Nearing the End--Firing on the Red Cross--Perpetuity of
War--Artistic Hypocrites--The Jubilee Year--The Conflicts of a
Peaceful Reign--Major Russell--Quick Promotion--The Foreign
Legion--An Aspiring Adventurer--Leader's Career--A Piratical
Proposal--The "Ojaladeros" of Biarritz--A Friend in Need--Buying a
Horse--Gilpin Outdone--"Fred Burnaby."
AND now I take up the last chapter of this book, and I have not half
finished with the subject I had set before myself at starting. By the
figures at the head of the last page I perceive that I have almost
reached the orthodox length of a volume, and perforce must stop. For
some weeks past I have been looking and longing for the end, for I have
been ill, weary and worried, and my labour has become a task. Slowly
toiling day by day, I knew I must be nearing the goal; yet, like the
strenuous Webb on his swim from Dover to Calais, the horizon seemed to
come no closer. The land in sight grew no plainer, although each
breast-stroke--the pleasure of a while agone, but oh! such a tax
now--must have lessened the distance. Even to that excursion there came
an hour of accomplishment and repose; but to this, of pen over paper, I
cannot flatter myself that the hour is yet. I have to abandon the work
incomplete. As it has happened to me before, the theme has expanded
under my hands, and I shall have to rise from my desk before I penetrate
to the Carlist headquarters, of which I had to say much, or have
experiences of that strangest of Communes in Murcia, with its sea and
land skirmishes and its motley rabble of mutineers, convicts, and
nondescripts, of which I had to say much likewise.
Whether I shall have the privilege of recounting my adventures at the
court and camp of Don Carlos, and by the side of the General directing
the siege of Cartagena, who admitted me as a sort of supernumerary on
his staff, will depend on the reception of this, the first instalment of
my experiences in Spain.
An act of unjustifiable barbarism or stupidity, or both--for barbarism
is but another form of stupidity--was perpetrated by some Carlists
outside Irun while I was negotiating for that indispensable horse. An
ambulance-waggon, displaying the Red Cross of Geneva, had sallied from
the town, and was fired upon. The Paris delegate I had met at Hendaye
was in charge of it, and averred that it was wantonly and wilfully
attacked. I thought it, singular that nobody was hurt, and reasoned that
the man was excitable, and got into range unconsciously. The duty of the
Geneva Society properly begins after, and not during a combat; and when
gentlemen are busy at the game of professional manslaughter, no
philanthropic outsider has any right to distract them from their
occupation by indiscreet obstruction. The Parisian did not view it in
that light, and downfaced me that these rustics, to whose aid he was
actually going, tried to murder him of malice prepense. It was useless
to represent to him that these rustics may have never heard of the
modern benevolent institution for the softening of strife, and may have
regarded the huge Red Cross as a defiant symbol of Red Republicanism,
and perhaps a parody of what is sacred. So in the estimation of that
citizen of the most enlightened capital in the universe, these Basques
were ruthless boobies with an insatiable passion for lapping blood. But
mistakes and exaggerations will occur in every war. The only way to
obviate them is to put an end to war altogether--_which will never be
done_! When Christ came into the world, peace was proclaimed; when He
left it, peace was bequeathed. War has been the usual condition of
mankind since, as it had been before; and Christians cut each other's
throats with as much alacrity and expertness as Pagans, often in the
name of the religion of peace.
I heard two eminent war-correspondents lecture recently, and I noticed
that those passages where fights were described were applauded to the
echo. The more ferocious the combat the more vigorous the cheers. The
faces of small boys flushed, and their hands clinched at the vivid
recital. The nature of the savage, which has not been extirpated by
School Boards, was betraying itself in them. Yet these two
war-correspondents thought it an acquittal of conscience after their
kindling periods to dwell on the immorality of war. The one spoke of the
beauty of Bible precepts, the other disburdened himself on the cruelty
and wickedness of a battle. What artistic hypocrisy! It was as if one
were to strike up the "Faerie Voices" waltz, and tell a girl to keep her
feet still; as if one were to lend "Robinson Crusoe" to a boy, and warn
him not to think of running away to sea. Still, I must even add my voice
to the orthodox chorus, and affirm that warfare is bad, brutal,
fraudful, a thing of meretricious gauds, a clay idol, fetish of humbug
and havoc, whose feet are soaking in muddy gore and salt tears; yet in
the privacy of my own study I might sadly admit that the Millennium is
remote, that the Parliament of Nations exists but in the dreams of the
poet, and that Longfellow's forecast of the days down through the dark
future when the holy melodies of love shall oust the clangours of
conflict is a pretty conceit--and no more.
