第 四十二 章 · A SOLDIER’S DINNER

. A SOLDIER’S DINNER

James of the Needle was a man of his word when whisky was no party to

the contract; and upon this occasion Callum Beg, who still thought

himself in Waverley’s debt, since he had declined accepting

compensation at the expense of mine host of the Candlestick’s person,

took the opportunity of discharging the obligation, by mounting guard

over the hereditary tailor of Sliochd nan Ivor; and, as he expressed

himself, “targed him tightly” till the finishing of the job. To rid

himself of this restraint, Shemus’s needle flew through the tartan like

lightning; and as the artist kept chanting some dreadful skirmish of

Fin Macoul, he accomplished at least three stitches to the death of

every hero. The dress was, therefore, soon ready, for the short coat

fitted the wearer, and the rest of the apparel required little

adjustment.

Our hero having now fairly assumed the “garb of old Gaul,” well

calculated as it was to give an appearance of strength to a figure

which, though tall and well-made, was rather elegant than robust, I

hope my fair readers will excuse him if he looked at himself in the

mirror more than once, and could not help acknowledging that the

reflection seemed that of a very handsome young fellow. In fact, there

was no disguising it. His light-brown hair—for he wore no periwig,

notwithstanding the universal fashion of the time—became the bonnet

which surmounted it. His person promised firmness and agility, to which

the ample folds of the tartan added an air of dignity. His blue eye

seemed of that kind,

Which melted in love, and which kindled in war;

and an air of bashfulness, which was in reality the effect of want of

habitual intercourse with the world, gave interest to his features,

without injuring their grace or intelligence.

“He’s a pratty man, a very pratty man,” said Evan Dhu (now Ensign

Maccombich) to Fergus’s buxom landlady.

“He’s vera weel,” said the Widow Flockhart, “but no naething sae

weel-far’d as your colonel, ensign.”

“I was na comparing them,” quoth Evan, “nor was I speaking about his

being weel-favoured; but only that Mr. Waverley looks clean-made and

_deliver_, and like a proper lad o’ his quarters, that will not cry

barley in a brulzie. And, indeed, he’s gleg aneuch at the broadsword

and target. I hae played wi’ him mysell at Glennaquoich, and sae has

Vich Ian Vohr, often of a Sunday afternoon.”

“Lord forgie ye, Ensign Maccombich,” said the alarmed Presbyterian;

“I’m sure the colonel wad never do the like o’ that!”

“Hout! hout! Mrs. Flockhart,” replied the ensign, “we’re young blude,

ye ken; and young saints, auld deils.”

“But will ye fight wi’ Sir John Cope the morn, Ensign Maccombich?”

demanded Mrs. Flockhart of her guest.

“Troth I’se ensure him, an he’ll bide us, Mrs. Flockhart,” replied the

Gael.

“And will ye face thae tearing chields, the dragoons, Ensign

Maccombich?” again inquired the landlady.

“Claw for claw, as Conan said to Satan, Mrs. Flockhart, and the deevil

tak the shortest nails.”

“And will the colonel venture on the bagganets himsell?”

“Ye may swear it, Mrs. Flockhart; the very first man will he be, by

Saint Phedar.”

“Merciful goodness! and if he’s killed amang the redcoats!” exclaimed

the soft-hearted widow.

“Troth, if it should sae befall, Mrs. Flockhart, I ken ane that will no

be living to weep for him. But we maun a’ live the day, and have our

dinner; and there’s Vich Ian Vohr has packed his _dorlach_, and Mr.

Waverley’s wearied wi’ majoring yonder afore the muckle pier-glass; and

that grey auld stoor carle, the Baron o’ Bradwardine that shot young

Ronald of Ballenkeiroch, he’s coming down the close wi’ that droghling

coghling bailie body they ca’ Macwhupple, just like the Laird o’

Kittlegab’s French cook, wi’ his turnspit doggie trindling ahint him,

and I am as hungry as a gled, my bonny dow; sae bid Kate set on the

broo’, and do ye put on your pinners, for ye ken Vich Ian Vohr winna

sit down till ye be at the head o’ the table;—and dinna forget the pint

bottle o’ brandy, my woman.”

