Next morning the recruits were brought before the doctor, who duly examined and passed us—all but two men. The next move was to the quarter-master’s stores; and now, for the first time in my life, I donned the Queen’s uniform. This, I can truly say, was a red-letter day in my career: I felt a proud man for the moment, and I remember the thought suggesting itself, “Now, where will this land you, William Wright?” I had a longing to see the city and its surroundings—Holyrood Palace, Roslin Castle, John Knox’s house, &c.; so I asked the quarter-master for the necessary leave. But he said that before I could leave the barracks I must get quit of my civilian’s clothing—you see they were frightened I should desert. I was told that there was a Jew in the bottom corridor of the castle who bought second-hand clothing.
I accordingly paid a visit to my friend Isaac, and asked him, “What will give me for this suit o’ clothes? They cost me £3 10s in Bradford only three weeks ago, and, besides, these boots are nearly new.” “Well, my frent,” said the oldJew“tem poots vill be sixpence, an’ tees cloas vill pe von shillin’; an’ (speaking with warmth) I vill not gif you von penny more for tem—not von penny.” “I’ll be blessed if I’ll take that” said I, also speaking with some fervour; “You vile dog of a Jew! No wonder that your race is hated in every clime, for you would rob a saint of his shoe strings!” But the Jew had been tempered to these oft repeated “blessings,” as was proved by the coolness with which he said: “Howefer, dat is vhat I vill gif you, an’ not anoder farding.” Seeing that parleying was useless with this worldly extortionizer, and seeing, also, what a fix I was in, I eventually parted with my clothes and shoes.
After that I was at liberty to leave the barracks; which I did, and made my way down into the city—into Canongate. On my return to barracks it was time for recruits’ drill. The drill-sergeant had a voice like unto a growling buffalo. He said: “Now, then, ye recruits, Ye’re not at home now—a lot of sucking pigs with your mothers. Ye’ve got good pay and rations, and by the bokey ye’ll have to drill.” This was the order of the day for two months, and at the end of that time I had made pretty fast progress with my drill, and I was shortly placed in the ranks as a full-blown soldier.
One morning, soon after this, I was called to the orderly-room. I was told that it had pleased my superiors to promote me to the rank of a lance-corporal. I made some objection to this, saying I did not yet know private’s duty, as I had only been a private for two months. But the colonel told me that I could well learn the duties of both private and lance-corporal at the same time. Therefore, I accepted the promotion, though I was quite content to stay as I was, and I got a stripe to put on my tunic and “shell” jacket; also on my great coat. My first duty as a lance “Jack” was as escort of a coal fatigue in the castle. I had under me a squad of old soldiers, whose duty it was to carry boxes of coals from the basement to the upper story in the building. Although I was very forbearing with the men, they were ever and anon grumbling and growling, and in the course of one of their little outpourings I heard a veteran exclaim that he never knew a fool in his life but what was lucky!
After superintending the coal fatigue, I was put in charge of a dozen privates, young and old, in one of the bottom rooms of the castle. Some of the young bloods were very generous in their fault-finding and acts of disobedience. One of the old fellows actually point-blankly refused to wash and scrub the benches in the room—which I had ordered him to do. By this time their pleading and other things had somewhat “softened my heart towards them,” and the thought came into my head, “don’t be so hard on the poor old chaps; you’re abler to do the work than some of them.” Thus my feelings prompted me to take my turn with them, and, divesting myself of my jacket, and rolling up my shirt sleeves, I set myself to scrubbing the benches. But, by Jupiter! no sooner had I commenced my self-imposed task than in popped Captain Clifford Lloyd, who was on his rounds. “What are you doing there, corporal?” he bellowed forth when he saw me. “Oh, I am just scrubbing the forms, sir, for a bit of exercise” said I. “D... you and your exercise,” retorted the captain sternly. “Now, don’t let me catch you at it again. Here’s an old lazy hound behind you who knows very well that it is his duty, and I shall take that stripe off your arm if I catch you at this job again.” Of course, as a non-commissioned officer, I took the warning to heart, and kept to my own duties for the future—the warning having taken effect with the old soldiers as well as myself.
Of course I came in for hoaxes from the sergeants. I mind one incident which happened one evening. During the day I had been in charge of the cook-house. Sergeant Murphy, an old soldier, came to me and said I was wanted by the sergeant-major immediately. “What’s the matter? There is nothing wrong with me, is there?” I asked, noticing that the messenger looked rather concerned. “Don’t you know?” I asked again, and then the sergeant said, “Ifyoudon’t know, you soon will do. The fact is, you have spoiled the coppers in the cook-house, you have burned the bottoms out of them.” “They were all right when I left” I retorted, beginning to feel rather “queer.” If I had never been one before I felt a coward then; but, come what might, I thought, they can only reduce me in rank. So with “firm step” I marched to the sergeant-major’s quarters. To my surprise—and in a manner which at once put me at my ease—the sergeant-major bade me a cheerful “Good evening.” He told me that he had a job for me—he wanted me to accompany fifteen recruits to the theatre, and strictly enjoined me to see them back to barracks after the theatre closed. I took the men to the play-house, and brought them all back safe and sound, and the sergeant-major expressed himself very pleased with my abilities as achaperon.
Shortly after there was to be a grand festival in the Castle given by Captain Darnall, who was severing his connection with the Castle. I was relieved of all soldier’s duties for nine days, and told off with others to decorate certain rooms on the premises in preparation for the festival. The event came off in due course; it was a grand affair, and was made the most of on all hands. Captain Darnall presented the oldest soldier with a silver cup.
It was not long ere I was made a full Corporal, and commenced to receive double pay. Now I felt a hero, and no mistake. All this time I had been a keen observer of both men and manners, and I had really seen all there was to be seen in Edinburgh and neighbourhood. It was, therefore, with pleasurable feelings that I heard that No. 7 Company, to which I belonged, was to be sent to the military garrison at Greenlaw—a bonny little village some ten miles from Edinburgh. I think the scenery in this district is about the most picturesque and romantic in all Scotland. Roslin Castle is only a short distance away. The neighbourhood is divided into little villages, and to one of these—Milton Bridge—I paid frequent visits during my sojourn at Greenlaw. At Milton Bridge there was a tavern, known by the sign of “The Fishers’ Tryst,” kept by a cheery old gentleman and his daughter. I got on very friendly terms with the landlord and his lassie, and entrusted to them the secret as to who I really was;—for I had joined the regiment under anom de plume. In my communications with my friends at Keighley I gave them to understand that I was working as an ordinary individual for my living. I dated all my letters from “The Fishers’ Tryst,” in the name of “William Ferdinand Wright,” and for three years I avoided identification.
