CHAPTER XLII.

THE FAREWELL.

The preparations for the march occupied me till near morning; and, indeed,

had I been disposed to sleep, the din and clamor of the world without would

have totally prevented it. Before daybreak the advanced guard was already

in motion, and some squadrons of heavy cavalry had begun their march.

I looked around my now dismantled room as one does usually for the last

time ere leaving, and bethought me if I had not forgotten anything.

Apparently all was remembered; but stay,--what is this? To be sure, how

forgetful I had become! It was the packet I destined for Donna Inez, and

which, in the confusion of the night before, I had omitted to bring to the

Casino.

I immediately despatched Mike to the commissary with my luggage and orders

to ascertain when we were expected to march. He soon returned with the

intelligence that our corps was not to move before noon, so that I had yet

some hours to spare and make my adieux to the senhora.

I cannot exactly explain the reason, but I certainly did bestow a more than

common attention upon my toilet that morning. The senhora was nothing to

me. It is true she had, as she lately most candidly informed me, a score of

admirers, among whom I was not even reckoned; she was evidently a coquette

whose greatest pleasure was to sport and amuse herself with the passions

she excited in others. And even if she were not,--if her heart were to be

won to-morrow,--what claim, what right, had I to seek it? My affections

were already pledged; promised, it is true, to one who gave nothing in

return, and who, perhaps, even loved another. Ah, there was the rub; that

one confounded suspicion, lurking in the rear, chilled my courage and

wounded my spirit.

If there be anything more disheartening to an Irishman, in his little

_affaires de coeur_, than another, it is the sense of rivalry. The

obstinacy of fathers, the ill-will of mothers, the coldness, the

indifference of the lovely object herself,--obstacles though they be,--he

has tact, spirit, and perseverance to overcome them. But when a more

successful candidate for the fair presents himself; when the eye that

remains downcast at _his_ suit, lights up with animation at _another’s_

coming; when the features whose cold and chilling apathy to him have

blended in one smile of welcome to another,--it is all up with him; he sees

the game lost, and throws his cards upon the table. And yet, why is this?

Why is it that he whose birthright it would seem to be sanguine when others

despond, to be confident when all else are hopeless,--should find his

courage fail him here? The reason is simply--But, in good sooth, I am

ashamed to confess it!

Having jogged on so far with my reader, in all the sober seriousness which

the matter-of-fact material of these memoirs demands, I fear lest a seeming

paradox may cause me to lose my good name for veracity; and that while

merely maintaining a national trait of my country, I may appear to be

asserting some unheard-of and absurd proposition,--so far have mere vulgar

prejudices gone to sap our character as a people.

The reason, then, is this,--for I have gone too far to retreat,--the

Irishman is essentially bashful. Well, laugh if you wish, for I conclude

that, by this time, you have given way to a most immoderate excess of

risibility; but still, when you have perfectly recovered your composure, I

beg to repeat,--the Irishman is essentially a bashful man!

Do not for a moment fancy that I would by this imply that in any new or

unexpected situation, that from any unforeseen conjuncture of events, the

Irishman would feel confused or abashed, more than any other,--far from it.

The cold and habitual reserve of the Englishman, the studied caution of the

North Tweeder himself, would exhibit far stronger evidences of awkwardness

in such circumstances as these. But on the other hand, when measuring his

capacity, his means of success, his probabilities of being preferred, with

those of the natives of any other country, I back the Irishman against the

world for distrust of his own powers, for an under-estimate of his real

merits,--in one word, for his bashfulness. But let us return to Donna Inez.

As I rode up to the villa, I found the family assembled at breakfast.

Several officers were also present, among whom I was not sorry to recognize

my friend Monsoon.

“Ah, Charley!” cried he, as I seated myself beside him, “what a pity all

our fun is so soon to have an end! Here’s this confounded Soult won’t be

quiet and peaceable; but he must march upon Oporto, and Heaven knows where

besides, just as we were really beginning to enjoy life! I had got such a

contract for blankets! And now they’ve ordered me to join Beresford’s corps

in the mountains; and you,” here he dropped his voice,--“and you were

getting on so devilish well in this quarter; upon my life, I think

you’d have carried the day. Old Don Emanuel--you know he’s a friend of

mine--likes you very much. And then, there’s Sparks--”

“Ay, Major, what of him? I have not seen him for some days.”

“Why, they’ve been frightening the poor devil out of his life,

O’Shaughnessy and a set of them. They tried him by court-martial yesterday,

and sentenced him to mount guard with a wooden sword and a shooting jacket,

which he did. Old Colbourne, it seems, saw him; and faith, there would be

the devil to pay if the route had not come! Some of them would certainly

have got a long leave to see their friends.”

“Why is not the senhora here, Major? I don’t see her at table.”

“A cold, a sore throat, a wet-feet affair of last night, I believe. Pass

that cold pie down here. Sherry, if you please. You didn’t see Power

to-day?”

“No: we parted late last night; I have not been to bed.”

“Very bad preparation for a march; take some burned brandy in your coffee.”

“Then you don’t think the senhora will appear?”

“Very unlikely. But stay, you know her room,--the small drawing-room that

looks out upon the flower-garden; she usually passes the morning there.

Leap the little wooden paling round the corner, and the chances are ten to

one you find her.”

I saw from the occupied air of Don Antonio that there was little fear of

interruption on his part; so taking an early moment to escape unobserved, I

rose and left the room. When I sprang over the oak fence, I found myself in

a delicious little garden, where roses, grown to a height never seen in our

colder climate, formed a deep bower of rich blossom.

The major was right. The senhora was in the room, and in one moment I was

beside her.

“Nothing but my fears of not bidding you farewell could palliate my thus

intruding, Donna Inez; but as we are ordered away--”

“When? Not so soon, surely?”

“Even so; to-day, this very hour. But you see that even in the hurry of

departure, I have not forgotten my trust; this is the packet I promised

you.”

So saying, I placed the paper with the lock of hair within her hand, and

bending downwards, pressed my lips upon her taper fingers. She hurriedly

snatched her hand away, and tearing open the enclosure, took out the lock.

She looked steadily for a moment at it, then at me, and again at it, and at

length, bursting into a fit of laughing, threw herself upon a chair in a

very ecstasy of mirth.

“Why, you don’t mean to impose this auburn ringlet upon me for one of poor

Howard’s jetty curls? What downright folly to think of it! And then, with

how little taste the deception was practised,--upon your very temples, too!

One comfort is, you are utterly spoiled by it.”

Here she again relapsed into a fit of laughter, leaving me perfectly

puzzled what to think of her, as she resumed:--

“Well, tell me now, am I to reckon this as a pledge of your own allegiance,

or am I still to believe it to be Edward Howard’s? Speak, and truly.”

“Of my own, most certainly,” said I, “if it will be accepted.”

“Why, after such treachery, perhaps it ought not; but still, as you have

already done yourself such injury, and look so very silly, withal--”

“That you are even resolved to give me cause to look more so,” added I.

“Exactly,” said she, “for here, now, I reinstate you among my true and

faithful admirers. Kneel down, Sir Knight--in token of which you will wear

this scarf--”

A sudden start which the donna gave at these words brought me to my feet.

She was pale as death and trembling.

“What means this?” said I. “What has happened?”

She pointed with her finger towards the garden; but though her lips moved,

no voice came forth. I sprang through the open window; I rushed into the

copse, the only one which might afford concealment for a figure, but no one

was there. After a few minutes’ vain endeavor to discover any trace of an

intruder, I returned to the chamber. The donna was there still, but how

changed; her gayety and animation were gone, her pale cheek and trembling

lip bespoke fear and suffering, and her cold hand lay heavily beside her.

“I thought--perhaps it was merely fancy--but I thought I saw Trevyllian

beside the window.”

“Impossible!” said I. “I have searched every walk and alley. It was nothing

but imagination,--believe me, no more. There, be assured; think no more of

it.”

While I endeavored thus to reassure her, I was very far from feeling

perfectly at ease myself; the whole bearing and conduct of this man

had inspired me with a growing dislike of him, and I felt already

half-convinced that he had established himself as a spy upon my actions.

“Then you really believe I was mistaken?” said the donna, as she placed her

hand within mine.

“Of course I do; but speak no more of it. You must not forget how few my

moments are here. Already I have heard the tramp of horses without. Ah!

there they are. In a moment more I shall be missed; so, once more, fairest

Inez--Nay, I beg pardon if I have dared to call you thus; but think, if it

be the first it may also be the last time I shall ever speak it.”

Her head gently drooped, as I said these words, till it sank upon my

shoulder, her long and heavy hair falling upon my neck and across my bosom.

I felt her heart almost beat against my side; I muttered some words, I know

not what; I felt them like a prayer; I pressed her cold forehead to my

lips, rushed from the room, cleared the fence at a spring, and was far

upon the road to Lisbon ere I could sufficiently collect my senses to know

whither I was going. Of little else was I conscious; my mind was full to

bursting; and in the confusion of my excited brain, fiction and reality

were so inextricably mingled as to defy every endeavor at discrimination.

But little time had I for reflection. As I reached the city, the brigade to

which I was attached was already under arms, and Mike impatiently waiting

my arrival with the horses.

CHAPTER XXLIII.

THE MARCH.

What a strange spectacle did the road to Oliveira present upon the morning

of the 7th of May! A hurried or incautious observer might, at first sight,

have pronounced the long line of troops which wended their way through

the valley as the remains of a broken and routed army, had not the ardent

expression and bright eye that beamed on every side assured him that men

who looked thus could not be beaten ones. Horse, foot, baggage, artillery,

dismounted dragoons, even the pale and scarcely recovered inhabitants of

the hospital, might have been seen hurrying on; for the order, “Forward!”

had been given at Lisbon, and those whose wounds did not permit their

joining, were more pitied for their loss than its cause. More than one

officer was seen at the head of his troop with an arm in a sling, or a

bandaged forehead; while among the men similar evidences of devotion

were not unfrequent. As for me, long years and many reverses have not

obliterated, scarcely blunted, the impression that sight made on me. The

splendid spectacle of a review had often excited and delighted me, but

here there was the glorious reality of war,--the bronzed faces, the worn

uniforms, the well-tattered flags, the roll of the heavy guns mingling with

the wild pibroch of the Highlander, or scarcely less wild recklessness of

the Irish quick-step; while the long line of cavalry, their helmets and

accoutrements shining in the morning sun, brought back one’s boyish dreams

of joust and tournament, and made the heart beat high with chivalrous

enthusiasm.

