Floats from the mast—adieu! adieu!
Flow'r of the flow'rs! smile of the smiles!
Gem of the Zelander's sandy isles!
O! many a time will I turn to thee,
In fond and faithful memory.
Though pleasure over my path may shine,
'Twill only remind me of thee and thine—
Though sorrow may haunt me, yet 'twill be
The sharpener of what I lost in thee.
For ever, for ever, my heart will remember
The stormy birth of our own September.
When down on my head fell sheets of rain,
And the lightning lash'd the gloomy plain:
As if the Heav'ns were repeating that night,
(What that day we had done) the terrible fight.[14]
For, Sweet, in that hour of tempest I met thee,
And felt, even then, I could never forget thee.
Oh! thy gentle looks, and thy pitying sighs,
Put an end to the rage of the roaring skies;
And thy father, thy home, and thine own sweet smile,
Made me love the Zelander's sandy isle.
How quick, how quick, did the moments flee!
O! their beautiful wings were made by thee.
How fair—how fair was each morning's light;
For thou wert there—so bright—so bright!
But one—the last—was bleak and dark—
Oh! it dawn'd in mist on my home-bound bark—
I cannot help thinking it seem'd to be
A gloomy omen of destiny.
Yes, while I live, shall my soul remember
The stormy birth of our own September;
For thou shalt be as a lovely tree,
Fresh blooming within my memory—
For ever budding beautiful leaves
To cheer the waste over which it waves.
FOOTNOTES:
[12] The midshipmen who commanded these parties, were all steady
officers of not less than four or five-and-twenty years of age.
[13] Alas! Flushing.
[14] On the night succeeding the surrender of Flushing, the most
terrific thunder-storm raged for several hours.
JOURNAL OF A CAMPAIGN AT THE HORSE-GUARDS.
Laurea flaminibus, quæ toto perstitit anno,
Tollitur, et frondes sunt in honore novæ.
OVID.
April 1st. Proceeded by forced marches from Chatham, to Charing-cross.
Halted for the night, and ordered a double ration of rum.
2nd. Took up a position in the Strand, my right leaning on the
Hungerford, my left on the Wheatsheaf-tavern. Reconnoitred the enemy,
found him in strong force, and entrenched; flanked by the Treasury on
the right, and, on the left, by the War-office. Wavered a little, but
thought of Waterloo, Salamanca, and the storming of Badajoz.
3rd. Sent out spies.—Bad news—approaches of the enemy's entrenchments
almost inaccessible. Reconnoitred the rear of his position, in
disguise—narrow escape of being cut off by the Adjutant-general.
4th. Skirmishing at various parts of the lines. Sharp-shooting
effective.—Took one of the Duke's porters, and learnt from him the
precise state of the enemy—right commanded by Sir Herbert Taylor; left,
by Lord Palmerston—Commander-in-Chief, the Duke in person. Fell back
with my light troops upon my centre—doubts of success increasing, but
thought of my motto “_nil desperandum_,” and former services.
5th. Out-posts attacked by Sir Henry Torrens, and driven in—ordered up
a brigade of artillery, and light cavalry—desired effect; kept him in
check, and _gained time_.
6th. All quiet.
7th. Threw out my light troops—attacked, and took the lobby, an
important post in the enemy's front. Manœuvred on his right, but could
not bring Sir Herbert Taylor to action.
8th. All quiet—some auxiliary troops arrive—strong hopes of success.
9th. Under arms at day-break—manœuvred on the enemy's right again—drove
in his piquets—sharp skirmishing—Sir Herbert Taylor came out from his
entrenchments in great force—moved a column of infantry, and a brigade
of artillery, supported by a body of cavalry, to the attack. Cannonaded
him briskly, and charged with effect; but Sir Herbert was reinforced,
and maintained his ground; so I retired in order.
From 9th to 27th. Skirmishing every day—fortified my position—increased
my strength by _forced levees_.—Endeavoured to bring the enemy to
action without effect—annoyed in my rear, by a body of _disaffected_
tradesmen—things looking worse.
