CONTAINING SUNDRY ADVENTURES OF REGINALD BRANDON AND HIS FRIEND
ETHELSTON ON THE CONTINENT; ALSO SOME FURTHER PROCEEDINGS AT SQUIRE
SHIRLEY’S; AND THE RETURN OF REGINALD BRANDON TO HIS HOME.—IN THIS
CHAPTER THE SPORTING READER WILL FIND AN EXAMPLE OF AN UNMADE RIDER ON A
MADE HUNTER.
Reginald having joined his attached and faithful friend Ethelston at
Hamburgh, the young men agreed to travel together; and the intimacy
of their early boyhood ripened into a mature friendship, based upon
mutual esteem. In personal advantages, Reginald was greatly the
superior; for although unusually tall and strongly built, such was the
perfect symmetry of his proportions, that his height, and the great
muscular strength of his chest and limbs, were carried off by the grace
with which he moved, and by the air of high breeding by which he was
distinguished: his countenance was noble and open in expression; and
though there was a fire in his dark eye which betokened passions easily
aroused, still there was a frankness on the brow, and a smile around
the mouth, that told of a nature at once kindly, fearless, and without
suspicion.
Ethelston, who was, be it remembered, three years older than his
friend, was of middle stature, but active, and well proportioned:
his hair and eyebrows were of the jettest black, and his countenance
thoughtful and grave; but there was about the full and firm lip an
expression of determination not to be mistaken. Habits of study
and reflection had already written their trace upon his high and
intellectual brow; so that one who saw him for the first time might
imagine him only a severe student; but ere he had seen him an hour
in society, he would pronounce him a man of practical and commanding
character. The shade of melancholy, which was almost habitual on his
countenance, dated from the death of his father, brought prematurely by
sorrow to his grave, and from the loss of his little sister, to whom he
had been tenderly attached. The two friends loved each other with the
affection of brothers; and after the separation of the last few years,
each found in the other newly developed qualities to esteem.
The state of Europe during the autumn of 1795 not being favourable for
distant excursions, Ethelston contented himself with showing his friend
all objects worthy of his attention in the north of Germany, and at the
same time assisted him in attaining its rich though difficult language.
By associating much, during the winter, with the students from the
universities, Reginald caught some of their enthusiasm respecting the
defence of their country from the arms of the French republic: he
learnt that a large number of Ethelston’s acquaintances at Hamburgh had
resolved in the spring to join a corps of volunteers from the Hanseatic
towns, destined to fight under the banner of the Archduke Charles: to
their own surprise, our two friends were carried away by the stream,
and found themselves enrolled in a small but active and gallant band of
sharpshooters, ordered to act on the flank of a large body of Austrian
infantry. More than once the impetuous courage of Reginald had nearly
cost him his life; and in the action at Amberg, where the Archduke
defeated General Bernadotte, he received two wounds, such as would
have disabled a man of less hardy constitution. It was in vain that
Ethelston, whose bravery was tempered by unruffled coolness, urged his
friend to expose himself less wantonly; Reginald always promised it,
but in the excitement of the action always forgot the promise.
After he had recovered from his wounds, his commanding officer, who had
noticed his fearless daring, a quality so valuable in the skirmishing
duty to which his corps were appointed, sent for him, and offered to
promote him. “Sir,” said Reginald, modestly, “I thank you heartily, but
I must decline the honour you propose to me. I am too inexperienced
to lead others; my friend and comrade, Ethelston, is three years my
senior; in action he is always by my side, sometimes before me; he has
more skill or riper judgment; any promotion, that should prefer me
before him, would be most painful to me.” He bowed and withdrew. On the
following day, the same officer, who had mentioned Reginald’s conduct
to the Archduke, presented both the friends, from him, with a gold
medal of the Emperor; a distinction the more gratifying to Reginald,
from his knowledge that _he_ had been secretly the means of bringing
his friend’s merit into the notice of his commander.
They served through the remainder of that campaign, when the arms of
the contending parties met with alternate success: towards its close,
the Archduke having skilfully effected his object of uniting his forces
to the corps d’armée under General Wartenleben, compelled the French to
evacuate Franconia, and to retire towards Switzerland.
