"These rascals," said he, "are in arms in the mountains, and are such
a common nuisance to all, that Sir Charles Grey has already conceived
the idea of inviting the co-operation of our enemies the French, for
the extermination of all revolted blacks."

"Who leads them?" I inquired.

"Scipio, a leader of the revolted blacks in Hispaniola--the same
African savage who destroyed the family of Monsieur du Plessis and
abducted his daughter.  After suffering, within a short but bloody
month, many reverses from the arms of the French colonists, he fled
by sea, and reaching Guadaloupe, has incited the slaves of a wealthy
planter, named Monsieur George de Thoisy, some eight hundred in
number, to revolt, and carry off their master, whom they intend to
put to a barbarous death; at least, so I am informed by Lady
Kildonan, who is residing with his family.  Since then many mulattoes
and quadroons have joined him; thus his band musters nearly a
thousand strong."

"My lord, my company is barely a hundred rank and file!" said I
hesitatingly.

"But they are Scots Fusiliers, and those you are to attack are only a
band of wretched negroes.  As a sample how they mean to carry on the
war, the standard of our sable hero with the classic name, is a white
man's head upon a pike."

"This is encouraging!" said I, laughing.

"I am glad you think so."

"And my orders are----"

"To march at once, attack their fastness in the mountains, and save
M. de Thoisy if you can.  Root these fellows out, and show no
quarter, but take especial care that none of your men fall into their
hands, alive at least, if you can prevent it."

"Are they worse than other folks?" asked Rowland Haystone.

"I should think so--they eat their prisoners."

"Eat them!"

"Yes; after offering them up to an idol they have fashioned out of
the bones of white men."

"Well, Ellis, this is not a pleasant prospect for you after being
starved on that island for a month and more," said Glendonwyn.

"And this rich old planter----"

"They can't be particular to a shade, if they eat him," said
Haystone, laughing.

"Why?" I inquired.

"I don't think the old fellow will prove very digestible."

"You remember his daughters, Georgette, Claire, and Julie, three
handsome girls, whom we met at the ball here in Basse Terre, on the
night before La Fleur d'Epée was retaken," said Bruce.

"Yes," replied Haystone, twirling his whiskers (we were not permitted
a moustache in those days); "charming French Creole demoiselles, with
designs upon the liberty of mankind equal to those of Bonaparte and
all the Directory."

"They beat all the girls in the Antilles, windward and leeward," said
another, "and can flirt like the deuce."

"Ah--we understand all that," lisped our last accession of a sub from
the depôt; "but though we do make a little love in the Fusiliers, we
don't marry!"

"Do not jest thus, if you please, gentlemen," said Lord Kildonan;
"their father, poor man, must be saved, if possible.  He is, I
believe, a loyal old French royalist, and is now at the mercy of
absolute devils incarnate.  So to you, Ellis, I confide the duty of
saving him.  March, and take your whole company; but whatever you do,
do warily, for those black fellows are full of strategy and
wickedness.  See that your men keep sober, for kill-devil (new rum)
slays more than French bullets or the yellow fever.  Shoot all who
make the slightest resistance, or in fact, whom you find in arms."

"And philanthropists at home?" queried Glendonwyn.

"Philanthropists at home, who run no danger, and sleep sound in their
beds at night, may say exactly what they please.  With savages, one
must act the savage.  Are we to grant the courtesies of war and of
civilization to those who are ignorant alike of military honour and
the amenities of civilized life?  _Terror_ is the only argument they
understand; so, through terror, bloodshed, and death, must we speak
to them.  To strike terror into mere cannibals is to befriend them.
There sounds the bugle!  Gentlemen, to your companies.  Ellis,
good-bye; make quick work with Scipio and his Quacos, or you may be
too late to share in the recapture of La Fleur d'Epée."

In ten minutes after this, under the guidance of a faithful French
quadroon, I was on the march at the head of my company, and had
quitted the town of Basse Terre by the shady sun-proof avenue.

CHAPTER LXII.

THE DOS D'ANE.

As our time of morning parade in that season, was about the hour of
sunrise, our march towards the mountains was a very pleasant one.

The old castle or citadel of Basse Terre, which the valiant Benbow
besieged in vain, in 1702, still jutted, with its four great
bulwarks, in grim strength into the water.  Its walls were mounted by
sixty pieces of French ordnance, but now the British flag waved above
them; and as we marched on, we heard our band playing in the square,

  Between St. Johnstone's and Bonnie Dundee,
  I'll gar ye be fain to follow wi' me,

the old quickstep of the regiment.

A portion of this citadel was not more than thirty-five years old,
for when the British forces were there in 1759, it was blown up by
accident, and with it perished the Governor, Lieutenant-colonel
Desbrissay of Watson's Foot, the 38th or old Staffordshire regiment.
He was carried into the air, together with Major Trollop, and both
being found crushed to death, were buried in the Carmelite church,
were I saw their tombs.

Concerning the colonel, I remember Captain Glendonwyn relating an
anecdote, as we stood by his monument one day.

"Desbrissay," said he, "was a captain of infantry at the battle of
Rocaux, which was fought against Marshal Saxe, near Liege, on the
12th of October, 1746, when Sir John Ligonier, after doing all that a
brave general could, posted some British battalions in hollow squares
in rear of the _dorpts_ to secure the retreat of the army, which was
pressed by the splendid cavalry of Saxe, and which the Butcher of
Culloden was blundering by his cowardice and inability.  There
Desbrissay fell wounded, and while lying on the ground was run
through the body by a French officer, whose dastardly example was
immediately followed by some Walloon infantry, thirteen of whom
planted their bayonets in his body.  Yet Desbrissay did not die; he
was taken prisoner by the French, and by the skilful treatment of
their surgeons he recovered, for there are some men who possess as
many lives as a cat.

"One day, not long after his convalescence, being at dinner with
Marshal Count de Saxe, who was deemed the mirror of military honor,
and was ever kind and gentle to prisoners, the count said,--

"'Pray tell me, sir, if you know the officer who used you so
barbarously on the field of Rocaux?'

"'I do, M. le Maréchal.'

"'You do?"

"'Yes--as well as I know you, M. le Comte.'

"'Pray give me his name, that I may make him an example to all
France, by tearing the epaulettes from his shoulders, and disgracing
him in front of his regiment.'

"'Excuse me, M. le Comte,' replied the brave but gentle Desbrissay,
'I know his corps--I know his name, and I know his rank in the French
service, but I beg to decline pointing him out to you, contenting
myself with the hope, that one day I may meet him hand to hand on the
field of honour, and then, like a true English gentleman, shall I
avenge the savage wrong he and his soldiers did me on that fatal day
at Rocaux.'

"'Monsieur, you are most generous--I shall press you no further,'
said Count Saxe.

"So spoke the gallant Desbrissay, of the old 38th; but the day he
longed for never came; he was sent to serve in other lands, and
thirteen years after that shameful defeat near Liege, he perished in
Guadaloupe, and lies there interred in the church of the Carmelites."

And now, with this anecdote, we have brought the reader to the rising
ground which looks down on the town of Basse Terre, the capital of
the Isle of _Alto_, Guadaloupe, as it was named by the Spaniards,
because its _high_ mountains resembled those of the same name, which
rise in all their solemn beauty between the Tagus and the Guadiana in
the Estramadura of old Spain.

Many of those hills, towards which we marched, were covered by waving
woods, that drew down the clouds, and added to the charms of the
scenery; but when the morning sun arose, the shadows fell deep on
every rugged pass and wide and fair savannah.

And now if the reader will look back with me, from our line of march,
he may see the city of Basse Terre, with its churches of the
Carmelites and Jesuits, and its whitewashed houses, clustering round
the little bay; on the south, its old mishapen and irregular castle,
perched on a rock so lofty, that when viewed from it, our ships of
the line seemed no larger than bumboats; on the north, the heavy
bastions of Le Morne Rouge; to the eastward, wide fields of sugar,
cotton, and indigo, studded with groves, mills, and houses; to the
westward the Caribean sea, with its blue waves running merrily on
sands of silvery whiteness.

Above this border of sand, there rose green belts of sugarcane, and
over these were the hills towards which we were marching, shrouded in
the dark foliage of old primeval forests; and higher still, the
rarefied clouds that floated like gossamer webs about their peaks.

After a halt during mid-day in the thickets, we pushed on by a
circuitous route towards a cleft or gorge in the mountains named the
Dos d'Ane, which guarded the passage into Cabesterre, the more level
and fertile part of the isle, and there the outpost of Scipio's black
band was last seen, as our quadroon guide assured me.  The French are
said to have given the hill its name from a fancied resemblance to
the form of an ass.  The ascent was steep and rugged, as the narrow
path over which we toiled in heavy marching order, with arms loaded
and bayonets fixed--for we knew not the moment we might be
attacked--was encumbered by masses of fallen rock; by deep rents and
rifts in the cliffs of limestone and basalt, and through these
runnels of warm and sulphureous water were trickling under the broad
and fibrous leaves of the giant tropical weeds.  Thick vapours rose
here and there from stagnant pools which were shrouded by dwarf
mangroves; but beyond this gorge which was so gloomy, that one might
fancy it led to the putrid lake of Avernus, rose mountain slopes
covered by velvet-green, and trees of every kind.

A profound and melancholy silence reigned here; at least, we heard
only the croak of the huge frogs that squatted in the marshy pools,
or the voice of the mocking-bird in a grove of fern-palms; and now as
evening began to fall, and we penetrated deeper into the gloomy gorge
of the Dos d'Ane, our guide warned me that we were within a short
distance of the camp of the black insurgents--less than a mile, he
thought.

A few hundred yards further on we found a deep and wooded ravine
opening to the right of the narrow path.  Therein I concealed the
whole company, and so soon as the dusk favoured, went forward to
reconnoitre, leaving my men orders to maintain the strictest silence
until my return.  Guided by the quadroon, I advanced through the
cleft in the mountains, and ere long, by the various strange and
tumultuous sounds which woke their echoes, I found that we were
approaching the camp of Scipio.

Lest the guide might play me false--for we had no great faith in men
of colour--I had shown him significantly a pair of loaded pistols,
that were stuck somewhat ostentatiously in my waist-belt; but the
poor fellow proved every way faithful, and here, for the benefit of
the uninitiated, I may mention that a quadroon is the child of a
white and a mulatto, who is the child of a pure black and a European;
but there are also black as well as white Creoles--the former being
the children of slaves, born and reared in degradation and slavery.

CHAPTER LXIII.

THE WORSHIPPERS OF THE DEVIL.

A lurid light that played and wavered on the rocks and tufted trees
of the deep pass, indicated to us distinctly the camp of the enemy,
who were evidently engaged in some orgy, ceremony, or sacrifice--we
knew not which, amid their fancied security, and under the shadow of
night.

