I have mentioned in my last chapter how very rapidly I forgot my
troubles in the excitement of the scene around me. Indeed, they must
have been much more important, much deeper woes, to have occupied any
place in a head so addled and confused as mine was. The manoeuvres of
the day included a sham battle; and scarcely had his Excellency passed
down the line, when preparations for the engagement began. The heavy
artillery was seen to limber up, and move slowly across the field,
accompanied by a strong detachment of cavalry; columns of infantry
were marched hither and thither with the most pressing and eager haste;
orderly dragoons and staff-officers galloped to and fro like madmen;
red-faced plethoric little colonels bawled out the word of command till
one feared they might burst a bloodvessel; and already two companies of
light infantry might be seen stealing cautiously along the skirts of
the wood, with the apparently insidious design of attacking a brigade of
guns. As for me, I was at one moment employed carrying despatches to Sir
Charles Asgill, at another conveying intelligence to Lord Harrington;
these, be it known, being the rival commanders, whose powers of strategy
were now to be tested before the assembled and discriminating citizens
of Dublin. Not to speak of the eminent personal hazard of a service
which required me constantly to ride between the lines of contending
armies, the fatigue alone had nigh killed me. Scarcely did I appear,
breathless, at head-quarters on my return from one mission, when I was
despatched on another. Tired and panting, I more than once bungled my
directions, and communicated to Sir Charles the secret intentions of his
Lordship, while with a laudable impartiality I disarranged the former's
plans by a total misconception of the orders. Fatigue, noise, chagrin,
and incessant worry had so completely turned my head, that I became
perfectly incapable of the commonest exercises of reason. Some of the
artillery I ordered into a hollow, where I was told to station a party
of riflemen. Three squadrons of cavalry I desired to charge up a hill,
which the 71st Highlanders were to have scrambled up if they were able.
Light dragoons I posted in situations so beset with brushwood and firs,
that all movement became impossible; and, in a word, when the signal-gun
announced the commencement of the action, my mistakes had introduced
such a new feature into tactics, that neither party knew what his
adversary was at, nor, indeed, had any accurate notion of which were his
own troops. The Duke, who had watched with the most eager satisfaction
the whole of my proceedings, sat laughing upon his horse till the very
tears coursed down his cheeks; and, as all the staff were more or less
participators in the secret, I found myself once more the centre of a
grinning audience, perfectly convulsed at my exploits. Meanwhile, the
guns thundered, the cavalry charged, the infantry poured in a rattling
roar of small arms; while the luckless commanders, unable to discover
any semblance of a plan, and still worse, not knowing where one half of
their forces were concealed, dared not adventure upon a movement, and
preferred trusting to the smoke of the battle as a cover for their
blunders. The fusilade, therefore, was hotly sustained; all the
heavy pieces were brought to the front; and while the spectators were
anxiously looking for the manoeuvres of a fight, the ammunition was
waxing low, and the day wearing apace. Dissatisfaction at length began
to show itself on every side; and the Duke assuming, as well as he was
able, somewhat of a disappointed look, the unhappy generals made a final
effort to retrieve their mishaps, and aides-de-camp were despatched
through all the highways and byways, to bring up whoever they could find
as quickly as possible. Now then began such a scene as few even of the
oldest campaigners ever witnessed the equal of. From every dell and
hollow, from every brake and thicket, burst forth some party or other,
who up to this moment believed themselves lying in ambush. Horse, foot,
and dragoons, artillery, sappers, light infantry, and grenadiers, rushed
forward wherever chance or their bewildered officers led them. Here
might be seen one half of a regiment blazing away at a stray company of
their own people, running like devils for shelter; here some squadrons
of horse, who, indignant at their fruitless charges and unmeaning
movements, now doggedly dismounted, were standing right before a brigade
of twelve-pounders, thundering mercilessly amongst them. Never was
witnessed such a scene of riot, confusion, and disorder. Colonels lost
their regiments, regiments their colonels. The Fusiliers captured the
band of the Royal Irish, and made them play through the heat of the
engagement. Those who at first expressed _enmui_ and fatigue at the
sameness and monotony of the scene, were now gratified to the utmost
by its life, bustle, and animation. Elderly citizens in drab shorts and
buff waistcoats explained to their listening wives and urchins the plans
and intentions of the rival heroes, pronouncing the whole thing the
while the very best field-day that ever was seen in the Phoenix.
In the midst of all this confusion, a new element of discord suddenly
displayed itself. That loyal corps, the Cork militia, who were ordered
up to attack close to where the Duke and his staff were standing, deemed
that no better moment could be chosen to exhibit their attachment to
church and state than when marching on to glory, struck up, with all the
discord of their band, the redoubted air of “Protestant Boys.” A cheer
burst from the ranks as the loyal strains filled the air; but scarcely
had the loud burst subsided, when the Louth militia advanced with a
quick step, their fifes playing “Vinegar-hill.”
