CHAPTER II
I confess that a thrill of considerable exultation pervaded my frame, as I beheld one morning on my dressing-table a parcel which conscience whispered to me contained the masterpiece of Buckmaster. With palpitating hand I cut the cord, undid the brown paper foldings, and feasted my eyes in a trance of ecstasy upon the pantaloons, all gorgeous with the red stripe; upon the jacket glittering with its galaxy of buttons, and the polished glory of the shoulder scales. Not hurriedly, but with a protracted sense of keen enjoyment, I cased myself in the military shell, slung on the pouch-belt, buckled the sabre, and finally adjusted the magnificent helmet on my brows. I looked into the mirror, and hardly could recognise the counterpart of Mars which confronted me.
“’Ods scimiters!” cried I, unsheathing my Bilboa, and dealing, with a reckless disregard to expense, a terrific cut at the bed-post—“Let me catch any fellow saying that the yeomanry are not a constitutional force!”
And so I strode into the breakfast-room, where my old housekeeper was adjusting the materials for the matutinal meal.
“Lord save us a’!” cried Nelly, dropping in her astonishment a platter of finnans upon the floor—“Lord save us a’, and keep us frae the sin o’ bluidshed! Dear-a-me, Maister George, can that really be you! Hae ye turned offisher, and are ye gaun oot to fecht!”
“To be sure, Nelly. I have joined the yeomanry, and we shall turn out next week. How do you like the uniform?”
“Dinna speak to me o’ unicorns! I’m auld enough to mind the days o’ that bluidy murderin’ villain Bony-party, wha was loot loose upon huz, as a scourge and a tribulation for the backslidings o’ a sinfu’ land: and, wae’s me! mony a mither that parted frae her son, maybe as bonny, or a hantle bonnier than yoursel’, had sair een, and a broken heart, when she heard that her laddie was streekit cauld and stiff on the weary field o’ Waterloo! Na—for gudeness sake, dinna draw yer swurd or I’ll swarff! O, pit it aff—pit it aff, Maister George—There’s a dear bairn, bide at hame, and dinna gang ye a sodgerin’! Think o’ the mither that lo’es ye, forbye yer twa aunties. Wad ye bring doun their hairs—I canna ca’ them a’ grey, for Miss Kirsty’s is as red as a lobster—in sorrow to the grave?”
“Why, you old fool, what are you thinking of? We are not going out to fight—merely for exercise.”
“Waur and waur! Can ye no tak’ yir yexerceese at hame, or doun at the Links wi’ golf’ or gang awa’ to the fishin’? Wadna that be better than stravagin’ through the streets, wi’ a lang swurd harlin’ ahint ye, and consortin’ wi’ deboshed dragoons, and drinkin’ the haill nicht, and rinnin’ wud after the lasses? And if ye’re no gaun out to fecht, what’s the use o’ye? Are ye gaun to turn anither Claverse, and burn and hang puir folk like the wicked and bluid-thirsty troopers lang syne? Yexerceese indeed! I wonder, Maister George, ye’re no just ashamed o’ yersel!”
“Hold your tongue, you old fool, and bring the tea-pot.”
“Fule! ’Deed I’m maybe just an auld fule to gang on clattering that gate, for I never kent ye tak’ gude advice syne ye were a wean. Aweel! He that will to Cupar maun to Cupar. Ye’se hae it a’ yer ain way; but maybe we’ll see some day sune, when ye’re carried hame on a shutter wi’ a broken leg, or a stab in the wame, or bullet in the harns, whilk o’ us twa is the greater fule!”
“Confound that woman!” thought I, as I pensively buttered my roll. “What with her Cameronian nonsense and her prophecies, she is enough to disband a regiment.”
