There was but one house near, and in one room were these unhappy
victims of a diseased refinement obliged to remain for a whole night,
before the termination of which Major W. died. The other recovered,
after a long confinement from a most severe wound in the hip.
A third character is one who goes to extremities at once, and deals
out the lie or the blow in the heat of passion. There are few quarrels
that cannot be amicably arranged by judicious seconds, _if_ the lie or
blow have not passed; but those who deal in such acts or expressions,
generally lose their lives in duelling. Many have fallen in this way,
and many but narrowly escaped, owing to the almost impossibility of
settling the matter without a bloody or protracted combat.
Two officers, a Lieutenant and a Surgeon, quarreled in this way at
Ostend, in 1815. They were intimate friends, and had differed in
a public coffee-room about a trifling bet at backgammon, when the
Lieutenant gave the unqualified lie to the other in a loud voice, and
in the presence of several gentlemen. The Surgeon instantly knocked
him down, and in his rage kicked him out of the room. A message was
sent next day from the Lieutenant at twelve o'clock, and a meeting was
appointed to take place at four, outside the ramparts. The parties
met, each attended by a second. There was also a mutual friend, and a
Flemish surgeon. The combatants took their distance at ten paces. The
earth was covered with snow, and afforded, therefore, a greater chance
of a hit from either side; but the evening was drawing in dusky. There
was scarcely a word spoken by any of the party; and from the nature
of the quarrel, no hope of separating without blood was entertained.
The combatants stood back to back, close together, and each marched
five paces, when the words “_halt_—_front_—_fire_” were given. They
fired: the Surgeon in a very elevated direction above his antagonist's
head, the Lieutenant point blank at his man without effect. The former
fired as described without letting his second previously know that
he intended to do so, and (as he afterwards declared) for the purpose
of terminating the affair; he feeling satisfied that his antagonist,
although the first aggressor, was in no way his creditor. This,
however, was unnoticed by both his own second and that of his opponent.
It was now demanded by the Lieutenant's party whether the Surgeon was
disposed to apologize, and answered in the negative. The pistols were
again loaded, and the Surgeon, seeing that nothing but blood or apology
could terminate the matter, proposed by his second to advance two paces
closer every round. This was declined by the Lieutenant's party. The
word was again given, and it was evident that neither of the combatants
intended to leave their next shot to chance, for each took deliberate
aim while one could count ten; yet, strange to say, (although both
well-known good shots) neither ball took effect. They certainly could
not have been many hairs' breadth from fate. I saw the aim of the
pistols from a hedge close by; both men were as steady as rocks, and I
fully expected to see both fall.
It was now getting dark: the apology was again demanded, and again
refused. Another round was inevitable; but there were no more balls
which would fit both pistols. It was, therefore, proposed that the
seconds should return to the town for them. This was agreed to, and the
combatants returned both to a cottage or farm-house near, where they
coolly sat by the kitchen fire while the balls were preparing—at least
half an hour—for it was necessary to cast the balls. It was by this
time settled night, but the moon rose very bright; which, together with
the reflection from the snow, gave a tolerably good light. The men took
their ground once more—all parties silent—again was the word given—and
again deliberate and slower aim was taken. One pistol missed fire, the
other was harmless.
There had now been three hours spent: the seconds, however, consulted,
and both the combatants shook hands. It was a heart-sickening scene
to all; and more so when it was observed that each of the opponents
expressed themselves happy that the other had escaped. It is but
justice to say, that when the surgeon informed him (all being then
over) that he had fired in the air, the most generous assurance was
given that if it had been known to the Lieutenant's party at the time,
they would not have fired another shot: the surgeon declared that he
did so from a repugnance to fire at his friend, when he felt that he
had taken summary satisfaction the night before; he therefore fired
obliquely, and not palpably upwards, in hopes that one shot would
satisfy the Lieutenant without affording a chance to misconstrue the
surgeon's good feelings towards him.
