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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Die Primadonna
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
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Title: Die Primadonna

Roman

Author: Olga Wohlbrück

Release date: December 14, 2023 [eBook #72413]

Language: German

Original publication: Berlin: August Scherl G. m. b. H, 1921

Credits: The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at

https://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DIE

PRIMADONNA ***
 Anmerkungen zur Transkription
Der vorliegende Text wurde anhand der Buchausgabe von 1921 so weit wie möglich
originalgetreu wiedergegeben. Typographische Fehler wurden stillschweigend korrigiert.
Ungewöhnliche und heute nicht mehr verwendete Schreibweisen bleiben gegenüber dem
Original unverändert; fremdsprachliche Ausdrücke wurden nicht korrigiert.
Das Original wurde in Frakturschrift gesetzt; Passagen in Antiquaschrift werden hier
kursiv dargestellt. Abhängig von der im jeweiligen Lesegerät installierten Schriftart
können die im Original g e s p e r r t gedruckten Passagen gesperrt, in serifenloser Schrift,
oder aber sowohl serifenlos als auch gesperrt erscheinen.
 Olga Wohlbrück

Die Primadonna
 Die
Primadonna
Roman
von

Olga Wohlbrück

Vierzehntes bis achtzehntes Tausend

August Scherl G. m. b. H., Berlin SW 68

Alle Rechte, auch das der Übersetzung, vorbehalten.
Copyright 1921 by August Scherl G. m. b. H., Berlin.

Druck von August Scherl G. m. b. H., Berlin SW 68.

 ls Karla König die Gestalt ihres Mannes durch die staubgraue
Glasscheibe des Künstlereinganges erblickte, wurde ihr
lebhaftes, junges Gesicht dunkelrot.
„Du, denk dir ... wir kriegen ein Kind!“
Fast hätte sie es laut herausgeschrien. Aber weil nun die
Kollegen und Kolleginnen vom Schauspiel an ihrem Manne
vorbeidrängten, preßte sie die Hand in dem weißen Zwirnhandschuh
gegen die vollen, roten Lippen.
Ihr Mann war zweiter Held und Liebhaber. Keine große Nummer,
aber ein vorzüglicher Sprecher und eine vornehme Erscheinung. Sie
schwärmte für Vornehmheit. Die Kollegen hielten große Stücke auf
ihn, weil er bei vorkommenden Streitigkeiten mit der Direktion stets
ihre Interessen vertrat und durch seine überlegene Ruhe manchen
Konflikt gütlich beilegte.
Genau wußte man sein Alter nicht, aber man gab ihm mehr
Jahre, als er hatte.
Eines Tages kam er Arm in Arm mit Karla König zur Opernprobe
und stellte sie als seine „Braut“ vor.
Der Direktor gratulierte lau.
Eine halbe Stunde später ließ er sie in sein Bureau kommen.
„Hast du den Verstand verloren, Mädel?“ — So empfing er sie.
„Aber ...“
Sie blickte ihn ganz verschüchtert an und versuchte vergeblich,
den Kragen ihres Kleides zu schließen, den sie beim Singen
während der Probe gelockert hatte.
Sie war für ihn das kleine Mädchen, das er rücksichtslos
anschnauzte, wenn es sich was zuschulden kommen ließ. Aber sie
war auch seine „Entdeckung“, auf die er stolz war.
 Streng hielt er sie. In eisernen Klammern. Hungergage. Aber
erste Partien. Einmal, während der Lohengrinprobe, wurde sie
ohnmächtig. Seitdem schickte er ihr aus einem guten Speisehaus an
Tagen, da sie Wagner sang, reichliches Essen.
Ihr Brustkasten war noch zu schmal. Aber „Singen entwickelt“. In
ein paar Jahren war sie eine allererste Kraft. Ein Geschenk, das er
der Musikwelt machte. Er hielt sie mit Vorliebe am Arm, tastete mit
seinen behenden und erfahrenen Fingern die Zunahme einer
ersprießlichen Rundung ab.
„Sag’ mal, Mädel, bist du ganz von Gott verlassen? Mit dem
Altmann, dem Ernst Altmann, verlobst du dich ...? Hat’s gebrannt?
Was hast du an ihm gefressen?“
Sie stand sehr verwirrt und sogar ein bißchen erblaßt zwischen
den roten, grauschimmernden Samtsesseln. Was sollte sie
antworten? Sie wußte selbst kaum, wie alles gekommen war.
Altmann hatte sich vor einem halben Jahr erboten, ihr
Sprechunterricht zu geben, sie Vortrag zu lehren.
„Man versteht Sie nicht, Kleine ... Schade um Ihre Stimme.
Zahlen brauchen Sie nicht. Als Kollege ...“
Also war sie in seine zwei möblierten Stuben gekommen,
verschüchtert auch da. Aber lerneifrig und von verblüffender
Auffassungsfähigkeit. Wie verwandelt war sie in den abgeleierten
Partien. Die schalen, alten Worte gewannen neues, heißes Leben.
Altmann drückte beim Direktor eine kleine Erhöhung ihrer Gage
durch, und vor der Stunde setzte er seiner Schülerin ein Glas Milch
vor und dickbelegte Stullen. Wenn sie recht satt war, sang sie
hinreißend. Mit der Leidenschaft eines erfahrenen Weibes.
Er mußte dämpfen. Wie ein junges, wildes Tier war sie, das er an
die Kette legen mußte, damit es ihn nicht umwarf und zu Schaden
brachte. Abends zur Vorstellung ließ er es los und hetzte es auf das
Publikum.
Wenn sie mit leuchtenden Augen, froh wie ein müdgespieltes
Kind, den Nachhall des brausenden Erfolges noch im Ohr, aus ihrer
Garderobe trat, stand Altmann wartend vor ihr.
 „Wie war’s?“ fragte sie scheu und stolz.
„Schlecht. Hundeschlecht. Knöpf’ die Jacke zu — du erkältest
dich noch.“
Er duzte sie nach Theaterart. Hauptsächlich, weil er ihr Lehrer
war.
In seiner Stimme lagen Sorge und Groll. „Die Esel draußen“
verdarben ihm das Mädel noch, wenn das so weiterging mit dem
blödsinnigen Herausrufen und den überschwenglichen
Besprechungen unverwöhnter Provinzliteraten. Dann wurde sie
größenwahnsinnig und verkam. Also — dämpfen.
Und während er ihr haarscharf auseinandersetzte, wie unklar und
überhastet sie die Arie des zweiten Aktes gebracht, wie
ausdruckslos sie in der Sterbeszene des Finale gewesen, wie matt
ihr „Für dich, Geliebter!“ geklungen, während er ihren Gang, ihre
Armbewegungen unbarmherzig bekrittelte, folgten auf der anderen
Seite der Straße Gymnasiasten, Ladenfräulein, junge Polytechniker
und Musikschülerinnen ihrem angebeteten Liebling, Karla König, bis
zur nächsten Straßenecke.
Dort riefen sie: „Hoch Karla König! Hoch!“ und stoben
auseinander. Durch die Nachtluft sausten ein paar Sträußchen, halb
versengt von den heißen Fingern, die sie den Abend über krampfhaft
gehalten.
Sie wagte es nicht, sich nach den Blumen zu bücken; und er
stieß sie mit dem Fuß achtlos zur Seite. Das Herz klopfte ihr zum
Zerspringen, sie hielt mit Mühe die Tränen zurück.
„Was ist denn? Bist du beleidigt, weil ich dir die Wahrheit sage?
Wenn du willst — gehe ich morgen in den nächsten Laden und kaufe
dir den schönsten Blumenkorb. Aber dann auch — Adjö! Na — so
sprich doch ...“
Sie hatte Hunger. Ganz gemeinen Hunger. Wie immer nach der
Vorstellung. Er wußte, was sie bei ihrer Wirtin erwartete: zwei dünne
Scheibchen mit harter Wurst oder Käse belegt.
„Komm zu mir ’rauf — wir essen zusammen.“
 Es war nicht das erstemal. Ins Wirtshaus ging er nicht mit ihr. Sie
sollte nicht die üble Luft und den Zigarrenrauch einatmen.
Er selbst hatte überdies starke häusliche Instinkte. Seine Wirtin
war gut abgerichtet und der Tisch gut bestellt bei ihm. Er brauchte
nur ein Gedeck mehr aufzulegen, es langte für mehr als für zwei.
Und sie ließ sich nicht bitten. Ging mit, biß ein, mit blitzenden
Zähnen, während er ihr zusah, nachdenklich und fast ein wenig
gerührt. Allmählich suchte sie, es ihm gemütlich zu machen: stellte
das Wasser auf in der Küche, bereitete ihm Grog oder Tee, strich
ihm die Butter aufs Brot.
Sie hatte etwas Hausmütterliches, an dem er sich erfreute. Und
sie war anschmiegend, wenn sie satt war, wie eine schnurrende
Katze.
Eines Abends hatte es in Strömen gegossen; sie fragte sehr
besorgt, ob er sich nicht nasse Füße geholt hätte. Ehe er sich’s
versah, brachte sie ihm die Hausschuhe aus der Schlafstube.
Er wurde ärgerlich.
„Was machst du denn?! Ich mag so etwas nicht leiden.“
Aber im tiefsten Innern empfand er es angenehm. Wie ein
freundliches Erinnern. So war es in seinem Elternhause üblich
gewesen. Mutter stand hinter der Gardine und spähte auf die Gasse
hinaus. Wenn der Vater an der Ecke sichtbar wurde, stellte sie je
nach der Jahreszeit die Filz- oder die leichten Schuhe aus Segeltuch
bereit.
Er fragte nach Karlas Eltern. Zum erstenmal.
Der Vater war Tänzer gewesen. Zar Alexander der Zweite hatte
ihm eine goldene Uhr geschenkt, mit Brillanten. Die Mutter hatte die
Brillanten ausbrechen lassen und verkauft. Die Mutter war eine
große, stattliche Frau gewesen, sehr energisch. Sie selbst hatte
Karla den ersten Gesangunterricht gegeben. Die Ohrfeigen waren
dabei in aller Liebe rechts und links um ihre Wangen geflogen. Die
Mutter wollte sie zur Operette bringen. Aber der Vater hielt nur von
großer Kunst etwas. Ein Dresdener Hofopernsänger, mit dem er,
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 JOHN HETHERINGTON’S DREAM.

