Soon after the regiment arrived at Banos, the sentence of Angus Mackie was ordered to be put in execution, having been approved of by the proper authorities. On the retreat from Burgos some symptoms of insubordination had appeared among the other brigades, when the soldiers became maddened by the miseries they underwent; an officer of "the buffs" had been shot by a soldier of that regiment. In other corps discipline seemed almost set at nought, and it was determined that an example should be made. The private of the 3rd regiment was hanged, and Angus Mackie, who, although far less criminal, had been convicted of desertion and insubordination, was sentenced to be shot to death in presence of his comrades, who among themselves deeply pitied and deplored that so gallant a lad should suffer so severe a sentence for his exaggerated crime. No charge of injustice could be laid to the account of the court which tried him, the "finding" of its members having been regulated by the stern but necessary articles of the Mutiny Act. Many months had passed away since his trial; the first excitement of the affair had died away, and during all that time he had been confined in the dreary fort of Coria,—a sufficient punishment alone for the crime he had committed.
This unhappy affair cast a gloom over the whole regiment,—a gloom which was apparent in every face, as the unwilling Highlanders paraded in the valley of Banos to witness his execution.
It was in the month of May 1813; the evening was a still and beautiful one. The sun was verging towards the west, and his crimson rays streamed through the deep dark dell, upon the vine-clad cottages and sylvan amphitheatre of Banos. Concentrated in that narrow and gloomy glen, where the immense mountains rose on every side to the height of many hundred feet, and where crags and rocks shot up in cones and fantastic spires, almost excluding the light of day from the little huts at the bottom of the dell, were the seventeen infantry regiments of the second division, together with the cavalry, drawn up on the steep faces of the hills, so that the rear ranks might overlook the front. The paisanos of the secluded village, awe-struck at the unusual scene, and the sight of so many thousand steel weapons glittering amid such dense masses of foreign soldiers, forsook their cottages and clustered together on the summit of a steep rock, to behold the fatal event. The troops formed three faces of a hollow square; the rock upon which the peasants were congregated occupied the vacant space. A spot of velvet turf, the village-green, stretched to the foot of it, and there was dug a grave,—a grave for the yet living man; the wet damp earth heaped up on one side of it, the rolls of turf and a rough deal coffin lay on the other. Near these stood the base-drum of the Gordon Highlanders; a bible and a prayer-book lay open upon its head.
The Highlanders formed the inner faces of the square.
All was solemn silence and expectation; not a whisper was heard through all that dense array; not a sound smote the ear save the rustle of the summer foliage, as the evening wind stirred the tall chesnuts or rich green cork-trees which nodded from the black precipices. The general, the staff and field-officers were all on horseback, but remained motionless. At last it was known that the doomed man was approaching, and the arms of the escort that conducted him were seen flashing in the sunlight, as they descended from the hill tops by the winding pathway which led to the bottom of the valley. Sir Rowland Hill touched his hat to an aide-de-camp, who then passed among the troops at a hand gallop, whispering to each commanding-officer; the words of command to fix bayonets and shoulder arms were immediately given, and before the varying tones of the different colonels died away, the prisoner appeared amid the square surrounded by his escort, under charge of the provost-marshal. His own corps, I have said, was in front, and he moved slowly along the silent ranks with downcast eyes towards the spot where his grave and coffin lay displayed. He drew near the former, and cast a glance into its gloomy depth and, shuddering, turned his back upon it, muttering: "I would just be sax and twenty the morn. Sax and twenty! oh, it's an unco thing to dee sae young. O my faither—my mither!" he groaned aloud; "farewell to you—to auld Scotland, and a' I hae loed sae lang and weel! It will be a sair trial to my kinsfolk in Glenclunaidh, when they see my name on the kirk doors o' Braemar—as ane that has dee'd wi' disgrace on his broo."[*]
[*] By the military regulations, the names of soldiers who behave meritoriously, or misbehave themselves grossly, are affixed to the church-doors of the parish in which they were born. In Highland regiments the threat of informing friends at home of a soldier's misconduct was sufficient to keep him in order for the time to come.
He was clad in his white undress-jacket and kilt, and stood bareheaded, with his bonnet in his hand. He was pale and emaciated with long confinement, but his bearing was firm and as soldier-like as ever. His eyes seemed unusually bright, and at times a red flush crossed his otherwise deadly pale cheek. There were two aged monks from the San Ferdinando convent of Candeleria present, but the Highlander refused to hear or communicate with them. Yet the honest friars were determined not to abandon him in his last hour, and withdrawing to a little distance, they placed a crucifix against a fragment of rock and prayed earnestly, with true catholic fervour, to that all-wise Power above, before which the soul of one they deemed a heretic was so soon to appear.
There was no chaplain present with the troops; but the prisoner was attended by the venerable Dugald-Mhor, who walked slowly beside him bare-headed, with his bonnet under his arm. He read portions of the Scripture from an old dog-eared bible, which he produced from his sporran molloch; and the low solemn tones in which he read could be distinctly heard by all, so very still was the place; and as the hand of the village-clock approached the hour at which the soldier was to die, a deeper sadness fell upon the hearts of the beholders, who, although long accustomed to all the heart-harrowing scenes of war, had never before witnessed a death in so solemn and peculiar a manner.
Mackie and his attendant sung together the hymn—
"The hour of my departure's come," &c.