ARREARS.
When we had been a few weeks in Wexford, we received about six
months’ pay, of which we had fallen in arrear while in the Peninsula,
amounting to a considerable sum each man; and as it could scarcely
be spent by individuals like us, who had been exiled from home and
all its enjoyments for a number of years, without some spreeing, the
commanding-officer wisely resolved to relax the reins of discipline
a little. In such cases I have always found that severe restraint
creates the evil that it is meant to prevent; but when humoured in
some degree, the ebullition passes over,—foolishly enough certainly,
but in general harmlessly. Nothing is more natural than that men’s
judgment should be carried away by their animal spirits on such
occasions, and those who purse up their mouths and treat the matter
as a crime, know nothing at all about it.
Our poor fellows, when they got their money, in the joy of their
hearts, played such fooleries as could challenge comparison with any
ship’s crew that ever came into port. It would be an endless task to
portray every extravagance they ran into; all joined, however, in
a greater or less degree, in paying their addresses to the whisky;
each heart then became unveiled, and a very common observer could
have told the ruling passion of each individual in the regiment. Some
showed their devotion to the fair sex, by hauling in every female
with whom they had the slightest acquaintance, and treating them to
gowns, caps, or anything they chose to ask. Others gratified their
ambitious longings by hiring horses, coaches, gigs, or jaunting
cars, and riding into the country or about the town. Dennis and I
were in the throng, no doubt, and on receiving our cash sallied
forth in quest of adventures. Dennis could not brook the idea of
entering a common public-house on that day. ‘We have not long to
act the gentleman,’ said he, ‘we may as well make a good use of our
time;’ so saying, he led the way to the head inn, and with the utmost
pomp bawled out ‘waiter!’—The waiter made his appearance.—‘Bring us
a bottle of wine.’—The waiter smiled, and looked as if he thought
him mad.—‘Go along, sir, and do as I order you,’ said Dennis; ‘you
stare, you spalpeen, as if you never saw a gentleman before.’ The
waiter made his escape, and having consulted with his master, brought
the wine. We had scarcely seated ourselves when two of our officers
entered,—the one was a good fellow, generous, brave, and feeling; the
other was the reverse. ‘Mr G.,’ said Dennis, addressing the former,
‘will you be kind enough to drink with us?’
‘Certainly, my good fellow, it is not the first time you and I have
drank together; I do not forget the time you gave me the last drop
out of your canteen, on that long day’s march going up through Spain,
when every one was dying with thirst, and no water to be had.’
Having drank to our health, and the glasses replenished, Dennis took
up one,—‘Long life to you, Mr G., you are a noble, brave officer, and
I could shed my heart’s blood for you by night or by day; I wish I
could say as much for many a one in the corps,’ casting a significant
look at the other officer.
I whispered to Dennis, ‘You had better ask him to drink.’
‘Devil a sup,’ said he, loud enough to be heard. Mr J. felt galled
to the soul, and colouring with rage he walked out of the room,
accompanied by the other officer, who seemed to take no notice of
what Dennis had said.
‘You were too rude,’ said I; ‘you provoke the man to be your enemy.’
‘Is it my enemy—sure he is every body’s enemy, and anything that
Dennis could say or do, would not change him for better or worse.
Don’t you remember the death of poor H—b—s—n, how could any body
like him after that? I wouldn’t have his conscience for worlds.[14]
But come, comrade, let’s into the city—By the powers, I had almost
forgot myself, I promised to call on Peggy Doyle. Let me see, what
will I buy for Peggy?’—but that moment a carriage came rattling down
the street, filled outside and inside with our comrades, and ribbons
and handkerchiefs streaming from all parts of it. ‘By the hokey!’
cried Dennis, in a yell of transport, ‘let’s scale the garrison.’
In a moment we were mounted, and poor Peggy Doyle was consigned to
oblivion.
The town was now in an uproar; carriages, sociables, and jaunting
cars were in requisition, flying past in every direction, with our
men clinging to the outside of them, to the manifest danger of their
necks and limbs. Every thing seemed to have received an impulse
unusual to it, and participated in the flying motion,—the old women
shouted, the children capered, the dogs barked, and the very pigs,
instead of lying lazily before the doors, were galloping about the
streets with their tails cocked.
Some of the boys had tarried so long at the whisky, that all the
vehicles of any speed had been taken up; but their invention was soon
at work; common cars were hired by them, and driven furiously along,
to the great torment of the poor hacks. One fellow, who had been too
late for even a common car, and determined at all events to ride,
jumped into an empty buttermilk churn[15] up to the neck, and paid
the woman handsomely to drive him along. ‘Och, it’s yourself that has
the taste, Slobber-daddy,’ cried Dennis, ‘you were always fond of the
slurry.’[16] He had scarcely spoke the word, when the wheel of the
carriage came in contact with that of the car, and in a twinkling
we were all sprawling in the mud, in glorious confusion. Nobody was
hurt, however, the buttermilk hero excepted, who had broken his nose
when emptied out of the churn. Up we were again in a moment, dashing
along, regardless of old women, children, and corners, until the
poor horses were so jaded that they actually stood still. It was now
near evening, all the public-houses soon filled, and drinking and
boisterous mirth of every description was kept up during the night.