This retreat was conducted with much skill by General Moreau; several
times did the French rear–guard make an obstinate stand against
the pursuers, among whom Reginald and his comrades were always the
foremost. On one occasion, the French army occupied a position so
strong that they were not driven from it without heavy loss on both
sides; and even after the force of numbers had compelled the main body
to retire, there remained a gallant band who seemed resolved to conquer
or die upon the field. In vain did the Austrian leaders, in admiration
of their devoted valour, call to them to surrender: without yielding an
inch of ground, they fell fighting where they stood. Reginald made the
most desperate efforts to save their young commander, whose chivalrous
appearance and brilliantly decorated uniform made him remarkable from a
great distance: several times did he strike aside a barrel pointed at
the French officer; but it was too late; and when at length, covered
with dust, and sweat, and blood, he reached the spot, he found the
young hero, whom he had striven to save, stretched on the ground by
several mortal wounds in his breast; he saw, however, Reginald’s kind
intention, smiled gratefully upon him, waved his sword over his head,
and died.
The excitement of the battle was over; and leaning on his sword,
Reginald still bent over the noble form and marble features of the
young warrior at his feet; and he sighed deeply when he thought how
suddenly had this flower of manly beauty been cut down. “Perhaps,” said
he, half aloud, “some now childless mother yet waits for this last
prop of her age and name; or some betrothed lingers at her window, and
wonders why he so long delays.”
Ethelston was at his side, his eyes also bent sadly upon the same
object: the young friends interchanged a warm and silent grasp of the
hand, each feeling that he read the heart of the other! At this moment,
a groan escaped from a wounded man, who was half buried under the
bleeding bodies of his comrades: with some difficulty Reginald dragged
him out from below them, and the poor fellow thanked him for his
humanity: he had only received a slight wound on the head from a spent
ball, which had stunned him for the time; but he soon recovered from
its effects, and looking around, he saw the body of the young commander
stretched on the plain.
“_Ah, mon pauvre Général!_” he exclaimed: and on further inquiry,
Reginald learnt that it was indeed the gallant, the admired, the
beloved General Marceau, whose brilliant career was thus untimely
closed.
“I will go,” whispered Ethelston, “and bear these tidings to the
Archduke; meantime, Reginald, guard the honoured remains from the
camp–spoiler and the plunderer.” So saying he withdrew: and Reginald,
stooping over the prostrate form before him, stretched it decently,
closed the eyes, and, throwing a mantle over the splendid uniform, sat
down to indulge in the serious meditations inspired by the scene.
He was soon aroused from them by the poor fellow whom he had dragged
forth, who said to him, “Sir, I yield myself your prisoner.”
“And who are you, my friend?”
“I was courier, valet, and cook to M. de Vareuil, aide–de–camp to the
General Marceau; both lie dead together before you.”
“And what is your name, my good fellow?”
“Gustave Adolphe Montmorenci Perrot.”
“A fair string of names, indeed,” said Reginald, smiling. “But pray,
Monsieur Perrot, how came you here? are you a soldier as well as a
courier?”
“Monsieur does me too much honour,” said the other, shrugging his
shoulders. “I only came from the baggage–train with a message to my
master, and your avant–garde peppered us so hotly that I could not get
back again. I am not fond of fighting: but somehow, when I saw poor
Monsieur de Vareuil in so sad a plight, I did not wish to leave him.”
Reginald looked at the speaker, and thought he had never seen in one
face such a compound of slyness and honesty, drollery and sadness. He
did not, however, reply, and relapsed into his meditation. Before five
minutes had passed, Monsieur Perrot, as if struck by a sudden idea,
fell on his knees before Reginald, and said,
“Monsieur has saved my life—will he grant me yet one favour?”
“If within my power,” said Reginald, good–humouredly.
“Will Monsieur take me into his service? I have travelled over all
Europe; I have lived long in Paris, London, Vienna; I may be of use to
Monsieur; but I have no home now.”
“Nay, but Monsieur Perrot, I want no servant; I am only a volunteer
with the army.”
“I see what Monsieur is,” said Perrot, archly, “in spite of the dust
and blood with which he is disfigured. I will ask no salary; I will
share your black bread, if you are poor, and will live in your pantry,
if you are rich: I only want to serve you.”
Monsieur Perrot’s importunity overruled all the objections that
Reginald could raise; and he at last consented to the arrangement,
provided the former, after due reflection, should adhere to his wish.
Ethelston meanwhile returned with the party sent by the Archduke to pay
the last token of respect to the remains of the youthful General. They
were interred with all the military honours due to an officer whose
reputation was, considering his years, second to none in France, save
that of Napoleon himself.
After the ceremony, Monsieur Perrot, now on parole not to bear arms
against Austria, obtained leave to return to the French camp for a
week, in order to “arrange his affairs,” at the expiration of which
he promised to rejoin his new master. Ethelston blamed Reginald for
his thoughtlessness in engaging this untried attendant. The latter,
however, laughed at his friend, and said, “Though he is such a
droll–looking creature, I think there is good in him; at all events,
rest assured I will not trust him far without trial.”
