Since that slaughterous day, some real fights and many sham ones have been enacted on the Inch of Perth. Of one I may say, _pars magna fui_, and though my militation was without glory it did not want an accursed bard who, in the columns of the _Perthshire Constitutional_, sang, a long way after Tennyson, how “some one had blundered.” These were the early days of the Volunteer movement, inspired by more zeal than knowledge, when, in my teens, I served as sole officer to a company of the Perthshire Volunteers, after some slight apprenticeship in a school cadet corps, equipped with discarded carbines. One of my first appearances in efficient arms was at the head of a column that marched on to the lower end of the Inch before more spectators than would be gathered about the arena of that clan-combat. The foe here coming into view, it behoved my company to extend in skirmishing order, covering the deployment of our column into line. So much I could do; and we found ourselves exposed in the van facing a hostile line of Dundee Highlanders who held the centre of the Inch. But the report of what then befell is so little to our credit that I throw it into shamefaced small print.
We advanced boldly, blazing away our blank cartridges as fast as we could load and fire; while the enemy’s skirmishers, as arranged in the programme, fell back before us. My men were delighted with this movement, which gave the effect of our winning the battle by our special prowess; and not knowing better, we went on fighting for our own hand, till we had nearly run out of ammunition. Meanwhile from our side rang out imperious bugle-calls, which made me none the wiser. At last, when the enemy’s thin red line could no longer be seen for the cloud of smoke, I bethought myself to look round, and observe how my devoted band was spread out half-way between the two armies, exposed on either side to an exterminating fire of cannon and rifles. There seemed something wrong here; but before I could consider what to do about it, an aide-de-camp galloped up, shepherding us with objurgations: “What on earth are you about, sir! Get out of the way! Close and retire!” There was stronger language that did not help to enlighten me. In my confusion, I closed to the left, whereas our place was by this time on the right of the line, the result being that we had to run the gauntlet of our own army’s fire, then to turn and double up behind it to gain our vacant post. That was not the worst of it. The drill of those days made an important point of a company being pivoted on its right or left flank; I forget the principle, but this I remember too well that, whereas we ought to have come up “right in front” or “left in front,” we had got the wrong way on, and reached our place in the line with our rear turned to the enemy. My military science was at a loss how to remedy this mistake; but I modestly ventured on the order “right counter-march,” the effect of which was marred by the right-hand man--who indeed as a haunter of the Barracks knew more about soldiering than myself--_sotto voce_ giving the word and example, “left counter-march.” How at last we got ourselves straight and in face of the foe, I can hardly tell, but I, for one, was ready to imitate poor Conachar by plunging into the Tay, covered not with wounds but with blushes.