Waverley; or, 'Tis sixty years since — CompleteScott, Walter
History
Waverley; or, 'Tis sixty years since — Complete
Scott, Walter
Historical fiction; Jacobite Rebellion, 1745-1746 -- Fiction; Scotland -- History -- 18th century -- Fiction
It followed, from our frequent opposition to each other, that, though
not knowing the names of our enemies, we were yet well acquainted with
their appearance, and had nicknames for the most remarkable of them.
One very active and spirited boy might be considered as the principal
leader in the cohort of the suburbs. He was, I suppose, thirteen or
fourteen years old, finely made, tall, blue-eyed, with long fair hair,
the very picture of a youthful Goth. This lad was always first in the
charge and last in the retreat--the Achilles, at once, and Ajax of the
Crosscauseway. He was too formidable to us not to have a cognomen, and,
like that of a knight of old, it was taken from the most remarkable
part of his dress, being a pair of old green livery breeches, which was
the principal part of his clothing; for, like Pentapolin, according to
Don Quixote's account, Green-Breeks, as we called him, always entered
the battle with bare arms, legs, and feet.
It fell, that once upon a time, when the combat was at the thickest,
this plebeian champion headed a sudden charge, so rapid and furious
that all fled before him. He was several paces before his comrades, and
had actually laid his hands on the patrician standard, when one of our
party, whom some misjudging friend had entrusted with a couleau de
chasse, or hanger, inspired with a zeal for the honour of the corps
worthy of Major Sturgeon himself, struck poor Green-Breeks over the
head with strength sufficient to cut him down. When this was seen, the
casualty was so far beyond what had ever taken place before, that both
parties fled different ways, leaving poor Green-Breeks, with his bright
hair plentifully dabbled in blood, to the care of the watchman, who
(honest man) took care not to know who had done the mischief. The
bloody hanger was flung into one of the Meadow ditches, and solemn
secrecy was sworn on all hands; but the remorse and terror of the actor
were beyond all bounds, and his apprehensions of the most dreadful
character. The wounded hero was for a few days in the Infirmary, the
case being only a trifling one. But, though inquiry was strongly
pressed on him, no argument could make him indicate the person from
whom he had received the wound, though he must have been perfectly well
known to him. When he recovered and was dismissed, the author and his
brothers opened a communication with him, through the medium of a
popular ginger-bread baker, of whom both parties were customers, in
order to tender a subsidy in name of smart-money. The sum would excite
ridicule were I to name it; but sure I am that the pockets of the noted
Green-Breeks never held as much money of his own. He declined the
remittance, saying that he would not sell his blood; but at the same
time reprobated the idea of being an informer, which he said was clam,
i.e. base or mean. With much urgency he accepted a pound of snuff for
the use of some old woman--aunt, grandmother, or the like--with whom he
lived.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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