It was one beautiful summer afternoon, while strolling along the pleasant country lanes, which looked charming with their avenues of stately oak trees, whose branches were tenanted by scores of squirrels, that I came upon an elderly gentleman who was sitting smoking. I bade him “Good-day,” and asked him for a match; which he gave me and invited me to sit down beside him and have a smoke and a chat. In the course of our conversation I discovered that my friend was no common man. When, in reply to his enquiry, I told him that the headquarters of my regiment were at Edinburgh, he said, “and what a disgrace some of the men have brought upon your regiment.” Every one of the guards at Holyrood Palace had been found ‘beastly’ drunk, excepting one man, who was keeping sentry at the magazine on the top of Arthur’s Seat. The circumstance was especially discreditable as His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales was staying at Holyrood. “I understand (continued the speaker) that they broke into the wine cellar, and stole some fifty bottles of port and champagne. Most of that they drunk, until when found they were ‘blind palatic’.” “Yes, sir” said I, “I believe it is all true. All the men are put back for court-martial except the man at the magazine, who held his post all night without being relieved.” “Serves the rascals right,” retorted the old gentleman. “In my time of soldiering every man jack of them would have been shot—the sergeant as well.” “Then, sir,” said I, “you have been in the Army?” “Yes,” he replied, “I have served a little time, and took part in the Peninsular War.” But beyond this my unknown friend would tell me nothing about his military career.
We next fell to talking about the big hall which lay in front of us. My friend asked me if I should like to look over it, and on my saying that I should, he directed me on the way to the mansion, telling me to go a little further up the lane, then turn in at the wicket gate and follow the footpath across the lawn. “Then,” said he, “you’ll come to the kitchen door. Knock, and ask for a horn of beer.” “But whose word shall I give?” I asked, “Tell them an old gentleman called Duncan Dhew, in black knee breeches and leggings has sent you, and it will be all right. And then (added he) if you wish it you can go further into the park by crossing another path over the lawn.” I thanked the kind old gentleman, and took my departure.
It was not long before I was at the old hall. I rapped at the kitchen-door according to orders, and a woman of about forty summers made her appearance. When I mentioned the name given me by the old gentleman she laughed heartily, and said that if I would come in I should have a horn or two of beer—if I liked. She was a pleasant-spoken Scotchwoman, and before I took my leave she said chaffingley that it was a pity she wasn’t twenty years younger, for then she might have been “my lassie.”
Quitting the house I took into the park, and to say that I was delighted with the scene is not in anywise doing justice to the feelings I experienced at the time. I can truly say that I have never seen anything so lovely since—the splendid walks, with their long avenues of wide-spreading and noble-looking trees; the bright gardens and sparkling fountains; the babbling burns, crossed here and there by pontoon bridges; and last, but by no means least, the panoramic bits of the distant landscape visible through the openings in the trees—all these went to make up a veritable Arcadia. Then, as I walked further into the park I saw numbers of wild deer, which looked up at me as I passed by as much as to say, “What business have you to intrude on our sacred rights?” Well, I walked and walked, until I thought I was not coming to the end of the park that day. But soon the path dropped, and disclosed a little valley, in which were located about a half-dozen thatched dwellings. Here, I found, lived the gamekeeper and a few farm labourers. At the house I called at the wee laddies and lassies wondered whatever I was; they had never before seen a “walking target.” The gamekeeper told me that if I was stationed at Greenlaw Barracks I had walked in a very curious direction, for I was thirteen miles, by the ordinary road, out of my course. I was exceedingly ill at ease to hear this pronouncement, and told him that it would be “hot” for me if I was not in before the “tattoo,” or the “last post.” The keeper, I found, was a true Scotchman, and of a very obliging nature. He proffered to take me through the wood to a place called Milton Bridge. We started, and were soon at the village mentioned, where, at the “Fishers’ Tryst,” we had a “drappie o’ whuskey” over the matter. Then we parted, and I got into barracks in time.
The very next morning after this interesting day the order came that our company was to return to Edinburgh, and give place for another company. My stay at Greenlaw had extended over six months. Now for “Auld Reekie!” Soon after we arrived there was a great review at the Castle, the Queen and Prince Albert Victor inspecting the troops.
I remember being the sergeant in charge of the guard at Holyrood Palace at the time when the Empress Eugenie was on a visit to Scotland. The French Fleet accompanied her to Scotland, and lay in the Firth of Forth. The crews of the ships comprised some fine sailors, who, I think, were the smartest lot I ever saw. The Empress and her Court stayed a full week in Edinburgh. I remember one eventful day when a party of two ladies and four gentlemen, after inspecting Queen Mary’s Room, and the old picture gallery in Holyrood Palace, passed into the guard-room where I was in command. The ladies advanced towards me, bidding me “Good afternoon.” The gentlemen remained behind. In the best way I could under the circumstances I asked the two ladies to be good enough to take a seat, apologising for the rude seat which was all I could offer them. They courteously accepted the seat, and, at the older lady’s request, I sat down beside them. The talking was confined to one of the ladies, who seemed, I thought at the time, of a very inquisitive nature. In the first place she expressed her wish to know something about the British soldier—how he was fed, whether he was well-clothed, what kind of rations he was provided with, &c. I gave her my opinion on these points as far as I could go. She then asked how long I had been a soldier, and I said only a short time. “Then you cannot tell how you feel when your comrades are being slain on the battle-field?” “No, ma’am, I cannot; but there is a man lying down on the guard-bed who can. He went through the Crimean War.” I then advanced to the old soldier’s bed, and said, “Francis, there’s a lady here wants to know how you feel when you are on the battle-field.” “Tell her,” said Francis, without looking up, “we see nowt but hell-fire and smoke!” “Well, what does he say?” asked the inquiring lady, who had, fortunately, remained in the background. It would not, of course, have done for me to give the answer as it stood, so I replied, “He says, madam, that he can see nothing but fire and smoke.” “Well,” said the lady preparing to depart, “you seem to be well clothed and to have plenty to eat.” As I was showing her out of the room, she said, “If I were to give you a Scottish pound note, would you share it amongst you and your fellows?” “Yes, ma’am” said I, “when we have dismissed guard.” Whereupon she placed the note in my hand, and I thanked her cordially. I had not the slightest idea who the donor of the note was, or who were the people who had been our guard-room guests, until the next day. We were then relieved from guard by the 78th Highlanders, who were only about 300 strong, and had just returned from the Indian Mutiny. It was while upon the esplanade, where there were a thousand of the Waterloo and Peninsular pensioners assembled for drilling, that I noticed my lady guest and a gentleman reviewing the veterans. They were walking up and down the ranks, and every now and again the lady stopped before an old soldier, spoke to him, and, before passing on, put into his hand a Scottish pound note. It was said that during the week she presented no less than a thousand of these notes to the soldiers. One old hero, I saw, got five pound notes. I asked the captain of the guard who the lady was. He seemed much surprised when I assured him that I did not know who she was; but greater was my surprise on being told that the lady was the Empress of the French.
Orders were issued for our regiment to remove to the ancient town of Ayr—news which delighted me greatly. Next day the regiment, numbering about a thousand men, mustered for the last time in Edinburgh. The inhabitants of Auld Reekie turned out in their thousands to see us march to the railway station and to bid us adieu. The regimental band—which, by-the-bye, included many able musicians from the West Riding of Yorkshire; Wilsden, Haworth and Cowling being among the towns furnishing the band men—played lively airs during our march to the station, such as “Good-bye, sweetheart!” and “The girl I left behind me.” At the station I met a sore disappointment. Since the issuing of the orders of removal to Ayr, I had been buoyantly thinking of what happy times I should have in Ayr, and my feelings can be imagined when I found I was among the detachment which was to be sent on to the barracks at Hamilton—a small town on the Clyde about ten miles from Glasgow. However, I determined to make the best of the matter, and hope for better times. The two companies forming the detachment, numbering about a couple of hundred men, reached Hamilton all right. Within a short distance of Hamilton, is Bothwell and its famous Castle; and during my stay in the locality I paid frequent visits to Bothwell Castle and Bothwell Bridge, at which latter place Sir William Wallace defeated the English in battle. I also visited the magnificent residence of the Duke of Hamilton.