And, to say the truth, her last hint about a broken leg was not altogether foreign to my own apprehensions. I had recollected of late, with no slight uneasiness, that for this sort of service a horse was quite as indispensable as a man; and, as already hinted, I had more than doubts as to my own equestrian capabilities. However, I comforted myself with the reflection, that out of the fifty or sixty yeomen whom I knew, not one had ever sustained any serious injury; and I resolved, as a further precaution against accident, to purvey me the very quietest horse that could be found any where. Steadiness, I have always understood, is the characteristic feature of the British cavalry.
My correspondence that morning was not of the legal kind. In the first place, I received a circular from the commanding-officer, extremely laudatory of the recruits, whose zeal for the service did them so much credit. We were called upon, in an animated address, to maintain the high character of the regiment—to prove ourselves worthy successors of those who had ridden and fought before us—to turn out regularly and punctually to the field, and to keep our accoutrements in order. Next came a more laconic and pithy epistle from the adjutant, announcing the hours of drill, and the different arrangements for the week; and finally, a communication from the convener of the mess committee.
To all these I cordially assented, and having nothing better to do, bethought me of a visit to the Bogles. I pictured to myself the surprise of Edith on beholding me in my novel character.
“She shall see,” thought I, “that years of dissipation in a barrack or guard-room, are not necessary to qualify a high-minded legal practitioner for assuming his place in the ranks of the defenders of his country. She shall own that native valour is an impulse, not a science. She shall confess that the volunteer who becomes a soldier, simply because the commonwealth requires it, is actuated by higher motive than the regular, with his prospects of pay and of promotion. What was Karl Theodore Körner, author of the Lyre and Sword, but a simple Saxon yeoman? and yet is there any name, Blucher’s not excepted, which stirs the military heart of Germany more thrillingly than his? And, upon my honour, even as a matter of taste, I infinitely prefer this blue uniform to the more dashing scarlet. It is true they might have given us tails to the jacket,” continued I soliloquizing, as a young vagabond who passed, hazarded a contumelious remark regarding the symmetry of my nether person. “But, on the whole, it is a manly and a simple garb, and Edith cannot be such a fool as not to appreciate the motives which have led me to assume it.”
So saying, I rung the Bogles’ bell. Edith was in the drawing-room, and there also, to my no small mortification, was Lieutenant Roper. They were sitting together on the sofa, and I rather thought Miss Bogle started as I came in.
“Goodness gracious! Mr M’Whirter,” cried she with a giggle—Edith never looked well when she giggled!—“What have you been doing with yourself?”
“I am not aware, Miss Bogle, that there is any thing very extraordinary”——
“O dear, no! I beg your pardon for laughing, but really you look so funny! I have been so used, you know, to see you in a black coat, that the contrast is rather odd. Pray forgive my ignorance, Mr M’Whirter, but what is that dress?”
“The uniform of the Mid-Lothian Yeomanry Cavalry, madam. We are going into quarters next week.”
“How very nice! Do you know it is one of the prettiest jackets I ever saw? Don’t you think so, Mr Roper?”
“Veway much so,” replied Roper, reconnoitring me calmly through his eyeglass. “A veway handsome turn-out indeed. ’Pon my honour, I had no idea they got up things so cleverly in the fencibles”——
“Yeomanry, if you please, Lieutenant Roper!”
“Ah, yes! Yeomanry—so it is. I say, M’Whirter, ’pon my soul, do you know, you look quite killing! Do, like a good fellow, just march to the corner of the room, and let us have a look at you on the other side.”
“Oh do, Mr M’Whirter!” supplicated, or rather supplemented Edith.
I felt as if I could have shot him.
“You’ll excuse me, Roper, for not going through drill just now. If you like to come to the review, you shall see how our regiment can behave. At any rate, we shall be happy to see you at mess.”
“Oh certainly, certainly! Veway good things those yeomanry messes. Always a deal of claret, I believe.”
“And pray, Mr M’Whirter, what rank do you hold in that distinguished corps?” asked Miss Bogle.
“A full private, madam.”
“Goodness gracious!—then you’re not even an officer!”
