Shoulder to Shoulder: a story of the stirring times of old

Front matter

BRENDA'S NEW STORY, THE EARL'S GRANDDAUGHTER. By BRENDA, Author os "Froggy's Little Brother"; "Nothing to Nobody"; &c. Large Crown Svo, Art Cloth, gilt edges, Six Shillings. THE WHITEHALL REVIEW. " Rarely does the jaded reviewer find anything so fresh and spontaneous as Brenda's new novel, 'The Earl's Granddaughter.' It is full of 'go' and merriment, and the quaint and ludicrous sayings of children. The scenes between Lady Patty and the Bungalow children are fascinating in their life-like sincerity and grotesque comicality. . . . The style of the book is simple and direct, and in it there is not a dull page." THE GENTLEWOMAN. "'The Earl's Granddaughter' relates the doings of quite the most delightful family that I have ever met with in books, in the children of Colonel and Mrs. Gabb. They are original, fearless, clever, helpful, and intensely lovable.

The account of their first visit to London, given by the Gabb children lo Lady Patty, is simply delightful." THE SATURDAY REVIEW. *' A more delightful book for girls than this one we have seldom read. On little Lady Patty, the Earl's Granddaughter alone, is lavished enough of character-drawing to stock an average novel. She and her delightful little friends, the Colonel's daughters, are living and breathing girls, and more good might be done by the tale of their doings than by many a volume of sermons. . . . The book, as we have said, is entirely delightful, full of health and humour. It is refreshing to be able to praise anything so unreservedly." THE GUARDIAN. "The various characters and habits of the country townsfolk are aimost worthy of Cransord.' and the relations between the wild merry family of ihe Gabbs, and the spoilt and educated, rather haughty and conceited young aristocrat, are thoroughly original and very droll."

THE LEEDS MERCURY. " Brenda is excelled by few in her sketches of child-life, and in 'The Earl's Grand daughter' she has given os a story breezy, varied, and interesting enough to delight all who may be happy enough to possess it. The lives of the children at the Bungalow, and of plain clever Lady Patty, cannot fail to charm." THE RECORD. "'The Earl's Granddaughter' is certainly among the best work of this popular writer. Some of the character-sketches indeed are worthy of Charles Dickens himself. ... It is a long time since we have re..d -.0 bright, so fresh, and so clever a tale, with so valuable a purpose as 'The Earl's Granddaughter,'" THE DAILY TELEGRAPH. " One of the most wholesome, refreshing, and altogether charming stories of the season is 'The Earl's Granddaughter,' by Brenda There is good store of healthy enter tainment for old and young alike in 'The Earls Granddaughter."' THE BOOKSELLER.

Chapter I Auld-da

EVEE for a moment — as we sat together in the twilight — could the dear old man have imagined that, just thirty years after his death, his grandson would be here, in a wigwam, writing the story of his romantic life, That story, let me tell you, is also the story of the old days, when " Wild war's deadly blast was blowing " ; the story of the times when Napoleon was still the world's hero, his glory putting in the shade even that of Wellington himself, and many another great and notable general. Ah, me ! how long ago it seems now since I used to lift the "sneck" of Auld-da's door, and slip quietly in, just as the shades of evening were deepening into night. '3 " Is that you, Williamie ?" he would say, without turn ing his head. " Yes, Auld-da " ; and, next moment, I would be sitting on the "creepie"* by his feet, with my arm leaning on his knee, waiting for a story.

A little, little boy, they tell me I was then, with pale face and dark -blue wondering eyes. Not over strong, you may guess, because I lived in the realms of romance, and because fairy tales — stories of water-kelpies, that lurk in the darkest pools of forest-shaded rivers, and eat men's flesh at midnight ; stories of brownies and spunkies, that bob their lights before belated travellers to lure them far across the moor to the bog, in which they sink and perish — and all the legends of my native Scottish land were, to me, as dear as the very air I breathed. But, pale-faced though I was, and not likely, then, to grow up an athlete, I was my grandfather's favourite. In Scotland, far north, although in the sweet summer time one can see to read nearly all night long, yet in winter, " . . . . When the rain rains cauld, And frost and snow on every hill," the days are very short indeed, and gloaming comes on at four in the afternoon, or even earlier.

But, then, there is all the long, delightful forenights to spend by the cheerful low fires of peat and wood ; so, with games and music, one never does feel weary, and bed-time comes far, far too soon. * * * * * * Creepie : a low stool. A u Id-da. 15 A very humble cottage was Auld-da's — only a but and a ben, with attics — but it was sufficient for all his needs ; and his little garden, where, in the soft, sweet summer time, old-fashioned flowers grew in banks, where the honeysuckle twined over the hedge, and the roses trailed above the porch, was pleasant indeed. A better or a bigger house than this might have been his, had he cared for it, but he dearly loved the children, as he called my brothers and sisters, and liked to be near us all. Very old he was, as I remember him. Probably bordering upon eighty.

But he bore his years well, though winter's snows had whitened his hair and furrowed his war-bronzed face. When not working in his garden, he was ever, ever reading, and, strange to say, with the exception of the weekly paper, his books were only two. One was the Bible, which, every year of his life, he read from beginning to end, always, he used to tell us, discovering some new truth or truths in it; the other, a very large, well-thumbed volume, called Looking unto Jesus. But at eventide, when " The day was done, and the darkness Fell from the wings of night, As a feather is wafted downwards From an eagle in its flight," then my aunt, who kept house for her father, took the books away, and left him for a while to sit in his easy chair and look at the fire. And this was my hour — "the children's hour," as Longfellow so prettily calls it.

It is pleasant to sit and look at a fire on a low hearth, just between the dark and the daylight, and, child though I was, I knew, as if by instinct, that scenes in his past life were rising up before him in the peat fire's fitful glow. " Tell me a story." " Tell you a story, Williamie, laddie ? Was that it ?" He bends down to move a log, and a merrier light bursts up through the curling smoke, and throws the room behind us into darker gloom. " Yes, auld-da, and mind it must be all true." " Tell me," I would say if he paused to consider. " Did you ever kill a man ? " This was a blood-thirsty query to put, but I think it comes natural to all little boys to revel in thoughts of gore. My question, however, was one that my grandfather could seldom be prevailed upon to answer directly. " 0, Williamie !

" he might begin. " War is a terrible, terrible thing " But that was the very reason I wanted to hear about it. The old man would often recite to me whole plays, from beginning to end; for he was possessed of a marvellous memory. But ever my thoughts would revert to fighting and slaughter by land and by sea; so, nolens volens, he had to return to war. It was thus, during these delightful twilight hours by the low hearth in winter, or out in the woods when summer days were fine, that I learned, bit by bit, the Autd-da. 17 whole story of my grandfather's life, and that, too, of many and many of his messmates. " For a boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." Whatever my lot in life, I never could forget that kind Auld-da, who, next to my parents themselves, was the dearest and best friend I ever knew.

But were I inclined to forget those old days I could not, just for one reason which may seem strange to many. There grows, then, in my orchard an old apple-tree — long may it flourish — which every year is laden with fruit. The apples are a species of codlin, somewhat pear-shaped but raised in ridges, very white on one side, very rosy on the other, and the scent is like that of no other in all my place. Well, I never pass that tree when autumn winds are bringing down the nearly-ripe fruit, without my thoughts reverting to the days o' auld lang syne. That was the apple, laden with which, Auld-da used to return from the city of Aberdeen, every quarter day. These were red-letter days to my sister Leonora and me, for the old Highland soldier, my grandfather, would be up betimes, and after an early breakfast, would start alone for the distant city of Aberdeen, to draw his half pay, or retiring allowance.