28th. Held a council of war—long faces—military chest light—provisions
scarce—supplies cut off from Greenwood and Cox—affairs
desperate—resolved on making a decisive effort.
29th. Nearly cut off in reconnoitring, by the _disaffected Sheriff_
of Middlesex, and his Guerilla band, but made good my retreat—saved
by a fog. Moved out my light troops, to take an important post from
the enemy, and after some sharp work, lodged myself in the waiting
room—directed my attention again to Sir Herbert Taylor—after a brisk
engagement turned his right, and drove him in; but it was too late to
follow up the advantage.
30th. Removed the engagement—directed my whole force to the
centre—keeping the left in check—attacked the Duke with desperate
energy—drove him from his entrenchments—cannonaded him incessantly from
three commanding points—threw him into confusion—poured in my cavalry,
and completely routed the enemy.
Thus I remained master of the field; and for this victory, was rewarded
by His Most Gracious Majesty, with—A COMPANY!
MESS-TABLE CHAT.
No. II.
“A band of gallant souls, who knew
The olive wood, the mountain blue,
The ration rum, the biscuit black,
The long bleak road, the bivouac,
The cannon's thunder, and the bays
That wave o'er glorious victories,
Better than city's midnight dress,
Her luxuries, and gaudiness.”
SCENE—_the mess-room of an Infantry regiment_.
By way of introduction to the present number of “Mess-Table Chat,” a
short description of the scene, as well as the actors in it, will not
be amiss; it will assist the reader very considerably in the conception
of the picture.
Let him, then, imagine a spacious apartment well-carpeted, containing
a large sideboard, on which are spread all the shining accompaniments
of good eating and good drinking; the windows richly curtained; a large
blazing fire at one extremity of the room (the season requiring it); an
oblong table, at which are seated about eight-and-twenty officers, all
in their full regimentals;—scarlet coat, yellow facings buttoned back
on the breast; the field officers (a colonel and two majors) having
_two_ rich silver epaulettes each; the staff (three surgeons, one
pay-master, and one quarter-master) in single-breasted coats _without_
epaulettes; and all the other officers (three of the grenadiers and
three of the light company excepted—they having two wings instead)
wearing _one_ epaulette each on the right shoulder; white pantaloons,
and Hessian boots on all; sashes (except with the staff) but no swords.
Let the reader also imagine the countenances of the officers; the
greatest number well tanned by the sunshine of foreign climes, and
exhibiting the marks of various ages from thirty to fifty, amongst
them, of course, a few “_young hands_,” ensigns and lieutenants,
with youthful and good-looking faces, in which might be discovered a
peculiarity that promised well to honour, at a future period, the more
advanced ages of the corps by assuming their present uniformity of
“phiz.”
Waiting upon the group, let the reader also imagine six or eight
servants, in as many different liveries (all men from the ranks)
standing “attention” behind their respective masters' chairs, or
assisting in the table service under the “_chief command_” of the
_mess waiter general_,—a fusty old privileged rear-rank man, in a
green livery, faced with red, his person exhibiting evident marks of
good living, and indicating thereby the difference between his former
barrack-room _mess_ and his present _mess-kitchen_ morsels: upon the
table, the dessert profusely spread; the board laughing with light;
corks chirping; glasses sparkling; and the band in the passage without,
playing in their best style the beautiful melody of “_Go where glory
waits thee_.” This is the MESS-ROOM of a happy regiment.
I cannot decorate my heroes with that highly esteemed badge “the
_medal_,” because the regiment I describe never
“Smelt Waterloo's pink-ribbon'd shot.”
Yet are they not the worse for that: many fought at the immortal
engagement commemorated by _the medal_, whose battle account, if
scrutinized, would be found to fall short of theirs—perhaps one
_twentieth_ part.
The members of the mess are partly English, partly Irish, and partly
Scotch: I will not here mention their names, but let them “_fall in_”
just as the dialogue may call them up.