War is inexcusable, and is foolish and ugly; but, like the poor and the
ailing, we shall have it always with us. It is criminal, except as
protest against intolerable persecution, or in maintenance of national
honour or defence of national territory; and even in these cases it
should be undertaken only when all devices of conciliation have been
tried in vain. Next to the vanquished, it does most harm to the victor.
Yet about it, as about high play, there is a fascination, and I have to
plead guilty to the weak feeling that I would not look with overwhelming
aversion on an order, should it come to me to-morrow, to prepare to
chronicle a new campaign and face the chronicler's risks; and they are
real. But I should not go into it with a light heart, like M. Emile
Ollivier. I might be, in a quiet way, happy as Queen Victoria was
(according to Count Vitzthum) for she danced much the night before the
declaration of hostilities against Russia, but spoke of what was coming
with amiable candour and great regret.
We are on the eve of a Jubilee Year, when the halcyon shall plume his
wing, and we shall hear much oratorical trash and hebetude about the
peacefulness of this happy reign.
Does the reader reflect how many wars we have had in the pacific
half-century which is lapsing? The tale will astonish him, and should
silence the thoughtless word-spinners of the platforms. The door of the
temple of Janus has been seldom closed for long. Our campaigns, great
and small, and military enterprises of the lesser sort, could not be
counted on the fingers of both hands. We have had fighting with Afghans
and Burmese (twice); Scinde, Gwalior, and Sikh wars; hostilities with
Kaffirs, Russians, Persians, Chinese, and Maoris (twice), Abyssinians,
Ashantis, Zulus, Boers, and Soudanese, not to mention the repression of
the most stupendous of mutinies, a martial promenade in Egypt, and
expeditions against Jowakis, Bhootanese, Looshais, Red River rebels, and
such pitiful minor fry.
In St. Jean de Luz, the nearest point to the disputed ground and the
best place from which to transmit information, there was a small and
select British colony, mostly consisting of retired naval and military
officers. A dear friend of mine amongst them was Major Russell, who had
spent a lengthened span of years in the East--an admirable type of the
calm, firm, courteous Anglo-Indian--who had never soured his temper and
spoiled his liver with excessive "pegs," who understood and respected
the natives, who had shown administrative ability, and who, like many
another honest, dutiful officer, had not shaken much fruit off the
pagoda-tree, or even secured the C.B. which is so often given to
tarry-at-home nonentities. Russell used to pay me a regular visit to the
Fonda de la Playa. One morning as we were chatting, Leader strode into
the coffee-room, a vision of splendour. He had got on his uniform as
Commandant of the Foreign Legion--a uniform which did much credit to his
fancy, for he had designed it himself. He wore a white boina with gold
tassel, a blue tunic with black braid, red trousers, and brown gaiters.
He had donned the gala-costume with the object of getting himself
photographed. Commandant is the equivalent of Major in the British
service, so we agreed to dub the young Irishman henceforth and for ever,
until he became colonel or captain-general, Major Leader.
"Promotion is quick in this army," murmured Russell. "I served all my
active life under the suns of India, and here I am only a major at the
close. Leader joined the Carlists less than three months ago, and he is
already my equal in rank."
"The fortune of war, Russell," said I; "don't be jealous. I was offered
command of a brigade under the Commune, but I declined the tribute to my
merit, or I would not be here to-day. I met a man in Bayonne yesterday,
and he was ready to assume control of the entire insurrectionary
forces."