For a moment or two the rivalry created a perfect roar of laughter; but
this very soon gave way, as the two regiments, instead of drawing up
at a reasonable distance for the interchange of an amicable blank
cartridge, rushed down upon each other with the fury of madmen. So
sudden, so impetuous was the encounter, all effort to prevent it was
impracticable. Muskets were clubbed or bayonets fixed, and in a
moment really serious battle was engaged; the musicians on each side
encouraging their party, as they racked their brains for party-tunes of
the most bitter and taunting character; while cries of “Down with King
William I.” “To hell with the Pope?” rose alternately from either side.
How far this spirit might have extended, it is difficult to say, when
the Duke gave orders for some squadrons of cavalry to charge down upon
them, and separate the contending forces. This order was fortunately
in time; for scarcely was it issued, when a west country yeomanry corps
came galloping up to the assistance of the brave Louth.
“Here we are, boys!” cried Mike Westropp, their colonel--“here we are!
lave the way! lave the way for us! and we'll ride down the murthering
Orange villains, every man of them!”
The Louth fell back, and the yeomen came forward at a charge; Westropp
standing high in his stirrups, and flourishing his sabre above his head.
It was just then that a heavy brigade of artillery, unconscious of the
hot work going forward, was ordered to open their fire upon the
Louth militia. One of the guns, by some accident, contained an undue
proportion of wadding, and to this casual circumstance may, in a great
degree, be attributed the happy issue of what threatened to be a serious
disturbance; for, as Westropp advanced, cheering and encouraging his
men, he received this wadding slap in his face. Down he tumbled at once,
rolling over and over with the shock; while, believing that he had got
his death-wound, he bellowed out,
“Oh! blessed Virgin! there's threason in the camp! hit in the face by
a four-pounder, by Jove! Oh! Duke darling! Oh! your Grace! Oh! holy
Joseph, look at this! Oh! bad luck to the arthillery, for spoiling a
fair fight! Peter”--this was the major of the regiment--“Peter Darcy,
gallop into town and lodge informations against the brigade of guns.
I'll be dead before you come back.”
A perfect burst of laughter broke from the opposing ranks, and while his
friends crowded round the discomfited leader, the rival bands united
in a roar of merriment that for a moment caused a suspension of
hostilities. For a moment, I say; for scarcely had the gallant Westropp
been conveyed to the rear, when once more the bands struck up their
irritating strains, and preparations for a still more deadly encounter
were made on every side. The matter now assumed so serious an aspect,
that the Duke was obliged himself to interfere, and order both parties
off the ground; the Cork deploying towards the lodge, while the brave
Louth marched off with banners flying and drums beating in the direction
of Knockmaroon.
These movements were conducted with a serio-comic solemnity of the most
ludicrous kind; and although the respect for viceregal authority was
great, and the military devotion of each party strong, yet neither one
nor the other was sufficient to prevent the more violent on both sides
from occasionally turning, as they went, to give expression to some
taunting allusion or some galling sarcasm, well calculated, did the
opportunity permit, to renew the conflict.
A hearty burst of laughter from the Duke indicated pretty clearly how
he regarded the matter; and, however the grave and significant looks of
others might seem to imply that there was more in the circumstance than
mere food for mirth, he shook his sides merrily; and, as his bright eye
glistened with satisfaction, and his cheek glowed, he could not help
whispering his regret that his station compelled him to check the very
best joke he ever witnessed in his life.
“This is hot work, Sir Charles,” said he, wiping his forehead as he
spoke; “and, as it is now past three o'clock, and we have a privy
council at four, I fear I must leave you.”
“The troops will move past in marching order,” replied Sir Charles,
pompously: “will your Grace receive the salute at this point?”
“Wherever you like, Sir Charles; wherever you like. Would to Heaven that
some good Samaritan could afford me a little brandy-and-water from his
canteen. I say, Hinton, they seem at luncheon yonder in that carriage:
do you think your diplomacy could negotiate a glass of sherry for me?”
“If you'll permit me, my Lord, I'll try,” said I, as, disengaging myself
from the crowd, I set off in the direction he pointed.
As I drew near the carriage--from which the horses had been
taken--drawn up beside a clump of beech-trees for the sake of shelter--I
was not long in perceiving that it was the same equipage I had so
gallantly rescued in the morning from the sabres of the horse police.