The quadroon led me up the face of the rock, by a path known
apparently only to himself and the monkeys of that locality, it was
so steep and dangerous; but after creeping forward on our hands and
knees, I suddenly found myself overlooking a very singular and
startling scene.

About fifty yards below me lay the camp of the negroes, on a green
plateau, which they had rudely but strongly fortified by palisades of
palms and bamboos, pegged or wattled together, and banked up within
and without to form a species of breastwork.  In the centre of this
arena, a vast fire was blazing, and by its light the whole place and
its inhabitants were visible as distinctly as they might have been at
noon-day.  The circular camp seemed to swarm with woolly heads and
black forms, glowing redly in the flames, which, as they were blown
to and fro by the passing breeze, imparted to every object a weird
and unearthly aspect.  Amid this sable crowd, gleamed bayonets,
muskets, pikes, sabres, and agricultural implements, which had been
sharpened and fashioned into impromptu weapons.  When I saw their
numbers, the ferocity of their black features, their bloodshot eyes
and white teeth, as they jabbered and grinned; and when I heard their
war-songs, their horrible yells and screams, the smallness of the
force under my command, and the desperation of the duty on which I
had been sent, came painfully and vividly before me.

Moreover I became aware that if the safety of the abducted M. de
Thoisy was to be achieved, there was no time to be lost in attacking
them, as preparations for a deed of horror were in rapid progress
within the camp.

Nearly the whole of these insurgent slaves were from the small
kingdom of Angola, in Western Africa, and were Gangas, or worshippers
of the devil.  For centuries, the white men have only resorted to
their shores for the purchase of slaves, and the supply has always
been ample.

With wild shouts of "Gangajumba!  Gangajumba!" a circle of hideous
old negresses, in a state of perfect nudity, danced hand in hand
around an idol of dreadful aspect--the great _Fetish_--which was
reared in the centre of the camp.  They sang some gibberish, and at
intervals burst into those peals of hyena-like laughter which showed
all their teeth.  Squatted on their hams, close by, were a band of
negroes, making a noise which they considered music, with the hoarse
rattle of an unbraced drum, shrill fifes, the twangle of the banjo,
and the melodious grunting of goat's-horn trumpets.  Ere long, the
mass in camp became infected by the ardour of the negressses, and all
proceeded to dance and scream and whirl about, while loading the
night-air with discordant sounds.

Above them towered their idol, Gangajumba, at whose shrine all this
infernal hurlyburly preceded a more terrible sacrifice.

It was of appalling aspect, being formed of tortoise-shells, strung
over a figure of basket-work, and streaked with red paint to imitate
ribs and bones.  It was eight feet in height, by nearly three feet
broad.  The enormous head was surrounded by a string of white men's
skulls, scraped clean and white; but the deep cuts and incisions in
them bore terrible evidence of the deaths by which these victims
perished.  Tall, feathery palm-leaves waved over its brow; two pieces
of glass composed the eyes, and when a lighted lamp was placed in its
head by an old white-haired Congo savage, who acted as ganga or
priest, a glare shone through them that was grotesquely terrific.

All this, when viewed by the lurid light of the gigantic fire which
cast its gleams on the impending rocks of the deep pass, and on the
drooping palms that waved slowly in the night-wind, formed such a
scene as I had never beheld.  In the background, La Souffrière, or
the Brimstone Mountain, which rose to a stupendous height, added to
the shadowy horror of the landscape, by emitting from its various
craters, sudden jets of light and volumes of black smoke, starred
with myriad sparks of fire.

The sable outlaws who were revolving with such frantic energy beneath
us, were clad in all kinds of finery, stolen from the plantations
they had destroyed; and these were worn in the most absurd manner.
Thus, I observed one gigantic fellow who had a white straw hat
adorned by nearly a dozen of regimental feathers plaited ingeniously
around it.  A pair of gold epaulettes hung at his bare, brawny neck,
by a string of gilt buttons, and lower down were several crosses of
St. Louis, torn, doubtless, from the breasts of dead Frenchmen, worn
among ladies' jewels and a necklace of parrot's feathers.

"That man is the chief," whispered my copper-coloured guide, with a
voice reduced to a whisper by alarm.

"Scipio,--who destroyed Mademoiselle du Plessis?"

"Yes; and that is his tent with the standard in front of it."

"I cannot see a standard," said I, surveying the cluster of wigwams,
which were grouped like bee-hives in a corner of the camp; "but I see
a man's head upon a pole or pike."

"A white man's head?"

"Yes."

"Ah,--it belonged to M. le Procureur du Roi, at Basse Terre; they
caught him when riding near the town one evening, and his head was
off almost before he missed it.  Well, that is the standard of
Scipio, who is now stringing his banjo 'for a song.'"

"I shall teach this modern Scipio Africanus a sharp lesson to-night.
But I do not see M. de Thoisy."

"He is in that tent with the _fetishes_ around it," replied my guide,
pointing to a booth which was formed of bamboos and yellow grass
matting, and on the sides of which there hung nearly a hundred lesser
fetishes, as those guardians of the household or person are named by
the negroes of Congo and Angola, and which are composed of hoofs,
hair, bones of animals, beaks, skulls and claws of birds, fish-bones,
parrots' feathers, or old nails, for nothing is too mean to form the
_Lares_ of the degraded Angolians.

"So he is there?"

"Yes--bound hand and foot.  Why they saved him, and slew M. le
Procureur whom he was accompanying for an evening ride, I cannot
divine."

"When will they sacrifice him?"

"When the moon rises above the peak of La Souffrière."

"So soon? then, by Jove, we have no time to lose!"

"He is to endure the most dreadful tortures."

"How?"

"By iron hooks, inserted under his shoulder-blades, he will be
suspended alive over a slow fire, and his lower joints will be cut
off one by one, with the sharp knives of the gangas, beginning with
the toes, and so proceeding upward to the knees and hip-joints; but
few live, with the fire playing about them, until the knives come
_that_ length."

"When will the moon be over La Souffrière?" said I, starting up at
the risk of discovery.

"In another hour," replied the young quadroon, consulting his watch.

"Then we have just time to bring up my men, and make a dash at the
palisades," I replied in a loud whisper, as we crawled backward,
until we reached the narrow path which led us down the rocks, and
from thence I hastened back to the ravine in which we had concealed
my company.

CHAPTER LXII.

SCIPIO.

"Our orders are, that we take no prisoners, but strike terror by the
fury of our attack and the severity of our treatment," said I, as the
company re-entered the pass; for human life had now become such a
cheap commodity, that if we set little value on our own existence, we
put none whatever on that of others--of the insurgent negroes,
especially.

Dividing the company in two, as we drew near the camp.  I heard once
more the wild clamour of its occupants, and saw the wavering gleams
of their watchfire falling on rock and tree.  With one subdivision of
forty men I marched to assail the palisade in front, while my
lieutenant--an officer who afterwards commanded a battalion of the
60th under the Duke of Wellington, with the remainder, led by the
quadroon guide, made a dètour to the left, and ascended by the secret
path already mentioned.

On him, and this flank movement, I principally placed my hopes of
success; from the point he could attain, he was to throw a shower of
hand-grenades into the camp, and then, under cover of a volley, rush
down among its dingy occupants with the charged bayonet, while I
attacked them from the pathway at the same moment.

The grenades, which have now unaccountably sunk into disuse, were
then much used by our regiment, and by all grenadier companies.  They
are hollow balls or shells, two inches and a half in diameter, which,
after being charged with fine powder, are set on fire by means of a
slender fuse driven into the touch-hole.  On exploding, it carries
mutilation and death to all in its vicinity.

I turned to the peak of La Souffrière; the time was critical.  The
rising moon filled all the clear sky beyond the sulphur mountain with
a liquid light, amid which the brightest stars were lost.  In ten
minutes she would be above its peak, from which a stupendous column
of black smoke was now ascending for miles into the pure blue sky.

Softly we drew near the negro fortress, and I could see among the
dense mangroves and shrubbery the occasional glitter of arms, as our
left subdivision ascended the height, while we toiled straight
forward, over rocks and stones, and matters less pleasant--such as
the mutilated and charred remains of the white population who had
fallen victims to the worshippers of the Fetish, and whose cloven
caputs were strung around his monstrous visage.  Snakes hissed among
the long grass, frogs squattered, and gorged rats and land-crabs
scampered away by dozens on all sides, as we approached the palisades.

Suddenly a shrill yell, and the explosion of a musket, the ball of
which whistled past me, informed us that the black sentinel who
watched the road that led through the Dos d'Ane had perceived us,
just as I formed the subdivision in line, rank entire, or what is
often termed in Indian file, to show a greater front.

"Forward men," I exclaimed; "down with the palisades, and at them
with the bayonet!"

With a cheer we rushed on; six men with sharp hatchets assailed the
bamboo palisade, which fell like reeds before their sturdy blows; and
just as Scipio and his sooty ragamuffins hurried to defend the gap, a
loud hurrah on our left, and the explosion of forty hand-grenades
that fell whizzing through the darkness, each bursting among them
with a loud report and a ruddy glare, paralyzed the savages, and in a
moment struck them with a panic, which a combined cross-fire, and an
attack in front and flank with the charged bayonet, completed.  They
threw down their arms and fled by a passage on the other side of
their pah, or camp, abandoning to us all their wigwams, their
accumulated plunder, the idol, their fetishes, and what was of much
more importance to me, their miserable prisoner, old Monsieur George
de Thoisy, whom we found tied by manilla ropes, and lying almost
senseless with fear, in expectation of a barbarous death.  Scipio was
overtaken by Sergeant Drumbirrel, who, as he stumbled down the rocks,
ran three feet of his pike through his body and killed him on the
spot.

By the explosion of the grenades and by the cross-fire we had poured
into the place, nearly four hundred blacks were killed or wounded
within it.  Many of the latter were bayoneted by our men, whose legs
and feet they bit and tore with their teeth and nails, like wild
animals.

"Take care of the women," I exclaimed, as our fire fell among them.

"Where the men are so bad, captain, the squaws cannot be very good,"
replied a soldier; "but we must not shoot them I suppose, at all
events."

Among other things, we found a supper which some of the Congo fair
ones had been cooking in a vast copper brought from a sugar-mill.  It
was highly seasoned in honour of the contemplated demise of M. de
Thoisy; and its odour was so savoury, that many of my fellows were
tempted to partake of the contents, which consisted of ducks, geese,
chickens, &c.; but on Tom Telfer and others, who mistrusted the
culinary tastes of the ladies of Congo, poking deeper with their
bayonets, they fished up, to their own great merriment and the
disgust of the others, two fat monkeys, a pointer bitch and her
litter of puppies, all redolent, however, of pepper, nutmeg, and
pimento.