A few weeks after these events, General Moreau having effected his
retreat into Switzerland, an armistice was concluded on the Rhine
between the contending armies; and Reginald could no longer resist the
imperative commands of his uncle to return to Shirley Hall. Monsieur
Gustave Adolphe Montmorenci Perrot had joined his new master, with a
valise admirably stocked, and wearing a peruke of a most fashionable
cut. Ethelston shrewdly suspected that these had formed part of
Monsieur de Vareuil’s wardrobe, and his dislike of Reginald’s foppish
valet was not thereby diminished.
On the route to Hamburgh the friends passed through many places where
the luxuries, and even the necessaries of life, had been rendered
scarce by the late campaign. Here Perrot was in his element; fatigue
seemed to be unknown to him; he was always ready, active, useful as
a courier, and unequalled as a cook or a caterer; so that Ethelston
was compelled to confess, that if he only proved honest, Reginald had
indeed found a treasure.
At Hamburgh the two friends took an affectionate farewell, promising
to meet each other in the course of the following year on the banks of
the Ohio. Reginald returned to his uncle, who stormed dreadfully when
he learnt that he had brought with him a French valet, and remained
implacable, in spite of the circumstances under which he had been
engaged; until one morning, when a footman threw down the tray on which
he was carrying up the squire’s breakfast of beef–steaks and stewed
kidneys, half an hour before “the meet” at his best cover–side. What
could now be done? The cook was sulky, and sent word that there were
no more steaks nor kidneys to be had. The squire was wrath and hungry.
Reginald laughed, and said, “Uncle, send for Perrot.”
“Perrot be d—d!” cried the squire. “Does the boy think I want some
pomatum? What else can that coxcomb give me?”
“May I try him, uncle?” said Reginald, still laughing.
“You may try him: but if he plays any of his jackanapes pranks, I’ll
tan his hide for him, I promise you!”
Reginald having rung for Perrot, pointed to the remains of the good
things which a servant was still gathering up, and said to him, “Send
up breakfast for Mr. Shirley and myself in one quarter of an hour from
this minute: you are permitted to use what you find in the larder; but
be punctual.”
Perrot bowed, and, without speaking, disappeared.
“The devil take the fellow! he has _some_ sense,” said the angry
squire; “he can receive an order without talking; one of my hulking
knaves would have stood there five minutes out of the fifteen, saying,
‘Yes, sir; I’ll see what can be done;’ or, ‘I’ll ask Mr. Alltripe,’ or
some other infernal stuff. Come, Reginald, look at your watch. Let us
stroll to the stable; we’ll be back to a minute; and if that fellow
plays any of his French tricks upon me, I’ll give it him.” So saying,
the jolly squire cut the head off one of his gardener’s favourite
plants with his hunting whip, and led the way to the stable.
We may now return to Monsieur Perrot, and see how he set about the
discharge of his sudden commission; but it may be necessary, at the
same time, to explain one or two particulars not known to his master
or to the squire. Monsieur Perrot was very gallant, and his tender
heart had been smitten by the charms of Mary, the still–room maid;
it so happened on this very morning that he had prepared slyly, as a
surprise, a little _déjeûner à la fourchette_, with which he intended
to soften Mary’s obduracy. We will not inquire _how_ he had obtained
the mushroom, the lemon, and the sundry other good things with which he
was busily engaged in dressing a plump hen–pheasant, when he received
the above unexpected summons. Monsieur Perrot’s vanity was greater
than either his gourmandise or his love; and, without hesitation, he
determined to sacrifice to it the hen–pheasant: his first step was to
run to the still–room; and having stolen a kiss from Mary, and received
a box on the ear as a reward, he gave her two or three very brief but
important hints for the coffee, which was to be made immediately; he
then turned his attention to the hen–pheasant, sliced some bacon, cut
up a ham, took possession of a whole basket of eggs, and flew about the
kitchen with such surprising activity, and calling for so many things
at once, that Mr. Alltripe left his dominion, and retired to his own
room in high dudgeon.
Meanwhile the squire, having sauntered through the stables with
Reginald, and enlightened him with various comments upon the points and
qualities of his favourite hunters, took out his watch, and exclaimed,
“The time is up, my boy; let us go in and see what your precious
mounseer has got for us.” As they entered the library, Monsieur opened
the opposite door, and announced breakfast as quietly and composedly as
if no unusual demand had been made upon his talents. The squire led the
way into the breakfast–room, and was scarcely more surprised than was
Reginald himself at the viands that regaled his eye on the table. In
addition to the brown and white loaves, the rolls, and other varieties
of bread, there smoked on one dish the delicate salmi of pheasant, on
another the squire’s favourite dish of bacon, with poached eggs, and on
a third a most tempting _omelette au jambon_.
