Early in the morning, Sergeant Pegden brought down his party; one short,
however, of the number announced by him the evening before. The absent
man was Sam, the same who had been already reported missing. In fact, I
learnt from the Sergeant that Sam had been out all night, and had not
returned to the convent at all. This was a serious reduction of our
available force.
Sandwich Sam, _alias_ “Shrimps,” had, previous to his enlistment,
enjoyed the benefit of a somewhat amphibious education. By profession a
hoyman, but also smart as a smuggler, he had occasionally condescended
to fill up a leisure hour with the lively amusement of shrimping. Though
certainly not the steadiest man in the regiment, Sam, who was a very
handy fellow, and an old campaigner, when sober knew his duty, and
maintained, on the whole, the character of a smart soldier.
Under other circumstances, I should have given directions for looking
him up. But the sick Sergeant, and his party of convalescents, had, in
their zeal for his majesty’s service, come down without their breakfast.
I therefore felt it my more immediate duty, as the best preparation for
the exploits of the day, to supply them with that needful meal. My brave
army had turned out anything but stout in health and smart in equipment;
but they all showed full of pluck, well under command, and ready for
anything.
Having extemporised a breakfast for the men, the Padre and I sat down to
our own. Touching the important operations of the day, we were
proceeding with our arrangements when an interruption took place, in the
shape of a little disturbance outside. Sergeant Pegden was speaking to
some one in the street, and speaking loud, in a voice of authority and
angry expostulation.
“Come now, you; be quiet. Fall in, and behave like a man.”
A voice responded: “File up your rusty old keys! Lock up your chastises!
and go to dinner with the poor!”
“Better take care, Sam,” growled Teakettle Tom in a low voice. “The
Captain’s in there, a-having his breakfast.”
“Oh, is he?” replied Sam, “then I’ll give him a song:—
‘My fairther, he’s a preacher,
A wherry honest man;
My mother, she’s a washy-wom’;
And I’m a true Brit-tan,
With my whack fol lol,’” &c.
I send Francisco to call in Sergeant Pegden. Enter the Sergeant.
“Why, Pegden,” said I, “what’s all this about?”
“Very sorry, sir,” replied the Sergeant; “but I’m afraid Sandwich Sam is
a little overtaken.”
“How can that be?” I asked. “Where could he get it?”
“Please, sir, I don’t know,” said the Sergeant. “But he seems to have
got too much of it, and he has some with him now.”
“Bring him in,” said I.
Glorious, but a little stupid, Sam was brought in. His hand grasped the
neck of a half-emptied bottle. Under his arm was another bottle, corked
and full.
“I see what’s the matter,” said the Padre. “The man has found his way
into the store-closet, and got at the wine which was brought here
yesterday. Francisco, how could you be so negligent? Step into the
back-room, and see whether he has left us any.”
Francisco went as directed, and promptly returned. “Not a bottle is
missing,” said he.
“Señor Capitan,” said the Padre, “this is an enigma. With the exception
of my stock, there is no bottled wine in the village.”
“To make sure, suppose we try it,” said I.
“No need of that,” answered the Padre. “The villagers keep their wine in
skins. The Alcalde keeps his in a barrel. Within a circuit of three or
four leagues, my cellar, since our convent here was plundered, is the
only depôt of bottled wine. My reason for keeping a stock you will
readily understand. My poor self-denying fraternity, when they _do_
drink wine, prefer it from the bottle, not from the wood.”
“Why then, according to that,” said I, “this drunken fellow must, since
last night, have found his way into the cellar of the house which we are
presently to attack and carry by storm.”
“I can only repeat what I have said already,” replied the Padre. “It is
an enigma.”
“Where have you been, Sam?” I asked. “What have you been about?”
“About?” hiccupped Sam. “What have you been about? I am the lad as can
(_hiccup_) show the British (_hiccup_) army how to walk into (_hiccup_)
the hinnimy’s persition, and (_hiccup_)—Oh, my dear Sergeant Pegden, I
vos so wherry dry (_hiccup_)—knocked off the heads of half-a-dozen
(_hiccup_)—and didn’t not drink owny hate on ’em (_hiccup_.) Hooray!
Death or glo——(_hiccup, hiccup_).” Here Sam became so much worse, that I
felt it advisable to order his immediate removal from the apartment.
It was no bad way of assailing the hostile fortress, if we could effect
a lodgment in its lowest storeys. Assuming that Sam had been there
before us, the first question was how he entered; but this he was too
far gone to tell us.