CUESTA.
The second day of our journey was drawing to a close as we came in view of
the Spanish army.
The position they occupied was an undulating plain beside the Teitar River;
the country presented no striking feature of picturesque beauty, but the
scene before us needed no such aid to make it one of the most interesting
kind. From the little mountain path we travelled we beheld beneath a force
of thirty thousand men drawn up in battle array, dense columns of infantry
alternating with squadrons of horse or dark masses of artillery dotted
the wide plain, the bright steel glittering in the rich sunset of a July
evening when not a breath of air was stirring; the very banners hung down
listlessly, and not a sound broke the solemn stillness of the hour. All was
silent. So impressive and so strange was the spectacle of a vast army thus
resting mutely under arms, that I reined in my horse, and almost doubted
the reality of the scene as I gazed upon it. The dark shadows of the tall
mountain were falling across the valley, and a starry sky was already
replacing the ruddy glow of sunset as we reached the plain; but still no
change took place in the position of the Spanish army.
“Who goes there?” cried a hoarse voice, as we issued from the mountain
gorge, and in a moment we found ourselves surrounded by an outpost party.
Having explained, as well as I was able, who I was, and for what reason I
was there, I proceeded to accompany the officer towards the camp.
On my way thither I learned the reason of the singular display of troops
which had been so puzzling to me. From an early hour of that day Sir Arthur
Wellesley’s arrival had been expected, and old Cuesta had drawn up his men
for inspection, and remained thus for several hours patiently awaiting his
coming; he himself, overwhelmed with years and infirmity, sitting upon his
horse the entire time.
As it was not necessary that I should be presented to the general, my
report being for the ear of Sir Arthur himself, I willingly availed myself
of the hospitality proffered by a Spanish officer of cavalry; and having
provided for the comforts of my tired cattle and taken a hasty supper,
issued forth to look at the troops, which, although it was now growing
late, were still in the same attitude.
Scarcely had I been half an hour thus occupied, when the stillness of
the scene was suddenly interrupted by the loud report of a large gun,
immediately followed by a long roll of musketry, while at the same moment
the bands of the different regiments struck up, and as if by magic a blaze
of red light streamed across the dark ranks. This was effected by pine
torches held aloft at intervals, throwing a lurid glare upon the grim and
swarthy features of the Spaniards, whose brown uniforms and slouching hats
presented a most picturesque effect as the red light fell upon them.
The swell of the thundering cannon grew louder and nearer,--the shouldering
of muskets, the clash of sabres, and the hoarse roll of the drum, mingling
in one common din. I at once guessed that Sir Arthur had arrived, and as I
turned the flank of a battalion I saw the staff approaching. Nothing can be
conceived more striking than their advance. In the front rode old Cuesta
himself, clad in the costume of a past century, his slashed doublet and
trunk hose reminding one of a more chivalrous period, his heavy, unwieldy
figure looming from side to side, and threatening at each moment to fall
from his saddle. On each side of him walked two figures gorgeously dressed,
whose duty appeared to be to sustain the chief in his seat. At his
side rode a far different figure. Mounted upon a slight-made, active
thorough-bred, whose drawn flanks bespoke a long and weary journey, sat
Sir Arthur Wellesley, a plain blue frock and gray trousers being his
unpretending costume; but the eagle glance which he threw around on every
side, the quick motion of his hand as he pointed hither and thither among
the dense battalions, bespoke him every inch a soldier. Behind them came
a brilliant staff, glittering in aiguillettes and golden trappings, among
whom I recognized some well-remembered faces,--our gallant leader at the
Douro, Sir Charles Stewart, among the number.
As they passed the spot where I was standing, the torch of a foot soldier
behind me flared suddenly up and threw a strong flash upon the party.
Cuesta’s horse grew frightened, and plunged so fearfully for a minute that
the poor old man could scarcely keep his seat. A smile shot across Sir
Arthur’s features at the moment, but the next instant he was grave and
steadfast as before.
A wretched hovel, thatched and in ruins, formed the headquarters of the
Spanish army, and thither the staff now bent their steps,--a supper being
provided there for our commander-in-chief and the officers of his suite.
Although not of the privileged party, I lingered round the spot for some
time, anxiously expecting to find some friend or acquaintance who might
tell me the news of our people, and what events had occurred in my absence.
CHAPTER LVIII.
THE LETTER.
The hours passed slowly over, and I at length grew weary of waiting.
For some time I had amused myself with observing the slouching gait and
unsoldier-like air of the Spaniards as they lounged carelessly about,
looking in dress, gesture, and appointment, far move like a guerilla than a
regular force. Then again, the strange contrast of the miserable hut with
falling chimney and ruined walls, to the glitter of the mounted guard of
honor who sat motionless beside it, served to pass the time; but as the
night was already far advanced, I turned towards my quarters, hoping that
the next morning might gratify my curiosity about my friends.
Beside the tent where I was billeted, I found Mike in waiting, who, the
moment he saw me, came hastily forward with a letter in his hand. An
officer of Sir Arthur’s staff had left it while I was absent, desiring
Mike on no account to omit its delivery the first instant he met me.
The hand--not a very legible one--was perfectly unknown to me, and the
appearance of the billet such as betrayed no over-scrupulous care in the
writer.
I trimmed my lamp leisurely, threw a fresh log upon the fire, disposed
myself completely at full length beside it, and then proceeded to form
acquaintance with my unknown correspondent. I will not attempt any
description of the feelings which gradually filled me as I read on; the
letter itself will suggest them to those who know my story. It ran thus:--
PLACENTIA, July 8, 1809.
DEAR O’MALLEY,--Although I’d rather march to Lisbon barefoot
than write three lines, Fred Power insists upon my turning scribe,
as he has a notion you’ll be up at Cuesta’s headquarters about this
time. You’re in a nice scrape, devil a lie in it! Here has Fred
been fighting that fellow Trevyllian for you,--all because you would
not have patience and fight him yourself the morning you left the
Douro,--so much for haste! Let it be a lesson to you for life.
Poor Fred got the ball in his hip, and the devil a one of the doctors
can find it. But he’s getting better any way, and going to Lisbon
for change of air. Meanwhile, since Power’s been wounded, Trevyllian’s
speaking very hardly of you, and they all say here you must
come back--no matter how--and put matters to rights. Fred has
placed the thing in my hands, and I’m thinking we’d better call out
the “heavies” by turns,--for most of them stand by Trevyllian.
Maurice Quill and myself sat up considering it last night; but,
somehow, we don’t clearly remember to-day a beautiful plan we hit
upon. However, we’ll have at it again this evening. Meanwhile,
come over here, and let us be doing something. We hear that old
Monsoon has blown up a town, a bridge, and a big convent. They
must have been hiding the plunder very closely, or he’d never have
been reduced to such extremities. We’ll have a brush with the
French soon.
Yours most eagerly,
D. O’SHAUGHNESSY.
My first thought, as I ran my eye over these lines, was to seek for Power’s
note, written on the morning we parted. I opened it, and to my horror
found that it only related to my quarrel with Hammersley. My meeting with
Trevyllian had been during Fred’s absence, and when he assured me that all
was satisfactorily arranged, and a full explanation tendered, that nothing
interfered with my departure,--I utterly forgot that he was only aware of
one half my troubles, and in the haste and bustle of my departure, had not
a moment left me to collect myself and think calmly on the matter. The two
letters lay before me, and as I thought over the stain upon my character
thus unwittingly incurred; the blast I had thrown upon my reputation; the
wound of my poor friend, who exposed himself for my sake,--I grew sick at
heart, and the bitter tears of agony burst from my eyes.
That weary night passed slowly over; the blight of all my prospects, when
they seemed fairest and brightest, presented itself to me in a hundred
shapes; and when, overcome by fatigue and exhaustion, I closed my eyes to
sleep, it was only to follow up in my dreams my waking thoughts. Morning
came at length; but its bright sunshine and balmy air brought no comfort to
me. I absolutely dreaded to meet my brother officers; I felt that in such a
position as I stood, no half or partial explanation could suffice to set me
right in their estimation; and yet, what opportunity had I for aught else?
Irresolute how to act, I sat leaning my head upon my hands, when I heard
a footstep approach; I looked up and saw before me no other than my poor
friend Sparks, from whom I had been separated so long. Any other adviser
at such a moment would, I acknowledge, have been as welcome; for the
poor fellow knew but little of the world, and still less of the service.
However, one glance convinced me that his heart at least was true; and I
shook his outstretched hand with delight. In a few words he informed me
that Merivale had secretly commissioned him to come over in the hope of
meeting me; that although all the 14th men were persuaded that I was not to
blame in what had occurred,--yet that reports so injurious had gone abroad,
so many partial and imperfect statements were circulated, that nothing but
my return to headquarters would avail, and that I must not lose a moment in
having Trevyllian out, with whom all the misrepresentation had originated.
“This, of course,” said Sparks, “is to be a secret; Merivale, being our
colonel--”
“Of course,” said I, “he cannot countenance, much less counsel, such a
proceeding; Now, then, for the road.”
“Yes; but you cannot leave before making your report. Gordon expects to see
you at eleven; he told me so last night.”
“I cannot help it; I shall not wait; my mind is made up. My career here
matters but little in comparison with this horrid charge. I shall be broke,
but I shall be avenged.”
“Come, come, O’Malley; you are in our hands now, and you must be guided.
You _shall_ wait; you shall see Gordon. Half an hour will make your report,
and I have relays of horses along the road, and we shall reach Placentia by
nightfall.”
There was a tone of firmness in this, so unlike anything I ever looked for
in the speaker, and withal so much of foresight and precaution, that I
could scarcely credit my senses as he spoke. Having at length agreed to his
proposal, Sparks left me to think over my return of the Legion, promising
that immediately after my interview with the military secretary, we should
start together for headquarters.
CHAPTER LXIX.
MAJOR O’SHAUGHNESSY.
“This is Major O’Shaughnessy’s quarters, sir,” said a sergeant, as he
stopped short at the door of a small, low house in the midst of an olive
plantation; an Irish wolf-dog--the well-known companion of the major--lay
stretched across the entrance, watching with eager and bloodshot eyes the
process of cutting up a bullock, which two soldiers in undress jackets were
performing within a few yards of the spot.
Stepping cautiously across the savage-looking sentinel, I entered the
little hall, and finding no one near, passed into a small room, the door of
which lay half open.
A very palpable odor of cigars and brandy proclaimed, even without his
presence, that this was O’Shaughnessy’s sitting-room; so I sat myself down
upon an old-fashioned sofa to wait patiently for his return, which I heard
would be immediately after the evening parade. Sparks had become knocked up
during our ride, so that for the last three leagues I was alone, and like
most men in such circumstances, pressed on only the harder. Completely worn
out for want of rest, I had scarcely placed myself on the sofa when I
fell sound asleep. When I awoke, all was dark around me, save the faint
flickerings of the wood embers on the hearth, and for some moments I could
not remember where I was; but by degrees recollection came, and as I
thought over my position and its possible consequences, I was again nearly
dropping to sleep, when the door suddenly opened, and a heavy step sounded
on the floor.
