A SMILE OF FORTUNE.
"But little; I am arm'd, and well prepared.--
Give me your hand, Bassanio; fare-you-well!
Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you;
For herein Fortune shows herself more kind
Than is her custom."--_The Merchant of Venice._
No music was heard now on that dreary retreat. The bagpipes of the
indomitable Highlanders sent up their bold, wild skirl at times upon
the winter blast, showing where the Camerons, the Gordon Highlanders,
or the Black Watch trod bare-knee'd through the snow; but no other
quickstep met the ear; even Leslie's march cheered the Borderers no
more; and many a man among them wished himself with the other
battalions of the corps, broiling in India, or serving anywhere but
in Spain.
To reach their transports and abandon the country by sea, without
risking the slaughter of a useless battle with those whose numbers
were so overwhelming, was, for a time, the sole object of the British
generals.
Disorders usually prevail in a retreating army, and many
circumstances served to augment them on this occasion. Our soldiers
were enraged by the apparent apathy or treachery of the Spanish
officials, who withheld all supplies; these latter, at the same time
did not conceal that they believed themselves to be abandoned by the
British to the enemy, in whose overwhelming numbers, with true
Spanish obstinacy, they refused to believe.
Perceiving, however, that unless by some vigorous resistance he
crippled his pursuers, a flight by sea would be impossible, Sir John
Moore recalled General Fraser's division from the Vigo road, and on
the 6th of January, after a sharp cavalry encounter at Cacabelos,
where Colbert, a distinguished French general, was killed, he took up
a position near the city of Lugo, on the Minho, in Gallicia, a place
situated on high ground.
So pressed were the cavalry, and so dreadfully had the horses
suffered during the retreat, that on entering Lugo many fell dead
beneath their riders, and others were mercifully shot. Four hundred
of their carcasses, with bridles, saddles, and holsters on--the
steeds that whilome had been in the ranks of our splendid 7th, 10th,
15th, and 18th Hussars--lay in the market-place and thoroughfares.
There were none of our soldiers who had strength to dig trenches deep
enough to bury them; the Spaniards were too lazy or apathetic for the
work, or cared not to attempt it while the enemy's voltigeurs or
sharpshooters were within sight of their old ruined walls. Swelling
in the rain, bursting, and putrefying, the bodies lay there, a prey
to herds of devouring dogs, and flocks of carrion birds.
At Lugo the army might have rested for some days, had the bridges of
the now swollen rivers been blown up; but the mines had failed, and
on the 5th of January the pursuing French came in sight in force, and
at last a battle was looked for.
The evening of the 5th proved a very eventful one for the humble
fortunes of our hero, and the _last_ of his service in the ranks of
the King's Own Borderers.
About four in the afternoon, during a partial cessation of the sleet
and rain which had been incessant for so many days, melting the snow
on the mountains and swelling the rivers, Quentin found himself
posted as an advanced sentinel in front of the line of out-picquets,
near the road leading from Lugo to Nogales. Dark clouds enveloped
the mighty range of mountains in the distance, but from their summits
it was known, by the intelligence of scouts, that the enemy was
descending in force.
A blue patch was visible here and there overhead, through the flying
vapour, and there, already bright and twinkling, a few "sentinel
stars set their watch in the sky."
After the slaughter of the worn or half-dead cavalry horses, all was
still, and now not a sound stirred the air save the tolling of the
cathedral bell in Lugo, or the roar of the Minho, swollen by a
hundred tributaries, and rushing in wild career through an
uncultivated waste of stunted laurel bushes to mingle with the
Atlantic.
That day Quentin had tasted no food save a handful of corn which he
received from Major Middleton, whom he had found fraternally sharing
a feed of it with his now lean and gaunt Rosinante-looking charger,
which he had stabled under a cork-tree and covered with his blanket,
complimenting himself by the old adage that "a merciful man is
merciful to his beast."