“Yes,” said I, half aloud, “this is indeed a realization of what I longed

and thirsted for,” the clang of the music and the tramp of the cavalry

responding to my throbbing pulses as we moved along.

“Close up, there; trot!” cried out a deep and manly voice; and immediately

a general officer rode by, followed by an aide-de-camp.

“There goes Cotton,” said Power. “You may feel easy in your mind now,

Charley; there’s some work before us.”

“You have not heard our destination?” said I.

“Nothing is known for certain yet. The report goes, that Soult is advancing

upon Oporto; and the chances are, Sir Arthur intends to hasten on to its

relief. Our fellows are at Ovar, with General Murray.”

“I say, Charley, old Monsoon is in a devil of a flurry. He expected to have

been peaceably settled down in Lisbon for the next six months, and he has

received orders to set out for Beresford’s headquarters immediately; and

from what I hear, they have no idle time.”

“Well, Sparks, how goes it, man? Better fun this than the cook’s galley,

eh?”

“Why, do you know, these hurried movements put me out confoundedly. I found

Lisbon very interesting,--the little I could see of it last night.”

“Ah, my dear fellow, think of the lovely Andalusian lasses with their brown

transparent skins and liquid eyes. Why, you’d have been over head and ears

in love in twenty-four hours more, had we stayed.”

“Are they really so pretty?”

“Pretty! downright lovely, man. Why, they have a way of looking at you,

over their fans,--just one glance, short and fleeting, but so melting,

by Jove--Then their walk,--if it be not profane to call that springing,

elastic gesture by such a name,--why, it’s regular witchcraft. Sparks, my

man, I tremble for you. Do you know, by-the-bye, that same pace of theirs

is a devilish hard thing to learn. I never could come it; and yet, somehow,

I was formerly rather a crack fellow at a ballet. Old Alberto used to

select me for a _pas de zéphyr_ among a host; but there’s a kind of a hop

and a slide and a spring,--in fact you must have been wearing petticoats

for eighteen years, and have an Andalusian instep and an india-rubber sole

to your foot, or it’s no use trying it. How I used to make them laugh at

the old San Josef convent, formerly, by my efforts in the cause!”

“Why, how did it ever occur to you to practise it?”

“Many a man’s legs have saved his head, Charley, and I put it to mine to do

a similar office for me.”

“True; but I never heard of a man that performed a _pas seul_ before the

enemy.”

“Not exactly; but still you’re not very wide of the mark. If you’ll only

wait till we reach Pontalegue, I’ll tell you the story; not that it’s worth

the delay, but talking at this brisk pace I don’t admire.”

“You leave a detachment here, Captain Power,” said an aide-de-camp, riding

hastily up; “and General Cotton requests you will send a subaltern and

two sergeants forward towards Berar to reconnoitre the pass. Franchesca’s

cavalry are reported in that quarter.” So speaking, he dashed spurs to his

horse, and was out of sight in an instant.

Power, at the same moment, wheeled to the rear, from which he returned in

an instant, accompanied by three well-mounted light dragoons. “Sparks,”

said he, “now for an occasion of distinguishing yourself. You heard the

order, lose no time; and as your horse is an able one, and fresh, lose not

a second, but forward.”

No sooner was Sparks despatched on what it was evident he felt to be

anything but a pleasant duty, than I turned towards Power, and said, with

some tinge of disappointment in the tone, “Well, if you really felt there

was anything worth doing there, I flattered myself that--”

“Speak out man. That I should have sent you, eh? Is it not so?”

“Yes, you’ve hit it.”

“Well, Charley, my peace is easily made on this head. Why, I selected

Sparks simply to spare you one of the most unpleasant duties that can be

imposed upon a man; a duty which, let him discharge it to the uttermost,

will never be acknowledged, and the slightest failure in which will be

remembered for many a day against him, besides the pleasant and very

probable prospect of being selected as a bull’s eye for a French rifle, or

carried off a prisoner; eh, Charley? There’s no glory in that, devil a ray

of it! Come, come, old fellow, Fred Power’s not the man to keep his friend

out of the _mêlée_, if only anything can be made by being in it. Poor

Sparks, I’d swear, is as little satisfied with the arrangement as yourself,

if one knew but all.”

“I say, Power,” said a tall, dashing-looking man of about five-and-forty,

with a Portuguese order on his breast,--“I say, Power, dine with us at the

halt.”

“With pleasure, if I may bring my young friend here.”

“Of course; pray introduce us.”

“Major Hixley, Mr. O’Malley,--a 14th man, Hixley.”

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. O’Malley. Knew a famous fellow in

Ireland of your name, a certain Godfrey O’Malley, member for some county or

other.”

“My uncle,” said I, blushing deeply, with a pleasurable feeling at even

this slight praise of my oldest friend.

“Your uncle! give me your hand. By Jove, his nephew has a right to good

treatment at my hands; he saved my life in the year ‘98. And how is old

Godfrey?”

“Quite well, when I left him some months ago; a little gout, now and then.”

“To be sure he has, no man deserves it better; but it’s a gentlemanlike

gout that merely jogs his memory in the morning of the good wine he has

drank over night. By-the-bye, what became of a friend of his, a devilish

eccentric fellow who held a command in the Austrian service?”

“Oh, Considine, the count?”

“The same.”

“As eccentric as ever; I left him on a visit with my uncle. And Boyle,--did

you know Sir Harry Boyle?”

“To be sure I did; shall I ever forget him, and his capital blunders, that

kept me laughing the whole time I spent in Ireland? I was in the house when

he concluded a panegyric upon a friend, by calling him, ‘the father to the

poor, and uncle to Lord Donoughmore.’”

“He was the only man who could render by a bull what it was impossible to

convey more correctly,” said Power.

“You’ve heard of his duel with Dick Toler?”

“Never; let’s hear it.”

“It was a bull from beginning to end. Boyle took it into his head that Dick

was a person with whom he had a serious row in Cork. Dick, on the other

hand, mistook Boyle for old Caples, whom he had been pursuing with

horse-whipping intentions for some months. They met in Kildare Street Club,

and very little colloquy satisfied them that they were right in their

conjectures, each party being so eagerly ready to meet the views of the

other. It never was a difficult matter to find a friend in Dublin; and to

do them justice, Irish seconds, generally speaking, are perfectly free from

any imputation upon the score of mere delay. No men have less impertinent

curiosity as to the cause of the quarrel; wisely supposing that the

principals know their own affairs best, they cautiously abstain from

indulging any prying spirit, but proceed to discharge their functions as

best they may. Accordingly, Sir Harry and Dick were ‘set up,’ as the phrase

is, at twelve paces, and to use Boyle’s own words, for I have heard him

relate the story,--

“We blazed away, sir, for three rounds. I put two in his hat and one in his

neckcloth; his shots went all through the skirt of my coat.

“‘We’ll spend the day here,’ says Considine, ‘at this rate. Couldn’t you

put them closer?’

“‘And give us a little more time in the word,’ says I.

“‘Exactly,’ said Dick.

“Well, they moved us forward two paces, and set to loading the pistols

again.

“By this time we were so near that we had full opportunity to scan each

other’s faces. Well, sir, I stared at him, and he at me.

“‘What!’ said I.

“‘Eh!’ said he.

“‘How’s this?’ said I.

“‘You’re not Billy Caples?’ said he.

“‘Devil a bit!’ said I, ‘nor I don’t think you are Archy Devine;’ and

faith, sir, so it appeared, we were fighting away all the morning for

nothing; for, somehow, it turned out _it was neither of us!_”

What amused me most in this anecdote was the hearing it at such a time and

place. That poor Sir Harry’s eccentricities should turn up for discussion

on a march in Portugal was singular enough; but after all, life is full of

such incongruous accidents. I remember once supping with King Calzoo on the

Blue Mountains, in Jamaica. By way of entertaining his guests, some English

officers, he ordered one of his suite to sing. We were of course pleased at

the opportunity of hearing an Indian war-chant, with a skull and thigh-bone

accompaniment; but what was our astonishment to hear the Indian,--a

ferocious-looking dog, with an awful scalp-lock, and two streaks of red

paint across his chest,--clear his voice well for a few seconds, and

then begin, without discomposing a muscle of his gravity, “The Laird of

Cockpen!” I need not say that the “Great Raccoon” was a Dumfries man who

had quitted Scotland forty years before, and with characteristic prosperity

had attained his present rank in a foreign service.

“Halt! halt!” cried a deep-toned, manly voice in the leading column, and

the word was repeated from mouth to mouth to the rear.

We dismounted, and picketing our horses beneath the broad-leaved foliage

of the cork-trees, stretched ourselves out at full length upon the grass,

while our messmen prepared the dinner. Our party at first consisted of

Hixley, Power, the adjutant, and myself; but our number was soon increased

by three officers of the 6th Foot, about to join their regiment.

“Barring the ladies, God bless them!” said Power, “there are no such

picnics as campaigning presents. The charms of scenery are greatly enhanced

by their coming unexpectedly on you. Your chance good fortune in the prog

has an interest that no ham-and-cold-chicken affair, prepared by your

servants beforehand, and got ready with a degree of fuss and worry that

converts the whole party into an assembly of cooks, can ever afford; and

lastly, the excitement that this same life of ours is never without, gives

a zest--”

“There you’ve hit it,” cried Hixley; “it’s that same feeling of uncertainty

that those who meet now may ever do so again, full as it is of sorrowful

reflection, that still teaches us, as we become inured to war, to economize

our pleasures, and be happy when we may. Your health, O’Malley, and your

uncle Godfrey’s too.”

“A little more of the pastry.”

“What a capital guinea fowl this is!”

“That’s some of old Monsoon’s particular port.”

“Pass it round here. Really this is pleasant.”

“My blessing on the man who left that vista yonder! See what a glorious

valley stretches out there, undulating in its richness; and look at those

dark trees, where just one streak of soft sunlight is kissing their tops,

giving them one chaste good-night--”

“Well done, Power!”

“Confound you, you’ve pulled me short, and I was about becoming downright

pastoral. Apropos of kissing, I understand Sir Arthur won’t allow the

convents to be occupied by troops.”

“And apropos of convents,” said I, “let’s hear your story; you promised it

a while ago.”

“My dear Charley, it’s far too early in the evening for a story. I should

rather indulge my poetic fancies here, under the shade of melancholy

boughs; and besides, I am not half screwed up yet.”

“Come, Adjutant, let’s have a song.”

“I’ll sing you a Portuguese serenade when the next bottle comes in. What

capital port! Have you much of it?”