I lay still and spoke not, as a large figure in a cloak approached the
fire-place, and stooping down endeavored to light a candle at the fast
expiring fire.
I had little difficulty in detecting the major even by the half-light; a
muttered execration upon the candle, given with an energy that only an
Irishman ever bestows upon slight matters, soon satisfied me on this head.
“May the Devil fly away with the commissary and the chandler to the forces!
Ah, you’ve lit at last!”
With these words he stood up, and his eyes falling on me at the moment,
he sprang a yard or two backwards, exclaiming as he did so, “The blessed
Virgin be near us, what’s this?” a most energetic crossing of himself
accompanying his words. My pale and haggard face, thus suddenly presented,
having suggested to the worthy major the impression of a supernatural
visitor, a hearty burst of laughter, which I could not resist, was my only
answer; and the next moment O’Shaughnessy was wrenching my hand in a grasp
like a steel vice.
“Upon my conscience, I thought it was your ghost; and if you kept quiet a
little longer, I was going to promise you Christian burial, and as many
Masses for your soul as my uncle the bishop could say between this and
Easter. How are you, my boy? A little thin, and something paler, I think,
than when you left us.”
Having assured him that fatigue and hunger were in a great measure the
cause of my sickly looks, the major proceeded to place before me the
_débris_ of his day’s dinner, with a sufficiency of bottles to satisfy a
mess-table, keeping up as he went a running fire of conversation.
“I’m as glad as if the Lord took the senior major, to see you here this
night. With the blessing of Providence we’ll shoot Trevyllian in the
morning, and any more of the heavies that like it. You are an ill-treated
man, that’s what it is, and Dan O’Shaughnessy says it. Help yourself, my
boy; crusty old port in that bottle as ever you touched your lips to.
Power’s getting all right; it was contract powder, warranted not to kill.
Bad luck to the commissaries once more! With such ammunition Sir Arthur
does right to trust most to the bayonet. And how is Monsoon, the old
rogue?”
“Gloriously, living in the midst of wine and olives.”
“No fear of him, the old sinner; but he is a fine fellow, after all.
Charley, you are eating nothing, boy.”
“To tell you the truth, I’m far more anxious to talk with you at this
moment than aught else.”
“So you shall: the night’s young. Meanwhile, I had better not delay
matters. You want to have Trevyllian out,--is not that so?”
“Of course; you are aware how it happened?”
“I know everything. Go on with your supper, and don’t mind me; I’ll be back
in twenty minutes or less.”
Without waiting for any reply, he threw his cloak around him, and strode
out of the room. Once more I was alone; but already my frame of mind was
altered,--the cheering tone of my reckless, gallant countryman had raised
my spirits, and I felt animated by his very manner.
An hour elapsed before the major returned; and when he did come, his
appearance and gestures bespoke anger and disappointment. He threw himself
hurriedly into a seat, and for some minutes never spoke.
“The world’s beautifully changed, anyhow, since I began it, O’Malley,--when
you thanked a man civilly that asked you to fight him! The Devil take the
cowards, say I.”
“What has happened? Tell me, I beseech you?”
“He won’t fight,” said the major, blurting out the words as if they would
choke him.
“He’ll not fight! And why?”
The major was silent. He seemed confused and embarrassed. He turned from
the fire to the table, from the table to the fire, poured out a glass of
wine, drank it hastily off, and springing from his chair, paced the room
with long, impatient strides.
“My dear O’Shaughnessy, explain, I beg of you. Does he refuse to meet me
for any reason--”
“He does,” said the major, turning on me a look of deep feeling as he
spoke; “and he does it to ruin you, my boy. But as sure as my name is
Dan, he’ll fail this time. He was sitting with his friend Beaufort when I
reached his quarters, and received me with all the ceremonious politeness
he well knows how to assume. I told him in a few words the object of my
visit; upon which Trevyllian, standing up, referred me to his friend for
a reply, and left the room. I thought that all was right, and sat down to
discuss, as I believed, preliminaries, when the cool puppy, with his back
to the fire, carelessly lisped out, ‘It can’t be, Major; your friend is too
late.’
“‘Too late? too late?’ said I.
“‘Yes, precisely so; not up to time. The affair should have come off some
weeks since. We won’t meet him now.’
“‘This is really your answer?’
“‘This is really my answer; and not only so, but the decision of our mess.’
“What I said after this _he_ may remember; devil take me if _I_ can. But I
have a vague recollection of saying something that the aforesaid mess will
never petition the Horse Guards to put on their regimental colors; and here
I am--”
With these words the major gulped down a full goblet of wine, and once
more resumed his walk through the room. I shall not attempt to record the
feelings which agitated me during the major’s recital. In one rapid glance
I saw the aim of my vindictive enemy. My honor, not my life, was the object
he sought for; and ten thousand times more than ever did I pant for the
opportunity to confront him in a deadly combat.
“Charley,” said O’Shaughnessy, at length, placing his hand upon my
shoulder, “you must get to bed now. Nothing more can be done to-night in
any way. Be assured of one thing, my boy,--I’ll not desert you; and if that
assurance can give you a sound sleep, you’ll not need a lullaby.”
CHAPTER LX.
PRELIMINARIES.
I awoke refreshed on the following morning, and came down to breakfast with
a lighter heart than I had even hoped for. A secret feeling that all
would go well had somehow taken possession of me, and I longed for
O’Shaughnessy’s coming, trusting that he might be able to confirm my hopes.
His servant informed me that the major had been absent since daybreak, and
left orders that he was not to be waited for at breakfast.
I was not destined, however, to pass a solitary time in his absence, for
every moment brought some new arrival to visit me; and during the morning
the colonel and every officer of the regiment not on actual duty came over.
I soon learned that the feeling respecting Trevyllian’s conduct was one of
unmixed condemnation among my own corps, but that a kind of party spirit
which had subsisted for some months between the regiment he belonged to and
the 14th had given a graver character to the affair, and induced many men
to take up his views of the transaction; and although I heard of none who
attributed my absence to any dislike to a meeting, yet there were several
who conceived that, by my going at the time, I had forfeited all claim to
satisfaction at his hands.
“Now that Merivale is gone,” said an officer to me as the colonel left the
room, “I may confess to you that he sees nothing to blame in your conduct
throughout; and even had you been aware of how matters were circumstanced,
your duty was too imperative to have preferred your personal consideration
to it.”
“Does any one know where Conyers is?” said Baker.
“The story goes that Conyers can assist us here. Conyers is at Zaza la
Mayor, with the 28th; but what can he do?”
“That I’m not able to tell you; but I know O’Shaughnessy heard something at
parade this morning, and has set off in search of him on every side.”
“Was Conyers ever out with Trevyllian?”
“Not as a principal, I believe. The report is, however, that he knows more
about him than other people, as Tom certainly does of everybody.”
“It is rather a new thing for Trevyllian to refuse a meeting. They say,
O’Malley, he has heard of your shooting.”
“No, no,” said another; “he cares very little for any man’s pistol. If the
story be true, he fires a second or two before his adversary; at least, it
was in that way he killed Carysfort.”
“Here comes the great O’Shaughnessy!” cried some one at the window; and the
next moment the heavy gallop of a horse was heard along the causeway. In an
instant we all rushed to the door to receive him.
“It’s all right, lads!” cried he, as he came up. “We have him this time!”
“How?” “When?” “Why?” “In what way have you managed?” fell from a dozen
voices, as the major elbowed his way through the crowd to the sitting-room.
“In the first place,” said O’Shanghnessy, drawing a long breath, “I have
promised secrecy as to the steps of this transaction; secondly, if I
hadn’t, it would puzzle me to break it, for I’ll be hanged if I know more
than yourselves. Tom Conyers wrote me a few lines for Trevyllian, and
Trevyllian pledges himself to meet our friend; and that’s all we need know
or care for.”
“Then you have seen Trevyllian this morning?”
“No; Beaufort met me at the village. But even now it seems this affair is
never to come off. Trevyllian has been sent with a forage party towards
Lesco. However, that can’t be a long absence. But, for Heaven’s sake, let
me have some breakfast!”
While O’Shaughnessy proceeded to attack the viands before him, the others
chatted about in little groups; but all wore the pleased and happy looks of
men who had rescued their friend from a menaced danger. As for myself, my
heart swelled with gratitude to the kind fellows around me.
“How has Conyers assisted us at this juncture?” was my first question to
O’Shaughnessy, when we were once more alone.
“I am not at liberty to speak on that subject, Charley. But be satisfied
the reasons for which Trevyllian meets you are fair and honorable.”
“I am content.”
“The only thing now to be done is to have the meeting as soon as possible.”
“We are all agreed upon that point,” said I; “and the more so as the matter
had better be decided before Sir Arthur’s return.”
“Quite true. And now, O’Malley, you had better join your people as soon as
may be, and it will put a stop to all talking about the matter.”
The advice was good, and I lost no time in complying with it; and when
I joined the regiment that day at mess, it was with a light heart and a
cheerful spirit, for come what might of the affair, of one thing I was
certain,--my character was now put above any reach of aspersion, and my
reputation beyond attack.
CHAPTER LXI.
ALL RIGHT.
Some days after coming back to headquarters, I was returning from a visit I
had been making to a friend at one of the outposts, when an officer whom I
knew slightly overtook me and informed me that Major O’Shaughnessy had
been to my quarters in search of me, and had sent persons in different
directions to find me.
Suspecting the object of the major’s haste, I hurried on at once, and as
I rode up to the spot, found him in the midst of a group of officers,
engaged, to all appearance, in most eager conversation.
“Oh, here he comes!” cried he, as I cantered up. “Come, my boy, doff the
blue frock as soon as you can, and turn out in your best-fitting black.
Everything has been settled for this evening at seven o’clock, and we have
no time to lose.”
“I understand you,” said I, “and shall not keep you waiting.” So saying, I
sprang from my saddle and hastened to my quarters. As I entered the room I
was followed by O’Shaughnessy, who closed the door after him as he came in,
and having turned the key in it, sat down beside the table, and folding
his arms, seemed buried in reflection. As I proceeded with my toilet he
returned no answers to the numerous questions I put to him, either as to
the time of Trevyllian’s return, the place of the meeting, or any other
part of the transaction. His attention seemed to wander far from all around
and about him; and as he muttered indistinctly to himself, the few words I
could catch bore not in the remotest degree upon the matter before us.
“I have written a letter or two here, Major,” said I, opening my
writing-desk. “In case anything happens, you will look to a few things I
have mentioned here. Somehow, I could not write to poor Fred Power; but you
must tell him from me that his noble conduct towards me was the last thing
I spoke of.”
“What confounded nonsense you are talking!” said O’Shaughnessy, springing
from his seat and crossing the room with tremendous strides, “croaking away
there as if the bullet was in your thorax. Hang it, man, bear up!”