We followed the fugitive negroes for nearly a mile beyond the pass,
shooting them down like crows, till we got tired of the work, as the
poor devils were too terrified to fire a shot in return, or had
thrown away their muskets; so, by sound of bugle I recalled my
men--only eight of whom had fallen in storming the stockade--for now
columns of smoke and sheets of red flame, rising from the cane-fields
on both flanks and in front, showed that the retreating blacks had
fired the country on all sides.  We heard the crackling of the canes,
with the crash of cocoa-trees, while, with the slightest breath of
wind, the smoke enveloped us to the verge of suffocation, with a
storm of red sparks which made us apprehensive that the ammunition in
the pouches might explode.

Beyond the pass opened Cabesterre, and at our feet lay a beautiful
savannah (the _Sabana Verde_ of the Spaniards); it was of great
extent, and its greenness, so pale in the light of the moon, which
was now high above La Souffrière, was darkened here and there by the
sombre foliage of the mahogany-trees under which the listless cattle
lay to catch the currents of air.  In other places, the yellower
tints of the savannah were dotted by solemn scriptural palms, some
with drooping branches, and others with foliage that stood up like
tufts of ostrich-feathers.

Our grim work was over now!

We buried the dead in a trench; destroyed their idol, and returned
through the pass to head-quarters which we reached on the following
night, and there I was thanked for my services and small display of
skill and strategy by Sir Charles Grey in general orders.

_En route_, we left M. de Thoisy (a fine-looking old gentleman who
interlarded every remark with eternal references to his late most
Christian Majesty) at the avenue of his own mansion, where he never
hoped to have been again, and where he overwhelmed me with vows,
blessings, thanks, and invitations.  Gratitude for preservation,
after all he had undergone, made the poor man ready to worship me,
and his heart filled to overflowing.

I remember that on returning from this expedition I lost two of my
men, who fell into a hot marsh, and were suffocated before we could
extricate them.

CHAPTER LXV.

CAPTURE OF POINT A PETRE.

By the time I returned to head-quarters with my company, Sir George
Grey had matured his plans for the recapture of that portion of
Guadaloupe which is named Grande Terre.  He summoned aid from the
neighbouring islands.  There first came into the roadstead of Basse
Terre, H.M.S. _Veteran_, with two companies of the line from St.
Vincent, four from St. Lucia, and two battalions of seamen, under
Captain Lewis Robertson, a gallant naval officer, whom Admiral
Jervis, in the despatch which records his death, termed "the child of
misfortune."  Two flank companies of ours (though Fusiliers, we, like
the Guards, had them at that time) led by Lieutenants Price and
Colepepper, came in the _Winchelsea_, under Viscount Garlies.  Our
Grenadier company was the tallest, and our light company the smartest
I ever beheld.

The encomiums bestowed on me by the general after the affair in the
pass of Dos d'Ane, fired me with the desire of achieving something
new; and I had hitherto escaped so well, that I actually began to
conceive myself all but bullet-proof, like some of Tilly's
Imperialists of old.  In this idea I was doomed, however, to be soon
undeceived, and pretty roughly too.

On a fine evening in July, we found ourselves in the brigade of
Brigadier Symes, with the first light battalion, under
Lieutenant-Colonel Gomm; the second light battalion under Major Ross,
of the 31st; the Grenadiers under Lieutenant-Colonel Fisher, and one
battalion of seamen led by Captain Robertson, of the _Veteran_, all
destined to assail the French at Point à Petre.  Our landing was
effected at Point de l'Ance à Canot, on the southern shore of Grande
Terre; Le Gosier lay about a league on our left; St. Ann's about two
leagues on our right; a range of mountains--the heights of
Caille--were in our front, and beyond them towered La Souffriére,
vomiting flames of sulphur into the clear sky, and serving as a
volcanic lamp to light us to death or victory.

After disembarking under the guns of two of our frigates, the
_Solebay_ and _Winchelsea_, we advanced to the heights of Morne
Mascot, driving the French outposts before us in flight and disorder;
but, as we are rapidly approaching a very important epoch in my
story--indeed, the culminating point of all novels, narratives, and
plays--I shall briefly sketch the military operations which led
thereto, though unfortunately they failed at that time to reconquer
Guadaloupe.

The French troops in Grande Terre were a portion of an expedition
which had lately come from Brest, and were under the direction of
Victor Hugues and other commissioners who had been sent from Paris to
avail themselves of any commotions which might arise in the island;
but their chief hope had been placed in the mulattoes and negros,
whose leader Scipio had gone to his last account, as already related,
with three feet of Sergeant Drumbirrel's pike in his body.  A decree
of the French convention had proffered liberty, equality, and
fraternity to every negro who joined the French standard; thus, M.
Victor Hugues, the Republican commander-in-chief, had soon several
thousands under his orders, and dreadful enemies we found them, alike
in time of truce and battle.

When we marched from the heights of Morne Mascot to attack the troops
of Hugues at Point à Petre, orders were strictly enjoined us, not to
fire a shot in the assault, as the brigadier wished to storm the town
by a night surprise, after out-flanking (if possible) a perilous
outpost which lay between us and it.

We heard the frigates' bells in the distance, announcing the hour of
eight as we moved off.

The twilight changed rapidly to night, which proved dark and cloudy,
no light being visible but that which gleamed at times on the sky
from the crater of La Souffrière, as it shot up red and yellow
sulphur, with the usual showers of glittering sparks.  A march
through a well-cultivated valley bordered by groves of pale-yellow
lime-trees, rich in verdure of wondrous luxuriance, and studded by
the wigwams of negro slaves covered by broad plaintain-leaves, led us
towards Point à Petre.  By the wayside the snow-white amaryllis grew
under the light foliage of the vine, and the golden globes of the
orange-trees waved to and fro, like the tufts of the fan-palm, whose
leaves bent like ostrich-feathers before the soft trade-wind that
came from the distant sea.

In the occasional flashes of the sulphur-mountain I could see the
bayonets of the columns gleam at times, while, under the conduct of
our quadroon guide we descended into deep ravines, where the
plaintain, the cotton, and mahogany trees cast their darkest shadows
on our path, and where the scared monkeys chattered as they leaped
from branch to branch; yet we marched on in profound silence, our men
being conscious of the stern necessity for reaching the outposts of
Hugues undiscovered.  But all our plans were frustrated by an error
of the guide, who contrived matters so ill, that after a long,
tedious, and harassing tramp by night over ground of the most
difficult nature, about four in the morning the leading section of
the advanced guard suddenly heard a voice cry,

"Qui vive?"

"France!" replied Haystone of ours at hap-hazard, and with great
presence of mind; but it served no end; a blue port-fire was seen
burning steadily behind a palisade for an instant; then there was a
vivid flash--a loud whizz, and a dose of canister shot from a
32-pounder gun laid several of our men on the turf to rise no more.
This announced that we were close upon the intrenched outpost which
the brigadier had resolved to _avoid_, that by outflanking it, we
might reach Point à Petre undiscovered.  In his anger, Lord Kildonan
nearly pistolled the guide.

"Forward with the bayonet!" was now the cry on all hands, and led by
the earl and Major Ross, two companies of Fusiliers rushed at the
outwork pell-mell in the dark, ignorant alike where they were going
and what they were attacking; but, in three minutes the post was
stormed, the cannon spiked, and the picquet or guard driven in, and
then we pressed forward double-quick on the town, which lay beyond it.

There the report of the cannon had summoned the foe to arms; and the
gleam of torches, with the hiss of rockets, announced that they were
in full preparation.  From a bastion named Le Morne de Gouvernement,
a heavy fire of round shot and grape enfiladed the brigade, as we
dashed with a wild hurrah through the streets, driving before us the
half-armed and half-clad soldiers and negroes, who were not formed in
any order, so sudden was our irruption among them.

A negro aimed at me from a window, and the ball passed through my
cap; but my old comrade, Tom Telfer, shot him dead at the moment he
was casting about his firelock to reload.  Every man who withstood us
for an instant was shot down or bayoneted; and in an incredibly short
space of time we found ourselves victorious, at the end of a street
strewn with corpses, black, white, and all shades of copper colour.
Dragging a large battery gun, which they had found somewhere, a party
of the Naval Brigade, stripped to their waists, came rushing after us
with a right royal cheer, though under its heavy iron wheels were
crushed many of the unfortunates who lay writhing or dead on the
ground; and by the blaze of some burning houses, we could see them
lying in its track, with skulls crushed and intestines protruding;
but one discharge of canister-shot from this piece of cannon
completed the discomfiture of the flying foe, and Point à Petre was
ours--for a time.

The guns and mortars of Le Morne de Gouvernement were still firing at
random, pounding the houses of the town to pieces, and crushing
tiles, pillars, roofs, and walls, upon us, ding, dong, and splinter,
till our men became thoroughly bewildered; then, as the devil would
have it, in the darkness and confusion they began to fire upon each
other; thus, a volley from the 1st light battalion tore suddenly
through the Fusiliers, killing and wounding many, and unhorsing both
Lieutenant Rolster, our adjutant, and Doctor Splints.  Rendered
furious by this, the Scots Fusiliers were about to turn their fire
upon their comrades, but were prevented by the exertions of Lord
Kildonan and the brigadier, by whose side fell Lieutenant-Colonel
Gomm of the 55th, and Captain Robertson of the _Veteran_, mortally
wounded.

"I was at this time disabled by a severe wound in my right arm," says
Brigadier Symes, in his despatch; "and I was much bruised by my
horse, which was killed and fell upon me.  Finding it impossible,
under these circumstances, to complete the destruction of the enemy's
stores, the troops were ordered to leave the town and reform on the
heights of Caille, from whence, on approaching, we had driven the
enemy, and taken two pieces of cannon."

Amid the dreadful confusion which ensued in the streets, poor old
Captain Glendonwyn was killed by a stray shot, with many of our best
men; and three of our lieutenants, Price, Knollis, and Colepepper,
lay wounded on the ground; when our bugles sounded a retreat in the
dark, and full of wrath and fury we drew off towards the heights of
Caille.

While getting the survivors of my company disentangled, as it were,
and formed in some order, a half-spent musket-shot broke my
sword-arm; I staggered, sank to the ground, and was nearly trodden to
death, as the naval battalion, led by Lieutenant Percival of the
_Adder_, rushed over me in full retreat, before the returning French.
It was a divine mercy that they had spiked, and left in the rear,
their great gun, otherwise I must have perished under its wheels.

Some time after this, I staggered up, and found that the negroes and
mulattoes who wore the tricoloured cockade, were butchering our
wounded.  Inspired with new strength by the imminence of my danger, I
hurried towards the end of the street, which presented a dreadful
spectacle of bloodshed and destruction; and there a horse passed me,
dragging his dead rider, a French field-officer, by the bridle, which
the poor fellow's left hand yet clutched with a death-grip.  I
grasped the rein with my teeth, as my right arm hung powerless by my
side, wrenched away the dead man's hand with my left, and springing
into the saddle, urged the terrified horse to a gallop, and Point à
Petre, its flaming houses and blood-stained streets, were soon far
behind me.