“Only three dozen. We got it late last night; forged an order from the

commanding officer and sent it up to old Monsoon,--‘for hospital use.’ He

gave it with a tear in his eye, saying, as the sergeant marched away,

‘Only think of such wine for fellows that may be in the next world before

morning! It’s a downright sin!’”

“I say, Power, there’s something going on there.”

At this instant the trumpet sounded “boot and saddle,” and like one man the

whole mass rose up, when the scene, late so tranquil, became one of excited

bustle and confusion. An aide-de-camp galloped past towards the river,

followed by two orderly sergeants; and the next moment Sparks rode up, his

whole equipment giving evidence of a hurried ride, while his cheek was

deadly pale and haggard.

Power presented to him a goblet of sherry, which, having emptied at a

draught, he drew a long breath, and said, “They are coming,--coming in

force!”

“Who are coming?” said Power. “Take time, man, and collect yourself.”

“The French! I saw them a devilish deal closer than I liked. They wounded

one of the orderlies and took the other prisoner.”

“Forward!” said a hoarse voice in the front. “March! trot!” And before we

could obtain any further information from Sparks, whose faculties seemed to

have received a terrific shock, we were once more in the saddle, and moving

at a brisk pace onward.

Sparks had barely time to tell us that a large body of French cavalry

occupied the pass of Berar, when he was sent for by General Cotton to

finish his report.

“How frightened the fellow is!” said Hixley.

“I don’t think the worse of poor Sparks for all that,” said Power. “He saw

those fellows for the first time, and no bird’s-eye view of them either.”

“Then we are in for a skirmish, at least,” said I.

“It would appear not, from that,” said Hixley, pointing to the head of the

column, which, leaving the high road upon the left, entered the forest by a

deep cleft that opened upon a valley traversed by a broad river.

“That looks very like taking up a position, though,” said Power.

“Look,--look down yonder!” cried Hixley, pointing to a dip in the plain

beside the river. “Is there not a cavalry picket there?”

“Right, by Jove! I say, Fitzroy,” said Power to an aide-de-camp as he

passed, “what’s going on?”

“Soult has carried Oporto,” cried he, “and Franchesca’s cavalry have

escaped.”

“And who are these fellows in the valley?”

“Our own people coming up.”

In less than half an hour’s brisk trotting we reached the stream, the banks

of which were occupied by two cavalry regiments advancing to the main army;

and what was my delight to find that one of them was our own corps, the

14th Light Dragoons!

“Hurra!” cried Power, waving his cap as he came up. “How are you,

Sedgewick? Baker, my hearty, how goes it? How is Hampton and the colonel?”

In an instant we were surrounded by our brother officers, who all shook me

cordially by the hand, and welcomed me to the regiment with most gratifying

warmth.

“One of us,” said Power, with a knowing look, as he introduced me; and the

freemasonry of these few words secured me a hearty greeting.

“Halt! halt! Dismount!” sounded again from front to rear; and in a few

minutes we were once more stretched upon the grass, beneath the deep

and mellow moonlight, while the bright stream ran placidly beside us,

reflecting on its calm surface the varied groups as they lounged or sat

around the blazing fires of the bivouac.

CHAPTER XLIV.

THE BIVOUAC.

When I contrasted the gay and lively tone of the conversation which ran on

around our bivouac fire, with the dry monotony and prosaic tediousness of

my first military dinner at Cork, I felt how much the spirit and adventure

of a soldier’s life can impart of chivalrous enthusiasm to even the dullest

and least susceptible. I saw even many who under common circumstances,

would have possessed no interest nor excited any curiosity, but now,

connected as they were with the great events occurring around them,

absolutely became heroes; and it was with a strange, wild throbbing of

excitement I listened to the details of movements and marches, whose

objects I knew not, but in which the magical words, Corunna, Vimeira,

were mixed up, and gave to the circumstances an interest of the highest

character. How proud, too, I felt to be the companion-in-arms of such

fellows! Here they sat, the tried and proved soldiers of a hundred fights,

treating me as their brother and their equal. Who need wonder if I felt

a sense of excited pleasure? Had I needed such a stimulant, that night

beneath the cork-trees had been enough to arouse a passion for the army in

my heart, and an irrepressible determination to seek for a soldier’s glory.

“Fourteenth!” called out a voice from the wood behind; and in a moment

after, the aide-de-camp appeared with a mounted orderly.

“Colonel Merivale?” said he, touching his cap to the stalwart, soldier-like

figure before him.

The colonel bowed.

“Sir Stapleton Cotton desires me to request that at an early hour to-morrow

you will occupy the pass, and cover the march of the troops. It is his

wish that all the reinforcements should arrive at Oporto by noon. I need

scarcely add that we expect to be engaged with the enemy.”

These few words were spoken hurriedly, and again saluting our party, he

turned his horse’s head and continued his way towards the rear.

“There’s news for you, Charley,” said Power, slapping me on the shoulder.

“Lucy Dashwood or Westminster Abbey!”

“The regiment was never in finer condition, that’s certain,” said the

colonel, “and most eager for a brush with the enemy.”

“How your old friend, the count, would have liked this work!” said Hixley.

“Gallant fellow he was.”

“Come,” cried Power, “here’s a fresh bowl coming. Let’s drink the ladies,

wherever they be; we most of us have some soft spot on that score.”

“Yes,” said the adjutant, singing,--

“Here’s to the maiden of blushing fifteen;

Here’s to the damsel that’s merry;

Here’s to the flaunting extravagant quean--”

“And,” sang Power, interrupting,--

“Here’s to the ‘Widow of Derry.’”

“Come, come, Fred, no more quizzing on that score. It’s the only thing ever

gives me a distaste to the service,--the souvenir of that adventure. When

I reflect what I might have been, and think what I am; when I contrast a

Brussels carpet with wet grass, silk hangings with a canvas tent, Sneyd’s

claret with ration brandy, and Sir Arthur for a Commander-in-Chief _vice_

Boggs, a widow--”

“Stop there!” cried Hixley. “Without disparaging the fair widow, there’s

nothing beats campaigning, after all. Eh, Fred?”

“And to prove it,” said the colonel, “Power will sing us a song.”

Power took his pencil from his pocket, and placing the back of a letter

across his shako, commenced inditing his lyric, saying, as he did so, “I’m

your man in five minutes. Just fill my glass in the mean time.”

“That fellow beats Dibdin hollow,” whispered the adjutant. “I’ll be hanged

if he’ll not knock you off a song like lightning.”

“I understand,” said Hixley, “they have some intention at the Horse Guards

of having all the general orders set to popular tunes, and sung at every

mess in the service. You’ve heard that, I suppose, Sparks?”

“I confess I had not before.”

“It will certainly come very hard upon the subalterns,” continued Hixley,

with much gravity. “They’ll have to brush up their _sol mi fas_. All the

solos are to be their part.”

“What rhymes with slaughter?” said Power.

“Brandy-and-water,” said the adjutant.

“Now, then,” said Power, “are you all ready?”

“Ready.”

“You must chorus, mind; and mark me, take care you give the hip-hip-hurra

well, as that’s the whole force of the chant. Take the time from me. Now

for it. Air, ‘Garryowen,’ with spirit, but not too quick.

“Now that we’ve pledged each eye of blue,

And every maiden fair and true,

And our green island home,--to you

The ocean’s wave adorning,

Let’s give one Hip-hip-hip-hurra!

And, drink e’en to the coming day,

When, squadron square,

We’ll all be there,

To meet the French in the morning.

“May his bright laurels never fade,

Who leads our fighting fifth brigade,

Those lads so true in heart and blade,

And famed for danger scorning.

So join me in one Hip-hurra!

And drink e’en to the coming day,

When, squadron square,

We’ll all be there,

To meet the French in the morning.

“And when with years and honors crowned,

You sit some homeward hearth around,

And hear no more the stirring sound

That spoke the trumpet’s warning,

You’ll fill and drink, one Hip-hurra!

And pledge the memory of the day,

When, squadron square,

They all were there,

To meet the French in the morning.”

“Gloriously done, Fred!” cried Hixley. “If I ever get my deserts in this

world, I’ll make you Laureate to the Forces, with a hogshead of your own

native whiskey for every victory of the army.”

“A devilish good chant,” said Merivale, “but the air surpasses anything I

ever heard,--thoroughly Irish, I take it.”

“Irish! upon my conscience, I believe you!” shouted O’Shaughnessy, with an

energy of voice and manner that created a hearty laugh on all sides. “It’s

few people ever mistook it for a Venetian melody. Hand over the punch,--the

sherry, I mean. When I was in the Clare militia, we always went in to

dinner to ‘Tatter Jack Walsh,’ a sweet air, and had ‘Garryowen’ for a

quick-step. Ould M’Manus, when he got the regiment, wanted to change: he

said, they were damned vulgar tunes, and wanted to have ‘Rule Britannia,’

or the ‘Hundredth Psalm;’ but we would not stand it; there would have been

a mutiny in the corps.”

“The same fellow, wasn’t he, that you told the story of, the other evening,

in Lisbon?” said I.

“The same. Well, what a character he was! As pompous and conceited a little

fellow as ever you met with; and then, he was so bullied by his wife, he

always came down to revenge it on the regiment. She was a fine, showy,

vulgar woman, with a most cherishing affection for all the good things in

this life, except her husband, whom she certainly held in due contempt. ‘Ye

little crayture,’ she’d say to him with a sneer, ‘it ill becomes you

to drink and sing, and be making a man of yourself. If you were like

O’Shaughnessy there, six foot three in his stockings--‘Well, well, it looks

like boasting; but no matter. Here’s her health, anyway.”

“I knew you were tender in that quarter,” said Power, “I heard it when

quartered in Limerick.”

“May be you heard, too, how I paid off Mac, when he came down on a visit to

that county?”

“Never: let’s hear it now.”

“Ay, O’Shaughnessy, now’s your time; the fire’s a good one, the night fine,

and liquor plenty.”

“I’m _convanient_,” said O’Shaughnessy, as depositing his enormous legs on

each side of the burning fagots, and placing a bottle between his knees he

began his story:--

“It was a cold rainy night in January, in the year ‘98, I took my place in

the Limerick mail, to go down for a few days to the west country. As the

waiter of the Hibernian came to the door with a lantern, I just caught a

glimpse of the other insides; none of whom were known to me, except Colonel

M’Manus, that I met once in a boarding-house in Molcsworth Street. I did

not, at the time, think him a very agreeable companion; but when morning

broke, and we began to pay our respects to each other in the coach, I

leaned over, and said, ‘I hope you’re well, Colonel M’Manus,’ just by way

of civility like. He didn’t hear me at first; so that I said it again, a

little louder.

