THE ROUTE.
I had scarcely gone a hundred yards from my quarters when a great tramp of
horses’ feet attracted my attention. I stopped to listen, and soon heard
the jingle of dragoon accoutrements, as the noise came near. The night was
dark but perfectly still; and before I stood many minutes I heard the tones
of a voice which I well knew could belong to but one, and that Fred Power.
“Fred Power!” said I, shouting at the same time at the top of my
voice,--“Power!”
“Ah, Charley, is that you? Come along to the adjutant-general’s quarters.
I’m charged with some important despatches, and can’t stop till I’ve
delivered them. Come along, I’ve glorious news for you!” So saying, he
dashed spurs to his horse, and followed by two mounted dragoons, galloped
past. Power’s few and hurried words had so excited my curiosity that I
turned at once to follow him, questioning myself, as I walked along,
to what he could possibly allude. He knew of my attachment to Lucy
Dashwood,--could he mean anything of her? But what could I expect there;
by what flattery could I picture to myself any chance of success in that
quarter; and yet, what other news could I care for or value than what bore
upon her fate upon whom my own depended? Thus ruminating, I reached the
door of the spacious building in which the adjutant-general had taken up
his abode, and soon found myself among a crowd of persons whom the rumor of
some important event had assembled there, though no one could tell what had
occurred. Before many minutes the door opened, and Power came out; bowing
hurriedly to a few, and whispering a word or two as he passed down the
steps, he seized me by the arm and led me across the street. “Charley,”
said he, “the curtain’s rising; the piece is about to begin; a new
commander-in-chief is sent out,--Sir Arthur Wellesley, my boy, the finest
fellow in England is to lead us on, and we march to-morrow. There’s news
for you!” A raw boy, unread, uninformed as I was, I knew but little of his
career whose name had even then shed such lustre upon our army; but the
buoyant tone of Power as he spoke, the kindling energy of his voice roused
me, and I felt every inch a soldier. As I grasped his hand in delightful
enthusiasm I lost all memory of my disappointment, and in the beating throb
that shook my head; I felt how deeply slept the ardor of military glory
that first led me from my home to see a battle-field.
“There goes the news!” said Frederick, pointing as he spoke to a rocket
that shot up into the sky, and as it broke into ten thousand stars,
illuminated the broad stream where the ships of war lay darkly resting. In
another moment the whole air shone with similar fires, while the deep roll
of the drum sounded along the silent streets, and the city so lately sunk
in sleep became, as if by magic, thronged with crowds of people; the
sharp clang of the cavalry trumpet blended with the gay carol of the
light-infantry bugle, and the heavy tramp of the march was heard in the
distance. All was excitement, all bustle; but in the joyous tone of every
voice was spoken the longing anxiety to meet the enemy. The gay, reckless
tone of an Irish song would occasionally reach us, as some Connaught Ranger
or some 78th man passed, his knapsack on his back; or the low monotonous
pibroch of the Highlander, swelling into a war-cry, as some kilted corps
drew up their ranks together. We turned to regain our quarters, when at
the corner of a street we came suddenly upon a merry party seated around a
table before a little inn; a large street lamp, unhung for the occasion,
had been placed in the midst of them, and showed us the figures of several
soldiers in undress; at the end, and raised a little above his compeers,
sat one whom, by the unfair proportion he assumed of the conversation, not
less than by the musical intonation of his voice, I soon recognized as my
man, Mickey Free.
“I’ll be hanged if that’s not your fellow there, Charley,” said Power, as
he came to a dead stop a few yards off. “What an impertinent varlet he is;
only to think of him there, presiding among a set of fellows that have
fought all the battles in the Peninsular war. At this moment I’ll be hanged
if he is not going to sing.”
Here a tremendous thumping upon the table announced the fact, and after a
few preliminary observations from Mike, illustrative of his respect to the
service in which he had so often distinguished himself, he began, to
the air of the “Young May Moon,” a ditty of which I only recollect the
following verses:--
“The pickets are fast retreating, boys,
The last tattoo is beating, boys,
So let every man
Finish his can,
And drink to our next merry meeting, boys.
The colonel so gayly prancing, boys,
Has a wonderful trick of advancing, boys,
When he sings out so large,
‘Fix bayonets and charge!’
He sets all the Frenchmen a-dancing, boys.
Let Mounseer look ever so big, my boys,
Who cares for fighting a fig, my boys?
When we play ‘Garryowen,’
He’d rather go home;
For somehow, he’s no taste for a jig, my boys.”
This admirable lyric seemed to have perfect success, if one were only to
judge from the thundering of voices, hands, and drinking vessels which
followed; while a venerable, gray-haired sergeant rose to propose Mr.
Free’s health, and speedy promotion to him.
We stood for several minutes in admiration of the party, when the loud roll
of the drums beating to arms awakened us to the thought that our moments
were numbered.
“Good-night, Charley!” said Power, as he shook my hand warmly, “good-night!
It will be your last night under a curtain for some months to come; make
the most of it. Adieu!”
So saying, we parted; he to his quarters, and I to all the confusion of my
baggage, which lay in most admired disorder about my room.