This hint produced dinner. Mrs. Flockhart, smiling in her weeds like

the sun through a mist, took the head of the table, thinking within

herself, perhaps, that she cared not how long the rebellion lasted that

brought her into company so much above her usual associates. She was

supported by Waverley and the Baron, with the advantage of the

chieftain _vis-à-vis_. The men of peace and of war, that is, Bailie

Macwheeble and Ensign Maccombich, after many profound _congés_ to their

superiors and each other, took their places on each side of the

Chieftain. Their fare was excellent, time, place, and circumstances

considered, and Fergus’s spirits were extravagantly high. Regardless of

danger, and sanguine from temper, youth, and ambition, he saw in

imagination all his prospects crowned with success, and was totally

indifferent to the probable alternative of a soldier’s grave. The Baron

apologized slightly for bringing Macwheeble. They had been providing,

he said, for the expenses of the campaign. “And, by my faith,” said the

old man, “as I think this will be my last, so I just end where I began:

I hae evermore found the sinews of war, as a learned author calls the

_caisse militaire_, mair difficult to come by than either its flesh,

blood, or bones.”

“What! have you raised our only efficient body of cavalry and got ye

none of the louis-d’or out of the Doutelle[*] to help you?”

[* The Doutelle was an armed vessel which brought a small supply of

money and arms from France for the use of the insurgents.]

“No, Glennaquoich; cleverer fellows have been before me.”

“That’s a scandal,” said the young Highlander; “but you will share what

is left of my subsidy; it will save you an anxious thought tonight, and

will be all one tomorrow, for we shall all be provided for, one way or

other, before the sun sets.” Waverley, blushing deeply, but with great

earnestness, pressed the same request.

“I thank ye baith, my good lads,” said the Baron, “but I will not

infringe upon your _peculium_. Bailie Macwheeble has provided the sum

which is necessary.”

Here the Bailie shifted and fidgeted about in his seat, and appeared

extremely uneasy. At length, after several preliminary hems, and much

tautological expression of his devotion to his honour’s service, by

night or day, living or dead, he began to insinuate, “that the banks

had removed a’ their ready cash into the Castle; that, nae doubt,

Sandie Goldie, the silversmith, would do mickle for his honour; but

there was little time to get the wadset made out; and, doubtless, if

his honour Glennaquoich or Mr. Wauverley could accommodate—”

“Let me hear of no such nonsense, sir,” said the Baron, in a tone which

rendered Macwheeble mute, “but proceed as we accorded before dinner, if

it be your wish to remain in my service.”

To this peremptory order the Bailie, though he felt as if condemned to

suffer a transfusion of blood from his own veins into those of the

Baron, did not presume to make any reply. After fidgeting a little

while longer, however, he addressed himself to Glennaquoich, and told

him, if his honour had mair ready siller than was sufficient for his

occasions in the field, he could put it out at use for his honour in

safe hands and at great profit at this time.

At this proposal Fergus laughed heartily, and answered, when he had

recovered his breath—“Many thanks, Bailie; but you must know, it is a

general custom among us soldiers to make our landlady our banker. Here,

Mrs. Flockhart,” said he, taking four or five broad pieces out of a

well-filled purse and tossing the purse itself, with its remaining

contents, into her apron, “these will serve my occasions; do you take

the rest. Be my banker if I live, and my executor if I die; but take

care to give something to the Highland _cailliachs_[*] that shall cry

the coronach loudest for the last Vich Ian Vohr.”

[* Old women, on whom devolved the duty of lamenting for the dead,

which the Irish call _Keening_.]

“It is the _testamentum militare_,” quoth the Baron, “whilk, amang the

Romans, was privilegiate to be nuncupative.” But the soft heart of Mrs.

Flockhart was melted within her at the Chieftain’s speech; she set up a

lamentable blubbering, and positively refused to touch the bequest,

which Fergus was therefore obliged to resume.

“Well, then,” said the Chief, “if I fall, it will go to the grenadier

that knocks my brains out, and I shall take care he works hard for it.”

Bailie Macwheeble was again tempted to put in his oar; for where cash

was concerned he did not willingly remain silent. “Perhaps he had

better carry the gowd to Miss Mac-Ivor, in case of mortality or

accidents of war. It might tak the form of a _mortis causa_ donation in

the young leddie’s favour, and—wad cost but the scrape of a pen to mak

it out.”