“I wish you saw the look he gave me; he drew himself up to the height of

his cotton umbrella, put his chin inside his cravat, pursed up his dry,

shrivelled lips, and with a voice he meant to be awful, replied:--

“‘You appear to have the advantage of me.’

“‘Upon my conscience, you’re right,’ said I, looking down at myself, and

then over at him, at which the other travellers burst out a laughing,--‘I

think there’s few will dispute that point.’ When the laugh was over, I

resumed,--for I was determined not to let him off so easily. ‘Sure I met

you at Mrs. Cayle’s,’ said I; ‘and, by the same token, it was a Friday, I

remember it well,--may be you didn’t pitch into the salt cod? I hope it

didn’t disagree with you?’

“‘I beg to repeat, sir, that you are under a mistake,’ said he.

“‘May be so, indeed,’ said I. ‘May be you’re not Colonel M’Manus at all;

may be you wasn’t in a passion for losing seven-and-sixpence at loo with

Mrs. Moriarty; may be you didn’t break the lamp in the hall with your

umbrella, pretending you touched it with your head, and wasn’t within three

foot of it; may be Counsellor Brady wasn’t going to put you in the box of

the Foundling Hospital, if you wouldn’t behave quietly in the streets--’

“Well, with this the others laughed so heartily, that I could not go on;

and the next stage the bold colonel got outside with the guard and never

came in till we reached Limerick. I’ll never forget his face, as he got

down at Swinburne’s Hotel. ‘Good-by, Colonel,’ said I; but he wouldn’t take

the least notice of my politeness, but with a frown of utter defiance, he

turned on his heel and walked away.

“‘I haven’t done with you yet,’ says I; and, faith, I kept my word.

“I hadn’t gone ten yards down the street, when I met my old friend Darby

O’Grady.

“‘Shaugh, my boy,’ says he,--he called me that way for shortness,--‘dine

with me to-day at Mosey’s; a green goose and gooseberries; six to a

minute.’

“‘Who have you?’ says I.

“‘Tom Keane and the Wallers, a counsellor or two, and one M’Manus, from

Dublin.’

“‘The colonel?’

“‘The same,’ said he.

“‘I’m there, Darby!’ said I; ‘but mind, you never saw me before.’

“‘What?’ said he.

“‘You never set eyes on me before; mind that.’

“‘I understand,’ said Darby, with a wink; and we parted.

“I certainly was never very particular about dressing for dinner, but on

this day I spent a considerable time at my toilet; and when I looked in my

glass at its completion, was well satisfied that I had done myself justice.

A waistcoat of brown rabbit-skin with flaps, a red worsted comforter

round my neck, an old gray shooting-jacket with a brown patch on the arm,

corduroys, and leather gaiters, with a tremendous oak cudgel in my hand,

made me a most presentable figure for a dinner party.

“‘Will I do, Darby?’ says I, as he came into my room before dinner.

“‘If it’s for robbing the mail you are,’ says he, ‘nothing could be better.

Your father wouldn’t know you!’

“‘Would I be the better of a wig?’

“‘Leave your hair alone,’ said he. ‘It’s painting the lily to alter it.’

“‘Well, God’s will be done,’ says I, ‘so come now.’

“Well, just as the clock struck six I saw the colonel coming out of his

room, in a suit of most accurate sable, stockings, and pumps. Down-stairs

he went, and I heard the waiter announce him.

“‘Now’s my time,’ thought I, as I followed slowly after.

“When I reached the door I heard several voices within, among which I

recognized some ladies. Darby had not told me about them. ‘But no matter,’

said I; ‘it’s all as well;’ so I gave a gentle tap at the door with my

knuckles.

“‘Come in,’ said Darby.

“I opened the door slowly, and putting in only my head and shoulders took a

cautious look round the room.

“‘I beg pardon, gentlemen,’ said I, ‘but I was only looking for one Colonel

M’Manus, and as he is not here--’

“‘Pray walk in, sir,’ said O’Grady, with a polite bow. ‘Colonel M’Manus

is here. There’s no intrusion whatever. I say, Colonel,’ said he turning

round, ‘a gentleman here desires to--’

“‘Never mind it now,’ said I, as I stepped cautiously into the room, ‘he’s

going to dinner; another time will do just as well.’

“‘Pray come in!’

“‘I could not think of intruding--’

“‘I must protest,’ said M’Manus, coloring up, ‘that I cannot understand

this gentleman’s visit.’

“‘It is a little affair I have to settle with him,’ said I, with a fierce

look that I saw produced its effect.

“‘Then perhaps you would do me the very great favor to join him at dinner,’

said O’Grady. ‘Any friend of Colonel M’Manus--’

“‘You are really too good,’ said I; ‘but as an utter stranger--’

“‘Never think of that for a moment. My friend’s friend, as the adage says.’

“‘Upon my conscience, a good saying,’ said I, ‘but you see there’s another

difficulty. I’ve ordered a chop and potatoes up in No. 5.’

“‘Let that be no obstacle,’ said O’Grady. ‘The waiter shall put it in my

bill; if you will only do me the pleasure.’

“‘You’re a trump,’ said I. ‘What’s your name?’

“‘O’Grady, at your service.’

“‘Any relation of the counsellor?’ said I. ‘They’re all one family, the

O’Gradys. I’m Mr. O’Shaughnessy, from Ennis; won’t you introduce me to the

ladies?’

“While the ceremony of presentation was going on I caught one glance at

M’Manus, and had hard work not to roar out laughing. Such an expression of

surprise, amazement, indignation, rage, and misery never was mixed up in

one face before. Speak he could not; and I saw that, except for myself, he

had neither eyes, ears, nor senses for anything around him. Just at this

moment dinner was announced, and in we went. I never was in such spirits in

my life; the trick upon M’Manus had succeeded perfectly; he believed in his

heart that I had never met O’Grady in my life before, and that upon the

faith of our friendship, I had received my invitation. As for me, I spared

him but little. I kept up a running fire of droll stories, had the ladies

in fits of laughing, made everlasting allusions to the colonel; and, in

a word, ere the soup had disappeared, except himself, the company was

entirely with me.

“‘O’Grady,’ said I, ‘forgive the freedom, but I feel as if we were old

acquaintances.’

“‘As Colonel M’Manus’s friend,’ said he, ‘you can take no liberty here to

which you are not perfectly welcome.’

“‘Just what I expected,’ said I. ‘Mac and I,’--I wish you saw his face when

I called him Mac,--‘Mac and I were schoolfellows five-and-thirty years ago;

though he forgets me, I don’t forget him,--to be sure it would be hard for

me. I’m just thinking of the day Bishop Oulahan came over to visit the

college. Mac was coming in at the door of the refectory as the bishop was

going out. “Take off your caubeen, you young scoundrel, and kneel down for

his reverence to bless you,” said one of the masters, giving his hat a blow

at the same moment that sent it flying to the other end of the room, and

with it, about twenty ripe pears that Mac had just stolen in the orchard,

and had in his hat. I wish you only saw the bishop; and Mac himself, he was

a picture. Well, well, you forget it all now, but I remember it as if it

was only yesterday. Any champagne, Mr. O’Grady? I’m mighty dry.’

“‘Of course,’ said Darby. ‘Waiter, some champagne here.’

[Illustration: THE SALUTATION.]

“‘Ah, it’s himself was the boy for every kind of fun and devilment, quiet

and demure as he looks over there. Mac, your health. It’s not every day of

the week we get champagne.’

“He laid down his knife and fork as I said this; his face and temples grew

deep purple; his eyes started as if they would spring from his head; and he

put both his hands to his forehead, as if trying to assure himself that it

was not some horrid dream.

“‘A little slice more of the turkey,’ said I, ‘and then, O’Grady, I’ll try

your hock. It’s a wine I’m mighty fond of, and so is Mac there. Oh, it’s

seldom, to tell you the truth, it troubles us. There, fill up the glass;

that’s it. Here now, Darby,--that’s your name, I think,--you’ll not think

I’m taking a liberty in giving a toast? Here then, I’ll give M’Manus’s

health, with all the honors; though it’s early yet, to be sure, but we’ll

do it again, by-and-by, when the whiskey comes. Here’s M’Manus’s good

health; and though his wife, they say, does not treat him well, and keeps

him down--’

“The roar of laughing that interrupted me here was produced by the

expression of poor Mac’s face. He had started up from the table, and

leaning with both his hands upon it, stared round upon the company like a

maniac,--his mouth and eyes wide open, and his hair actually bristling with

amazement. Thus he remained for a full minute, gasping like a fish in

a landing-net. It seemed a hard struggle for him to believe he was not

deranged. At last his eyes fell upon me; he uttered a deep groan, and with

a voice tremulous with rage, thundered out,--

“‘The scoundrel! I never saw him before.’

“He rushed from the room, and gained the street. Before our roar of

laughter was over he had secured post-horses, and was galloping towards

Ennis at the top speed of his cattle.

“He exchanged at once into the line; but they say that he caught a glimpse

of my name in the army list, and sold out the next morning; be that as it

may, we never met since.”

I have related O’Shaughnessy’s story here, rather from the memory I have of

how we all laughed at it at the time, than from any feeling as to its real

desert; but when I think of the voice, look, accent, and gesture of the

narrator, I can scarcely keep myself from again giving way to laughter.

CHAPTER XLV.

THE DOURO.

Never did the morning break more beautifully than on the 12th of May, 1809.

Huge masses of fog-like vapor had succeeded to the starry, cloudless night,

but one by one, they moved onwards towards the sea, disclosing as they

passed long tracts of lovely country, bathed in a rich golden glow. The

broad Douro, with its transparent current, shone out like a bright-colored

ribbon, meandering through the deep garment of fairest green; the darkly

shadowed mountains which closed the background loomed even larger than they

were; while their summits were tipped with the yellow glory of the morning.

The air was calm and still, and the very smoke that arose from the

peasant’s cot labored as it ascended through the perfumed air, and save the

ripple of the stream, all was silent as the grave.

