VOLUMES 1-3) ***




Produced by Al Haines.





                         *THE ROMANCE OF WAR:*

                                  OR,

                            THE HIGHLANDERS

                         IN FRANCE AND BELGIUM.


                              A SEQUEL TO

                       THE HIGHLANDERS IN SPAIN.


                                   BY

                           JAMES GRANT, ESQ.

                         _Late 62nd Regiment._



          "In the garb of old Gaul, with the fire of old Rome,
          From the heath-covered mountains of Scotia we come;
        Our loud-sounding pipe breathes the true martial strain,
         And our hearts still the old Scottish valour retain."
                          _Lt.-Gen. Erskine._



                           IN THREE VOLUMES.

                                VOL. I.



                                LONDON:
                       HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER,
                       GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
                                 1847.




                                LONDON:
             PRINTED BY MAURICE AND CO., HOWFORD BUILDINGS,
                           FENCHURCH STREET.




                               *CONTENTS*

Chapter

      I. Toulouse
     II. Adventures
    III. The Lady of Elizondo
     IV. Cifuentes
      V. Home
     VI. The Torre de Los Frayles
    VII. Spanish Law
   VIII. An Acquaintance, and "Old England on the Lee"
     IX. Flanders
      X. Cameron of Fassifern
     XI. The 17th June, 1815
    XII. The 18th of June
   XIII. The Sister of Charity
    XIV. France
     XV. The Chateau de Marielle
    XVI. Paris, De Mesmai, and the Hotel de Clugny
   XVII. A Catastrophe
  XVIII. The Homeward March
    XIX. Edinburgh
     XX. Lochisla
    XXI. Alice
   XXII. News from Afar
  XXIII. Conclusion




                               *PREFACE.*

Numerous inquiries having been made for the conclusion of "The Romance
of War," it is now presented to the Public, whom the Author has to thank
for the favourable reception given to the first three volumes of his
Work.

In following out the adventures of the Highlanders, he has been obliged
to lead them through the often-described field of Waterloo.  But the
reader will perceive that he has touched on the subject briefly; and,
avoiding all general history, has confined himself, as much as possible,
to the movements of Sir Dennis Pack's brigade.

Notwithstanding that so many able military narratives have of late years
issued from the press, the Author believes that the present work is _the
first_ which has been almost exclusively dedicated to the adventures of
a Highland regiment during the last war; the survivors of which he has
to congratulate on their prospect of obtaining the long-withheld, but
well-deserved, _medal_.

Few--few indeed of the old corps are now alive; yet these all remember,
with equal pride and sorrow,

    "How, upon bloody Quatre Bras,
    Brave CAMERON heard the wild hurra
    Of conquest as he fell;"

and, lest any reader may suppose that in these volumes the national
enthusiasm of the Highlanders has been over-drawn, I shall state one
striking incident which occurred at Waterloo.

On the advance of a heavy column of French infantry to attack La Haye
Sainte, a number of the Highlanders sang the stirring verses of "Bruce's
Address to his Army," which, at such a time, had a most powerful effect
on their comrades; and long may such sentiments animate their
representatives, as they are the best incentives to heroism, and to
honest emulation!

EDINBURGH,
       _June_ 1847.




                          *THE ROMANCE OF WAR*



                              *CHAPTER I.*

                              *TOULOUSE.*


    "One crowded hour of glorious life,
    Is worth an age without a name!"


The long and bloody war of the Peninsula had now been brought to a final
close, and the troops looked forward with impatience to the day of
embarkation for their homes.  The presence of the allied army was no
longer necessary in France; but the British forces yet lingered about
the Garonne, expecting the long-wished and long-looked for route for
Britain.  The Gordon Highlanders were quartered at Muret, a small town
on the banks of the Garonne, and a few miles from Toulouse. One evening,
while the mess were discussing, over their wine, the everlasting theme
of the probable chances of the corps being ordered to Scotland, the
sound of galloping hoofs and the clank of accoutrements were heard in
the street of the village.  A serjeant of the First Dragoons, with the
foam-bells hanging on his horse's bridle, reined up at the door of the
inn where the officers of the Highlanders had established a temporary
mess-house.  Old Dugald Cameron was standing at the door, displaying his
buirdly person to a group of staring villagers, with whom he was
attempting to converse in a singular mixture of broad northern Scots,
Spanish, and French, all of which his hearers found not very
intelligible.

The horseman dashed up to the door with the splendid air of the true
English dragoon, and with an importance which caused the villagers to
shrink back.  Inquiring for Colonel Cameron, he handed to Dugald two
long official packets; and after draining a deep hornful of liquor which
the Celt brought him, he wheeled his charger round, and rode slowly
away.

"Letters frae the toon o' Toulouse, sir," said Dugald, as, with his flat
bonnet under his arm, and smoothing down his white hair, he advanced to
Fassifern's elbow, and laid the despatches before him; after which he
retired a few paces, and waited to hear the contents, in which he
considered he had as much interest as any one present.  The clamour and
laughter of the mess-room were instantly hushed, and every face grew
grave, from the ample visage of Campbell, who was seated on the
colonel's right hand, down to the fair-cheeked ensigns, (or Johny
Newcomes,) who always ensconced themselves at the foot of the table, to
be as far away as possible from the colonel and seniors.

"Fill your glasses, gentlemen," said Cameron, as he broke the seal of
the first despatch; "fill a bumper, and drink 'to a fair wind.'  My life
on't 'tis the route, and we shall soon have Old England on our lee!"

"Praise Heaven 'tis come at last!" said Campbell, filling up his glass
with bright sparkling sherry. "I never hailed it with greater joy, even
in Egypt. But what says Sir Arthur--the marquis, I mean?"

"'Tis the route!" replied Cameron, draining his glass.  "To-morrow, at
daybreak, we march for Toulouse."

"Hurrah!" said the major.  "We shall have the purple heather under our
brogues in a week more. Hoigh!  Here's to the Highlandmen, shoulder to
shoulder!"  Every glass was reversed, while a round of applause shook
the room.

"We embark on the Garonne," continued Cameron, consulting the document.
"Flat-bottomed boats will convey us down the river, and we shall sail in
transports for Cork."

"Hech! how, sirs!  Cork?" exclaimed Campbell, in a tone of
disappointment.  "_Demonios!_ as the dons say; and are we not going home
to our own country,--to the land of the bannock and bonnet?"

"Ireland is our destination.  A famous place to soldier in, as I know
from experience, major."

"I love poor Paddy well enough," said Campbell: "who is there that would
not, that has seen a charge of the Connaught Rangers, or the 87th?
Regular devils they are for righting.  But we were sent home to braid
Scotland after Egypt; and we saw service there, gentlemen.  Old Ludovick
Lisle, and Cameron there, could tell you that.  But the other paper,
colonel; what is it about?"

"A despatch for General the Conde Penne Villamur, at Elizondo.  It is to
be forwarded instantly by the first officer for duty: who is he?"

"Stuart," said the adjutant.

"The deuce take your memory!" said Stuart testily, as this announcement
fell like a thunderbolt upon him; "you seem to have the roster all by
heart.  Colonel, is it possible that I am really to travel nearly a
hundred miles, and to cross those abominable Pyrenees again, after
fighting my way to Toulouse?"

"Without doubt," replied Fassifern, drily.  "You will have the pleasure
of seeing Spain once more, and again paying your respects to the
gazelle-eyed senoritas and pompous senores."

"I would readily dispense with these pleasures. But might not Wellington
have sent an aide or a dragoon with this despatch?"

"_He_ seems not to think so.  There is no help, Ronald, my man.  You
would not throw your duty on another.  Obedience is the first--You know
the adage: 'tis enough.  You can rejoin us at Toulouse, where we embark
in eight days from this."

"Eight days?"

"Make good use of your nag; you will require one, of course.  Campbell
will lend you his spare charger 'Egypt,' as he styles it."

"With the utmost pleasure," said the major, filling up his glass.  "But
look well to him by the way, for he is an especial good piece of
horse-flesh as ever was foaled, or any man found for nothing on that
memorable day of June, on the plains of Vittoria.  But when I remember
the airing you took with my steed at Almarez, I cannot lend you Egypt
without entertaining some secret fears of never beholding him again."

"Have no fears for Egypt, major," said Ronald, laughing.  "I will
restore him without turning a hair of his glossy coat."

"Then, Stuart, you must march forthwith," said Cameron; "the marquis's
despatch must be carried onward without delay.  You must reach St.
Gaudens by sunrise."

Dugald was despatched to desire Jock Pentland, the major's bat-man, to
caparison Egypt; and mean while Stuart hurried to his billet, where he
hastily selected a few necessaries for his journey, and packed them in a
horse valise.  In case of accidents, he indited a hasty letter for
Lochisla; but, for reasons which will be given in another chapter, it
never reached those for whom it was destined.

To his servant, Allan Warristoun, poor Evan's successor, he abandoned
the care of his baggage, desiring him to have it all in readiness
against the hour of march on the morrow.  He belted his sword and dirk
tightly to his waist, and examined the holsters, to see if the pistols
were freshly flinted and in good order; after which he examined his
ammunition, well knowing that the more lead bullets and the less loose
cash he had about him, the better for travelling on such unsafe ground
as the Lower Pyrenees.  He remembered that the whole of these waste
places were infested by hordes of lawless banditti, composed of all the
rascal crew of Spain,--guerillas, whose trade was at at end, broken or
deserted soldiers, unfrocked monks, fugitive _presidiarios_ or convicts,
bravoes, _valientes_, and vagabonds of every kind, with which the long
war, the absence of order and law, together with the loose state of
Spanish morals, had peopled every part of the country.  While the
remembrance of these gentlemen passed through his mind, Stuart again
examined his arms and horse-equipage carefully, and mounting, rode forth
along the dark, straggling street of Muret.  From the mess-room window
there was handed to him a parting bumper of sherry, which he drank in
his saddle.