“But, Major, my dear friend, what the deuce are you thinking of? The few
things I mentioned--”
“The devil! you are not going over it all again, are you?” said he, in a
voice of no measured tone.
I now began to feel irritated in turn, and really looked at him for some
seconds in considerable amazement. That he should have mistaken the
directions I was giving him and attributed them to any cowardice was too
insulting a thought to bear; and yet how otherwise was I to understand the
very coarse style of his interruption?
At length my temper got the victory, and with a voice of most measured
calmness, I said, “Major O’Shaughnessy, I am grateful, most deeply
grateful, for the part you have acted towards me in this difficult
business; at the same time, as you now appear to disapprove of my conduct
and bearing, when I am most firmly determined to alter nothing, I shall beg
to relieve you of the unpleasant office of my friend.”
“Heaven grant that you could do so!” said he, interrupting me, while his
clasped hands and eager look attested the vehemence of the wish. He paused
for a moment, then, springing from his chair, rushed towards me, and threw
his arms around me. “No, my boy, I can’t do it,--I can’t do it. I have
tried to bully myself into insensibility for this evening’s work,--I have
endeavored to be rude to you, that you might insult me, and steel my heart
against what might happen; but it won’t do, Charley, it won’t do.”
With these words the big tears rolled down his stern cheeks, and his voice
became thick with emotion.
“But for me, all this need not have happened. I know it; I feel it. I
hurried on this meeting; your character stood fair and unblemished without
that,--at least they tell me so now; and I still have to assure you--”
“Come, my dear, kind friend, don’t give way in this fashion. You have stood
manfully by me through every step of the road; don’t desert me on the
threshold of--”
“The grave, O’Malley?”
“I don’t think so, Major; but see, half-past six! Look to these pistols for
me. Are they likely to object to hair-triggers?”
A knocking at the door turned off our attention, and the next moment
Baker’s voice was heard.
“O’Malley, you’ll be close run for time; the meeting-place is full three
miles from this.”
I seized the key and opened the door. At the same instant, O’Shaughnessy
rose and turned towards the window, holding one of the pistols in his hand.
“Look at that, Baker,--what a sweet tool it is!” said he, in a voice that
actually made me start. Not a trace of his late excitement remained; his
usually dry, half-humorous manner had returned, and his droll features were
as full of their own easy, devil-may-care fun as ever.
“Here comes the drag,” said Baker. “We can drive nearly all the way, unless
you prefer riding.”
“Of course not. Keep your hand steady, Charley, and if you don’t bring him
down with that saw-handle, you’re not your uncle’s nephew.”
With these words we mounted into the tax-cart, and set off for the
meeting-place.
CHAPTER LXII.
THE DUEL.
A small and narrow ravine between the two furze-covered dells led to the
open space where the meeting had been arranged for. As we reached this,
therefore, we were obliged to descend from the drag, and proceed the
remainder of the way afoot. We had not gone many yards when a step was
heard approaching, and the next moment Beaufort appeared. His usually easy
and _dégagé_ air was certainly tinged with somewhat of constraint; and
though his soft voice and half smile were as perfect as ever, a slightly
flurried expression about the lip, and a quick and nervous motion of his
eyebrow, bespoke a heart not completely at ease. He lifted his foraging cap
most ceremoniously to salute us as we came up, and casting an anxious look
to see if any others were following, stood quite still.
“I think it right to mention, Major O’Shaughnessy,” said he, in a voice of
most dulcet sweetness, “that I am the only friend of Captain Trevyllian on
the ground; and though I have not the slightest objection to Captain Baker
being present, I hope you will see the propriety of limiting the witnesses
to the three persons now here.”
“Upon my conscience, as far as I am concerned, or my friend either, we
are perfectly indifferent if we fight before three or three thousand. In
Ireland we rather like a crowd.”
“Of course, then, as you see no objection to my proposition, I may count
upon your co-operation in the event of any intrusion,--I mean, that while
we, upon our sides, will not permit any of our friends to come forward, you
will equally exert yourself with yours.”
“Here we are, Baker and myself, neither more nor less. We expect no one,
and want no one; so that I humbly conceive all the preliminaries you are
talking of will never be required.”
Beaufort tried to smile, and bit his lips, while a small red spot upon his
cheek spoke that some deeper feeling of irritation than the mere careless
manner of the major could account for, still rankled in his bosom. We
now walked on without speaking, except when occasionally some passing
observation of Beaufort upon the fineness of the evening, or the rugged
nature of the road, broke the silence. As we emerged from the little
mountain pass into the open meadow land, the tall and soldier-like figure
of Trevyllian was the first object that presented itself. He was standing
beside a little stone cross that stood above a holy well, and seemed
occupied in deciphering the inscription. He turned at the noise of our
approach, and calmly waited our coming. His eye glanced quickly from the
features of O’Shaughnessy to those of Baker; but seeming rapidly reassured
as he walked forward, his face at once recovered its usual severity and its
cold, impassive look of sternness.
“All right!” said Beaufort, in a whisper the tones of which I overheard, as
he drew near to his friend. Trevyllian smiled in return, but did not speak.
During the few moments which passed in conversation between the seconds,
I turned from the spot with Baker, and had scarcely time to address a
question to him, when O’Shaughnessy called out, “Hollo, Baker!--come here
a moment!” The three seemed now in eager discussion for some minutes, when
Baker walked towards Trevyllian, and saying something, appeared to wait
for his reply. This being obtained, he joined the others, and the moment
afterwards came to where I was standing. “You are to toss for first shot,
O’Malley. O’Shaughnessy has made that proposition, and the others agree
that with two crack marksmen, it is perhaps the fairest way. I suppose you
have no objection?”
“Of course, I shall make none. Whatever O’Shaughnessy decides for me I am
ready to abide by.”
“Well, then, as to the distance?” said Beaufort, loud enough to be heard by
me where I was standing. O’Shaughnessy’s reply I could not catch, but it
was evident, from the tone of both parties, that some difference existed on
the point.
“Captain Baker shall decide between us,” said Beaufort, at length, and they
all walked away to some distance. During all the while I could perceive
that Trevyllian’s uneasiness and impatience seemed extreme; he looked from
the speakers to the little mountain pass, and strained his eyes in every
direction. It was clear that he dreaded some interruption. At last, unable
any longer to control his feelings, he called out, “Beaufort, I say, what
the devil are we waiting for now?”
“Nothing at present,” said Beaufort, as he came forward with a dollar in
his hand. “Come, Major O’Shaughnessy, you shall call for your friend.”
He pitched the piece of money as he spoke high into the air, and watched it
as it fell on the soft grass beneath.
“Head! for a thousand,” cried O’Shaughnessy, running over and stooping
down; “and head it is!”
“You’ve won the first shot,” whispered Baker; “for Heaven’s sake be cool!”
Beaufort grew deadly pale as he bent over the crownpiece, and seemed
scarcely to have courage to look his friend in his face. Not so Trevyllian;
he pulled off his gloves without the slightest semblance of emotion,
buttoned up his well-fitting black frock to the throat, and throwing a
rapid glance around, seemed only eager to begin the combat.
“Fifteen paces, and the words, ‘One, two!’”
“Exactly. My cane shall mark the spot.”
“Devilish long paces you make them,” said O’Shaughnessy, who did not seem
to approve of the distance. “They have some confounded advantage in this,
depend upon it,” said the major, in a whisper to Baker.
“Are you ready?” inquired Beaufort.
“Ready,--quite ready!”
“Take your ground, then!”
As Trevyllian moved forward to his place, he muttered something to his
friend. I did not hear the first part, but the latter words which met me
were ominous enough: “For as I intend to shoot him, ‘tis just as well as it
is.”
Whether this was meant to be overheard and intimidate me I knew not;
but its effect proved directly opposite. My firm resolution to hit my
antagonist was now confirmed, and no compunctious visitings unnerved my
arm. As we took our places some little delay again took place, the flint of
my pistol having fallen; and thus we remained full ten or twelve seconds
steadily regarding each other. At length O’Shaughnessy came forward, and
putting my weapon in my hand, whispered low, “Remember, you have but one
chance.”
“You are both ready?” cried Beaufort.
“Ready!”
“Then: One, two--”
The last word was lost in the report of my pistol, which went off at the
instant. For a second the flash and smoke obstructed my view; but the
moment after I saw Trevyllian stretched upon the ground, with his friend
kneeling beside him. My first impulse was to rush over, for now all feeling
of enmity was buried in most heartfelt anxiety for his fate; but as I was
stepping forward, O’Shaughnessy called out, “Stand fast, boy, he’s only
wounded!” and the same moment he rose slowly from the ground, with the
assistance of his friend, and looked with the same wild gaze around him.
Such a look! I shall never forget it; there was that intense expression of
searching anxiety, as if he sought to trace the outlines of some visionary
spirit as it receded before him. Quickly reassured, as it seemed, by
the glance he threw on all sides, his countenance lighted up, not with
pleasure, but with a fiendish expression of revengeful triumph, which even
his voice evinced as he called out: “It’s my turn now.”
I felt the words in their full force, as I stood silently awaiting my death
wound. The pause was a long one. Twice did he interrupt his friend, as he
was about to give the word, by an expression of suffering, pressing his
hand upon his side, and seeming to writhe with torture; and yet this was
mere counterfeit.
O’Shaughnessy was now coming forward to interfere and prevent these
interruptions, when Trevyllian called out in a firm tone, “I’m ready!” At
the words, “One, two!” the pistol slowly rose; his dark eye measured me
coolly, steadily; his lip curled; and just as I felt that my last moment
of life had arrived, a heavy sound of a horse galloping along the rocky
causeway seemed to take off his attention. His frame trembled, his hand
shook, and jerking upwards his weapon, the ball passed high above my head.
“You bear me witness I fired in the air,” said Trevyllian, while the large
drops of perspiration rolled from his forehead, and his features worked as
if in a fit.
“You saw it, sir; and you, Beaufort, my friend, you also. Speak! Why will
you not speak?”
“Be calm, Trevyllian; be calm, for Heaven’s sake! What’s the matter with
you?”
[Illustration: THE COAT OF MAIL.]
“The affair is then ended,” said Baker, “and most happily so. You are, I
hope, not dangerously wounded.”
As he spoke, Trevyllian’s features grew deadly livid; his half-open mouth
quivered slightly, his eyes became fixed, and his arm dropped heavily
beside him, and with a low moan he fell fainting to the ground.
As we bent over him I now perceived that another person had joined our
party; he was a short, determined-looking man of about forty, with black
eyes and aquiline features. Before I had time to guess who it might be, I
heard O’Shaughnessy address him as Colonel Conyers.
“He is dying!” said Beaufort, still stooping over his friend, whose cold
hand he grasped within his own. “Poor, poor fellow!”
“He fired in the air,” said Baker, as he spoke in reply to a question from
Conyers.
What he answered I heard not, but Baker rejoined,--
“Yes, I am certain of it. We all saw it.”
