Stanley Gordon. A historical tale of the Peninsular War and Waterloo. With exciting incidents among brigands in the Cantabrian mountains of Spain

Front matter

■ ■ STANLEY GORDON A HISTORICAL TALE OF THE Peninsular War and Waterloo. With Exciting Incidents among Brigands in the Cantabrian Mountains of Spain. By JOHN RAE, t, Author of "The Shield and Banner Won," " Chirps from an Australian Sparrow," etc., etc. LONDON: WALTER SCOTT, 24 WARWICK LANE. MELBOURNE: M. L. HUTCHINSON. 1S89. CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGJJ i. Introductory ....... i 2. A Marriage and a Parting ..... 7 3. St. Giron's ........ 12 4. A Solemn Vow ....... 18 5. School Days ....... 27 6. Stanley finds Employment . . . . -36 7. Training for the Games . . . . -39 8. The Lonach Gathering . . . . -44 9. The Games Proceed ...... 53 10. The Victor Crowned . . . . . .64 II. Stanley Enlists . ...... 71 12. Arrives at Aberdeen . . . . . -75 13. A Look Back at Strathdon . . . . 7S 14. Drill and Sword Exercise . . . . .

Si 15. The Girl I left behind me . . . .84 16. The Lines of Torres Vedras . . . . S9 17. Border Duty on the Tagus . . . . -94 18. A Fight for the Eagle . . . . .101 19. Battle of Albuera . . . . . 113 20. RODRIGO AND BADAJOS TAKEN . . . . . Iig 21. Almaraz ........ 123 22. The Passage of the Douro . . . . .127 23. Alba De Tormes . . . . • • • 133 24. A Desperate Fight ...... 138 25. Winter Quarters in the Banos . . . . 157 26. Battle of Vittoria . . . . • .161 27. The Battle Won . . . • • • 175 28. Stanley's Homeward Journey . . . . . 179 29. A Talk with "Sister" Lady Clara . . . .184 30. Among the Brigands . . . • • ■ 199 31. Clara in the Robbers' Den ..... 209 32. The Door of Hope ...••• 215 33. A Fight with the Brigands ..... CONTENTS. chap. tage 34. The Robbers are Hoodwinked ..... 228 35.

Stanley as Nurse ...... 233 36. Clara's Paradise ....... 237 37. Corunna — A Sad Farewell ..... 246 38. Stanley Meets his Mother ..... 256 39. Battle of St. Pierre ...... 263 40. Ariverette, Aire, Orthes, and Toulouse . . .271 41. St. Giron's shaken to its Foundations . . . 274 42. Randolph Murray tells his Tale .... 283 43. Clara crosses the Ocean ..... 288 44. A most Momentous Issue ..... 294 45. Clara Tries and Fails ...... 301 46. Stanley Meets Annie Skene ..... 309 47. March to the Battle-Field ..... 320 48. Quatre Bras ....... 323 49. Two Burials — A Fight and a Retreat . . . 332 50. Waterloo ........ 338 51. "Up, Guards, and at them!". .... 354 52. Sissy, the French Nurse ..... 361 53. Lost and Won ....... 369 54. The Mountains of Spain trod over again . . . 377 55. Sir Robert meets Misfortune ..... 3S7 56. A Marriage and an Unexpected Meeting . . . 390 39°

Chapter I

A sew tiny letters will make up a book ; A small spring of water will grow to a brook ; The spring from its fountains goes dancing away, So bright and so pure in its young happy day ; But as it rolls on to the wide-spreading sea, It gathers the dust from the rocks and the lea ; It loses the breath of its own native glen, The nearer it runs by the dwellings of men ; But pure as the drift is the stream that rolls on Through the sweet smiling valley of " Bonnie Strathdon." N the year 1792 the merry harvest-time had come, and the lovely valley of Strathdon had rejoiced in a beautiful reaping day. The sun had been warm and bright, but the sickles had been busy all the day among the yellow corn. A party of reapers, who had been down to the boat-house helping old John M'Gregor to reap his crop, were returning home by the Aberdeen turnpike-road.

The water of Don rolled, sometimes close to the edge of the road at their feet, and again took a sweep away among green fields and smiling pastures. No fairer landscape could be seen in any part of Christendom than our own vale of Strathdon on that lovely autumn evening. Though the reapers had toiled hard all the day, their hearts were light and gay, and if their pleasures were scarce, their sorrows seemed few, for the merry jest and the laugh were loud and clear. At a turn of the road they overtook a woman, footsore and weary, a lonely traveller by the way and a stranger in the glen. She had evidently travelled far, for though they had been toiling hard all the day, their footsteps were light compared to hers. As they drew nigh, some of the party ventured remarks on her appearance. One said, she would do for a soldier, for she was as tall as a grenadier.

