THE JOURNEY.
With that disastrous day my campaigning was destined, for some time
at least, to conclude. My wound, which grew from hour to hour more
threatening, at length began to menace the loss of the arm, and by the
recommendation of the regimental surgeons, I was ordered back to Lisbon.
Mike, by this time perfectly restored, prepared everything for my
departure, and on the third day after the battle of the Coa, I began my
journey with downcast spirits and depressed heart. The poor fellow was,
however, a kind and affectionate nurse, and unlike many others, his cares
were not limited to the mere bodily wants of his patient,--he sustained,
as well as he was able, my drooping resolution, rallied my spirits, and
cheered my courage. With the very little Portuguese he possessed, he
contrived to make every imaginable species of bargain; always managed a
good billet; kept every one in good humor, and rarely left his quarters in
the morning without a most affective leave-taking, and reiterated promises
to renew his visit.
Our journeys were usually short ones, and already two days had elapsed,
when, towards nightfall, we entered the little hamlet of Jaffra. During the
entire of that day, the pain of my wounded limb had been excruciating; the
fatigue of the road and the heat had brought back violent inflammation, and
when at last the little village came in sight, my reason was fast yielding
to the torturing agonies of my wound. But the transports with which I
greeted my resting-place were soon destined to a change; for as we drew
near, not a light was to be seen, not a sound to be heard, not even a dog
barked as the heavy mule-cart rattled over the uneven road. No trace of
any living thing was there. The little hamlet lay sleeping in the pale
moonlight, its streets deserted, and its homes tenantless; our own
footsteps alone echoed along the dreary causeway. Here and there, as we
advanced farther, we found some relics of broken furniture and house-gear;
most of the doors lay open, but nothing remained within save bare walls;
the embers still smoked in many places upon the hearth, and showed us that
the flight of the inhabitants had been recent. Yet everything convinced
us that the French had not been there; there was no trace of the reckless
violence and wanton cruelty which marked their footsteps everywhere.
All proved that the desertion had been voluntary; perhaps in compliance
with an order of our commander-in-chief, who frequently desired any
intended line of march of the enemy to be left thus a desert. As we
sauntered slowly on from street to street, half hoping that some one human
being yet remained behind, and casting our eyes from side to side in search
of quarters for the night, Mike suddenly came running up, saying,--
“I have it, sir; I’ve found it out. There’s people living down that small
street there; I saw a light this minute as I passed.”
I turned immediately, and accompanied by the mule-driver, followed Mike
across a little open square into a small and narrow street, at the end
of which a light was seen faintly twinkling. We hurried on and in a few
minutes reached a high wall of solid masonry, from a niche of which we now
discovered, to our utter disappointment, the light proceeded. It was a
small lamp placed before a little waxen image of the Virgin, and was
probably the last act of piety of some poor villager ere he left his home
and hearth forever. There it burned, brightly and tranquilly, throwing its
mellow ray upon the cold, deserted stones.
Whatever impatience I might have given way to in a moment of chagrin was
soon repressed, as I saw my two followers, uncovering their heads in silent
reverence, kneel down before the little shrine. There was something at once
touching and solemn in this simultaneous feeling of homage from the hearts
of those removed in country, language, and in blood. They bent meekly down,
their heads bowed upon their bosoms, while with muttering voices each
offered up his prayer. All sense of their disappointment, all memory of
their forlorn state, seemed to have yielded to more powerful and absorbing
thoughts, as they opened their hearts in prayer.
My eyes were still fixed upon them when suddenly Mike, whose devotion
seemed of the briefest, sprang to his legs, and with a spirit of levity
but little in accordance with his late proceedings, commenced a series of
kicking, rapping, and knocking at a small oak postern sufficient to have
aroused a whole convent from their cells. “House there! Good people
within!”--bang, bang, bang; but the echoes alone responded to his call,
and the sounds died away at length in the distant streets, leaving all as
silent and dreary as before.
Our Portuguese friend, who by this time had finished his orisons, now began
a vigorous attack upon the small door, and with the assistance of Mike,
armed with a fragment of granite about the size of a man’s head, at length
separated the frame from the hinges, and sent the whole mass prostrate
before us.
The moon was just rising as we entered the little park, where gravelled
walks, neatly kept and well-trimmed, bespoke recent care and attention;
following a handsome alley of lime-trees, we reached a little _jet d’eau_,
whose sparkling fountain shone diamond-like in the moonbeams, and escaping
from the edge of a vast shell, ran murmuring amidst mossy stones and
water-lilies that, however naturally they seemed thrown around, bespoke
also the hand of taste in their position. On turning from the spot, we came
directly in front of an old but handsome château, before which stretched
a terrace of considerable extent. Its balustraded parapet lined with
orange-trees, now in full blossom, scented the still air with delicious
odor; marble statues peeped here and there amidst the foliage, while a rich
acacia, loaded with flowers, covered the walls of the building, and hung in
vast masses of variegated blossom across the tall windows.