_Time about seven o'clock.—Cloth just removed._
_Capt. Ball_ (_president for the day_). Gentlemen, fill.
_Major Swordly_ (_“vice” for the day_). We are all ready at this end of
the table.
_Capt. Ball_ (_looking through a full glass_). “THE KING! GOD BLESS
HIM!”
[_All drink bumpers to the toast._ “GOD BLESS HIM!” “GOD BLESS
HIM!” _passing from one end of “the line” to the other, while
the band without change to the royal and national anthem. The
Mess in under-tones chat to each other._]
_Capt. Ball._ Gentlemen, I'll give you another toast:—THE REVERED AND
CHERISHED MEMORY OF THE LATE DUKE OF YORK, THE FATHER OF THE ARMY.
[_All rise and drink the toast in solemn silence, after which
they resume their seats, and a slight pause ensues._]
_Capt. Killdragon._ Heaven bless his memory! it will be a long time
before we forget him.
_Col. Shell._ I think we may say with Shakspeare—
“He was a man, take him for all in all,
We shall not look upon his like again.”
_Capt. Killdragon._ Yet kind, generous, good, and great as he was, men
were not wanting to revile him.
_Major Mc Rocket._ _Men!_ did ye say? mere like deevils.
_Capt. Killdragon._ Devils, indeed! Mc Rocket, and my _own_ country
devils too: sorry am I to say it.
_Dr. Slaughtery._ Yes, yes, Killdragon; but this was not worse than the
_English_ conspiracy formed against him some years ago: the attack made
upon him by Mr. Shiel was the effect of the unfortunate party feeling
which prevails in Ireland. I do not speak so because I am myself an
Irishman, but because I am convinced that so long as the violence of
party exists in that country, you will have such things.
_Capt. Killdragon._ Oh! doctor, you have too much of the milk of human
kindness about you. I (as you all know, Gentlemen) am a Catholic—I hope
yet to see the members of my religion emancipated from their grating
chains; but is it by such firebrands as now inflame the Irish, we
are to be liberated? No; those can only make our chains red-hot, and
weld them firmer—those are but the evil tools of their own selfish
purposes, and to be the idols of a mob, would lead it to its perdition
the while. However, let the motives be what they may, the conduct in
this affair was detestable. The man who would draw aside the curtains
of the death-bed, that the rabble which followed him might mock the
dying, while he himself stood by it, displaying his venomous teeth,
and mixing with the prayers of his helpless victim his own horrid
yells—is a monster, which I had thought was only to be imagined, until
a demagogue, my countryman and fellow Catholic, embodied the horrid
conception.
_Dr. Slaughtery._ But he neutralized it by the _amende honorable_.
_Capt. Killdragon._ Ay, ay, _neutralized_ it, indeed; that is,
he added an alkali to his acid—such union, we know, produces
_froth_—insipid—nay, disgusting froth. The fact is, the patching only
made things worse; for the Duke was in _articulo mortis_, (as _you_
would say, Doctor,) when the cold-blooded and heartless declaimer
apologized for his wanton brutality. Besides, he found that he
disgusted even his _own_ partisans, and therefore feared the loss of
his all—his popularity—his _brief_ popularity.
_Major Mc Rocket._ By G—! yir raight, Killdragon; an' ye speak the
feelings o' us a'.
_Dr. Slaughtery._ I do not defend the act: it certainly was bad; but I
think it arose from party violence.
_Several Voices._ It admits of no excuse.
_Col. Shell._ And the Doctor thinks so too; but he loves argument as
dearly as he does his country, and only wishes now to draw _you_ out,
Killdragon.
_Dr. Slaughtery._ Thank you, Colonel; I _have_ drawn him out, and now
I'll draw _in_ my horns.
_All the Mess._ Bravo! bravo!