I remember that on the first evening of our arrival in Hamilton I had under me twenty or thirty soldiers, who were on the defaulters’ list in consequence of being absent from barracks the night previous to our leaving Edinburgh. They had to all intents and purposes been out in the city bidding their acquaintances good-bye, and had taken too long a time over it. For this misdemeanour they were confined to barracks at Hamilton. I assembled the men in front of the officer’s quarters, and said, “This is our first evening here and a grand evening it is. I should very much like to visit the town, and I have no doubt that you would. Now, I have a proposal to make if you will all stand by me.”—“We will,” they shouted in one voice. “I propose,” I continued, “to see the captain, and if you will promise that during your stay in Hamilton you will not commit yourselves, I will try to get you dismissed from defaulters’ drill, so that you can go out and enjoy yourselves.” They readily expressed their willingness to carry out the promise. I then made for the officers’ room, and was admitted into the captain’s presence. “Well, what is your wish this evening?” he inquired. “A great favour, captain,” I replied, “not only for myself but for those men outside. There are over a score defaulters, and they wish to speak a word with you.” “Where are they?” said the captain. So I brought him outside before the men. He heard their case stated, and then asked, “Do you all promise that if I dismiss you from pack drill you will not misbehave yourselves during your short stay in this town?” Of course the promise was promptly given; but promises, like pie crusts, are easily broken. Well, every one of the defaulters was dismissed, and sent to his own quarters. They then went out of the barracks and had a pleasant look round the town.
All went wisely and well for three weeks, at the end of which period there was a desperate affray between the soldiers and the police. It came about in this way. One of the soldiers while strolling on the banks of the Clyde one Saturday night appeared to have insulted a lady. She gave information to the police, who next (Sunday) morning, accompanied by the informant, came in full force to the barracks. We had just fallen in for church parade. The ranks were opened, and the lady passed among us to see if she could identify the guilty man. Eventually, she pitched upon a man whom all of us knew could not have been at the place mentioned at the time given by the lady. However, despite his protestations of innocence, he was handcuffed, and was about to be marched away by a sergeant of the police when one of the prisoner’s comrades interfered. He did so to a nicety, for he knocked the policeman down. Then another policeman went to the ground, and another, until the whole parade was one scene of commotion. The police were badly worsted, many of them being more or less seriously injured in themélée. Reinforcements were summoned, and many arrests were made by the representatives of the civil power. The barracks’ officers had no control over their men, and two companies of Highlanders were sent for to take the place of our regiment at Hamilton and to escort to Edinburgh Castle those of us who had taken part in disturbance. At the Castle the men were confined to barracks for a fortnight to give the police time to work up their “case” for the court-martial, and in order to see how the wounded policemen, who were being treated in the hospital progressed.
I happened to be escorting two men from the hospital to the parade when the outbreak occurred. I was conversing with the regimental doctor, and took advantage of that circumstance to get that gentleman to make me a certificate testifying that I was not “in at the death.” However, I was sent for examination with the lot, but I passed through the ordeal successfully, the doctor’s certificate undoubtedly freeing me. I may here mention that I have not been a believer in physiognomy since then; for if a man had a rough-looking or repulsive countenance he was as surely ordered to “fall out,” and many men were so taken prisoners whom I knew were innocent. In all about fifty were placed under arrest, and taken before the Lord Provost of Edinburgh, who sentenced them to gaol for terms varying from one to eighteen months.
The incident mentioned in the last chapter ended in all the men who were not committed to prison being released and sent on to head-quarters at Ayr—
Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a toon surpasses,For honest men and bonnie lasses.
I was among the “removals,” and high were my spirits at the prospect of a sojourn in the hallowed land of Burns. To use a well-turned phrase, it had been the height of my ambition to reach the birth-place of a genius second to none in his way—Bobby Burns, the patriotic bard and ploughboy. For twelve months I stayed in the quaint old town. Scores of times did I visit the cottage where the world-famous poet was born. It was a lowly thatched clay biggin; with two rooms on one floor, and at this time was being used as a public tavern. The building belonged, I believe, to the Shoemakers’ Society of Scotland, and scarcely anything but the native whiskey and bottled beer was dispensed at the house. The first room on entering was utilised for cooking purposes, and contained a big kettle—for boiling water, I was told, (whether in good or bad faith) on occasion of extra demand for “whuskey”. The farther room served as the parlour, and contained a large oblong table, seated with cane-bottomed chairs. The mud walls of the room had been boarded over, and the roof under-drawn, so that an air of comfort was imparted. In almost every nook of this room were to be seen the initials and names of visitors cut into the wood, and the places appended to some of the names indicated foreign visitors. The walls were completely filled with these “carvings” and writings. I more than once looked round for a little space to put Bill o’ th’ Hoylus End’s initials, but to no purpose—every available inch was taken up with those of my predecessors. A portrait in oils of Burns, said to have been done by Allan Cunningham, one of the bard’s friends, occupied a prominent place in the room. This picture, in keeping with the general appearance of the room, was covered with initials and names. A few minutes’ walk from the cottage, and situated on a slight eminence commanding a fine view, stands the Burns’ Monument, a beautiful Grecian edifice. In the surrounding grounds—which are handsomely laid out—is a little building which contains Thom’s statues of “Tam o’ Shanter and Souter Johnny.” The Auld Brig o’ Doon and Alloway Kirk are not far away. On ascending the steps leading into the churchyard the first grave is that of the poet’s father, William Burns. An epitaph in the tombstone, written by Bobby Burns, reads:—
Here lies an honest man at rest,As e’er God with His image blest;The friend of man, the friend of truth,The guide of age, the guide of youth.Few hearts like his in virtue warmed;Few heads with knowledge so informed:—If there be another world, he lives in bliss,If there be none, he made the best of this.
Going further into the old kirkyard, one sees the graves of many of the bard’s friends, whom he has immortalised in verse. At the farther end, close to the river Doon, stands the ancient kirk—
Wi’ its winnock bunker i’ the east,Where sat old Nick i’ shape o’ beast.
Perhaps this old fane has been made more of in poetry by Burns than anything else. It is inspected by thousands of travellers who visit Ayr.
While in Ayr, I remember there was a great demonstration to honour the memory of the national poet. The gathering was held at the Corn Exchange, and the large hall was densely packed. Among an influential company was Sir James Fergusson, M.P., late Post-master General. Various patriotic speeches were delivered, and at one stage, I mind, the meeting was put into great good humour by the action of an elderly gentleman on the platform. Stepping to the front he said “I believe I am the only man in Scotland to-day that ever shook hands with Bobby Burns. He was then—over seventy years ago—an excise man at Dumfries, and I acted as his post-boy, taking his letters.” These remarks had scarcely been made than several of the people came forward and grasped the old fellow by the hand, and, indeed, some all but hugged him. I was prompted to shake hands with the “living memorial.”
