some expressions of regret at inconveniencing (as I put it, at hazard) the family at the Castle.

“Oh!” he interrupted, “I am sole master there. I have no parents living, no family, and,” he added, with a slight sullenness which I afterwards recognised as habitual, “I may almost say, no friends: though to be sure, you are lucky enough to have one fellow-guest to-night–the minister of the parish, a Mr. Saul, and a very worthy man.”

He broke off to give Donald some instructions about the boat, watched us while we found our plaids and soaked valises, and then took the lantern from the old man’s hand. “I ought to have explained,” said he, “that we have neither cart here nor carriage: indeed, there is no carriage-road. But Donald has a pony.”

He led the way a few steps up the beach, and then halted, perceiving my lameness for the first time. “Donald, fetch out the pony. Can you ride bareback?” he asked: “I fear there’s no saddle but an old piece of sacking.” In spite of my protestations the pony was led forth; a starved little beast, on whose over-sharp ridge I must have cut a sufficiently ludicrous figure when hoisted into place with the valises slung behind me.

The procession set out, and I soon began to feel thankful for my seat, though I took no ease in it. For the road climbed steeply from the cottage, and at once began to twist up the bottom of a ravine so narrow that we lost all help of the young moon. The path, indeed, resembled the bed of a torrent, shrunk now to a trickle of water, the voice of which ran in my ears while our host led the way, springing from boulder to boulder, avoiding pools, and pausing now and then to hold his lantern over some slippery place. The pony followed with admirable caution, and my brother trudged in the rear and took his cue from us. After five minutes of this the ground grew easier and at the same time steeper, and I guessed that we were slanting up the hillside and away from the torrent at an acute angle. The many twists and angles, and the utter darkness (for we were now moving between trees) had completely baffled my reckoning when–at the end of twenty minutes, perhaps–Mr. Mackenzie halted and allowed me to come up with him.

I was about to ask the reason of this halt when a ray of his lantern fell on a wall of masonry; and with a start almost laughable I knew we had arrived. To come to an entirely strange house at night is an experience which holds some taste of mystery even for the oldest campaigner; but I have never in my life received such a shock as this building gave me–naked, unlit, presented to me out of a darkness in which I had imagined a steep mountain scaur dotted with dwarfed trees–a sudden abomination of desolation standing, like the prophet’s, where it ought not. No light showed on the side where we stood–the side over the ravine; only one pointed turret stood out against the faint moonlight glow in the upper sky: but feeling our way around the gaunt side of the building, we came to a back court-yard and two windows lit. Our host whistled, and helped me to dismount.

In an angle of the court a creaking door opened. A woman’s voice cried, “That will be be you, Ardlaugh, and none too early! The minister–“

She broke off, catching sight of us. Our host stepped hastily to the door and began a whispered conversation. We could hear that she was protesting, and began to feel awkward enough. But whatever her objections were, her master cut them short.

“Come in, sirs,” he invited us: “I warned you that the fare would be hard, but I repeat that you are welcome.”

To our surprise and, I must own, our amusement, the woman caught up his words with new protestations, uttered this time at the top of her voice.

“The fare hard? Well, it might not please folks accustomed to city feasts; but Ardlaugh was not yet without a joint of venison in the larder and a bottle of wine, maybe two, maybe three, for any guest its master chose to make welcome. It was ‘an ill bird that ‘filed his own nest'”–with more to this effect, which our host tried in vain to interrupt.

“Then I will lead you to your rooms,” he said, turning to us as soon as she paused to draw breath.

“Indeed, Ardlaugh, you will do nothing of the kind.” She ran into the kitchen, and returned holding high a lighted torch–a grey-haired woman with traces of past comeliness, overlaid now by an air of worry, almost of fear. But her manner showed only a defiant pride as she led us up the uncarpeted stairs, past old portraits sagging and rotting in their frames, through bleak corridors, where the windows were patched and the plastered walls discoloured by fungus. Once only she halted. “It will be a long way to your appartments. A grand house!” She had faced round on us, and her eyes seemed to ask a question of ours. “I have known it filled,” she added–“filled with guests, and the drink and fiddles never stopping for a week. You will see it better to-morrow. A grand house!”

I will confess that, as I limped after this barbaric woman and her torch, I felt some reasonable apprehensions of the bedchamber towards which they were escorting me. But here came another surprise. The room was of moderate size, poorly furnished, indeed, but comfortable and something more. It bore traces of many petty attentions, even–in its white dimity curtains and valances–of an attempt at daintiness. The sight of it brought quite a pleasant shock after the dirt and disarray of the corridor. Nor was the room assigned to my brother one whit less habitable. But if surprised by all this, I was fairly astounded to find in each room a pair of candles lit–and quite recently lit–beside the looking-glass, and an ewer of hot water standing, with a clean towel upon it, in each wash-hand basin. No sooner had the woman departed than I visited my brother and begged him (while he unstrapped his valise) to explain this apparent miracle. He could only guess with me that the woman had been warned of our arrival by the noise of footsteps in the court-yard, and had dispatched a servant by some back stairs to make ready for us.

Our valises were, fortunately, waterproof. We quickly exchanged our damp clothes for dry ones, and groped our way together along the corridors, helped by the moon, which shone through their uncurtained windows, to the main staircase. Here we came on a scent of roasting meat–appetising to us after our day in the open air–and at the foot found our host waiting for us. He had donned his Highland dress of ceremony–velvet jacket, phillabeg and kilt, with the tartan of his clan–and looked (I must own) extremely well in it, though the garments had long since lost their original gloss. An apology for our rough touring suits led to some few questions and replies about the regimental tartan of the Morays, in the history of which he was passably well informed.

Thus chatting, we entered the great hall of Ardlaugh Castle–a tall, but narrow and ill-proportioned apartment, having an open timber roof, a stone-paved floor, and walls sparsely decorated with antlers and round targes–where a very small man stood warming his back at an immense fireplace. This was the Reverend Samuel Saul, whose acquaintance we had scarce time to make before a cracked gong summoned us to dinner in the adjoining room.

The young Laird of Ardlaugh took his seat in a roughly carved chair of state at the head of the table; but before doing so treated me to another surprise by muttering a Latin grace and crossing himself. Up to now I had taken it for granted he was a member of the Scottish Kirk. I glanced at the minister in some mystification; but he, good man, appeared to have fallen into a brown study, with his eyes fastened upon a dish of apples which adorned the centre of our promiscuously furnished board.

Of the furniture of our meal I can only say that poverty and decent appearance kept up a brave fight throughout. The table-cloth was ragged, but spotlessly clean; the silver-ware scanty and worn with high polishing. The plates and glasses displayed a noble range of patterns, but were for the most part chipped or cracked. Each knife had been worn to a point, and a few of them joggled in their handles. In a lull of the talk I caught myself idly counting the darns in my table-napkin. They were–if I remember–fourteen, and all exquisitely stitched. The dinner, on the other hand, would have tempted men far less hungry than we–grilled steaks of salmon, a roast haunch of venison, grouse, a milk-pudding, and, for dessert, the dish of apples already mentioned; the meats washed down with one wine only, but that wine was claret, and beautifully sound. I should mention that we were served by a grey-haired retainer, almost stone deaf, and as hopelessly cracked as the gong with which he had beaten us to dinner. In the long waits between the courses we heard him quarrelling outside with the woman who had admitted us; and gradually–I know not how–the conviction grew on me that they were man and wife, and the only servants of our host’s establishment. To cover the noise of one of their altercations I began to congratulate the Laird on the quality of his venison, and put some idle question about his care for his deer.

“I have no deer-forest,” he answered. “Elspeth is my only housekeeper.”

I had some reply on my lips, when my attention was distracted by a sudden movement by the Rev. Samuel Saul. This honest man had, as we shook hands in the great hall, broken into a flood of small talk. On our way to the dining-room he took me, so to speak, by the button-hole, and within the minute so drenched me with gossip about Ardlaugh, its climate, its scenery, its crops, and the dimensions of the parish, that I feared a whole evening of boredom lay before us. But from the moment we seated ourselves at table he dropped to an absolute silence. There are men, living much alone, who by habit talk little during their meals; and the minister might be reserving himself. But I had almost forgotten his presence when I heard a sharp exclamation, and, looking across, saw him take from his lips his wine-glass of claret and set it down with a shaking hand. The Laird, too, had heard, and bent a darkly questioning glance on him. At once the little man–whose face had turned to a sickly white–began to stammer and excuse himself.

“It was nothing–a spasm. He would be better of it in a moment. No, he would take no wine: a glass of water would set him right–he was more used to drinking water,” he explained, with a small, nervous laugh.

Perceiving that our solicitude embarrassed him, we resumed our talk, which now turned upon the last peninsular campaign and certain engagements in which the Morays had borne part; upon the stability of the French Monarchy, and the career (as we believed, at an end) of Napoleon. On all these topics the Laird showed himself well informed, and while preferring the part of listener (as became his youth) from time to time put in a question which convinced me of his intelligence, especially in military affairs.

The minister, though silent as before, had regained his colour; and we were somewhat astonished when, the cloth being drawn and the company left to its wine and one dish of dessert, he rose and announced that he must be going. He was decidedly better, but (so he excused himself) would feel easier at home in his own manse; and so, declining our host’s offer of a bed, he shook hands and bade us good-night. The Laird accompanied him to the door, and in his absence I fell to peeling an apple, while my brother drummed with his fingers on the table and eyed the faded hangings. I suppose that ten minutes elapsed before we heard the young man’s footsteps returning through the flagged hall and a woman’s voice uplifted.