Marmaduke Shirley opened his eyes and mouth wide with astonishment,
as Monsieur Perrot offered him, one after another, these delicacies,
inquiring, with undisturbed gravity, if “Monsieur desired any thing
else? as there were other dishes ready below?”
“Other dishes! why, man, here’s a breakfast for a court of aldermen,”
said the squire; and having ascertained that the things were as
agreeable to the taste as to the eye, and that the coffee was more
clear and high–flavoured than he had ever tasted before, he seized
his nephew’s hand, saying, “Reginald, my boy, I give in; your Master
Perrot’s a trump, and no man shall ever speak a word against him in
this house! A rare fellow!” Here he took another turn at the omelette;
“hang me if he shan’t have a day’s sport;” and the squire chuckling
at the idea that had suddenly crossed him, rang the bell violently:
“Tell Repton,” said he to the servant who entered, “to saddle ‘Rattling
Bess,’ for Monsieur Perrot, and to take her to the cover–side with the
other horses at ten.”
“She kicks a bit at starting,” added he to Reginald; “but she’s as safe
as a mill; and though she rushes now and then at the fences, she always
gets through or over ‘em.”
Now it was poor Perrot’s turn to be astonished. To do him justice, he
was neither a bad horseman (as a courier) nor a coward; but he had
never been out with hounds, and the enumeration of “Rattling Bess’”
qualities did not sound very attractive to his ear: he began gently
to make excuses, and to decline the proposed favour: he had not the
“proper dress:”—“he had much to do for Monsieur’s wardrobe at home:”
but it was all to no purpose, the squire was determined; Repton’s coat
and breeches would fit him, and go he _must_.
With a rueful look at his master, Perrot slunk off, cursing in
his heart the salmi and the omelette, which had procured him this
undesired favour: but he was ordered to lose no time in preparing
himself; so he first endeavoured to get into Mr. Repton’s clothes:
that proved impossible, as Mr. R. _had_ been a racing jockey, and
was a feather–weight, with legs like nutcrackers. Having no time for
deliberation, Monsieur Perrot drew from his valise the courier suit
which he had worn in France; and to the surprise of the whole party
assembled at the door, he appeared clad in a blue coat turned up with
yellow, a cornered hat, and enormous boots, half a foot higher than
his knees. He was ordered to jump up behind the squire’s carriage, and
away they went to the cover–side, amid the ill–suppressed titter of the
grooms and footmen, and the loud laughter of the maids, whose malicious
faces, not excepting that of Mary, were at the open windows below.
When they reached the place appointed for “the meet,” and proceeded to
mount the impatient horses awaiting them, Perrot eyed with no agreeable
anticipation the long ears of Rattling Bess laid back, and the restless
wag of her rat–tail, and he ventured one more attempt at an escape.
“Really, sir,” said he to the squire, “I never hunted, and I don’t
think I can manage that animal; she looks very savage.”
“Never mind her, Monsieur Perrot,” said the squire, enjoying the poor
valet’s ill–dissembled uneasiness. “She knows her business here as well
as any whipper–in or huntsman; only let her go her own way, and you’ll
never be far from the brush.”
“Very well,” muttered Perrot; “I hope _she_ knows _her_ business; I
know mine, and that is to keep on her back, which I’ll do as well as I
can.”
The eyes of the whole field were upon this strangely attired figure;
and as soon as he got into the saddle, “Rattling Bess” began to kick
and plunge violently: we have said that he was not in some respects
a bad horseman; and although in this, her first prank, he lost one
of his stirrups, and his cornered hat fell off, he contrived to keep
both his seat and his temper: while the hounds were drawing the cover,
one of the squire’s grooms restored the hat, and gave him a string
wherewith to fasten it, an operation which he had scarcely concluded,
when the inspiring shouts of “Tally ho,” “Gone away,” “Forward,” rang
on his ears. “Rattling Bess” seemed to understand the sounds as well
as ever alderman knew a dinner–bell; and away she went at full gallop,
convincing Monsieur Perrot, after an ineffectual struggle of a few
minutes on his part, that both the speed and direction of her course
were matters over which he could not exercise the smallest influence.