“A private of the yeomanry, Miss Bogle, is, let me inform you, totally independent of rank. We enrol ourselves for patriotism, not for pay. We are as honourable a body as the Archers of the Scots Guard, the Cavaliers of Dundee, or the Mousquetaires”——
“How romantic and nice! I declare, you are quite a D’Artagnan!” said Edith, who had just read the Trois Mousquetaires.
“Don’t they pay you?” said Roper. “’Pon my honour that’s too bad. If I were you I’d memorialize the Horse Guards. By the way, M’Whirter, what sort of a charger have you got?”
“Why, to say the truth,” replied I, hesitatingly, “I am not furnished with a horse as yet. I am just going to look out for one at some of the livery stables.”
“My dear friend,” said Roper, with augmented interest, “I strongly recommend you to do nothing of the kind. These fellows will, to a dead certainty, sell you some sort of a brute that is either touched in the wind or dead lame; and I can tell you it is no joke to be spilt in a charge of cavalry.”
I felt a sort of sickening sensation as I recalled the lines of Schiller——
“Young Piccolomini, known by his plume
And his long hair, gave signal for the trenches;
Himself leapt first, the regiment all plunged after.
His charger, by a halbert gored, reared up,
Flung him with violence off, and over him
The horses, now no longer to be curbed”——
The fate of Max might be mine, and Edith might be left, a mournful Thekla, to perform a moonlight pilgrimage to my grave in the solitary churchyard of Portobello!
“Do you really think so, Roper?” said I.
“Think so! I know it,” replied the dragoon. “Never while you live trust yourself to the tender mercies of a livery stable. It’s a regular maxim in the army. Pray, are you a good rider?”
“Pretty—fairish—tolerable. That is, I can ride.”
“Ah! I see—want of practice merely—eh?”
“Just so.”
“Well then, it’s a lucky thing that I’ve seen you. I have just the sort of animal you want—a regular-bred horse, sound as a roach, quiet as a lamb, and quite up to the cavalry movements. Masaniello will suit your weight to an ounce, and you shall have him for seventy guineas.”
“That’s a very long price, Roper!”
“For Masaniello? I assure you he’s as cheap as dirt. I would not sell him for twice the sum: only, you see, we are limited in our number, and my father insists upon my keeping other two which he bred himself. If you like to enter Masaniello for the races, I’ll ensure your winning the cup.”
“Oh do, Mr M’Whirter, take Mr Roper’s advice!” said Edith. “Masaniello is such a pretty creature, and so quiet! And then, after the week is over, you know you can come and ride with us.”
“Won’t you take sixty, Roper?”
“Not a penny less than seventy,” replied the dragoon.
“Well, then, I shall take him at that. Pounds?”
“Guineas. Call down to-morrow forenoon at Piershill, and you shall have delivery. Now, Miss Bogle, what do you say to a canter on the sands?”
I took my leave rather satisfied than otherwise with the transaction. Edith evidently took a warm interest in my welfare, and her suggestion as to future expeditions was quite enchanting. Seventy guineas, to be sure, was a deal of money, but then it was something to be assured of safety for life and limb. On the street I encountered Anthony Whaup.
“Well, old fellow,” quoth Anthony, “how are you getting on? Pounding away at drill, eh?”
“Not yet.”
“Faith, you had better look sharp about it, then. I’ve been down twice at Canonmills of a morning, and I can tell you the facings are no joke. Have you got a horse yet?”
“Yes; a regular dragoon charger—and you?”
“A beast from Wordsworth. He’s been out regularly with the squadron for the last ten years; so it is to be presumed he knows the manœuvres. If not, I’m a spilt yeoman!”
“I say, Anthony—can you ride?”
“No more than yourself, but I suppose we shall contrive to stick on somehow.”
“Would it not be as well to have a trial?” said I, with considerable intrepidity. “Suppose we go together to the riding-school, and have an hour or two’s practice.”