Another addressing his partner, a short, ruddy-faced girl, said, " I say, Jeannie, what would you give to be as tall as that ?" To which Jeannie archly replied, " If I were, you would need a ladder to get up to kiss me." At this sally of rustic wit there was a hearty laugh all round. The bandster declared she was too tall for a woman, and must be either Royal Charlie or some of his men in disguise. This might have been set down as a good guess, had it not been that in passing the wind blew aside her cloak, and showed she was carrying a young child, and was nursing it at her breast. The reapers, after satisfying themselves with a good stare, passed on, all but Jessie Farquharson, of Belnaglack, whose kindly heart was drawn out in sympathy for the lonely stranger. Jessie turned towards her, and kindly asked if she might be allowed to carry the child for a wee bit of the road?

The traveller thanked her very kindly, but did not hand her the infant, though she somewhat doubt ingly allowed her to take it. It was evident she had a mother's heart, and it was with the little one, and had she not been so exhausted she would not have allowed a stranger to carry it. Jessie was a natural nurse, and succeeded so well that she soon gained the mother's con fidence. The child was a strong, heavy boy of nearly a year, and no matter how strong the mother's love, the body would declare its humanity, in carrying such a child a distance that few men cared to travel, with no other burden than a staff in their hand. The traveller asked Jessie if she knew the way to the house of the Rev. Mr. Lindsay. Her inquiry was satisfactorily answered, but it was a good long mile away. At last the top of the church appeared, and though the traveller said she could now find her way, Jessie insisted on showing her the nearest path, though the real object was to carry the child ; for she saw the mother was too tired to take him again.

The mother's heart was too full for words, so she walked silently on till they reached the gate of the minister's garden. Jessie gave up her charge, and received a look that expressed more than any words could convey. The stranger asked her name, and said, " As I shall be staying for some time at the manse, I will not forget the name of Jessie Farquharson. Your help to me in my time of need has been most valuable, and your kind-hearted sympathy I shall never forget. Good night, Jessie, and God bless you." The language, manners, and bearing ofthe stranger were so superior to anything Jessie had ever seen, that she stood looking at the door after she had entered, and then turned her face for home, but whether or not she reached it, we cannot say, for we prefer following the mother and her child into the manse ; or, rather, we shall take the liberty of going before her, to take a look at the minister, and make his acquaintance.

The Rev. John Lindsay had been minister in Strathdon for seven years, and to say that he was respected and beloved by every one would convey but a faint idea of the esteem in which he was held. But as he is a minister, and a man of the most stainless character, we would like to know why a traveller comes to him in such a singular, if not suspicious, manner. John Lindsay was born in the old mansion of Ellangowan, which stood in a quiet secluded vale, lying between Glenshee and Glenisla, on the borders of Perth and Forfar shires. His father he could just remember, though he died when he was but a child. His mother was a descendant ofthe ancient and powerful race of Douglas, though her mother was a Stanley : " She bore the honoured Douglas name, Well-known in ancient story, For feats of strength — for warlike fame, And deeds of martial glory."

Many a time had the arms of the noble Douglasses been the bulwark of their native land ; and that Scotland was a free nation, on the 1st of May 1707, when the Union was effected, was in a great measure owing to the valour, the dauntless bravery, the matchless bodily strength of the martial race of Douglas. His mother possessed all the personal qualities and vigour of her sires, and was still a young and handsome woman when John's father died. In a few years she married Captain Charles Gordon, of the Life Guards, a tall and remarkably fine-looking man — a descendant of the house of Gordon. Her marriage was not a happy one ; for she was a Presbyterian, a true believer, and a pious woman. He was unacquainted with even the outward forms of religion, but professed a desire to learn. She, in the depth of her love, hoped for the best, and passed many happy days ; but awoke to find she had been dreaming.

Captain Gordon soon voted religion a bore, and preferred adopting that of his ancestors, because it allowed him to live as he liked, and offered him future happiness on payment of a sum of money. The Romish monastery, in the immediate neighbourhood, suddenly discovered that he was a sheep belonging to its fold, and it became filled with an excessive interest in Captain Gordon. As the lands of Ellangowan were under the shadow of the Roman monastery, it became deeply alive to its opportunity of acquiring an estate that had been a Naboth's vineyard for many years. The most strenuous efforts were made, not only to claim and enrol him in its fold, but to secure the lady while the heart was full of affection. John was almost forcibly carried off to the con vent, to be trained for the priesthood, but the mummeries were so distasteful to him, after the pure and heartfelt devotion of his mother, that he would have none of them.