_Capt. Ball._ Gentlemen, as we are on the subject of the
Commander-in-Chief's death, I beg to mention that Mr. Steel, my worthy
young _Sub_ here on my left, has written a song upon the occasion, and
set it to music. You all know how he sings, and what do you say to
hearing it? The band can accompany the song, for they have learnt the
music of it.
[_This announcement was received with enthusiasm, and Ensign
Steel, although blushing under his honours and opposing
“the motion,” was obliged to yield to the general request.
The band having been ordered to accompany the song, now
played a fine impressive symphony, and the Ensign sung
with great effect the following_:—
LAMENT OF THE CHIEF.
I.
Soldiers! the chief that you loved is gone
To the tomb where his fathers sleep,
Where the mighty rest,—but there is not one
Like him in its holy keep.
The dead where he lies wear diadems,—
His crown is the soldier's love;—
Not a thing of gold nor of costly gems,
But a glory that's brought from above.
II.
Soldiers! the heart that was good and great,
Is still, and its warmth is past;
For you and your weal its first pulses beat—
For you and your weal its last.
In the midst of the forest of lofty pines
Thus drops the parent stem,
Thus a father whose hope in his children shines—
All blessing, and blessed by them.
III.
Soldiers! go plant a branch by his tomb,
From the wreath which to you he gave,
And high may it grow, and spread, and bloom,
And long may it over him wave!
Oh, yes, it will bloom when past are ye,
And age shall not number its years,
For the smiles of your orphans shall sun the tree,
And your widows shall wet it with tears.
[_The warmest applause followed this song, while the
countenances of all the listeners glowed with the
indescribable sensations which the union of the
sentiment with fine voice and melody produced. The
harmony was well executed, and Mr. Steel's admirable
taste gave great effect to the whole._]
_Col. Shell._ The last lines, I presume, allude to the Duke's patronage
of the Orphan School at Chelsea.
_Ensign Steel._ Yes, Sir.
_Major Mc Rocket._ An' a lasting monument it is, Colonel.
_Col. Shell._ Yet this, great as it is, is only a part of the good he
has done to the army.
_Capt. Killdragon._ I, as an individual, can bear testimony of his
paternal kindness. You all know I was cashiered on account of that
cowardly dragoon, who first insulted me (then a mere boy), and
afterwards refused to give satisfaction. I applied to the Duke, and
presented the memorial myself. When the Aid-de-camp bowed me in,
“ENSIGN KILLDRAGON,” my heart was in my mouth—I didn't know whether
I was on my head or my heels; but when I saw the fine, smiling,
good-natured GENTLEMAN, standing with his back to the fire, as careless
as if he had been only a head clerk, I was relieved from my fears. I
gave the paper into his own hands, and he, in the kindest manner, told
me he would read the proceedings of the court martial, desiring me to
call on the following levee-day. I did: he _had_ read the proceedings,
and asked me several questions relating to the matter. At length he
said, “You shall have an answer.” I withdrew, delighted with the
affability of the Royal Duke, at the same time doubtful of success;
“but,” thought I, “if I am refused, it will be like a gentleman.” I
got a letter in four days after, informing me that I was reinstated.
'Faith! I drank a bottle to the Duke's health that night, and now I'll
drink another to his memory.
_Col. Shell._ This is only one in thousands of instances. Whenever he
_could_ grant a request, consistent with his duty, he did so.
_Major Mc Rocket._ The Duke o' Wellington has noo got the command, an'
I have nae doobt that he'll gi'e us a' satisfaction. The army is a
wee bit afraid o' him, because he is sic a disciplinarian, but in my
opinion that's a' for the better; an' I'll wager ony mon in England a
dozen o' claret, that the Duke will be as gude an officer at the heed
o' the army as he was afore. Ye see he hasn't changed a single man
in the office; but has already done a gude thing for the country, in
uniting the Ordnance Department to his ain.
_Capt. Ball._ There is none like him; he is a good soldier, a prudent
general, and a kind man. He was strict and severe while in the
Peninsula, but he could have done nothing had he not been so; not only
his own private interests, but his country's hopes and glory, depended
upon his success. Gentlemen, I'll give you “The Duke of Wellington and
the Army.”
