War hardens the human heart, and love makes it selfish. I cared little for what happened to the poor citizens, provided Ernestine knew nothing of what they endured; but though Ian, Phadrig Mhor, and myself, parted with every thing we could spare—selling even our buckles, silver buttons, &c., to a Jew in the Platz, to procure the necessaries of life for her—even these began to fail, and in common with the rest I became desperate. About this time Sir Alexander Leslie obtained intelligence—how, I know not—that a train of waggons, laden with provisions for the Imperialists, were coming towards Stralsund from Greifswalde, a fortified town of Prussian Pomerania, situated about fifteen miles distant, at the confluence of the Reik with the Baltic. Of those waggons he determined to possess himself, and on that night (the first of September) ordered Sir Donald Mackay with our regiment of Strathnaver, the Lord Spynie with his Lowland musketeers, and Sir Ludovick Leslie with his old Scots regiment, to march at dusk; and (while he, in person, was diverting the enemy's attention by scouring their trenches) endeavour to fall upon the post of the quartermaster-general, to seize some of the laden waggons, and at all hazards bring them into Stralsund.
Of this intended outfall I did not inform Ernestine, for if I returned safe, all would be well, and she would thus escape a few hours of unnecessary alarm and grief; if I was slain, poor girl! she would hear of it soon enough, for evil tidings always fly faster than good.
We paraded in the market-place without our colours, and silently the priming and loading was proceeded with. Fortunately the night was gloomy, though the wind was still, and a dense vapour that came heavily up from the sea, spread over the land and effectually concealed us, as in three dense columns we issued from a gate of the town, and marching between the Greifswalde road and the margin of the Sound, on the left flank of the city, softly approached the unconscious enemy. In this sortie there occurred an incident which I cannot help relating, even at the risk of being considered superstitious.
"Ochone!" said Phadrig Mhor, as he shouldered his Lochaber axe, "there is many a pretty man marching out just now, that will never come in again."
"Most probably, Phadrig," said I; "but why croak in this solemn tone?"
"I could name two," said he, sinking his voice into a low and impressive whisper.
"Two—?"
"Ay, two, who will never march more—God bless and sain them both!"
"In the devil's name, what do you mean, Sergeant Mhor?"
"That to-night the kirk-bell of Gometra will toll."