Rogers walked up to the headquarters of Colonel Haviland, the commander.
"I shall be busy here some time. Come back in an hour and wait for me."
I went over to the Scotch regiment, the Black Watch it was called, and listened to them talking their curious language.
One of the men turned to me and asked if I was looking for any one.
"Well, I'm of Scotch descent, and I thought I'd see if there were any McComees or Munros among you."
He looked over to another group and shouted: "Hector! Hector Munro! Here's one of your kinsmen." A strong, active fellow of some twenty-eight or thirty years came over.
"How's that? I didn't know that any of our kin were over here."
"My grandmother was a Munro, and her father was taken prisoner while fighting for King Charles the First, and was sent to America."
"Hear that now! My brother Donald and myself were out with Charlie in forty-five, and we had a hard time of it afterward, hunted about till they made up their minds to form some Highland regiments and give pardon to those who enlisted, and here we are fighting for King George."
He led me to his brother and made me acquainted with him. We went to their quarters, and I learned more about the clan in a short time than I ever heard before or since. It seemed as if most of the great generals in almost every army were Munros, and they traced their ancestry back to the time of Noah.