Mistaking the path our retreating troops pursued, I rode on without
knowing whither; my sole desire being to avoid men of colour; and so
my scared steed sped over miles of a flat savannah.

Just as day was breaking, faint with toil, pain, and lassitude, I
found the impossibility of longer keeping the saddle, and on
dismounting, the horse galloped away and left me.

I was near a thick coppice.  A little runnel, bordered by blue
blossoms and crimson convolvoli, ran through the long prairie grass;
and in its tiny current, a flock of blue and green parrots were
dipping their gaudy pinions; but when I stooped to drink, they rose
like a covey of fairy partridges, and flew screaming and whistling
into the trees.

The sun was now up, and being somewhat refreshed by a draught from
the pure, cool spring, I gazed wistfully about me, and found that I
was near what appeared to be the house of a wealthy planter.  Passing
a handsome gate, I crossed a little lawn, which was bordered by a
circle of maypole aloes, that towered to the height of thirty feet at
least to their tufts of yellow foliage, and had green creepers
festooned like garlands from stem to stem.

It was an old house of substantial aspect for the Antilles; its
sugar-mills were concealed by a thick grove of trees; all was still
around it, and its green jealousies remained closed; but in the
morning sun its white walls shone gaily, amid fences of golden and
crimson-coloured flowers, while on each side of the old-fashioned
French porch, there towered two lordly cedars, on the branches of
which a number of parrots and other wild birds were perched
coquetting and pluming their wings.

Sick with agony, want, and mortification for the result of our attack
on Point à Petre, human nature could achieve no more for me; and just
as the house-door opened, I sank on the flight of steps which led to
it.

An exclamation of mingled pity and astonishment from a female voice
fell upon my ear, and I looked up with haggard eyes.

Was it a dream?

I know not, for I fainted; but the fair face that hung over mine, as
the light went out of my eyes, was that of--Amy Lee!

CHAPTER LXVI.

THE OBEAH NEGRO.

It seemed to me as if two or three days must have elapsed before
recovering perfect consciousness, and such was the case; then I
appeared to waken to it, as from the long and delirious lethargy of
the dreadful yellow fever, for I had lost much more blood than I was
aware of.

I found myself in bed--in a luxurious couch--and in a large and airy
apartment.  Its ceiling was lofty; painted a light azure and starred
with gold; the flowing window-curtains, being sprinkled with
lime-juice for coolness, imparted a delightful fragrance, which, with
the summer odours that were wafted through the open jealousies,
proved delicious to a feverish patient.  Everything about me
betokened wealth, splendour, and tropical luxury.  From each of the
three tall windows of my apartment, on which the flower-covered
verandah without cast a chastening shadow, hung a basket of creeping
plants, and in one of these a pair of beautiful humming-birds had
built their little nests of cotton, pilfered no doubt, by their tiny
beaks, from the fresh-bursting buds of the cotton-tree.

The intense stiffness, benumbed and leaden sensation in my right arm,
at once informed me, that the bones had been set, splinted, and
bandaged, but by whom I knew not.  There were dreams of soft female
voices having spoken to me; and memories of their faces seemed to
float before me, amid the misty memories of pain and suffering; but
these were mere dreams, doubtless, like the vision of Amy Lee
appearing at the porch of the villa, as I sank in agony and almost in
despair on the steps that led to it.

After lying still for a time with closed eyes, I looked around me
again, half in expectation that some _other_ scene--perhaps a tent, a
ship's cabin, a bivouac, or something equally familiar would display
itself; but no--the splendid bedchamber remained unchanged in all its
details, save that it now had one other occupant than me.

A beautiful young girl, no doubt, the reader may suppose!

Not at all--nothing nearly so pleasant; but a hideous old negro, who
was slowly approaching on tiptoe, softly, and with his stealthy and
glittering eyes fixed on mine.  Danger was my first thought, but this
old man was without any knife or weapon.  His grey woolly locks
straggled like horsehair under a blue cotton kerchief, which
encircled his huge round caput, beneath a broad rush-plaited hat, in
the band of which two short tobacco-pipes were jauntily stuck.  His
jacket and short wide trowsers were composed of white cotton striped
with flaming red; but his feet were bare like his breast, on which
hung a necklace or fetish of old buttons, rusty nails, bits of broken
glass, and green or scarlet parrots' feathers; to all of which he
attached, no doubt, some deep and cabalistic value.  The tattooing
which was visible on his black breast, indicated that in his own
sun-scorched country he had been esteemed as a chief or warrior of
note, before he had been compelled by the whip of the white man, to
relinquish the hatchet and arrows for the spade and hoe of the
sugar-fields; and now, as he drew nearer, I recognized an old
acquaintance.

"Benoit," said I; "Benoit."

"Ya--ya, massa le capitaine," he replied, showing all his yellow
fangs; "Benoit le Noir--you memory ob me, massa?"

"Remember you, old fellow--of course I do!"

"Très bon!  I watch massa in his sleep--me an Obeah nigger," he
added, handing to me a crystal jug containing a draught of some cool
and medicated preparation, which wonderfully strengthened and revived
me.

"Where am I, Benoit?"

"In Carucueira."

"Where?" I exclaimed with astonishment.

"La Grande Terre de Guadaloupe, him called now--Carucueira in the
days of painted warriors."

"I have been ill--weak, Benoit."

"Ya--massa le capitaine have leaden shot in him body."

"Impossible--my arm was broken by a ball which, however did not
penetrate deep, though I have lost much blood."

"Oui--ya; but shot go very fast in the air--massa le capitaine no see
him enter."

"Ah, that is all bosh, old Snowball."

"Ah--pardonnez--mong Dew--ya, oui," continued poor Benoit, whose
language was a strange medley; "shot be in _here_ massa."

"Where?"

"In massa's arm, at elbow; take him out, presto!--crack! diable--in a
minute."

"How?" said I, half amused by his pertinacity.

Benoit deposited his broad hat upon the floor; then sinking upon his
knees he gravely took the fetish from his neck, ran his black fingers
over the trash which composed it, using many conjurations, mumbling
like a Mahometan over his rosary, and bobbing like a Chinaman in a
joss-house.  Then approaching me with great solemnity in his face,
and a curious and crafty leer in his eyes, he passed his hands gently
over my wounded arm three times, in the style of a mesmeric
professor.  How the sensation was produced, I know not, but each time
that he did so a nervous tremour pervaded the broken limb, and at the
third pass a musket ball seemed to drop from my finger-points upon
the bed.

"Bon, bon! fetish good!" exclaimed Benoit, "massa le capitaine be
soon cured now."

I had neither strength to laugh at the cunning of the Obeah negro, or
to compliment this sleight of hand, by which, like others who pretend
to be in league with Obi, and to have especial power through their
_fetish_, he had obtained, I have no doubt, a tolerable livelihood
among the ignorant and superstitious slaves, and exerted a great
influence over them for good or for evil.

"Massa look astonished! ah, mong Dew, that be nothing to Père Benoit
le Noir!  There was a damn black nigger from le Looward isles come to
me ill--berry ill; ya--oui, so I cure him presto! draw from him belly
a big cannon-ball--jolly after that--damn him, hoe sugar and sing.
Massa le capitaine tink ob that--ya oui.  Capitaine bucra no savey
him have _another_ bullet here?"

"Where?"

"In him leg."

"In my leg? no, no Quashy--I savey nothing of the kind."

"A big bullet there, though--mong Dew, Gorramighty ya oui!"

"Go; you tease me by all this bosh," said I, impatiently.

"Me poor slave, but me known to Obi--me savey better than bucra man,"
replied Benoit, resuming his fetish and broad-leaved castor, with a
half-mock air of offended dignity; "but le capitaine would like
something to eat--just leetle picking?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Young leg ob monkey--bon, good, with pepper and pimento--très bon!"

"No, no."

"Guana--like big green lizard--tender, sweet--dam bon très good; you
savey it?"

"Stuff; get me a bit of boiled chicken and a glass of Nevis wine; but
ere you go, tell me where I am, as I have naturally some curiosity
about it."

"In the villa de Thoisy."

"What--in the house of Monsieur Thoisy, whom I saved from Scipio at
the pass of Dos d'Ane!"

"Ya, massa, oui," replied the negro, with a grin from ear to ear; but
adding gravely, "but Massa de Thoisy be far happier if offered up to
Obi."

"I believe he has some doubts of that, Benoit; but how came _you_
here?"

"Mamselle Eulalie--you memory ob her?"

"Yes, Benoit--how shall I ever forget her?"

"She sent me to Massa de Thoisy as a present--I served her father
long, massa, berry faithful, and he loved me well, though a poor
black man, berry well--bo-hoo-o-o-o!" and with a true negro outburst
of grief, the old fellow left me, weeping like a child.

CHAPTER LXVII.

M. DE THOISY.

Wearied by this conversation, troubled by the recollection of poor
Eulalie, which conflicted with the strange but vivid vision of Amy
Lee, I closed my eyes and strove to sleep; but lay long awake, gazing
through the open jealousies upon the verdant lawn, its circle of tall
aloes, and the shrubbery of a garden that lay before the windows,
where the flaming foliage of the _Bois immortel_, the dark green
leaves of the laurel and the blossoms of the jasmine grew together;
where flowering parasites of unknown names drooped a hundred and
fifty feet from the trees to which they clung--creepers of wondrous
beauty and luxuriance all intertwisted like the mystic serpents in a
Celtic tomb or Runic stone.

While lying thus between sleeping and waking in an uneasy doze, a
sound fell on my ear.  I thought the figure of a female drew close
and bent over me.  I dreamt that I was a child again, and that my
mother was there, with her calm, earnest eyes, and sad but gentle
face, hovering close to mine.

Tears came to my eyes; I started up--the figure drew abruptly back,
and lo! there stood by my bedside a lovely dark-eyed girl, with rich
golden hair.  She sprang away with a step like a startled fawn, and
then I sank again to sleep, for the noon of a tropical summer day was
at its zenith, and lassitude overpowered me.

This was all very pleasant and romantic; but I had soon other
visitors, in the shape of huge mosquitoes whose bites were like
red-hot pins thrust into the flesh; flocks of moths, giant in size
and diabolical in aspect, that dropped, soft and clammy, on my hands
and face at night; and all kinds of entomological and ereptological
specimens of little winged devils with sharp snouts or stings and
appetites that seemed insatiable.

The information of my sable guardian proved correct.  I was really in
the splendid and hospitable mansion of M. de Thoisy, who visited my
apartment next day, to express the pleasure he felt in being able to
make me some return for the great service I had done him on that
terrible night in the camp of the negroes.