"Who? Cabrera?"
"No," I answered; "catch Cabrera coming here. He is too much afraid of a
ruler who is no pretender. The renowned Commander-in-Chief of Aragon and
Valencia, Don Ramon the Rough and Ready, is Conde Something-or-other
now, a willing slave to petticoat government. He is to be seen any day
pottering about Windsor."
"And who is this speculator in bloodshed?"
"A foreign adventurer," I explained, "who does not know a word of
Spanish, much less Basque, is unacquainted with the topography of the
country, and has not the faintest inkling of the idiosyncrasies of the
lieutenants who would serve under him, or of the mode of humouring the
prejudices of the people of the different provinces in revolt."
"What answer did they give to his application for employment?"
"A polite negative. They told him they could not appoint him a leader
without offending the susceptibilities of adherents with claims upon
them men of local influence, and so forth. Behind his back, they laughed
at his entertaining temerity."
That Foreign Legion never came to maturity. Leader showed me a
commission authorizing him to organize it. Lesaca was to be the depot,
French the language of command, and Smith Sheehan the adjutant. It might
have developed into a very fine Foreign Legion, but no volunteers
presented themselves to join it but two young Englishmen, one of whom
was sick when he was not drunk, and the other of whom felt it to be a
grievance on a campaign that a cup of tea could not be got at regular
hours. How Sheehan did chaff this amiable amateur!
"You will have nothing to do but draw your pay, my lad," he said. "The
cookery is hardly A 1, but 'twill pass. Think of the beds, pillows of
hops under your head; and every regiment has its own set of
billiard-markers and a select string-band, every performer an artist."
After an arduous service of one day and a half that gentleman returned
to the maternal apron-strings, laden to the ground with the most
harrowing legends of the horrors of war. Leader was not a warrior of
this stamp--far from it; he had vindicated his manliness at Ladon
outside Orleans, where Ogilvie, of the British Royal Artillery, had met
his fate by his side, and there was something soldierly in the way he
bore himself in his vanity of dress. Not that I think the dandies are
the best soldiers--that is merest popular paradox. To me it is as
ridiculous for a man to array himself in fine clothes when he is going
to kill or be killed, as it would be for him to put on gewgaws when he
was going to be hanged. As Leader disappears from my account of Carlist
doings after this--we were associated with different columns--it may be
of interest to tell of his subsequent career. He served in a cavalry
squadron on the staff of the King, and when the cause collapsed came to
London. His uncle tried to induce him to settle down to some steady
employment in the City. Leader expressed himself satisfied to make an
experiment at desk-work.
"It was useless," said Leader with a hearty crow as he related the story
to me. "The friend who had promised to create a vacancy for me in his
office ordered his chief clerk to lock the safe and send for the police
when he heard of my antecedents. He invited me to dinner, but candidly
told me that a rifle was more in my line than a quill."
And yet it was in the service of the quill the young soldier ended his
days. He got an appointment as an auxiliary correspondent to a great
London daily paper during the Russo-Turkish war. He was elate; the road
to fame and fortune now lay open before him. The next I heard of him was
that he had succumbed to typhoid fever at Philippopolis.
A Scotch _spadassin_ arrived in our midst about this period. He was most
anxious to draw a blade for Don Carlos, but he had a decided objection
to serve in any capacity but that of command. He did not appreciate the
fun of losing the number of his mess as an obscure hero of the rank and
file, though he would not mind sacrificing an arm, I do think, at the
head of a charging column, provided that he had a showy uniform on, and
that the fact of his valour was properly advertised in the despatches.
He had an idea that would commend itself to Belcha's bushwhackers, but
it was not entertained. It was to take passage with a few trusty men on
the tug for San Sebastian when she was reported to be conveying specie
for the payment of the Spanish Republican troops, to drive the voyagers
down the hold, throttle the skipper, intimidate the crew, take the wheel
and turn her head to the coast, seize and land the money under Carlist
protection, and then scuttle her. The least recompense, he calculated,
which could be awarded to him for that exploit by his Majesty Charles
VII. was the Order of the Golden Fleece; and a very appropriate order
too.