“But had the minister any complaint, whatever–to ride off without a word? She could answer for the collops–“

“Whist, woman! Have done with your clashin’, ye doited old fool!” He slammed the door upon her, stepped to the table, and with a sullen frown poured himself a glass of wine. His brow cleared as he drank it. “I beg your pardon, gentlemen; but this indisposition of Mr. Saul has annoyed me. He lives at the far end of the parish–a good seven miles away–and I had invited him expressly to talk of parish affairs.”

“I believe,” said I, “you and he are not of the same religion?”

“Eh?” He seemed to be wondering how I had guessed. “No, I was bred a Catholic. In our branch we have always held to the Old Religion. But that doesn’t prevent my wishing to stand well with my neighbours and do my duty towards them. What disheartens me is, they won’t see it.” He pushed the wine aside, and for a while, leaning his elbows on the table and resting his chin on his knuckles, stared gloomily before him. Then, with sudden boyish indignation, he burst out: “It’s an infernal shame; that’s it–an infernal shame! I haven’t been home here a twelvemonth, and the people avoid me like a plague. What have I done? My father wasn’t popular–in fact, they hated him. But so did I. And he hated me, God knows: misused my mother, and wouldn’t endure me in his presence. All my miserable youth I’ve been mewed up in a school in England–a private seminary. Ugh? what a den it was, too! My mother died calling for me–I was not allowed to come: I hadn’t seen her for three years. And now, when the old tyrant is dead, and I come home meaning–so help me!–to straighten things out and make friends–come home, to the poverty you pretend not to notice, though it stares you in the face from every wall–come home, only asking to make the best of of it, live on good terms with my fellows, and be happy for the first time in my life–damn them, they won’t fling me a kind look! What have I _done_?–that’s what I want to know. The queer thing is, they behaved more decently at first. There’s that Gillespie, who brought you ashore: he came over the first week, offered me shooting, was altogether as pleasant as could be. I quite took to the fellow. Now, when we meet, he looks the other way! If he has anything against me, he might at least explain: it’s all I ask. What have I done?”

Throughout this outburst I sat slicing my apple and taking now and then a glance at the speaker. It was all so hotly and honestly boyish! He only wanted justice. I know something of youngsters, and recognised the cry. Justice! It’s the one thing every boy claims confidently as his right, and probably the last thing on earth he will ever get. And this boy looked so handsome, too, sitting in his father’s chair, petulant, restive under a weight too heavy (as anyone could see) for his age. I couldn’t help liking him.

My brother told me afterwards that I pounced like any recruiting-sergeant. This I do not believe. But what, after a long pause, I said was this: “If you are innocent or unconscious of offending, you can only wait for your neighbours to explain themselves. Meanwhile, why not leave them? Why not travel, for instance?”

“Travel!” he echoed, as much as to say, “You ought to know, without my telling, that I cannot afford it.”

“Travel,” I repeated; “see the world, rub against men of your age. You might by the way do some fighting.”

He opened his eyes wide. I saw the sudden idea take hold of him, and again I liked what I saw.

“If I thought–” He broke off. “You don’t mean–” he began, and broke off again.

“I mean the Morays,” I said. “There may be difficulties; but at this moment I cannot see any real ones.”

By this time he was gripping the arms of his chair. “If I thought–” he harked back, and for the third time broke off. “What a fool I am! It’s the last thing they ever put in a boy’s head at that infernal school. If you will believe it, they wanted to make a priest of me!”

He sprang up, pushing back his chair. We carried our wine into the great hall, and sat there talking the question over before the fire. Before we parted for the night I had engaged to use all my interest to get him a commission in the Morays; and I left him pacing the hall, his mind in a whirl, but his heart (as was plain to see) exulting in his new prospects.

And certainly, when I came to inspect the castle by the next morning’s light, I could understand his longing to leave it. A gloomier, more pretentious, or worse-devised structure I never set eyes on. The Mackenzie who erected it may well have been (as the saying is) his own architect, and had either come to the end of his purse or left his heirs to decide against planting gardens, laying out approaches or even maintaining the pile in decent repair. In place of a drive a grassy cart-track, scored deep with old ruts, led through a gateless entrance into a courtyard where the slates had dropped from the roof and lay strewn like autumn leaves. On this road I encountered the young Laird returning from an early tramp with his gun; and he stood still and pointed to the castle with a grimace.

“A white elephant,” said I.

“Call it rather the corpse of one,” he answered. “Cannot you imagine some _genie_ of the Oriental Tales dragging the beast across Europe and dumping it down here in a sudden fit of disgust? As a matter of fact my grandfather built it, and cursed us with poverty thereby. It soured my father’s life. I believe the only soul honestly proud of it is Elspeth.”

“And I suppose,” said I, “you will leave her in charge of it when you join the Morays?”

“Ah!” he broke in, with a voice which betrayed his relief: “you are in earnest about that? Yes Elspeth will look after the castle, as she does already. I am just a child in her hand. When a man has one only servant it’s well to have her devoted.” Seeing my look of surprise, he added, “I don’t count old Duncan, her husband; for he’s half-witted, and only serves to break the plates. Does it surprise you to learn that, barring him, Elspeth is my only retainer?”

“H’m,” said I, considerably puzzled–I must explain why.

* * * * *

I am by training an extraordinarily light sleeper; yet nothing had disturbed me during the night until at dawn my brother knocked at the door and entered, ready dressed.

“Hullo!” he exclaimed, “are you responsible for this?” and he pointed to a chair at the foot of the bed where lay, folded in a neat pile, not only the clothes I had tossed down carelessly overnight, but the suit in which I had arrived. He picked up this latter, felt it, and handed it to me. It was dry, and had been carefully brushed.

“Our friend keeps a good valet,” said I; “but the queer thing is that, in a strange room, I didn’t wake. I see he has brought hot water too.”

“Look here,” my brother asked: “did you lock your door?”

“Why, of course not–the more by token that it hasn’t a key.”

“Well,” said he, “mine has, and I’ll swear I used it; but the same thing has happened to me!”

This, I tried to persuade him, was impossible; and for the while he seemed convinced. “It _must_ be,” he owned; “but if I didn’t lock that door I’ll never swear to a thing again in all my life.”

* * * * *

The young Laird’s remark set me thinking of this, and I answered after a pause, “In one of the pair, then, you possess a remarkably clever valet.”

It so happened that, while I said it, my eyes rested, without the least intention, on the sleeve of his shooting-coat; and the words were scarcely out before he flushed hotly and made a motion as if to hide a neatly mended rent in its cuff. In another moment he would have retorted, and was indeed drawing himself up in anger, when I prevented him by adding–

“I mean that I am indebted to him or to her this morning for a neatly brushed suit; and I suppose to your freeness in plying me with wine last night that it arrived in my room without waking me. But for that I could almost set it down to the supernatural.”

I said this in all simplicity, and was quite unprepared for its effect upon him, or for his extraordinary reply. He turned as white in the face as, a moment before, he had been red. “Good God!” he said eagerly, “you haven’t missed anything, have you?”

“Certainly not,” I assured him. “My dear sir–“

“I know, I know. But you see,” he stammered, “I am new to these servants. I know them to be faithful, and that’s all. Forgive me; I feared from your tone one of them–Duncan perhaps …”

He did not finish his sentence, but broke into a hurried walk and led me towards the house. A minute later, as we approached it, he began to discourse half-humorously on its more glaring features, and had apparently forgotten his perturbation.

I too attached small importance to it, and recall it now merely through unwillingness to omit any circumstance which may throw light on a story sufficiently dark to me. After breakfast our host walked down with us to the loch-side, where we found old Donald putting the last touches on his job. With thanks for our entertainment we shook hands and pushed off: and my last word at parting was a promise to remember his ambition and write any news of my success.


I anticipated no difficulty, and encountered none. The _Gazette_ of January, 1815, announced that David Marie Joseph Mackenzie, gentleman, had been appointed to an ensigncy in the –th Regiment of Infantry (Moray Highlanders); and I timed my letter of congratulation to reach him with the news. Within a week he had joined us at Inverness, and was made welcome.

I may say at once that during his brief period of service I could find no possible fault with his bearing as a soldier. From the first he took seriously to the calling of arms, and not only showed himself punctual on parade and in all the small duties of barracks, but displayed, in his reserved way, a zealous resolve to master whatever by book or conversation could be learned of the higher business of war. My junior officers–though when the test came, as it soon did, they acquitted themselves most creditably–showed, as a whole, just then no great promise. For the most part they were young lairds, like Mr. Mackenzie, or cadets of good Highland families; but, unlike him, they had been allowed to run wild, and chafed under harness. One or two of them had the true Highland addiction to card-playing; and though I set a pretty stern face against this curse–as I dare to call it–its effects were to be traced in late hours, more than one case of shirking “rounds,” and a general slovenliness at morning parade.

In such company Mr. Mackenzie showed to advantage, and I soon began to value him as a likely officer. Nor, in my dissatisfaction with them, did it give me any uneasiness–as it gave me no surprise–to find that his brother-officers took less kindly to him. He kept a certain reticence of manner, which either came of a natural shyness or had been ingrained in him at the Roman Catholic seminary. He was poor, too; but poverty did not prevent his joining in all the regimental amusements, figuring modestly but sufficiently on the subscription lists, and even taking a hand at cards for moderate stakes. Yet he made no headway, and his popularity diminished instead of growing. All this I noted, but without discovering any definite reason. Of his professional promise, on the other hand, there could be no question; and the men liked and respected him.

