COSMO'S CRAFT.
"Small occasions in the path of life,
Lie thickly sown, while great are rarely scattered.
* * * * *
Shame seize me, if I would not rather be
The man thou art, than court-created chief
Known only by the dates of his promotion!"
JOANNA BAILLIE.
The two first days after Quentin's arrival in Portalegre, were varied
by the flogging of soldiers for marauding, when they were four months
in arrears of pay. One of these men was flogged by tap of drum; a
measure by which half a minute was allowed to elapse between each
stroke, greatly enhancing the agony; and this process went on during
more than four hundred lashes, till the bare muscles were seen to
quiver under the cats, and then he was removed.
On the second day, the troops that had recently arrived from England,
together with a battalion of Cazadores from Lisbon, were paraded
outside the walls of the little mountain city for the inspection of
the lieutenant-general commanding.
Their new uniform and accoutrements contrasted strongly with the
ragged, patched, and war-worn trappings of the corps which had served
during the preceding campaign, and had so rapidly cleared Portugal of
the French.
The Cazadores were active, bustling, and soldier-like little
Portuguese light infantry, all clad in dark green uniforms of London
make, with smart shakos, having green plumes. Their ranks were ever
redolent of garlic and tobacco, to all who had the misfortune to
march to leeward of them, while their snubby round noses, thick lips,
and dark complexions reminded all who saw them of their Moorish
descent.
Prior to the infusion of British officers among them, the Portuguese
soldiery were every way contemptible. Murphy tells us that in the
beginning of the war in 1762, "their army was in a most wretched
state, scarcely amounting to ten thousand men, most of whom were
peasants, without uniform or arms, asking charity, while the officers
served at the tables of their colonels;" and matters were not much
improved when Sir Arthur Wellesley arrived to uphold the interests of
the House of Braganza, after which he had few better or braver troops
than the Lusitanian Legion.
The general of division, Sir John Hope of Rankeillour, took
particular notice of the Borderers, having been colonel of the
regiment about fifteen years before. He had been wounded on the
Helder, like Cosmo Crawford, and had served in the first campaign of
Egypt with great distinction.
He complimented Cosmo in strong terms upon the appearance and
discipline of the battalion, both of which high qualities the Master
had not the candour or the generosity to say were due to the
enthusiasm, exertions, and genuine _esprit de corps_ of Major
Middleton; and as Sir John rode along the line, wearing a glazed
cocked-hat, an old telescope slung across his well-worn red coat, the
lace and aiguilette of which were frayed by service and blackened by
gunpowder, he looked a thorough soldier. He was tall, well formed,
and in the prime of life, being in his forty-second year; and Quentin
regarded him with deep interest, for he was informed by Askerne, in a
whisper, that "Sir John had joined the army as a volunteer in his
fifteenth year, prior to his first commission as a cornet, in the
10th Light Dragoons."
"As we are about to enter Spain by the way of Badajoz," said the
general to Cosmo, after the troops had been dismissed to their
quarters, "I am particularly anxious to open a communication with El
Estudiente."
"Is this a town which lies near it?" asked Cosmo.
"Oh, no. El Estudiente is a man,' replied Sir John, laughing, while
the staff joined, as in duty bound, and Cosmo reddened with anger.
"Who, or what is he?" he asked, coldly.
"A guerilla chief--Baltasar de Saldos, a personage of savage
character, and very doubtful reputation."
"You recommend him badly, general."
"But truly, though."
"In what way can I assist you in the matter?" asked Cosmo, with
increasing coldness of manner, as he began to fear that the
unpleasant duty of opening the "communication" in question, was,
perhaps, to devolve on him.
"I wish a messenger to convey a despatch from me to him--one of
yours--not an officer, whose life would be too valuable; but if you
have any private, a troublesome fellow, worthless, frequently in the
defaulters' book--you understand me, colonel?"
"I think that I do, Sir John," replied Cosmo, whose green eyes shrunk
as he inserted his glass in one, and gazed at the general, keenly;
"but is the risk of delivering a message so great in Portugal, after
you have cleared it of the French?"
"Stragglers, orderlies, and solitary individuals are at all times
liable to be cut off, we scarcely know by whom, the country is so
lawless; but this fellow, Baltasar, is somewhere among the mountains
near Herreruela, beyond the Spanish frontier; and to say nothing of
the wolves that infest the wild places hereabouts, there are three
chances to one against any messenger returning alive, even after he
has delivered our letter to Baltasar."
"A lively duty!"
"Portugal and Spain are not without traitors in the French interest
ready to assassinate a redcoat; others are ready to do it merely to
procure his clothing and arms, and some of the low wayside tabernas
are kept by people who would cut any man's throat for the chance of
finding half a vintin in his pocket. Then there are the hazards of
being hanged as a spy by the French, of losing one's way among the
wild, depopulated Sierras, and dying there of starvation, or being
devoured by the black wolves, or by those wild dogs, of which the
Duke of Abrantes strove in vain to clear the country."
