Disembark at Dover—Shorn Cliff Barracks—I am invalided, and pass the
Board at Chelsea—Augustine’s arrival—Sixpence a day—Sir Andrew
Barnard—Sir David Dundas—My hopeless condition—Blood money—The
Honourable Doctor Wellesley—Mr. Walsford—Augustine returns with me to
France—I retrace my steps alone to Calais—To Dover—Dreadful extremes—A
new field for practice—A friend in need—Another “Forlorn-Hope”—Colonel
Ford—A Rifleman without an appetite—Death of Augustine.
DISEMBARKING at Dover, our regiment marched to Shorn Cliff Barracks,
where we had not long been quartered when an order arrived from the
Horse Guards for two sergeants and two corporals of each company of the
Rifles to be discharged. Men who had been wounded were to be first, and
old men next. I was accordingly, although only about thirty-one years of
age, invalided by our doctor, on account of my wounds, and immediately
departed for Chatham, to await an order from Chelsea to proceed to
London, to pass the Board. Here, to my astonishment, one day Augustine
presented herself before me. Her appearance almost electrified me.
“Edouard—mon cher Edouard,” she exclaimed, “je te suivrai partout.” I
then learned that, having arrived at Shorn Cliff Barracks, and inquired
for me, Colonel Leach had kindly paid her passage by coach to Chatham,
directing her where to find me. Here she gave birth to a child. Shortly
afterwards I received orders to appear before the Chelsea Board, and we
proceeded to London, with others. On our arrival, our circumstances
being very needy, we took a single room in Red Lion Street, Chelsea,
where we resolved to live as sparingly as possible. I passed the Board,
but soon found the pittance allowed me insufficient to maintain us,
being only sixpence per day. I had yet hopes, however, that my case was
not understood, and I therefore applied to my Colonel, Sir Andrew
Barnard, and explained it to him. Sir Andrew instantly gave me a note
(which I now hold in my possession)[23] for Sir David Dundas, the then
Governor of Chelsea. Thus provided, and equipped in my uniform, I set
out for Sir David’s residence, and found him walking about the grounds
in front of his house, at Chelsea College. I handed my paper to him in
person, and retired aside while he perused it. But Sir David having
scanned it without turning his head, tossing aside his pigtail with his
fore-finger, cooly handed the note over his shoulders to me, remarking
at the same moment, that he dared say the Lords Commissioners of Chelsea
had given me what they thought I deserved.
The old gentleman, I suppose, possessed too much of the Spartan blood,
to notice me more than he did; and like the two survivors of Thermopylæ,
he thought my return to England highly inglorious, and unbefitting a
soldier; since it had made me a sixpenny burthen on the country I had
served.
Day after day we struggled with our necessities, and I confess I saw
nothing but starvation staring me in the face. What was to be done? My
faithful Augustine deliberated with me in our misfortune, with great
patience, and we agreed that it would be most desirable for her to
return to her uncle, and endeavour to move the family of her father to a
reconciliation with us both. Her infant, she thought, could not fail to
excite commiseration; but how were we to defray the expenses of so long
a journey? However, having received several wounds in the service, I was
entitled to what is commonly termed “blood money.” A certificate to that
effect, and signed by my commanding officer and the adjutant of my
regiment, I now had by me. This was to be presented to the parson of the
parish in which I was resident one month after my discharge. The
Honourable Dr. Wellesley, brother to the Duke of Wellington, being
rector of Chelsea, I appealed to him, and he referred me to a Mr.
Walsford, Secretary of the Patriotic Fund, No. 80, Cornhill. But this
gentleman was even more Spartan than the Lords Commissioners, for after
two or three struts up and down his office, he suddenly stopped, and
staring me very stupidly in the face, said, “Damn it, Sir! did you
expect to fight with puddings or Norfolk dumplings? If men go to battle,
what else can they expect but wounds! I am now busy, and cannot be
troubled with you.” I returned to Chelsea—represented my situation to
Mr. Wellesley, and through him, succeeded in obtaining a small sum—five
pounds—for the wound at Waterloo, but none for the others which I
received in the Peninsula. With this scanty supply we proceeded to
Dover, thence to Calais, and from thence to St. Omer, where, taking
leave of my beloved Augustine and her infant (_for the last time_), we
parted. She promised to write me word immediately she succeeded with her
family, and, if not, it was agreed that as soon as my circumstances
improved she should return to me. “Ne m’oubliez pas” were her last
words: as she squeezed my hand.
Without a farthing in my pocket, for I had given the last sou to her,
and was determined to forage my own way home the best way I could, I
again set off for Calais, where I arrived in much distress. Here fortune
was favourable to me. A brother mason kindly befriended me, and gave me
a free passage to Dover. Had it not been for this kind assistance, I
know not how I should have crossed the Straits. At Dover nothing could
exceed my wretchedness; I had struggled with difficulties in a foreign
country, but I was now returned to my own as if I had been an outcast
upon earth, without a friend or farthing in the world. The thought
maddened me. For a day and a night I walked the streets of Dover, and
scarcely tasted food. A thousand times I asked myself “What can I do?