Letters to his mother were intercepted, and he was compelled to write what the priests dictated, under penalty of the lash and the torture. They might break his body on the wheel, but they could not break his spirit, and so they determined that if they could not make him a Roman Catholic and a priest, he should never leave the con vent alive. With any ordinary boy they would have succeeded, but John Lindsay was no ordinary boy. From his close prison he con trived to escape through the barred window, but it was so high up that all his sheets and blankets tied together did not reach the ground. He, however, descended, to find himself nearly twenty feet above the ledge of rock on which the convent stood. To return was too dreadful, so he made up his mind to risk the fall rather than climb back.

He dropped and fell on a stone, breaking his arm and injuring his side so severely, that he was unable to stir for some time. Feeling the necessity for immediate action, he mustered strength to drag himself to the house of the nearest friends he knew, and bade them fly for his mother. Before she arrived the agents had traced him, and four were preparing to carry him away on a litter, when his mother came on the scene. She was astounded at the terrible change in her boy. Every fibre of the mother's heart was stirred within her when he stretched out his wasted arm and hand, pleading in the most piteous accents to be saved from these cruel men. The spirit of the Douglas rose in her, and she ordered the men to set him down. This they refused to do, saying they had orders from the Superior, and they recognised no power on earth equal to him.

His mother directed her retainers to seize them, and she herself set them an active example. John showed the marks and scars on his poor wasted body inflicted by these very men, and so exasperated was his mother and her friends that summary justice was inflicted on all the four ; and they were fain to get away, rubbing places on their backs that were very far from itching. John was carried home and tended with a loving mother's care, but nothing could ever restore his health or renew his injured frame — indeed, if he had not possessed the constitution of one among a thousand, he could never have survived. Meantime there was such a commotion in the Most Holy Church as had never before been known. Its authorised agents had been defiled by unholy hands, and furrows had been ploughed on their backs.

For all these atonement must be made or vengeance would follow to the grave, aye, and ten thousand leagues beyond it. Captain Gordon was absent in Spain when a special messenger from Bishop Sylvester reached him, and some time elapsed before he could obtain leave of absence. Lady Gordon, feeling assured that evil was meditated, and fearing she might not be able to protect her boy if his step-father returned, sent him privately to a friend in Old Aberdeen, directing that he might attend King's College and be trained for the ministry. His injuries left traces that no time could heal ; he was slightly lame, the left side was weak, and his arm almost powerless. Being thus unfit for mixing among his fellows on the playground, he devoted his large and powerful intellect to study. He acquired knowledge of every language, passed through the university with great honour, was duly licensed as a minister, received and accepted a call to the church and parish of Strathdon.

His mother, accompanied by his little half-sister Helen, about seven, visited him the second year after he entered college, and was greatly pleased to find him so well, and making such progress. Helen had no playmate at home, and John having never experienced the love of dear ones around the family hearth, they grew so attached to each other, during the few days, that they could scarcely be torn apart. Again many miles lay between them. Penny postage was not then in existence, and years rolled on. At last they got a letter from John, stating that he was now an ordained minister, and was going to Strathdon. His mother was so pleased, and so anxious to see and hear him, that she and Helen both took coach for Aberdeen. John looked forward with the greatest delight to this visit, for his heart was full of a brother's love for sister Helen, the only being that seemed capable of filling his large and true heart with the warmest affection.

He thought of her as the little girl of seven summers, who had clung round his neck, and mingled her tears with his at the sad thought of parting. But seven years had passed since then. He was waiting for them at the Royal Hotel in Union Street, when the mail arrived, and John was struck almost dumb at the great change that had taken place in both their appearances. His mother seemed bowed down with a weight of care, and looked twenty years older. But his little sister ! Could this be Helen, grown up in seven years, as tall as him self — no longer a little girl, but still a dear loving sister, as he soon found, for she was as affectionate as ever, and lovely as a rosebud in May ? His mother spoke but little of her own affairs, but John learned enough from Helen to know that she was very far from happy.

She had suffered persecution of the bitterest kind from Gregory, Sylvester, and other priests, but while they had no footing in the house she heeded them not, and scorned alike their wiles and their threats. But when her father returned from the war maimed and ill, the priests almost took up their abode in Ellangowan. Having full power over the Captain, who was recognised as head of the house, they felt themselves masters of the situation ; and out of revenge for the past they exercised their power to the utmost. They even invaded her bedroom with their crosses, incense, and mockeries, until she was forced to quit the room in which she was born, and had occupied for over forty years. She had long tried meekly to bear the cross, but it was weighing her down. The strong heart and body were being bent to the ground by the constant pressure.