The squadron of the 14th, with which I was, had diverged from the road

beside the river, and to obtain a shorter path, had entered the skirts of

a dark pine wood; our pace was a sharp one; an orderly had been already

despatched to hasten our arrival, and we pressed on at a brisk trot. In

less than an hour we reached the verge of the wood, and as we rode out upon

the plain, what a spectacle met our eyes! Before us, in a narrow valley

separated from the river by a low ridge, were picketed three cavalry

regiments; their noiseless gestures and perfect stillness be-speaking at

once that they were intended for a surprise party. Farther down the stream,

and upon the opposite side, rose the massive towers and tall spires of

Oporto, displaying from their summits the broad ensign of France; while far

as the eye could reach, the broad dark masses of troops might be seen; the

intervals between their columns glittering with the bright equipments of

their cavalry, whose steel caps and lances were sparkling in the sun-beams.

The bivouac fires were still smouldering, and marking where some part of

the army had passed the night; for early as it was, it was evident that

their position had been changed; and even now, the heavy masses of dark

infantry might be seen moving from place to place, while the long line of

the road to Vallonga was marked with a vast cloud of dust. The French drum

and the light infantry bugle told, from time to time, that orders were

passing among the troops; while the glittering uniform of a staff officer,

as he galloped from the town, bespoke the note of preparation.

“Dismount! Steady; quietly, my lads,” said the colonel, as he alighted upon

the grass. “Let the men have their breakfast.”

The little amphitheatre we occupied hid us entirely from all observation

on the part of the enemy, but equally so excluded us from perceiving their

movements. It may readily be supposed then, with what impatience we waited

here, while the din and clangor of the French force, as they marched and

countermarched so near us, were clearly audible. The orders were, however,

strict that none should approach the bank of the river, and we lay

anxiously awaiting the moment when this inactivity should cease. More than

one orderly had arrived among us, bearing despatches from headquarters; but

where our main body was, or what the nature of the orders, no one could

guess. As for me, my excitement was at its height, and I could not speak

for the very tension of my nerves. The officers stood in little groups of

two and three, whispering anxiously together; but all I could collect was,

that Soult had already begun his retreat upon Amarante, and that, with the

broad stream of the Douro between us, he defied our pursuit.

“Well, Charley,” said Power, laying his arm upon my shoulder, “the French

have given us the slip this time; they are already in march, and even if we

dared force a passage in the face of such an enemy, it seems there is not a

boat to be found. I have just seen Hammersley.”

“Indeed! Where is he?” said I.

“He’s gone back to Villa de Conde; he asked after you most particularly.

Don’t blush, man; I’d rather back your chance than his, notwithstanding the

long letter that Lucy sends him. Poor fellow, he has been badly wounded,

but, it seems, declines going back to England.”

“Captain Power,” said an orderly, touching his cap, “General Murray desires

to see you.”

Power hastened away, but returned in a few moments.

“I say, Charley, there’s something in the wind here. I have just been

ordered to try where the stream is fordable. I’ve mentioned your name to

the general, and I think you’ll be sent for soon. Good-by.”

I buckled on my sword, and looking to my girths, stood watching the groups

around me; when suddenly a dragoon pulled his horse short up, and asked a

man near me if Mr. O’Malley was there.

“Yes; I am he.”

“Orders from General Murray, sir,” said the man, and rode off at a canter.

I opened and saw that the despatch was addressed to Sir Arthur Wellesley,

with the mere words, “With haste!” on the envelope.

Now, which way to turn I knew not; so springing into the saddle, I galloped

to where Colonel Merivale was standing talking to the colonel of a heavy

dragoon regiment.

“May I ask, sir, by which road I am to proceed with this despatch?”

“Along the river, sir,” said the heavy ------, a large dark-browed man,

with a most forbidding look. “You’ll soon see the troops; you’d better stir

yourself, sir, or Sir Arthur is not very likely to be pleased with you.”

Without venturing a reply to what I felt a somewhat unnecessary taunt, I

dashed spurs into my horse, and turned towards the river. I had not gained

the bank above a minute, when the loud ringing of a rifle struck upon my

ear; bang went another, and another. I hurried on, however, at the top of

my speed, thinking only of my mission and its pressing haste. As I turned

an angle of the stream, the vast column of the British came in sight, and

scarcely had my eye rested upon them when my horse staggered forwards,

plunged twice with his head nearly to the earth, and then, rearing madly

up, fell backwards to the ground. Crushed and bruised as I felt by my fall,

I was soon aroused to the necessity of exertion; for as I disengaged myself

from the poor beast, I discovered he had been killed by a bullet in the

counter; and scarcely had I recovered my legs when a shot struck my shako

and grazed my temples. I quickly threw myself to the ground, and creeping

on for some yards, reached at last some rising ground, from which I rolled

gently downwards into a little declivity, sheltered by the bank from the

French fire.

When I arrived at headquarters, I was dreadfully fatigued and heated;

but resolving not to rest till I had delivered my despatches, I hastened

towards the convent of La Sierra, where I was told the commander-in-chief

was.

As I came into the court of the convent, filled with general officers and

people of the staff, I was turning to ask how I should proceed, when Hixley

caught my eye.

“Well, O’Malley, what brings you here?”

“Despatches from General Murray.”

“Indeed; oh, follow me.”

He hurried me rapidly through the buzzing crowd, and ascending a large

gloomy stair, introduced me into a room, where about a dozen persons in

uniform were writing at a long deal table.

“Captain Gordon,” said he, addressing one of them, “despatches requiring

immediate attention have just been brought by this officer.”

Before the sentence was finished the door opened, and a short, slight man,

in a gray undress coat, with a white cravat and a cocked hat, entered. The

dead silence that ensued was not necessary to assure me that he was one in

authority,--the look of command his bold, stern features presented; the

sharp, piercing eye, the compressed lip, the impressive expression of the

whole face, told plainly that he was one who held equally himself and

others in mastery.

“Send General Sherbroke here,” said he to an aide-de-camp. “Let the light

brigade march into position;” and then turning suddenly to me, “Whose

despatches are these?”

“General Murray’s, sir.”

I needed no more than that look to assure me that this was he of whom I had

heard so much, and of whom the world was still to hear so much more.

He opened them quickly, and glancing his eye across the contents, crushed

the paper in his hand. Just as he did so, a spot of blood upon the envelope

attracted his attention.

“How’s this,--are you wounded?”

“No, sir; my horse was killed--”

“Very well, sir; join your brigade. But stay, I shall have orders for you.

Well, Waters, what news?”

This question was addressed to an officer in a staff uniform, who entered

at the moment, followed by the short and bulky figure of a monk, his shaven

crown and large cassock strongly contrasting with the gorgeous glitter of

the costumes around him.

“I say, who have we here?”

“The Prior of Amarante, sir,” replied Waters, “who has just come over. We

have already, by his aid, secured three large barges--”

“Let the artillery take up position in the convent at once,” said Sir

Arthur, interrupting. “The boats will be brought round to the small creek

beneath the orchard. You, sir,” turning to me, “will convey to General

Murray--but you appear weak. You, Gordon, will desire Murray to effect a

crossing at Avintas with the Germans and the 14th. Sherbroke’s division

will occupy the Villa Nuova. What number of men can that seminary take?”

“From three to four hundred, sir. The padre mentions that all the vigilance

of the enemy is limited to the river below the town.”

“I perceive it,” was the short reply of Sir Arthur, as placing his hands

carelessly behind his back, he walked towards the window, and looked out

upon the river.

All was still as death in the chamber; not a lip murmured. The feeling of

respect for him in whose presence we were standing checked every thought of

utterance; while the stupendous gravity of the events before us engrossed

every mind and occupied every heart. I was standing near the window;

the effect of my fall had stunned me for a time, but I was gradually

recovering, and watched with a thrilling heart the scene before me. Great

and absorbing as was my interest in what was passing without, it was

nothing compared with what I felt as I looked at him upon whom our destiny

was then hanging. I had ample time to scan his features and canvass their

every lineament. Never before did I look upon such perfect impassibility;

the cold, determined expression was crossed by no show of passion or

impatience. All was rigid and motionless, and whatever might have been the

workings of the spirit within, certainly no external sign betrayed them;

and yet what a moment for him must that have been! Before him, separated by

a deep and rapid river, lay the conquering legions of France, led on by one

second alone to him whose very name had been the _prestige_ of victory.

Unprovided with every regular means of transport, in the broad glare of

day, in open defiance of their serried ranks and thundering artillery,

he dared the deed. What must have been his confidence in the soldiers he

commanded! What must have been his reliance upon his own genius! As such

thoughts rushed through my mind, the door opened and an officer entered

hastily, and whispering a few words to Colonel Waters, left the room.

“One boat is already brought up to the crossing-place, and entirely

concealed by the wall of the orchard.”

“Let the men cross,” was the brief reply.

No other word was spoken as, turning from the window, he closed his

telescope, and followed by all the others, descended to the courtyard.

This simple order was enough; an officer with a company of the Buffs

embarked, and thus began the passage of the Douro.

So engrossed was I in my vigilant observation of our leader, that I would

gladly have remained at the convent, when I received an order to join my

brigade, to which a detachment of artillery was already proceeding.

As I reached Avintas all was in motion. The cavalry was in readiness beside

the river; but as yet no boats had been discovered, and such was the

impatience of the men to cross, it was with difficulty they were prevented

trying the passage by swimming, when suddenly Power appeared followed by

several fishermen. Three or four small skiffs had been found, half sunk

in mud, among the rushes, and with such frail assistance we commenced to

cross.

“There will be something to write home to Galway soon, Charley, or I’m

terribly mistaken,” said Fred, as he sprang into the boat beside me. “Was I

not a true prophet when I told you ‘We’d meet the French in the morning?’”

“They’re at it already,” said Hixley, as a wreath of blue smoke floated

across the stream below us, and the loud boom of a large gun resounded

through the air.

Then came a deafening shout, followed by a rattling volley of small arms,

gradually swelling into a hot sustained fire, through which the cannon

pealed at intervals. Several large meadows lay along the river-side, where

our brigade was drawn up as the detachments landed from the boats; and

here, although nearly a league distant from the town, we now heard the din

and crash of battle, which increased every moment. The cannonade from the

Sierra convent, which at first was merely the fire of single guns, now

thundered away in one long roll, amidst which the sounds of falling walls

and crashing roofs were mingled. It was evident to us, from the continual

fire kept up, that the landing had been effected; while the swelling tide

of musketry told that fresh troops were momentarily coming up.

In less than twenty minutes our brigade was formed, and we now only waited

for two light four-pounders to be landed, when an officer galloped up in

haste, and called out,--

“The French are in retreat!” and pointing at the same moment to the

Vallonga road, we saw a long line of smoke and dust leading from the town,

through which, as we gazed, the colors of the enemy might be seen as they

defiled, while the unbroken lines of the wagons and heavy baggage proved

that it was no partial movement, but the army itself retreating.