[_This toast was drunk standing, and with “three times three,”
and the band played “Rule Britannia” in the finest style._]
_Capt. Killdragon._ By Gad! Wellington is the boy that made _work_-men
of us at any rate.
_Major Mc Rocket._ Yir nae far oot there, Killdragon; an' if we tak the
field again, I hope he'll gang wi' us.
_Major Swordly._ Mr. President, the paymaster on your right there, is
neglecting his _accounts_ very much:—bring him to _book_, and send the
decanter this way.
_Mr. Cashly._ Don't fear, Major; I'll take a _receipt in full now:—à
votre santé_.
_Major Swordly._ Mr. Quartermaster Sharp, you should keep to the
_allowance_,—come, fill!
_Mr. Sharp._ I assure you, Major, I like a _full ration_.
_Dr. Slaughtery._ So do we all; and if we go out again, Sharp, my boy,
we'll keep you to your word.
_Mr. Sharp._ I don't care how soon this may happen; another campaign
would do the regiment no harm, particularly as regards these young
subalterns here.
_Ensign Steel._ Heaven grant we may have another breeze!
_Major Mc Rocket._ Tak care, mun; it may come a bit too soon.
_Ensign Steel._ No, Major, not a minute too soon. I don't like home
service; give me the field. I wish I had it in my power to volunteer
to-night for the storming of a breach at daybreak.
_Capt. Ball._ You might have too much of that too, my boy; like young
O'Connel, a lad of about eighteen—your own age. He volunteered on the
storming-party at Badajoz, for his ensigncy in the 59th, and escaped;
he then volunteered on the storming of Ciudad Rodrigo, and there also
escaped,—got his Lieutenancy. Again, at the storming of St. Sebastian
he _would_ volunteer, against the advice of all his brother officers.
God knows! to have stormed twice as he had done, was enough for any
_one_, but he was determined, and like a hero mounted the breach.
_Capt. Killdragon._ I saw him that day almost at the head of the
column, smiling with as much confidence as if he thought the balls knew
him and would run away from him.
_Capt. Ball._ Poor lad! he was made a riddle of. I counted sixteen
ball-wounds in his body.
_Capt. Killdragon._ Rashness is very often the bane of courage. There
was a countryman of mine at Badajoz, a young Ensign; he, with the men,
was ordered to lie down, so as to conceal themselves from the view
of the batteries on the ramparts. The young fellow was rash enough to
put up the colours which he carried, in order (as he says himself)
that it might receive a ball or two, and thus afford evidence of his
danger. The consequence was, that a tremendous shower of cannon-ball
was directed to the spot where the fool-hardy Ensign was: one struck
him on the hip, and carried away the whole of the fleshy part of the
thigh: then a musket-ball hit him in the breast. The rashness of this
officer is greatly to be regretted, for many men fell beside him, from
the fire in which he himself was mutilated. He is still alive, and on
the half-pay of the Queen's Germans. I saw him in town a few weeks ago.
_Col. Shell._ This was not true courage, but hair-brained folly. Mr.
Steel, I'll give you an instance of steady bravery:—When Colonel
Higgins was a cornet (I think in the 18th), and in Holland, the Duke
of Cambridge wished to send a despatch to a certain point, the way to
which was cannonaded heavily by grape-shot. His Royal Highness asked,
if there was any dragoon officer near him who would volunteer for
the duty? Young Higgins immediately presented himself—he took the
despatch—gallopped off: the Duke could see him from where he stood,
the whole of the distance. When about half way, and in the thick of
the fire, Higgins dropped his helmet: he coolly pulled up his horse,
alighted, put his helmet upon his head, mounted again, and continued
his course. The young officer returned through the same danger safely,
and his Royal Highness was so pleased with his steady courage, that he
appointed him to his personal staff, and he is his Royal Highness's
private secretary at this day.