John pleaded with her to leave all and come with him to the quiet of his new home, and pictured in glowing terms the scene and home of his future labours. But she shook her head and said, " That cannot be. I vowed at the altar, and I cannot fly from my duty." After hearing John preach in the large church in Old Aberdeen, she wiped the tears of joy from her eyes, and said, " Now I can depart in peace, for I have not lived in vain." John pleaded for Helen to go with him, but she would not hear of leaving her mother in her time of bitter trial. Helen seemed a brave, true-hearted girl, and was her mother's only stay and comfort. Again were tears of loving affection shed and again they parted — John for his new home at Strathdon, and his mother and sister dear for the old home at Ellangowan. When two years had passed away John heard that his step-father was dead.

And at the end of three more he received a letter from Helen telling him his mother was very ill, and if he would see her alive, he must lose no time in reaching Ellangowan. Such a journey was, in those days, a serious undertaking, more especially to John. By the time he reached the old home his mother had passed away, and he was only in time to see her body laid among its kindred clay. If John was surprised at the appearance of his sister when she was fourteen, he was doubly so now. She had grown tall as any of the famous race of Douglas, and possessed a mien and carriage that would have done honour to a throne. Even when dressed in sombre black her brother could not help following her in all her movements. He had never seen anyone in all his life to compare with his sister Helen. Still to him she was kind, lowly, and loving as, when a child, she clung round his neck and wept her tears at parting.

He pleaded with her to come and live with him, for he had a house all to himself, but the arch look she gave him and the smile that played on her cheek, even through the tears that bedewed it, told a tale that needed no words. Helen had but one heart, and it was won by one in every way worthy of her. But the priests of St. Gregory's Monastery were putting forward claims to the estate of Norman Vale, to which he was heir ; and there was sufficient flaw in the title to cause uneasiness and anxiety. The priests had held control over one of his ancestors, and had obtained power, which might cause trouble. His father had held it peacefully, because he had allowed them their own course ; but Helen's lover was a noble, pure-hearted Christian, who would rather die than yield his conscience. But there were certain things to be done, in a few months, when he came of age, which it would be necessary to have finished before giving any cause for rupture.

As Lady Gordon had been at open war with these powerful agents, and Helen was known to be as unyielding as her mother, nothing would have been more dangerous than even a suspicion that the young heir of Norman Vale had any intercourse with Helen Gordon. Their meetings were private ; and when he went to France, on some business relative to the estate, they both agreed not to mention their mutual understanding, or reveal their feelings to any living being, except Helen's mother, then on her death-bed. Helen would have liked to tell her brother all about it, for he was going far away, and would never repeat a word of it ; but she had pledged her word not to tell a living being, and no one knew, now that her mother was gone. Though her lover, she was sure, would not have objected, still he was absent in France, and Helen could not break her word, even to her only brother, and so with tears of grief, of sorrow and affection, they parted again ; — John making her promise that if she ever needed a friend and a home, she would come to Strathdon, and find both.

When the minister's door opened, and Jessie Farquharson lost sight of the traveller, Helen Gordon stood before her half-brother, John, and claimed the fulfilment of this promise. John's loving arms and heart opened to receive her, and it would be beyond the power of any pen to describe that meeting. So full of joy, and yet, oh ! how sad. John fairly broke down, and cried aloud to see his sister, whom he left, three years ago, the most lovely and most noble-looking woman he had ever seen, now a toil-worn, dust stained wayfarer, foot-sore and weary as any tramp on the road, alone — and yet not alone — a child without a father. He groaned aloud in spirit ; for he felt sure his beautiful sister had been betrayed by some villain, and cast off, to hide her shame as best she could. Serious thoughts flashed through his mind.

He could not turn her from his door ; and yet her living in his house incurred the risk of most damaging scandals. He must acknowledge her as his sister or else the scandals would cleave to himself, and in his position as a minister this would be ruin. John's face was a picture of his heart, and thoughts were reflected on it as plainly as the shadow on a sun dial. Helen saw the shades of pain, and her keen, sensitive feelings read the cause in a moment. Washing the child, she laid him on a temporary bed, and hushed him to sleep. Then coming to her brother, she again threw her arms around his neck, as she did when she was seven years old, and for a few minutes they mingled their tears, as they did then. John was the first to break the silence, by saying, " My own dear sister, we have had no meetings on this earth at which we have not had tears and sorrow.

