MIKE’S MISTAKE.
An hour before daybreak the Guerillas were in motion, and having taken a
most ceremonious leave of us, they mounted their horses and set out upon
their journey. I saw their gaunt figures wind down the valley, and watched
them till they disappeared in the distance. “Yes, brigands though they be,”
thought I, “there is something fine, something heroic in the spirit of
their unrelenting vengeance.” The sleuth-hound never sought the lair of
his victim with a more ravening appetite for blood than they track the
retreating columns of the enemy. Hovering around the line of march, they
sometimes swoop down in masses, and carry off a part of the baggage, or the
wounded. The wearied soldier, overcome by heat and exhaustion, who drops
behind his ranks, is their certain victim; the sentry on an advanced post
is scarcely less so. Whole pickets are sometimes attacked and carried off
to a man; and when traversing the lonely passes of some mountain gorge, or
defiling through the dense shadows of a wooded glen, the stoutest heart has
felt a fear, lest from behind the rock that frowned above him, or from the
leafy thicket whose branches stirred without a breeze, the sharp ring of a
Guerilla carbine might sound his death-knell.
It was thus in the retreat upon Corunna fell Colonel Lefebvre. Ever
foremost in the attack upon our rear-guard, this gallant youth (he was
scarce six-and-twenty), a colonel of his regiment, and decorated with the
Legion of Honor, he led on every charge of his bold “_sabreurs_,” riding
up to the very bayonets of our squares, waving his hat above his head, and
seeming actually to court his death-wound; but so struck were our brave
fellows with his gallant bearing, that they cheered him as he came on.
It was in one of these moments as, rising high in his stirrups, he bore
down upon the unflinching ranks of the British infantry, the shrill whistle
of a ball strewed the leaves upon the roadside, the exulting shout of a
Guerilla followed it, and the same instant Lefebvre fell forward upon his
horse’s mane, a deluge of blood bursting from his bosom. A broken cry
escaped his lips,--a last effort to cheer on his men; his noble charger
galloped forward between our squares, bearing to us our prisoner, the
corpse of his rider.
“Captain O’Malley,” said a mounted dragoon to the advanced sentry at the
bottom of the little hill upon which I was standing. “Despatches from
headquarters, sir,” delivering into my hands a large sealed packet from the
adjutant-general’s office. While he proceeded to search for another letter
of which he was the bearer, I broke the seal and read as follows:--
ADJUTANT-GENERAL’S OFFICE.
May 15.
Sir,--On the receipt of this order you are directed, having previously
resigned your command to the officer next in seniority, to
repair to headquarters at Fueutes d’Onoro, there to report yourself
under arrest.
I have the honor to be your obedient servant,
GEORGE HOPETON,
_Military Secretary_.
“What the devil can this mean?” said I to myself, as I read the lines over
again and again. “What have I done lately, or what have I left undone to
involve me in this scrape? Ah!” thought I, “to be sure, it can be nothing
else. Lord Wellington _did_ recognize me that unlucky morning, and has
determined not to let me pass unpunished. How unfortunate. Scarcely
twenty-four hours have elapsed since fortune seemed to smile upon me from
every side, and now the very destiny I most dreaded stares me fully in the
face.” A reprimand, or the sentence of a court-martial, I shrank from with
a coward’s fear. It mattered comparatively little from what source arising,
the injury to my pride as a man and my spirit as a soldier would be almost
the same.
“This is the letter, sir,” said the orderly, presenting me with a packet,
the address of which was in Power’s hand-writing. Eagerly tearing it open,
I sought for something which might explain my unhappy position. It bore the
same date as the official letter, and ran thus:--
My Dear Charley,--I joined yesterday, just in time to enjoy the
heartiest laugh I have had since our meeting. If notoriety can gratify
you, by Jove, you have it; for Charles O’Malley and his man Mickey
Free are bywords in every mess from Villa Formosa to the rear-guard.
As it’s only fair you should participate a little in the fun you’ve
originated, let me explain the cause. Your inimitable man Mike, to
whom it appears you intrusted the report of killed and wounded for
the adjutant-general, having just at that moment accomplished a
letter to his friends at home, substituted his correspondence for your
returns, and doubtless, sent the list of the casualties as very
interesting information to his sweetheart in Ireland. If such be the
case, I hope and trust she has taken the blunder in better part than
old Colbourn, who swears he’ll bring you to a court-martial, under
Heaven knows what charges. In fact, his passion has known no bounds
since the event; and a fit of jaundice has given his face a kind of
neutral tint between green and yellow, like nothing I know of except
the facings of the “dirty half-hundred.” [2]
[Footnote 2: For the information of my unmilitary readers, I may
remark that this sobriquet was applied to the 50th Regiment.]