Oppressed by the sombre scenery, the drenched and uncultivated waste,
and the gloom of the December evening, Quentin leaned on his musket,
a prey to a fit of intense despondency, and tears almost came to his
eyes as he thought of all the horrors he had witnessed since the day
on which he landed at the bay of Maciera, the campaign he had served
so fruitlessly, and of what was before him on landing, friendlessly,
in England.
Better it was to die in Spain, like poor Warriston, whose dead face,
as he lay with others, mangled and doubtless yet unburied, in that
savage mountain waste, amid the melting snows, came keenly back to
memory now!
From this unpleasant reverie he was suddenly roused by seeing a
mounted officer, muffled in a blue cloak, with a plain unplumed
cocked-hat, riding along the chain of advanced sentinels, questioning
or addressing a few words to each, as if to ascertain that all were
on the alert.
Gradually he came on, his horse, a lean but clean-limbed and active
bay, picking its way among the rough stones and stunted laurel
bushes. As he drew nearer, Quentin could perceive him to be a
general officer, accompanied, at a little distance, by an orderly
sergeant in the blue, white-faced, and silver-braided uniform of the
18th Hussars. On his approaching, Quentin "presented arms."
"Walk about," said he, while touching his hat. This is the usual
response of an officer when ceremony is to be waived; but,
immediately after, perceiving by Quentin's uniform--for the poor
fellow had now parted with his great-coat as well as his blanket, and
in a similar fashion--that he was _not_ a private soldier, he came
close up to him, and said, "You are, I presume, aware that the enemy
is in front?"
"Yes, sir--and more immediately, Ribeaupierre's dragoon brigade and
Lallemand's corps."
"Exactly," replied the other, with a pleasant smile; "I like to find
a young soldier well-informed of the work in hand--that he knows what
he is about, and takes an interest in his profession. Your regiment
is----"
"The 25th Foot, sir--2nd battalion."
"You are, I see, a volunteer?"
"Yes, sir."
"How long have you served?"
"Nearly since the campaign opened."
"Without promotion, too!"
"And likely to be without it now, I fear."
"It is somewhat unusual for a volunteer to be posted as a sentinel,"
said the other, with a keen glance.
"I go where Colonel Crawford orders me," replied Quentin; "and if
there was much risk, I spared him the trouble by volunteering
readily."
"A young fellow of spirit! Are you born to a fortune?"
"Fortune!" repeated Quentin, with a start, and in a voice that was
very touching; "alas, sir, I fear that I am born only to _failure_!"
"Failure?" said the other, as his colour deepened.
"Yes, sir--like our expedition to Spain."
The officer seemed much struck by a remark that appeared to coincide
with certain ideas and fears of destiny that were peculiarly his own.
He knitted his brows, and said--
"Young man, you speak very confidently of the fate of 'this
expedition to Spain.' Do you know what you are talking about?"
"I trust, sir, that I do," replied Quentin, modestly.
"Then, perhaps," said the other, with a smile as he propounded what
he deemed a puzzling question, "you will be good enough to explain
the maxims which guide an expedition by land or sea?"
"I shall try," said Quentin, colouring deeply and seeking to remember
some of the old quartermaster's enthusiastic tutelage.
"Do so."
"There are, I think, four great maxims."
"Yes--at least, and I shall be glad to hear them."
"First, sir, in an armed expedition of any kind, there should always
be secrecy of design, and also, of all preparation. Second: the
force and the means employed should always be proportionate to the
_end_ to be achieved; (which is not _our_ case here, else we had been
in Madrid to-night and not fugitives in Lugo.) Third: there is
requisite a complete knowledge of the country for which the
expedition is destined; in that at least our brave Sir John Moore is
unequalled. Fourth: there is required a commander, who like him has
all the turn of mind which is most adapted for that particular branch
of the war."
"Upon my honour you are a very singular young man," replied the
other, with something between a smile and a frown hovering on his
fair and open countenance. "You might teach Cæsar himself a lesson;
but before you go any further in your remarks, I think it right to
inform you that _I_ am Lieutenant-General Sir John Moore."