The old royalist planter was a fair specimen of a class now entirely
extinct--the French gentleman of the old school or the last days of
the monarchy; a time which we associate with periwigs and wide
sleeves, ruffles and small swords; studied politeness, great suavity,
and an almost ferocious punctilio--a sense of honour so keen as to be
carried to an extent quite perilous in the old days of duelling; but
his soft and kind manner was in every way calculated to win, and
impress me with the conviction that I was quite conferring an
obligation upon him in availing myself of his hospitality.

He was the representative of one of the oldest and best families in
the island; thus all his stories and recollections were, like his
predilections, somewhat antiquated.  One of his ancestors was the
Sieur de Thoisy, who was appointed "by his most Christian Majesty,"
as he always phrased it, in 1645, lieutenant-general of the French
Antilles, and seneschal of St. Christopher's; and the armorial
bearings of this personage, encircled by the collar of the Ordre
Militaire des Chevaliers de l'Epée, were carved in walnut wood over
the doors of several of the rooms, and stuccoed on the ceilings.

For several days M. de Thoisy was the only person I saw, save my
doctor and Benoit le Noir.

"I fear you must have lost much money by the revolt of the slaves,"
said I, on one occasion.

"I lost nearly the whole of _them_," said he, "and slaves are money
in the Antilles.  However, I mean to follow the fortunes of Messieurs
les Comtes d'Artois and Provence, who have resolved to make their
home in Edinburgh--le capital d'Ecosse.  I am taking measures to
transfer al the money I possess to Britain; the Antilles are no
longer a safe abiding-place for a French royalist gentleman,
especially for such as have the misfortune to be born like me,
monsieur, with _de_ prefixed to their name.  No, no, _pardieu_!  M.
_de_ Thoisy will never condescend to wear the tricoloured cockade, to
be plain Citoyen Thoisy, and hear his wife and daughters called
citoyennes by a vile canaille who fraternize with savages and wear
the bonnet rouge?"

"So you have a family, monsieur?" said I, as my dream of two dark
eyes and of the golden curls occurred to me, and my curiosity was
excited.

"I have _three_ daughters, M. le Capitaine," said he coldly; and
then, as if to change the subject, added, "this is the second time
those canaille from Congo and Angola have revolted in Guadaloupe."

"The second time?"

"Yes, _sacre_!"

"When did it occur before?"

"Why, _parbleu!_ in 1656."

"A long time ago?"

"During the reign of his most Christian Majesty Louis XIV.," said
monsieur, bowing low at the name.

"And scarcely worth remembering now," I replied, smiling.

"Pardon me, M. le Capitaine," said the old gentleman, bowing again so
low that his wig nearly fell off; "but men of my years have long
memories.  We have always had vast cargoes of slaves from Angola; but
in that year they were, most unwisely, trained to the use of arms by
the lieutenant-governor, M. Houelle: thus encouraged, on discovering
their own strength, two Angolians conceived the project (like our
precious rascal Scipio) of exterminating all the male whites, but of
preserving the females for wives, and of crowning two kings of the
race of Angola--one in Basse Terre, and the other in Grande Terre.  A
night for the rising was named and ere morning every white man in
Guadaloupe would have been barbarously slain; but as God and St.
Louis would have it, certain slaves from Cape de Verde, who loved not
those of Angola, informed the governor of what was impending; so the
whites were all accoutred and ready.  The Angolians rose in arms; a
fifteen days' conflict ensued, and all Grande Terre was ravaged
before they were crushed.  One-half were shot, hanged, or burned, and
all who were taken were restored to slavery; but, sacre! not until
their ears had been shred off by a huge pair of shears, to mark them
for the future."

"This seems the most antique house I have seen in the Antilles," said
I wearily, to change the subject; but every remark touched some
hidden spring, and produced a reminiscence.

"Ah, _mon Dieu_, you have observed that!" exclaimed my host with
pleasure, for this house was his vanity--his little weakness.  "It
was built by M. Aubert, who was governor of Guadaloupe in 1643, for
his most Christian Majesty Louis XIII.  That gay, artful, and
dazzling blonde, Madame Fayolle, occupied this very
apartment--tradition says, this very bed.  _Corboeuf!_ monsieur,
think of that!"

"I am greatly honoured, perhaps; but who was she?"

"_Mon Dieu!_ he has never heard of Madame Fayolle!"

"I regret that I have not."

"_Est-il possible!_"

"On my honour."

"_Tête Dieu_--you astonish me!"

"'Tis the case, nevertheless," said I, feeling more amused by his
surprise than ashamed of my own ignorance.

"She was here in Guadaloupe all that Mesdames Pompadour, Du Barri, or
Maintenon, were at Versailles or the Louvre.  Her beauty and
intrigues made her queen of the island, as I shall have the honour of
telling you."

"Another story," said I, with a well-bred grimace.

"Oui, Monsieur le Capitaine," said the old gentleman, making three
such profound bows, that at each of them I felt my wounded arm
twinge.  "In the days of M. Aubert's government, I mean during the
reign of----"

"Ah, his most Christian Majesty----"

"Louis XIII.; exactly monsieur, our colonists were sadly in want of
wives, and it is not every one who can realize a Venus in a
copper-coloured Carib squaw, or a tattooed Congo negress, with a
fish-bone in her nostrils; so the Frenchmen in Guadaloupe tilled the
land, sowed, reaped, boiled the sugar, pressed the vines, and made
money in peace and profound tranquillity, until a certain Madame
Fayolle conceived the brilliant, but unfortunate idea of bringing a
stock of handsome young damsels from Paris to Guadaloupe.  You may
imagine the excitement their arrival caused among Frenchmen who had
not seen a white female face for years.  Scarcely had the ship's
anchor dropped into the roadstead of Basse Terre, ere she was
surrounded by men in boats, clamouring to get on board, all clad in
their best attire, displaying purses of money, and striving to pay
their court, and make selections.  _Parbleu!_ the rape of the Sabines
was a joke to it!  They fought, bit, scratched, and stabbed each
other; several of their boats were overturned, and thus many of their
crews, instead of rushing into the jaws of matrimony, found
themselves in those of the blue sharks that were gliding about in the
waves below.

"From that day Guadaloupe became rent by jealousies, intrigues, and
contentions; and thus white men were chained, and scourged, or
imprisoned, and slain by their fellows on the merest pretences; and
all this came to pass through the loves and lovers of Madame Fayolle
and the demoiselles she had brought hither from the Faubourgs of
Paris to seek their fortunes; but I shall have the honour of telling
more about all this another time, as I possess the authentic records,
which were prepared by my ancestor, M. de Thoisy, for the special
perusal of his most Christian Majesty----"

"If you could afford me some information about the movements of our
troops," said I, wearily, "I would be much more grateful to you,
monsieur."

"_Bon!_  Monsieur le Capitaine.  After falling back from Point à
Petre, where Citoyen Victor Hugues--_sacre!_--had his Republican
mustachoes singed pretty well, M. le General Grey has occupied, with
his whole forces, all the ground between Point St. Jean and the Bay
of Mahault, having erected many batteries of mortars and 24-pounders,
thus giving perfect security to Basse Terre, while Admiral Jervis has
blocked up the harbour by his ships.  There is a species of truce
just now, so all is quiet; but perfect peace shall never be
established either here or in Europe until his Most Christian Majesty
Louis XVII.--the poor boy in the Temple--is placed on the throne of
his father.  _Ah! mon Dieu! mon Dieu!_ we live in strange times.  Do
you know, M. le Capitaine, that I can remember--but _mille
pardons_--I weary you--another day we shall talk of these things;
meantime, adieu."

But this prosaical old gentleman did not leave until he had detailed
the only affair which interested me in his conversation--the defence
of Fort Matilda by our troops, which I may briefly mention, as I
heard it from others, rather than from him.

Lieutenant Colonel Colin Grahame, of the Fusiliers, was appointed to
command the troops in Basse Terre, and to him fell the task of
defending the camp at Seville, where he was forced to surrender on
the 6th of October, his force having been reduced to one hundred and
twenty-five officers and men!

Three companies of ours were now engaged in the desperate defence of
Fort Matilda, under Lieutenant-General Prescott, a stern soldier of
the old school, who was wont to sit on the ramparts, smoking a "yard
of clay," with all the gravity of a pasha in his harem, or a sachem
with the great pipe of peace, while shot whistled and shells exploded
about his ears.

CHAPTER LXVIII.

A DISCOVERY.

Ere long, I was advanced from cooling drinks and chicken-broth to the
dignity of turtle-soup (as it can only be made in the Antilles),
dashed with lime-juice, and a long glass of Madeira after.  Then I
became quite convalescent, and after a careful toilet was one day led
by M. de Thoisy to the drawing-room, to be introduced, with great
formality, to his family circle.  I was first presented to Madame, a
little and somewhat shrivelled old lady, of rather aristocratic
aspect, with hair almost white as snow.  She bowed very low thrice,
with an old-fashioned courtesy, and patted my cheek kindly while
thanking me in very good terms as her husband's preserver; and now,
as good Madame de Thoisy bears no more important part in my story,
and was chiefly famous for the conserving of limes, citrons, guava,
and so forth, we shall refer to her no more in these pages.

"Monsieur," continued De Thoisy, introducing me to three very
handsome young girls in succession, "my daughters--Georgette, Claire,
and Julie--and now I hope you all know each other."

Claire and Julie were both blondes, with complexions miraculously
fair, considering their French blood; but in Georgette, the tallest,
most fully rounded--in short, the most beautiful, as she seemed to
please and fill the eye, I recognized the black orbs, the long
lashes, and the bright golden hair of my supposed dream, for this
fair French girl in her eyes and tresses had that remarkable contrast
which we so seldom find, and which becomes so dazzling, when
brilliant.

These three sisters were all accomplished; they played and sang well,
and were, I afterwards discovered, fall of vivacity and drollery,
which made them very charming friends.

"They have all been dying with curiosity----"

"Pardon, papa, say gratitude," urged Georgette.

"Well, with gratitude, M. le Capitaine," continued M. de Thoisy, "to
see one to whom we owe so much; for, _parbleu!_ if they set some
value on my life, be assured that I set a great deal more."

"Dear, dear papa," said little Claire, "do not talk of it; ah! how
terrified he must have been--now, was he not, M. le Capitaine?"

"Terrified!" reiterated De Thoisy, ere I could reply to the pretty
questioner; "_mon Dieu!_ I should think so!  Though there never was a
De Thoisy, either in France or the Antilles, who feared death, there
_are_ ways of dying pleasantly; but to be fricasseed alive, joint by
joint, under the jaws of the Congo fetish, is not one."

"Ah! monsieur," said Julie, "how much we owe you for saving our dear
papa!"