As Mr. Free’s letter may be as great a curiosity to you as it has
been to us, I enclose you a copy of it, which Hopeton obtained for
me. It certainly places the estimable Mike in a strong light as a
despatch-writer. The occasional interruption to the current of the
letter, you will perceive, arises from Mike having used the pen of a
comrade, writing being, doubtless, an accomplishment forgotten in
the haste of preparing Mr. Free for the world; and the amanuensis
has, in more than one instance, committed to paper more than was
meant by the author:--
Mrs. M’Gra,--Tear an’ ages, sure I need not be treating he
way. Now, just say Mrs. Mary--ay, that’ll do--Mrs. Mary, it’s may be
surprised you’ll be to be reading a letter from your humble servant,
sitting on the top of the Alps,--arrah, may be it’s not the Alps; but
sure she’ll never know,--fornent the whole French army, with Bony
himself and all his jinnerals--God be between us and harm--ready to
murther every mother’s son of us, av they were able, Molly darlin’;
but, with the blessing of Providence, and Lord Wellington and Mister
Charles, we’ll bate them yet, as we bate them afore.
My lips is wathering at the thought o’ the plunder. I often
of Tim Riley, that was hanged for sheep-stealing; he’d be worth his
weight in gold here.
Mr. Charles is now a captain--devil a less--and myself might be
somethin’ that same, but ye see I was always of a bashful n
and recommended the master in my place. “He’s mighty young, Mister
Charles is,” says my Lord Wellington to me,--“He’s mighty young, Mr.
Free.” “He is, my lord,” says I; “he’s young, as you obsarve, but
he’s as much divilment in him as many that might be his father.”
“That’s somethin’, Mr. Free,” says my lord; “ye say he comes from a
good stock?” “The _rale_ sort, my lord,” says I; “an ould, ancient
family, that’s spent every sixpence they had in treating their
neighbors. My father lived near him for years,”--you see, Molly, I
said that to season the discourse. “We’ll make him a captain,” says
my lord; “but, Mr. Free, could we do nothing for you?” “Nothing, at
present, my lord. When my friends comes into power,” says I, “they’ll
think of me. There’s many a little thing to give away in Ireland, and
they often find it mighty hard to find a man for lord-lieutenant; and
if that same, or a tide-waiter’s place was vacant--” “Just tell me,”
says my lord. “It’s what I’ll do,” says I. “And now, wishing you
happy dreams, I’ll take my lave.” Just so, Molly, it’s hand and glove
we are. A pleasant face, agreeable manners seasoned with natural
modesty, and a good pair of legs, them’s the gifts to push a man’s
way in the world. And even with the ladies--but sure I am forgetting,
my master was proposed for, and your humble servant too, by two
illigant creatures in Lisbon; but it wouldn’t do, Molly, it’s higher
nor that we’ll be looking,--_rale_ princesses, the devil a less. Tell
Kitty Hannigan I hope she’s well; she was a disarving young
in her situation in life. Shusey Dogherty, at the cross road--
I don’t forget the name--was a good-looking slip too; give her my
affectionate salutations, as we say in the Portuguese. I hope I’ll be
able to bear the inclementuous nature of your climate when I go back;
but I can’t expect to stay long--for Lord Wellington can’t do without
me. We play duets on the guitar together every evening. The master is
shouting for a blanket, so no more at present from,
Your very affectionate friend,
MICKEY FREE.
P. S.--I don’t write this myself, for the Spanish tongue p
out o’ the habit of English. Tell Father Rush, if he’d study the
Portuguese, I’d use my interest for him with the Bishop of Toledo.
It’s a country he’d like--no regular stations, but promiscuous eating
and drinking, and as pretty girls as ever confessed their sins.
My poor Charley, I think I am looking at you. I think I can
see the struggle between indignation, and laughter, which every line
of this letter inflicts upon you. Get back as quickly as you can, and
we’ll try if Crawfurd won’t pull you through the business. In any
case, expect no sympathy; and if you feel disposed to be angry with
all who laugh at you, you had better publish a challenge in the next
general order. George Scott, of, the Greys, bids me say, that if
you’re hard up for cash, he’ll give you a couple of hundred for
Mickey Free. I told him I thought you’d accept it, as your uncle
has the breed of those fellows upon his estate, and might have no
objection to weed his stud. Hammersley’s gone back with the Dashwoods;
but I don’t think you need fear anything in that quarter.