Thus terminated a duel, which, but for something like a miracle, would
have been fatal to one or both of these mutual friends. The lie was an
irritating insult; but had the insulted acted prudently, he would not
have returned it by a blow, and therefore would have held a greater
power over his opponent. He should have sent him an immediate message,
and the consequences most likely would have been that an apology as
public as the insult would have been made: in my mind, a far greater
triumph than the death of the insulter, for such is the moral humility
from conviction of having committed an injury; and the atonement
is ample. If no insult except a blow (or even that in some cases)
were returned on the moment, but cool and determined steps taken for
gentlemanly satisfaction, there would be but few fatal duels; for few
men when under the influence of calm reason (a state seldom attending
the man while insulting) will hesitate to make every amends in his
power. If otherwise, then is the pistol the friend.
In almost every case of duel, it is not the wish to kill, or injure,
but to vindicate our wounded pride or honour, that urges us to
satisfaction; therefore should every fight be under the direction of a
prudent and honourable friend, who will neither carelessly throw away
the life entrusted to his charge, nor compromise its honour. After
an insult is given, the sooner the insulted cuts off communication
with the insulter, the better; then matters will have the best chance
of terminating as they ought. If this maxim were universal, how many
lives would have been saved! how many lives, also, which have dwindled
out in sorrow and repining, for the death of friends by rash duels,
would have passed without remorse and pain! A Major[16] would not have
expired ignominiously on a scaffold for shooting a brother-officer; nor
a Lieutenant[17] have drawn tears from the judge of a criminal court by
the excess of his grief for the rash slaughter of his friend.
FOOTNOTES:
[15] Another case of rank cowardice, hooded with boasting and
swaggering, will be found in the sketch entitled “_A Rough Passage to
Portugal_,” at another part of this work.
[16] This case occurred in Ireland about twenty years ago:—The Major
followed a Lieutenant to his room, forced him to stand before him, and
the latter fell. The Major was hanged. Both left wives and orphans!
[17] Lieutenant Kenny and Dr. Chambers.
NIGHTS IN THE GUARD-HOUSE.
No. III.
“Make haste with yir tay, there, Pollard, an' let yir wife go home to
her quarthers, for it's gettin' as dark as the divil; an' for a young
good-lookin' English woman like her, it's not fit she should be out so
late of a-night.”
“There, Mulligan: I'm done. Here, Mary, take away the tin pot, and be
off home,” replied private Pollard, finishing the last sup of his two
pints of good home-brewed tea.
Mrs. Pollard was the woman who messed for the squad now on guard; and
a very pretty, neat, little, black-silk-bonneted “Lancashire witch”
she was: one who had been daring enough to leave a comfortable home to
couple her fortunes with a private soldier; yet virtuous enough to live
in the midst of a regiment, affectionate and faithful to her husband.
“Well, I'm sure! this _is_ a dark night, Mr. Mulligan,” said Mrs.
Pollard, looking out. “But I says nothing to nobody as I goes along;
and I'm sure I shaunt meet no harm—'ticklerly as I walks pretty
sharpish.”
“I see yir not afeard o' the Irish fellows afther all, Mrs. Pollard,”
said Mulligan.
“La bless you! not I. When I was a-coming over to Hoireland I was told
by the folk in our town as how the Hoirish were all woild, and that
they used to hunt un in the woods to tame un. Feather's John swore to
me that he seed one on 'em with wings and a tail. But, La bless yi! I
didn't think much on't. I was a little afraid, to be sure, at first. I
didn't think there was houses and fields, and trees, loik as we have
un in Lancashire; but I never believed the Hoirish had ony thing loik
wings or tails.”
[_A laugh from the whole guard._]
“Well,” asked Mulligan, “what d'ye think of 'em now, Mrs. Pollard?”
“Why, now I finds 'em just loik ony other folk: they're civil and
koind; and I'm sure the country is very foin and very cheap. Ecod! I
don't care how long we stops here!—Good night, Pollard: Serjeant, good
night—Good night, lads all.” And Mrs. Pollard in her pattens toddled
off to her quarters.
“'Pon my sowl,” said Mulligan, “the counthry people in England are
as ignorant as hogs about Ireland. They do really suppose us all
to be outlandishers. Maybe its because we don't spake in their own
hoppy-go-jumpy sort of lingo, that they think we are such bugaboos.”
“It's na' sa muckle o' that, neither,” observed Serjeant M'Fadgen, as
he lighted his pipe. “I'll tell y' what it is: the English think that a
mon is nathing at a' if he's been born out o' England.”