“I have no earthly manner of objection,” said Anthony. “I suppose there’s lots of sawdust there, and the exhibition will, at any rate, be a private one. Allons!” and we departed for the amphitheatre.
We enquired for a couple of peaceable hacks, which were forthwith furnished us. I climbed up with some difficulty into the saddle, and having submitted to certain partial dislocations of the knee and ankle, at the hands of the master of the ring, (rather a ferocious Widdicomb, by the way,) and having also been instructed in the art of holding the reins, I was pronounced fit to start. Anthony, whose legs were of a parenthetical build, seemed to adopt himself more easily to his seat.
“Now then, trot!” cried the sergeant, and away we went with a wild expenditure of elbow.
“Toes in, toes in, gentlemen!” continued our instructor; “blowed but you’d drive them wild if you had spurs on! You ain’t been at the dancing-school lately, have you? Steady—steady—very good. Down your elbows, gentlemen, if you please! them bridles isn’t pumps. Heads up! now gallop! Bravo! very good. Screw in the knees a little. Hold on—hold on, sir, or damme you’ll be off!”
And sure enough I was within an ace of going over, having lost a stirrup, when the sergeant caught hold of me by the arm.
“I’ll tell you what, gents,” he said, “you’ll never learn to ride in this ’varsal world, unless you tries it without the irons. Nothing like that for giving a man a sure seat. So, Bill, take off the stirrups, will you! Don’t be afeard, gentlemen. I’ll make riders of you yet, or my name isn’t Kickshaw.”
Notwithstanding the comforting assurances of Kickshaw, I felt considerably nervous. If I could not maintain my seat with the assistance of the stirrups, what the mischief was I to do without them? I looked rebelliously at Anthony’s stirrup, but that intrepid individual seemed to have nerved himself to meet any possible danger. His enormous legs seemed calculated by nature to embrace the body of his charger, and he sat erect like an overgrown Bacchus bestriding a kilderkin of beer.
“Trot, gentlemen!” and away we went. I shall never forget the agony of that hour! The animal I rode was peculiarly decided in his paces; so much so that at each step my os coccygis came down with a violent thump upon the saddle, and my teeth rattled in my head like dice in a backgammon-box. How I managed to maintain my posture I cannot clearly understand. Possibly the instinct of self-preservation proved the best auxiliary to the precepts of Sergeant Kickshaw; for I held as tight a hold of the saddle as though I had been crossing the bridge of Al Sirat, with the flames of the infernal regions rolling and undulating beneath.
“Very good, gentlemen—capital!—you’re improving vastly!” cried the complimentary sergeant. “Nothing like the bare saddle after all—damme but I’ll make you take a four-barred gate in a week! Now sit steady. Gallop!”
Croton oil was a joke to it! I thought my whole vitals were flying to pieces as we bounded round the oval building, the speed gradually increasing, until in my diseased imagination we were going at the pace of Lucifer. My head began to grow dizzy, and I clutched convulsively at the pommel.
“An-tho-ny!” I gasped in monosyllables.
“Well?”
“How—do—you—feel?”
“Monstrous shakey,” replied Anthony in dissyllables.
“I’m off!” cried I; and, losing my balance at the turn, I dropped like a sack of turnips.
However, I was none the worse for it. Had it not been for Anthony, and the dread of his report, I certainly think I should have bolted, and renounced the yeomanry for ever. But a courageous example does wonders. I persevered, and in a few days really made wonderful progress. I felt, however, considerably sore and stiff—straddled as I walked along the street, and was compelled to resort to diachylon. What with riding and the foot-drill I had hard work of it, and earnestly longed for the time when the regiment should go into quarters. I almost forgot to mention that Masaniello turned out to be an immense black brute, rather aged, but apparently sound, and, so far as I could judge, quiet. There was, however, an occasional gleam about his eye which I did not exactly like.
“He’ll carry you, sir, famously—no doubt of it,” said Kickshaw, who inspected him; “and, mind my words, he’ll go it at the charge!”