CHAPTER VI.
While in winter quarters, in the latter end of 1812, a detachment of recruits joined us from the depot at home, some of whom were attached to our company. Among them was a lad of the name of William Young, a native of Glasgow. His conduct and character were so strikingly different from that of his comrades, that he soon became an object of remark. He might then be about eighteen or nineteen years of age, prepossessing in his appearance; but his countenance was ‘sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,’—something seemed to lie heavy at his heart. When not on duty he was in the habit of wandering much by himself, and, unless when he could not avoid it, he rarely spoke to any one. When the weather did not permit him to ramble, he occupied himself in reading a small pocket Bible, which he always carried about with him, and often, while thus engaged, the tears could be seen trickling down his cheeks. Those of course were considered symptoms of religious feeling, and as such were ridiculed by the more brutal and illiterate part of his comrades; it was, however, confined to them, for there is a sacrednessattached to even the appearance of religion in the minds of those who have been brought up by religious parents, that however lax their own morality may be, prevents them from turning it into ridicule. Their hearts still cherish the recollection of the holy feelings which have been excited in their younger years, and untainted at the core, sigh to think they do not now feel as they were wont, that purity and happiness which by association must ever be connected with their religious observances. I felt interested in him, and soon acquired his confidence so far, that he confided to me the outlines of his story, up to the time of his enlisting. There seemed, however, to be a feeling of self-contempt mixed up with his grief, that prevented him from entering particularly into the circumstances which led to that step. What I learned was, that he had left a widowed mother and a sister behind, who had depended in a great measure upon him for support; that the Bible, which he was in the habit of reading, was the gift of his mother, when they parted; and although he felt pleasure and consolation from scanning its contents, there were other feelings connected with it which often led his thoughts far from what he was reading, and raised emotions in his mind that brought tears from his eyes. Without seeking to pry into what he seemed inclined to conceal, I endeavoured, by every means in my power, to turn the current of his thoughts into some other channel, but my efforts were unavailing; the destitute manner in which he had left his mother seemed to prey upon his mind, and although he conformed himself well enough to the duties he had to perform, yet he still remained the same melancholy, abstracted being as when I first knew him.
We had advanced some way into France, when one evening we were walking together, and talking of the possibility of our soon seeing home, as we had now some reason to expect peace.
‘I hope,’ said he, ‘that I will live to return to my poor mother; but if it should be my fate to fall, and yours to survive, there is one request I have to make.’
‘What is that?’ said I.
‘That you will send home this Bible to my mother; I have fastened a lock of my hair at a place she will remember, and think with pity and forgiveness of me when I am no more.’
‘Don’t let such melancholy reflections get the better of you,’ said I; ‘still hope for the best. I trust we shall both see our native land again, but should there be any necessity for it, and I survive, I will faithfully perform what you wish.’
A few days after, the battle of Orthes was fought. At night when the companies were mustered, poor William was missing: he had been detached with the sharp-shooters in the morning, to cover the advance of the column, and had been killed by a grape shot in the early part of the day. We were far past the place where he had fallen, and I could not return even had there been any chance of finding him among the numbers of dead and wounded that strewed the field. But he had given his Bible in charge to an officer’s servant, with whom he was acquainted, to place among his master’s baggage, as a place of greater security, from whom I received it, previous to our embarkation at Pauilhac, for Ireland. Between the Old and New Testaments, on the blank page, was fastened a lock of his hair, so disposed as to encircle the following passages, which were copied in a small hand, with the chapter and verse of each annexed:—
‘Refrain thy voice from weeping, and thine eyes from tears, for there is hope in thine end, saith the Lord, that thy children shall come again unto their own border.’
‘Fear not, thy Maker is thine husband.’
‘Commit thy fatherless children to my care.’
‘Call upon me in the day of trouble, I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me.’
Having brought the Bible home with me, I had now the melancholy task to perform, of delivering it to hisaged mother. Accordingly, when I had been a few days at home, I sought out her dwelling. She was absent when I first called; but I left the book, with a note, explaining the nature of my visit, and promising to return next day.
Agreeable to promise, having called at her house, I rapped at the door, but no one answered, and lifting the latch, to try whether it was locked, it opened, and I discovered the old woman sitting at a table, with the small Bible that I had brought, open before her, at the place which had been so particularly addressed to herself; her eyes were red with weeping, and she was so absorbed in grief, that she did not observe my entrance. Sensible that I had intruded rather abruptly, I attempted to withdraw; but she happened to lift up her head, and seeing a soldier in uniform, she rose hastily and came towards me: ‘Are you the kind lad that was here yesterday with this?’ (pointing to the Bible.) ‘I dinna ken how to be thankfu’ enough to you for being the bearer of my puir Willie’s dyin’ bequest. Come in an’ sit down. I was in a manner prepared for’t, by the kind considerate letter you sent me, and I thocht that I cou’d have borne’t wi’ some fortitude; but the sight o’ my dear laddie’s hand-writing and the lock o’ his hair, has opened a’ my wounds afresh. But I would be hard, hard hearted if I didna grieve for the loss o’ him that was aye sae guid and kind to me. Oh! the sight o’ that Bible brings things to my mind that maist dries up my heart a’ thegither; and if it wasna for the comfort that’s in’t, (that I hae always experienced) wad drive me out o’ my senses. It was bought on the day o’ my weddin’, and was carried wi’ me when I first entered the Lord’s house, after being joined heart an’ han’ wi’ a man that has left few like him behind. For twenty years, in joy an’ in trouble, it was my companion; and, alas! weel do I mind it, frae this book I read the blessed an’ faithfu’ promises o’ God to my dear husband in his last hours; an’ when the pangs o’ death were on him, an’ he held my han’ in his, takin’, as I thocht, an everlastin’fareweel o’ me, when my heart was burstin’ wi’ grief, the assurance gi’en me there that I would again meet wi’ him, gied me consolation in the midst o’ my distress.
‘When my boy listed, and was leaving me, I gied him this Bible, charging him never to forget the reading o’t, for there he wad find comfort in the hour o’ trouble.’
‘And it gives me pleasure,’ said I, ‘to inform you that he followed your advice.’
‘O ay! I am sure he did,’ replied she, ‘I canna doubt but his heart was right.’
‘His listin’ was a sair heart-break to me, for he had aye been sae guid an’ sae kind, an’ was the only stay that I had. Did he ever tell you what was the reason o’ him listin’?’
‘No,’ said I.
‘No, no, he was owre proud-spirited for that, puir fellow; but he is no the first that a silly woman has driven to ruin; an’ it’s a waesome thocht to me that a heart like his shou’d hae been thrown awa’ on a worthless tawpy, that didna care a preen about him.’
Having expressed a wish to hear the story to which she alluded, she proceeded: