Be that as it may, she accompanied the 42nd in their different expeditions, and proved herself a skilful nurse in hospital, a fearless leader on the field of battle. Wherever her husband went she followed, watching over his safety, and threatening to avenge him if he fell. There is reason to believe that, like other veterans, she came at length to love fighting for its own sake, and that anxiety for the safety of her husband was only a cloak to justify her presence amid the wild excitement of the battle-field. On one occasion, before the commencement of an attack, the officer in command, being anxious to expose her husband to as little danger as possible, left him in charge of the men’s knapsacks, which they had thrown aside before rushing up the hill. He remained at his post, but his wife, borne along by an irresistible impulse, rushed forward at the head of the attacking columns, and cheered them on to victory. No man could refuse to follow where a woman led the way. Three redoubts were carried in rapid succession, and just as the officer was giving orders to charge the fourth and last, he was suddenly tapped on the shoulder. On turning round he beheld his friend, the female warrior, with her clothes tucked up to her knees, and the proud expression of victory in her lace. Seizing his hand, and shaking it heartily, she exclaimed, “Well done, my Highland lad! See how the brigands scamper, like so many deer! Come,” she continued, “let us drive them from yonder hill.” Her advice was acted on, and the success of the Highlanders was complete. When the fighting was over, friend and foe shared alike in her sympathies. Her skilful hand, like the spear of Achilles, could heal the wounds it had made.
About forty years ago, in almost every village in Scotland might be seen tall, erect, gray-headed old men, retired veterans, who, after fighting the battles of their country in every quarter of the globe, had returned to the place of their birth, the memory of which had haunted them during long years of absence and exile. They were the leaders of public opinion in the small community in which they lived—the village Nestors, from whose lips dropped words of wisdom, tales of strange adventure, and dangers encountered by sea and land. They feared God and honoured the king; they had only one failing—an overweening love of the bottle; they were the oracles of every tap-room, where, amid the applause of their boon companions, they fought their battles o’er again, even to the thrice routing of all their foes and the thrice slaying of the slain. It was not the mere love of drink that led them there; mingled with this weakness was the pleasure of recalling scenes in which they had borne a part, battles in which they had fought and conquered. Often the schoolboys on the village green would cease from their sports and gather round one of these veterans in an admiring circle, as, seated beneath a shady tree and leaning on his crutch, he told of the gallant deeds of the Gordon Highlanders or the Old Black Watch. His rude eloquence never failed to awaken the enthusiasm of his audience, and many a Scottish soldier was first led to think of the profession of arms, and to long, like Norval, to follow some brave chieftain to the field, from listening to these veterans. They have now gone the way of all living; we know of only one veteran survivor of Waterloo in the North, but we can recal many who lived and flourished a quarter of a century ago. Old Hyderabad stands before us at this very moment. There he is, with all the towering majesty of six feet and some additional inches, with shaggy eyebrows and straggling hair as white as snow, with a rough, stern, but not unkindly face, rendered still more stern by a sabre-cut on the brow, with his formidable pikestaff in one hand, and his ram’s-horn “sneeshin’-mull,” or snuff-box, in the other. His real name was James Bruce, but he was universally known as Hyderabad, from the interminable stories he told of the capture of that Indian city, at which he assisted. His stories occasionally exceeded the bounds of credence; for example, he used to relate that any eccentricity of manner observable in his conduct arose from a singular accident which happened to him at Hyderabad. He was fighting his way through the streets, when a bullet-wound in the leg laid him prostrate; one of his assailants rushed upon him and laid open his skull with a cut of his sabre. “I put up my hand to my head,” said James, “to feel what was the matter; it so happened that I had just been takin’ a pinch and forgot to put up my mull. Aweel, you see, I was so startled at the size of the hole in my head that I lost hold of my sneeshin’-mull, and it dropped inside my skull. Up came the doctor, and, without thinking of the mull, he clapped the skull together and trepanned it; the wound soon healed, but sometimes I feel a little queer in the head.” No wonder that he did, considering that he believed that there was a ram’s-horn in the place where his brains should have been. The delusion had originated from a sunstroke which he received in India, and which would have killed any other man than Hyderabad. It is worthy of remark that, though he was universally known as Hyderabad, few ever ventured to address him by that sobriquet; it was dangerous to take liberties with one whose pikestaff was ever ready to punish any impertinence. We can only recal one occasion when James was thus addressed. He was walking with stately gait through a country fair, when a young urchin, set on by his older companions, walked up to him, and said in his most winning way, “How d’ye do, Old Hyderabad?” Had the earth yawned beneath James’s feet he could not have looked more surprised than he did on hearing these ominous words; here was an urchin who barely reached his knee addressing him familiarly by that name which the boldest never ventured to mention in his presence. It was like a mouse insulting a lion, but what could he do? He was too tender-hearted to touch a child, but such liberties must be repressed, so he flourished his pikestaff in the air and gave a yell such as a savage gives when he despatches his foe. Years have elapsed since James uttered that yell; his voice is now among the voices of the night; but it is still ringing in the ears of him who evoked it, and who fled in terror from the redoubtable presence, and equally redoubtable pikestaff, of Old Hyderabad.
Nor have we forgotten Old Corunna, the one-eyed veteran, who fought with Abercrombie in Egypt, and helped to lay the green turf on the grave of Sir John Moore in Spain. Many were the stories he used to recount of that disastrous retreat, of that fatal embarkation. We have seen his one eye dimmed with a tear as he spoke of Moore, that gallant leader who was dear to his men amid all their sufferings; we have seen it lighted up with genuine humour as he told of wealthy officers marching at the head of their men without shoes or stockings, and the latter whispering to one another, “There goes ten thousand a year.” Unlike Hyderabad, Corunna was of small stature, but wiry as a terrier, retaining his vigour to the last, and ready to meet all comers. The fame of one of his encounters still lives in his native parish, and has long survived him. At the period when he flourished, it was not unusual for professional prizefighters to visit country fairs and to challenge the rustics to a friendly combat. If the challenge was not accepted, they claimed, and usually received, a certain sum of money; if they fought and failed to win, the money belonged to the victor. It so happened that Corunna was refreshing himself in a booth or tent at one of these country fairs when a noted pugilist appeared and gave the usual challenge. No one seemed disposed to take it up, till Old Corunna, over-brimming with whisky and valour, rushed from the tent, divested himself of his great-coat, and went at the bully with such thorough good will and masterly science that victory soon declared in his favour. That was, perhaps, the proudest day in poor Corunna’s existence. During the fight a thief had stolen his great-coat, but this loss was very soon made up, and Corunna remained to his death the champion of the parish. He has several sons now serving in the British army.
CHAPTER X.
THE PIPERS OF OUR HIGHLAND REGIMENTS.
Our sketch of the Highland Regiments would be incomplete without some allusion to the men whose martial music inspired them with courage, and often rose loud and triumphant amid the din of battle. The bagpipe has always been a favourite instrument of music among the Celtic race. There is reason to believe that its invention is almost coeval with the origin of the human race; traces of it, at least, are to be found in the bas-reliefs of those ancient cities which have been brought to light by modern explorers. It was known to the Hindoos, the Chinese, and the Assyrians; it is still valued and appreciated by the natives of Ireland and Brittany. It may be justly regarded as the national instrument of Scotland, inasmuch as all our Scottish regiments are provided with pipers; and our Highland soldiers have always preferred their inspiring strains to every other kind of music. This feeling of preference has been well expressed by the poet:—