"Good-bye, Lisle!" said he, waving his hand; "bid Virginia adieu for me.
And now good-bye, lads; good-bye to ye all;" and, striking spurs into
Egypt, he galloped off.

"He is a fine fellow, and keeps his seat as well as any cavalier of the
_Prado_ at Madrid," said the major, watching Stuart's retreating figure
as long as he could see it by the star-light.  "He is a fine fellow; and
I wish he was safe back again among us. He has a long and a perilous
path before him, over these d--d Pyrenees; and ten to one he never
returns again from among those black-browed and uncanny dons.  We all
know Spanish ingratitude, sirs!"  The worthy major knew not how
prophetically he spoke.

Next morning the regiment marched to Toulouse and remained eight days,
awaiting the arrival of the boats and other small craft to convey them
down the Garonne, which becomes navigable at a short distance from the
city.

The eight days passed away, and Ronald Stuart did not return.  The
eventful day arrived,--the day of embarkation for home, and the regiment
paraded on the river side without him.  The officers glanced darkly at
each other, and the colonel shook his head sorrowfully, as if he deemed
that all was not right; and a murmured curse on the Spaniards was
muttered among the soldiers.  The whole regiment, from Fassifern down to
the youngest drum-boy, regretted his absence, which gave room for so
many disagreeable constructions and surmises.  Other corps were parading
at the same time, and in the stir, bustle, and confusion of embarking
men and horses, baggage, women, and children, his absence was forgotten
for a time.  The cheers of the soldiers and the din of various bands
were heard everywhere.  The time was one of high excitement, and joy
shone on every bronzed face as boat after boat got under way, and, with
its freight, moved slowly down the Garonne,--"the silvery Garonne," the
windings of which soon hid the bridge, the spires, the grey old
university, and the beautiful forests of Toulouse.




                             *CHAPTER II.*

                             *ADVENTURES.*


    ---------- "Turn thy horse;
    Death besets thy onward track.
    Come no further,--quickly back!"
      _Aikin's Poems_, 1791.


Stuart departed from Muret in no pleasant mood, having a conviction that
he was the most unfortunate fellow in the army; because, when any
disagreeable duty was to be performed, by some strange fatality the lot
always fell upon him.  But his displeasure evaporated as the distance
between Muret and himself increased.  It was a clear and beautiful
night.  Millions of sparklers studded the firmament, and, although no
moon was visible, the scenery around was distinctly discernible.  Afar
off lay Toulouse, the direction of which was marked only by the hazy
halo of light around it, arising from amidst the bosky forests, which
extend over nearly a hundred thousand acres of ground.

Before him spread a clear and open country, over which his horse was now
carrying him at a rapid pace.  It was midnight before the lights of
Muret vanished behind him.  The road became more lonely, and no sound
broke upon the silence of the way, save the clang of Egypt's hoofs,
ringing with a sharp iron sound on the hard-trodden road.

After riding nearly twenty miles, he found himself becoming tired and
drowsy; and dismounting, he led his horse into a copse by the road-side,
where, fastening the bridle to a tree, he lay down on the dewy sward,
and, placing his claymore under his head, fell fast asleep.  Before
sunrise he was again in his saddle, and, without breaking his fast,
reached the town of Saint Gaudens, on the Garonne, forty-four miles from
Toulouse.  Unwilling to waste farther the strength of the noble animal
which had borne him so far, and with such speed, he halted at Saint
Gaudens for twelve hours, and again set forward on the direct road for
the province of Beam.

The well-known chain of the Pyrenees, the scene of so many a recent
contest, began to rise before him, and as he proceeded, every object
which met his view became more familiar.

On nearing the Pass of Roncesvalles, he reached the block-house which
his light company had garrisoned and defended so stoutly.  It was now
falling into ruin, and the skeletons of the French were lying around it,
with the rank dog-grass sprouting among their mouldering bones.  A
ghastly sight!--but many such occurred as he journeyed among the
mountains.  Near the block-house he fell in with an encampment of
_gitanos_, or gipsies, a people whose ferocity is equalled only by their
cunning and roguery.  They were at dinner, and bade him welcome to the
feast, which consisted of broiled rabbits, olives, rice, and _bacalao_,
with wine--stolen of course--to wash it down.  He took his share of the
viands seated by a fire, around which the ragged wayfarers crowded, male
and female; but he was very well pleased when he took his departure from
these singular people, who would not accept of a single maravedi for his
entertainment.

Near midnight he arrived at the village of Roncesvalles, which consists
of one straggling street, closed by an arched gateway at each end.  The
barriers were shut, and no admittance was given. He thundered loudly,
first at one gate and then at the other; but he was unheard or uncared
for by the drowsy porters, who occupied the houses above the arches.  He
therefore prepared to