There was a set of Carlist sympathizers known to the fighting-men as
"ojaladeros," or warriors with much decoration in the shape of polished
buttons. Their depot was at Biarritz, an aristocratic watering-place
born under the second French Empire, and not ignorant of some of the
vices of the Byzantine Empire. There are healthful breezes there, but
they do not quite sweep away the scent of frangipani. Warlike, with a
proviso, the Scot might have been designated, but he was not to be
compared with these ojaladeros; he would fight if he had a lime-lit
stage to posture upon; they would not fight at all, but they moved about
mysteriously, as if their bosoms were big with the fate of dynasties,
held hugger-mugger caucus, and were the oracles of boudoirs.
At Bayonne there was a better class of Carlist sympathizers; such of
them as were of the fighting age were there in the intervals of duty. To
a job-master's in the city by the Adour I was recommended as the most
likely place to procure a steed. At the Hotel St. Etienne, where I
stopped, I was gratified by an unexpected encounter with the genial
captain[G] (Ronald Campbell), who had brought a juicy leg of mutton at
his saddle-skirts to the relief of my household after the siege of
Paris. He went with me to the job-master's--it is as well to have a
friend with you when you do a horse-deal. I had no choice but Hobson's.
The job-master was desolated, but he had sold three animals the day
before to an English milord, a very big gentleman, and his party. He had
just one horse, but it was a beauty. The horse was trotted out. It was
well groomed--they always are, and arsenic does impart a nice gloss to
the hide--and looked imposing, a tall three-quarter-bred bay gelding.
"You'll have to take it," said the captain, "though I fear it will not
be a great catch for mountain-work. Seems to me that it stumbles--that
lie-back of the ears is vicious--ha! rears too--and by Jove! it has been
fired. No matter. Where needs must, you know, there's no alternative.
Buy it by all means."
I closed with the bargain, got a loan of a saddle, bought a pair of
jack-boots, and ordered my purchase to be brought round to the door of
the hotel within half-an-hour. I am no rough-rider, and I had not
counted on the high mettle of this, which was literally a "fiery,
untamed steed." It had been fed for the market, and had had no exercise
for two days previous. I meant to try its paces to St. Jean de Luz, and
show off before the damsels of Biarritz; but, lack-a-day! what a
declension was in store for me. It had best be given in the words of a
letter to my kindly compatriot, written while defeat was fresh in my
mind. Thus the epistle runs:
* * * * *
"DEAR CAMPBELL,
"My first essay on my eight hundred francs' worth of horse-power
was a sight to see.
"_Imprimis_, the stirrup-leathers were long enough for you.
"_En suite_, I gave the dear gelding his head because he took it,
and he incontinently faced a post of the French army at the Porte
d'Espagne. The sentry came to the charge and cried, _On ne passe
pas ici._ The blood-horse went at him, the sentry funked, and then,
as if satisfied with his demonstration, the blood-horse--the bit
always in his mouth--made a _demi-tour_, and faced a post of
douaniers. This also was sacred ground, it appears, but the
douaniers let the blood-horse pass, not even making the feint to
prod his inside for contraband. The scene now changes to the Place
de la Comedie (there's something in a name), where by virtue of
vigorous tugging at curb and snaffle I just succeeded in keeping my
gallant gelding off the cobble-stones. He went a burster over the
bridge by a short turn down a street and to the door of his stable,
and there he positively stopped, and I swear I felt his sides
shaking with laughter. I called the groom; said I thought it would
rain; besides, I did not know the road. On the whole, I had
reconsidered the matter, and would go to St. Jean de Luz by train.
The groom was awfully polite, pretended to believe me, and provided
a man to take forward my eight--oh, hang it! we shan't think of the
price.
"Humiliation! you will say. Yes, sir, and I feel it; but that horse
will feel it too. When I get him somewhere that none can see, and
where sentries, douaniers, and stables of refuge don't abound, I
shall ask him to try how long he can keep up a gallop; but, by the
body of the Claimant, I shall have sixteen stone on his back.