Our senior ensign at this date was a Mr. Urquhart, the eldest son of a West Highland laird, and heir to a considerable estate. He had been in barracks when Mr. Mackenzie joined; but a week later his father’s sudden illness called for his presence at home, and I granted him a leave of absence, which was afterwards extended. I regretted this, not only for the sad occasion, but because it deprived the battalion for a time of one of its steadiest officers, and Mr. Mackenzie in particular of the chance to form a very useful friendship. For the two young men had (I thought) several qualities which might well attract them each to the other, and a common gravity of mind in contrast with their companions’ prevalent and somewhat tiresome frivolity. Of the two I Judged Mr. Urquhart (the elder by a year) to have the more stable character. He was a good-looking, dark-complexioned young Highlander, with a serious expression which, without being gloomy, did not escape a touch of melancholy. I should judge this melancholy of Mr. Urquhart’s constitutional, and the boyish sullenness which lingered on Mr. Mackenzie’s equally handsome face to have been imposed rather by circumstances.

Mr. Urquhart rejoined us on the 24th of February. Two days later, as all the world knows, Napoleon made his escape from Elba; and the next week or two made it certain not only that the allies must fight, but that the British contingent must be drawn largely, if not in the main, from the second battalions then drilling up and down the country. The 29th of March brought us our marching orders; and I will own that, while feeling no uneasiness about the great issue, I distrusted the share my raw youngsters were to take in it.

On the 12th of April we were landed at Ostend, and at once marched up to Brussels, where we remained until the middle of June, having been assigned to the 5th (Picton’s) Division of the Reserve. For some reason the Highland regiments had been massed into the Reserve, and were billeted about the capital, our own quarters lying between the 92nd (Gordons) and General Kruse’s Nassauers, whose lodgings stretched out along the Louvain road; and although I could have wished some harder and more responsible service to get the Morays into training, I felt what advantage they derived from rubbing shoulders with the fine fellows of the 42nd, 79th, and 92nd, all First Battalions toughened by Peninsular work. The gaieties of life in Brussels during these two months have been described often enough; but among the military they were chiefly confined to those officers whose means allowed them to keep the pace set by rich civilians, and the Morays played the part of amused spectators. Yet the work and the few gaieties which fell to our share, while adding to our experiences, broke up to some degree the old domestic habits of the battalion. Excepting on duty I saw less of Mr. Mackenzie and thought less about him; he might be left now to be shaped by active service. But I was glad to find him often in company with Mr. Urquhart.

I come now to the memorable night of June 15th, concerning which and the end it brought upon the festivities of Brussels so much has been written. All the world has heard of the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, and seems to conspire in decking it out with pretty romantic fables. To contradict the most of these were waste of time; but I may point out (1) that the ball was over and, I believe, all the company dispersed, before the actual alarm awoke the capital; and (2) that all responsible officers gathered there shared the knowledge that such an alarm was impending, might arrive at any moment, and would almost certainly arrive within a few hours. News of the French advance across the frontier and attack on General Zieten’s outposts had reached Wellington at three o’clock that afternoon. It should have been brought five hours earlier; but he gave his orders at once, and quietly, and already our troops were massing for defence upon Nivelles. We of the Reserve had secret orders to hold ourselves prepared. Obedient to a hint from their Commander-in-chief, the generals of division and brigade who attended the Duchess’ ball withdrew themselves early on various pleas. Her Grace had honoured me with an invitation, probably because I represented a Highland regiment; and Highlanders (especially the Gordons, her brother’s regiment) were much to the fore that night with reels, flings, and strathspeys. The many withdrawals warned me that something was in the wind, and after remaining just so long as seemed respectful, I took leave of my hostess and walked homewards across the city as the clocks were striking eleven.

We of the Morays had our headquarters in a fairly large building–the Hotel de Liege–in time of peace a resort of _commis-voyageurs_ of the better class. It boasted a roomy hall, out of which opened two coffee-rooms, converted by us into guard- and mess-room. A large drawing-room on the first floor overlooking the street served me for sleeping as well as working quarters, and to reach it I must pass the _entresol_, where a small apartment had been set aside for occasional uses. We made it, for instance, our ante-room, and assembled there before mess; a few would retire there for smoking or card-playing; during the day it served as a waiting-room for messengers or any one whose business could not be for the moment attended to.

I had paused at the entrance to put some small question to the sentry, when I heard the crash of a chair in this room, and two voices broke out in fierce altercation. An instant after, the mess-room door opened, and Captain Murray, without observing me, ran past me and up the stairs. As he reached the _entresol_, a voice–my brother’s–called down from an upper landing, and demanded, “What’s wrong there?”

“I don’t know, Major,” Captain Murray answered, and at the same moment flung the door open. I was quick on his heels, and he wheeled round in some surprise at my voice, and to see me interposed between him and my brother, who had come running downstairs, and now stood behind my shoulder in the entrance.

“Shut the door,” I commanded quickly. “Shut the door, and send away any one you may hear outside. Now, gentlemen, explain yourselves, please.”

Mr. Urquhart and Mr. Mackenzie faced each other across a small table, from which the cloth had been dragged and lay on the floor with a scattered pack of cards. The elder lad held a couple of cards in his hand; he was white in the face.

“He cheated!” He swung round upon me in a kind of indignant fury, and tapped the cards with his forefinger.

I looked from him to the accused. Mackenzie’s face was dark, almost purple, rather with rage (as it struck me) than with shame.

“It’s a lie.” He let out the words slowly, as if holding rein on his passion. “Twice he’s said so, and twice I’ve called him a liar.” He drew back for an instant, and then lost control of himself. “If that’s not enough–.” He leapt forward, and almost before Captain Murray could interpose had hurled himself upon Urquhart. The table between them went down with a crash, and Urquhart went staggering back from a blow which just missed his face and took him on the collar-bone before Murray threw both arms around the assailant.

“Mr. Mackenzie,” said I, “you will consider yourself under arrest. Mr. Urquhart, you will hold yourself ready to give me a full explanation. Whichever of you may be in the right, this is a disgraceful business, and dishonouring to your regiment and the cloth you wear: so disgraceful, that I hesitate to call up the guard and expose it to more eyes than ours. If Mr. Mackenzie”–I turned to him again–“can behave himself like a gentleman, and accept the fact of his arrest without further trouble, the scandal can at least be postponed until I discover how much it is necessary to face. For the moment, sir, you are in charge of Captain Murray. Do you understand?”

He bent his head sullenly. “He shall fight me, whatever happens,” he muttered.

I found it wise to pay no heed to this. “It will be best,” I said to Murray, “to remain here with Mr. Mackenzie until I am ready for him. Mr. Urquhart may retire to his quarters, if he will–I advise it, indeed–but I shall require his attendance in a few minutes. You understand,” I added significantly, “that for the present this affair remains strictly between ourselves.” I knew well enough that, for all the King’s regulations, a meeting would inevitably follow sooner or later, and will own I looked upon it as the proper outcome, between gentlemen, of such a quarrel. But it was not for me, their Colonel, to betray this knowledge or my feelings, and by imposing secrecy I put off for the time all the business of a formal challenge with seconds. So I left them, and requesting my brother to follow me, mounted to my own room. The door was no sooner shut than I turned on him.

“Surely,” I said, “this is a bad mistake of Urquhart’s? It’s an incredible charge. From all I’ve seen of him, the lad would never be guilty …” I paused, expecting his assent. To my surprise he did not give it, but stood fingering his chin and looking serious.

“I don’t know,” he answered unwillingly. “There are stories against him.”

“What stories?”

“Nothing definite.” My brother hesitated. “It doesn’t seem fair to him to repeat mere whispers. But the others don’t like him.”

“Hence the whispers, perhaps. They have not reached me.”

“They would not. He is known to be a favourite of yours. But they don’t care to play with him.” My brother stopped, met my look, and answered it with a shrug of the shoulders, adding, “He wins pretty constantly.”

“Any definite charge before to-night’s?”

“No: at least, I think not. But Urquhart may have been put up to watch.”

“Fetch him up, please,” said I promptly; and seating myself at the writing-table I lit candles (for the lamp was dim), made ready the writing materials and prepared to take notes of the evidence.

Mr. Urquhart presently entered, and I wheeled round in my chair to confront him. He was still exceedingly pale–paler, I thought, than I had left him. He seemed decidedly ill at ease, though not on his own account. His answer to my first question made me fairly leap in my chair.

“I wish,” he said, “to qualify my accusation of Mr. Mackenzie. That he cheated I have the evidence of my own eyes; but I am not sure how far he knew he was cheating.”

“Good heavens, sir!” I cried. “Do you know you have accused that young man of a villainy which must damn him for life? And now you tell me–” I broke off in sheer indignation.

“I know,” he answered quietly. “The noise fetched you in upon us on the instant, and the mischief was done.”

“Indeed, sir,” I could not avoid sneering, “to most of us it would seem that the mischief was done when you accused a brother-officer of fraud to his face.”

He seemed to reflect. “Yes, sir,” he assented slowly; “it is done. I saw him cheat: that I must persist in; but I cannot say how far he was conscious of it. And since I cannot, I must take the consequences.”

“Will you kindly inform us how it is possible for a player to cheat and not know that he is cheating?”

He bent his eyes on the carpet as if seeking an answer. It was long in coming. “No,” he said at last, in a slow, dragging tone, “I cannot.”

“Then you will at least tell us exactly what Mr. Mackenzie did.”

Again there was a long pause. He looked at me straight, but with hopelessness in his eyes. “I fear you would not believe me. It would not be worth while. If you can grant it, sir, I would ask time to decide.”

“Mr. Urquhart,” said I sternly, “are you aware you have brought against Mr. Mackenzie a charge under which no man of honour can live easily for a moment? You ask me without a word of evidence in substantiation to keep him in torture while I give you time. It is monstrous, and I beg to remind you that, unless your charge is proved, you can–and will–be broken for making it.”

“I know it, sir,” he answered firmly enough; “and because I knew it, I asked–perhaps selfishly–for time. If you refuse, I will at least ask permission to see a priest before telling a story which I can scarcely expect you to believe.” Mr. Urquhart too was a Roman Catholic.