“Well, perhaps a great many think so,” said Corporal O'Callaghan; “but
in the coorse of my life I fell in with plenty of Englishmen who were
just as good as any other people, and as liberal in their feelings, as
regards not only Ireland but every other counthry. I'll grant ye that
they were dacent and well ejucated men; for I do certainly think the
lower ordthers of England are just as ignorant and as pigheaded as any
people on the face o' the earth.”
“'Deed, Corporal, I think there is na muckle difference in a' mankind
when they're very ignorant—ay or when they are educated: as our Bardy
says,
‘The man's the man for a' that.’”
“Yes, but look at the recruits that Sargent Brown and Jack Andrews
brought over from Winchesther last September,” said Corporal
O'Callaghan: “did ever you see such a set o' regular blutherumbunios in
your life? the divil a one o' them could do the “_right-left_” dthrill
for full six weeks! an' look at the Irish and the Scotch fellows! the
great, raw, ugly, romikin divils that we got at the same time; why they
could move a company off the parade in little more nor that time, as
well as I could myself.”
“It's na use o' talkin', Corporal,” replied M'Fadgen, “the English
sodgers are gude, the Scotch sodgers are gude, an' the Irish sodgers
are gude; but the Scotch an' Irish enter the sarvice to beetter
themselves, while the English 'list from misfortune: _we_ tak it as a
wife, for beetter or for worse, to live an' dee by it; but the English
tak it only as sort o' reemedy; they dinna like it; but it's oor meat
an' drink; and that's the reason why we make mair progress in learnin'
oor duty. Yet if ye get an Englishman but fairly into it, heart an'
han', he'll turn oot as gude an' as brave a sodger as ever bore a
musket over his shouther.”
“Why, to be sure, Sergeant, there is a dale o' thruth in that,”
replied O'Callaghan: “I only say, that we larn the business quicker,
because it's more in our way; but faith! I've met English boys in the
Peninsula, that never were surpassed by any sodgers on earth—right
steady fellows—proper salamandthers—men who would jump into a breach
undther a flankin' fire as soon as any divils in the world. I'm only
saying that they are as ignorant before they 'list as we are, an' have
no rason at all at all in talking about Irishmen or Scotchmen as one
bit below them.”
“_Below_ them! eh?—Pooh! that's a' to be put to nathing, but raight
doon ignorance,” said the Sergeant; “I never knew any Englishmon that
wasn't either a booby or a puppy, wha didn't think we were quite as
gude as themsels.”
“Damn'd if you a'nt right, Sergeant,” observed Jack Andrews: “I am an
Englishman, born and reared. I have seen the world, and as you say,
Sergeant, the Englishman _must_ be either a booby or puppy, who places
himself and his countrymen above either Scotch or Irish. The fact is,
we have all fought together, and will fight again, please God and
the Holy Alliance. Was that fellow, snoring there on the guard-bed,
an Englishman, when he rescued me from the gripe of three French
grenadiers, by the fair dint of battering their heads with the butt
end of his musket—I mean Dennis Tool? Did _he_ consider that he was
fighting to rescue an Englishman or his own countryman? We were two
against four: he shot the fellow who attacked him, and got me safe from
the other three: and it was when we were on picket, cut off clean from
our guard. I say, that I never, during the whole time I served in the
Peninsula, saw or heard of any difference as regards country; it is
only at home that there is bickering on that subject.”
“Well, faith! I suppose, it's to keep their hands in practice, that
they fight and wallop each other at home, having no more enemies to
fight with abroad,” remarked the Corporal.
“And as to difference—I'd be glad to know where that lay on the
bullock-cars which carried down the wounded men from Busaco, after the
bit o' business we had there. _You_ were amongst 'em, O'Callaghan,
as well as me. _There_ was a pretty mess of English, Scotch, and
Irish broken legs; _there_ was your national blood dropping from the
cars—and it appeared all of the same colour. The cursed rough roads
and broken wheels didn't spare _me_ more than _you_, Corporal; and the
canteen that wet the Scotch and Irish lips, and kept life in them,
was not ungrateful to the Englishman's at the point of death. We had
no difference then, either on country or religion; every jolt of the
wheels made us feel that we all suffered alike for our King and for our
Country—Great Britain. I wish some of our talkative argufiers in London
had got a glimpse of us all there, they wouldn't be inclined to make
much _differ_ between the men, who, after all, must bear the brunt of
their quarrels.”