On they flew, over meadow and stile, ditch and hedge, nothing seemed
to check Rattling Bess; and while all the field were in astonished
admiration at the reckless riding of the strange courier, that worthy
was catching his breath, and muttering through his teeth, “Diable
d’animal, she have a mouth so hard, like one of Mr. Alltripe’s
bif–steak,—she know her business—and a sacré business it is—holà
there! mind yourself!” shouted he, at the top of his voice, to a
horseman whose horse had fallen in brushing through a thick hedge,
and was struggling to rise on the other side just as Rattling Bess
followed at tremendous speed over the same place; lighting upon the
hind–quarters of her hapless predecessor, and scraping all the skin
off his loins, she knocked the rider head over heels into the ploughed
field, where his face was buried a foot deep in dirty mould: by a
powerful effort she kept herself from falling, and went gallantly over
the field; Perrot still muttering, as he tugged at the insensible
mouth, “She know her business, she kill dat poor devil in the dirt, she
kill herself and me too.”
A few minutes later, the hounds, having overrun the scent, came to a
check, and were gathered by the huntsman into a green lane, from whence
they were about to “try back” as Rattling Bess came up at unabated
speed. “Hold hard there, hold hard!” shouted at once the huntsman, the
whips, and the few sportsmen who were up with the hounds. “Where the
devil are you going, man?” “The fox is viewed back.” “Halloo!—you’re
riding into the middle of the pack.” These and similar cries scarcely
had time to reach the ears of Perrot, ere “Rattling Bess” sprang over
the hedge into a green lane, and coming down upon the unfortunate
dogs, split the head of one, broke the back of another, and, laming
two or three more, carried her rider over the opposite fence, who,
still panting for breath, with his teeth set, muttered, “She know her
business, sacré animal.”
After crossing two more fields, she cleared a hedge, so thick that he
could not see what was on the other side; but he heard a tremendous
crash, and was only conscious of being hurled with violence to the
ground: slowly recovering his senses, he saw Rattling Bess lying a few
yards from him, bleeding profusely; and his own ears were saluted by
the following compassionate inquiry from the lips of a gardener, who
was standing over him, spade in hand: “D—n your stupid outlandish
head, what be you a doin’ here?”
The half–stunned courier, pointing to Rattling Bess, replied: “She know
her business.”
The gardener, though enraged at the entire demolition of his melon–bed,
and of sundry forced vegetables under glass, was not an ill–tempered
fellow in the main; and seeing that the horse was half killed, and the
rider, a foreigner, much bruised, he assisted poor Perrot to rise; and
having gathered from him that he was in the service of rich Squire
Shirley, rendered all the aid in his power to him and to Rattling Bess,
who had received some very severe cuts from the glass.
When the events of the day came to be talked over at the Hall,
and it proved that it was the squire himself whom Perrot had so
unceremoniously ridden over,—that the huntsman would expect some
twenty guineas for the hounds killed or maimed—that the gardener would
probably present a similar or a larger account for a broken melon–bed
and shivered glass—_and_ that Rattling Bess was lame for the season,
the squire did not encourage much conversation on the day’s sport; the
only remark that he was heard to make, being, “What a fool I was to put
a frog–eating Frenchman on an English hunter!”
Monsieur Perrot remained in his room for three or four days, not caring
that Mary should see his visage while it was adorned with a black eye
and an inflamed nose.
Soon after this eventful chase, Reginald obtained his uncle’s leave
to obey his father’s wishes by visiting Paris for a few months. His
stay there was shortened by a letter which he received from his sister
Lucy, announcing to him his mother’s illness; on the receipt of which
he wrote a few hurried lines of explanation to his uncle, and sailed by
the first ship for Philadelphia, accompanied by the faithful Perrot,
and by a large rough dog of the breed of the old Irish wolf–hound,
given to him by the squire.
On arriving, he found his mother better than he had expected; and,
as he kissed off the tears of joy which Lucy shed on his return, he
whispered to her his belief that she had a little exaggerated their
mother’s illness, in order to recall him. After a short time, Ethelston
also returned, and joined the happy circle assembled at Colonel
Brandon’s.
It was now the spring of 1797, between which time and that mentioned
as the date of our opening chapter, a period of nearly two years,
nothing worthy of peculiar record occurred. Reginald kept up a faithful
correspondence with his kind uncle, whose letters showed how deeply
he felt his nephew’s absence. Whether Monsieur Perrot interchanged
letters with Mary, or consoled himself with the damsels on the banks of
the Ohio, the following pages may show. His master made several hunting
excursions, on which he was always accompanied by Baptiste, a sturdy
backwoodsman, who was more deeply attached to Reginald than to any
other being on earth; and Ethelston had, as we have before explained,
undertaken the whole charge of his guardian’s vessels, with one of the
largest of which he was, at the commencement of our tale, absent in the
West India Islands.