But my temper for the moment was gone. “I see little chance,” said I, “of keeping this scandal secret, and regret it the less if the consequences are to fall on a rash accuser. But just now I will have no meddling priest share the secret. For the present, one word more. Had you heard before this evening of any hints against Mr. Mackenzie’s play?”

He answered reluctantly, “Yes.”

“And you set yourself to lay a trap for him?”

“No, sir; I did not. Unconsciously I may have been set on the watch: no, that is wrong–I _did_ watch. But I swear it was in every hope and expectation of clearing him. He was my friend. Even when I saw, I had at first no intention to expose him until–“

“That is enough, sir,” I broke in, and turned to my brother. “I have no option but to put Mr. Urquhart too under arrest. Kindly convey him back to his room, and send Captain Murray to me. He may leave Mr. Mackenzie in the _entresol_.”

My brother led Urquhart out, and in a minute Captain Murray tapped at my door. He was an honest Scot, not too sharp-witted, but straight as a die. I am to show him this description, and he will cheerfully agree with it.

“This is a hideous business, Murray,” said I as he entered. “There’s something wrong with Urquhart’s story. Indeed, between ourselves it has the fatal weakness that he won’t tell it.”

Murray took a minute to digest this, then he answered, “I don’t know anything about Urquhart’s story, sir. But there’s something wrong about Urquhart.” Here he hesitated.

“Speak out, man,” said I: “in confidence. That’s understood.”

“Well, sir,” said he, “Urquhart won’t fight.”

“Ah! so that question came up, did it?” I asked, looking at him sharply.

He was not abashed, but answered, with a twinkle in his eye, “I believe, sir, you gave me no orders to stop their talking, and in a case like this–between youngsters–some question of a meeting would naturally come up. You see, I know both the lads. Urquhart I really like; but he didn’t show up well, I must own–to be fair to the other, who is in the worse fix.”

“I am not so sure of that,” I commented; “but go on.”

He seemed surprised. “Indeed, Colonel? Well,” he resumed, “I being the sort of fellow they could talk before, a meeting was discussed. The question was how to arrange it without seconds–that is, without breaking your orders and dragging in outsiders. For Mackenzie wanted blood at once, and for awhile Urquhart seemed just as eager. All of a sudden, when….” here he broke off suddenly, not wishing to commit himself.

“Tell me only what you think necessary,” said I.

He thanked me. “That is what I wanted,” he said. “Well, all of a sudden, when we had found out a way and Urquhart was discussing it, he pulled himself up in the middle of a sentence, and with his eyes fixed on the other–a most curious look it was–he waited while you could count ten, and, ‘No,’ says he, ‘I’ll not fight you at once’–for we had been arranging something of the sort–‘not to-night, anyway, nor to-morrow,’ he says. ‘I’ll fight you; but I won’t have your blood on my head _in that way_.’ Those were his words. I have no notion what he meant; but he kept repeating them, and would not explain, though Mackenzie tried him hard and was for shooting across the table. He was repeating them when the Major interrupted us and called him up.”

“He has behaved ill from the first,” said I. “To me the whole affair begins to look like an abominable plot against Mackenzie. Certainly I cannot entertain a suspicion of his guilt upon a bare assertion which Urquhart declines to back with a tittle of evidence.”

“The devil he does!” mused Captain Murray. “That looks bad for him. And yet, sir, I’d sooner trust Urquhart than Mackenzie, and if the case lies against Urquhart–“

“It will assuredly break him,” I put in, “unless he can prove the charge, or that he was honestly mistaken.”

“Then, sir,” said the Captain, “I’ll have to show you this. It’s ugly, but it’s only justice.”

He pulled a sovereign from his pocket and pushed it on the writing-table under my nose.

“What does this mean?”

“It is a marked one,” said he.

“So I perceive.” I had picked up the coin and was examining it.

“I found it just now,” he continued, “in the room below. The upsetting of the table had scattered Mackenzie’s stakes about the floor.”

“You seem to have a pretty notion of evidence,” I observed sharply. “I don’t know what accusation this coin may carry; but why need it be Mackenzie’s? He might have won it from Urquhart.”

“I thought of that,” was the answer. “But no money had changed hands. I enquired. The quarrel arose over the second deal, and as a matter of fact Urquhart had laid no money on the table, but made a pencil-note of a few shillings he lost by the first hand. You may remember, sir, how the table stood when you entered.”

I reflected. “Yes, my recollection bears you out. Do I gather that you have confronted Mackenzie with this?”

“No. I found it and slipped it quietly into my pocket. I thought we had trouble enough on hand for the moment.”

“Who marked this coin?”

“Young Fraser, sir, in my presence. He has been losing small sums, he declares, by pilfering. We suspected one of the orderlies.”

“In this connection you had no suspicion of Mr. Mackenzie?”

“None, sr.” He considered for a moment, and added: “There was a curious thing happened three weeks ago over my watch. It found its way one night to Mr. Mackenzie’s quarters. He brought it to me in the morning; said it was lying, when he awoke, on the table beside his bed. He seemed utterly puzzled. He had been to one or two already to discover the owner. We joked him about it, the more by token that his own watch had broken down the day before and was away at the mender’s. The whole thing was queer, and has not been explained. Of course in that instance he was innocent: everything proves it. It just occurred to me as worth mentioning, because in both instances the lad may have been the victim of a trick.”

“I am glad you did so,” I said; “though just now it does not throw any light that I can see.” I rose and paced the room. “Mr. Mackenzie had better be confronted with this, too, and hear your evidence. It’s best he should know the worst against him; and if he be guilty it may move him to confession.”

“Certainly, sir,” Captain Murray assented. “Shall I fetch him?”

“No, remain where you are,” I said; “I will go for him myself.”

I understood that Mr. Urquhart had retired to his own quarters or to my brother’s, and that Mr. Mackenzie had been left in the _entresol_ alone. But as I descended the stairs quietly I heard within that room a voice which at first persuaded me he had company, and next that, left to himself, he had broken down and given way to the most childish wailing. The voice was so unlike his, or any grown man’s, that it arrested me on the lowermost stair against my will. It resembled rather the sobbing of an infant mingled with short strangled cries of contrition and despair.

“What shall I do? What shall I do? I didn’t mean it–I meant to do good! What shall I do?”

So much I heard (as I say) against my will, before my astonishment gave room to a sense of shame at playing, even for a moment, the eavesdropper upon the lad I was to judge. I stepped quickly to the door, and with a warning rattle (to give him time to recover himself) turned the handle and entered.

He was alone, lying back in an easy chair–not writhing there in anguish of mind, as I had fully expected, but sunk rather in a state of dull and hopeless apathy. To reconcile his attitude with the sounds I had just heard was merely impossible; and it bewildered me worse than any in the long chain of bewildering incidents. For five seconds or so he appeared not to see me; but when he grew aware his look changed suddenly to one of utter terror, and his eyes, shifting from me, shot a glance about the room as if he expected some new accusation to dart at him from the corners. His indignation and passionate defiance were gone: his eyes seemed to ask me, “How much do you know?” before he dropped them and stood before me, sullenly submissive.

“I want you upstairs,” said I: “not to hear your defence on this charge, for Mr. Urquhart has not yet specified it. But there is another matter.”

“Another?” he echoed dully, and, I observed, without surprise.

I led the way back to the room where Captain Murray waited. “Can you tell me anything about this?” I asked, pointing to the sovereign on the writing-table.

He shook his head, clearly puzzled, but anticipating mischief.

“The coin is marked, you see. I have reason to know that it was marked by its owner in order to detect a thief. Captain Murray found it just now among your stakes.”

Somehow–for I liked the lad–I had not the heart to watch his face as I delivered this. I kept my eyes upon the coin, and waited, expecting an explosion–a furious denial, or at least a cry that he was the victim of a conspiracy. None came. I heard him breathing hard. After a long and very dreadful pause some words broke from him, so lowly uttered that my ears only just caught them.

“This too? O my God!”

I seated myself, the lad before me, and Captain Murray erect and rigid at the end of the table. “Listen, my lad,” said I. “This wears an ugly look, but that a stolen coin has been found in your possession does not prove that you’ve stolen it.”

“I did not. Sir, I swear to you on my honour, and before Heaven, that I did not.”

“Very well,” said I: “Captain Murray asserts that he found this among the moneys you had been staking at cards. Do you question that assertion?”

He answered almost without pondering. “No, sir. Captain Murray is a gentleman, and incapable of falsehood. If he says so, it was so.”

“Very well again. Now, can you explain how this coin came into your possession?”

At this he seemed to hesitate; but answered at length, “No, I cannot explain.”

“Have you any idea? Or can you form any guess?”

Again there was a long pause before the answer came in low and strained tones: “I can guess.”

“What is your guess?”

He lifted a hand and dropped it hopelessly. “You would not believe,” he said.

I will own a suspicion flashed across my mind on hearing these words–the very excuse given a while ago by Mr. Urquhart–that the whole affair was a hoax and the two young men were in conspiracy to fool me. I dismissed it at once: the sight of Mr. Mackenzie’s face, was convincing. But my temper was gone.

“Believe you?” I exclaimed. “You seem to think the one thing I can swallow as creditable, even probable, is that an officer in the Morays has been pilfering and cheating at cards. Oddly enough, it’s the last thing I’m going to believe without proof, and the last charge I shall pass without clearing it up to my satisfaction. Captain Murray, will you go and bring me Mr. Urquhart and the Major?”

As Captain Murray closed the door I rose, and with my hands behind me took a turn across the room to the fireplace, then back to the writing-table.

“Mr. Mackenzie,” I said, “before we go any further I wish you to believe that I am your friend as well as your Colonel. I did something to start you upon your career, and I take a warm interest in it. To believe you guilty of these charges will give me the keenest grief. However unlikely your defence may sound–and you seem to fear it–I will give it the best consideration I can. If you are innocent, you shall not find me prejudiced because many are against you and you are alone. Now, this coin–” I turned to the table.