As leaning on Mike’s arm I slowly ascended the steps of the terrace, I was
more than ever struck with the silence and death-like stillness around;
except the gentle plash of the fountain, all was at rest; the very plants
seemed to sleep in the yellow moonlight, and not a trace of any living
thing was there.
The massive door lay open as we entered the spacious hall flagged with
marble and surrounded with armorial bearings. We advanced farther and came
to a broad and handsome stair, which led us to a long gallery, from which
a suit of rooms opened, looking towards the front part of the building.
Wherever we went, the furniture appeared perfectly untouched; nothing was
removed; the very chairs were grouped around the windows and the tables;
books, as if suddenly dropped from their readers’ hands, were scattered
upon the sofas and the ottomans; and in one small apartment, whose blue
satin walls and damask drapery bespoke a boudoir, a rich mantilla of
black velvet and a silk glove were thrown upon a chair. It was clear the
desertion had been most recent, and everything indicated that no time had
been given to the fugitives to prepare for flight. What a sad picture of
war was there! To think of those whose home was endeared to them by all
the refinements of cultivated life and all the associations of years of
happiness sent out upon the wide world wanderers and houseless, while
their hearth, sacred by every tie that binds us to our kindred, was to
be desecrated by the ruthless and savage hands of a ruffian soldiery. I
thought of them,--perhaps at that very hour their thoughts were clinging
round the old walls, remembering each well-beloved spot, while they took
their lonely path through mountain and through valley,--and felt ashamed
and abashed at my own intrusion there. While thus my revery ran on, I
had not perceived that Mike, whose views were very practical upon all
occasions, had lighted a most cheerful fire upon the hearth, and disposing
a large sofa before it, had carefully closed the curtains; and was, in
fact, making himself and his master as much at home as though he had spent
his life there.
“Isn’t it a beautiful place, Misther Charles? And this little room, doesn’t
it remind you of the blue bed-room in O’Malley Castle, barrin’ the elegant
view out upon the Shannon, and the mountain of Scariff?”
Nothing short of Mike’s patriotism could forgive such a comparison; but,
however, I did not contradict him as he ran on:--
“Faith, I knew well there was luck in store for us this evening; and ye see
the handful of prayers I threw away outside wasn’t lost. José’s making
the beasts comfortable in the stable, and I’m thinking we’ll none of us
complain of our quarters. But you’re not eating your supper; and the
beautiful hare-pie that I stole this morning, won’t you taste it? Well, a
glass of Malaga? Not a glass of Malaga? Oh, mother of Moses! what’s this
for?”
Unfortunately, the fever produced by the long and toilsome journey had
gained considerably on me, and except copious libations of cold water, I
could touch nothing; my arm, too, was much more painful than before. Mike
soon perceived that rest and quietness were most important to me at the
moment, and having with difficulty been prevailed upon to swallow a few
hurried mouthfuls, the poor fellow disposed cushions around me in every
imaginable form for comfort; and then, placing my wounded limb in its
easiest position, he extinguished the lamp, and sat silently down beside
the hearth, without speaking another word.
Fatigue and exhaustion, more powerful than pain, soon produced their
effects upon me, and I fell asleep; but it was no refreshing slumber which
visited my heavy eyelids; the slow fever of suffering had been hour by
hour increasing, and my dreams presented nothing but scenes of agony and
torture. Now I thought that, unhorsed and wounded, I was trampled beneath
the clanging hoofs of charging cavalry; now I felt the sharp steel piercing
my flesh, and heard the loud cry of a victorious enemy; then, methought, I
was stretched upon a litter, covered by gore and mangled by a grape-shot.
I thought I saw my brother officers approach and look sadly upon me, while
one, whose face I could not remember, muttered: “I should not have known
him.” The dreadful hospital of Talavera, and all its scenes of agony, came
up before me, and I thought that I lay waiting my turn for amputation. This
last impression, more horrible to me than all the rest, made me spring from
my couch, and I awoke. The cold drops of perspiration stood upon my brow,
my mouth was parched and open, and my temples throbbed so that I could
count their beatings; for some seconds I could not throw off the frightful
illusion I labored under, and it was only by degrees I recovered
consciousness and remembered where I was. Before me, and on one side of the
bright wood-fire, sat Mike, who, apparently deep in thought, gazed fixedly
at the blaze. The start I gave on awaking had not attracted his attention,
and I could see, as the flickering glare fell upon his features, that he
was pale and ghastly, while his eyes were riveted upon the fire; his lips
moved rapidly, as if in prayer, and his locked hands were pressed
firmly upon his bosom; his voice, at first inaudible, I could gradually
distinguish, and at length heard the following muttered sentences:--
“Oh, mother of mercy! So far from his home and his people, and so young to
die in a strange land--There it is again.” Here he appeared listening
to some sounds from without. “Oh, wirra, wirra, I know it well!--the
winding-sheet, the winding-sheet! There it is; my own eyes saw it!”