Next day the same scenes were renewed, the same wanton prodigality
in spending the money which had been so dearly earned. On this day
Dennis was determined that his sweetheart should not be forgotten;
but it may be as well to exonerate him from falling in love too
hastily, by stating that Peggy and he had been acquainted when
children, and were distantly related to each other. She had removed
to this place along with her mistress, during the time Dennis was
abroad. They had accidentally met—their joy on meeting was as great
as it was unexpected, and a kind of courtship had been kept up
between them from that time. A gown-piece and a handsome shawl were
now bought for her, and Dennis having delivered it, we were going
farther into the town, when we met John ——, a particular friend of
ours, though not in the same company, whom we had not seen since the
commencement of the riot.
‘Where on earth have you been, John?’ said I; ‘we have been hunting
every place for you, and you were not to be found. What’s the matter
with you, man? you look very demure; why don’t you join in the
general joy? come along into the town.’
‘I hope you will excuse me,’ replied he, ‘I cannot go now.’
We insisted on knowing his reason; he tried to evade giving any, but
at length he said, ‘he had no money.’
‘O, what consequence is that?’ said Dennis, ‘we have some. But what
has become of your back pay, have you lost it?’
‘No.’
‘And what the deuce have you done with it?’
John blushed and hesitated a moment, ‘I have sent it to my mother.’
‘What—all? without keeping anything to drink?’
‘Yes,’ said he, ‘I durst not trust myself to send it if I once began,
and in my sober senses I thought it a pity to spend a shilling
uselessly of that which would do her so much good.’
‘Long life to you, Jack!’ said Dennis, shaking him by the hand,
‘you’re a noble boy; but come along with us, you are not going home
to mope in the barracks, and nobody there but yourself; you shall
share with us while we have anything.’
‘No,’ replied John, firmly, ‘that I cannot do; I thought on all these
things before I sent the money; I know I shall be lonely enough
while these times last, but I will never drink at any other person’s
expense, in such circumstances. No, no, the first letter I get from
my poor mother, after she receives the money, will repay me for all I
have done, a thousand times.’
We parted from him with reluctance, but we knew it was of no use to
press him farther. Dennis and I adjourned to a public-house, where,
having got a room to ourselves, he called for a sheet of paper and
pen and ink.
‘What do you want with the paper?’ said I.
‘I wish you to write a bit of a letter for me. Do you know, that when
John was telling us about sending the money, I could have cried, so I
could, to think that the whisky or the noise should put my old mother
out of my head; and I owe John my blessing for putting me in mind of
her. Now, there’s nothing like striking the iron while it’s hot; so
just write me a bit of a line. I’ll send—let me see, (dividing the
notes from the silver,) I’ll send the bits of paper, and keep the
tenpennies, and much good may it do to the poor old creature.’
I wrote the letter accordingly, and having enclosed the money, Dennis
got up to go to the post office.
‘Will you not drink before you go?’
‘No, indeed, it wouldn’t go down.’ He was off and returning in a few
minutes,—
‘Hand us the glass, now,’ said he, ‘for my throat’s clear, and my
heart’s light.’
Many of the lads were now beginning to feel the bottom of their
purse, and put on a sober face, but few of them, I believe, derived
so much pleasure from a review of the manner in which they had spent
their money as did my friends John and Dennis.
By the end of a week things were restored to their usual routine; but
the kindly feeling generated between us and the inhabitants did not
so soon cease, for during the many months we remained there, we were
on the very best terms with them.
FOOTNOTES:
[14] The story Dennis alluded to was certainly a dreadful one. Poor
H. joined us a short time before we advanced through Spain, and
being but a weakly boy, when we commenced the march, he was unable
to keep up with the regiment. He reported himself sick, but the
doctor finding that he complained of nothing but weakness, accused
him of scheming, and scratched his name out of the report; this did
not give him more strength, and he fell out the next day’s march.
The officer of whom Dennis had expressed his dislike, being riding
in the rear of the regiment, swore at him dreadfully, and threatened
to turn him over to the provost and have him flogged if he would not
keep up, but his threatenings were of no avail. Next day he was again
reported sick, again accused of scheming, and sent to march with his
company, and, as on the preceding day, was unable to keep pace with
his comrades. He was given in charge to the rear guard, and Mr J.
ordered two men of the guard to drag him along, and another to go
behind him and prick him on with his bayonet; but all this cruelty
was unavailing—they were obliged to give up dragging him, and leave
him behind. During this time he had never complained, but his heart
was broken. When he was left he crawled off the road into a field,
and, tired of a world in which he had met with such cruel treatment,
loaded his musket, and taking off his stocking, put his toe on the
trigger, and blew out his brains.
[15] In Ireland the buttermilk is brought into the towns in the
churn, fastened on a common car.
[16] A cant term for buttermilk.