"But, with a single company of white soldiers, was it prudent of you
to attack a thousand savages?" asked Georgette.

"_Merci_," exclaimed De Thoisy; "my Georgette is becoming quite a
little general!"

"It was not prudent, perhaps, mademoiselle," said I: "but I had Lord
Kildonan's orders to obey, in the first place; and, in the second,
there are times, such as that night in the pass of the Dos d'Ane,
when the best prudence is rashness or courage."

"Bon!  M. Comte de Provence, brother of his most Christian Majesty
Louis XVI., could not have spoken better than M. le Capitaine," said
her father.  "Then you forget, Georgette, that the soldiers monsieur
commanded were _Les Fusiliers Royals Ecossais_, and in old France we
have a proverb which says _Fier comme un brave Ecossais!_ for there
was a time when, like the valiant and faithful Irish, the countrymen
of M. le Capitaine, were the best bulwarks of the French throne, and
of the children of St. Louis."

M. de Thoisy raised his hat as he spoke--he always did so when
speaking of the royal line of France; for, like the true-hearted
adherents of the Stuarts, this old gentleman clung to the Bourbons in
their exile--the withered branch of a fallen tree; and under the
protection of _our_ outposts, had placed on his hat the fatal
_cocarde blanche_, which had subjected so many to the platoon, the
gallows, and the guillotine.

Our mutual introductions over, inquiries about the state of my
wounded arm followed; it was, of course, still in a sling, made for
me, it appeared, by Georgette; and then ensued one of those little
pauses which often occur, before people become thoroughly acquainted.
Suddenly Georgette said:

"Mamma, you quite forget that we have residing with us, a lady who is
a countrywoman of Monsieur le Capitaine.  He must know her husband,
who commands the batteries at Bay Mahault, and I am sure they will be
enchanted to meet.  Ah--here she comes!" she added gaily, as a young
lady without a bonnet, but with a long-fringed green parasol, entered
the drawing-room from a species of conservatory which opened off it,
only that its walls were all Venetian blinds and not glass, which
would have been intolerable in such a climate.

"Madame," said M. de Thoisy, hastening forward, "permit me to
introduce the young officer of whom you have heard so much--he who
saved my life and--ah, _mon Dieu!_ what is the matter--what have I
done?"

The old French planter, who had been bowing as if he meant to jerk
his wig off, might well exclaim thus, on hearing the interjection of
mingled surprise and joy which escaped me, for the lady who
approached was no other than Amy Lee!

Amy Lee, here in Guadaloupe, looking more radiant and more beautiful
than I had ever imagined her, with jetty black hair exquisitely
smoothed, a white muslin dress that waved in gauzy folds around her,
and a shawl of some equally light material, but of broad black and
golden stripes, floating over her fair plump shoulders.  Her dark
eyes sparkled merrily, but now it seemed as if Amy had a more
finished, a more fashionable, and decidedly a more confident air,
than the girl I used to love and flirt with at Applewood.

She bowed politely, as, with an inimitable bearing of her proud head
and ample skirt, she swept up to the sofa, and seated herself beside
Madame de Thoisy, saying to me:

"I am so happy to find, sir, that you are so far recovered as to be
able to leave your room.  No doubt you will soon join the regiment?"

"Amy!" I exclaimed in a breathless voice.

"Sir--I beg pardon--did you speak?"

"Yes----"

"My name _is_ Amy," she said, with a well-bred smile of perplexity,
looking me full in the face through her clear eyes.

She evidently did not recognize me in my uniform; for all I had seen
and undergone of late had changed me very much in figure, bearing,
and expression.

"Do you not know me?" I asked almost imploringly, and she replied:

"Not personally, sir; but I have the pleasure of knowing that you are
an officer in my husband's regiment, and one whom he esteems most
highly."

"Your husband's regiment!" I reiterated in bewilderment, and quite
oblivious of the presence of our host and his family, to whom all
this was an enigma.

"Yes--but you were absent when I joined him from England.  He is now
in command of the batteries at Bay Mahault, and always calls you his
favourite comrade."

"I am much obliged to him," said I coldly, and then added
impetuously, "But who the deuce is your husband?"

"The Earl of Kildonan, senior Lieutenant-Colonel of the Scots
Fusiliers," replied Amy drily; "and you, sir?"

"I am Oliver Ellis--don't you remember me, Amy?  Oh, you cannot have
forgotten Oliver, whom you were wont to love, and who loved you so
much, at dear old Applewood."

"What! are you my old friend--my lover Oliver?" she exclaimed, with a
gleam of pleasure in her charming eyes, and a burst of merry
laughter--so merry that it served, even more than her marriage, to
demolish a very romantic structure which I had been raising mentally.
"I am thunderstruck, but oh, most happy to see you--to meet you
again!  We were such dear good friends----"

"Friends--rather; come, this is very good!" said I under my breath
and with indescribable annoyance.

"You must tell me all about this, and how it came to pass.  Come, sit
here between Georgette and me, and tell us all about yourself
directly," she added, taking my left hand in hers; the wounded right
was too tender yet to brook being meddled with.  I felt confused and
piqued, for although we had heard in the regiment that the earl had
married a Miss Lee in Scotland, and that his countess, after joining
him in Guadaloupe, had been nearly taken by the French at the
recapture of La Fleur d'Epée, I would as readily have conceived that
his wife might prove to be queen of Sheba as my old love Amy Lee, of
Applewood.

So there was a great destruction of a little romance in a moment.

I had no reason to find any fault with Amy; and yet it seemed as if a
sudden pique at her made Georgette's gentle eyes more dark, and her
golden hair more bright than ever.

I took my seat between them.

CHAPTER LXIX.

GEORGETTE.

A few weeks rolled delightfully away at the Villa de Thoisy, which my
host informed me was an exact copy--so far as West-Indian
requirements would permit--of his ancient ancestral mansion at the
town of Thoisy, where, as he added, "one of the most Christian kings
had kept one of his mistresses," on the small river Chalaronne, in
old France.  I rapidly became so well, that serious thoughts of
rejoining the regiment at Bay Mahault occurred to me, but Lord
Kildonan in a letter to the countess, which was brought by Tom
Telfer, mentioned that I need not hurry myself, as all was quiet on
the side of the island which was occupied by Victor Hugues and his
particoloured forces.

Occasionally Haystone, Bruce, and others of ours, rode over to see
me, and spend an evening with the de Thoisy girls; then we had always
music and dancing, and, despite the heat of the weather, we red-coats
flew about like fireflies in the waltz.

And how shall I describe the languor and charm of a
_tête-à-tête_--flirtation, if you will--in a night in Guadaloupe,
when windows, doors, and green jealousies are all thrown open, to
admit the aromatic breeze that comes over savannahs of spices and
sugar-canes, through forests laden with golden fruit, from the
moonlit sea that rippled before the trade wind; or when seated in a
bower the green leaves and brilliant flowers of which are visible as
at noonday in the radiance of the queen of night, as she careered
through the deep blue of a tropical sky; or when wandering in the
avenues of fan-palms, with no light but the flaming summit of La
Soufrière, or the stars that were reflected in the waters of the
Rivière Sallee.

An undefinable sentiment of pique at Amy Lee determined me on falling
in love with some one else.  Of course, in this mood I soon did so;
and Amy's presence, instead of being a bar, spurred me on: thus, ere
many days were past, I was in love with Georgette.

I have said that she was beautiful; but, of course, every lover deems
the object of his admiration to be so--or at least to exhibit
perfection in some point.  When her soft dark eyes met mine, I felt
as if our very souls became incorporated, so deep and winning was
their expression; and when she spoke, every pulse seemed to beat
responsive to her own.  To be constantly with such a girl, and _not_
fall in love with her, was impossible.  We drove, rode, talked,
danced, and sketched together.  As some one says,--

  She sketch'd; the vale, the wood, the beach,
    Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading.
  She botanised; I envied each
    Young blossom in her boudoir fading.
  She warbled Handel; it was grand--
    She might make Catalani jealous.
  She touch'd the organ,--I could stand
    For hours and hours to blow the bellows.

Yet I was always so timid in Georgette's presence, that I envied the
cool impudence with which Haystone made love (without meaning it), in
true garrison fashion, either to Claire or Julie, which of them
mattered not a straw to him; for example, when leaning over the
latter at the piano, I overheard a conversation in this style:--

"You have a charming bracelet, Mademoiselle Julie."

"Papa's gift on my last birthday.  Are not the pearls magnificent?"

"On _another_ arm than yours, Julie, they would be dazzling."

"On another arm?--monsieur, I do not understand."

"Are you so artless as not to perceive that the whiteness of your arm
darkens even these snowy pearls?" whispered Haystone, impressively.

Poor Julie sighed, and played the deuce with her music, for Rowland
Haystone was a handsome rogue, and pleased her eye.

On another occasion I heard Claire say to him,--

"It is no use saying that you love me, monsieur, for I don't believe
in you; we quite understood each other."

"To know you, dear Claire, and not love you, would be----"

"What--something very tremendous, no doubt?"

"A reproach to any man."

"Of course!" said she, drooping her eyelashes to hide a twinkle of
drollery.

"But less so, however, to one of the Twenty-First."

"Indeed, wherefore?"

"Because we are the most inflammable corps in the service."

Claire burst into a fit of laughter, for this "Chatham style" of
love-making, in which there is always a dash of impertinence, amused
her exceedingly, but I was not sorry when Haystone, with his company,
was despatched by the Earl, on a "nigger-hunt," into the great
savannah of Basse Terre, for by him and others of the corps, I was
frequently rallied on what they termed "my fancy for a French girl."
The countess, who perceived me to be annoyed one day, by some of my
comrades' banter which she had overheard, handed a volume of
Zimmerman, with a significant smile, as we promenaded together in the
verandah: the name of Georgette was written on a leaf, which Amy had
marked with pencil, and the paragraph she indicated ran thus; and as
nobody reads Zimmerman now, I may as well give it at full length:--

"Of what value are all the babblings and vain boastings of society,
when compared to that domestic felicity which we experience in the
company and conversation of an amiable woman, whose charms awaken the
dormant faculties of the soul, and fill the mind with finer energies;
whose smiles prompt our enterprises, and whose assistance ensures
success; who inspires us with congenial greatness and sublimity; who
with judicious penetration, weighs and examines our thoughts, our
actions, our whole character; who observes all our foibles, warns us
with sincerity of their consequences, and reforms us with gentleness
and affection; who by a tender communication of her thoughts and
observations conveys new instruction to our minds, and, by pouring
the warm and generous feelings of her heart into our bosoms, animates
us incessantly to the exercise of every virtue, and completes the
polished perfection of our character by the soft allurements of love
and delightful concord of her sentiments.  In such an intercourse,
all that is noble and virtuous in human nature is preserved within
the breast, and every evil propensity dies away!"