The tears coursed fast upon his pale cheeks, and his voice grew almost
inaudible, as rocking to and fro, for some time he seemed in a very stupor
of grief; when at last, in a faint, subdued tone, he broke into one of
those sad and plaintive airs of his country, which only need the moment of
depression to make them wring the very heart in agony.
His song was that to which Moore has appended the beautiful lines, “Come
rest on this bosom.” The following imperfect translation may serve to
convey some impression of the words, which in Mike’s version were Irish:--
“The day was declining,
The dark night drew near,
And the old lord grew sadder
And paler with fear:
‘Come listen, my daughter,
Come nearer, oh, near!
Is’t the wind or the water
That sighs in my ear?’
“Not the wind nor the water
Now stirred the night air,
But a warning far sadder,--.
The Banshee was there!
Now rising, now swelling,
On the night wind it bore
One cadence, still telling,
‘I want thee, Rossmore!’
“And then fast came his breath,
And more fixed grew his eye;
And the shadow of death
Told his hour was nigh.
Ere the dawn of that morning
The struggle was o’er,
For when thrice came the warning
A corpse was Rossmore!”
The plaintive air to which these words were sung fell heavily upon my
heart, and it needed but the low and nervous condition I was in to make me
feel their application to myself. But so it is; the very superstition your
reason rejects and your sense spurns, has, from old association, from
habit, and from mere nationality too, a hold upon your hopes and fears that
demands more firmness and courage than a sick-bed possesses to combat with
success; and I now listened with an eager ear to mark if the Banshee
cried, rather than sought to fortify myself by any recurrence to my own
convictions. Meanwhile Mike’s attitude became one of listening attention.
Not a finger moved; he scarce seemed even to breathe; the state of suspense
I suffered from was maddening; and at last, unable to bear it longer, I
was about to speak, when suddenly, from the floor beneath us, one
long-sustained note swelled upon the air and died away again, and
immediately after, to the cheerful sounds of a guitar, we heard the husky
voice of our Portuguese guide indulging himself in a love-ditty.
Ashamed of myself for my fears, I kept silent; but Mike, who felt only one
sensation,--that of unmixed satisfaction at his mistake,--rubbed his hands
pleasantly, filled up his glass, drank it, and refilled; while with an
accent of reassured courage, he briefly remarked,--
“Well, Mr. José, if that be singing, upon my conscience I wonder what
crying is like!”
I could not forbear a laugh at the criticism; and in a moment, the poor
fellow, who up to that moment believed me sleeping, was beside me. I saw
from his manner that he dreaded lest I had been listening to his melancholy
song, and had overheard any of his gloomy forebodings; and as he cheered
my spirits and spoke encouragingly, I could remark that he made more than
usual endeavors to appear light-hearted and at ease. Determined, however,
not to let him escape so easily, I questioned him about his belief in
ghosts and spirits, at which he endeavored, as he ever did when the subject
was an unpleasing one, to avoid the discussion; but rather perceiving that
I indulged in no irreverent disrespect of these matters, he grew gradually
more open, treating the affair with that strange mixture of credulity and
mockery which formed his estimate of most things,--now seeming to suppose
that any palpable rejection of them might entail sad consequences in
future, now half ashamed to go the whole length in his credulity.
“And so, Mike, you never saw a ghost yourself?--that you acknowledge?”
“No, sir, I never saw a real ghost; but sure there’s many a thing I never
saw; but Mrs. Moore, the housekeeper, seen two. And your grandfather that’s
gone--the Lord be good to him!--used to walk once a year in Lurra Abbey;
and sure you know the story about Tim Clinchy that was seen every Saturday
night coming out of the cellar with a candle and a mug of wine and a pipe
in his mouth, till Mr. Barry laid him. It cost his honor your uncle ten
pounds in Masses to make him easy; not to speak of a new lock and two bolts
on the cellar door.”
“I have heard all about that; but as you never yourself saw any of these
things--”
“But sure my father did, and that’s the same any day. My father seen the
greatest ghost that ever was seen in the county Cork, and spent the evening
with him, that’s more.”
“Spent the evening with him!--what do you mean?”
“Just that, devil a more nor less. If your honor wasn’t so weak, and the
story wasn’t a trying one, I’d like to tell it to you.”
“Out with it by all means, Mike; I am not disposed to sleep; and now that
we are upon these matters, my curiosity is strongly excited by your worthy
father’s experience.”
Thus encouraged, having trimmed the fire and reseated himself beside the
blaze, Mike began; but as a ghost is no every-day personage in our history,
I must give him a chapter to himself.