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.