"It is true--very true," said I.

"What is true, monsieur?" asked Georgette, whom the countess (for so
I must name Amy Lee now) had artfully contrived to place next me,
while she herself disappeared.

"A passage I was reading in your Zimmerman, mademoiselle," said I,
colouring with confusion.

"Show it to me?"

She read it, and as she did so, the rich bloom deepened on her cheek,
and she closed the volume with a timid smile, saying artlessly--

"But where is all this perfection to be found?"

"In you, mademoiselle--in you, Georgette," said I, in a scarcely
audible voice.

"What--are you about to make love to me?"

"If I may be permitted, dear Georgette!"

"Oh, but you have been in love _before_?" said she, with a smile of
drollery; "now say, have you not, for I know better."

"Georgette, people often have little fancies."

"And you have one for me--_très bon_!"

"Georgette!"

"Monsieur hangs his head with a very pleading air; you were in love,
but you joined the army; alas! you see that ambition outlives love."

"Georgette--you are quite a philosopher!" said I, recovering, and
taking up her tone, which was somewhat bantering, as if unwilling to
believe me; but I could perceive that her poor little hands trembled
very much as she plucked the lemon-water flowers, and her colour came
and went with every pulsation.

"Georgette--dearest Georgette," I urged.

"Monsieur?"

"I was about to say something----"

"What?"

"That I tenderly love you."

"Love me!" she reiterated in a whisper; "ah, do not say so--at least
so earnestly.

"Why?"

"I--I know not--it is no use loving me, monsieur; but we see so much
of each other--that--and is it not a strange chance which throws us
so frequently together?"

"Do not term it chance, Georgette."

"What then?" she asked, with a smile, as she regained courage.

"Now, monsieur, what _do_ you mean?"

"_Destiny_--believe it is destiny, dear, dear Georgette?" said I,
clasping her waist with my hands.

Poor Georgette trembled more, blushed deeper, and then grew very
pale, but did not repel me.

From the verandah we strolled into the gardens, where more than an
hour glided imperceptibly over us.  What we said, or left unsaid,
would occupy a good many pages; but being of no interest to any one
but ourselves, need not be rehearsed here; yet, ere we returned to
the villa, to hear old M. George de Thoisy's everlasting
recollections of bygone times--to taste and praise Madame's
preserves; to resume our evening music and gaiety with Claire, Julie,
Bruce, and Rowland Haystone--Georgette and I had exchanged our rings,
and sealed our troth with gifts dearer, but less tangible than gold.

But the next and most formidable move in the matter was to open the
trenches to M. de Thoisy, a man full of old French prejudices, and
who, with all his aristocratic predilections, had other, and perhaps
more commercial views for his three beautiful daughters than
portioning them off to the penniless captains and subs of the Scots
Fusiliers.

CHAPTER LXX.

A CRISIS.

Some days after this, Georgette and I were in the recess of a window
of the drawing-room, ostensibly to watch the sunbeams casting their
broad flakes of hazy light athwart the wooded hills, and on the
slopes that lay between them and the sea.  We were hand in hand, but
silent and full of our own thoughts, which a gentle pressure from
time to time alone indicated.

"My dear Georgette," said I; "I envy your peaceful seclusion here."

"You envy us!"

"Yes."

"You, a soldier--one who has led a life of bustle and excitement, and
who, by the account of his friends, has been a veritable Wandering
Jew?"

"Nevertheless, 'tis true; I envy this rural solitude; here we are
quite lost in a forest of flowers, aloes, and palms."

"How romantic we are becoming!" said she merrily; "but when our
tastes are so different, monsieur----"

"Ah, do not say so!"

"Even our races, and our creeds," she added, sighing; "so be pleased
to say how or why?"

"Well; in your heart there seems to be filled here all the domestic
void I feel in my own--a circle of near and dear relations.  You have
a father to consult and to embrace.  Mine is in his grave, and I
scarcely ever knew him.  You have a mother, who, whenever she kisses
you, makes me think of mine whom I left in her old age; you have two
sisters, each beautiful as yourself, Georgette, who, each time that I
behold them near you, make me think of my poor little Lotty in
Scotland, far away."

"Ecosse!  I have heard papa talk of that country; the sun never
shines in England; and an old Abbé once assured me that the moon is
only seen sometimes in Scotland; now tell me, M. l'Ecossais, is that
true?"

"One day you shall see for yourself."

"Oh, Oliver," said she, almost weeping; "papa will never consent to
your loving me."

"Do not say so, Georgette; for though I have my own fears on the
subject, your misgivings make me wretched."

"Come, we must not be cast down," said she, with sudden gaiety, for
she was full of impulses; and shaking back her rich golden hair,
while her beautiful dark eyes sparkled with love and light, she
opened the piano, and ran her rapid little fingers over the ivory
keys.

"I shall sing to you."

"Thanks, Georgette."

"But what shall it be?"

"Whatever you please."

"Well then,--

  Ah, ça ira, ça ira, ça ira!
  Les aristocrats à la lanterns!"

"Georgette!"

"What is the matter?"

"Can you profane your dear lips by a song so horrible?"

"So republican, you would say.  Ah, _mon Dieu_," said she, shrugging
her white shoulders, "I only meant to be droll, and you actually
scold me already.  Well--is this better?"

  Halte là! halte là!
  La Garde Royale est là!

And she waggishly sang a verse of this song, which was wont to be a
favourite with the Chevalier Dutriel.

"'Tis a camp ditty, and if mamma hears me, she will not be pleased.
Ah," she added, turning over her music, "here is something you will
like better:--

  Adieu, charmant pays de France!
    Que je dois tant chérir,
  Berceau de mon heureuse enfance,
    Adieu, te quitter c'est mourir!"

and so on, she sang with exquisite sweetness the _Adieux de Marie
Stuart_.  We were, I thought, alone; my arm was around her, and
turning her dear little face to mine, I kissed her tenderly.

"_Morbleu!_" said an angry voice close by.

I turned, and saw her father surveying us sternly, as he appeared
with unpleasant suddenness at one of the drawing-room windows, which
unfolded to the tiled floor of the verandah.  Striking his
gold-headed cane with great irritation on the tiles, with his wig and
old-fashioned coat, he bore the closest resemblance to the angry
Father of the old comedy that ever I beheld.

"Retire, mademoiselle," said he; "and as for _you_, M. le Capitaine,
you will be pleased--_sacre!_--to follow me to the library."

Georgette retired--she almost fled, while I followed Père de Thoisy
into his library, which was decorated in a very florid style, after
that of his late Most Christian Majesty's "snuggery" in the Louvre.
Coldly, but politely, the old gentleman at once brought me "to book"
on the subject of my intentions.

"Monsieur," said he, "I owe you much--my family owe you much; but you
must pardon me demanding on what terms you are with my eldest
daughter?"

"Monsieur de Thoisy," I began, not knowing what the deuce to say; "I
beseech you to consider----"

"To the point at once," said he drily, "to the point, M. le
Capitaine, as a man of honour, for such I deem you.",

"M. de Thoisy, I love her."

"_Parbleu_!  I dreaded some such _dénoûment_ as this! but is it
honest--is it a fair return for my hospitality--my unceasing kindness
to you?"

"We cannot control our hearts, my dear sir."

"But we may control our passions!" said he impetuously; "and I
believe there is no heart in the matter."

"Alas! sir, do not talk thus; what heart could have escaped here?  If
I had not fallen in love with Georgette, I must have done so with
Julie--if not with Julie, with Claire; for three girls more winning
and charming----"

"_Sacre_!  I can understand all that; but tell me, does Georgette
love you in return?"

"I rejoice in the hope----"

"Only the hope?"

"In the promise--the avowal that she does love me."

"Georgette will be rich, M. le Capitaine; I can give each of my girls
a portion fit for any demoiselle at the Court of the Most Christian
King (the hat was raised at these words), while you, monsieur, have
only your epaulettes and your sword."

"My epaulettes I won at the risk of my life in the struggle we have
commenced to save French Royalists from French Republicans; what
other mission brought us here?  My sword, M. de Thoisy, saved you
from a dreadful death, when all your francs and livres would have
failed to do so."

"_Parbleu!_ you are right--pardon me," said the old French gentleman,
who did not lack generosity.

"Georgette's wealth would be quite enough for two; but I shall make
over to her, or to you," said I, by a happy thought, and with an air
of splendid generosity, "a ship that I possess."

"A ship?"

"A ship containing thirty millions of pieces of eight."

"_Mon Dieu_!  M. le Capitaine, are you in your senses?" exclaimed De
Thoisy, holding up his hands.

"Quite," said I, while M. de Thoisy elevated his shoulders to his
ears, and his eyebrows to the roots of his periwig.

"Where is this ship--what is this you tell me?--what is her name?"

"_La Lima_."

"That sounds Spanish."

"She was Spanish."

"Thirty millions of pieces of eight!"

"I give you my word of honour that I can put you in possession of
such a ship, as her existence is known to me alone."

"Is it credible--_mille tonnerres!_--can it be?"

"You believe me?"

The old French gentleman laid his hand upon his breast, and replied
by a profound bow.

"But will monsieur be so good as explain?"

I then related my history of the sunken galleon in the Isle of
Tortoises, and he heard with growing wonder my detail of her exact
position in the cavern, and the treasure she contained.

"Thirty millions of pieces of eight--ah!  Marie, Mère de Dieu!  One
must boil a good many acres of sugar-cane to realize such a sum as
that!"

"Well, take her, monsieur, and all she contains--but give me your
daughter."

"M. le Capitaine--Georgette is yours."

* * * * * *

CHAPTER LXXI.

CONCLUSION.

Six months after the interview related here, I found myself on the
brow of an eminence which overlooks the little wooded dell wherein
lies the village in which the first chapter of this story opens, and
where my mother's little cottage stands.

The month was October, and the russet hues of autumn, lent a sombre
aspect to the evening landscape.  The village and the scene were all
unchanged as when I saw them before; and it was difficult for me to
realize the events and years that had passed since last I stood
there.  But I had still on the uniform of a Scots Fusilier; Rowland
Haystone was by my side, and I had left Georgette fatigued with her
journey and our long voyage home in the _Adder_, at an hotel in town,
while accompanied by my friend and comrade, I proceeded on foot to
the residence of my mother.

The red crisped leaves whirled on the evening wind; a ruddy gleam
played on the windows of the wayside houses from the coal fires
within and a warm glow glared across the road from the smith's forge,
where we heard the clang of a hammer on the resounding anvil.

The purple radiance of the set sun yet lingered on the heath-clad
summits of the distant hills, whose long and wavy line spread far
away to the westward; and every feature in the landscape, and every
sound that fell on the ear, spoke to me of _home_, and filled my
heart with a strange combination of joy and sadness.