Had I entertained any fears for the effects of the nervous shock upon
the tender sensibilities of Mrs. Paul Rooney, the scene before me must
completely have dispelled my uneasiness. Never did a merrier peal of
laughter ring from female lungs than hers as I rode forward. Seated in
the back of the carriage, the front cushion of which served as a kind of
table, sat the lady in question. One hand, resting upon her knee, held
a formidable carving-fork, on the summit of which vibrated the short leg
of a chicken; in the other she grasped a silver vessel, which, were I
to predicate from the froth, I fear I should pronounce to be porter. A
luncheon on the most liberal scale, displayed, in all the confusion
and disorder inseparable from such a situation, a veal-pie, cold lamb,
tongue, chickens, and sandwiches; drinking vessels of every shape and
material; a smelling bottle full of mustard, and a newspaper paragraph
full of salt. Abundant as were the viands, the guests were not wanting:
crowds of infantry officers, flushed with victory or undismayed by
defeat, hob-nobbed from the rumble to the box; the steps, the springs,
the very splinter-bar had its occupant; and, truly, a merrier party, or
a more convivial, it were difficult to conceive.
So environed was Mrs. Rooney by her friends, that I was enabled to
observe them some time, myself unseen.
“Captain Mitchell, another wing? Well, the least taste in life of the
breast? Bob Dwyer, will ye never have done drawing that cork?”
Now this I must aver was an unjust reproach, inasmuch as to my own
certain knowledge he had accomplished three feats of that nature in
about as many minutes; and, had the aforesaid Bob been reared from his
infancy in drawing corks, instead of declarations, his practice could
not have been more expert. Pop, pop, they went; ghig, glug, glug, flowed
the bubbling liquor, as sherry, shrub, cold punch, and bottled porter
succeeded each other in rapid order. Simpering ensigns, with elevated
eyebrows, insinuated nonsense, soft, vapid, and unmeaning as their own
brains, as they helped themselves to ham or dived into the pasty; while
a young dragoon, who seemed to devote his attention to Mrs. Rodney's
companion, amused himself by constant endeavours to stroke down a
growing moustache, whose downy whiteness resembled nothing that I know
of save the ill-omened fur one sees on an antiquated apple-pie.
As I looked on every side to catch a glance at him whom I should suppose
to Mr. Rooney, I was myself detected by the watchful eye of Bob Dwyer,
who, at that moment having his mouth full of three hard eggs, was nearly
asphyxiated in his endeavours to telegraph my approach to Mrs. Paul.
“The edge-du-cong, by the mortial!” said he, sputtering out the words,
as his bloodshot eyes nearly bolted out of his head.
Had I been a Bengal tiger, my advent might have caused less alarm. The
officers not knowing if the Duke himself were coming, wiped their lips,
resumed their caps and chakos, and sprang to the ground in dismay and
confusion: as Mrs. Rooney herself, with an adroitness an Indian juggler
might have envied, plunged the fork, drumstick and all, into the
recesses of her muff; while with a back hand she decanted the XX upon
a bald major of infantry, who was brushing the crumbs from his facings.
One individual alone seemed to relish and enjoy the discomfiture of the
others: this was the young lady whom I before remarked, and whose whole
air and appearance seemed strangely at variance with everything around
her. She gave free current to her mirth; while Mrs. Paul, now suddenly
restored to a sense of her nervous constitution, fell back in her
carriage, and appeared bent upon a scene.
“You caught us enjoying ourselves, Mr. Stilton?”
“Hinton, if you'll allow me, madam.”
“Ay, to be sure--Mr. Hinton. Taking a little snack, which I am sure
you'd be the better for after the fatigues of the day.”
“Eh, au au! a devilish good luncheon,” chimed in a pale sub, the first
who ventured to pluck up his courage.
“Would a sandwich tempt you, with a glass of champagne?” said Mrs. Paul,
with the blandest of smiles.
“I can recommend the lamb, sir,” said a voice behind.
“Begad, I'll vouch for the porter,” said the Major. “I only hope it is a
good cosmetic.”
“It is a beautiful thing for the hair,” said Mrs. Rooney, half venturing
upon a joke.
“No more on that head, ma'am,” said the little Major, bowing pompously.
By this time, thanks to the assiduous attentions of Bob Dwyer, I was
presented with a plate, which, had I been an anaconda instead of an
aide-decamp, might have satisfied my appetite. A place was made for
me in the carriage; and the faithful Bob, converting the skirt of his
principal blue into a glass-cloth, polished a wine-glass for my private
use.
“Let me introduce my young friend, Mr. Hinton,” said Mrs. Paul, with a
graceful wave of her jewelled hand towards her companion. “Miss Louisa
Bellew, only daughter of Sir Simon Bellew, of ------” what the place was
I could not well hear, but it sounded confoundedly like
Killhiman-smotherum--“a beautiful place in the county Mayo. Bob, is it
punch you are giving?”
“Most excellent, I assure you, Mrs. Rooney.”