There were coaches running on the road, grand old-fashioned four-in-hands, that could take one into town very quickly. But these the sturdy veteran despised. Many a weary march he had made in his soldier days ; he was not going to fail now. B So, wet day or dry day, in sunshine, sleet or snow, away he would trudge. A stick he carried, but it was but to twirl in his hand, and I never saw it touch the ground. How eagerly Sissie and I used to watch for his home returning — not, mind you, reader, for the sake of the apples and nuts, not for the sake of the prospective and certain half-crown each, that he always gave us, but for sake of the dear old man himself. Sometimes we would see him, in the winter-time, when a whole mile off, a little black dot, which by-and-by became a man walking sturdily towards us, between the great white banks left by the snow-plough.

Then how madly we would rush to meet him and lead him home and into my mother's house, where dinner was waiting, and where he would spend the evening up to nearly the midnight hour. Auld-da preached me many a sermon in the long forenights. I think I have never quite forgotten them. They were spoken so earnestly and with such an air of truth and experience. And the burden of almost every such discourse was love and trust and hope in the goodness of a Heavenly Father, and in Him who died. I must not give you the impression, however, that Auld-da was a solemn man — by no means, only in his thinking, philosophising moods. Out of doors he was always as merry as merry could be. He would often visit the servants working in the fields, especially in the harvest, and the droll old stories he told them kept all hands laughing continuously.

Auld-da. 19 In the hey-day of his manhood he had been — like all true soldiers of those good old times — a splendid swords man. His claymore and pike were as sharp as razors. With that claymore he could have cut a horse's head off with one blow, or broken the bayonet from the musket of a charging enemy, and slain him where he stood. One piece of clever swordsmanship in my grandfather's younger days, unknown now, I believe, was as follows : The performer, who had to be extra expert, stood facing the edge of an open door, and bringing his face or nose within two inches — the sword's breadth — of the door edge, cause the claymore to describe circles without touching either door or nose. The sword's edge being very keen, this was a trick that required a steady hand, a steady head, courage, and a supple wrist.

If anyone who reads this would like to try the trick, I advise him to practise with a paper-cutter in the first off-go. We have heard of people being born with silver spoons in their mouths: my grandfather was not, but Highlanders seemed in those days to be born with swords between their lips. Their performances with the claymore would have eclipsed those of the Arabs, and they are perhaps the finest swordsmen in the world. When out in the harvest -field, it used to give my grand-da great pleasure to be allowed to put an edge on the men's scythes. The servants declared that after this they cut like razors, and the labour was lightened by one half. But such was my grandfather in his green old age. No pharisaical Christian he, but a believer in the truest sense of the word, happy and contented, ever looking forward with faith and joy to a brighter world beyond the tomb.

He wore away at last in his 89th year, and I think the last words he spoke were to me. I stood by his bedside trying in vain to repress the tears. I laid my hand gently on his, as it lay cold and white on the coverlet. " Do you know me, Auld-da ? " I said. " 0, yes," came the answer, faint but clear. " Don't I know my own laddie ! Mercy ! Mercy ! " Shortly after this he expired, and my parents led me heart-broken from the room. Beside the Bass o' Ury — a strange green knoll in the grave-yard, said by some to have been the burying -place of chiefs of old — my dear Auld-da lies sleeping, and the river sings his lullaby. Near him, alas ! lie my father and mother too. Is it any wonder that the place should be sacred to me, or that, slightly altering the words of Thorn, the Inverurie poet, I should say : " Move noiseless, gentle Ury, around his lonely bed, And I '11 love the gentle Ury, where'er my footsteps tread For sooner shall thy fairy wave return from yonder sea, Than I forget yon lowly grave and a1 it hides from me."

Chapter II. My Hero

— BONNIE PRINCE CHARLIE. HEBE was one subject, and one only, upon which, boy though I was, I dared to differ from my grandfather. And that related to Bonnie Prince Charlie and the so-called 'rebellion" of 1745. If it was rebellion for Prince Charles to attempt in fair and honest fight to win back the throne that belonged of right to the ancient Stuart line, then was I, at the age of seven, one of the rankest little rebels that ever waved a wooden sword and cut off the heads of tansies, imagining every one of them to be a fallen foe. Nor could you have wondered at it, had you but heard the sweet and plaintive songs my mother sang, " As she rocked me in my cradle, Or crooned * me on her knee — And I would not sleep, she sang so sweet, Those dear old songs to me." • Crooned : sang low lullabies.