And well old Scotland may be proudTo hear her Burns proclaimed aloud,For to her sons the world hath bowed,Through Burns’s name—All races of the world are proud of Burns’s fame.
I found to be of a very genial and sociable disposition. Their dialect is exceedingly pleasing—a good deal more so than that of many other parts of Scotland; shires and district vary in dialect quite after the manner of our own localities and counties. I made many friends in Ayr, among them being John McKelvey (who, with his daughter, Tina, kept an old tavern at the end of the quay at Ayr), and Billy Miller (of the “Thistle”), another celebrity in his way. Both these were poets, or, perhaps I should say, rhymesters; and whatever the old wives of the present day may think about the poet, of this I can assure them—that in those days “the lassies loved him weel i’ bonnie Scotland.” But to get to my military reminiscences.
With the exception of one “hitch”—and perhaps that was enough—I passed my time very pleasantly at Ayr Barracks. The incident came about in this way. I was out in the “toon” with the orderly-room clerk, Sergeant Delaney, the money both of us had in our pockets sufficing to put us into high spirits. In our travels we came across a menagerie of wild beasts—Manders’, I think it was—and I was not long in observing that the members of the band which was “going it” in front of the show were all men from the Keighley district. The leader of the band, Dawson Hopkinson, was a Haworth man, and his remains lie in Haworth Churchyard, a bugle being engraved on the stone over the grave. Hopkinson had been the landlord of the Golden Lion Inn, at Keighley, previous to travelling with the menagerie. Other members of the band were Bobby Hartley, of Keighley, and another named Joe Briggs; two from Silsden, and one from Wilsden, all of whom were well known at the time as able musicians. I felt in great glee at meeting with these old friends, and marched boldly on the platform to greet them. The result of my visit was that I invited the whole of the band to come and have a drink at the Grossmarket Hotel down the street. When they had played another tune they “struck” and in a body followed me to the hotel; and over glasses of “guid auld Scotch” we told tales of old Keighley until it really seemed that old times had come again. In chatting over some of the eccentric characters, we had many a laugh about Three Laps and Job Senior. But the time was flitting by fast, and my musical guests, it appeared, had not left word at the menagerie where they were going. Thus there was some justification for the line of action which the lady of the show had adopted in rushing into the room and demanding “why her band had given over playing and left the stage.” But the bandsmen had supped, perhaps too freely and too well, and consequently they were not able to give a clear answer to her question. Right into the tavern we could hear the growling of the lions, the howling of the wolves, and the squeaking of the monkeys; and yet, forsooth! the bandsmen could afford to laugh at the noises. Delaney and I, despite that we were all out as far “gone” as the rest, saw there was going to be a storm if we did not bestir ourselves; so we set about coaxing the musicians to return to their legitimate duties. After much ado we induced them to quit the tavern, and Delaney and I followed suit, and started for the barracks. “Just for safety’s sake” we went arm in arm, and as we passed down the long main street we sang and carried on like the proverbial jolly tars. Things went moderately well with us until we got to a picture shop. Here was a large painting showing General Garibaldi mounted on a white horse; and no sooner did Delaney catch a glimpse of the picture than he drew his sword and with it smashed the window, his intention being to wreak his vengeance upon the offensive canvas.
We were both of us now in a fine mess, and no mistake about it. I stood dumbfounded for about a minute, and before I had time to give my thoughts to deciding what we should do, two big, brawny Scottish policemen had come up from behind and seized Delaney tightly by the arms and deprived him of his sword. They straightway marched their prisoner in the direction of the Town Hall, I following at their heels and expostulating with them, taking up the line of argument that if they only would let John go I would advance the money for the broken window. But the Scottish policemen—like their Keighley comrades, I suppose, would do—held their prisoner firmly, and the only heed they paid to my entreaty was in the shape of a threat—“Gin ye say mich mair ye’ll hae ta gang along wi’ us.” I still continued to beseech the constables to release “poor John,” but when near a place known as the Fish Cross one of the twain suddenly gave back and rushed upon me. I drew my sword, and kept him at bay for a few seconds, until a butcher came to his assistance. The butcher stole up behind me and robbed me of my sword. Now I was almost “taken,” but no! not just yet. Seeing an opening in the large crowd which had gathered I darted through it and down the street into a yard where I knew there was a blacksmith’s shop kept by Louis Gordon. I managed to get into the shop, but my pursuers were almost at my heels. I was overpowered and very soon the “bangles” were on my wrists. I was marched to the Town Hall, followed by a vast and inquiring crowd. One of the milk girls from the barracks wanted to know whatever I had been doing, and I told her that I had been making love too freely with John Barleycorn. Arrived at the Town Hall, I saw Delaney. We were both locked up for the night, and next morning were brought
The captain of the regiment in full-dress uniform was present in court, occupying a seat beside the magistrate. My case was called on first. After the two policemen and certain civilians had had their say, a doctor, whose name, I think, was Montgomery, stepped into the witness-box and spoke in my favour. The captain also gave me a good character; he said this was my first offence, and Delaney was the cause of it. In pronouncing judgement the Lord Provost said that as my captain had spoken so well of me he would “give me the benefit of the doubt,” although an offence of attempting to rescue a prisoner from the hands of the police was a very serious one indeed. Under the circumstances, he would fine me 40s and costs, or “saxty days to the talbooth.” The charges against poor Delaney were those of doing wilful damage to property, being drunk and disorderly, and, to some extent, causing a riot. John had no defence, and no one to speak a good word for him; indeed, his captain—who was a fellow-countryman, an Irishman—gave him a bad name. The upshot was that Delaney was ordered to pay 40s and costs and to make good the damage to the window, or to go to the talbooth for six months. My fine was paid by subscription among the No. 7 Company, to which I belonged, and I obtained my almost immediate release. The amount in Delaney’s case was much larger than mine, and it was not until John had suffered a fortnight’s incarceration that his Company (No. 4) succeeded in getting him released. I myself took the ransom to Governor McPherson, who returned me 16s out of a £5 note. Poor John looked well-nigh dead after his sojourn in the police cell, and as soon as we got out of the gaol we made for an eating-house, where I let him have a good meal. We then went back to barracks.