“And how is the Duke, sir? I hope his Grace enjoys good health. He is a
darling of a man.”
By-the-by, it is perfectly absurd the sympathy your third or fourth-rate
people feel in the health and habits of those above them in station,
pleased as they are to learn the most common-place and worthless
trifles concerning them, and happy when, by any chance, some accidental
similitude would seem to exist even between their misfortunes.
“And the dear Duchess,” resumed Mrs. Rooney, “she's troubled with the
nerves like myself. Ah! Mr. Hinton, what an affliction it is to have a
sensitive nature; that's what I often say to my sweet young friend here.
It's better for her to be the gay, giddy, thoughtless, happy thing
she is, than----” Here the lady sighed, wiped her eyes, flourished her
cambric, and tried to look like Agnes in the “Bleeding Nun.” “But here
they come. You don't know Mr. Rooney? Allow me to introduce him to you.”
As she spoke, O'Grady cantered up to the carriage, accompanied by a
short, pursy, round-faced little man, who, with his hat set knowingly
on one side, and his top-boots scarce reaching to the middle of the
leg, bestrode a sharp, strong-boned hackney, with cropped ears and short
tail. He carried in his hand a hunting-whip, and seemed, by his seat in
the saddle and the easy finger upon the bridle, no indifferent horseman.
“Mr. Rooney,” said the lady, drawing herself up with a certain austerity
of manner, “I wish you to make the acquaintance of Mr. Hinton, the
aide-de-camp to his Grace.”
Mr. Rooney lifted his hat straight above his head, and replaced it a
little more obliquely than before over his right eye.
“Delighted, upon my honour--faith, quite charmed--hope you got something
to eat--there never was such a murthering hot day--Bob Dwyer, open a
bottle of port--the Captain is famished.”
“I say, Hinton,” called out O'Grady, “you forgot the Duke, it seems; he
told me you'd gone in search of some sherry, or something of the kind;
but I can readily conceive how easily a man may forget himself in such a
position as yours.”
Here Mrs. Paul dropped her head in deep confusion, Miss Bellew looked
saucy, and I, for the first time remembering what brought me there, was
perfectly overwhelmed with shame at my carelessness.
“Never mind, boy, don't fret about it, his Grace is the most forgiving
man in the world; and when he knows where you were----”
“Ah, Captain!” sighed Mrs. Rooney.
“Master Phil, it's yourself can do it,” murmured Paul, who perfectly
appreciated O'Grady's powers of “blarney,” when exercised on the
susceptible temperament of his fair spouse.
“I'll take a sandwich,” continued the Captain. “Do you know, Mrs.
Rooney, I've been riding about this half-hour to catch my young friend,
and introduce him to you; and here I find him comfortably installed,
without my aid or assistance. The fact is, these English fellows have a
nattering, insinuating way of their own there's no coming up to. Isn't
that so, Miss Bellew?”
“Very likely,” said the young lady, who now spoke for the first time;
“but it is so very well concealed that I for one could never detect it.”
This speech, uttered with a certain pert and saucy air, nettled mc for
the moment; but as no reply occurred to me, I could only look at the
speaker a tacit acknowledgment of her sarcasm; while I remembered,
for the first time, that, although seated opposite my very attractive
neighbour, I had hitherto not addressed to her a single phrase of even
common-place attention.
“I suppose you put up in the Castle, sir?” said Mr. Rooney.
“Yes, two doors lower down than Mount O'Grady,” replied the Captain for
me. “But come, Hinton, the carriages are moving, we must get back as
quick as we can. Good-by, Paul Adieu, Mrs. Rooney, Miss Bellew, good
morning.”
It was just at the moment when I had summoned up my courage to address
Miss Bellew, that O'Grady called me away: there was nothing for it,
however, but to make my adieus; while, extricating myself from the
_débris_ of the luncheon, I once more mounted my horse, and joined the
viceregal party as they drove from the ground.
“I'm delighted you know the Rooneys,” said O'Grady, as we drove along;
“they are by far the best fun going. Paul good, but his wife superb!”
“And the young lady?” said I.
“Oh, a different kind of thing altogether. By-the-by, Hinton, you took
my hint, I hope, about your English manner?”
“Eh--why--how--what did you mean?”
“Simply, my boy, that your Coppermine-river kind of courtesy may be a
devilish fine thing in Hyde Park or St. James's, but will never do with
us poor people here. Put more warmth into it, man. Dash the lemonade
with a little maraschino; you'll feel twice as comfortable yourself, and
the girls like you all the better. You take the suggestion in good part,
I'm sure.”
“Oh, of course,” said I, somewhat stung that I should get a lesson in
manner where I had meant to be a model for imitation; “if they like that
kind of thing, I must only conform.”