In a certain small town in the south of Scotland, there lived, about

three years ago, a very respectable tailor, of the name of John
Hetherington—that is to say, John wore well with the world; but, like
too many of his craft, he was sorely addicted to cabbaging. Not a coat
could he make, not a pair of trousers could he cut out, not a waistcoat
could he stitch up, but he must have a patch of this, that, and t’other,
were it for no other purpose but just to serve as a bit of a memorial.
One very warm evening towards the end of August 1826, John had
gone to bed rather earlier than usual, but not without having laid in a
very good share of a very tasty Welsh rabbit; which said rabbit, being
composed of about a pound of tough cheese, of course furnished the
poor tailor, after he had fairly tumbled over into the land of Nod,
with something of a very curious Welsh-rabbit vision. It suddenly
struck him that this life, with all its cares and anxieties, was over
with him; that the finishing stitch had been put to the great work of
life, and the thread of his existence cut through. In the other world,
to his misfortune, he found things not moving so comfortably as he
would have wished; and the old gentleman with the short horns and
the long tail, rigged out in his best suit of black, was the first friend
he forgathered with after passing the border.
“There’s a fine morning,” said the wily old dog; “how do you find
yourself after long travel?”
“No that weel,” stammered out the half-dead son of a goose; “no
that weel; and I dinna think, all things considered, it would benefit
me much to be found in such company, no offence to your
reverence,” as he saw his new friend’s choler rise; “no offence to your
reverence, I trust; but if I may be so bold, I would thank you to tell
me the reason of my being here; and, above all, who’s to be thankit
for the honour of an introduction to your reverence?”
 “That you will know shortly, friend; nay, John Hetherington, for
you see I know you;” and taking a large parcel from below his left
arm, he commenced to unroll it, and to the astonishment of poor
John, unfolded a long sheet of patchwork, in which were found
scraps of every hue, a web of many colours, all neatly stitched
together; and in the middle, by way of a set off, a large bit of most
excellent blue cloth, which had been cabbaged that very morning
from a prime piece which he had got into his hands for the purpose
of making a marriage coat for his neighbour the blacksmith.
“Was all this stuff got fairly and honestly, good man?” said the old
gentleman, with a sneer quite worthy of Beelzebub. “I suppose you
will be able to recognise some of these old bits. What think you now
of that piece in the middle which your eyes are fixed on—cabbaged
no farther back than this morning? Come along, my old boy, come
along; you are a true son of your old father, I see, and I will furnish
you with as warm winter quarters as you ever enjoyed when you was
half-stewed with your old maiden aunt, at the top of fifteen pair of
stairs in the High Street of Edinburgh, when serving your
apprenticeship with Dick Mouleypouches.”
A cold sweat broke over the poor tailor, and he felt as if he could
have sunk snugly into the earth, if it had only had the goodness to
open at that moment for his especial accommodation, when he saw
the long bony arm stretched out, with its sharp eagle claws, to clutch
him: he made a sharp bolt back, and giving vent to his feelings in a
loud and long howl, which rung horribly in his ears long after
opening his eyes, he found himself sprawling in the middle of his
wooden floor, with all the bed-clothes tumbled above him. It was the
first breaking out of a fine morning: the sun was rising, and all
nature looked fresh and fair; but poor John was at the point of death
with sheer bodily fear and trembling, so that to get to bed again, and
to sleep, would have been martyrdom; therefore he huddled on his
clothes, and walked out “to snuff the caller air,” and muse over his
wonderful dream. The more he thought of it, the more he saw the
necessity of reforming his mode of life; and, before finishing his
stroll, he was an altered man, and had made up his mind never more
to cabbage an inch of cloth; and, by walking circumspect and just, he
trusted that his past offences might be wiped out, and that the
wonderful web of many colours should no more be brought up as
evidence against him. To make him the more secure in the event of
forgetfulness in the hour of temptation, his foreman was let into the
great secret, and had orders at all times to rub up his remembrance
when there was any thing good going, which he used to do by the
laconic phrase of, “Master, mind the sheet!”
A year passed over, and the terror of the dream being yet fresh in
his memory, John’s transactions were strictly honest. He could cut
out with somewhat more considerable ease, and had lost a good deal
the knack of cutting out the sly piece at the corner. But, alas! for the
stability of all human resolutions, our friend was sorely tempted, and
how he stood we shall soon see. He had got to hand a beautiful piece
of red cloth, for what purpose I know not, whether for the coat of a
field officer, or the back of a fox hunter, but a prime piece of cloth
that was; he turned it over to this side, and back to that, viewed it in
all lights and shades, rubbed it against the grain, and found it
faultless. He had never seen such a fine piece of cloth before—
scissors had never before cut such immaculate stuff. He fixed his eye
wistfully on a tempting corner, looked up, and his foreman John was
staring firmly in his face: he had read his thoughts.
“Master, mind the sheet!” solemnly ejaculated John.
“I’m just swithering, John; I’m just swithering: now when I mind,
there wasna a piece of red cloth in all the sheet; and mair by token,
there was a bit gap at one of the corners. Now, I’m just thinking,
since it maun be that all these bit odds and ends are to be evidence
against me when I come to the lang count, it would be better to snick
a bit aff the corner here; and that you see, John, will fill all
deficiencies, and mak the sheet, since it maun appear against me,
evidence, John, without a flaw!”
 BLACK JOE O’ THE BOW.

By James Smith.

In the days no sae very lang syne, when the auld West Bow o’
Edinburgh was in the deadthraw o’ its glory, there lived an auld
blackymore named Joe Johnson. He was weel kent through a’ the
toun for his great ingenuity in makin’ ships an’ automaton figures—
something like the “Punch and Judy” o’ present times, but mair
exquisitely finished an’—what d’ye ca’ that fine word?—artistic?—
that’s it. Aweel, this man, commonly ca’d Black Joe, lived up a lang
stair in the Bow, on the richt-hand side gaun doun. He made his
livin’ in simmer by the bonnie bits o’ ships he made, displaying them
for sale at the front gate o’ Heriot’s Wark, in Lauriston; an’ whiles he
took a change at the drum an’ pan-pipes, wi’ a wee doggie ca’d
Pincher, that stood on its hint-legs when Joe was playin’, wi’ a tin
saucer in its mouth to haud the coppers. Sometimes, when Joe was
playin’, and naething was comin’ in, the dog wad bite somebody’s leg
by mistake to vary the entertainment, to Joe’s unspeakable delight.
But this was often followed by somebody roaring oot—“Horselip!
Horselip!” an’ then the drumstick flew through the crowd at
somebody’s head, an’ Joe was generally marched to the office
between twa policemen. But for a’ his fiery temper when roused, he
had a kind, canny way wi’ him when civilly treated, an’ wadna hae
wranged a livin’ cratur.
When the lang winter nichts set in, Joe had a show at the fit o’ his
stair; an’ aften the Bow rang wi’ his drum an’ pan-pipes, as he stood
at the outside o’ the show, wi’ a lichtit paper lantern stuck up in
front, whereon was painted a rough sketch o’ Billy Button on the
road to Brentford, the Babes in the Wood, Tam o’ Shanter on his
mare Meg, pursued by the witches, wi’ Cutty Sark makin’ a catch at
Maggie’s tail, or some ither scenic representation. Whiles, when Joe
was burstin’ his black face in the middle o’ a fine tune, some ragged
imp wad roar—
Hey cocky dawdy, hey cocky dow—
Horselip, Horselip’s comin doun the Bow,
Wi’ his drum an’ his pipe, an’ his pipe, pipe, pipe!

Doun went the drum, an’ aff ran Joe after the malicious urchin, the
doggie first and foremost in the chase. For whether the beast had
been trained, or acted through the force o’ instinct, certain it is, that
nae sooner was its maister ca’d “Horselip,” than aff it sprang, an’
fixed its teeth in the shins o’ the first ane that cam in its way.
There was ae New Year’s nicht that an unco mess took place wi’
Joe’s show. There was a wee funny dancin’ figure o’ a man that the
laddies aye ca’d “Tooral”—ane o’ the best figures in the show. This
figure was on the stage singin’ “Tooraladdy,” an’ he was at the last
verse—
Tak the pan an’ break his head—
Tooraladdy, tooraladdy;
That’s a’ as fac’ as death—

when a wild loon, that had been lookin’ on wi’ a greedy e’e an’ a
watery mouth at the figures a’ nicht, unable ony langer to resist
temptation, made a dart at “Tooral,” and vanished wi’ him oot o’ the
show. This created an unco commotion, for when the folk begoud to
rise up in the gallery—it was a’ gallery thegither—as Joe rushed out
after the thief, cryin’ “Polish! polish! polish!—catch a thief! catch a
thief!” the whole rickety concern cam doun wi’ a great crash. But they
didna fa’ far; for it wasna muckle mair than five or six inches frae the
ground a’thegither. But the thief was never gotten that nicht, tho’ it’s
a consolation to ken that he was banished shortly afterwards for
stealin’ a broon tammy an’ a quarter o’ saut butter frae a puir widdy
woman, as she was comin’ out o’ a provision shop in the Canongate.
But Joe was thrown into sic a state wi’ rinnin’ through the toun
after the thief, that next day he was delirious wi’ a ragin’ fever. My
mither lived but an’ ben wi’ Joe; an’ it was while gaun in noo an’ then
to see how the puir body was doing, that a strange interest in Joe’s
history was awakened in her breast. For he had cam oot wi’ some
very strange expressions when lyin’ in the delirious state. Ance or
twice he cried, “Me nebber shoot massa—me nebber shoot massa.
Major murder him broder—me see ’im do it. Got pistol yet—me tell
truth—me no tell lie;” an’ sae he wad gang ravin’ on at this gait for
hours. When at last the fever had abated, an’ Joe was able to come
ben an’ sit doun by my mither’s fireside, she asked him, in her ain
canny way, if he wadna like to gang back again to his native country.
But the black fell a tremblin’, an’ shook his head, sayin’ “Nebber—
nebber—nebber more!” This roused my mither’s curiosity to the
highest pitch, for she was convinced noo, mair than ever, that some
dark history was locked up in the African’s breast. Ae day, a while
after this, Joe cam ben an’ sat doun by the fireside, as usual; for
though the day was scorching hot, being in the heat o’ simmer, the
cratur was aye shiverin’ and cowerin’ wi’ the cauld. Takin oot his
cutty pipe, as usual, he began to fill’t, sayin’—“Missy, me no lib long;
me no strength—me weak as water—me no happy—wish ’im was
dead.”
“What way that?” asked my mither; “by my faith, ye’ll live mony a
lang day yet. Deein’! deil the fear o’ ye!”
But Joe aye shook his head.
“Joe,” says my mither, takin’ his puir wasted hand in her ain,
“there’s something mair than weakness the matter wi’ ye. I ken that,
whatever ye may say; and the best thing for ye to do’s to mak a clean
breast o’t. Whatever ye may say to me, I promise shall be as secret as
the grave. Ye ken me ower weel to doot that.”
Joe lookit earnestly in her face, an’ syne at the door. My mither
cannily closed the door, an’ sat doun beside him. Then the nigger,
cautioning her to mind her promise, telt her a story that sent her to
her bed that nicht wi’ a gey quaking heart. But as this story wadna be
richtly understood to gie’t in the nigger’s strange broken English, I’ll
tell’t in my ain way.
Ten years before Joe cam to Edinburgh, baith him an’ his wife
were slaves on Zedekiah Gilroy’s plantation in Jamaica. This
Zedekiah Gilroy was the second son o’ Colonel Gilroy, o’ Hawkesneb
Hoose. I mind o’ the place mysel’ as weel as if it were yesterday; for
mony a time I’ve passed it on the road to my aunty’s at Cockleburgh.
It’s a gude fourteen hours’ journey frae Edinburgh—try’t ony day ye
like. Aweel, the eldest son o’ this Colonel Gilroy had gotten a
commission in the East India Company, an’ had risen to the rank o’
major in ane o’ the native regiments; but brocht himsel’ into disgrace
there by causing the death o’ ane o’ his servants wi’ his merciless
cruelty, an’ was obliged to sell oot, an’ come hame in disgrace. He
hadna been lang hame, when a letter cam frae his brither, requesting
him to come oot an’ look after his estate, for he had been twice
attacked by yellow fever, an’ was utterly incompetent to look after’t.
His overseers, he said, were rivin’ him oot o’ hoose an’ ha’, an’ a’thing
was gaun wrang thegither. His wife had been struck doun by the
same fell disease, an’ a lowness o’ spirits had ta’en possession o’ him,
that a’ the luxuries o’ high life an’ plenty o’ siller couldna diminish.
His only wish was to see his brither oot beside him, an’ tak for a
while the oversicht o’ his affairs, till health an’ strength blessed him
ance mair. Aweel, under a’ thae circumstances, the auld colonel
advised his son to gang oot an’ do his best to help his brither in his
sair extremity. Sae the major, wi’ an unco show o’ reluctance, at last
consented, an’ aff he gaed to Jamaica, to play the deevil there, as he
had done before in the East Indies.
Major Gilroy wasna lang at Jamaica when an unco change for the
waur took place. There was naething but orderin’, cursin’, swearin’,
an’ lashin’ o’ slaves frae mornin’ till nicht. Joe’s wife was amang the
first that succumbed to the murderous whip, an’ Joe himsel’ cam in
for mair than his share. Rumours soon began to spread that the
maister himsel’ was tyrannised ower by his brither. He was ane o’ the
very kindest o’ maisters to his slaves, until his brither cam like a
frosty blicht, and filled the whole estate wi’ lamentation. Sae this
state o’ things gaed on for nearly six months, when ae day Joe,
exasperated at the inhuman treatment he was receivin’ at the major’s
instigation, took leg-bail to the sea-shore, an’ hid himsel’ amang the
cliffs. There he lurked, day after day, crawlin’ oot at nicht to gather
shell-fish an’ dulse frae the rocks, an’ castin’ his e’e ower the wide
watery waste for the welcome sicht o’ a sail to bear him frae the
accursed spot. Mair than ance he had heard the shouts o’ the
manhunters on his track, intermingling wi’ the terrible bay o’ the
bluidhound. But a’ their vigilance was eluded by the impregnable
nature o’ his position, high up amang the rocks.
On the morning o’ the thirteenth day after his escape, he
cautiously emerged frae his high den, an’ looked around him as
usual. The air was intensely hot, an’ dark-red masses o’ cloud were
fast drivin’ through a black, lowering sky, the certain presage o’ a
fearfu’ storm. The sea lay calm and still, for there wasna a breath o’
wind stirring, an’ flocks o’ sea-birds were filling the sultry air wi’
their harsh, discordant cries. Suddenly a flash o’ forked lichtnin’
illumined the black, murky sky, an’ a loud clap o’ thunder
reverberated amang the mountains. Then the lichtnin’ an’ thunder
became incessant, the sea lashed itsel’ into foam an’ fury, an’ the rain
poured doun in torrents. As the slave surveyed the elements thus
ragin’ in a’ their terrific grandeur, the distant sound o’ carriage-
wheels caught his ear. Nearer an’ nearer they cam, till he recognised
a gig driven by the major comin’ on at a rattlin’ pace. His brither sat
beside him, propped up wi’ shawls and cushions, an’ appeared to be
at that moment in an attitude o’ earnest entreaty; while every noo
and then the faint sound o’ voices in noisy altercation was borne on
the gale that noo roared ower land an’ sea, though what they said it
was utterly impossible to distinguish. The slave looked on, first in
astonishment, an’ syne in horror; for, instead o’ turnin’ the horse’s
head hamewards as the storm cam on, the major persisted in drivin’
richt on through the sands as the spring-tide was fast cornin’ in, in
spite o’ the agonised entreaties o’ his brither to turn. At last the gig
was stopped, as the horse, plunging and restive, went up to the
middle in water. Then a deadly struggle took place that lasted
scarcely a minute, when the report o’ a pistol reverberated amid the
thunder, an’ the next instant the body o’ the invalid was hurled into
the roaring surge. Then, indeed, the horse’s head was turned
hameward, an’ aff went the gig in richt earnest, but no before a wild
yell o’ execration frae the cliff warned the murderer that the deed had
been witnessed by mair than the e’e o’ God abune. Scarcely had the
sound o’ the wheels died away, when the slave descended the lofty
precipitous rocks wi’ the agility o’ a wild cat, an’ plunged into the sea
to save, if it were yet possible, his puir maister. But the dark purple
streaks on the surface o’ the water where the deed was accomplished
telt, ower fearfully, that the sharks were already thrang at their
horrid wark, an’ that a’ hope o’ saving him, if he werena clean deid
after the pistol-shot was fired, was for ever gane. Therefore he
reluctantly swam back to the shore, wi’ barely enough o’ time to save
himsel’. Before scaling the cliff, he lifted the pistol that the murderer,
in the hurry an’ confusion o’ the moment, had left behind him on the
beach. This incident filled the slave wi’ fresh alarm, for it was certain
the major wad come back for’t before lang. Sae a’ that nicht he
wearied sair for the mornin’ to come in. Slowly at last the storm
subsided, as the first pale streaks o’ dawn were visible in the horizon;
an’ as the daylicht lengthened mair an’ mair, he saw a dark speck
floating on the waves, that on a nearer approach proved to be a boat
that had burst frae its moorings frae some ship in the distant
harbour. Fervently thanking God for this providential means o’
deliverance, he descended frae his friendly shelter for the last time,
an’ boldly struck out for the boat, which he reached in safety. Seizing
the oars, he steered oot to the open sea, wi’ a fervent prayer that the
dark drizzly fog that enveloped the ocean wad continue to shield him,
for a time, frae his merciless enemy, till some friendly ship wad tak
him up. It was high time; for he hadna gi’en half-a-dozen strokes,
when the sound o’ angry voices, among which was the major’s, was
borne on the breeze, an’ again the deep-toned bay o’ the bluidhound
nerved his arms wi’ a’ the energy o’ desperation. Farther an’ farther
oot he gaed, battling wi’ the heavily swelling rollers that threatened
every moment to engulph the boat he steered sae bravely. For mony
a lang and weary hour he struggled wi’ the giant waves, enveloped in
fog, till the darkness o’ nicht had nearly set in; an’ he was fast gi’en
up a’ hopes o’ succour, when the tout o’ a horn near at hand warned
him that a ship was bearing doun upon him. He had barely time to
steer oot o’ her way, when he was hailed by the captain, an’ asked
where he cam frae. Joe made answer that he was the sole survivor o’
the Nancy, bound for England, that had sprung a leak, an’ foundered
in last nicht’s gale. At that moment a terrible wave capsized the boat,
and Joe was struggling in the water. But a rope was flung oot to him,
an’ he speedily drew himsel’ on board. This circumstance o’ the
boat’s being swamped was a mercy for Joe; for had the name o’ the
ship she belanged to met the captain’s e’e, the lee wad hae been fand
oot, an’ it micht hae fared waur wi’ him. But the captain treated Joe
wi’ great kindness, and telt him he micht work his passage to Leith,
which was the port o’ their destination. The vessel was a Leith trader
named the William and Mary, an’ was on her passage hame frae the
Island o’ Cuba.
Here, let it be remembered, Joe wasna to be blamed a’thegither for
the doonricht lee he telt the captain. He was a rinaway slave in the
first place, an’ had the captain kent the truth, it’s mair than likely he
wad hae delivered him up at the first port he touched at on the
voyage hame. In the second place, there was nae ither witness o’ the
fearfu’ crime binna himsel’; an’ he had the tact to see that evidence
resting on the sole testimony o’ a rinaway slave, mair especially when
that slave micht be reasonably suspected o’ vindictive feelings
against the murderer, wad be treated wi’ scorn an’ indignation, an’
even add to the horrors o’ his ain death. Therefore Joe kept his ain
coonsel, and when the vessel arrived at Leith, he wandered up to
Edinburgh, and resided for mony a lang year in the West Bow,
makin’ his livin’ in the manner already related, and wi’ the secret
carefully locked up in his breast until now.
“Aweel, Joe,” said my mither, when she had heard him oot, “that’s
an unco story, man. But are ye aware that the auld colonel’s aye livin’
yet, an’ that it wad be a duty to let him ken the truth?” Here Joe
lookit in her face sae pitifu’ an’ imploring like, that she didna find it
in her heart to press the question ony mair at that time. But when the
body gaed awa’ ben, my mither sat thinkin’ and thinkin’ till the day
was far spent; an’ for mony a lang day after that she hadna muckle
peace o’ mind.
Ae mornin’ she put on her bannit and shawl, and said she wadna
be hame till late. Although I was a bit lassie at the time, I jaloused
where she was gaun, but I never let on. It wasna till late, late at nicht
that she cam hame, an’ then she telt me she had been at Hawkesneb
Hoose on a pretence to see if an auld servant she had kent mony a
year sin’ was aye bidin’ there. As she rang the gate-bell, she said a
fearfu’ sense o’ shame an’ disgrace comin’ ower an auld man made
her swither; but there was the lodgekeeper’s wife comin’ to the gate,
an’ it was ower late noo to gang back. She then inquired for ane Jess
Tamson, that had been a servant up at the big hoose three years sin’;
but the woman said she didna ken o’ onybody o’ that name servin’
there noo. My mither said that was an unco pity, as she had cam a
lang way to see her, an’ her feet were sair blistered wi’ the roads. The
woman then opened the gate, an’ asked my mither into the lodge, an’
offered her a cup o’ tea, for which my mither was very thankfu’.
Then, when the twa fell on the crack, my mither said the laird wad be
gey far doon the brae noo, for he was an auld man in Jess’s time. My
mither came oot wi’ this in her ain pawky way, to hear for certain
whether the colonel were dead or livin’.
 “The auld colonel’s dead an’ gane a year sin’,” said the woman,
“but his son the major’s expected hame in a month; an’ I’m sure
there has been sic a scrubbin’ an’ cleanin’ an’ hammerin’, that what
wi’ masons, joiners, plasterers, painters, and glaziers, there hasna
been muckle rest for the servants this last fortnicht.”
“An’ is the major married?” asked my mither.
“Married! no as yet,” said the woman. “They say he’s turned unco
silent and cantankerous since his brither’s death, sees naebody, an’
never gangs to sleep without wax candles burnin’ a’ nicht by his
bedside.”
“The major never gangs to sleep without wax candles burnin’ a’
nicht by his bedside!” said my mither, slowly comin’ ower the words
after her. “Deary me, that’s strange!” tryin’ sair to keep in her breath.
“What kind o’ death was’t his brither dee’d o’, hae ye heard?”
“What kind o’ death was’t? It was murder, dounricht murder!” said
the woman; “an’ done too by ane o’ his ain slaves through revenge.
But it was a grand day for the major when his brither dee’d; for he
wasna a month gane when the plantation was selt aff, an’ the major
left Jamaica wi’ mony a braw thousand pound in his pouch.”
My mither then asked if the major cam hame at that time. The
woman said, “No, he had gane to Italy, and aye kept sendin’ letters to
his faither every noo and then, makin’ apologies about his health
being in a delicate state, and declaring his resolution to abide by the
advice o’ his doctors to remain in a warmer climate, in spite o’ the
auld laird’s anxious entreaties for him to come hame. I often used to
wonder at the major’s continued absence; an’ it lookit strange that he
didna come to lay his faither’s head in the grave, though he’s comin’
hame noo. As for the slave that did the deed, they raised a hue an’ cry
after him for a while; but the murderer was never gotten, an’ it’s not
likely he ever will be noo. It seems the major had been gi’en his
brither an airing in a gig, when they were attacked by the slave frae
behind, wha fired a pistol at his brither oot o’ revenge, and then fled,
wounding him mortally. The major pursued, but when he had gane a
lang distance and fand he couldna mak up to him, he cam back to the
spot where the murder had been committed, expecting to see the
body; but, astonishing to relate, the body had disappeared. And the
man that did the deed, as I said before, was never gotten; nor is it
very likely he ever will be, after sic a lang lapse o’ time. It seems he
fled awa to the mountains among the Maroons, as they ca’ them.”
“That’s hard, hard to say,” said my mither; “but God has his ain
ways o’ workin’, lass, an’ maybe the deed’ll be brocht to licht in a way
that you an’ me little dream o’.” Then she rose up, an’ spoke o’ gaun
hame; but the woman wadna hear o’t, sayin’ the nicht was ower far
gane, an’ she wad mak her very welcome to a bed beside the bairns.
At that moment the gudeman himsel’ cam in, an’ seeing her anxiety
to gang awa, he said the mail-coach wad be gaun by in half an hour,
an’ he had nae doot the guard wad gie her a lift into the toun. Sae she
waited till the coach cam by, an’ fortunately got a ride in.
Aweel, when my mither had composed hersel’ a bit, after she had
telt this, she filled her cutty-pipe, an’ begoud to blaw. “Lassie,” says
she to me, after a wee, “fetch doun yer faither’s Bible frae the shelf.”
It aye got the name o’ my faither’s Bible, though he had been deid an’
gane mony a year. Sae I gied her the Bible; an’ then I heard her
slowly readin’ ower thae verses frae the Book o’ Proverbs—“Be not
afraid of sudden fear, neither of the desolation of the wicked when it
cometh; for the Lord shall be thy confidence, and shall keep thy foot
from being taken.” This she read ower twa-three times to hersel’, an’
syne put a mark at the place, and gaed awa to her bed. And lang after
that, as the puir body lay half doverin’, I heard her comin’ ower and
ower thae bonnie verses, till she was fast asleep. The first thing she
did, when the mornin’ cam in, was to tell Joe o’ her journey an’ its
result. The puir African lifted up his hands in astonishment when she
telt him the murder had been laid to his charge. But she took doun
the Bible again, an’ read ower the verses that had sae powerfully
arrested her attention the nicht before; and as she read them, a
gleam o’ triumphant exultation shone in the e’e o’ the puir nigger—a
look o’ conscious innocence, that dispelled every vestige o’ doot in
my mither’s mind, if she ever had ony, an’ made her sympathise a’
the mair wi’ the lingerin’ agony he had endured since the murder was
committed. He noo declared his readiness to lodge an accusation
against Major Gilroy; for the fear o’ his word being misdooted
vanished as if by magic frae his mind, mair especially when my
mither led him to understand that, being in a free country, nae slave-
owner could touch him, and that his word would be ta’en wi’ the best
white man among them a’. Hooever, my mither advised him no to be
rash, but to bide a wee till the major’s arrival, as an accusation
preferred against him in his absence micht be construed into an
evidence o’ guilt on the part o’ the accuser; for the wily, lang-headit
bodies o’ lawyers were fit for onything, an’ siller could do an awfu’
lot, an’ mak black look white ony day. Besides, Great Britain was at
this time deeply engaged in the Slave Trade, and micht be ower glad
to tak the major’s part. Sae Joe took her advice, an’ prayed that Job
wad teach him patience.
Three weeks had passed away, when Joe, unable ony langer to
control the wild tumult that reigned in his breast, gaed awa oot to
Hawkesneb Hoose, carryin’ his drum an’ pan-pipes wi’ him as usual.
It had been a drizzly sma’ rain a’ day; an’ when he reached his
journey’s end, as nicht set in, he was wet through an’ through. The
place was a’ in darkness, and as he stood at the gate, an’ looked up
the lang dusky avenue, he half resolved to gang back, an’ trust to
time an’ the retributive justice o’ Heaven to prove his innocence. But
an impulse he couldna resist chained him to the spot, an’ he rang the
gate-bell. Nae answer was returned; a second time’ he rang, but still
wi’ the same result. Then he pushed the gate forward, and to his
surprise it swung heavily back on its hinges. Wi’ an unsteady,
tremblin’ step, he advanced up the dark avenue till he reached the
mansion. The hoose seemed silent an’ deserted, binna a sma’ licht
that twinkled in ane o’ the lower windows, an’ as he drew nearer, the
sound o’ voices reached his ear. Then the resolve to gang back again
took possession o’ him; but the strange impulse to advance gained
the mastery, an’ he lifted the kitchen knocker. A lass wasna lang in
makin’ her appearance at the door wi’ a lichtit candle in her hand; an’
nae sooner did she see the black man stannin’ oot in the dark than
she gied a roar as if Joe had been the very deevil himsel’. This brocht
ben a’ the rest o’ the servants; an’ a bonnie hurly-burly was set up as
this ane an’ the ither ane wondered hoo he had got in.
“That’s your negligence, Willie Johnston,” said an auld leddy
dressed in black, that appeared to be the hoosekeeper; “I’m sure ye
needna hae been sae thochtless as that, particularly at a time when
the major’s lookit for every minute.”
This was addressed to the keeper o’ the lodge, that had come up to
the big hoose wi’ his wife at the hoosekeeper’s invitation, to while
awa the nicht wi’ a cup o’ tea an’ a dram. Willie Johnston fell a
swearin’, an’ was aboot to lay violent hands on Joe, when the butler,
a wee fat birsy body, but no bad-hearted, ordered him to desist; and
seeing the nicht was sae cauld an’ wat, he brocht Joe into the kitchen,
and thinkin’ him a cadger, he set doun baith bread, meat, an’ beer
before him, tellin’ him to look alive, for it wadna do to stay lang
there. The hoosekeeper didna offer ony objection to this, as mony a
ane wad hae dune; but to tell the truth, it seems that the twa were
unco gracious, for when the tane took whisky, the tither took yill—
sae that settles that. When Joe had sat for a while preein’ the mercies
set before him, ane o’ them—the laundry-maid—gi’en a wistfu’ look
at Joe’s drum an’ pan-pipes, said she hadna haen a dance since gude
kens the time, an’ the cook, an’ the kitchen-maid, an’ a young crater
o’ a flunkey, expressed themsel’s in a similar manner.
“A dance!” cried the hoosekeeper, makin’ a pretence o’ being
angry. “A bonnie daft-like thing it wad be to welcome hame the laird
wi’ a drum an’ pan-pipes, as if he were the keeper o’ a wild-beast
show. A fiddle michtna be sae bad.”
Joe saw what was wanted. It was only a quiet invitation to play for
naething; sae he took a lang heavy pull at the beer-jug, an’ syne
struck up a lilt that set them a’ up on their feet thegither. An’ sae on
he played, tune after tune, until a breathin’ time was ca’ed; an’ the
whisky an’ beer in plenty were again gaun round, when the gate-bell
was rung wi’ great violence.
“Flee for yer life to the gate, Willie Johnston,” cried the
hoosekeeper, “an’ stop that skirlin’. I’m sure I never expected him the
nicht noo, when it’s sae late. What’s to be dune? Haste ye, Sally, to
the major’s room, an’ on wi’ a fire like winkin’!” and in an instant a’
was confusion, an’ every ane stannin’ in each ither’s road.
The soond o’ carriage wheels was heard comin’ up the avenue, and
the lood gruff voice o’ Major Gilroy cursing the carelessness o’ the
lodge-keeper startled every ane there, but nane mair sae than Joe;
for that voice brocht back the past in a’ its terrible reality, an’ he kent
the crisis was comin’ wi’ a crash either for him or his auld relentless
oppressor. But him and his pan-pipes were then as completely
forgotten by the servants as if they had never been there. But as
quietness was at last restored, an’ the major had shut himsel’ up in
his room, wi’ a stern injunction to the butler that he wasna to be
disturbed wi’ supper or onything else that nicht, an’ threatenin’
instant dismissal to the first that gied him ony cause o’ annoyance,
Joe asked the hoosekeeper, wi’ a palpitatin’ heart, if he micht gang
noo.
“No, for a thoosand pound I wadna open that door,” said the
hoosekeeper; “ye had better bide awhile yet till he’s asleep. I never
saw sic a savage-lookin’ man in my life, as he cam in at the front
door. He’s completely changed since I mind o’ him, when he wasna
muckle mair than a laddie. An’ sic a restless, suspicious e’e as he’s
got! I dinna like it—I positively dinna like it. But I’ll never pit up wi’
sic a man—I’ll tak to drink, as sure’s I’m a livin’ woman. An’ what the
deil brocht you here?—makin’ things fifty times waur! Ye’ll never get
oot o’ here this nicht—I’m certain o’ that. An’ yet there’s that brute,”
pointing to Pincher, that a’ this time had been keepin’ quiet under