In the meantime I had been tried by Court-martial, and reduced to the ranks. Sergeant Delaney, on entering the barracks, was put under arrest. He, too, had to undergo a second trial, and he, like myself, was relieved of his sergeantcy and put back to a private’s position. To me, however, this was no very great trouble, though to a certain extent it was a mark of disgrace. Dame Fortune soon began to smile upon me. I found a good friend in Captain Clifford Lloyd, the musketry instructor to the regiment. One fine morning, shortly after I was reduced to the ranks, and while I was engaged in preparing myself to mount guard, the Captain passed my room. “Ah!” says he, “you’re brushing up, I see.” “Yes, sir,” I answered; “I’m going to mount guard. This is the first time I have mounted guard since I was reduced to a private.” “Ah! well,” said Captain Clifford Lloyd, “you see what a fool you have been to get intoxicated. But I always said that any man can have a breakdown in his lifetime; and if ever you have another chance you will mind it?” “Yes, sir; I think I shall,” replied I. The Captain then walked away, but he had not gone many paces when he returned and said to me, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. One of my attendants, Johnson, wants a six weeks’ furlough to see his parents in Nottingham. I will let you have his place during his absence if you will take it. You will not have to wait at the mess, but to accompany me at the targets—fit up the targets, paint them, signal, and see that all is right for shooting.” “Thank you, sir,” said I, from a heart full of thanks; “I shall be ready when called upon, sir.” The Captain then went away, and I proceeded to complete my equipment for going on guard. I was on the first post of the barrack guard. I had not been walking sentry “go” for many minutes ere a relief man came to take my place, telling me that I was wanted by Captain Lloyd. I promptly repaired to the Captain’s quarters, and Captain Lloyd told me that he had given Johnson permission to take his leave on the next day. “Go,” said he to me, “and tell the sergeant to strike you off the mess, as you are now my fatigue man for two months at least.” I followed out the instructions. My new duties were very agreeable in one sense, for while being engaged only three days per week (that being as much as the regiment could put in at ball-firing practice) I had full pay. The next morning we went to business. I hoisted the danger flags to keep trespassers away from the range, and, with help from another man, I got the targets in working order. The range was on the seaward side of Ayr, and the targets had always to be removed before the tide came in. I used to take my paint cans (the paint was used to “face” the targets), danger flags, &c., at night to a fisherman’s hut at the mouth of the river Doon. The fisherman and his “guid leddy” were a very hospitable couple, and before I completed my visits to their dwelling, I got on very friendly terms with the family. To please the children I gave them coppers occasionally; of a penny the children thought about as much as a child in Keighley thinks of a shilling. Then I made “bargains” with the wife, exchanging money for “pulls” of brandy and “plugs” of tobacco. Her husband, it would seem, when he met with foreign vessels out at sea, would exchange with them fresh-water fish for brandy, tobacco, &c., so that the family had generally a good stock of these commodities on hand. In my new sphere of duty I had plenty of time hanging on my hands, quite ample to enable me to cultivate my muse. One of the pieces which I wrote was my verses commencing:—
In a pleasant little valley,Near the ancient town of Ayr,Where the laddies they are honest,And the lassies they are fair;Where the Doon in all her splendourRipples sweetly thro’ the wood,And on her banks not long agoA little cottage stood.’Twas there in all her splendour,On a January morn,Appeared old Colia’s genius,—When Robert Burns was born.
With the exception of one rather vivid experience, my career as attendant at the targets was devoid of any particular incident. One afternoon, when I had just finished my preparations for the shooting, Captain Clifford Lloyd came up to me leading an iron-grey horse. “Come here,” says he, “and mount this steed; and take her a mile or two down the beach.” The horse, it appeared, had just come to hand from Bohemia, and was of a very fiery disposition. The captain said she had not received her baptism of fire. I did according to orders, and took the fiery steed along the coast. She proved a very “wicked” animal, and a few yards prancing and capering made me heartily wish that I was safely onterra firma. Suddenly a volley was fired, and as suddenly the horse gave such a lurch that I was within an ace of being pitched where I wanted to get—though not quite so precipitately. Volley after volley was fired, and I lost all command over the snorting steed, which was flitting along at the rate of so many miles an hour. Had it not been for a heavy guard-cloak which I was wearing, and which by wrapping itself about the horse’s body assisted me to keep my seat, I should most certainly have been pitched to the ground. In my anxious moments I seriously thought of John Gilpin, and compared his famous ride to my own:—
Away went Gilpin, neck or nought;Away went hat and wig;He little thought when he set outOf running such a rig.
“Circumstances alter cases” we are told, and I compared my experience to that of John Gilpin in the following lines:—
Away went Hoylus, neck or nought,In spite of wind or tide;He little thought, when he set out,Of having such a ride.He held the reigns so tight and fastAs ne’er were held before;He took an oath—if he got downHe’d never mount once more.His cloak was like a parachute;It kept him on his steed.For ne’er a horse from here to HullEre ran with such a speed.He cursed aloud the unlucky starThat tempted him to roam;And wished the de’il had got his horse,And he were safe at home.
The horse wheeled, and gradually made towards the starting-point. As I drew within sight of the captain, he evidently comprehended my dangerous position, and came to my aid, shouting as he ran along, “Hold on; halt, if you can.” But I could not halt, and it took me all my time to hold on. The animal was about at the fag end, and allowed the captain to take the bridle. When Captain Lloyd told me to dismount, I can truly say that I obeyed his injunction more readily than I did the one to mount. I thanked my stars that I had come off as fortunately as I did. The captain took my place in the saddle. He had had a good deal of experience in horse-riding. Setting his spurs into the animal’s sides, he was instantly off like the wind. He went miles on the beach, and when he returned the horse was foaming at the mouth and trembling like an aspen leaf. To be sure, the “wicked” steed had had a successful breaking in if she had never had one before, and, when I ventured to hold the bridle, was as quiet as a lamb.
I acted as attendant at the targets about six months, and at the end of that time the regiment received orders to leave Ayr, and proceed to England. The day came for our departure, and there were the usual handshakings and embraces at the parting places. Our destination was Pontefract. Half of the number of the regiment accomplished the journey by boat, while the other half—among which was your humble servant—went by rail. As is usual in the circumstances, some of the men had taken unto themselves wives during their residence in Scotland. This they had done in an illegitimate or unsanctioned way, not having sought the sanction of the Colonel of the regiment; so that there was some difficulty in smuggling the Scotch lasses with the regiment. As we were leaving Ayr there was, I remember, a young fellow—a wild, uncouth youth who came to me and begged me to get him over to England with the regiment. I told him that if he would get his hair cut and tidy himself I would provide him with a soldier’s uniform; if he donned himself in that there would be a possibility of getting him over. He accordingly got his hair cut, and when he had put himself into a spare uniform which I had got out, he looked quite a different individual. We all went to the station, and the train started. At Carlisle we were allowed a “hot dinner;” this is usually provided for soldiers when travelling at the end of every hundred miles. But instead of a hot dinner, it turned out this time to be a cold one—sandwiches, &c. In the compartment in which I was riding there were several petticoat followers, and, of course, the commissariat did not provide for their wants. Therefore we set ourselves planning and scheming in order to obtain some dinner for them. When we got to the refreshment room, a few of us went in at the usual entrance, obtained our regular allowance, and retired through the back door. We then went round to the front again, and succeeded in getting a second allowance, thus providing for the wives of the soldiers. One of the women was the Scotch lassie I mentioned previously, and who inquired so anxiously about me as I was showing a policeman the way to the Ayr Town Hall one evening. The journey was resumed, and Pontefract safely reached early next morning. After a few days waiting the remainder of the regiment, who had come over by boat, arrived. They had had a very rough time of it on the sea, and several of them told me they never expected to reach England. The sea was very rough, and during one part of the passage Captain Selborne (of No. 7 Company) was heard shouting to the soldiers to kneel down and pray as the vessel was going to be wrecked. The regiment spent a few days in Pontefract and was then disbanded. I had begun to be rather homesick, and as a favour Captain Clifford Lloyd allowed me to have my pay (which amounted to a nice sum, as, having lived with Captain Lloyd, I had been able to save practically the whole of my allowance) early, and I started for home a day or two in advance of the rest. Wearing my uniform I walked on to Featherstone, where I got into a train, as I thought, bound for Keighley. I happened to get into the compartment where Mr Ripley, of Ripley’s dyeworks, Bradford, was riding. We entered into conversation, and when I told him that I belonged to Keighley, he surprised me by saying I had got into the wrong train. The train, as I found, went no further than Bradford, and there was not one forward to Keighley at that late hour. Mr Ripley, however, took me to the Great Northern Hotel, and introduced me to the landlady, telling her that I was a young soldier, and ordering her to provide a bed for me for the night, and to let me have anything I might ask for in the way of food. Next morning I buckled myself up for going forward to Keighley. But, thought I, I must not go home in my regimentals. So I went to a clothier’s shop, and exchanged my uniform for a fashionable suit of brown, and then I looked like a thorough foreigner. I have hitherto forgot to mention a Scotch cap which I bought in Edinburgh to serve as a memento of my visit to “Auld Reekie.” Up to now I had not worn the cap, but I now put it on, and continued to wear it for a long while. “My old Scotch cap” led me to pen the following verses:—
I met thee first in happy days,When youthful fire was all ablaze,When lovely sun spread forth its raysOn bud and sap.And now with pride I on thee gaze,My old Scotch cap.