"A pleasant country for a sketching tour!" said Cosmo.
"Yet Sir John Moore has distinctly ordered me to communicate with
these guerillas, to strengthen us and cover the flank of our advance
towards the Guadiana, as it is not impossible that the enemy may push
forward from Valladolid, and cut off our communication with the main
body of the army, and as scouts and sharpshooters, the guerillas are
invaluable."
"If your messenger did not return, what proof would you have that he
had ever delivered your letter?" asked Cosmo, with one of his strange
smiles.
"The presence of Baltasar's armed guerillas on our flank as we
advance through Spanish Estremadura, would be all the reply I wish.
Colonel Napier, of the Highlanders, has said that he would rather go
in person than sacrifice one of his men; but----"
"I am not so chivalrous," said Cosmo, laughing, as he shrugged his
shoulders and toyed with his gathered reins alternately on each side
of his charger's silky mane; "I have a fellow whom I can very well
spare, one who is a nuisance to the regiment in general, and to me in
particular--one of whom I should like to be handsomely rid: he is
clever, sharp, and resolute, too," he added, as he and the general
rode slowly side by side into Portalegre.
"He is the very kind of man I require; but," said the worthy general,
hesitating and colouring, "it is not a duty on which I should wish to
risk a valuable life--you understand me, Colonel Crawford?"
"Oh, perfectly; when will your letter be ready?"
"Before sunset; but what is the name of the bearer, for however
numerous his chances of failure may be, I must duly accredit him in
my mission to the guerilla chief--those Spaniards are so suspicious."
Cosmo took one of his own calling cards, and pencilling on it the
name of Quentin Kennedy, handed it to the unsuspecting general.
"His rank?" asked the latter.
"Volunteer," was the curt reply.
"A volunteer, Colonel Crawford!" exclaimed the general; "I spoke of
some private soldier, whose conduct made him worthless. The bearing
of a volunteer must be careful--his honour spotless."
"Such are not his," said Cosmo, angrily, for this cross-questioning
fretted his fierce and crafty temper; "and I have said that I wish to
be handsomely rid of him."
"Very good--you are the best judge of how to handle your command; but
if in your place, I should send him back to his friends in Britain."
"The letter," began Cosmo impatiently.
"My orderly will bring it to your quarters within an hour. Adieu,
colonel."
"To-night, then, perhaps to-night!" muttered Cosmo, half aloud,
through his clenched teeth, and with a sombre smile, as he saluted
the general and rode off in search of Buckle, his adjutant. "A
volunteer must always be the first man for duty; I swore to work this
fellow to an oil, and egad! the game for him is only beginning.
Good! to think of the simple general baiting the very trap into which
he is to fall. Once handsomely rid of him, I shall deceive the old
folks at home anew, and pretend that the letters in which I mentioned
that he was serving under me have _miscarried_."
He cast one of his sinister smiles after Sir John Hope, and spurred
his horse impatiently up one of the streets of Portalegre, towards
the Bishop's palace, where his quarters were, and where the colours
of the Borderers were lodged under a sergeant's guard.
Sir John Hope was that distinguished Scottish officer, who, after
Waterloo, was created Lord Niddry for his many brilliant services,
and who, two years subsequently, succeeded to the old Earldom of
Hopetoun. Concerning him a very singular story is still current in
the French army.
It is to the effect, that the eldest son of Marshal Ney challenged
the Duke of Wellington to a mortal duel, for his alleged share in his
father's death--the place of combat to be any spot in Europe he chose
to select. On receiving this cartel, the Duke is said to have
replied:
"My life belongs to my country and must not be lightly risked in
trifles!"
On this, one of his aides-de-camp, the Scottish Earl of Hopetoun,
whom he had always mentioned with honour in his despatches, accepted
the challenge in his place, and leaving Scotland, without bidding
adieu to his Countess, Louisa Wedderburn, or their eleven children,
repaired straight to Paris, and met young Ney on the Bois de
Boulogne, where they fired at once. The story adds, that Hopetoun
fell pierced by a ball in the head, in the very place where he had
been wounded during the famous sortie from Bayonne in February, 1814,
and that as he fell, young Ney flung his pistol in the air,
exclaiming--
"Sacré Dieu! the Prince of Moskwa is revenged!"*
* Unfortunately for this story (which contains some strange grains of
truth, and which was told me by the Lieutenant of Marshal St.
Arnaud's Spain troop in the Crimea) the gallant Earl of Hopetoun died
in his bed, from natural causes, at Paris, on the 27th August, 1823.