How shall I act?” Begging was out of the question—a _soldier_ could not
beg. More fitted in this state of mind for a highwayman than a beggar, I
said to myself, “Can I not rob?” I had no fire-arms. Thus, pondering how
I should proceed, I walked slowly along the road that leads to
Canterbury, and on a sudden espied a number of hop-poles in an adjoining
field. The thought flashed like lightning on my brain, that I would
seize one of these, and knock down the first man who came past. Clearing
the hedge at a jump, and pulling one of the poles out of the pile, and
snapping it off at the butt-end, and retiring to my position on the
road, I resolutely glanced about in search of the first passenger, and
as quickly at some distance, observed two men walking smartly towards
me. I squeezed my cudgel firm in my hand, and awaited their approach;
but ere I could bring myself to a proper sense of what I was about, one
of the men suddenly shot himself beside me, saying, “What, Ned! is that
you, my boy? How are you?” shaking me by the hand at the same time. In
an instant I recognized him to be a man of my own regiment, named Jem
Conner, but I could scarcely answer him; he noticed my confusion, and in
the same breath, while he still held my hand, insisted on my returning
with him to Dover. Little dreaming the true cause of my agitation, I
returned with him, where he informed me he was married. I have often
thought that the circumstance of a friend being the person on whom I
thus alighted, was a providential interference that prevented my
committing an act which would ever have embittered my future life.
Perhaps, by similar interposition, however imperceptible to man, many
are saved from the commission of crime.
Before parting from my generous comrade, who insisted on my sleeping at
his house that night, and although himself in needy circumstances, he
provided me most liberally with what I most required; (poor fellow! he
was severely wounded at Waterloo, passed the board, and married a woman
at Dover:)[24] I explained to him my abject situation, when he advised
me to lay my Chelsea discharge before the Commandant at Dover, who was
then Colonel Ford, and solicit from him sufficient means to carry me to
London. This was to beg—a task contrary to my nature. I asked him what I
was to say? how act? for I had been a soldier since I was sixteen years
of age, and was unacquainted with the forms of civil life. He gave me
such advice as occurred to him, accompanied me on the road, and showed
me the house at which the Colonel resided. It was, I remember, at the
end of the town, near the General Hospital.
With an unwilling hand I rung the bell. The door was immediately opened.
“Is the Colonel at home?” said I. “Do you wish to see him?” answered the
footman, surveying my person. “I do,” was my reply, “tell him that a
sergeant of the Rifles wishes to speak to him.” The servant then
stepping across the hall, went into the room, and while the door was
ajar, I heard the Colonel ask, “Is he in uniform or in coloured
clothes?” “In coloured clothes,” was the answer. “Tell him to come in.”
I entered the room slowly, and believe me, I went with more spirits on
the forlorn-hope at Badajoz than I now did into the presence of this
officer. He was standing with his back to the fire-place. “Well,
friend,” said he, “what do you want?” In a doubtful tone, I answered, “I
want to know, Sir, if you will lend me a little money, to carry me to
London, and I will pay you when I get my pension.” While thus delivering
myself, which I did in a very confused manner, the Colonel stooped, and
staring me full in the face, as if he thought me mad, with a stentorian
voice, he exclaimed, “God damn you, Sir! who are you, what are you, what
do you want?” The Colonel’s uncouth manner suddenly overwhelmed my
already sinking heart; but the whole spirit of the “man” rebounding from
the shock, instantaneously brought me about again, for recovering
myself, in a firm, earnest, yet determined manner, I replied, “Sir, I am
a man brought to the last pitch of distress, without friend or money. If
you will assist me, pray do so, but do not insult my feelings.” Then
laying my papers on the table, I added, “There, Sir, are my papers; keep
them until I refund the money. I am a Sergeant of the Rifle Brigade, who
has seen service.” Taking my Chelsea discharge, and reading over
attentively the wounds I had received, he looked at me with altogether
an altered expression, and said, “You must have been a gallant fellow,
or you would not have got so many scars in the service; which battalion
did you belong to?” I told him the first. He then asked me what money I
wanted to take me to London. I answered it was only seventy-one miles,
and two shillings would be sufficient, as I could walk more than
thirty-five miles a day, I had no knapsack to carry, and a shilling per
day would do for me.
There my feelings overpowered me, and he, seeing my emotion, turned
himself round to the fire-place, evidently affected; then, facing me
again, said, “Tut, tut! a brave soldier should not mind a little
poverty;” for at this time I could not answer him; then, ringing the
bell, the footman who was in attendance came into the room, “Tell the
cook,” said he, “to get a good dinner ready for a gallant soldier.”
Then, putting a chair towards me, in a friendly manner told me to sit
down, and began conversing familiarly. He asked a number of questions
concerning the Peninsular war; but we were shortly interrupted by the
servant, informing him dinner was ready. “Go, now,” said he, “and take
some refreshment.” But, alas! my appetite was gone; I could have eaten a
donkey before, but now I could not break bread. The servants, observing
me so discomposed, went and informed the Colonel of it, when he came to
me himself, tapping me on the shoulder, saying, “Come, come, make a good
dinner,” then, turning to the servant, ordered him to bring a bottle of
wine. After my repast he again returned, accompanied by a lady, perhaps
his wife or daughter, to whom he had probably been speaking of me, and
who may have felt curious to see the rough soldier who had gone through
so memorable a campaign. He now slipped some twelve half-crowns into my
hand, and desired me on no account to walk, but to take coach to London;
at the same time he presented me my papers. I thanked him, but requested
he would keep them until I could return the money. “No, no;” he replied,
“I make you a present of it.” He then, in a very kind manner said, “Your
old Colonel, Colonel Barnard, is made a General, and a Knight. He is now
Major-General Sir Andrew Barnard; and, if you wish it, I will write to
him about you.” Again I thanked him, and said, “The Colonel is well
acquainted with me.” I left the house with feelings of gratitude which I
could not give utterance to; and never, although many years have passed,
shall I forget the kindness of Colonel Ford.
On my return to London I wrote to Augustine, but received no answer. I
waited with anxiety, and then came the mournful intelligence of her
death; most likely owing to her father, as he remained inexorable to the
last. Poor Augustine! Peace be to thy memory!