the table, thrang worryin’ at a big bane—“what’s to be dune if it
barks?”
But Joe gied her to understand there was nae fear o’ that, for he
had him ower weel trained to mak ony disturbance; but oh! he was
anxious—anxious to be off. The woman, hooever, remained
inexorable. There was therefore nae help for’t but to sit doun on a
chair by the kitchen fireside, an’ be slippit oot cannily in the mornin’
before the major was up. Sae they a’ gaed awa to their beds, an’ Joe
was left alane in the kitchen, wi’ Pincher snockerin’ at his side. But
Joe couldna close an e’e, wi’ the intensity o’ his thocht; for here, at
last, had the providence o’ God brocht the murderer and his accuser
beneath the same roof. Joe lay doverin’ an’ waitin’ wearily for the
mornin’ comin’ in. The weather had cleared up, an’ the moon was
streamin’ in through the kitchen windows. The fire had gane oot, an’
the air felt cauld an’ chill; an’ gradually a feeling o’ horror took
possession o’ Joe that he couldna shake off. At last Pincher gaed a
low growl, as if he had heard somebody comin’. Joe could hear
naething at first, but by degrees he became sensible that a step was
advancin’, saft, an’ almost noiseless, doun the kitchen stair; an’
slowly the door opened as a figure dressed in a lang dressin’-goun,
an’ a lichtit wax candle in its hand, entered the kitchen. Speechless
and unable to move, Joe saw his mortal enemy, the major, starin’
him in the face; but as he silently returned the gaze, he became
sensible that it was void o’ consciousness. The major was walkin’ in
his sleep, that was evident, for he kept movin’ up an’ doun the
kitchen, mutterin’ to himsel’. He laid doun the candle on the floor in
ane o’ his rounds, an’ said in a tone sae distinct that Joe could hear
every word—
“Will the sea give up its dead?—No, no. Why does his face always
turn up amid the roaring waves, as if to taunt me with the crime, and
drag me to eternal perdition? Pshaw! it’s but a fancy after all. But the
slave who eluded my vengeance—curses on him!—where is he?
Wandering over the face of the earth, to confront me at last, perhaps,
and accuse me as my brother’s murderer. But will they believe him?
They will not—nay, they dare not—they dare not. Yet oh! the black
countenance of that infernal fiend dogs me wherever I go, and will
not give me peace—peace—peace!”
Then he took up the candle an’ made for the door, drew back, an’
again cam into the kitchen; then left the kitchen a second time, an’
opened the door. The sudden rush o’ the nicht air put oot the candle,
an’ he again entered the kitchen. At that moment he stumbled ower a
chair, an’ Pincher gaed a loud bark, as the major started to his feet,
restored to consciousness. And as the moon’s rays revealed every
surrounding object wi’ a ghastly distinctness, the first sicht that met
his e’e was Joe—Joe stannin’ before him, rigid and motionless—an
auld rusty pistol in his richt hand presented at him, an’ a wild glare o’
rage an’ defiance flashin’ in his unearthly-lookin’ e’en. The
suddenness o’ the appearance o’ this apparition—for apparition he
thocht Joe to be—completely paralysed him for the moment. His
knees gaed knock, knockin’ thegither, as Joe cried—
“Murderer! murderer! murderer! Me tell truth—me no tell lie. You
dam rascal—you villain—me hear to speak truth, and truth me speak
spite of eberyting. Ha! what you say now?”
As Joe said this, he advanced nearer an’ nearer, till the pistol
touched the major’s breast. But there he stood, powerless to resist;
for his belief still was that Joe was a phantom, till the growlin’ o’ the
doggie brocht him to himsel’ mair than onything else; and, fired by
the energy o’ desperation, he made a snatch at the pistol. But the
nigger was ower quick for him; for he sprang past the major, and oot
at the kitchen door that the major had providentially opened in his
sleep, darted doun the avenue and oot at the gate, syne awa at full
speed on his lang journey hame, which he reached by nine o’clock in
the mornin’, mair deid than alive. He cam into my mither’s just as
she sat doun to her tea, an’ gaed her the history o’ his last nicht’s
adventure, as already related. My mither’s advice to him was to gang
directly to the authorities, an’ lodge an accusation. Joe did sae, and
the result was that Captain S——, accompanied by half a dozen
constables, immediately took the coach for Hawkesneb Hoose, which
they reached about seven o’clock.
When they arrived there, the butler, hoosekeeper, an’ a’ the lave o’
them cam out, wonderin’ at seein’ the police authorities,
accompanied by the black man. But when Captain S—— asked, in a
stern manner, if he could see the major, an’ telling the men to watch
the hoose, baith back and front, their surprise was turned into
consternation. The major wasna up yet, the butler said; and his
orders the nicht before were that naebody was to disturb him unless
his bell rang. And it was neither his business nor onybody else’s to
intrude where they werena wanted. On hearing this, the captain
peremptorily demanded to see his maister, otherwise it wad be
necessary to force an entrance into his room. At this the hoosekeeper
and butler baith gaed up, an’ cried the major’s name; but nae answer
cam. Then they tried to open the door, but the door was evidently
locked frae the inside, for it wadna open. When the captain heard
this, he gaed up himsel’, an’ burst open the door. On entering the
room, he lookit round, but could see naething. The bed lay
untouched; there had been naebody there, that was evident. But
there was a sma’ dressing-room that opened frae the bedroom, and
on lookin’ there he saw the major lyin’ in a doubled-up position on
the carpet, wi’ his hands clenched, an’ his e’en starin’ wide open. An
empty phial lay beside him, that telt, ower surely, what he had been
after. The captain placed his hand on his face, but it was quite cauld;
an’ there wasna the least doot that he had been dead for a lang time.
When the captain cam doun and communicated the news, there was
sair wonder an’ astonishment, but no muckle grief, ’od knows. The
major had been a perfect stranger to them a’, except the auld
hoosekeeper; an’ to do the body justice, she shed a tear or twa; but
it’s my belief a third never made its appearance, for a’ she tried.
Naething farther could be done in the matter. The major had
anticipated the demands o’ justice by takin’ justice on himsel’, an’ the
wuddy had been cheated o’ a victim, an’ a multitude o’ morbid
sightseers rightly ungratified. But oh, the joy o’ Joe’s heart when he
cam into my mither’s next mornin’! for it seems they had remained
in the hoose a’ that nicht, till the coach cam by on the Edinburgh
journey. The fear that had hung ower him like a nichtmare was
dispelled for ever, an’ his innocence triumphantly established beyond
the least shadow o’ a doot. Kindly my mither shook him by the hand,
as she said—“The hand o’ God’s been in’t, Joe, my man; an’ praise be
to his name for sendin’ a bonnie glint o’ sunshine oot o’ the lang
dreary darkness that’s encompassed ye. An’ never forget the verses
that gaed ye sic blessed consolation;” an’ saftly an’ solemnly she cam
ower them again—“Be not afraid of sudden fear, neither of the
desolation of the wicked when it cometh; for the Lord shall be thy
confidence, an’ shall keep thy foot from being taken.” An’ Joe looked
happy an’ contented, an’ never forgot my mither’s kindness.
Joe gaed aboot the streets o’ Edinburgh mony a lang day after this.
He never taen up the show again, that I mind o’; but mony a bonnily
riggit ship he selt at Heriot’s Wark, and on the Earthen Mound,
amang the panoramas and the wild-beast shows, and doun at the
stairs at bonnie auld Shakespeare Square, that’s noo awa; an’ mony a
time hae I heard his drum an’ pan-pipes when I was baith a young
quean an’ a married wife. He dee’d a short time before the richt-hand
side o’ the West Bow was taen doun, an’ there’s no a single vestige
noo to be seen o’ the auld land where the show used to be, wi’ the
lichtit paper-lantern at the door, an’ the pan-pipes playin’
“Tooraladdy,” that cheered sae mony young hearts in the days that
are noo past an’ gane.—From “Peggy Pinkerton’s Recollections.”
 THE FIGHT FOR THE STANDARD.