“Fourteenth, threes about! close up! trot!” called out the loud and manly

voice of our leader, and the heavy tramp of our squadrons shook the very

ground as we advanced towards the road to Vallonga.

As we came on, the scene became one of overwhelming excitement; the

masses of the enemy that poured unceasingly from the town could now be

distinguished more clearly; and amidst all the crash of gun-carriages and

caissons, the voices of the staff officers rose high as they hurried along

the retreating battalions. A troop of flying artillery galloped forth

at top speed, and wheeling their guns into position with the speed of

lightning, prepared, by a flanking fire, to cover the retiring column. The

gunners sprang from their seats, the guns were already unlimbered, when Sir

George Murray, riding up at our left, called out,--

“Forward! close up! Charge!”

The word was scarcely spoken when the loud cheer answered the welcome

sound, and the same instant the long line of shining helmets passed with

the speed of a whirlwind; the pace increased at every stride, the ranks

grew closer, and like the dread force of some mighty engine we fell upon

the foe. I have felt all the glorious enthusiasm of a fox-hunt, when the

loud cry of the hounds, answered by the cheer of the joyous huntsman,

stirred the very heart within, but never till now did I know how far higher

the excitement reaches, when man to man, sabre to sabre, arm to arm, we

ride forward to the battle-field. On we went, the loud shout of “Forward!”

still ringing in our ears. One broken, irregular discharge from the French

guns shook the head of our advancing column, but stayed us not as we

galloped madly on.

I remember no more. The din, the smoke, the crash, the cry for quarter,

mingled with the shout of victory, the flying enemy, the agonizing shrieks

of the wounded,--all are commingled in my mind, but leave no trace of

clearness or connection between them; and it was only when the column

wheeled to reform behind the advancing squadrons, that I awoke from my

trance of maddening excitement, and perceived that we had carried the

position and cut off the guns of the enemy.

“Well done, 14th!” said an old gray-headed colonel, as he rode along our

line,--“gallantly done, lads!” The blood trickled from a sabre cut on his

temple, along his cheek, as he spoke; but he either knew it not or heeded

it not.

“There go the Germans!” said Power, pointing to the remainder of our

brigade, as they charged furiously upon the French infantry, and rode them

down in masses.

Our guns came up at this time, and a plunging fire was opened upon the

thick and retreating ranks of the enemy. The carnage must have been

terrific, for the long breaches in their lines showed where the squadrons

of the cavalry had passed, or the most destructive tide of the artillery

had swept through them. The speed of the flying columns grew momentarily

more; the road became blocked up, too, by broken carriages and wounded; and

to add to their discomfiture, a damaging fire now opened from the town upon

the retreating column, while the brigade of Guards and the 29th pressed

hotly on their rear.

The scene was now beyond anything maddening in its interest. From the walls

of Oporto the English infantry poured forth in pursuit, while the whole

river was covered with boats as they still continued to cross over. The

artillery thundered from the Sierra to protect the landing, for it was even

still contested in places; and the cavalry, charging in flank, swept the

broken ranks and bore down upon the squares.

It was now, when the full tide of victory ran highest in our favor, that we

were ordered to retire from the road. Column after column passed before us,

unmolested and unassailed, and not even a cannon-shot arrested their steps.

Some unaccountable timidity of our leader directed this movement; and

while before our very eyes the gallant infantry were charging the retiring

columns, we remained still and inactive.

How little did the sense of praise we had already won repay us for the

shame and indignation we experienced at this moment, as with burning check

and compressed lip we watched the retreating files. “What can he mean?”

“Is there not some mistake?” “Are we never to charge?” were the muttered

questions around, as a staff officer galloped up with the order to take

ground still farther back, and nearer to the river.

The word was scarcely spoken when a young officer, in the uniform of a

general, dashed impetuously up; he held his plumed cap high above his head,

as he called out, “14th, follow me! Left face! wheel! charge!”

So, with the word, we were upon them. The French rear-guard was at this

moment at the narrowest part of the road, which opened by a bridge upon a

large open space; so that, forming with a narrow front and favored by a

declivity in the ground, we actually rode them down. Twice the French

formed, and twice were they broken. Meanwhile the carnage was dreadful

on both sides, our fellows dashing madly forward where the ranks were

thickest, the enemy resisting with the stubborn courage of men fighting for

their last spot of ground. So impetuous was the charge of our squadrons,

that we stopped not till, piercing the dense column of the retreating mass,

we reached the open ground beyond. Here we wheeled and prepared once more

to meet them, when suddenly some squadrons of cuirassiers debouched from

the road, and supported by a field-piece, showed front against us. This was

the moment that the remainder of our brigade should have come to our aid,

but not a man appeared. However, there was not an instant to be lost;

already the plunging fire of the four-pounder had swept through our files,

and every moment increased our danger.

“Once more, my lads, forward!” cried out our gallant leader, Sir Charles

Stewart, as waving his sabre, he dashed into the thickest of the fray.

So sudden was our charge that we were upon them before they were prepared.

And here ensued a terrific struggle; for as the cavalry of the enemy gave

way before us, we came upon the close ranks of the infantry at half-pistol

distance, who poured a withering volley into us as we approached. But what

could arrest the sweeping torrent of our brave fellows, though every moment

falling in numbers?

Harvey, our major, lost his arm near the shoulder. Scarcely an officer

was not wounded. Power received a deep sabre-cut in the cheek from an

aide-de-camp of General Foy, in return for a wound he gave the general;

while I, in my endeavor to save General Laborde when unhorsed, was cut down

through the helmet, and so stunned that I remembered no more around me. I

kept my saddle, it is true, but I lost every sense of consciousness, my

first glimmering of reason coming to my aid as I lay upon the river bank

and felt my faithful follower Mike bathing my temples with water, as he

kept up a running fire of lamentations for my being _murthered_ so young.

[Illustration: THE SKIRMISH.]

“Are you better, Mister Charles? Spake to me, alanah! Say that you’re not

kilt, darling; do now. Oh, wirra! what’ll I ever say to the master? and you

doing so beautiful! Wouldn’t he give the best baste in his stable to be

looking at you to-day? There, take a sup; it’s only water. Bad luck to

them, but it’s hard work beatin’ them. They ‘re only gone now. That’s

right; now you’re coming to.”

“Where am I, Mike?”

“It’s here you are, darling, resting yourself.”

“Well, Charley, my poor fellow, you’ve got sore bones, too,” cried Power,

as, his face swathed in bandages and covered with blood, he lay down on the

grass beside me. “It was a gallant thing while it lasted, but has cost us

dearly. Poor Hixley--”

“What of him?” said I, anxiously.

“Poor fellow, he has seen his last battle-field! He fell across me as we

came out upon the road. I lifted him up in my arms and bore him along above

fifty yards; but he was stone dead. Not a sigh, not a word escaped him;

shot through the forehead.” As he spoke, his lips trembled, and his voice

sank to a mere whisper at the last words: “You remember what he said last

night. Poor fellow, he was every inch a soldier.”

Such was his epitaph.

I turned my head towards the scene of our late encounter. Some dismounted

guns and broken wagons alone marked the spot; while far in the distance,

the dust of the retreating columns showed the beaten enemy as they hurried

towards the frontiers of Spain.

CHAPTER XLVI.

THE MORNING.

There are few sadder things in life than the day after a battle. The

high-beating hope, the bounding spirits, have passed away, and in their

stead comes the depressing reaction by which every overwrought excitement

is followed. With far different eyes do we look upon the compact ranks and

glistening files,--

With helm arrayed,

And lance and blade,

And plume in the gay wind dancing!

and upon the cold and barren heath, whose only memory of the past is the

blood-stained turf, a mangled corpse, the broken gun, the shattered wall,

the well-trodden earth where columns stood, the cut-up ground where cavalry

had charged,--these are the sad relics of all the chivalry of yesterday.

The morning which followed the battle of the Douro was one of the most

beautiful I ever remember. There was that kind of freshness and elasticity

in the air which certain days possess, and communicate by some magic their

properties to ourselves. The thrush was singing gayly out from every grove

and wooded dell; the very river had a sound of gladness as it rippled on

against its sedgy banks; the foliage, too, sparkled in the fresh dew, as in

its robes of holiday, and all looked bright and happy.

We were picketed near the river, upon a gently rising ground, from which

the view extended for miles in every direction. Above us, the stream came

winding down amidst broad and fertile fields of tall grass and waving corn,

backed by deep and mellow woods, which were lost to the view upon the

distant hills; below, the river, widening as it went, pursued a straighter

course, or turned with bolder curves, till, passing beneath the town, it

spread into a large sheet of glassy water as it opened to the sea. The sun

was just rising as I looked upon this glorious scene, and already the tall

spires of Oporto were tipped with a bright rosy hue, while the massive

towers and dark walls threw their lengthened shadows far across the plain.

The fires of the bivouac still burned, but all slept around them. Not a

sound was heard save the tramp of a patrol or the short, quick cry of

the sentry. I sat lost in meditation, or rather in that state of dreamy

thoughtfulness in which the past and present are combined, and the absent

are alike before us as are the things we look upon.

One moment I felt as though I were describing to my uncle the battle of the

day before, pointing out where we stood, and how we charged; then again

I was at home, beside the broad, bleak Shannon, and the brown hills of

Scariff. I watched with beating heart the tall Sierra, where our path lay

for the future, and then turned my thoughts to him whose name was so soon

to be received in England with a nation’s pride and gratitude, and panted

for a soldier’s glory.

As thus I followed every rising fancy, I heard a step approach; it was a

figure muffled in a cavalry cloak, which I soon perceived to be Power.

“Charley!” said he, in a half-whisper, “get up and come with me. You are

aware of the general order, that while in pursuit of an enemy, all military

honors to the dead are forbidden; but we wish to place our poor comrade in

the earth before we leave.”

I followed down a little path, through a grave of tall beech-trees, that

opened upon a little grassy terrace beside the river. A stunted olive-tree

stood by itself in the midst, and there I found five of our brother

officers standing, wrapped in their wide cloaks. As we pressed each other’s

hands, not a word was spoken. Each heart was full; and hard features that

never quailed before the foe were now shaken with the convulsive spasm of

agony or compressed with stern determination to seem calm.

A cavalry helmet and a large blue cloak lay upon the grass. The narrow

grave was already dug beside it; and in the deathlike stillness around, the

service for the dead was read. The last words were over. We stooped and

placed the corpse, wrapped up in the broad mantle, in the earth; we

replaced the mould, and stood silently around the spot. The trumpet of our

regiment at this moment sounded the call; its clear notes rang sharply

through the thin air,--it was the soldier’s requiem! and we turned away

without speaking, and returned to our quarters.

