Our story does not require, neither would it be in the least interesting, to follow any further the subsequent wanderings of the erratic tribe to which we have introduced the reader; nor would it afford any entertainment to trace the infant years of the little one whom they had rescued from the flood. It is enough to say that he grew up, under the maternal care and tendance of Jean Gordon—who had especially attached herself to him—a stout and active lad, bearing the name of his foster-mother, which had been conferred upon him by the general consent of the gang, in consequence of their mutual attachment.
Young Gordon—the name by which we will now designate the little hero of the “Hawick Spate” evinced, at a very early period, a singularly bold and daring disposition; which, added to great physical strength, and a restless and enterprising spirit, promised, in due time, to place him at the head of the little community to which he belonged. But, though a wild and somewhat reckless character, young Gordon was not without some redeeming qualities. Gipsy though he was, he had a dash of honour and good feeling about him; and would, at any time, as soon do a good thing as a bad—perhaps sooner. In truth, all that was evil in him might have been fairly traced to the circumstances in which he was placed; while, whatever was good might, with equal truth and justice, have been attributed to his original nature.
Such, then, was Gordon in his twentieth year, for to this age had he attained when we resume our story.
As the gang to which Gordon belonged, was, one day, at this period, migrating from one place to another, they met an Irish regiment on its march to Stirling, to join the forces there assembled under the Duke of Argyle, who was preparing to march against the Earl of Mar, then in arms for the exiled family of Stuart.
Gordon, who had never seen an entire regiment before, was captivated with the warlike appearance it presented; and was suddenly struck with the desire of becoming a soldier—a desire which, in accordance with the impetuosity of his nature, he resolved instantly to gratify. With this view, but concealing his movements from his associates, he made up to a sergeant, and offered himself as a recruit. The sergeant, after eying him for a moment, and jading him, as he said, “a likely fellow,” very gladly accepted his offer, and at once enlisted him.
Gordon, having thus secured the object of his wishes, asked permission to take leave of his friends before marching away with the regiment—a request which was at once granted, on the condition that he should be accompanied by a couple of soldiers, to insure his return. On joining his former associates, he informed them of the step he had taken, and added, that he had now come to bid them farewell. The intelligence struck them all with surprise and regret; for he was a general favourite, and, indeed, had now become the chief hope of the erratic family. But there was none among them who felt so much on this occasion as Jean Gordon.
On hearing of the step her adopted son had taken, she gave way to the most poignant grief.
“Oh, my bairn! my bairn!” she cried, “are ye gaun to leave me? Can ye hae the heart to desert her wha has carried ye in her arms through frost and snaw, through wind and weet—frae the time ye was a cradled wean till ye was able to tak the road yersel—wha has tended ye nicht an’ day, wi’ a mother’s care, frae that time till this hoor—and wha has mony and aft the time sheltered ye in her bosom frae the biting blast which was like to cut short the thread o’ her ain life? Ay, warm and dry hae I aften keepit ye then, when I was mysel’ perishin wi’ baith hunger and cauld, nane o’ whilk, I trow, e’er came near ye. But ye shanna gang wi’ the redcoats, Gordon,” she added, with a determined air; “rather than ye should do that, I’ll tell the haill secret we hae a’ keepit sae lang, although it should bring every ane o’ us to the gibbet—and that’ll prevent ye gaun, I jalouse.”
“That ye won’t, old devil,” here chimed in a ferocious-looking member of the gang. “We’ll tak care o’ that. Ye ken we hae a way o’ disposing o’ tell-tales, Jean; and, if ye talk o’ peaching, ye shall hae a taste o’t, I warrant.”