“Had you not better examine his wounds?” said Conyers, in a tone of
sarcastic irony I could almost have struck him for. “Is your friend not
hit? Perhaps he is bleeding?”
“Yes,” said O’Shaughnessy, “let us look to the poor fellow now.” So saying,
with Beaufort’s aid he unbuttoned his frock and succeeded in opening his
waistcoat. There was no trace of blood anywhere, and the idea of internal
hemorrhage at once occurred to us, when Conyers, stooping down, pushed me
aside, saying at the same time,--
“Your fears for his safety need not distress you much,--look here!” As he
spoke he tore open his shirt, and disclosed to our almost doubting senses
a vest of chain-mail armor fitting close next the skin and completely
pistol-proof.
I cannot describe the effect this sight produced upon us. Beaufort sprang
to his feet with a bound as he screamed out, rather than spoke, “No man
believes me to have been aware--”
“No, no, Beaufort, your reputation is very far removed from such a stain,”
said Conyers.
O’Shaughnessy was perfectly speechless. He looked from one to the other, as
though some unexplained mystery still remained, and only seemed restored
to any sense of consciousness as Baker said, “I can feel no pulse at his
wrist,--his heart, too, does not beat.”
Conyers placed his hand upon his bosom, then felt along his throat, lifted
up an arm, and letting it fall heavily upon the ground, he muttered, “He is
dead!”
It was true. No wound had pierced him,--the pistol bullet was found within
his clothes. Some tremendous conflict of the spirit within had snapped the
cords of life, and the strong man had perished in his agony.
CHAPTER LXIII.
NEWS FROM GALWAY.
I have but a vague and most imperfect recollection of the events which
followed this dreadful scene; for some days my faculties seemed stunned and
paralyzed, and my thoughts clung to the minute detail of the ground,--the
persons about, the mountain path, and most of all the half-stifled cry that
spoke the broken heart,--with a tenacity that verged upon madness.
A court-martial was appointed to inquire into the affair; and although I
have been since told that my deportment was calm, and my answers were firm
and collected, yet I remember nothing of the proceedings.
The inquiry, through a feeling of delicacy for the friends of him who was
no more, was made as brief and as private as possible. Beaufort proved the
facts which exonerated me from any imputation in the matter; and upon the
same day the court delivered the decision: “That Lieutenant O’Malley was
not guilty of the charges preferred against him, and that he should be
released from arrest, and join his regiment.”
Nothing could be more kind and considerate than the conduct of my brother
officers,--a hundred little plans and devices for making me forget the
late unhappy event were suggested and practised,--and I look back to that
melancholy period, marked as it was by the saddest circumstance of my life,
as one in which I received more of truly friendly companionship than even
my palmiest days of prosperity boasted.
While, therefore, I deeply felt the good part my friends were performing
towards me, I was still totally unsuited to join in the happy current of
their daily pleasures and amusements. The gay and unreflecting character of
O’Shaughnessy, the careless merriment of my brother officers, jarred upon
my nerves, and rendered me irritable and excited; and I sought in lonely
rides and unfrequented walks, the peace of spirit that calm reflection and
a firm purpose for the future rarely fail to lead to.
There is in deep sorrow a touch of the prophetic. It is at seasons when the
heart is bowed down with grief, and the spirit wasted with suffering, that
the veil which conceals the future seems to be removed, and a glance, short
and fleeting as the lightning flash, is permitted us into the gloomy valley
before us.
Misfortunes, too, come not singly,--the seared heart is not suffered to
heal from one affliction ere another succeeds it; and this anticipation
of the coming evil is, perhaps, one of the most poignant features of
grief,--the ever-watchful apprehension, the ever-rising question, “What
next?” is a torture that never sleeps.
This was the frame of my mind for several days after I returned to my
duty,--a morbid sense of some threatened danger being my last thought at
night and my first on awakening. I had not heard from home since my arrival
in the Peninsula; a thousand vague fancies haunted me now that some
brooding misfortune awaited me. My poor uncle never left my thoughts. Was
he well; was he happy? Was he, as he ever used to be, surrounded by the
friends he loved,--the old familiar faces around the hospitable hearth his
kindliness had hallowed in my memory as something sacred? Oh, could I but
see his manly smile, or hear his voice! Could I but feel his hand upon my
head, as he was wont to press it, while words of comfort fell from his
lips, and sunk into my heart!
Such were my thoughts one morning as I sauntered, unaccompanied, from my
quarters. I had not gone far, when my attention was aroused by the noise
of a mule-cart, whose jingling bells and clattering timbers announced its
approach by the road I was walking. Another turn of the way brought it into
view; and I saw from the gay costume of the driver, as well as a small
orange flag which decorated the conveyance, that it was the mail-cart with
letters from Lisbon.
Full as my mind was with thoughts of home, I turned hastily back, and
retraced my steps towards the camp. When I reached the adjutant-general’s
quarters, I found a considerable number of officers assembled; the report
that the post had come was a rumor of interest to all, and accordingly,
every moment brought fresh arrivals, pouring in from all sides, and eagerly
inquiring, “If the bags had been opened?” The scene of riot, confusion, and
excitement, when that event did take place, exceeded all belief, each man
reading his letter half aloud, as if his private affairs and domestic
concerns must interest his neighbors, amidst a volley of exclamations of
surprise, pleasure, or occasional anger, as the intelligence severally
suggested,--the disappointed expectants cursing their idle correspondents,
bemoaning their fate about remittances that never arrived, or drafts never
honored; while here and there some public benefactor, with an outspread
“Times” or “Chronicle,” was retailing the narrative of our own exploits in
the Peninsula or the more novel changes in the world of politics since we
left England. A cross-fire of news and London gossip ringing on every side
made up a perfect Babel most difficult to form an idea of. The jargon
partook of every accent and intonation the empire boasts of; and from the
sharp precision of the North Tweeder to the broad doric of Kerry, every
portion, almost every county, of Great Britain had its representative. Here
was a Scotch paymaster, in a lugubrious tone, detailing to his friend the
apparently not over-welcome news that Mistress M’Elwain had just been
safely delivered of twins, which, with their mother, were doing as well
as possible. Here an eager Irishman, turning over the pages rather than
reading his letter, while he exclaimed to his friend,--
“Oh, the devil a rap she’s sent me. The old story about runaway tenants and
distress notices,--sorrow else tenants seem to do in Ireland than run away
every half-year.”
A little apart some sentimental-looking cockney was devouring a very
crossed epistle which he pressed to his lips whenever any one looked at
him; while a host of others satisfied themselves by reading in a kind of
buzzing undertone, every now and then interrupting themselves with some
broken exclamation as commentary,--such as, “Of course she will!” “Never
knew him better!” “That’s the girl for my money!” “Fifty per cent, the
devil!” and so on. At last I was beginning to weary of the scene, and
finding that there appeared to be nothing for me, was turning to leave the
place, when I saw a group of two or three endeavoring to spell out the
address of a letter.
“That’s an Irish post-mark, I’ll swear,” said one; “but who can make
anything of the name? It’s devilish like Otaheite, isn’t it?”
“I wish my tailor wrote as illegibly,” said another; “I’d keep up a most
animated correspondence with him.”
“Here, O’Shaughnessy, you know something of savage life,--spell us this
word here.”
“Show it here. What nonsense, it’s as plain as the nose on my face: ‘Master
Charles O’Malley, in foreign parts!’”
A roar of laughter followed this announcement, which, at any other time,
perhaps, I should have joined in, but which now grated sadly on my ruffled
feelings.
“Here, Charley, this is for you,” said the major; and added in a
whisper,--“and upon my conscience, between ourselves, your friend, whoever
he is, has a strong action against his writing-master,--devil such a fist
ever I looked at!”
One glance satisfied me as to my correspondent. It was from Father Rush,
my old tutor. I hurried eagerly from the spot, and regaining my quarters,
locked the door, and with a beating heart broke the seal and began, as well
as I was able, to decipher his letter. The hand was cramped and stiffened
with age, and the bold, upright letters were gnarled and twisted like a
rustic fence, and demanded great patience and much time in unravelling. It
ran thus:--
THE PRIORY, Lady-day, 1809.
MY DEAR MASTER CHARLES,--Your uncle’s feet are so big and
so uneasy that he can’t write, and I am obliged to take up the pen
myself, to tell you how we are doing here since you left us. And,
first of all, the master lost the lawsuit in Dublin, all for the want
of a Galway jury,--but they don’t go up to town for strong reasons
they had; and the Curranolick property is gone to Ned M’Manus,
and may the devil do him good with it! Peggy Maher left this on
Tuesday; she was complaining of a weakness; she’s gone to consult
the doctors. I’m sorry for poor Peggy.
Owen M’Neil beat the Slatterys out of Portunma on Saturday,
and Jem, they say, is fractured. I trust it’s true, for he never was
good, root nor branch, and we’ve strong reasons to suspect him for
drawing the river with a net at night. Sir Harry Boyle sprained his
wrist, breaking open his bed-room, that he locked when he was inside.
The count and the master were laughing all the evening at
him. Matters are going very hard in the country,--the people paying
their rents regularly, and not caring half as much as they used
about the real gentry and the old families.
We kept your birthday at the Castle in great style,--had the
militia band from the town, and all the tenants. Mr. James Daly
danced with your old friend Mary Green, and sang a beautiful song,
and was going to raise the devil, but I interfered; he burned down
half the blue drawing-room the last night with his tricks,--not that
your uncle cares, God preserve him to us! it’s little anything like
that would fret him. The count quarrelled with a young gentleman
in the course of the evening, but found out he was only an attorney
from Dublin, so he didn’t shoot him; but he was ducked in the pond
by the people, and your uncle says he hopes they have a true copy of
him at home, as they’ll never know the original.
Peter died soon after you went away, but Tim hunts the dogs
just as well. They had a beautiful run last Wednesday, and the
Lord[2] sent for him and gave him a five-pound note; but he says
he’d rather see yourself back again than twice as much. They
killed near the big turnip-field, and all went down to see where you
leaped Badger over the sunk fence,--they call it “Hammersley’s
Nose” ever since. Bodkin was at Ballinasloe the last fair, limping
about with a stick; he’s twice as quiet as he used to be, and never
beat any one since that morning.
Nellie Guire, at the cross-roads, wants to send you four pair of
stockings she knitted for you, and I have a keg of potteen of Barney’s
own making this two months, not knowing how to send it. May be
Sir Arthur himself would like a taste,--he’s an Irishman himself,
and one we’re proud of, too! The Maynooth chaps are flying all
about the country, and making us all uncomfortable,--God’s will be
done, but we used to think ourselves good enough! Your foster-sister,
Kitty Doolan, had a fine boy; it’s to be called after you, and
your uncle’s to give a christening. He bids me tell you to draw
on him when you want money, and that there’s £400 ready for you
now somewhere in Dublin,--I forget the name, and as he’s asleep, I
don’t like asking him. There was a droll devil down here in the
summer that knew you well,--a Mr. Webber. The master treated
him like the Lord Lieutenant, had dinner parties for him, and
gave him Oliver Cromwell to ride over to Meelish. He is expected
again for the cock-shooting, for the master likes him greatly. I’m
done at last, for my paper is finished and the candle just out; so with
every good wish and every good thought, remember your own old
friend,--
PETER RUSH.
