SECOND TO NONE.

A Military Romance.

BY

JAMES GRANT,

AUTHOR OF "THE ROMANCE OF WAR," "THE CAPTAIN OF THE GUARD," "THE YELLOW FRIGATE," ETC. ETC.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

LONDON: ROUTLEDGE, WARNE, AND ROUTLEDGE, BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL. NEW YORK: 129, GRAND STREET.

1864.

PREFACE.

In the following pages, and in delineating the character of my hero, I have chosen the ranks of the 2nd Dragoons, not because of any national partiality, but from the desire to describe the adventures of a soldier in a brave old regiment, which has served with distinction in every war since its formation—in short, from the battles of the Covenant to those in the Crimea; which had the proud distinction of capturing the Colours of the Regiment du Roi at Ramillies, the White Standard of King Louis' Household Troops at Dettingen, and the Colour and Eagle of Napoleon's 45th Foot at Waterloo.

Several historical incidents, and one or two traditions of the Service are interwoven with the story of Basil Gauntlet, the Scots Grey.

I may mention that the misfortunes of his comrade Charters are nearly similar to those which befel an officer of the 15th Hussars prior to the war in the Peninsula; and that the dark story and death of the engineer Monjoy and of Madame d'Escombas formed one of the causes célèbres before the Parliament of Paris during the middle of the last century.

EDINBURGH, 1st May, 1864.

CONTENTS

OF

THE FIRST VOLUME.

CHAP.

I. BY THE WAYSIDE II. RUTH WYLIE III. THE SEQUEL IV. MY COUSIN TONY V. THE INN VI. ENLISTMENT VII. MY COMRADES VIII. HEAD QUARTERS IX. MY HOPE FOR THE FUTURE X. THE FRENCH DESERTERS XI. WANDSWORTH COMMON XII. THE RACE XIII. THE HANDKERCHIEF XIV. THE RED LION AT GUILDFORD XV. SAIL FOR FRANCE XVI. THE LANDING AT CANCALLE XVII. THE VIDETTE XVIII. HALT AT ST. SERVAND XIX. THE SACK OF ST. SOLIDORE XX. AN EPISODE XXI. JACQUELINE

SECOND TO NONE.

CHAPTER I. BY THE WAYSIDE.

My adventures were my sole inheritance long before I thought of committing them to paper for the amusement of myself, and—may I hope—for the instruction of others.

Wayward has been my fate—my story strange; for my path in life—one portion of it at least—has been among perils and pitfalls, and full of sorrow and mortification, but not, however, without occasional gleams of sunshine and triumph.

On an evening in the month of February—no matter in what year, suffice it to say that it was long, long ago—I found myself near a little town on the Borders between England and Scotland, with a shilling in my hand, and this small coin I surveyed with certain emotions of solicitude, because it was my last one.

I sat by the wayside under an old thorn-tree whereon the barons of Netherwood had hung many a Border outlaw and English mosstrooper in the olden time; and there I strove to consider what I should do next; but my mind seemed a very chaos.

In this unenviable condition I found, myself on the birthday of my eighteenth year—I, the heir to an old title and to a splendid fortune—homeless, and well-nigh penniless, without having committed a crime or an error of which conscience could accuse me.

The rolling clouds were gathering in grey masses on the darkening summits of the Cheviot hills in the hollows of which the snows of the past winter lay yet unmelted. The cold wind moaned in the leafless woods, and rustled the withered leaves that the autumn gales had strewn along the highway. The dull February evening crept on, and the road that wound over the uplands was deserted, for the last wayfarer had gone to his home. The sheep were in their pen and the cattle in their fold; no sound—not even the bark of a dog—came from the brown sides of the silent hills, and, affected by the gloomy aspect of Nature, my heart grew heavy, after its sterner and fiercer emotions passed away.

The last flush of sunset was fading in the west; but I could see about three miles distant the gilt vanes and round turrets of Netherwood Hall shining above the strove of leafless trees that surrounded it, and I turned away with a sigh of bitterness, for adversity had not yet taught me philosophy. I was too young.

With the express intention of visiting Netherwood Hall, I had travelled several miles on foot; but now, when in sight of the place, my spirit failed and my heart sickened within me; and thus, irresolute and weary, I seated myself by the side of the way, and strove to arrange my thoughts.

To be brief, I shall describe in a few pages, who and what I am, and how on that sombre February evening I came to be on such unfortunate terms with old Dame Fortune.