I had never known poor Hixley till a day or two before; but, somehow, my

grief for him was deep and heartfelt. It was not that his frank and manly

bearing, his bold and military air, had gained upon me. No; these were

indeed qualities to attract and delight me, but he had obtained a stronger

and faster hold upon my affections,--he spoke to me of home.

Of all the ties that bind us to the chance acquaintances we meet with in

life, what can equal this one? What a claim upon your love has he who can,

by some passing word, some fast-flitting thought, bring back the days of

your youth! What interest can he not excite by some anecdote of your boyish

days, some well-remembered trait of youthful daring, or early enterprise!

Many a year of sunshine and of storm have passed above my head; I have not

been without my moments of gratified pride and rewarded ambition; but my

heart has never responded so fully, so thankfully, so proudly to these,

such as they were, as to the simple, touching words of one who knew my

early home, and loved its inmates.

“Well, Fitzroy, what news?” inquired I, roused from my musing, as an

aide-de-camp galloped up at full speed.

“Tell Merivale to get the regiment under arms at once. Sir Arthur Wellesley

will be here in less than half an hour. You may look for the route

immediately. Where are the Germans quartered?”

“Lower down; beside that grove of beech-trees, next the river.”

Scarcely was my reply spoken, when he dashed spurs into his horse, and was

soon out of sight. Meanwhile the plain beneath me presented an animated and

splendid spectacle. The different corps were falling into position to the

enlivening sounds of their quick-step, the trumpets of the cavalry rang

loudly through the valley, and the clatter of sabres and sabretasches

joined with the hollow tramp of the horses, as the squadron came up.

I had not a moment to lose; so hastening back to my quarters, I found Mike

waiting with my horse.

“Captain Power’s before you, sir,” said he, “and you’ll have to make haste.

The regiments are under arms already.”

From the little mound where I stood, I could see the long line of cavalry

as they deployed into the plain, followed by the horse artillery, which

brought up the rear.

“This looks like a march,” thought I, as I pressed forward to join my

companions.

I had not advanced above a hundred yards through a narrow ravine when the

measured tread of infantry fell upon my ears. I pulled up to slacken my

pace, just as the head of a column turned round the angle of the road, and

came in view. The tall caps of a grenadier company was the first thing I

beheld, as they came on without roll of drum and sound of fife. I watched

with a soldier’s pride the manly bearing and gallant step of the dense mass

as they defiled before me. I was struck no less by them than by a certain

look of a steady but sombre cast which each man wore.

“What can this mean?” thought I.

My first impression was, that a military execution was about to take place,

the next moment solved my doubt; for as the last files of the grenadiers

wheeled round, a dense mass behind came in sight, whose unarmed hands, and

downcast air, at once bespoke them prisoners-of-war.

What a sad sight it was! There was the old and weather-beaten grenadier,

erect in frame and firm in step, his gray mustache scarcely concealing

the scowl that curled his lip, side by side with the young and daring

conscript, even yet a mere boy; their march was regular, their gaze

steadfast,--no look of flinching courage there. On they came, a long

unbroken line. They looked not less proudly than their captors around them.

As I looked with heavy heart upon them, my attention was attracted to one

who marched alone behind the rest. He was a middle-sized but handsome youth

of some eighteen years at most; his light helmet and waving plume bespoke

him a _chasseur à cheval_, and I could plainly perceive, in his careless

half-saucy air, how indignantly he felt the position to which the fate of

war had reduced him. He caught my eyes fixed upon him, and for an instant

turned upon me a gaze of open and palpable defiance, drawing himself up

to his full height, and crossing his arms upon his breast; but probably

perceiving in my look more of interest than of triumph, his countenance

suddenly changed, a deep blush suffused his cheek, his eye beamed with a

softened and kindly expression, and carrying his hand to his helmet, he

saluted me, saying, in a voice of singular sweetness,--

_“Je vous souhaite un meilleur sort, camarade.”_

I bowed, and muttering something in return, was about to make some inquiry

concerning him, when the loud call of the trumpet rang through the valley,

and apprised me that, in my interest for the prisoners, I had forgotten all

else, and was probably incurring censure for my absence.

CHAPTER XLVII.

THE REVIEW.

When I joined the group of my brother officers, who stood gayly chatting

and laughing together before our lines, I was much surprised--nay almost

shocked--to find how little seeming impression had been made upon them, by

the sad duty we had performed that morning.

When last we met, each eye was downcast, each heart was full,--sorrow for

him we had lost from among us forever, mingling with the awful sense of

our own uncertain tenure here, had laid its impress on each brow; but

now, scarcely an hour elapsed, and all were cheerful and elated. The last

shovelful of earth upon the grave seemed to have buried both the dead and

the mourning. And such is war, and such the temperament it forms! Events so

strikingly opposite in their character and influences succeed so rapidly

one upon another that the mind is kept in one whirl of excitement, and at

length accustoms itself to change with every phase of circumstances; and

between joy and grief, hope and despondency, enthusiasm and depression,

there is neither breadth nor interval,--they follow each other as naturally

as morning succeeds to night.

I had not much time for such reflections; scarcely had I saluted the

officers about me, when the loud prolonged roll of the drums along the line

of infantry in the valley, followed by the sharp clatter of muskets as they

were raised to the shoulder, announced the troops were under arms, and the

review begun.

“Have you seen the general order this morning, Power?” inquired an old

officer beside me.

“No; they say, however, that ours are mentioned.”

“Harvey is going on favorably,” cried a young cornet, as he galloped up to

our party.

“Take ground to the left!” sung out the clear voice of the colonel, as

he rode along in front. “Fourteenth, I am happy to inform you that your

conduct has met approval in the highest quarter. I have just received the

general orders, in which this occurs:--

“‘THE TIMELY PASSAGE OF THE DOURO, AND SUBSEQUENT MOVEMENTS UPON THE

ENEMY’S FLANK, BY LIEUTENANT-GENERAL SHERBROKE, WITH THE GUARDS AND 29TH

REGIMENT, AND THE BRAVERY OF THE TWO SQUADRONS OF THE 14TH LIGHT

DRAGOONS, UNDER THE COMMAND OF MAJOR HARVEY, AND LED BY THE HONORABLE

BRIGADIER-GENERAL CHARLES STEWART, OBTAINED THE VICTORY’--Mark that, my

lads! obtained the victory--‘WHICH HAS CONTRIBUTED SO MUCH TO THE HONOR OF

THE TROOPS ON THIS DAY.’”

The words were hardly spoken, when a tremendous cheer burst from the whole

line at once.

“Steady, Fourteenth! steady, lads!” said the gallant old colonel, as he

raised his hand gently; “the staff is approaching.”

At the same moment, the white plumes appeared, rising above the brow of

the hill. On they came, glittering in all the splendor of aignillettes and

orders; all save one. He rode foremost, upon a small, compact, black horse;

his dress, a plain gray frock fastened at the waist by a red sash; his

cocked hat alone bespoke, in its plume, the general officer. He galloped

rapidly on till he came to the centre of the line; then turning short

round, he scanned the ranks from end to end with an eagle glance.

“Colonel Merivale, you have made known to your regiment my opinion of them,

as expressed in general orders?”

The colonel bowed low in acquiescence.

“Fitzroy, you have got the memorandum, I hope?”

The aide-de-camp here presented to Sir Arthur a slip of paper, which he

continued to regard attentively for some minutes.

“Captain Powel,--Power, I mean. Captain Power!”

Power rode out from the line.

“Your very distinguished conduct yesterday has been reported to me. I shall

have sincere pleasure in forwarding your name for the vacant majority.

“You have forgotten, Colonel Merivale, to send in the name of the officer

who saved General Laborde’s life.”

“I believe I have mentioned it, Sir Arthur,” said the colonel: “Mr.

O’Malley.”

“True, I beg pardon; so you have--Mr. O’Malley; a very young officer

indeed,--ha, an Irishman! The south of Ireland, eh?”

“No, sir, the west.”

“Oh, yes! Well, Mr. O’Malley, you are promoted. You have the lieutenancy

in your own regiment. By-the-bye, Merivale,” here his voice changed into a

half-laughing tone, “ere I forget it, pray let me beg of you to look into

this honest fellow’s claim; he has given me no peace the entire morning.”

As he spoke, I turned my eyes in the direction he pointed, and to my utter

consternation, beheld my man Mickey Free standing among the staff, the

position he occupied, and the presence he stood in, having no more

perceptible effect upon his nerves than if he were assisting at an Irish

wake; but so completely was I overwhelmed with shame at the moment,

that the staff were already far down the lines ere I recovered my

self-possession, to which, certainly, I was in some degree recalled by

Master Mike’s addressing me in a somewhat imploring voice:--

“Arrah, spake for me, Master Charles, alanah; sure they might do something

for me now, av it was only to make me a ganger.”

Mickey’s ideas of promotion, thus insinuatingly put forward, threw the

whole party around us into one burst of laughter.

“I have him down there,” said he, pointing, as he spoke, to a thick grove

of cork-trees at a little distance.

“Who have you got there, Mike?” inquired Power.

“Devil a one o’ me knows his name,” replied he; “may be it’s Bony himself.”

“And how do you know he’s there still?”

“How do I know, is it? Didn’t I tie him last night?”

Curiosity to find out what Mickey could possibly allude to, induced Power

and myself to follow him down the slope to the clump of trees I have

mentioned. As we came near, the very distinct denunciations that issued

from the thicket proved pretty clearly the nature of the affair. It was

nothing less than a French officer of cavalry that Mike had unhorsed in the

_mêlée_, and wishing, probably, to preserve some testimony of his prowess,

had made prisoner, and tied fast to a cork-tree, the preceding evening.

“_Sacrebleu!_” said the poor Frenchman, as we approached, “_ce sont des

sauvages!_”

“Av it’s making your sowl ye are,” said Mike, “you’re right; for may be

they won’t let me keep you alive.”

Mike’s idea of a tame prisoner threw me into a fit of laughing, while Power

asked,--

“And what do you want to do with him, Mickey?”

“The sorra one o’ me knows, for he spakes no dacent tongue. Thighum thu,”

said he, addressing the prisoner, with a poke in the ribs at the same

moment. “But sure, Master Charles, he might tache me French.”