By James Paterson.

Lieutenant Charles Ewart, better known as “Sergeant Ewart of the

Greys,” was born in Kilmarnock about the year 1767, and enlisted in
that regiment in 1789. He served under the Duke of York in the Low
Country Campaigns of 1793–4, and shared in all the victories and
defeats which the allied arms experienced. The disasters encountered
by the British arose in a great measure from the duplicity of the
Dutch, as well as from the military incapacity of the Royal general. At
the battle, if we mistake not, of Fleurus, in the Netherlands, where
the Republican forces, after a protracted contest, were the victors,
Ewart had the misfortune to be taken prisoner. Towards the close of
the action, the Greys were so thoroughly surrounded by the enemy
that escape was considered next to impossible. As the only means of
preventing their entire capture, they were ordered to disperse in
small parties of twos and threes, each to exert himself as he best
might in finding his way to the allied army, which had undertaken a
retrograde movement. It was evening as Ewart and his companions
endeavoured to thread their way amidst the smoke and spreading
darkness by which they were enveloped. They had not proceeded far,
when, perceiving a body of French cavalry at a short distance, they
were compelled to seek safety in an opposite direction. Though hotly
pursued, they put spurs to their horses, and soon distanced their
enemies. At length they found themselves in the vicinity of a wood,
and, ignorant of the direction in which they were proceeding, they
determined on taking advantage of its shelter for the night. Tying
their jaded horses to a tree, they lay down beside them. Tired out
with the day’s fatigue, they fell soundly asleep; nor did they awaken
until rudely stirred from their slumber in the morning by a large
body of French infantry who had taken possession of the wood.
Resistance being out of the question, they instantly surrendered; but
nothing could save them from the abuse and insult of the soldiers, by
whom they were plundered of everything valuable. Fortunately, not
above two hours afterwards, the advance corps of the French were
beaten back by a number of Austrian troops, who in turn took the
captors captive, and Ewart and his comrades were restored to their
regiment, not, however, without having obtained permission of the
Austrian officer in charge of the prisoners to take from the
Frenchmen the property of which they had been plundered, and
which they did with something of interest, by way of repaying the
usage they had experienced.
In the retreat of the British through Holland after the disastrous
battle of Nimguen, though conducted by Sir Ralph Abercrombie with
great skill and success, considering the desperate circumstances in
which they were placed, the army suffered the utmost privations. The
winter was unprecedentedly severe, and the loss of the stores and
baggage added greatly to their sufferings. Hundreds perished from
excessive cold, hunger, and fatigue. Many affecting anecdotes are
told of the vicissitudes endured. While on the march one day, near a
place, the name of which we forget, the faint wailings of a child were
heard not far from the roadside. Ewart dismounted, and proceeding
to the spot, found a woman and child lying amongst the snow. The
mother was dead, but the infant, still in life, was in the act of sucking
the breast of its lifeless parent. “Albeit unused to the melting mood,”
Ewart felt overcome by the spectacle. There was no time, however,
for sentimentalism; but lifting the child in his arms, and wrapping
his cloak around it, he remounted with his tender charge. On
reaching the encampment for the evening, he applied to the colonel,
who generously offered to defray the expenses of a nurse; but so
entirely were the women of the army absorbed with their own
misfortunes, that not one of them could be found to take care of the
little orphan. Ewart was at length fortunate in discovering the father
of the child, a sergeant of the 60th regiment, who was so much
affected that he could scarcely be restrained from retracing his steps
in the vain hope of finding his partner still in life. Three years after
the return of the army to Britain, and while the Greys were stationed
in the south of England, Ewart was one evening called to the head
inn of the town. The soldier to whom he was introduced grasped him