Were ever I ashamed at all,In church or chapel, feast or ball,In cottage, park, or famous hall,O’ thee, old chap?’Mongst rich or poor, or great or small,My old Scotch cap?
I still remember with a smileWhen we sailed from the coast o’ Kyle,And took a boat for Erin’s IsleI took a nap—Thou wert my pillow all the while,My brave Scotch cap.
I mind the night we came acrossThat dreadful common, called the Moss,’Midst wind and rain, and tempest tossed—And thunderclapI did begin to fear thy loss,My old Scotch cap.
And like Ajax, in ancient days,When he defied the lightning’s rays,I sought thee, ’midst the glowing blaze,And found thy trap;And caught thee in my fond embrace—My old Scotch cap.
Onterra firmaor on sea,Old cap I ken thy pedigree;And if we separated beDeath’s cord shall snap—For I will ne’er abandon thee,My old Scotch cap.
I reached Keighley safely; my parents again killed the fatted calf, and right loyally did they welcome their prodigal son. I kept from the fact that I had been a soldier while I had been away, and for a long time very few people knew what I had really been doing during my three years’ absence from my native town. Everybody complimented me on my sleek and robust appearance. In due course I applied to Mr Edwin Hattersley, manufacturer, North Brook Works, for a job at warp-dressing, and he readily provided me with one. For a few weeks I was made a sort of god of among my friends.
When I got home to Keighley, the authorities were busily engaged in forming a corps of Rifle Volunteers in the town. The commanding officer was the late Captain Busfeild Ferrand, of St. Ives, Bingley. I was asked to enlist by sergeant (afterwards captain) Henry Wright (now magistrate’s clerk at Keighley), but objected at first, as each Volunteer had to purchase his own clothing and accoutrements. However, I was told that if I would join I should have my uniform, &c., free; and I believe I am correct in stating that I was the first in the Keighley corps to have my outfit on these terms. I became a Volunteer. At this time the gentry of the town and district took a great deal more interest in the Volunteer movement than they do to-day. Tradesmen, especially, readily joined the corps, and it was not long ere the first Company was filled up, and a second Company started in the town. Entertainments were frequently given by the officers.
One of these popular functions was given by Captain Busfeild Ferrand. It took the form of a splendid banquet, which was served at the Devonshire Hotel by mine host and hostess, Mr and Mrs Cheeseborough. (Mr Cheeseborough was subsequently the superintendent of police at Keighley). The fact that the banquet cost the Captain over £1 per head may afford some idea of the scale of its magnificence. The guests comprised the gentry of the neighbourhood, and also many from a distance. Several military officers of high rank were present—Colonel Wombwell, Captain McMurdock, &c. The Rector of Keighley (the Rev. W. Busfeild) was among the guests; also, his two sons, both of them officers in the Army. “After a sumptuous repast,” as the newspapers have it, Captain Busfeild Ferrand rose and proposed the health of the Queen, eulogising the excellent qualities of Her Majesty. The Captain was a very loyal subject, as may be judged by the severity of his threat—that if any Volunteer present did not drink to the health of the Queen he would have him struck off the rolls. The Rev. W. Busfeild proposed the “Army and Navy,” and, in the course of a felicitous speech, mentioned that he was the proud father of two sons who were now officers in the Army, and of another who was in the Navy—a sentiment which was applauded to the very echo. Other toasts were honoured, and speeches made, and throughout the proceedings the greatest enthusiasm and good feeling prevailed. There was one present whom I shall always remember—the late Mr George Hattersley, the founder of the firm of George Hattersley & Sons, and the father of Alderman R. L. Hattersley. Mr George Hattersley was a volunteer in the days of Wellington and Bonaparte, and was one of the—if not the one—oldest Volunteers present. “Our comrade, Mr George Hattersley,” was toasted with musical honours and great cheering by the whole company. During the evening Captain Ferrand gave some very interesting and laughable anecdotes about his military experiences, especially as a Cavalryman during the Plug-drawing and Chartist Riots. He told us that his uncle, Major Ferrand, had commanded the Bingley corps of Volunteers, and Captain Ellis, of Bingley, the Keighley detachment. The time had come to pass, however, when they had exchanged places, Captain Ellis being placed in charge of the Bingley section, and he (Captain Busfeild Ferrand) taking the place of his uncle at Keighley. The Captain went on to tell us how he had a military “head” when he was a boy, and caused roars of laughter by saying he had frequently bestridden a donkey grazing in the field, and set off on the “war path,” imagining himself some great general. Throughout, the proceedings were almost inconceivably brilliant and enjoyable, and it was well after the “wee short hour beyont the twal” when the National Anthem was sung.
The first field day the Keighley Volunteers had was at York. We formed part of the West Riding Battalion, and the object of the gathering was a grand review by the Duke of Cambridge. Unfortunately the day was a very wet one, and, in consequence, the review turned out a failure. In those days the Volunteers were not provided with great coats, and a torrential downpour soon wet every man to the skin. Reviewing under these conditions would have been decidedly uncomfortable and unsatisfactory; consequently, the whole battalion was dismissed, and told to seek shelter in the best places they could find. The Keighley detachment went in batches into the city. Drill-Sergeant Chick would have me to go with him into the nearest tavern. The drill-sergeant was a remarkable man in his way, and over a glass of ale he declared, with an unblushing countenance, that he had been in some parts of the world where it had rained ten times heavier for twelve months at a time than it was doing that day. Of course, I, in my modesty kept quiet, and did not challenge the veracity of the statement of this wonderful man. Yes; there were some “fine” boys among the Volunteers in those days. We had some very popular non-commissioned officers who were very kind to us, which made it a pleasure to serve under them.