Will the clouds never break? Shall we never have sunshine? Is there no silver lining to this dark cloud — has it no ray of light and no hope?" " My dear brother, I can read your thoughts and fears, and were it not that I can read your true heart, I would feel indignant at your suspicions. But you have cause. You see me here — a mother, and not so much as a wedding-ring on my finger ; but sit down, my own brother, and let me tell you my strange story." "Would it not be better to wait till to-morrow, my sister? You are even too tired to eat ; a night's rest is necessary for you." But Helen would not listen. " I can rest," she said, " far into the morning, if you know all and are satisfied ; but I cannot rest while I see the dark shade of suspicion on your virtuous face ;" — and so she proceeded with her narrative, but as it is long and exciting, we must give it a new chapter.

Chapter II

A MARRIAGE AND A PARTING. " WHEN our dear mother was laid in her grave, and you saw me in the old home of Ellangowan, I had something in my heart that made me happy, and caused the world to look bright and green, even through the sable weeds and the still sadder cause of them. The lamp of love had been kindled in my heart, and it burned as brightly, as strongly, and as purely as ever it did in mortal bosom, and it was in like degree returned by one whom at present I cannot name " "You cannot name, Helen !'' interrupted John. " Is it not possible you may be deceiving yourself by thinking there is nothing wrong in loving one whom you cannot name ? The world " John checked himself as he saw her bosom heave with emotion, and observed the look of agony on her face. Helen, pressing her hand on her heart to still its throbbing, said, " Have I walked all these long and weary miles, on foot, with my heart bowed down with a grief too great for mortal to realise, and have I come to Strathdon to be told by my only brother and relative what the world thinks of me ?

It could not fathom my sorrow and my grief with a line that would reach from here to the bottom of the Arctic Ocean I Ifyou value my affection, my gratitude, my temporal and eternal welfare, let me proceed. I would much rather you would stab me to the heart with that sword hanging over your mantel-piece, than wring my heart by even looking a suspicion at me." " My dear sister, forgive me. I never said anything in my life that I more deeply regret, but I promise I shall not offend again." Helen having wiped her eyes and finished her cup of warm milk, again resumed: "I told you I was the chosen of one of nature's noble men, whom I could not name ; but, for distinction, let me call him Norman. He was heir to a valuable estate, close to the monastery. We had not often met when we fully understood each other, and never was there a purer, a truer, or a stronger love on earth than ours.

I was wont to visit the churchyard, to water and tend the flowers I had planted on our mother's grave. One evening Norman came and sat by me on a grave-stone. The solemn place brought solemn thoughts, and we spoke of ourselves, our hopes, and our fears — for we had fears even through a love that would have withstood the wreck of all our possessions, and even life itself. But we had to deal with a power that was crafty, cruel, and powerful — too powerful and too near to us. You can speak from bitter experience, my brother, and you will carry remembrances of the powers and dungeons of St. Gregory in your body as long as you live. I will carry them in my heart, and though I have a hope, it is a very distant one. But I will live in it, and through my boy I shall yet triumph. " Norman's father had died only a year before, at an advanced age, and it happened he had been a good while in France in his young days, and had been what is called wild.

He had contracted some alliance with a French lady, a ward of the Romish Church, and though he had never looked on it as anything serious, there was some offspring, and the Church declared it had evidence of legitimacy, and was only waiting the majority ofthe claimant. " We both felt how sad it was to say adieu even for a brief space, but with hearts full of earnest faith and hope we parted. He sailed for France, and I went home to wait and pray. I felt unwell, and for a few days kept my room. It appeared there were keen eyes observing us, though we knew it not, and plans were being devised to prevent our further intercourse, and when we were missed it was surmised we had both fled together. Spies were despatched to France. Norman learning this, and being fond of adventure, led them a chase to the south as far as Toulouse, where he had a dear college friend named Martini, whose father had a large vineyard within sight of the Pyrenees.

On a frowning hill overlooking the fruitful valley stood a monastery, a limb of the terrible Inquisition, and its very appearance caused a shudder, without hearing any of the tales of cruelty and blood with which it was associated. Its priests and friars went all through the neighbourhood gathering news and money, and it was inconceivable what influence they still exercised over the unlearned peasants. Nor man adopted the dress of a peasant, and being familiar with the French language, he desired to see the inside of the monastery. One day he took the place of a market gardener, and was admitted at the gate ; but they had been watching for him, and one of the friars re cognised him. He was asked to wait in the porter's room for his money, but noticing a suspicious consultation, he quitted the room.