At the same time, if you wish for success, make a bold push for the
peerage and half-a-dozen decorations, for Miss Lucy is most decidedly
gone wild about military distinction. As for me, my affairs go on
well: I’ve had half-a-dozen quarrels with Inez, but we parted good
friends, and my bad Portuguese has got me out of all difficulties with
papa, who pressed me tolerably close as to fortune. I shall want
your assistance in this matter yet. If parchments will satisfy him, I
think I could get up a qualification; but somehow the matter must
be done, for I’m resolved to have his daughter.
The orderly is starting, so no more till we meet.
Yours ever, FRED POWER.
“Godwin,” said I, as I closed the letter, “I find myself in a scrape at
headquarters; you are to take the command of the detachment, for I must set
out at once.”
“Nothing serious, I hope. O’Malley?”
“Oh, no; nothing of consequence. A most absurd blunder of my rascally
servant.”
“The Irish fellow yonder?”
“The same.”
“He seems to take it easily, however.”
“Oh, confound him! he does not know what trouble he has involved me in; not
that he’ll care much when he does.”
“Why, he does not seem to be of a very desponding temperament. Listen to
the fellow! I’ll be hanged, if he’s not singing!”
“I’m devilishly disposed to spoil his mirth. They tell me, however, he
always keeps the troop in good humor; and see, the fellows are actually
cleaning his horses for him, while he is sitting on the bank!”
“Faith, O’Malley, that fellow knows the world. Just hear him.”
Mr. Free was, as described, most leisurely reposing on a bank, a mug of
something drinkable beside him, and a pipe of that curtailed proportion
which an Irishman loves held daintily between his fingers. He appeared to
be giving his directions to some soldiers of the troop, who were busily
cleaning his horses and accoutrements for him.
[Illustration: MR. FREE PIPES WHILE HIS FRIENDS PIPE-CLAY.]
“That’s it, Jim! Rub ‘em down along the hocks; he won’t kick; it’s only
play. Scrub away, honey; that’s the devil’s own carbine to get clean.”
“Well, I say, Mr. Free, are you going to give us that ere song?”
“Yes. I’ll be danged if I burnish your sabre, if you don’t sing.”
“Tear an’ ages! ain’t I composing it? Av I was Tommy Moore, I couldn’t be
quicker.”
“Well, come along, my hearty; let’s hear it.”
“Oh, murther!” said Mike, draining the pot to its last few drops, which he
poured pathetically upon the grass before him; and then having emptied the
ashes from his pipe, he heaved a deep sigh, as though to say life had no
pleasures in store for him. A brief pause followed, after which, to the
evident delight of his expectant audience, he began the following song, to
the popular air of “Paddy O’Carroll”:--
BAD LUCK TO THIS MARCHING.
Air,--_Paddy O’Carroll_.
Bad luck to this marching,
Pipe-claying, and starching,
How neat one must be to be killed by the French,
I’m sick of parading,
Through wet and cowld wading,
Or standing all night to be shot in a trench.
To the tune of a fife
They dispose of your life,
You surrender your soul to some illigant lilt;
Now, I like Garryowen,
When I hear it at home,
But it’s not half so sweet when you’re going to be kilt.
Then, though up late and early,
Our pay comes so rarely,
The devil a farthing we’ve ever to spare;
They say some disaster
Befell the paymaster;
On my conscience, I think that the money’s not there.
And just think what a blunder,
They won’t let us plunder,
While the convents invite us to rob them, ‘tis clear;
Though there isn’t a village,
But cries, “Come and pillage,”
Yet we leave all the mutton behind for Mounseer.
Like a sailor that’s nigh land,
I long for that island
Where even the kisses we steal if we please;
Where it is no disgrace
If you don’t wash your face,
And you’ve nothing to do but to stand at your ease.
With no sergeant t’abuse us,
We fight to amuse us;
Sure, it’s better bate Christians than kick a baboon.
How I’d dance like a fairy
To see ould Dunleary,
And think twice ere I’d leave it to be a dragoon!
“There’s a sweet little bit for you,” said Mike, as he concluded; “thrown
off as aisy as a game at football.”
“I say, Mr. Free, the captain’s looking for you; he’s just received
despatches from the camp, and wants his horses.”
“In that case, gentlemen, I must take my leave of you; with the more
regret, too, that I was thinking of treating you to a supper this evening.
You needn’t be laughing; it’s in earnest I am. Coming, sir, coming!”
shouted he, in a louder tone, answering some imaginary call, as an excuse
for his exit.
When he appeared before me, an air of most business-like alacrity had
succeeded to his late appearance, and having taken my orders to get the
horses in readiness, he left me at once, and in less than half an hour we
were upon the road.