The next review was at Doncaster, shortly afterwards, when the day was about as hot as it was wet on the occasion of the abandoned review at York. The commissariat was ample for every man, but it was generally thought that an improvement might have been effected by substituting something for the “cayenne pies,”aliaspork pies. Each man had a lb. pork pie and two pints of beer allowed. The pies were hotly peppered, and we all declared that they would have given a dog the hydrophobia. Then the pint pots for drinking ran short—a cruel occurrence on a hot and dry day. Only half-a-dozen of these drinking utensils fell to the Keighley detachment, and they fell into the hands of six of the “smartest” lads in the whole corps—Privates Billy Bentley, Jack Thom, John Hargreaves, Ned Thretten, Jack Wilkinson, and Long Stanhope. I, for one, badly wanted to quench my thirst, but was unable to do so, for the above-mentioned six brave soldiers stuck to their guns—that is, their pint pots, manfully, and there was no prospect of a drink until they had fairly “put the dust down.” At last, however, I managed to get a pot, but had it taken from me as I was drinking. Captain Thomas Blakey went up to Private Bentley and asked, “Are you a married man, Bentley?” “Yes,” replied Bentley. “Have you got any family?” “I have,” said Bentley. “Well,” said Captain Blakey, “you’d better take a dozen of these pies home to your children.” “Does ta want me ta give ’em t’ hydrophobia? Why, I wodn’t give ’em ta t’ cat!” But at this stage “Fall in” was sounded. The parade went through with satisfaction, and the review was as much a success as that at York was a failure. General McMurdoch was the Commander-in-chief, and he specially commended the Keighley corps for the march past and volley-firing, and said his comments would be forwarded to the proper quarter.
The time came round for the respective regiments taking part in the review to turn their faces homeward. The detachments from the Keighley and Bradford districts entrained together. Every man was crying out of thirst, and at Normanton one of the officers, belonging to Skipton, had the train stopped. How we blessed him for it! We detrained in a body, and rushed to the big pump on the platform (used to fill the locomotive boilers). The water was turned on, and, besides quenching his thirst on the spot, each Volunteer filled his water-bottle. This was a “movement” which took some time to execute; and it was, I must say, very considerate of the station officials to allow us to spend so much time to have a cheap drink. Major W. L. Marriner and Quartermaster Barber Hopkinson (of whom I shall have something further to say afterwards) were with us, both doing their best to pacify their men until they could have their thirst slaked. Quartermaster Hopkinson “had his hands full” in looking after his “boys.” Well, the soldiers, having all got their bottles filled with water, re-entered the train, and the journey forward to Keighley was accomplished without further incident calling for notice.
When the Volunteers reached home there was the inevitable reaction—the “review” men had “a drink at t’heead on ’t,” and another, and another; and for two or three days they were to be seen straggling about the streets. There was one disagreeable incident that occurred to mar the pleasant termination of the review, locally considered. That was the dismissal of Drill-sergeant Chick from the regiment at the instance of Captain Leper, who was the adjutant for the Bradford and Keighley divisional corps. The drill-sergeant’s offence consisted, it appeared, in “speaking when not spoken to.” I have previously made mention that the Keighley corps were complimented by the commanding officer for their march past and volley-firing. When making his remarks, General McMurdock wanted to know the name of the corps. Captain Leper (a Bradfordian) replied, “Bradford, sir.” Sergeant Chick, in his enthusiasm, and knowing that they were his own men who were alluded to, shouted, “No, sir; it’s Keighley.” This “flagrant misconduct” on the part of a subordinate incensed Captain Leper—this was seen by the “wicked” impression on the captain’s face—who was not long in telling poor Chick that he had been dismissed the regiment. This was a hard blow to the drill-sergeant, who had drilled his men so that they marched as one man; but, to Captain Leper’s credit, let it be said that he subsequently endeavoured to get Sergeant Chick re-instated. The dismissal, however had gone through the oracle of the Horse Guards, and to withdraw was impossible. Captain Leper then found employment for him at Bradford in looking after the orderly-room, &c., and with his remuneration from this source, and a small army pension, the ex-drill-sergeant managed to live in comparative comfort.
Volunteering at Keighley went on in its own quiet and peaceful way. I might, perhaps, mention one incident which took place while the Keighley companies were drilling in the old Showfield one Saturday afternoon. Lieutenant (or Ensign, I forget which for the moment) Joseph Craven, of Steeton, was in charge of a squad of us. Now, Mr Craven was somewhat corpulent—there was no mistake about that, and marching about under a hot sun was clearly not accomplished without great exertion and copious perspiration. The members of the squad soon comprehended the position in which their drill-master was, and they determined to give him “quick march.” When he gave the order “Quick march!” from the front, the “boys” did march to some tune. Their commander soon found it necessary to step from the front, and he was left a good distance behind. But he soon discovered their little “game,” and proved himself “quite up to their trick.” By calling out “halt” at intervals, he found himself able to keep up fairly well with the men. In his next drills he was considerately allowed by Captain Busfeild Ferrand to go about on horseback. Mr Craven was known among us as a very genial and sociable officer, and he enjoyed the respect and esteem of those under him. There were circumstances, however, which caused his retirement from the Volunteer corps, after a comparatively short service.
The Keighley corps, along with the battalion of which it formed a part, and many other regiments from various parts of the country, were next ordered to Dover, to take part in a gigantic review there. In all there would be about 30,000 troops gathered, these including both Regulars and Volunteers of all grades and classes. His Majesty the King of the Belgians was to be present at the review. The Keighley contingent left the town on the Saturday morning before one Easter-Monday, and finally arrived at St. Pancras at 11 o’ clock at night. We marched to the barracks of the Surrey Volunteers, who gave us a right loyal and warm reception, and, indeed, showed us the most extreme kindness throughout our stay with them; and this good feeling between the Surrey Rifles and the Keighley Rifles has, I believe, been continued down to the present moment. Captain Irving evinced a deep interest in us, and he remained with us until a late (or early) retiring-hour, amusing us with his Cockney yarns. In the morning we took part in a
It was a pleasant Sunday morning, and I was out of the barracks early, taking a few miles’ walk. I was back in readiness for the parade, which saw us at the Abbey in good time, and we were permitted to look through the beautiful edifice, and admire and reverence the interesting national mementoes within its walls. We took our seats in time for the service. Dean Stanley was the preacher, and I regarded it a fine treat to have the privilege of listening to such an eloquent sermon as the Dean delivered on “The Passover.” I must confess that there were certain passages in the rev. gentleman’s discourse which I could not fairly understand; but, perhaps that was owing a great deal to my attention being centred elsewhere. Opposite me sat an elderly gentleman, clean shaven, with close-cut side whiskers. This gentleman was very attentive to the sermon, and likewise to his Prayer-book. Sergeant Midgley (who is at present in Keighley), a fellow-Volunteer, whispered in my ear, “Do you know that old gentleman across the aisle?” “No,” replied I. He told me he was no less a personage than Mr Jefferson Davis, Ex-president of the Confederate States of America. Instantly my mind was involuntarily set a-thinking about the American Civil War, and its four years of human butchery—all brought about by this man in front of me who was now coolly listening to the word of God! However, the service was over, and the Volunteers filed out of the church and marched to the strains of their drum and fife band, which played rollicking tunes to the delight of the rollicking Yorkshiremen. When we got in front of the Bank of England, Captain Allan Brown (commanding the Keighley detachment) halted and dismissed us until seven in the evening.