The coin was gone.

I stared at the place where it had lain; then at the young man. He had not moved. My back had been turned for less than two seconds, and I could have sworn he had not budged from the square of carpet on which he had first taken his stand, and on which his feet were still planted. On the other hand, I was equally positive the incriminating coin had lain on the table at the moment I turned my back.

“It is gone!” cried I.

“Gone?” he echoed, staring at the spot to which my finger pointed. In the silence our glances were still crossing when my brother tapped at the door and brought in Mr. Urquhart, Captain Murray following.

Dismissing for a moment this latest mystery, I addressed Mr. Urquhart. “I have sent for you, sir, to request in the first place that here in Mr. Mackenzie’s presence and in colder blood you will either withdraw or repeat and at least attempt to substantiate the charge you brought against him.”

“I adhere to it, sir, that there was cheating. To withdraw would be to utter a lie. Does he deny it?”

I glanced at Mr. Mackenzie. “I deny that I cheated,” said he sullenly.

“Further,” pursued Mr. Urquhart, “I repeat what I told you, sir. He _may_, while profiting by it have been unaware of the cheat. At the moment I thought it impossible; but I am willing to believe–“

“_You_ are willing!” I broke in. “And pray, sir, what about me, his Colonel, and the rest of his brother officers? Have you the coolness to suggest–“

But the full question was never put, and in this world it will never be answered. A bugle call, distant but clear, cut my sentence in half. It came from the direction of the Place d’Armes. A second bugle echoed, it from the height of the Montagne du Parc, and within a minute its note was taken up and answered across the darkness from quarter after quarter.

We looked at one another in silence. “Business,” said my brother at length, curtly and quietly.

Already the rooms above us were astir. I heard windows thrown open, voices calling questions, feet running.

“Yes,” said I, “it is business at length, and for the while this inquiry must end. Captain Murray, look to your company. You, Major, see that the lads tumble out quick to the alarm-post. One moment!”–and Captain Murray halted with his hand on the door–“It is understood that for the present no word of to-night’s affair passes our lips.” I turned to Mr. Mackenzie and answered the question I read in the lad’s eyes. “Yes, sir; for the present I take off your arrest. Get your sword. It shall be your good fortune to answer the enemy before answering me.”

To my amazement Mr. Urquhart interposed. He was, if possible, paler and more deeply agitated than before. “Sir, I entreat you not to allow Mr. Mackenzie to go. I have reasons–I was mistaken just now–“

“Mistaken, sir?”

“Not in what I saw. I refused to fight him–under a mistake. I thought–“

But I cut his stammering short. “As for you,” I said, “the most charitable construction I can put on your behaviour is to believe you mad. For the present you, too, are free to go and do your duty. Now leave me. Business presses, and I am sick and angry at the sight of you.”

It was just two in the morning when I reached the alarm-post. Brussels by this time was full of the rolling of drums and screaming of pipes; and the regiment formed up in darkness rendered tenfold more confusing by a mob of citizens, some wildly excited, others paralysed by terror, and all intractable. We had, moreover, no small trouble to disengage from our ranks the wives and families who had most unwisely followed many officers abroad, and now clung to their dear ones bidding them farewell. To end this most distressing scene I had in some instances to use a roughness which it still afflicts me to remember. Yet in actual time it was soon overhand dawn scarcely breaking when the Morays with the other regiments of Pack’s brigade filed out of the park and fell into stride on the road which leads southward to Charleroi.

In this record it would be immaterial to describe either our march or the since-famous engagement which terminated it. Very early we began to hear the sound of heavy guns far ahead and to make guesses at their distance; but it was close upon two in the afternoon before we reached the high ground above Quatre Bras, and saw the battle spread below us like a picture. The Prince of Orange had been fighting his ground stubbornly since seven in the morning. Ney’s superior artillery and far superior cavalry had forced him back, it is true; but he still covered the cross-roads which were the key of his defence, and his position remained sound, though it was fast becoming critical. Just as we arrived, the French, who had already mastered the farm of Piermont, on the left of the Charleroi road, began to push their skirmishers into a thicket below it and commanding the road running east to Namur. Indeed, for a short space they had this road at their mercy, and the chance within grasp of doubling up our left by means of it.

This happened, I say, just as we arrived; and Wellington, who had reached Quatre Bras a short while ahead of us (having fetched a circuit from Brussels through Ligny, where he paused to inspect Field-Marshal Bluecher’s dispositions for battle), at once saw the danger, and detached one of our regiments, the 95th Rifles, to drive back the tirailleurs from the thicket; which, albeit scarcely breathed after their march, they did with a will, and so regained the Allies’ hold upon the Namur road. The rest of us meanwhile defiled down this same road, formed line in front of it, and under a brisk cannonade from the French heights waited for the next move.

It was not long in coming. Ney, finding that our artillery made poor play against his, prepared to launch a column against us. Warned by a cloud of skirmishers, our light companies leapt forward, chose their shelter, and began a very pretty exchange of musketry. But this was preliminary work only, and soon the head of a large French column appeared on the slope to our right, driving the Brunswickers slowly before it. It descended a little way, and suddenly broke into three or four columns of attack. The mischief no sooner threatened than Picton came galloping along our line and roaring that our division would advance and engage with all speed. For a raw regiment like the Morays this was no light test; but, supported by a veteran regiment on either hand, they bore it admirably. Dropping the Gordons to protect the road in case of mishap, the two brigades swung forward in the prettiest style, their skirmishers running in and forming on either flank as they advanced. Then for a while the work was hot; but, as will always happen when column is boldly met by line, the French quickly had enough of our enveloping fire, and wavered. A short charge with the bayonet finished it, and drove them in confusion up the slope: nor had I an easy task to resume a hold on my youngsters and restrain them from pursuing too far. The brush had been sharp, but I had the satisfaction of knowing that the Morays had behaved well. They also knew it, and fell to jesting in high good-humour as General Pack withdrew the brigade from the ground of its exploit and posted us in line with the 42nd and 44th regiments on the left of the main road to Charleroi.

To the right of the Charleroi road, and some way in advance of our position, the Brunswickers were holding ground as best they could under a hot and accurate artillery fire. Except for this, the battle had come to a lull, when a second mass of the enemy began to move down the slopes: a battalion in line heading two columns of infantry direct upon the Brunswickers, while squadron after squadron of lancers crowded down along the road into which by weight of numbers they must be driven. The Duke of Brunswick, perceiving his peril, headed a charge of his lancers upon the advancing infantry, but without the least effect. His horsemen broke. He rode back and called on his infantry to retire in good order. They also broke, and in the attempt to rally them he fell mortally wounded.

The line taken by these flying Brunswickers would have brought them diagonally across the Charleroi road into our arms, had not the French lancers seized this moment to charge straight down it in a body. They encountered, and the indiscriminate mass was hurled on to us, choking and overflowing the causeway. In a minute we were swamped–the two Highland regiments and the 44th bending against a sheer weight of Trench horsemen. So suddenly came the shock that the 42nd had no time to form square, until two companies were cut off and well-nigh destroyed; _then_ that noble regiment formed around the horsemen who could boast of having broken it, and left not one to bear back the tale. The 44th behaved more cleverly, but not more intrepidly: it did not attempt to form square, but faced its rear rank round and gave the Frenchmen a volley; before they could checks their impetus the front rank poured in a second; and the light company, which had held its fire, delivered a third, breaking the crowd in two, and driving the hinder-part back in disorder and up the Charleroi road. But already the fore-part had fallen upon the Morays, fortunately the last of the three regiments to receive the shock. Though most fortunate, they had least experience, and were consequently slow in answering my shout. A wedge of lancers broke through us as we formed around the two standards, and I saw Mr. Urquhart with the King’s colours hurled back in the rush. The pole fell with him, after swaying within a yard of a French lancer, who thrust out an arm to grasp it. And with that I saw Mackenzie divide the rush and stand–it may have been for five seconds–erect, with his foot upon the standard. Then three lancers pierced him, and he fell. But the lateral pressure of their own troopers broke the wedge which the French had pushed into us. Their leading squadrons were pressed down the road and afterwards accounted for by the Gordons. Of the seven-and-twenty assailants around whom the Morays now closed, not one survived.

Towards nightfall, as Ney weakened and the Allies were reinforced, our troops pushed forward and recaptured every important position taken by the French that morning. The Morays, with the rest of Picton’s division, bivouacked for the night in and around the farmstead of Gemiancourt.

So obstinately had the field been contested that darkness fell before the wounded could be collected with any thoroughness; and the comfort of the men around many a camp-fire was disturbed by groans (often quite near at hand) of some poor comrade or enemy lying helpless and undiscovered, or exerting his shattered limbs to crawl towards the blaze. And these interruptions at length became so distressing to the Morays, that two or three officers sought me and demanded leave to form a fatigue party of volunteers and explore the hedges and thickets with lanterns. Among them was Mr. Urquhart: and having readily given leave and accompanied them some little way on their search, I was bidding them good-night and good-speed when I found him standing at my elbow.

“May I have a word with you, Colonel?” he asked.

His voice was low and serious. Of course I knew what subject filled his thoughts. “Is it worth while, sir?” I answered. “I have lost to-day a brave lad for whom I had a great affection. For him the account is closed; but not for those who liked him and are still concerned in his good name. If you have anything further against him, or if you have any confession to make, I warn you that this is a bad moment to choose.”

“I have only to ask,” said he, “that you will grant me the first convenient hour for explaining; and to remind you that when I besought you not to send him into action to-day, I had no time to give you reasons.”