"Yours with knees unwearied and soul unsubdued."
* * * * *
At St. Jean de Luz I learned at the principal hotel that the English
milord was Captain Frederick Burnaby of "the Queen of England's Blue
Guards." He was supposed to have some secret official mission to Don
Carlos, to whose headquarters he had directed his steps, and I at once
took measures to follow in his tracks.
THE END.
* * * * *
BILLING & SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.
_BY THE AUTHOR OF "ROMANTIC SPAIN."_
AN IRON-BOUND CITY; or, Five Months of Peril and Privation. 2 vols. 21s.
"A story of peril, adventure, privation,
Is told, in two vols., to your great delectation,
With shrewd common sense and uncommon sensation!
Here's the painful account of Parisians defeated:
And Paris besieged is most 'specially' treated:
Like a trusty Tapleyan, bright, hopeful, and witty,
O'Shea tells the tale of 'AN IRON-BOUND CITY.'"--_Punch._
"We can listen with unjaded interest to the oft-told tale of the fall of
Paris when it is told by so genial and sunny-minded an
historian."--_Saturday Review._
LEAVES PROM THE LIFE OF A SPECIAL
CORRESPONDENT. 2 vols. 21s.
"The great charm of his pages is the entire absence of dulness, and the
evidence they afford of a delicate sense of humour, considerable powers
of observation, a store of apposite and racy anecdote, and a keen
enjoyment of life."--_Standard._
"Redolent of stories throughout, told with such a cheery spirit, in so
genial a manner, that even those they sometimes hit hard cannot, when
they read, refrain from laughing, for Mr. O'Shea is a modern Democritus;
and yet there runs a vein of sadness, as if, like Figaro, he made haste
to laugh lest he should have to weep."--_Society._
"Delightful reading.... A most enjoyable book.... It is kinder to
readers to leave them to find out the good things for themselves. They
will find material for amusement and instruction on every page; and if
the lesson is sometimes in its way as melancholy as the moral of Firmin
Maillard's 'Les Derniers Bohemes,' it is conveyed after a fashion that
recalls the light-hearted gaiety of Paul de Kock's 'Damoiselle du
Cinquieme' and the varied pathos and humour of Henri
Murger."--_Whitehall Review._
WARD AND DOWNEY, PUBLISHERS, LONDON.
FOOTNOTES:
[A] Gibraltar is no longer a penal settlement.
[B] That has all been changed since. There are serviceable rifled guns
at Tangier now, and the Sultan has some approach to a regular army,
organized by an ex-English soldier.
[C] Stuart married Lady Alice Hay, grand-daughter of William IV., in
London, in 1874, and is now dead. He left no heir, so that the House of
Hanover may rest easy. The story that the Cardinal of York ("Henry
IX."), who died in 1807, was the last of the Stuart line, is all bosh.
Charles-Edward had a son by the daughter of Prince Sobieski.
[D] Review of the social and political state of the Basque Provinces, at
the end of a book on "Portugal and Galicia," published in 1848 by John
Murray.
[E] It should be noted that in July, 1876, directly after the war was
over, the fueros were entirely done away with by a special law.
[F] See my last book, "An Iron-Bound City." Poor Willie died in New York
of a complication of diseases on last Easter Sunday--an anniversary of
hopefulness. His path of existence here was thorny. Unsurfeiting
happiness be his portion in the meads of asphodel!
[G] Now Colonel the Baron Craignish, Equerry to his Royal Highness the
Grand Duke of Saxe-Coburg Gotha.
* * * * *
NOTES OF THE TRANSCRIBER OF THIS ETEXT.
The following typographical errors in the book have been corrected in
making this etext:
Abd-es-Salem changed to Abd-es-Salam
Dorregarray changed to Dorregaray
Ojoladeros changed to Ojaladeros
Enderlasa changed to Endarlasa
Enderlaza changed to Endarlasa
I deserve no creditor changed to I deserve no credit for