Quentin was silenced and petrified. He felt sinking with shame at
his own confidence and sudden effrontery, both the offspring of
gloomy disappointment; then he strove to remember all he had said,
and continued to gaze almost stupidly at the worthy general, who
seemed to enjoy the situation and laughed heartily, and said, in a
manner that was winning and reassuring--
"I wish Davie Baird or Lord Paget had been with me to hear all this!"
Mild in face and disposition, though somewhat fierce in temper when a
boy, Sir John Moore possessed a figure that was tall and graceful.
His features were perfectly regular; his eyes were hazel, and his
hair of a rich brown colour. His whole face was expressive of
cheerfulness and benignity, save at times when a hopeless or
desponding emotion seized his mind. There was a very perceptible
scar on one of the cheeks, where his face had been traversed by a
bullet when leading on the 92nd at Egmont-op-Zee.
In his holsters he always carried the pistols given to him by the
attainted Earl Marischal, when he was present, as a young subaltern
of the 51st Foot, at the famous reviews of the Prussian army near
Potsdam, together with a pocket edition of Horace bearing the Earl's
autograph; and these he valued highly as relics of that sturdy old
Jacobite, once Scotland's premier peer.
Moore was now in his forty-eighth year, having been born at Glasgow,
in 1761, in a house long known as "Donald's Land," in the
Trongate--an edifice demolished in 1854. But to resume:--
After enjoying Quentin's confusion for a moment, he asked--
"Are there any other gentlemen volunteers serving with the Borderers?"
"No, sir, myself only."
"Indeed!--what--are you named Kennedy--Quentin Kennedy?"
"Yes, sir," replied Quentin, faintly, and his heart sunk. ("Oh,"
thought he, "he has heard of that accursed court-martial--who has
not? It is all over with me now!")
"Have you not seen the last War Office Gazette, which came this
morning from England?"
"No, sir, I am sorry to say that--that--" stammered Quentin, ignorant
of what dereliction of duty might be here inferred; "I only--that
is----"
"Then get a look of it, and there you will find yourself gazetted to
a lieutenancy in the 7th, or Royal Fusiliers. I congratulate you,
sir--your regiment is at present in England, where I wish we all
were, with honour and safety."
Quentin was overwhelmed by this intimation.
"Oh, sir, are you sure of this?" exclaimed the poor lad, trembling
with many mingled emotions.
"Sure as that I now address you; and if your name be Quentin Kennedy,
serving with the King's Own Borderers--full lieutenant in the corps,
which has _no other_ subalterns. Now you cannot continue to serve
thus--carrying a musket with the 25th; other work must be found for
you. When will you be relieved from this post?"
"In a few minutes, sir--my hour is nearly up."
"Then you will take a note from me to Crawford, your colonel," said
Moore; and drawing forth a note book, he rapidly pencilled a note,
tore it out, folded it and addressed it.
"The bearer hereof," it ran, "Mr. Q. Kennedy, having been appointed
by his Majesty to a lieutenancy in the 7th Fusiliers, will serve on
my personal staff, as an extra aide-de-camp, until he can join his
regiment, now in Britain.
"JOHN MOORE, Lieut.-Gen."
"You will show this to Colonel Crawford and to the adjutant-general,
with my compliments. It will be in orders to-morrow. Wyndham has
gone to London with poor General Lefebre and the despatches of our
cavalry affairs at Sahagun and Benevente, so I must have your
assistance in his place during this _expedition_," he added,
smilingly, with an emphasis. "Captain Hardinge will lend you a
horse--I know he has some spare cattle--meet me at my quarters
opposite the cathedral to-morrow morning early; till then good-bye,
Lieutenant Kennedy, and I wish you success!"
Moore drew off his glove, shook Quentin's hand with friendly
cordiality, and rode away at a canter, leaving our sentinel in a very
bewildered state of mind indeed.