“This is extraordinary talk, sir. I am not used to command the Morays under advice from my subalterns. And in this instance I had reasons for not even listening to you.” He was silent. “Moreover,” I continued, “you may as well know, though I am under no obligation to tell you, that I do most certainly not regret having given that permission to one who justified it by a signal service to his king and country.”

“But would you have sent him _knowing_ that he must die? Colonel,” he went on rapidly, before I could interrupt, “I beseech you to listen. I knew he had only a few hours to live. I saw his wraith last night. It stood behind his shoulder in the room when in Captain Murray’s presence he challenged me to fight him. You are a Highlander, sir: you may be sceptical about the second sight; but at least you must have heard many claim it. I swear positively that I saw Mr. Mackenzie’s wraith last night, and for that reason, and no other, tried to defer the meeting. To fight him, knowing he must die, seemed to me as bad as murder. Afterwards, when the alarm sounded and you took off his arrest, I knew that his fate must overtake him–that my refusal had done no good. I tried to interfere again, and you would not hear. Naturally you would not hear; and very likely, if you had, his fate would have found him in some other way. That is what I try to believe. I hope it is not selfish, sir; but the doubt tortures me.”

“Mr. Urquhart,” I asked, “is this the only occasion on which you have possessed the second sight, or had reason to think so?”

“No, sir.”

“Was it the first or only time last night you believed you were granted it?”

“It was the _second_ time last night,” he said steadily.

We had been walking back to my bivouac fire, and in the light of it I turned and said: “I will hear your story at the first opportunity. I will not promise to believe, but I will hear and weigh it. Go now and join the others in their search.”

He saluted, and strode away into the darkness. The opportunity I promised him never came. At eleven o’clock next morning we began our withdrawal, and within twenty-four hours the battle of Waterloo had begun. In one of the most heroic feats of that day–the famous resistance of Pack’s brigade–Mr. Urquhart was among the first to fall.


Thus it happened that an affair which so nearly touched the honour of the Morays, and which had been agitating me at the very moment when the bugle sounded in the Place d’Armes, became a secret shared by three only. The regiment joined in the occupation of Paris, and did not return to Scotland until the middle of December.

I had ceased to mourn for Mr. Mackenzie, but neither to regret him nor to speculate on the mystery which closed his career, and which, now that death had sealed Mr. Urquhart’s lips, I could no longer hope to penetrate, when, on the day of my return to Inverness, I was reminded of him by finding, among the letters and papers awaiting me, a visiting-card neatly indited with the name of the Reverend Samuel Saul. On inquiry I learnt that the minister had paid at least three visits to Inverness during the past fortnight, and had, on each occasion, shown much anxiety to learn when the battalion might be expected. He had also left word that he wished to see me on a matter of much importance.

Sure enough, at ten o’clock next morning the little man presented himself. He was clearly bursting to disclose his business, and our salutations were scarce over when he ran to the door and called to some one in the passage outside.

“Elspeth! Step inside, woman. The housekeeper, sir, to the late Mr. Mackenzie of Ardlaugh,” he explained, as he held the door to admit her.

She was dressed in ragged mourning, and wore a grotesque and fearful bonnet. As she saluted me respectfully I saw that her eyes indeed were dry and even hard, but her features set in an expression of quiet and hopeless misery. She did not speak, but left explanation to the minister.

“You will guess, sir,” began Mr. Saul, “that we have called to learn more of the poor lad.” And he paused.

“He died most gallantly,” said I: “died in the act of saving the colours. No soldier could have wished for a better end.”

“To be sure, to be sure. So it was reported to us. He died, as one might say, without a stain on his character?” said Mr. Saul, with a sort of question in his tone.

“He died,” I answered, “in a way which could only do credit to his name.”

A somewhat constrained silence followed. The woman broke it. “You are not telling us all,” she said, in a slow, harsh voice.

It took me aback. “I am telling all that needs to be known,” I assured her.

“No doubt, sir, no doubt,” Mr. Saul interjected. “Hold your tongue, woman. I am going to tell Colonel Ross a tale which may or may not bear upon anything he knows. If not, he will interrupt me before I go far; but if he says nothing I shall take it I have his leave to continue. Now, sir, on the 16th day of June last, and at six in the morning–that would be the day of Quatre Bras–“

He paused for me to nod assent, and continued. “At six in the morning or a little earlier, this woman, Elspeth Mackenzie, came to me at the Manse in great perturbation. She had walked all the way from Ardlaugh. It had come to her (she said) that the young Laird abroad was in great trouble since the previous evening. I asked, ‘What trouble? Was it danger of life, for instance?’–asking it not seriously, but rather to compose her; for at first I set down her fears to an old woman’s whimsies. Not that I would call Elspeth old precisely–“

Here he broke off and glanced at her; but, perceiving she paid little attention, went on again at a gallop. “She answered that it was worse–that the young Laird stood very near disgrace, and (the worst of all was) at a distance she could not help him. Now, sir, for reasons I shall hereafter tell you, Mr. Mackenzie’s being in disgrace would have little surprised me; but that she should know of it, he being in Belgium, was incredible. So I pressed her, and she being distraught and (I verily believe) in something like anguish, came out with a most extraordinary story: to wit, that the Laird of Ardlaugh had in his service, unbeknown to him (but, as she protested, well known to her), a familiar spirit–or, as we should say commonly, a ‘brownie’–which in general served him most faithfully but at times erratically, having no conscience nor any Christian principle to direct him. I cautioned her, but she persisted, in a kind of wild terror, and added that at times the spirit would, in all good faith, do things which no Christian allowed to be permissible, and further, that she had profited by such actions. I asked her, ‘Was thieving one of them?’ She answered that it was, and indeed the chief.

“Now, this was an admission which gave me some eagerness to hear more. For to my knowledge there were charges lying against young Mr. Mackenzie–though not pronounced–which pointed to a thief in his employment and presumably in his confidence. You will remember, sir, that when I had the honour of meeting you at Mr. Mackenzie’s table, I took my leave with much abruptness. You remarked upon it, no doubt. But you will no longer think it strange when I tell you that there–under my nose–were a dozen apples of a sort which grows nowhere within twenty miles of Ardlaugh but in my own Manse garden. The tree was a new one, obtained from Herefordshire, and planted three seasons before as an experiment. I had watched it, therefore, particularly; and on that very morning had counted the fruit, and been dismayed to find twelve apples missing. Further, I am a pretty good judge of wine (though I taste it rarely), and could there and then have taken my oath that the claret our host set before us was the very wine I had tasted at the table of his neighbour Mr. Gillespie. As for the venison–I had already heard whispers that deer and all game were not safe within a mile or two of Ardlaugh. These were injurious tales, sir, which I had no mind to believe; for, bating his religion, I saw everything in Mr. Mackenzie which disposed me to like him. But I knew (as neighbours must) of the shortness of his purse; and the multiplied evidence (particularly my own Goodrich pippins staring me in the face) overwhelmed me for a moment.

“So then, I listened to this woman’s tale with more patience–or, let me say, more curiosity–than you, sir, might have given it. She persisted, I say, that her master was in trouble; and that the trouble had something to do with a game of cards, but that Mr. Mackenzie had been innocent of deceit, and the real culprit was this spirit I tell of–“

Here the woman herself broke in upon Mr. Saul. “He had nae conscience–he had nae conscience. He was just a poor luck-child, born by mischance and put away without baptism. He had nae conscience. How should he?”

I looked from her to Mr. Saul in perplexity.

“Whist!” said he; “we’ll talk of that anon.”

“We will not,” said she. “We will talk of it now. He was my own child, sir, by the young Laird’s own father. That was before he was married upon the wife he took later–“

Here Mr. Saul nudged me, and whispered: “The old Laird–had her married to that daunderin’ old half-wit Duncan, to cover things up. This part of the tale is true enough, to my knowledge.”

“My bairn was overlaid, sir,” the woman went on; “not by purpose, I will swear before you and God. They buried his poor body without baptism; but not his poor soul. Only when the young Laird came, and my own bairn clave to him as Mackenzie to Mackenzie, and wrought and hunted and mended for him–it was not to be thought that the poor innocent, without knowledge of God’s ways–“

She ran on incoherently, while my thoughts harked back to the voice I had heard wailing behind the door of the _entresol_ at Brussels; to the young Laird’s face, his furious indignation, followed by hopeless apathy, as of one who in the interval had learnt what he could never explain; to the marked coin so mysteriously spirited from sight; to Mr. Urquhart’s words before he left me on the night of Quatre Bras.

“But he was sorry,” the woman ran on; “he was sorry–sorry. He came wailing to me that night; yes, and sobbing. He meant no wrong; it was just that he loved his own father’s son, and knew no better. There was no priest living within thirty miles; so I dressed, and ran to the minister here. He gave me no rest until I started.”

I addressed Mr. Saul. “Is there reason to suppose that, besides this woman and (let us say) her accomplice, any one shared the secret of these pilferings?”

“Ardlaugh never knew,” put in the woman quickly. “He may have guessed we were helping him; but the lad knew nothing, and may the saints in heaven love him as they ought! He trusted me with his purse, and slight it was to maintain him. But until too late, he never knew–no, never, sir!”

I thought again of that voice behind the door of the _entresol_.

“Elspeth Mackenzie,” I said, “I and two other living men alone know of what your master was accused. It cannot affect him; but these two shall hear your exculpation of him. And I will write the whole story down, so that the world, if it ever hears the charge, may also hear your testimony, which of the two (though both are strange) I believe to be not the less credible.”



You enter the village of Gantick between two round-houses set one on each side of the high road where it dips steeply towards the valley bottom. On the west of the opposite hill the road passes out between another pair of round-houses. And down in the heart of the village among the elms facing the churchyard lych-gate stands a fifth, alone.