P.S. It’s Smart and Sykes, Fleet Street, has the money.
Father O’Shaughnessey, of Ennis, bids me ask if you ever met his
nephew. If you do, make him sing “Larry M’Hale.” I hear it’s a
treat.
How is Mickey Free going on? There are three decent young
women in the parish he promised to marry, and I suppose he’s pursuing
the same game with the Portuguese. But he was never
remarkable for minding his duties. Tell him I am keeping my eye
on him.
P. R.
[Footnote:2 To excuse Father Rush for any apparent impiety, I must add
that, by “the Lord,” he means “Lord Clanricarde.”]
Here concluded this long epistle; and though there were many parts I could
not help smiling at, yet upon the whole I felt sad and dispirited. What I
had long foreseen and anticipated was gradually accomplishing,--the wreck
of an old and honored house, the fall of a name once the watch-word for
all that was benevolent and hospitable in the land. The termination of the
lawsuit I knew must have been a heavy blow to my poor uncle, who, every
consideration of money apart, felt in a legal combat all the enthusiasm and
excitement of a personal conflict. With him there was less a question of
to whom the broad acres reverted, so much as whether that “scoundrel Tom
Basset, the attorney at Athlone, should triumph over us;” or “M’Manus live
in the house as master where his father had officiated as butler.” It was
at this his Irish pride took offence; and straitened circumstances and
narrowed fortunes bore little upon him in comparison with this feeling.
I could see, too, that with breaking fortunes, bad health was making heavy
inroads upon him; and while, with the reckless desperation of ruin, he
still kept open house, I could picture to myself his cheerful eye and
handsome smile but ill concealing the slow but certain march of a broken
heart.
My position was doubly painful: for any advice, had I been calculated to
give it, would have seemed an act of indelicate interference from one who
was to benefit by his own counsel; and although I had been reared and
educated as my uncle’s heir, I had no title nor pretension to succeed him
other than his kind feelings respecting me. I could, therefore, only look
on in silence, and watch the painful progress of our downfall without power
to arrest it.
These were sad thoughts, and came when my heart was already bowed down with
its affliction. That my poor uncle might be spared the misery which sooner
or later seemed inevitable, was now my only wish; that he might go down to
the grave without the embittering feelings which a ruined fortune and a
fallen house bring home to the heart, was all my prayer. Let him but close
his eyes in the old wainscoted bed-room, beneath the old roof where his
fathers and grand-fathers have done so for centuries. Let the faithful
followers he has known since his childhood stand round his bed; while his
fast-failing sight recognizes each old and well-remembered object, and the
same bell which rang its farewell to the spirit of his ancestors toll for
him, the last of his race. And as for me, there was the wide world before
me, and a narrow resting-place would suffice for a soldier’s sepulchre.
As the mail-cart was returning the next day to Lisbon, I immediately sat
down and replied to the worthy Father’s letter, speaking as encouragingly
as I could of my own prospects. I dwelt much upon what was nearest my
heart, and begged of the good priest to watch over my uncle’s health, to
cheer his spirits and support his courage; and that I trusted the day was
not far distant when I should be once more among them, with many a story
of fray and battle-field to enliven their firesides. Pressing him to write
frequently to me, I closed my hurried letter; and having despatched it, sat
sorrowfully down to muse over my fortunes.
CHAPTER LXIV.
AN ADVENTURE WITH SIR ARTHUR.
The events of the last few days had impressed me with a weight of years.
The awful circumstances of that evening lay heavily at my heart; and though
guiltless of Trevyllian’s blood, the reproach that conscience ever carries
when one has been involved in a death-scene never left my thoughts.
For some time previously I had been depressed and disspirited, and the
awful shock I had sustained broke my nerve and unmanned me greatly.
There are times when our sorrows tinge all the colorings of our thoughts,
and one pervading hue of melancholy spreads like a pall upon what we have
of fairest and brightest on earth. So was it now: I had lost hope and
ambition; a sad feeling that my career was destined to misfortune and
mishap gained hourly upon me; and all the bright aspirations of a soldier’s
glory, all my enthusiasm for the pomp and circumstance of glorious war,
fell coldly upon my heart, and I looked upon the chivalry of a soldier’s
life as the empty pageant of a dream.
In this sad frame of mind, I avoided all intercourse with my brother
officers; their gay and joyous spirits only jarred upon my brooding
thoughts, and feigning illness, I kept almost entirely to my quarters.
The inactivity of our present life weighed also heavily upon me. The
stirring events of a campaign--the march, the bivouac, the picket--call
forth a certain physical exertion that never fails to react upon the torpid
mind.
Forgetting all around me, I thought of home; I thought of those whose
hearts I felt were now turning towards me, and considered within myself how
I could have exchanged the home, the days of peaceful happiness there, for
the life of misery and disappointment I now endured.
A brooding melancholy gained daily more and more upon me. A wish, to return
to Ireland, a vague and indistinct feeling that my career was not destined
for aught of great and good crept upon me, and I longed to sink into
oblivion, forgotten and forgot.
I record this painful feeling here, while it is still a painful memory, as
one of the dark shadows that cross the bright sky of our happiest days.
Happy, indeed, are they, as we look back to them and remember the times we
have pronounced ourselves “the most miserable of mankind.” This, somehow,
is a confession we never make later on in life, when real troubles and true
afflictions assail us. Whether we call in more philosophy to our aid, or
that our senses become less acute and discerning, I’m sure I know not.
As for me, I confess by far the greater portion of my sorrows seemed to
come in that budding period of existence when life is ever fairest and most
captivating. Not, perhaps, that the fact was really so, but the spoiled
and humored child, whose caprices were a law, felt heavily the threatening
difficulties of his first voyage; while as he continued to sail over the
ocean of life, he braved the storm and the squall, and felt only gratitude
for the favoring breeze that wafted him upon his course.
What an admirable remedy for misanthropy is the being placed in a
subordinate condition in life! Had I, at the period that I write, been Sir
Arthur Wellesley; had I even been Marshal Beresford,--to all certainty I’d
have played the very devil with his Majesty’s forces; I’d have brought my
rascals to where they’d have been well-peppered, that’s certain.
But as, luckily for the sake of humanity in general and the well-being of
the service in particular, I was merely Lieutenant O’Malley, 14th Light
Dragoons, the case was very different. With what heavy censure did I
condemn the commander of the forces in my own mind for his want of daring
and enterprise! Whole nights did I pass in endeavoring to account for his
inactivity and lethargy. Why he did not _seriatim_ fall upon Soult, Ney,
and Victor, annihilate the French forces, and sack Madrid, I looked upon as
little less than a riddle; and yet there he waited, drilling, exercising,
and foraging, as if he were at Hounslow. Now most fortunately here again I
was not Sir Arthur.
Something in this frame of mind, I was taking one evening a solitary ride
some miles from the camp. Without noticing the circumstance, I had entered
a little mountain tract, when, the ground being broken and uneven, I
dismounted and proceeded a-foot, with the bridle within my arm. I had not
gone far when the clatter of a horse’s hoofs came rapidly towards me, and
though there was something startling in the pace over such a piece of road,
I never lifted my eyes as the horseman came up, but continued my slow
progress onwards, my head sunk upon my bosom.
“Hallo, sir!” cried a sharp voice, whose tones seemed, somehow, not heard
for the first time. I looked up, saw a slight figure closely buttoned up
in a blue horseman’s cloak, the collar of which almost entirely hid his
features; he wore a plain, cocked hat without a feather, and was mounted
upon a sharp, wiry-looking hack.
“Hallo, sir! What regiment do you belong to?”
As I had nothing of the soldier about me, save a blue foraging cap, to
denote my corps, the tone of the demand was little calculated to elicit
a very polished reply; but preferring, as most impertinent, to make no
answer, I passed on without speaking.
“Did you hear, sir?” cried the same voice, in a still louder key. “What’s
your regiment?”
I now turned round, resolved to question the other in turn; when, to my
inexpressible shame and confusion, he had lowered the collar of his cloak,
and I saw the features of Sir Arthur Wellesley.
“Fourteenth Light Dragoons, sir,” said I, blushing as I spoke.
“Have you not read the general order, sir? Why have you left the camp?”
Now, I had not read a general order nor even heard one for above a
fortnight. So I stammered out some bungling answer.
“To your quarters, sir, and report yourself under arrest. What’s your
name?”
“Lieutenant O’Malley, sir.”
“Well, sir, your passion for rambling shall be indulged. You shall be sent
to the rear with despatches; and as the army is in advance, probably the
lesson may be serviceable.” So saying, he pressed spurs to his horse, and
was out of sight in a moment.
CHAPTER LXV.
TALAVERA.
Having been despatched to the rear with orders for General Crawfurd, I did
not reach Talavera till the morning of the 28th. Two days’ hard fighting
had left the contending armies still face to face, and without any decided
advantage on either side.
When I arrived upon the battle-field, the combat of the morning was over.
It was then ten o’clock, and the troops were at breakfast, if the few
ounces of wheat sparingly dealt out among them could be dignified by that
name. All was, however, life and animation on every side; the merry laugh,
the passing jest, the careless look, bespoke the free and daring character
of the soldiery, as they sat in groups upon the grass; and except when a
fatigue party passed by, bearing some wounded comrade to the rear, no touch
of seriousness rested upon their hardy features. The morning was indeed
a glorious one; a sky of unclouded blue stretched above a landscape
unsurpassed in loveliness. Far to the right rolled on in placid stream the
broad Tagus, bathing in its eddies the very walls of Talavera, the ground
from which, to our position, gently undulated across a plain of most
fertile richness and terminated on our extreme left in a bold height,
protected in front by a ravine, and flanked by a deep and rugged valley.
The Spaniards occupied the right of the line, connecting with our troops at
a rising ground, upon which a strong redoubt had been hastily thrown up.
The fourth division and the Guards were stationed here, next to whom came
Cameron’s brigade and the Germans, Mackenzie and Hill holding the extreme
left of all, which might be called the key of our position. In the valley
beneath the latter were picketed three cavalry regiments, among which I was
not long in detecting my gallant friends of the Twenty-third.
As I rode rapidly past, saluting some old familiar face at each moment, I
could not help feeling struck at the evidence of the desperate battle that
so lately had raged there. The whole surface of the hill was one mass of
dead and dying, the bearskin of the French grenadier lying side by side
with the tartan of the Highlander. Deep furrows in the soil showed the
track of the furious cannonade, and the terrible evidences of a bayonet
charge were written in the mangled corpses around.
The fight had been maintained without any intermission from daybreak
till near nine o’clock that morning, and the slaughter on both sides was
dreadful. The mounds of fresh earth on every side told of the soldier’s
sepulchre; and the unceasing tramp of the pioneers struck sadly upon the
ear, as the groans of the wounded blended with the funeral sounds around
them.
