Callum brought me my only heir-loom, the old claymore, on the blade of which my father—in some old Flemish camp, when serving under York—had written the two words, Biodh Treun (be valiant). I stuck my revolver and dirk in my belt, and descended to the parade-ground full of enthusiasm and hope.
My little band of Highlanders mustered in the chill morning with alacrity. They were all in light marching order, and in addition to their arms and accoutrements, carried only their greatcoats and wooden canteens. I carefully inspected their ammunition, and then marched them to the landing-place, where a large kochamba, which had been procured overnight, and which was manned by eight stout galiondgis, awaited us. Before marching out, I had no little difficulty in explaining to the Yuze Bashi's second in command the nature of the expedition on which we were departing, and that we must necessarily return for our baggage, knapsacks, and squad-bags, before marching to Heraclea. To the Major I despatched a mounted Topchi, with a letter acquainting him with my return to my party, my late adventures, and the nature of the service on which I had gone—a service of which I was convinced he would approve, as the necessary protection of British subjects had forced me upon it, and as there was no vessel of war near with which I could communicate, and, save my Highlanders, no other armed force on which I could rely.
Of these Highlanders, whose task was now to save Sir Horace from the pirates, eight were evicted Mac Innons of Glen Ora; and in the ranks I heard them recalling to each other the day 'when the glen was desolated,' as we marched from the castle with our pipe playing, and embarked in the kochamba; then we shipped eight long sweeps, with two men to each, hoisted the long and tapering lateen sail, and stood out of the harbour of Rodosdchig, with a fair wind that bore us away southward for the Isle of Marmora.
As we put to sea, Callum urged me in a whisper to have the boat's head shot first to starboard—'the deisuil,' as he said, 'in honour of the sun'—an old superstitious custom, for which, like many others, he was a great stickler; and as I had the tiller-ropes, it was at once complied with.
My fellows were all lively and merry at the prospect of a brush with any one; and this duty seemed a stirring change after the dull monotony of mounting guard in that old castle, whose shadow fell far across the shining water, and where their only companions were the stolid, opium-drugged, big-breeched, raki-drinking, and chibouque-smoking Topchis of the Yuze Bashi Hussein.
With their broad chests heaving, and their bearded faces flushed by exertion as they bent to their task, Callum Dhu, Donald Roy, and Serjeant Mac Ildhui sang an old Highland boat-song, to which the rowers kept time with their broad-bladed sweeps, that flashed like fire as they threw the silver spray towards the rising sun—the glorious sun of Asia, which filled all that morning sea with his dazzling splendour—and while the piper played in the prow, all the soldiers joined in parts, their thirty voices making the sky ring when they united in one volume, to the astonishment of the immovable Turks, and to the great amusement of Jack Belton, who enjoyed our enthusiasm, but laughed like a Lowlander at the strange words of the chorus, which suited the action of the oars, and were somewhat to the following purpose:—
'Horo, horo, horo elé,
Horo, horo, horo elé;
Hu ho i o 'sna ho elé,' &c.
'Well, 'pon my soul,' said Jack, as he lolled in the stern-sheets of the boat, polishing the barrel of a finished Colt with the ashes of his cheroot, 'this is better fun than blowing on the flute, or pumping on an accordion all day long in one's barrack-room for lack of something to do.'
'Wait,' said I, 'until you have seen Fanny Clavering; your mind will then be fully occupied.'
'By love for her?'