There was something so irresistibly ludicrous in his tone and look as

he said these words, that both Power and myself absolutely roared with

laughter. We began, however, to feel not a little ashamed of our position

in the business, and explained to the Frenchman that our worthy countryman

had but little experience in the usages of war, while we proceeded to

unbind him and liberate him from his miserable bondage.

“It’s letting him loose, you are, Captain? Master Charles, take care.

Be-gorra, av you had as much trouble in catching him as I had, you’d think

twice about letting him out. Listen to me, now,” here he placed his closed

fist within an inch of the poor prisoner’s nose,--“listen to me! Av you say

peas, by the morreal, I’ll not lave a whole bone in your skin.”

With some difficulty we persuaded Mike that his conduct, so far from

leading to his promotion, might, if known in another quarter, procure him

an acquaintance with the provost-marshal; a fact which, it was plain to

perceive, gave him but a very poor impression of military gratitude.

“Oh, then, if they were in swarms fornent me, devil receave the prisoner

I’ll take again!”

So saying, he slowly returned to the regiment; while Power and I, having

conducted the Frenchman to the rear, cantered towards the town to learn the

news of the day.

The city on that day presented a most singular aspect. The streets, filled

with the town’s-people and the soldiery, were decorated with flags and

garlands; the cafés were crowded with merry groups, and the sounds of

music and laughter resounded on all sides. The houses seemed to be

quite inadequate to afford accommodation to the numerous guests; and in

consequence, bullock cars and forage; wagons were converted into temporary

hotels, and many a jovial party were collected in both. Military music,

church bells, drinking choruses, were all commingled in the din and

turmoil; processions in honor of “Our Lady of Succor” were jammed up among

bacchanalian orgies, and their very chant half drowned in the cries of the

wounded as they passed on to the hospitals. With difficulty we pushed our

way through the dense mob, as we turned our steps towards the seminary. We

both felt naturally curious to see the place where our first detachment

landed, and to examine the opportunities of defence it presented. The

building itself was a large and irregular one of an oblong form, surrounded

by a high wall of solid masonry, the only entrance being by a heavy iron

gate.

At this spot the battle appeared to have raged with violence; one side of

the massive gate was torn from its hinges and lay flat upon the ground; the

walls were breached in many places; and pieces of torn uniforms, broken

bayonets, and bruised shakos attested that the conflict was a close one.

The seminary itself was in a falling state; the roof, from which Paget

had given his orders, and where he was wounded, had fallen in. The French

cannon had fissured the building from top to bottom, and it seemed only

awaiting the slightest impulse to crumble into ruin. When we regarded the

spot, and examined the narrow doorway which opening upon a flight of a few

steps to the river, admitted our first party, we could not help feeling

struck anew with the gallantry of that mere handful of brave fellows who

thus threw themselves amidst the overwhelming legions of the enemy, and at

once, without waiting for a single reinforcement, opened a fire upon their

ranks. Bold as the enterprise unquestionably was, we still felt with what

consummate judgment it had been planned; a bend of the river concealed

entirely the passage of the troops, the guns of the Sierras covered their

landing and completely swept one approach to the seminary. The French,

being thus obliged to attack by the gate, were compelled to make a

considerable _détour_ before they reached it, all of which gave time

for our divisions to cross; while the brigade of Guards, under General

Sherbroke, profiting by the confusion, passed the river below the town, and

took the enemy unexpectedly in the rear.

Brief as was the struggle within the town, it must have been a terrific

one. The artillery were firing at musket range; cavalry and infantry were

fighting hand to hand in narrow streets, a destructive musketry pouring all

the while from windows and house-tops.

At the Amarante gate, where the French defiled, the carnage was also great.

Their light artillery unlimbered some guns here to cover the columns as

they deployed, but Murray’s cavalry having carried these, the flank of the

infantry became entirely exposed to the galling fire of small-arms from

the seminary, and the far more destructive shower of grape that poured

unceasingly from the Sierra.

Our brigade did the rest; and in less than one hour from the landing of the

first man, the French were in full retreat upon Vallonga.

“A glorious thing, Charley,” said Power, after a pause, “and a proud

souvenir for hereafter.”

A truth I felt deeply at the time, and one my heart responds to not less

fully as I am writing.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

THE QUARREL.

On the evening of the 12th, orders were received for the German brigade and

three squadrons of our regiment to pursue the French upon the Terracinthe

road by daybreak on the following morning.

I was busily occupied in my preparations for a hurried march when Mike came

up to say that an officer desired to speak with me; and the moment after

Captain Hammersley appeared. A sudden flush colored his pale and sickly

features, as he held out his hand and said,--

“I’ve come to wish you joy, O’Malley. I just this instant heard of your

promotion. I am sincerely glad of it; pray tell me the whole affair.”

“That is the very thing I am unable to do. I have some very vague,

indistinct remembrance of warding off a sabre-cut from the head of a

wounded and unhorsed officer in the _mêlée_ of yesterday, but more I know

not. In fact, it was my first duty under fire. I’ve a tolerably clear

recollection of all the events of the morning, but the word ‘Charge!’ once

given, I remember very little more. But you, where have you been? How have

we not met before?”

“I’ve exchanged into a heavy dragoon regiment, and am now employed upon the

staff.”

“You are aware that I have letters for you?”

“Power hinted, I think, something of the kind. I saw him very hurriedly.”

These words were spoken with an effort at _nonchalance_ that evidently cost

him much.

As for me, my agitation was scarcely less, as fumbling for some seconds in

my portmanteau, I drew forth the long destined packet. As I placed it in

his hands, he grew deadly pale, and a slight spasmodic twitch in his upper

lip bespoke some unnatural struggle. He broke the seal suddenly, and as he

did so, the morocco case of a miniature fell upon the ground; his eyes ran

rapidly across the letter; the livid color of his lips as the blood forced

itself to them added to the corpse-like hue of his countenance.

“You, probably, are aware of the contents of this letter, Mr. O’Malley,”

said he, in an altered voice, whose tones, half in anger, half in

suppressed irony, cut to my very heart.

“I am in complete ignorance of them,” said I, calmly.

“Indeed, sir!” replied he, with a sarcastic curl of his mouth as he spoke.

“Then, perhaps, you will tell me, too, that your very success is a secret

to you--”

“I’m really not aware--”

“You think, probably, sir, that the pastime is an amusing one, to interfere

where the affections of others are concerned. I’ve heard of you, sir. Your

conduct at Lisbon is known to me; and though Captain Trevyllian may bear--”

“Stop, Captain Hammersley!” said I, with a tremendous effort to be

calm,--“stop! You have said enough, quite enough, to convince me of what

your object was in seeking me here to-day. You shall not be disappointed. I

trust that assurance will save you from any further display of temper.”

“I thank you, most humbly I thank you for the quickness of your

apprehension; and I shall now take my leave. Good-evening, Mr. O’Malley. I

wish you much joy; you have my very fullest congratulations upon _all_ your

good fortune.”

The sneering emphasis the last words were spoken with remained fixed in my

mind long after he took his departure; and, indeed, so completely did the

whole seem like a dream to me that were it not for the fragments of the

miniature that lay upon the ground where he had crushed them with his heel,

I could scarcely credit myself that I was awake.

My first impulse was to seek Power, upon whose judgment and discretion I

could with confidence rely.

I had not long to wait; for scarcely had I thrown my cloak around me, when

he rode up. He had just seen, Hammersley, and learned something of our

interview.

“Why, Charley, my dear fellow, what is this? How have you treated poor

Hammersley?”

“Treated _him_! Say, rather, how has he treated _me!_”

I here entered into a short but accurate account of our meeting, during

which Power listened with great composure; while I could perceive, from the

questions he asked, that some very different impression had been previously

made upon his mind.

“And this was all that passed?”

“All.”

“But what of the business at Lisbon?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Why, he speaks,--he has heard some foolish account of your having made

some ridiculous speech there about your successful rivalry of him in

Ireland. Lucy Dashwood, I suppose, is referred to. Some one has been

good-natured enough to repeat the thing to him.”

“But it never occurred. I never did.”

“Are you sure, Charley?”

“I am sure. I know I never did.”

“The poor fellow! He has been duped. Come, Charley, you must not take it

ill. Poor Hammersley has never recovered a sabre-wound he received some

months since upon the head; his intellect is really affected by it. Leave

it all to me. Promise not to leave your quarters till I return, and I’ll

put everything right again.”

I gave the required pledge; while Power, springing into the saddle, left me

to my own reflections.

My frame of mind as Power left me was by no means an enviable one. A

quarrel is rarely a happy incident in a man’s life, still less is it so

when the difference arises with one we are disposed to like and respect.

Such was Hammersley. His manly, straightforward character had won my esteem

and regard, and it was with no common scrutiny I taxed my memory to think

what could have given rise to the impression he labored under of my

having injured him. His chance mention of Trevyllian suggested to me some

suspicion that his dislike of me, wherefore arising I knew not, might have

its share in the matter; and in this state of doubt and uncertainty I paced

impatiently up and down, anxiously watching for Power’s return in the hope

of at length getting some real insight into the difficulty.

My patience was fast ebbing, Power had been absent above an hour, and no

appearance of him could I detect, when suddenly the tramp of a horse came

rapidly up the hill. I looked out and saw a rider coming forward at a very

fast pace. Before I had time for even a guess as to who it was, he drew

up, and I recognized Captain Trevyllian. There was a certain look of easy

impertinence and half-smiling satisfaction about his features I had never

seen before, as he touched his cap in salute, and said,--

“May I have the honor of a few words’ conversation with you?”

I bowed silently, while he dismounted, and passing his bridle beneath his

arm, walked on beside me.

“My friend Captain Hammersley has commissioned me to wait upon you about

this unpleasant affair--”

“I beg pardon for the interruption, Captain Trevyllian, but as I have yet

to learn to what you or your friend alludes, perhaps it may facilitate

matters if you will explicitly state your meaning.”

He grew crimson on the cheek as I said this, while, with a voice perfectly

unmoved, he continued,--

“I am not sufficiently in my friend’s confidence to know the whole of the

affair in question, nor have I his permission to enter into any of it, he

probably presuming, as I certainly did myself, that your sense of honor

would have deemed further parley and discussion both unnecessary and

unseasonable.”

“In fact, then, if I understand, it is expected that I should meet Captain

Hammersley for some reason unknown--”

“He certainly desires a meeting with you,” was the dry reply.

“And as certainly I shall not give it, before understanding upon what

grounds.”

“And such I am to report as your answer?” said he, looking at me at the

moment with an expression of ill-repressed triumph as he spoke.