In front were drawn up the dark legions of France,--massive columns of
infantry, with dense bodies of artillery alternating along the line. They,
too, occupied a gently rising ground, the valley between the two armies
being crossed half way by a little rivulet; and here, during the sultry
heat of the morning, the troops on both sides met and mingled to quench
their thirst ere the trumpet again called them to the slaughter.
In a small ravine near the centre of our line were drawn up Cotton’s
brigade, of whom the Fusiliers formed a part. Directly in front of this
were Campbell’s brigade, to the left of which, upon a gentle slope, the
staff were now assembled. Thither, accordingly, I bent my steps, and as
I came up the little scarp, found myself among the generals of division,
hastily summoned by Sir Arthur to deliberate upon a forward movement. The
council lasted scarcely a quarter of an hour, and when I presented myself
to deliver my report, all the dispositions for the battle had been decided
upon, and the commander of the forces, seated upon the grass at his
breakfast, looked by far the most unconcerned and uninterested man I had
seen that morning.
He turned his head rapidly as I came up, and before the aide-de-camp could
announce me, called out:--
“Well, sir, what news of the reinforcements?”
“They cannot reach Talavera before to-morrow, sir.”
“Then, before that, we shall not want them. That will do, sir.”
So saying, he resumed his breakfast, and I retired, more than ever struck
with the surprising coolness of the man upon whom no disappointment seemed
to have the slightest influence.
I had scarcely rejoined my regiment, and was giving an account to my
brother officers of my journey, when an aide-de-camp came galloping at full
speed down the line, and communicating with the several commanding officers
as he passed.
What might be the nature of the orders we could not guess at; for no word
to fall in followed, and yet it was evident something of importance was
at hand. Upon the hill where the staff were assembled no unusual bustle
appeared; and we could see the bay cob of Sir Arthur still being led up and
down by the groom, with a dragoon’s mantle thrown over him. The soldiers,
overcome by the heat and fatigue of the morning, lay stretched around upon
the grass, and everything bespoke a period of rest and refreshment.
“We are going to advance, depend upon it!” said a young officer beside me;
“the repulse of this morning has been a smart lesson to the French, and Sir
Arthur won’t leave them without impressing it upon them.”
“Hark, what’s that?” cried Baker; “listen!”
As he spoke, a strain of most delicious music came wafted across the plain.
It was from the band of a French regiment, and mellowed by the distance,
it seemed in the calm stillness of the morning air like something less of
earth than heaven. As we listened, the notes swelled upwards yet fuller;
and one by one the different bands seemed to join, till at last the whole
air seemed full of the rich flood of melody.
We could now perceive the stragglers were rapidly falling back, while high
above all other sounds the clanging notes of the trumpet were heard along
the line. The hoarse drum now beat to arms; and soon after a brilliant
staff rode slowly from between two dense bodies of infantry, and advancing
some distance into the plain, seemed to reconnoitre us. A cloud of Polish
cavalry, distinguished by their long lances and floating banners, loitered
in their rear.
We had not time for further observation, when the drums on our side beat to
arms, and the hoarse cry, “Fall in,--fall in there, lads!” resounded along
the line.
It was now one o’clock, and before half an hour the troops had resumed the
position of the morning, and stood silent and anxious spectators of the
scene before them.
Upon the table-land to the rear of the French position, we could descry the
gorgeous tent of King Joseph, around which a large and splendidly-accoutred
staff were seen standing. Here, too, the bustle and excitement seemed
considerable, for to this point the dark masses of the infantry seemed
converging from the extreme right; and here we could perceive the royal
guards and the reserve now forming in column of attack.
From the crest of the hill down to the very valley, the dark, dense ranks
extended, the flanks protected by a powerful artillery and deep masses of
heavy cavalry. It was evident that the attack was not to commence on our
side, and the greatest and most intense anxiety pervaded us as to what part
of our line was first to be assailed.
Meanwhile Sir Arthur Wellesley, who from the height had been patiently
observing the field of battle, despatched an aide-de-camp at full gallop
towards Campbell’s brigade, posted directly in advance of us. As he passed
swiftly along, he called out, “You’re in for it, Fourteenth; you’ll have to
open the ball to-day.”
Scarcely were the words spoken, when a signal gun from the French boomed
heavily through the still air. The last echo was growing fainter, and the
heavy smoke breaking into mist, when the most deafening thunder ever my
ears heard came pealing around us; eighty pieces of artillery had opened
upon us, sending a very tempest of balls upon our line, while midst the
smoke and dust we could see the light troops advancing at a run, followed
by the broad and massive columns in all the terror and majesty of war.
“What a splendid attack! How gallantly they come on!” cried an old veteran
officer beside me, forgetting all rivalry in his noble admiration of our
enemy.
The intervening space was soon passed, and the tirailleurs falling back as
the columns came on, the towering masses bore down upon Campbell’s division
with a loud cry of defiance. Silently and steadily the English infantry
awaited the attack, and returning the fire with one withering volley, were
ordered to charge. Scarcely were the bayonets lowered, when the head of the
advancing column broke and fled, while Mackenzie’s brigade, overlapping the
flank, pushed boldly forward, and a scene of frightful carnage followed;
for a moment a hand-to-hand combat was sustained, but the unbroken files
and impregnable bayonets of the English conquered, and the French fled,
leaving six guns behind them.
The gallant enemy were troops of tried and proved courage, and scarcely had
they retreated when they again formed; but just as they prepared to come
forward, a tremendous shower of grape opened upon them from our batteries,
while a cloud of Spanish horse assailed them in flank and nearly cut them
in pieces.
While this was passing on the right, a tremendous attack menaced the hill
upon which our left was posted. Two powerful columns of French infantry,
supported by some regiments of light cavalry, came steadily forward to the
attack; Anson’s brigade were ordered to charge.
Away they went at top speed, but had not gone above a hundred yards when
they were suddenly arrested by a deep chasm; here the German hussars pulled
short up, but the Twenty-third dashing impetuously forward; a scene of
terrific carnage ensued, men and horses rolling indiscriminately together
under a withering fire from the French squares. Even here, however, British
valor quailed not, for Major Francis Ponsonby, forming all who came up,
rode boldly upon a brigade of French chasseurs in the rear. Victor, who
from the first had watched the movement, at once despatched a lancer
regiment against them, and then these brave fellows were absolutely cut to
atoms, the few who escaped having passed through the French columns and
reached Bassecour’s Spanish division on the far right.
During this time the hill was again assailed, and even more desperately
than before; while Victor himself led on the fourth corps to an attack upon
our right and centre.
The Guards waited without flinching the impetuous rush of the advancing
columns, and when at length within a short distance, dashed forward with
the bayonet, driving everything before them. The French fell back upon
their sustaining masses, and rallying in an instant, again came forward,
supported by a tremendous fire from their batteries. The Guards drew back,
and the German Legion, suddenly thrown into confusion, began to retire
in disorder. This was the most critical moment of the day, for although
successful upon the extreme right and left of our line, our centre was
absolutely broken. Just at this moment Gordon rode up to our brigade; his
face was pale, and his look flurried and excited.
“The Forty-eighth are coming; here they are,--support them, Fourteenth.”
These few words were all he spoke; and the next moment the measured tread
of a column was heard behind us. On they came like one man, their compact
and dense formation looking like some massive wall; wheeling by companies,
they suffered the Guards and Germans to retire behind them, and then,
reforming into line, they rushed forward with the bayonet. Our artillery
opened with a deafening thunder behind them, and then we were ordered to
charge.
We came on at a trot; the Guards, who had now recovered their formation,
cheered us as we proceeded. The smoke of the cannonade obscured everything
until we had advanced some distance, but just as we emerged beyond the line
of the gallant Forty-eighth, the splendid panorama of the battle-field
broke suddenly upon us.
“Charge, forward!” cried the hoarse voice of our colonel; and we were upon
them. The French infantry, already broken by the withering musketry of our
people, gave way before us, and unable to form a square, retired fighting
but in confusion, and with tremendous loss, to their position. One glorious
cheer, from left to right of our line, proclaimed the victory, while a
deafening discharge of artillery from the French replied to this defiance,
and the battle was over. Had the Spanish army been capable of a forward
movement, our successes at this moment would have been much more
considerable; but they did not dare to change their position, and the
repulse of our enemy was destined to be all our glory. The French, however,
suffered much more severely than we did; and retiring during the night,
fell back behind the Alberche, leaving us the victory and the battle-field.
CHAPTER LXVI.
NIGHT AFTER TALAVERA.
The night which followed the battle was a sad one. Through the darkness,
and under a fast-falling rain, the hours were spent in searching for
our wounded comrades amidst the heap of slain upon the field; and tho
glimmering of the lanterns, as they flickered far and near across the wide
plain, bespoke the track of the fatigue parties in their mournful round;
while the groans of the wounded rose amidst the silence with an accent of
heart-rending anguish; so true was it, as our great commander said, “There
is nothing more sad than a victory, except a defeat.”
Around our bivouac fires, the feeling of sorrowful depression was also
evident. We had gained a great victory, it was true: we had beaten the
far-famed legions of France upon a ground of their own choosing, led by the
most celebrated of their marshals and under the eyes of the Emperor’s own
brother; but still we felt all the hazardous daring of our position, and
had no confidence whatever in the courage or discipline of our allies; and
we saw that in the very _mêlée_ of the battle the efforts of the enemy
were directed almost exclusively against our line, so confidently did they
undervalue the efforts of the Spanish troops. Morning broke at length, and
scarcely was the heavy mist clearing away before the red sunlight, when the
sounds of fife and drum were heard from a distant part of the field. The
notes swelled or sank as the breeze rose or fell, and many a conjecture was
hazarded as to their meaning, for no object was well visible for more than
a few hundred yards off; gradually, however, they grew nearer and nearer,
and at length, as the air cleared, and the hazy vapor evaporated, the
bright scarlet uniform of a British regiment was seen advancing at a
quick-step.
As they came nearer, the well-known march of the gallant 43d was recognized
by some of our people, and immediately the rumor fled like lightning: “It
is Crawfurd’s brigade!” and so it was; the noble fellow had marched his
division the unparalleled distance of sixty English miles in twenty-seven
hours. Over a burning sandy soil, exposed to a raging sun, without rations,
almost without water, these gallant troops pressed on in the unwearied hope
of sharing the glory of the battle-field. One tremendous cheer welcomed the
head of the column as they marched past, and continued till the last file
had deployed before us.
As these splendid regiments moved by we could not help feeling what
signal service they might have rendered us but a few hours before. Their
soldier-like bearing, their high and effective state of discipline, their
well-known reputation, were in every mouth; and I scarcely think that any
corps who stood the brunt of the mighty battle were the subject of more
encomium than the brave fellows who had just joined us.