It has been said, dear boy and girl readers, that I, the author of this book, have Jacobite tendencies. This is not the truth. I love the Queen as only Scotsmen can love her ; I have served her loyally, and would to-morrow, or to-night, spill my last drop of blood fighting for her and my native land. I love her all the better because she has some of the old Stuart blood in her veins. But — listen — had I been a man, or even a lad, in the — 45, I would have done as my ancestors, the Gordons, did, side by side with those of Lord George Gordon Byron — I would have fought till the hitter end for Bonnie Prince Charlie. Yes, and I love the Queen as much as I hate and despise the atrocious memory of , but stay ! I will not even write his name in the same sentence as that of her kind Majesty. The memory, I was going to say, of the " bloody Duke of Cumberland," who stained our Highland heather with the blood of old, white-haired men and helpless babies.

It is told of this fiend, that, while walking across the fatal field of Culloden after the battle, and accompanied by one of his officers, a poor Highland soldier sat in the agonies of death against a bank, looking towards them. " Shoot me that grinning Scot ! " cried the Duke. The reply of the officer was that of a brave Englishman and a true soldier. " Your Grace," he said, " I am your humble servant, but not your executioner." The inhuman coward — all cruel men are cowards — then seized a musket from one of his attendants and, rushing forward, shot the man himself. One hundred and fifty years have passed and gone since the battle in which the once bright sun of the Eoyal Stuarts set behind the red clouds of battle on Culloden Moor, but the memory of the terrible atrocities committed by the Duke and his minions dwells in the hearts of the Highlanders, as if they had been committed but yester e'en.

Tourists to the land of green heath and shaggy wood see or know little, if anything, of this. The Scots are far too proud to speak of what their forefathers suffered after the "rebellion," to strangers or foreigners. But in many a humble cottage home, by mountain, stream, or sea, those sweet old Jacobite songs are still sung, and their pathetic music, and no less pathetic words, never fail to bring the "saut,* saut tear" to the eye of the listener. And the songs never fail to lead to a story of the terrible times, told by the low fire of logs and peats that burns upon the hearth; told, in all probability, by the head of the house to the big-eyed, eager-faced bairnies that gather round his knee, and drink in every word. But the ending of the true tale is invariably somewhat as follows : « Salt, " And now, children, let us thank our Heavenly Father that we live in times of peace, under the reign of a pious Queen, and shall never see the babe torn from the young mother's arms to be tossed on bayonets, while she is dragged to death and worse.

Come, bring the Book, and then for bed." The Scots are of the poetic temperament. This, among those who dwell amidst the wild mountains, is somewhat imbued with superstition, but all are musical to the core and from the core. There is just this difference between the Celt and the Saxon, or purely English — the latter have no natural love for music until it is taught to them ; even then, seldom indeed it is a sacred fire burning on the heart as its altar, but your Celt, be he Scotch or Irish, sings without hook -teaching, sings as naturally as does the mavis in the bonnie woods, or the lintie on the golden furze. Ah ! me, but those old, old songs are plaintive and sorrowful even to a degree, yet tender and sweet beyond compare. They seem to have been written with the very heart's blood of the heroes who died for their native land.

But the fate of Prince Charlie, instead of crushing the patriotism of his countrymen, only intensified it, and around his memory are woven many of the sweetest, saddest ballads we possess. Some South Britons pretend to despise these — Germans or Italians do not — but bide a wee till war comes, and this country has to bleed and to suffer, and then even John Bull will know the power that song has, either to cheer the soldier in his camp, or lead him on to death or victory. On hearing the soldiers singing in their camp on the night before the battle of Inkermann, someone feelingly wrote : " 'T was strange in that dark hovel drear, With war's impending horrors near, Those homely, doric tones to hear ; Or list the vocal flow Of sad, but sacred, home-love, blent With chivalrous and bold intent, And thoughts on deadly conflict bent, And battle's wildest throe.