_Ensign Steel._ That I think, certainly, of different character from
the conduct of the Ensign, although both might be equally brave. What
regiment did Mr. O'Connel belong to, Captain Ball?
_Capt. Ball._ The 59th.
_Major Swordly._ That regiment had a vast deal to do on the last
campaign in Spain.
_Capt. Killdragon._ It behaved nobly at Vittoria, although a great
part of it were very young soldiers. At a little village on the left
of the town, the French made a most desperate effort to prevent our
troops crossing the little river. (I was Brigade Major at the time,
and so could see those things.) They had two field-pieces planted
close to the bridge, which was not wide enough to permit two carts to
pass abreast, and their infantry defended this pass for a long time.
The men were butting each other in a dense mass on the bridge, after
they had been tired of the bayonet; and caps, and muskets, and bodies
were heaved over the sides into the stream, till they almost choked
the arches beneath. The 59th came up to the bridge, after a repulse,
commanded by Colonels Fane and Weare, and the fire upon them was thick
and destructive—grape and musketry. The _young_ fellows began to dip
their heads and straggle, when Colonel Weare rode back to them, and
cried out,—“_59th! for shame, for shame!_” This was like magic; the
men dashed on steadily, but at the instant he received a ball in the
spine. Colonel Fane, who headed the battalion, now rode up to Colonel
Weare; and perceiving his state, shook hands with him, and then gave
directions for his removal: there was not an instant to lose—the men
were advancing like lions to the bridge—“_God bless you, Weare!_” was
all that the Colonel had time to say, and he then rode on with the
regiment; but in the next minute he received a shot himself in the
groin, and was obliged to leave the men to themselves. They did their
duty, and carried the bridge. Poor Fane was dead before his friend
Weare, with whom he shook hands, in the belief that he would not be an
hour alive. Both died of their wounds in a few days, and I attended
both their funerals in the town of Vittoria. A finer picture of a hero
in death, than the naked body of Weare on his cold bed was, no man ever
beheld—noble fellow! A letter just arrived at the regiment the day
after he died, to say that his wife and family had landed at Lisbon
with the view of joining him: sad was the answer to that letter!...
Colonel Fane was the brother of General Fane, you know, and a finer or
more gallant fellow never fought. Both these leaders were buried in a
_yard behind the Hospital_, while a French General was, at the same
time, entombed _within the walls of the principal Church_; but this was
because the Frenchman was a _Roman Christian_, and the others _English
Christians_. It grieved me to see it; and never did I feel the folly
and absurdity of such religious differences so forcibly as on that
melancholy occasion. The Spanish priests regretted (and sincerely too)
that they had it not in their power to honour the remains of their
_allies_ as they, from Christian charity, did the remains of their
_enemy_.
_Col. Shell._ I knew both Fane and Weare well, and better officers
could not be.
_Ensign Young._ Captain Killdragon, was it Colonel Fane's horse that
gallopped into the enemy's ranks, as you were telling us the other
evening?
_Capt. Killdragon._ No, no. That was at the battle of Salamanca. It
occurred with the 5th Dragoon Guards.
_Mr. Cashly._ What was that? I was in the brigade at the time.
_Capt. Killdragon._ The horse that lost his rider, and—
_Mr. Cashly._ Oh! yes, yes, yes. I know.
_Major Swordly._ Let us hear it.
_Capt. Killdragon._ When the regiment charged the French on the plain,
one of the men was thrown off his horse: the animal dashed into the
enemy's lines, and after the regiment to which he belonged had retired
from the charge, he was seen scampering about amongst the French
infantry, kicking and frolicking. The 5th was ordered to renew the
charge, which they did; and as they were approaching the enemy, the
horse in question gallopped over to them, regularly fell into the
ranks, as if a dragoon had been upon his back: he continued in rank
during the operation of the charge, and returned in line with his
troop, to the astonishment of his rider, and the admiration of all who
saw him.
_Mr. Cashly._ It is a fact, I know it to be so.