The mournful duties of the night were soon forgotten in the gay and buoyant
sounds on every side. Congratulations, shaking of hands, kind inquiries,
went round; and as we looked to the hilly ground where so lately were
drawn up in battle array the dark columns of our enemy, and where not one
sentinel now remained, the proud feeling of our victory came home to our
hearts with the ever-thrilling thought, “What will they say at home?”
I was standing amidst a group of my brother officers, when I received an
order from the colonel to ride down to Talavera for the return of our
wounded, as the arrival of the commander-in-chief was momentarily looked
for. I threw myself upon my horse, and setting out at a brisk pace, soon
reached the gates.
On entering the town, I was obliged to dismount and proceed on foot. The
streets were completely filled with people, treading their way among
wagons, forage carts, and sick-litters. Here was a booth filled with all
imaginable wares for sale; there was a temporary gin-shop established
beneath a broken baggage-wagon; here might be seen a merry party throwing
dice for a turkey or a kid; there, a wounded man, with bloodless cheek and
tottering step, inquiring the road to the hospital. The accents of
agony mingled with the drunken chorus, and the sharp crack of the
provost-marshal’s whip was heard above the boisterous revelling of the
debauchee. All was confusion, bustle, and excitement. The staff officer,
with his flowing plume and glittering epaulettes, wended his way on foot,
amidst the din and bustle, unnoticed and uncared for; while the little
drummer amused an admiring audience of simple country-folk by some wondrous
tale of the great victory.
My passage through this dense mass was necessarily a slow one. No one made
way for another; discipline for the time was at an end, and with it all
respect for rank or position. It was what nothing of mere vicissitude in
the fortune of war can equal,--the wild orgies of an army the day after a
battle.
On turning the corner of a narrow street, my attention was attracted by a
crowd which, gathered round a small fountain, seemed, as well as I could
perceive, to witness some proceeding with a more than ordinary interest.
Exclamations in Portuguese, expressive of surprise and admiration, wore
mingled with English oaths and Irish ejaculations, while high above all
rose other sounds,--the cries of some one in pain and suffering; forcing my
way through the dense group, I at length reached the interior of the crowd
when, to my astonishment, I perceived a short, fat, punchy-looking man,
stripped of his coat and waist-coat, and with his shirt-sleeves rolled
up to his shoulder, busily employed in operating upon a wounded soldier.
Amputation knives, tourniquets, bandages, and all other imaginable
instruments for giving or alleviating torture were strewed about him, and
from the arrangement and preparation, it was clear that he had pitched upon
this spot as an hospital for his patients. While he continued to perform
his functions with a singular speed and dexterity, he never for a moment
ceased a running fire of small talk, now addressed to the patient in
particular, now to the crowd at large, sometimes a soliloquy to himself,
and not unfrequently, abstractedly, upon things in general. These little
specimens of oratory, delivered in such a place at such a time, and, not
least of all, in the richest imaginable Cork accent, were sufficient to
arrest my steps, and I stopped for some time to observe him.
The patient, who was a large, powerfully-built fellow, had been wounded
in both legs by the explosion of a shell, but yet not so severely as to
require amputation.
“Does that plaze you, then?” said the doctor, as he applied some powerful
caustic to a wounded vessel; “there’s no satisfying the like of you. Quite
warm and comfortable ye’ll be this morning after that. I saw the same shell
coming, and I called out to Maurice Blake, ‘By your leave, Maurice, let
that fellow pass, he’s in a hurry!’ and faith, I said to myself, ‘there’s
more where you came from,--you’re not an only child, and I never liked the
family.’ What are ye grinning for, ye brown thieves?” This was addressed
to the Portuguese. “There, now, keep the limb quiet and easy. Upon my
conscience, if that shell fell into ould Lundy Foot’s shop this morning,
there’d be plenty of sneezing in Sacksville Street. Who’s next?” said he,
looking round with an expression that seemed to threaten that if no wounded
man was ready he was quite prepared to carve out a patient for himself. Not
exactly relishing the invitation in the searching that accompanied it,
I backed my way through the crowd, and continued my path towards the
hospital.
Here the scene which presented itself was shocking beyond
belief,--frightful and ghastly wounds from shells and cannon-shot were seen
on all sides, every imaginable species of suffering that man is capable of
was presented to view; while amidst the dead and dying, operations the most
painful were proceeding with a haste and bustle that plainly showed how
many more waited their turn for similar offices. The stairs were blocked
up with fresh arrivals of wounded men, and even upon the corridors and
landing-places the sick were strewn on all sides.
I hurried to that part of the building where my own people were, and soon
learned that our loss was confined to about fourteen wounded; five of them
were officers. But fortunately, we lost not a man of our gallant fellows,
and Talavera brought us no mourning for a comrade to damp the exultation we
felt in our victory.
CHAPTER LXVII.
THE OUTPOST.
During the three days which succeeded the battle, all things remained as
they were before. The enemy had gradually withdrawn all his forces, and our
most advanced pickets never came in sight of a French detachment. Still,
although we had gained a great victory, our situation was anything but
flattering. The most strenuous exertions of the commissariat were barely
sufficient to provision the troops; and we had even already but too much
experience of how little trust or reliance could be reposed in the most
lavish promises of our allies. It was true, our spirits failed us not;
but it was rather from an implicit and never-failing confidence in the
resources of our great leader, than that any among us could see his way
through the dense cloud of difficulty and danger that seemed to envelop us
on every side.
To add to the pressing emergency of our position, we learned on the evening
of the 31st that Soult was advancing from the north, and at the head
of fourteen thousand chosen troops in full march upon Placentia; thus
threatening our rear, at the very moment too, when any further advance was
evidently impossible.
On the morning of the 1st of August, I was ordered, with a small party, to
push forward in the direction of the Alberche, upon the left bank of which
it was reported that the French were again concentrating their forces, and
if possible, to obtain information of their future movements. Meanwhile the
army was about to fall back upon Oropesa, there to await Soult’s advance,
and if necessary, to give him battle; Cuesta engaging with his Spaniards
to secure Talavera, with its stores and hospitals, against any present
movement from Victor.
After a hearty breakfast, and a kind “Good-by!” from my brother officers,
I set out. My road along the Tagus, for several miles of the way, was a
narrow path scarped from the rocky ledge of the river, shaded by rich olive
plantations that throw a friendly shade over us during the noonday heat.
We travelled along silently, sparing our cattle from time to time, but
endeavoring ere nightfall to reach Torrijos, in which village we had heard
several French soldiers were in hospital. Our information leading us to
believe them very inadequately guarded, we hoped to make some prisoners,
from whom the information we sought could in all likelihood be obtained.
More than once during the day our road was crossed by parties similar to
our own, sent forward to reconnoitre; and towards evening a party of the
23d Light Dragoons, returning towards Talavera, informed us that the French
had retired from Torrijos, which was now occupied by an English detachment
under my old friend O’Shaughnessy.
I need not say with what pleasure I heard this piece of news, and eagerly
pressed forward, preferring the warm shelter and hospitable board the
major was certain of possessing, to the cold blast and dripping grass of
a bivouac. Night, however, fell fast; darkness, without an intervening
twilight, set in, and we lost our way. A bleak table-land with here and
there a stunted, leafless tree was all that we could discern by the pale
light of a new moon. An apparently interminable heath uncrossed by path or
foot-track was before us, and our jaded cattle seemed to feel the dreary
uncertainty of the prospect as sensitively as ourselves,--stumbling and
over-reaching at every step.
Cursing my ill-luck for such a misadventure, and once more picturing to my
mind the bright blazing hearth and smoking supper I had hoped to partake
of, I called a halt, and prepared to pass the night. My decision was
hastened by finding myself suddenly in a little grove of pine-trees whose
shelter was not to be despised; besides that, our bivouac fires were now
sure of being supplied.
It was fortunate the night was fine, though dark. In a calm, still
atmosphere, when not a leaf moved nor a branch stirred, we picketed our
tired horses, and shaking out their forage, heaped up in the midst a
blazing fire of the fir-tree. Our humble supper was produced, and even with
the still lingering revery of the major and his happier destiny, I began to
feel comfortable.
My troopers, who probably had not been flattering their imaginations with
such _gourmand_ reflections and views, sat happily around their cheerful
blaze, chatting over the great battle they had so lately witnessed, and
mingling their stories of some comrade’s prowess with sorrows for the dead
and proud hopes for the future. In the midst, upon his knees beside
the flame, was Mike, disputing, detailing, guessing, and occasionally
inventing,--all his arguments only tending to one view of the late victory:
“That it was the Lord’s mercy the most of the 48th was Irish, or we
wouldn’t be sitting there now!”
Despite Mr. Free’s conversational gifts, however, his audience one by one
dropped off in sleep, leaving him sole monarch of the watch-fire, and--what
he thought more of--a small brass kettle nearly full of brandy-and-water.
This latter, I perceived, he produced when all was tranquil, and seemed,
as he cast a furtive glance around, to assure himself that he was the only
company present.
Lying some yards off, I watched him for about an hour, as he sat rubbing
his hands before the blaze, or lifting the little vessel to his lips; his
droll features ever and anon seeming acted upon by some passing dream
of former devilment, as he smiled and muttered some sentences in an
under-voice. Sleep at length overpowered me; but my last waking thoughts
were haunted with a singular ditty by which Mike accompanied himself as
he kept burnishing the buttons of my jacket before the fire, now and then
interrupting the melody by a recourse to the copper.
“Well, well; you’re clean enough now, and sure it’s little good brightening
you up, when you’ll be as bad to-morrow. Like his father’s son, devil a lie
in it! Nothing would serve him but his best blue jacket to fight in, as if
the French was particular what they killed us in. Pleasant trade, upon my
conscience! Well, never mind. That’s beautiful _sperets_, anyhow. Your
health, Mickey Free; it’s yourself that stands to me.
“It’s little for glory I care;
Sure ambition is only a fable;
I’d as soon be myself as Lord Mayor,
With lashings of drink on the table.
I like to lie down in the sun
And _drame_, when my _faytures_ is scorchin’
That when I’m too _ould_ for more fun,
Why, I’ll marry a wife with a fortune.
“And in winter, with bacon and eggs,
And a place, at the turf-fire basking,
Sip my punch as I roasted my legs,
Oh, the devil a more I’d be asking!
For I haven’t a _janius_ for work,--
It was never the gift of the Bradies,--
But I’d make a most _illigant_ Turk,
For I’m fond of tobacco and ladies.”
This confounded _refrain_ kept ringing through my dream, and “tobacco and
ladies” mingled with my thoughts of storm and battle-field long after their
very gifted author had composed himself to slumber.
Sleep, and sound sleep, came at length, and many hours elapsed ere I awoke.
When I did so, my fire was reduced to its last embers. Mike, like the
others, had sunk in slumber, and midst the gray dawn that precedes the
morning, I could just perceive the dark shadows of my troopers as they lay
in groups around.
The fatigues of the previous day had so completely overcome me, that it was
with difficulty I could arouse myself so far as to heap fresh logs upon the
fire. This I did with my eyes half closed, and in that listless, dreamy
state which seems the twilight of sleep.