" No recreant will that soldier prove Within whose valiant breast The gentle thoughts of woman's love, With warlike ardour rest." Well, I am not ashamed to confess that it was the songs sung by mother, or " crooned," rather than sung, that made a little rebel of me at seven years of age. But the stories of the awful tragedies and sufferings of the clans, with many of which I count kinship, had much to do with it. The story of our Prince and his deeds of valour took stronghold of an imaginative ehUd. That sweet old song, " He 's owre the hills that I lo'e weel," how well do I recollect it of my father, as he sang it. Let me give but a verse or so, it is so expressive of the feeling of those by -gone warlike days. HE'S OWRE THE HILLS THAT I LO'E WEEL. DUET tlst Voice. With animation. _t_ jj?__^^_^P-E__S_^§^^ He s owre the hills that I loeweel, Hes owre the hills ve t2nd Voice. zjf_z^=^-^—-i_=====^r, ra^fS I @_____=^t__2^q^=ÆH==^:=t==&l=S=^^t: I Æ|=^__sq=z=zi=_=zzsr3==^ z__gz3s^==p=|z^z=arz 1i Isa >.-l~t — 1-0— a — m >■=*, _» m — i 5< *— if »-J-m_f ' danr na name , He's cwre the hills a - yont Dumblane, Wha soon sill ■< get his welcome hame.

My Fa-ther s gane to fight for him, My |JEH^SI^^^[FS{=^_^^|_^__==_-^ I W=^=^ _§^*_-__}___^_=^|^|Ee ( p — j E=t=j_=g= J brith-ers win - na bide at hame, My mith-er greets* and j J prays for them, And 'deed she thinks they're no to blame. -_.». -m. ... .s. -m_^_ ____ :^. _^. .#. He's owre the hills. &c The whigs may scofl, and the whigs may jeer. But ah t that love maun be sincere. Which still keeps true whate'er oetide, And for his sake leaves a' beside. * Greets— Weeps, There is something so thoroughly expressive of true patriotism in those last two lines : " My mither greets and prays for them, And 'deed she thinks they're no' to blame. : That Scottish mother is like a Spartan of old. The Spartan handed her son his large shield before he went to battle. " Go, my son," she would say, " to battle against the foe.

You fight for the ashes of your fathers, for the temples of your gods. Here is your shield. Come back with it or on it." And the Highland mother says, " Here is your sword, my own boy. Never heed my foolish tears. Go fight for your Prince, and lawful King, and I will stay at home to pray." -> And even the young soldier's sister must speak with a dash of naivete and pluck : " What lads ere did, our laddies will do, Were I a laddie, I'd follow him too." But the martial fire and spirit in that true soldiersong : " Cam' ye by Athol, lad wi' the philabeg* Down by the Tummel and banks o' the Garry, Saw ye the lads, wi' their bonnets and white cockades, Leaving their mountains to follow Prince Charlie ? " so fired my young blood, as my father sang it, that it took a whole hour in the field of tansies with my wooden sword to allay my excitement. * Kilt.

I followed all the story of our Prince, and the humour of Johnnie Cope's defeat used to make me chuckle with glee. In my imagination I could see the wild and im petuous rush of the Highlanders, dashing on like a mountain torrent that nothing could withstand. Wedge shaped was their first formation, firing their pistols but once, then dashing them at the heads of the foe, as they drew their claymores and dirks, and charged, while slogan after slogan rent the morning air. I could see the foe as they backward reeled, dazed and astonished ; I could see the Prince, with his bonnie yellow hair floating on the breeze, as he led on his fiery soldiers. Then the flight and the race. Ah ! it was in the race that Johnnie Cope, the general, showed his skill. He won that, though he couldn't win the fight.