We broke up into parties. Billy Bentley, John Walton, Thomas Ackroyd, William Brown, and Ben Atkinson were in the party which I joined. Bentley had served as a policeman in London, and knew his way about the metropolis fairly well; Ackroyd had worked as a tailor in the big city, and I myself had been there before; so that we were able to find our way about very well. We went through St. Paul’s Cathedral, and then on to Trafalgar Square, passing, on our way, through St. James’ Park, just outside of which we saw the cluster of monuments to the Crimean heroes who fought for “England’s home and beauty.” We also visited the Duke of Wellington’s house, and spent a short time in Hyde Park. Having viewed the extensive block of buildings comprising Buckingham Palace, we passed into Regent-street and here the party broke up.
It was here that I met with Mr Frederick Carrodus, brother of the eminent violinist, Mr John Tiplady Carrodus, who, by the way, paid a visit to his native town of Keighley a few weeks ago. Mr Fred Carrodus had with him a gentleman whom he introduced to me as Mr Hermann, pianoforte manufacturer, and to whom I was introduced by Mr Carrodus as Bill o’ th’ Hoylus End, the Yorkshire poet. For four or five hours we were bosom friends and comrades, as it were. Mr Hermann knew his way about London to perfection, and he took me to many places “to see what I could see.” He had always his hands down to pay, telling me that he would treat the Yorkshire poet as long as he was with him; and that he did. It was tolerably late at night when Mr Carrodus and Mr Hermann and I saidau revoirto one another. I made my way as quickly as possible to the Surrey barracks, and my hurried journey must have caused no little wonder and alarm in the minds of the easy-going Londoners whom I met and passed. Seven o’clock was the time when I should have been in the barracks but it was much after that hour. However, an explanation to Captain Brown set matters right.
Next morning, about four o’clock, the bugle sounded thereveilleand soon after we were all in marching order. We proceeded by an early train on the Chatham and Dover Railway, and by nine o’clock in the morning had reached our destination—Dover. It was, I think, one of the coldest and most miserable mornings I ever experienced. The sea was very rough, the waves lashing on the roadway; and the rain came down in torrents. During the night there had been such a storm in the Channel, the natives said, that had not been equalled for half-a-century. The whole of the soldiers were paraded on the Esplanade, but they were again and again forced back from the edge of the shore, until there was really no room to pile arms. General Lindsay saw the situation, and came riding up with several officers, with whom he held a sort of council of war. Before they had arrived at a decision, the waves had come over the beach and dashed right up to where the soldiers were standing. “It’s no use,” said General Lindsey, “this review is a forlorn hope—I must dismiss the parade.” He then gave the whole of the Volunteers orders to dismiss until three o’clock in the afternoon. The men dispersed in various directions, and just as they had got pretty nearly cleared away, up rode the Duke of Cambridge and Prince Arthur (now Duke of Connaught). The two Royal personages drew up in front of a large hotel, and out of curiosity I remained standing by. The Duke was in a very angry mood, and demanded to know who had dismissed the parade. Upon this, General Lindsey made his appearance in the doorway of the hotel, and, addressing the Duke of Cambridge, said:—“Your Royal Highness,—Owing to the severe inclemency of the weather, I have thought fit to dismiss the parade until three o’clock in the afternoon.” “You had no business to do such a thing,” the Duke hotly replied. “It will be a failure, and His Majesty the King of Belgium will be disappointed. Send out youraid-de-campto bring everyone in—never mind the weather.” The storm was still raging. I noticed a couple of steamers in the offing. They were coming from France, and the passengers were Volunteers who had been in that country since Saturday. The vessels could be seen buffeting with the waves, and it was noticed that the funnels of the steamers were missing, having, as we afterwards learned, been blown away by the violent wind and heavy sea. It was about this period that a small vessel—a gunboat, I think it was—the “Ferret,” was driven on the rocks in front of the Castle, and dashed to pieces. The crew managed to get off by the boats. For a time it was believed that a boy on the boat had been lost, but he was subsequently rescued. After much delay the two steamers were able to land the Volunteers, who told a terrible tale of their rough voyage across the Channel.
In the meantime, the Duke of Cambridge was “drilling” General Lindsey for dismissing the troops. Wise, perhaps, in my generation, I stole away on hearing the General instructed to re-collect the troops, and got into the back quarters of the town. I finally found myself in a tavern kept by an old cobbler, and he allowed me to dry my soaked uniform. Through a window in the house I could watch the movements of the troops who had been got together again. Soon after dinner there was a calm in the weather; the rain ceased and the sun came out.
I could see regiment after regiment ascend the Heights of Dover. Now, a battalion of “stragglers” was being formed, so, after having partaken of refreshment, I emerged from my lair. I found a trooper in waiting at the end of the passage, and he ordered me to double to and fall in quick or he would “prick” me. I joined the “stragglers.” We climbed the Heights together, and then each man joined his own regiment. While all this was going on sailors from vessels anchored in the harbour had been dragging big guns up the heights; and, in fact, the preparations that were made favoured the idea that a real engagement was about to take place. When all was in readiness
was given. There was a tremendous cannonading, which would be heard for some distance. Then there were movements by the cavalry soldiers, who, in their charges, trampled down hedges, corn and, in truth, everything that came in their way. This did really seem to me a ruthless and unjustifiable proceeding. The manœuvres concluded with volley-firing by the respective companies of the various regiments. General McDonald gave the Keighley Volunteers great praise for their efficiency in volley-firing. The sham fight lasted over three hours, and was witnessed with apparent interest by the King of Belgium and his staff. At the conclusion, each regiment went in its own direction. The Keighley contingent returned to the Surrey barracks, arriving about 10 o’clock at night. We found a grand banquet awaiting us, and this, I need scarcely say, was very welcome after a truly hard day’s work. The repast was succeeded by an entertainment, at which there were vocal and instrumental music, and readings and recitations, by several of the Keighley representatives and the Surrey officers. Captain Irving gave readings in the Cockney dialect, which immensely amused the Yorkshiremen. The Haworth Drill-sergeant recited “Cockhill Moor Snake,” and Bill o’ th’ Hoylus End gave “Jack o’ th’ Syke Hill” and “Come, nivver dee i’ thi shell, owd lad,”—the latter of which our townsman, Squire Leach, publicly recited on his marriage day, and a few verses of which I am tempted to introduce here:—
“Come, nivver dee i’ thi shell, owd lad,”Are words but rudely said,Tho’ they may cheer some stricken heart,Or raise some wretched head;For they are words ah love,They’re music to mi ear;They muster up fresh energyTo chase each doubt an’ fear.
Nivver dee i’ thi shell, owd lad,Tho’ some may laugh an’ scorn;Ther’ wor nivver a neet afore ta neetBut what ther come a morn.An’ if blind fortune’s used thee bad,Sho’s happen noan so meean;To morn’ll come, an’ then for someT’ sun’ll shine ageean.
Nivver dee i’ thi shell, owd lad,But let thi motto be—“Onward!” an’ “Excelsior!”An’ try for t’ top o’ t’ tree;An’ if thy enemies still pursue(Which ten ta one they will),Show ’em, owd lad, thou’rt doing weel,An’ climbin’ up the hill.
Very pleasant hours were those spent with the Surrey Volunteers that night in spite of our tired and wearied condition. Next day we returned to Keighley, only to find that after our week’s absence the town had not altered very much!