“The young lady,” said Fergus, “should such an event happen, will have

other matters to think of than these wretched louis-d’or.”

“True—undeniable—there’s nae doubt o’ that; but your honour kens that a

full sorrow—”

“Is endurable by most folk more easily than a hungry one? True, Bailie,

very true; and I believe there may even be some who would be consoled

by such a reflection for the loss of the whole existing generation. But

there is a sorrow which knows neither hunger nor thirst; and poor

Flora—” He paused, and the whole company sympathised in his emotion.

The Baron’s thoughts naturally reverted to the unprotected state of his

daughter, and the big tear came to the veteran’s eye. “If I fall,

Macwheeble, you have all my papers and know all my affairs; be just to

Rose.”

The Bailie was a man of earthly mould, after all; a good deal of dirt

and dross about him, undoubtedly, but some kindly and just feelings he

had, especially where the Baron or his young mistress were concerned.

He set up a lamentable howl. “If that doleful day should come, while

Duncan Macwheeble had a boddle it should be Miss Rose’s. He wald scroll

for a plack the sheet or she kenn’d what it was to want; if indeed a’

the bonnie baronie o’ Bradwardine and Tully-Veolan, with the fortalice

and manor-place thereof (he kept sobbing and whining at every pause),

tofts, crofts, mosses, muirs—outfield,

infield—buildings—orchards—dove-cots—with the right of net and coble in

the water and loch of Veolan—teinds, parsonage and vicarage—annexis,

connexis—rights of pasturage—feul, feal and divot—parts, pendicles, and

pertinents whatsoever—(here he had recourse to the end of his long

cravat to wipe his eyes, which overflowed, in spite of him, at the

ideas which this technical jargon conjured up)—all as more fully

described in the proper evidents and titles thereof—and lying within

the parish of Bradwardine and the shire of Perth—if, as aforesaid, they

must a’ pass from my master’s child to Inch-Grabbit, wha’s a Whig and a

Hanoverian, and be managed by his doer, Jamie Howie, wha’s no fit to be

a birlieman, let be a bailie—”

The beginning of this lamentation really had something affecting, but

the conclusion rendered laughter irresistible. “Never mind, Bailie,”

said Ensign Maccombich, “for the gude auld times of rugging and riving

(pulling and tearing) are come back again, an’ Sneckus Mac-Snackus

(meaning, probably, annexis, connexis), and a’ the rest of your

friends, maun gie place to the langest claymore.”

“And that claymore shall be ours, Bailie,” said the Chieftain, who saw

that Macwheeble looked very blank at this intimation.

“We’ll give them the metal our mountain affords,

Lillibulero, bullen a la,

And in place of broad-pieces, we’ll pay with broadswords,

Lero, lero, etc.

With duns and with debts we will soon clear our score,

Lillibulero, etc.

For the man that’s thus paid will crave payment no more,

Lero, lero, etc.[*]

[* These lines, or something like them, occur in an old magazine of the

period.]

But come, Bailie, be not cast down; drink your wine with a joyous

heart; the Baron shall return safe and victorious to Tully-Veolan, and

unite Killancureit’s lairdship with his own, since the cowardly

half-bred swine will not turn out for the Prince like a gentleman.”

“To be sure, they lie maist ewest,”[*] said the Bailie, wiping his

eyes, “and should naturally fa’ under the same factory.”

[* That is, contiguous.]

“And I,” proceeded the Chieftain, “shall take care of myself, too; for

you must know, I have to complete a good work here, by bringing Mrs.

Flockhart into the bosom of the Catholic church, or at least half way,

and that is to your Episcopal meeting-house. O Baron! if you heard her

fine counter-tenor admonishing Kate and Matty in the morning, you, who

understand music, would tremble at the idea of hearing her shriek in

the psalmody of Haddo’s Hole.”

“Lord forgie you, colonel, how ye rin on! But I hope your honours will

tak tea before ye gang to the palace, and I maun gang and mask it for

you.”

So saying, Mrs. Flockhart left the gentlemen to their own conversation,

which, as might be supposed, turned chiefly upon the approaching events

of the campaign.