The five, therefore, form an elongated St. Andrew’s cross; but nobody can tell for certain who built them, or why. They are all alike; each, built of cob, circular, whitewashed, having pointed windows and a conical roof of thatch with a wooden cross on the apex. When I was a boy these thatched roofs used to be pointed out to me as masterpieces; and they still endure. But the race of skilled thatchers, once the peculiar pride of Gantick, has come to an end. What time has eaten modern and clumsy hands have tried to repair; yet a glance will tell you that the old sound work means to outwear the patches.

The last of these famous thatchers lived in the round-house on your right as you leave Gantick by the seaward road. His name was old Nat Ellery, or Thatcher Ellery, and his age (as I remember him) between seventy or eighty. Yet he clung to his work, being one of those lean men upon whom age, exposure, and even drink take a long while to tell. For he drank; not socially at the King of Bells, but at home in solitude with a black bottle at his elbow. He lived there alone; his neighbours, even of the round-house across the road, shunned him and were shunned by him: children would run rather than meet him on the road as he came along, striding swiftly for his age (the drink never affected his legs), ready greaved and sometimes gauntleted as if in haste for his job, always muttering to himself; and when he passed us with just a side-glance from his red eyes, we observed that his pale face did not cease to twitch nor his lips to work. We felt something like awe for the courage of Archie Passmore, who followed twenty paces behind with his tools and a bundle of spars or straw-rope, or perhaps at the end of a ladder which the two carried between them. Archie (aged sixteen) used to boast to us that he did not fear the old man a ha’penny; and the old man treated Archie as a Gibeonite, a hewer of wood, a drawer of water, never as an apprentice. Of his craft, except what he picked up by watching, the lad learned nothing.

What made him so vaguely terrible to us was the common rumour in the village that Thatcher Ellery had served once under his Majesty’s colours, but had deserted and was still liable to be taken and shot for it. Now this was true and everyone knew it, though why and how he had deserted were questions answered among us only by dark and frightful guesses. He had outlived all risk of the law’s revenge; no one, it was certain, would take the trouble to seize and execute justice upon a drunkard of seventy. But we children never thought of this, and for us as we watched him down the road there was always the thrilling chance that over the hedge or around the next corner would pop up a squad of redcoats. Some of us had even seen it, in dreams.


This is the story of Thatcher Ellery as it was told to me after his death, which happened one night a few weeks before I came home from school on my first summer holidays.

His father, in the early years of the century, had kept the mill up at Trethake Water, two miles above Gantick. There were two sons, of whom Reub, the elder, succeeded to the mill. Nat had been apprenticed to the thatching. Accident of birth assigned to the two these different walks of life but by taking thought their parents could not have chosen more wisely, for Nat was born clever, with an ambition to cut a figure in man’s eyes and just that sense of finish and the need of it which makes the good workman. Whereas his brother went the daily round at home as contentedly as a horse at a cider press. But Nat made the mistake of lodging under his father’s roof, and his mother made the worse mistake of liking her first-born the better and openly showing it. Nat, jealous and sensitive by nature, came to imagine the whole world against him, and Reub, who had no vice beyond a large thick-witted selfishness, seemed to make a habit of treading on his corns. At length came the explosion: a sudden furious assault which sent Reub souse into the paternal mill-leat.

The mother cursed Nat forth from the door, and no doubt said a great deal more than she meant. The boy–he was just seventeen–carried his box down to the Ring of Bells. Next morning as he sat viciously driving in spars astride on a rick ridge, whence he could see far over the Channel, there came into sight round Derryman’s Point a ship-of-war, running before the strong easterly breeze with piled canvas, white stun-sails bellying, and a fine froth of white water running off her bluff bows. Another ship followed, and another–at length a squadron of six. Nat watched them from time to time until they trimmed sails and stood in for Falmouth. Then he climbed down from the rick and put on his coat.

Two years later he landed at Portsmouth, heartily sick of the sea and all belonging to it. He drank himself silly that night and for ten nights following, and one morning found himself in the streets without a penny. Portsmouth just then (July, 1808) was filled with troops embarking under Sir John Moore for Portugal. One regiment especially took Nat’s eye–the 4th or King’s Own, and indeed the whole service contained no finer body of men. He sidled up to a corporal and gave a false name. Varcoe had been his mother’s maiden name, and it came handy. The corporal took him to a recruiting sergeant and handed him over with a wink. The recruiting sergeant asked a few convenient questions, and within the hour Nat was a soldier of King George. To his disgust, however, they did not embark him for Portugal, but marched him up the length of England to Lancaster, to learn his drill with the second battalion.

Seventeen months later they marched him back through the length of England–outwardly a made soldier–and shipped him on a transport for Gibraltar. In the meanwhile he had found two friends, the only two real ones he ever found in his life. They were Dave McInnes and Teddy Butson, privates of the 4th Regiment of Foot, 2nd Battalion, C Company. Dave McInnes came from somewhere to the west of Perth and drank like a fish when he had the chance. Teddy Butson came from the Lord knew where, with a tongue that wagged about everything except his own past. It did indeed wag about that, but told nothing but lies which were understood and accepted for lies and by consequence didn’t count. These two had christened Nat Ellery “Spuds.” He had no secret from them but one.

He was the cleverest of the three, and they admired him for it. He admired them in return for possessing something he lacked. It seemed to him the most important, almost the only important, thing in the world.

For (this was his secret) he believed himself to be a coward. He was not really a coward, though he carried about in his heart the liveliest fear of death and wounds. He was always asking himself how he would behave under fire, and somehow he found the odds heavy against his behaving well. He put roundabout questions to Dave and Teddy with the aim of discovering what they felt about it. They answered in a careless, matter-of-fact way, as men to whom it had never occurred to have any doubt about themselves. Nat was desperately afraid they might guess his reason for asking. Just here, when their friendship might have been helpful, it failed altogether. He felt angry with them for not understanding, while he prayed that they might not understand. He took to observing other men in the regiment, and found them equally cheerful, concerned only with the moment. He became secretly religious after a fashion. He felt that he was the one and only coward in the King’s Own, and prayed and planned his behaviour day and night to avoid being found out.

In this state of mind he landed at Gibraltar. When the order came for the 4th to move up to the front, he cheered with the rest, watching their faces.


At ten o’clock on the night of April 6th, 1812, our troops were to assault Badajos. It was now a few minutes past nine.

The night had closed in without rain, but cloudy and thick, with river fog. The moon would not rise for another hour or more. After the day’s furious bombardment silence had fallen on besieged and besiegers; but now and then a light flitted upon the ramparts, and at intervals the British in the trenches could hear the call of a sentinel proclaiming that all was well in Badajos.

In the trenches a low continuous murmur mingled with the voices of running water. On the right by the Guadiana waited Picton’s Third Division, breathing hard as the time drew nearer. Kempt commanded these for the moment. Picton was in camp attending to a hurt, but his men knew that before ten o’clock he would arrive to lead across the Rivillas by the narrow bridge and up to the walls of the Castle frowning over the river at the city’s north-east corner.

In the centre and over against the wall to the left of the Castle were assembled Colville’s and Barnard’s men of the Fourth and Light Divisions. Theirs, according to the General’s plan, was to be the main business to-night–to carry the breaches hammered in the Trinidad and Santa Maria bastions and the curtain between; the Fourth told off for the Trinidad and the curtain, the Light Bobs for the Santa Maria–heroes these of Moore’s famous rear-guard, tried men of the 52nd Foot and the 95th Rifles, with the 43rd beside them, and destined to pay the heaviest price of all to-night for the glory of such comradeship. But, indeed, Ciudad Rodrigo had given the 43rd a title to stand among the best.

And far away to the left, on the lower slopes of the hills, Leigh’s Fifth Division was halted in deep columns. A knoll separated his two brigades, and across the interval of darkness they could hear each other’s movements. They were to operate independently; and concerning the task before the brigade on the right there could be no doubt: a dash across the gorge at their feet, and an assault upon the outlying Pardaleras, on the opposite slope. But the business before Walker’s brigade, on the left, was by no means so simple. The storming party had been marching light, with two companies of Portuguese to carry their ladders, and stood discussing prospects: for as yet they were well out of earshot of the walls, and the moment for strict silence had not arrived.

“The Vincenty,” grumbled Teddy Butson; “and by shot to me if I even know what it’s like.”

“Like!” McInnes’ jaws shut on the word like a steel trap. “The scarp’s thirty feet high, and the ditch accordin’. The last on the west side it will be–over by the river. I know it like your face, and its uglier, if that’s possible.”

“Dick Webster was saying it’s mined,” put in Nat, commanding a firm voice.

“Eh? The glacis? I shouldn’t wonder. Walker will know.”

“But what’ll he do?”

“Well, now”–Dave seemed to be considering–“it will not be for the likes of me to be telling the brigadier-general. But if Walker comes to me and says, ‘Dave, there’s a mine hereabouts. What will I be doing?’ it’s like enough I shall say: ‘Your honour knows best; but the usual course is to walk round it.'”

Teddy Butson chuckled, and rubbed the back of his axe approvingly. Nat held his tongue for a minute almost, and then broke out irritably: “To hell with this waiting!”

His nerves were raw. Two minutes later a man on his right kicked awkwardly against his foot. It startled him, and he cursed furiously.

“Hold hard, Spuds, my boy,” said the man cheerfully; “you ain’t Lord Wellington, nor his next-of-kin, to be makin’ all the noise.”

Teddy Butson wagged his head solemnly at a light which showed foggily for a moment on the distant ramparts.

“All right,” said he, “you—-town! Little you know ’tis Teddy’s birthday.”

“There will be wine,” said Dave, dreamily.

“Lashins of it; wine and women, and loot things. I wonder how our boys are feeling on the right? What’s that?”–as a light shot up over the ridge to the eastward. “Wish I could see what’s doing over there. My belief we’re only put up for a feint.”

“O hush it, you royal mill-clappers!” This came from the darkness behind–from some man of the 30th, no doubt.

The voice was tense, with a note of nervousness in it, which Nat recognised at once. He turned with a sudden desire to see the speaker’s face. Here was one who felt as he did, one who could understand him, but his eyes sought in vain among the lines of glimmering black shakos.

“Silence in the ranks!” Two officers came forward, talking together and pausing to watch the curious light now rising and sinking and rising again in the sky over the eastern ridges. “They must have caught sight of our fellows–listen, wasn’t that a cheer? What time is it?” The officer was Captain Hopkins commanding Nat’s Company, but now in charge of the stormers. A voice hailed him, and he ran back. “Yes, sir, I think so decidedly,” Nat heard him saying, and he came running clutching his sword sheath. “Silence men–the brigade will advance.”

The Portuguese picked up and shouldered their ladders: the orders were given, and the columns began to move down the slope. For a while they could hear the tramp of the other brigade moving parallel with them on the other side of the knoll, then fainter and fainter as it wheeled aside and down the gorge to the right. At the foot of the slope they opened a view up the gorge lit for a moment by a flare burning on the ramparts of the Pardaleras, and saw their comrades moving down and across the bottom like a stream of red lava pouring towards the foot. The flare died down and our brigade struck away to the left over the level country. On this side Badajos remained dark and silent.

They were marching quickly, yet the pace did not satisfy Nat. He wanted to be through with it, to come face to face with the worst and know it. And yet he feared it abominably. For two years he had contrived to hide his secret. He had marched, counter-marched, fed, slept, and fought with his comrades; had dodged with them behind cover, loaded, fired, charged with them; had behaved outwardly like a decent soldier, but almost always with a sickening void in the pit of the stomach. Once or twice in particularly bad moments he had caught himself blubbering, and with a deadly shame. He had not an idea that at least a dozen of his comrades–among them Dave and Teddy–had seen it, and thought nothing of it; still less did he imagine that those had been his most courageous moments. Soldiers fight differently. Teddy Butson, for instance, talked all the time until his tongue swelled, and then he barked like a dog. Dave shut his teeth and groaned. But these symptoms escaped Nat, whose habit was to think all the while of himself. Of one thing he felt sure, that he had never yet been anything but glad to hear the recall sounded.

Well, so far he had escaped. Heaven knew how he had managed it; he only knew that the last two years had been as long as fifty, and he seemed to have been living since the beginning of the world. But here he was, and actually keeping step with a storming party. He kept his eyes on Dave’s long lean back immediately in front and trudged on, divided between an insane desire to know of what Dave was thinking, and an equally insane wonder what Dave’s body might be worth to him as cover.

What was the silly word capering in his head? “Mill-clappers.” Why on earth “Mill-clappers?” It put him in mind of home: but he had no silly tender thoughts to waste on home, or the folks there. He had never written to them. If they should happen on the copy of the Gazette–and the chances were hundred to one against it–the name of Nathaniel Varcoe among the killed or wounded would mean nothing to them. He tramped on, chewing his fancy, and extracted this from it: “A man with never a friend at home hasn’t even an excuse to be a coward, curse it!”

Suddenly the column halted, in a bank of fog through which his ear caught the lazy ripple of water. He woke up with a start. The fog was all about them.

“What’s this?” he demanded aloud; then, with a catch of his breath, “Mines?”

“Eh, be quiet,” said Teddy Butson at his elbow; “listen to yonder.” And the word was hardly out when an explosion split the sky and was followed by peal after peal of musketry. Nat had a swift vision of a high black wall against a background of flame, and then night came down again as you might close a shutter. But the musketry continued. “That will be at the breaches,” Dave flung the words over his left shoulder. Then followed another flash and another explosion. This time, however, the light, though less vivid than the first flash, did not vanish. While he wondered at this Nat saw first of all the rim of the moon through the slant of an embrasure, and then Teddy’s pale but cheerful face.

The head of the column had been halted a few yards only from a breastwork, with a stockade above it and a _chevaux de frise_ on top of all. As far as knowledge of his whereabouts went, Nat might have been east, west, north or south of Badajos, or somewhere in another planet. But the past two years had somehow taught him to divine that behind this ugly obstruction lay a covered way with a guard house. And sure enough the men, keeping dead silence now, could hear the French soldiers chatting in that unseen guard house and laughing.

“Now’s the time.” Nat heard the word passed back by the young engineer officer who had crept forward to reconnoitre: and then an order given in Portuguese.

“Ay, bring up the ladders, you greasers, and let’s put it through.” This from Teddy Butson chafing by Nat’s side.

The two Portuguese companies came forward with the ladders as the storming party moved up to the gateway. And just at that moment there the sentry let off his alarm shot. It set all within the San Vincente bastion moving and whirring like the works of a mechanical toy; feet came running along the covered way; muskets clinked on the stone parapet; tongues of fire spat forth from the embrasures; and then, as the musketry quickened, a flash and a roar lifted the glacis away behind, to the right of our column, so near that the wind of it drove our men sideways.

“All right, Johnny,” Dave grunted, recovering himself as the clods of earth began to fall: “Blaze away, my silly ducks–we’re not there!”

But the Portuguese companies as the mine exploded cast down the ladders and ran. Half a dozen came charging back along the column’s right flank, and our soldiers cursed and struck at them as they fled. But the curses were as nothing beside those of the Portuguese officers striving to rally their men.

“My word,” said Teddy. “Hear them scandalous greasers! It’s poor talk, is English.”

“On with you, lads”–it was Walker himself who shouted. “Pick up the ladders, and on with you!”

They hardly waited for the word, but, shouldering the ladders, ran forward through the dropping bullets to the gate, cheering and cheered by the rear ranks.

But they flung themselves in vain on the gate. On its iron-bound and iron-studded framework their axes made no impression. A dozen men charged it, using a ladder as a battering ram. “Aisy with that, ye blind ijjits!” yelled an Irish sergeant. “Ye’ll be needin’ them ladders prisintly!” Our three privates found themselves in the crowd surging towards the breastwork to the right of the gate. “Nip on my shoulders, Teddy lad,” grunted McInnes, and Teddy nipped up and began hacking at the _chevaux de frise_ with his axe. “That’s av ut, bhoys,” yelled the Irish sergeant again. “Lave them spoikes an’ go for the stockade. Good for you, little man–whirro!” Nat by this time was on a comrade’s back, and using his axe for dear life; one of twenty men hacking, ripping, tearing down the wooden stakes. But it was Teddy who wriggled through first with Dave at his heels. The man beneath Nat gave a heave with his shoulders and shot him through his gap, a splinter tearing his cheek open. He fell head foremost sprawling down the slippery slope of the ditch.

While he picked himself up and stretched out a hand to recover his axe a bullet struck the blade of it–ping! He caught up the axe and ran his finger over it stupidly. Phut–another bullet spat into the soft earth behind his shoulder. Then he understood. A fellow came tumbling through the gap, pitched exactly where Nat had been sprawling a moment before, rose to his knees, and then with a quiet bubbling sound lay down again.

“Ugh! he would be killed–he must get out of this!” But there was no cover unless he found it across the ditch and close under the high stone curtain. They would be dropping stones, beams, fire barrels; but at least he would be out of the reach of the bullets. He forgot the chance–the certainty–of an enfilading fire from the two bastions. His one desire was to get across and pick some place of shelter.

But by this time the men were pouring in behind and fast filling the ditch. A fire-ball came crashing over the rampart, rolled down the grass slope and lay sputtering, and in the infernal glare he saw all his comrades’ faces–every detail of their dress down to the moulded pattern on their buttons. “Fourth! Fourth!” some one shouted, and then voice and vision were caught up and drowned together in a hell of musketry. He must win across or be carried he knew not where by the brute pressure of the crowd. A cry broke from him and he ran, waving his axe, plunged down the slope and across. On the further slope an officer caught him up and scrambled beside him. “Whirro, Spuds! After him, boys!” sang out Teddy Butson. But Spuds did not hear.

He and the officer were at the top of the turf–at the foot of the curtain. “Ladders! Ladders!” He caught hold of the first as it was pushed up and helped–now the centre of a small crowd–to plant it against the wall. Then he fell back, mopping his forehead, and feeling his torn cheek. What the devil were they groaning at? Short? The ladder too short? He stared up foolishly. The wall was thirty feet high perhaps and the ladder ten feet short of that or more. “Heads!” A heavy beam crashed down, snapping the foot of the ladder like a cabbage stump. Away to the left a group of men were planting another. Half a dozen dropped while he watched them. Why in the world were they dropping like that? He stared beyond and saw the reason. The French marksmen in the bastion were sweeping the face of the curtain with their cross fire–those cursed bullets again! And the ladder did not reach, after all. O it was foolishness–flinging away men like this for no earthly good! Why not throw up the business and go home? Why didn’t somebody stop those silly bugles sounding the Advance?

There they went again! It was enough to drive a man mad!

He turned and ran down the slope a short way. For the moment he held a grip on himself, but it was slackening, and in another half-minute he would have lost it and run in mere blind horror. But in the first group he blundered upon were Dave and Teddy, and a score of the King’s Own, with a couple of ladders between them; and better still, they were listening to Captain Hopkins, who waved an arm and pointed to an embrasure to the left. Nat, pulling himself up and staring with the rest, saw that no gun stood in this embrasure, only a gabion. In a moment he was climbing the slope again; if a man must die, there’s comfort at least in company. He bore a hand in planting the two ladders; a third was fetched–heaven knew whence or how–and planted beside them, and up the men swarmed, three abreast, Dave leading on the right-hand one, at the foot of which Nat hung back and swayed. He heard Dave’s long sigh, the sigh, the sob almost, of desire answered at last. He watched him as he mounted. The ladders were still too