I managed so much, however, and was returning to my couch beneath a tree,
when suddenly an object presented itself to my eyes that absolutely rooted
me to the spot. At about twenty or thirty yards distant, where but the
moment before the long line of horizon terminated the view, there now stood
a huge figure of some ten or twelve feet in height,--two heads, which
surmounted this colossal personage, moved alternately from side to side,
while several arms waved loosely to and fro in the most strange and uncouth
manner. My first impression was that a dream had conjured up this distorted
image; but when I had assured myself by repeated pinchings and shakings
that I was really awake, still it remained there. I was never much given
to believe in ghosts; but even had I been so, this strange apparition
must have puzzled me as much as ever, for it could not have been the
representative of anything I ever heard of before.
A vague suspicion that some French trickery was concerned, induced me to
challenge it in French; so, without advancing a step, I halloed out, “_Qui
va là_?”
My voice aroused a sleeping soldier, who, springing up beside me, had his
carbine at the cock; while, equally thunderstruck with myself, he gazed at
the monster.
“_Qui va là_?” shouted I again, and no answer was returned, when suddenly
the huge object wheeled rapidly around, and without waiting for any further
parley, made for the thicket.
The tramp of a horse’s feet now assured me as to the nature of at least
part of the spectacle, when click went the trigger behind me, and the
trooper’s ball rushed whistling through the brushwood. In a moment the
whole party were up and stirring.
“This way, lads!” cried I, as drawing my sabre, I dashed into the pine
wood.
For a few moments all was dark as midnight; but as we proceeded farther, we
came out upon a little open space which commanded the plain beneath for a
great extent.
“There it goes!” said one of the men, pointing to a narrow, beaten path,
in which the tall figure moved at a slow and stately pace, while still the
same wild gestures of heads and limbs continued.
“Don’t fire, men! don’t fire!” I cried, “but follow me,” as I set forward
as hard as I could.
As we neared it, the frantic gesticulations grew more and more remarkable,
while some stray words, which we half caught, sounded like English in our
ears. We were now within pistol-shot distance, when suddenly the horse--for
that much at least we were assured of--stumbled and fell forward,
precipitating the remainder of the object headlong into the road.
In a second we were upon the spot, when the first sounds which greeted me
were the following, uttered in an accent by no means new to me:--
“Oh, blessed Virgin! Wasn’t it yourself that threw me in the mud, or my
nose was done for? Shaugh, Shaugh, my boy, since we are taken, tip them the
blarney, and say we’re generals of division!”
I need not say with what a burst of laughter I received this very original
declaration.
“I ought to know that laugh,” cried a voice I at once knew to be my friend
O’Shaughnessy’s. “Are you Charles O’Malley, by any chance in life?”
“The same, Major, and delighted to meet you; though, faith, we were near
giving you a rather warm reception. What, in the Devil’s name, did you
represent, just now?”
“Ask Maurice, there, bad luck to him. I wish the Devil had him when he
persuaded me into it.”
“Introduce me to your friend,” replied the other, rubbing his shins as he
spoke. “Mr. O’Mealey,”--so he called me,--“I think. Happy to meet you; my
mother was a Ryan of Killdooley, married to a first cousin of your father’s
before she took Mr. Quill, my respected progenitor. I’m Dr. Quill of the
48th, more commonly called Maurice Quill. Tear and ages! how sore my back
is! It was all the fault of the baste, Mr. O’Mealey. We set out in search
of you this morning, to bring you back with us to Torrijos, but we fell in
with a very pleasant funeral at Barcaventer, and joined them. They invited
us, I may say, to spend the day; and a very jovial day it was. I was the
chief mourner, and carried a very big candle through the village, in
consideration of as fine a meat-pie, and as much lush as my grief permitted
me to indulge in afterwards. But, my dear sir, when it was all finished, we
found ourselves nine miles from our quarters; and as neither of us were in
a very befitting condition for pedestrian exercise, we stole one of the
leaders out of the hearse,--velvet, plumes, and all,--and set off home.
“When we came upon your party we were not over clear whether you were
English, Portuguese, or French, and that was the reason I called out to
you, ‘God save all here!’ in Irish. Your polite answer was a shot, which
struck the old horse in the knee, and although we wheeled about in
double-quick, we never could get him out of his professional habits on the
road. He had a strong notion he was engaged in another funeral,--as he was
very likely to be,--and the devil a bit faster than a dead march could we
get him to, with all our thrashing. Orderly time for men in a hurry, with a
whole platoon blazing away behind them! But long life to the cavalry, they
never hit anything!”
While he continued to run on in this manner, we reached our watch-fire,
when what was my surprise to discover, in my newly-made acquaintance, the
worthy doctor I had seen a day or two before operating at the fountain at
Talavera.
“Well, Mr. O’Mealey,” said he, as he seated himself before the blaze, “What
is the state of the larder? Anything savory,--anything drink-inspiring to
be had?”
“I fear, Doctor, my fare is of the very humblest; still--”
“What are the fluids, Charley?” cried the major; “the cruel performance I
have been enacting on that cursed beast has left me in a fever.”
“This was a pigeon-pie, formerly,” said Dr. Quill, investigating the ruined
walls of a pasty; “and,--but come, here’s a duck; and if my nose deceive
me not, a very tolerable ham. Peter--Larry--Patsy--What’s the name of your
familiar there?”
“Mickey--Mickey Free.”
“Mickey Free, then; come here, avick! Devise a little drink, my son,--none
of the weakest--no lemon---hot! You understand, hot! That chap has an eye
for punch; there’s no mistaking an Irish fellow, Nature has endowed them
richly,--fine features and a beautiful absorbent system! That’s the gift!
Just look at him, blowing up the fire,--isn’t he a picture? Well, O’Mealey,
I was fretting that we hadn’t you up at Torrijos; we were enjoying life
very respectably,--we established a little system of small tithes upon
fowl, sheep, pigs’ heads, and wine skins that throve remarkably for the
time. Here’s the lush! Put it down there, Mickey, in the middle; that’s
right. Your health, Shaugh. O’Mealey, here’s a troop to you; and in the
mean time I’ll give you a chant:--
‘Come, ye jovial souls, don’t over the bowl be sleeping,
Nor let the grog go round like a cripple creeping;
If your care comes, up, in the liquor sink it,
Pass along the lush, I’m the boy can drink it.
Isn’t that so, Mrs. Mary Callaghan?
Isn’t that so, Mrs. Mary Callaghan?’
“Shaugh, my hearty, this begins to feel comfortable.”
“Your man, O’Mealey, has a most judicious notion of punch for a small
party; and though one has prejudices about a table, chairs, and that sort
of thing, take my word for it, it’s better than fighting the French, any
day.”
“Well, Charley, it certainly did look quite awkward enough the other day
towards three o’clock, when the Legion fell back before that French column,
and broke the Guards behind them.”
“Yes, you’re quite right; but I think every one felt that the confusion was
but momentary,--the gallant Forty-eighth was up in an instant.”
“Faith, I can answer for their alacrity!” said the doctor “I was making my
way to the rear with all convenient despatch, when an aide-de-camp called
out,--
“‘Cavalry coming! Take care, Forty-eighth!’
“‘Left face, wheel! Fall in there, fall in there!’ I heard on every side,
and soon found myself standing in a square, with Sir Arthur himself and
Hill and the rest of them all around me.
“‘Steady, men! Steady, now!’ said Hill, as he rode around the ranks, while
we saw an awful column of cuirassiers forming on the rising ground to our
left.
“‘Here they come!’ said Sir Arthur, as the French came powdering along,
making the very earth tremble beneath them.
“My first thought was, ‘The devils are mad, and they’ll ride down into us,
before they know they’re kilt!’ And sure enough, smash into our first rank
they pitched, sabring and cutting all before them; when at last the word
‘Fire!’ was given, and the whole head of the column broke like a shell, and
rolled horse over man on the earth.
“‘Very well done! very well, indeed!’ said Sir Arthur, turning as coolly
round to me as if he was asking for more gravy.
“‘Mighty well done!’ said I, in reply; and resolving not to be outdone in
coolness, I pulled out my snuff-box and offered him a pinch, saying, ‘The
real thing, Sir Arthur; our own countryman,--blackguard.’
“He gave a little grim kind of a smile, took a pinch, and then called
out,--
“‘Let Sherbroke advance!’ while turning again towards me, he said, ‘Where
are your people, Colonel?’
“‘Colonel!’ thought I; ‘is it possible he’s going to promote me?’ But
before I could answer, he was talking to another. Meanwhile Hill came up,
and looking at me steadily, burst out with,--
“‘Why the devil are you here, sir? Why ain’t you at the rear?’
“‘Upon my conscience,’ said I, ‘that’s the very thing I’m puzzling myself
about this minute! But if you think it’s pride in me, you’re greatly
mistaken, for I’d rather the greatest scoundrel in Dublin was kicking me
down Sackville Street, than be here now!’
“You’d think it was fun I was making, if you heard how they all laughed,
Hill and Cameron and the others louder than any.
“‘Who is he?’ said Sir Arthur, quickly.
“‘Dr. Quill, surgeon of the Thirty-third, where I exchanged, to be near my
brother, sir, in the Thirty-fourth.’
“‘A doctor,--a surgeon! That fellow a surgeon! Damn him, I took him for
Colonel Grosvenor! I say, Gordon, these medical officers must be docked of
their fine feathers, there’s no knowing them from the staff,--look to that
in the next general order.’
“And sure enough they left us bare and naked the next morning; and if the
French sharpshooters pick us down now, devil mend them for wasting powder,
for if they look in the orderly books, they’ll find their mistake.”
“Ah, Maurice, Maurice!” said Shaugh, with a sigh, “you’ll never
improve,--you’ll never improve!”
“Why the devil would I?” said he. “Ain’t I at the top of my
profession--full surgeon--with nothing to expect, nothing to hope for? Oh,
if I had only remained in the light company, what wouldn’t I be now?”
“Then you were not always a doctor?” said I.
“Upon my conscience, I wasn’t,” said he. “When Shaugh knew me first, I was
the Adonis of the Roscommon militia, with more heiresses in my list than
any man in the regiment; but Shaugh and myself were always unlucky.”
“Poor Mrs. Rogers!” said the major, pathetically, drinking off his glass
and heaving a profound sigh.
“Ah, the darling!” said the doctor. “If it wasn’t for a jug of punch that
lay on the hall table, our fortune in life would be very different.”
“True for you, Maurice!” quoth O’Shaughnessy.
“I should like much to hear that story,” said I, pushing the jug briskly
round.
“He’ll tell it you,” said O’Shaughnessy, lighting his cigar, and leaning
pensively back against a tree,--“he’ll tell it you.”
“I will, with pleasure,” said Maurice. “Let Mr. Free, meantime, amuse
himself with the punch-bowl, and I’ll relate it.”
END OF VOLUME I.