He not only outstripped his pursuers, but took the cake from his own followers. They literally were his followers now. And the song makes Cope say of the Highlanders : " If I 'd stayed any longer, They 'd have broken my legs, So I bade them good-day In the morning." But then, my hero's story took the wrong turning. The clansmen quarrelled among themselves, and many forsook his cause. Thus — disaster. A disaster that culminated at Culloden.* In his beau- * To English readers : The "o"is long, as it is in Balmoral and Oban. tiful song — wedded to music so charming — the Anglo- Scottish bard, Lord Byron, speaks of the Gordons, his ancestors, thus : " Shades of the dead, have I not heard your voices Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale ? Surely the soul of some hero rejoices, And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale.

Round Loch-na-garr, while the stormy mist gathers, Winter presides in his cold, icy car ; Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers ! They dwell 'mid the tempests of dark Loch-na-garr. " Ill-starred, though brave, did no vision foreboding Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause 1 Ah ! were ye then destined to die at Culloden, Tho' victory crowned not your fall with applause ? Still were ye happy, in death's earthy slumbers ; You rest with your clan in the caves of Brae-mar, The pibroch resounds to the piper's loud numbers, Your deeds to the echoes of dark Loch-na-garr." But the sorrows of my hero Prince made him all the dearer to me. I used to cry when my mother sang that touching ballad, " 0, wae 's me !* for Prince Charlie." I could in fancy see the little bird coming to the hall-door, and singing my Prince's sorrow, and the old man, whose son was slain, weeping as he listens to that " lilt o' dool and sorrow."

" 0 ! when I heard the wee bird sing, The tears came dripping rarely, I took the bonnet aff my head, For weel I lo'ed Prince Charlie." * Woe is me ! And the birdie sings on : " Dark night came on, the tempest howled Oot o'er the woods and valleys, And where was 't that our Prince lay doon, Whose home should 've been a palace 1 " He rolled him in his Highland plaid That covered him but sparely, And slept beneath a bush o' broom, 0 ! wae 's me for Prince Charlie ! " But my mother consoled me when she told me of his wanderings through the Highland wilds, and that although :l O'er hills that were by right his own, He roamed a wear}' stranger ; On every side pressed hard by want, On every side by danger," still he ever found a kindly welcome in the houses, or rather huts, of the peasantry, who shielded him and bielded him, though thirty thousand pounds was offered for his head.

Then came his romantic escape and " Flora Macdonald's Lament." But one winter's evening — I mind it well — while I sat at Auld-da's fireside, I broached the subject of Prince Charlie for the first time — and for the last. He kicked a burning log till the sparks flew up the chimney, and I could see a red spot burning on his cheek. But he soon cooled down. " Ah ! dear boy," he said, " never speak of the Pre tender to me. Your father's kin were rebels to a man, but your mother's forbears, the Robertsons of the Braes of E , were royalists all. " It was for this very reason that, when compelled to become a soldier, I joined the 1st Regiment or Royal Scots. " So old is this regiment, Williamie, that it was called for fun, ' Pontius Pilate's Guards.' " That regiment was at Culloden, on the right and royal side, and in it fought your ancestors, boy, and mine.

Robertsons even from Struan itself. " The Duke of Kent was my colonel. The Duke of Kent was our dear Queen's father, a daughter of the regiment we well might call her." I remembered then that once when the Queen was ailing, I had seen the old man shed tears, and it occurred to me now to put the following silly question : " Auld-da, do you love the Queen — much ? " At this moment I think I can see the mild blue eyes he turned upon me. " Love her, boy ? Love my Queen ? Don't I pray for her every night? And I had the high honour of once talking to her when she was little more than a baby. She a baby — I a simple soldier. Yes, boy — I — love— the Queen. " Her father was the means of saving my life," he said, after a pause. " Tell me that story." " Not to-night. Some other time. " But as for your Prince Charlie," he added, giving that log of wood another kick, " why, that much for him and his cause, which ended even as that log will end, in smoke and sparks " " And in blood," I ventured to put in.