Since those days, a railway has effected a great change in our little
village.  _Now_, an excursion train shoots ten thousand passengers
through it at the rate of forty miles per hour.  _Then_, its visitors
were few.  The war-worn soldier, travelling afoot with his knapsack,
and with his memories of Granby, Cornwallis, and Abercrombie; the
Heights of Abraham, and the Bay of Aboukir; the old familiar pedlar
with his pack of trinkets and his blarney; the swarthy and uncouth
gipsies, who made horn spoons and milking-pails; or the weary
wayfarer with his proverbial staff and bundle, came there at times,
leisurely, slowly, and surely; pausing on the brow of the hill, ere
they descended into the densely-wooded valley, where the red mountain
burn brawled hoarsely under an old bridge of the monkish times, or
halted to drink a stoup of brown ale, or of limpid usquebaugh, at the
old village inn, ere they pushed further on their journey into the
busier world beyond.

Now, a giant viaduct, that might remind one of Rome or of Tivoli,
save that its numerous arches are built of flaming red brick, spans,
high in air, the wooded dell, leaping, as it were, from hill to hill;
and then the huge train clatters and screams with its flaring red
lights and brass-mounted engine, as it tears along with its living
freight, or with countless trucks of luggage,--on, on, and on, as
with a roar like thunder, it vanishes into the bowels of a tunnelled
mountain.  In those days, a newspaper which came once weekly, to the
minister, served to inform the whole village of the doings of "the
Corsican tyrant;" of the battle of Camperdown, and the glories of
Trafalgar; but _now_, we heard how the Guards and Highlanders went up
the heights of Alma, and of the valour of "the thin red streak" at
Balaclava, as soon as the citizens of the great metropolis,--for we
have our own electric wire as well as they.

Strange as it may seem in these our days of cheap postage and swift
communication, in consequence of the wandering life I had led, and
the desultory nature of our operations by land and sea in the
Antilles, I had never heard from my home since leaving it, nor had
any letters of mine been received; and thus, with a heart swollen by
anxiety and mournful recollections, I made a rapid survey of the
scene, dreading--I knew not what!

An aged thorn-tree that had overhung the road for centuries, and
whereon many an outlaw had swung in the times of old--a tree whose
gnarled branches I was wont to climb, had been cut down, and its
_absence_ gave me a shock, so sensitive did vague apprehension make
me.  The roads and paths were all familiar as the faces of old
friends; in boyhood I had traversed them a thousand times, seeking
bird-nests, rabbit-holes, and scarlet berries in autumn.

The old manse recalled Dr. Twaddel the minister, with his white hair,
his curved paunch, and his old bunch of red gold seals that hung
thereat--and my poor mother's visit to him about _me_.  How sadly I
smiled when thinking of his monitory tones!--and there too, was the
ancient church with its ivy-shrouded belfry, wherein an owl nestled
by day and screamed by night.  The old village signboards, and the
old village sounds were around me; and now I was at the gate of the
garden, in which Lotty and I used to plant flowers and shrubs--shrubs
that had since grown to veritable trees; and _now_ after all my
wanderings, after ploughing the great deep, and having had the roar
of battle in my ear, and seen the colours of the Fusiliers riven to
rags by shot and shell, I felt like a boy again when standing on my
mother's threshold.

I was close to the first starting-place of the soul, yet my heart
sank within me!

I was so full of anxious thoughts, that Haystone (rightly dreading
lest strangers instead of friends might meet me) hastily rang the
bell, and after speaking to a servant, returned, saying cheerily--

"All right, my boy--the old lady is alive and well."

"Thank God!" said I, as we were ushered in.

I stood once more within the little parlour (how very small it
seemed?), on the walls of which the engravings of Wolfe and
Cornwallis were yet hanging with my father's sword and gilded
gorget--and my mother was before me, paler, thinner, and it might be
more bent with years than when I saw her last.  Her little
work-basket, and a book or two, with her spectacles, were by her
side, and a great sleek tom-cat was dozing on the hearthrug, in the
warm glow of the fire.

On the entrance of two officers in uniform, the old lady rose with
surprise and some alarm; it was evident that her seclusion was seldom
broken.

A chair stood opposite, and seemed to say that Lotty had just left
it,--to adjust her hair, or do something about her toilet, no doubt.
I was trembling with emotion, and Haystone, who dearly loved a scene,
and feared I might frustrate the effect he intended to produce, now
said,--

"You must pardon us, madam; but we are two officers of the Scots
Fusiliers, who were passing through the village, and hearing that you
resided here, have called to pay our respects to the widow of one
whose memory is still cherished in our regiment."

"For his sake, gentlemen, you are doubly welcome," replied my mother
tremulously, as a film overspread her spectacles, and her heart
warmed to the red-coats; "I was with the army in America; my husband
marched with his regiment to fight the enemy on the banks of the
Hudson; the firing was heavy all that dreadful day; and ere the
sunset, I--I was a widow, and my children were fatherless!  It was
the will of God, and the chance of war."

"Your children," I stammered; "had you more than Lo--than Miss Ellis?"

"Sir, I had a son, who, had he been spared to me----" she paused, for
her emotion became as deep as my own;--"Through the long hours of
many a weary night I have watched, and wept, and prayed for him.
Long his place seemed vacant, his chair and plate unoccupied; and
when I carved for his sister, at our frugal little meals, a
bitterness came over me, and I sighed, for there was no _other_ to
help; but I am used to it now."

"He must have been a sad dog, this son of yours, madam," said
Haystone, pinching my arm.

"Ah, sir! do not say so.  He went out on a dreadful night--the night
of a political riot, when the troops fired on the friends of the
people, and when many men were slain; he disappeared and no trace of
him could ever be discovered.  Shall I tell you how hours and days,
weeks and years rolled on, ere my sorrow became placid?  But my
first-born--my little boy was too dear, though lost, to be forgotten!
his face, his eyes and voice, with a thousand little memories of him,
were ever before me.  People called him wild and wayward; but to me
he was ever gentle and mild as the tender lamb, to which the blessed
God tempers the wind of Heaven.  But I weary you, gentlemen, by all
this; I forget you cannot listen to it as my dear daughter Lotty
does.  While the young dream of the future, the old can only dream of
the _past_."

"Madam," said Haystone, "such regrets as yours are most natural."

"I had two sons, it would seem," said my mother thoughtfully.

"Two?" I reiterated, fearing that her mind wandered.

"It seemed so to me, one, a dear little boy, whom I loved in
childhood, and who loved me well; and _another_, who deserted me in
manhood, for he who did so seemed so different from the curly-haired,
waxen-skinned and bright-eyed little Oliver who slept in my bosom in
infancy."

These words wrung my soul, and even Haystone seemed to think we were
going quite far enough; but the old lady resumed.

"It has been a fearful--a terrible feeling this to me.  He was the
star of my life; the hope of my existence; the sharer of my humble
crust; the joy and altar whereon were garnered up the hope and soul
of a poor old widowed mother--but he left me!  If yet he lives, may
God forgive him--yea, as I do! ..... My dove went forth upon the
waters; but, alas! he returned to me no more.  The sunshine has
seemed darker since I lost him; but it may be that my sight is
dimmer; for as Ossian says, 'the years of age are dark and unlovely.'"

I felt ready to sink, for while saying all this, she had been
gradually pushing the lamp nearer us across the table, and gazing
wistfully and nervously at my face, for since I had spoken, _a
mysterious chord_ had been stirred in her heart, and some fond memory
of my features came vaguely and strangely over her.

The tears ran down my face as she drew nearer.

At last suspicion became conviction.

"Mother!" I exclaimed.  We simultaneously uttered a cry and she sank
into my arms, while Lotty, now a tall and handsome girl--handsome as
Georgette herself--rushed in to join us, and Rowland Haystone, of
whose presence we were long quite oblivious, certainly had the
satisfaction of producing all the dramatic effect he desired.

On this tableau, can I do better than drop the curtain, when we were
all so happy; and yet I have a word or two to add to the reader who
has kindly followed me thus far by sea and land.

My mother was enchanted with Georgette, and so would you have been
had you known her, for she proves to me all that the famous paragraph
of Zimmerman expressed.  Wealth flowed in upon us, for old M. de
Thoisy, whom we left behind in Guadaloupe for a little time,
chartered a vessel and raised the treasure of _La Lima_, which amply
repaid the speculation by realizing our most sanguine expectations;
and from that hour my old comrades of all ranks, drew on me as if I
had been the Bank of England, or a species of regimental factor.

We had not been at home a week before I detected Haystone in the act
of rhyming off to poor Lotty some of his usual love-speeches; on
which I borrowed a leaf from Père de Thoisy's book, and at once took
him to task on the subject; so the result was, that Lotty became Mrs.
Rowland Haystone in three months after.

By this time the French had recaptured the whole of Guadaloupe, and
heavily on my old comrades fell the slaughter of that day.

They defended Fort Matilda, our last stronghold there, till it was no
longer tenable, so severely had it been injured by the enemy's fire;
thus the Earl of Kildonan and Colonel Grahame resolved to abandon it
on the night of the 10th December.  One company, under Lieutenant
Paterson and _Ensign Drumbirrel_, occupied the ramparts on the right
of the great breach; Price, Colepepper, and Mackay, each at the head
of their companies, fought bravely as they lined the bank of the
Gallion river, when the whole garrison, with its stores and cannon,
embarked on board the fleet of Admiral Jervis.  By this time, the
_three_ companies which covered the retreat, were reduced to six
sergeants and ninety-two rank and file!

I loved my regiment well; to me it had been friends and
kindred--home, a happy but movable home.  We had shed our blood
together; slept on the same turf; under the same tents; endured the
same hardships, and shared the same glories, dangers, and disasters;
for a "regiment is a permanent body, depending for its excellence on
the general fellowship of a permanent set of officers--on their
general relations with the non-commissioned officers and men under
their command--a high _esprit du corps_--and the preservation of old
associations and recollections connected with its past history and
achievements."

We were a band of brothers, for there is among soldiers a deep fount
of fraternity, of which the citizen knows nothing, and in which he
cannot share.  "My comrade--my brother soldier--my old brother
officer!"--these, indeed, are endearing terms, and in the spirit they
imbue we share our blanket in the bivouac, our last biscuit or ration
bone, our last shot, and, too often, our last shilling, together!

Since the capture of Martinique and the loss of Guadaloupe, long
years have changed, and war and pestilence have made sad havock in
the ranks; death, distance, and time, have dug deep and fast their
lonely graves on many a far and foreign shore--far from the land of
the rock and the heather; but "while the kindling of life in my bosom
remains," I shall remember with pride and joy the friends that I
made, the dangers that I dared, and the years that I spent in the old
regiment of Scots Fusiliers.

THE END.

COX AND WYMAN, PRINTERS, GREAT QUEEN STREET, LONDON.