“Raight, Andrews, raight,” warmly cried the Sergeant. “The deil crack
my croon, but ye speak like a mon; the pooliticians wha endeevour to
mak diveesion amongst the three nations, are na friends to the King nor
their ain country neither.”
“Oh! the divel a doubt o' that,” said the Corporal.
“And to talk about stupid recruits,” continued Jack Andrews. “You
should see the yokels we picked up at Winchester fair last year. They
were just as easy to be gulled—if not easier—than any Pat I ever
caught. I'll just tell you how we worked the oracle there. The party
was ordered out on the first day of the fair: it consisted of the Depot
Sergeant-major, Sergeant Brown of ours, a Sergeant of the 76th, a
couple of Corporals, and half a dozen privates, with a fifer as tall as
a lamp-post, and a drummer not bigger than the drum he carried. I and a
fellow of the name of Peters were supplied with coloured clothes, and
smock frocks, so as to appear like country gawkies. All the officers
of the Depot went disguised as coachmen, grooms, fancy covies, &c.,
so as not to be known by the townspeople. However, _they_ only went
for a lark: _we_ went a fishing for gudgeons. The party mustered at
nine o'clock, and marched out of the barracks with streaming cockades,
to the tune of ‘The Downfall of Paris.’ The fat Sergeant-major took
a position ten yards in front, and the party occupying at least a
hundred yards in length. Peters and I mixed with the crowd, and
followed with our mouths open, like the rest of the folk: _down_ the
_high_ street—_round_ the _square_—the long fifer puffing his lungs
out, and the pigmy drummer bumping his knees against his parchment box
of wind: the Sergeant-major with the hilt of his sword in a parallel
line with his bow-window belly, and keeping time to a nicety, while
the motley group behind—some of the guards—some of the line—some of
the rifles—all sorts of facings—marching as proudly as if they were
triumphantly entering Madrid. When the party got to the fair, Peters
and I left them, and strutted about, shying at cocks for gingerbread,
and playing all manner of pranks, until a favourable opportunity
offered of breaking our mind to the yokels, who fell in with us. Then
we began to represent ourselves as lads who had a ‘nation deal of work
to do,’ and so on, all of which remarks were instantly echoed by the
gulls about us. We then would offer cheerfully to treat them, and so
adjourn to the nearest tent, where, after a few pots of beer, we at
once declared our intention to list with the party, and spun out a long
rigmarole of how my eldest brother, who listed that day three years,
was now a Captain in India, as rich as a Nabob. Thus we went on, and
in general we had little more to do than to let one of us slip off for
the Sergeant of the party, who dropped in, as if by accident. All this
was soon arranged, and I of course offered a drink to the Sergeant, and
shook hands with him: he joined us as one of our best friends, every
body shaking hands with him, when I at length started up, and offered
to list on the minute, if any body joined me. Peters then rose in a
jolly off-handed-way, and immediately offered to make one with me.
The shilling was put into each of our hands in the King's name, and
we gave three cheers. Ten to one, but two or three more out of the
company followed our example. If not, the Sergeant sat down, pulled
out a fist-full of money, and a couple of watches; observing that, as
we were now King's men, he was happy to have it in his power to reward
us with a trifle of the bounty money, and to make each of us a present
of a good silver-watch out of the Captain's pocket—adding, that there
were now eight vacancies for Sergeants in the regiment, and he was sure
that, if any well-looking young man would push for one of them, he
would have it before the week was out. You would be astonished to see
the effect the watches had; perhaps three or four would offer on the
instant: but the making of the Sergeants was sure to bring them down.
I never shall forget one fellow—Turner, I mean—he of the grenadier
company, you know:—when Sergeant Brown had enlisted seven of them, this
fellow stands up, and he says, with a slap on the table, ‘Oi tells
you what, Mr. Sergeant; you'll not have me unless you makes me the
same thing as yourself _now_; so, if you loiks to do that, whoy here's
your man.’ ‘Well,’ says Brown, ‘how tall are you? let me see—Ay—a
good size—about five feet eleven.—With all my heart; you shall be a
Sergeant.’
“Brown then cut three pieces of white tape, and pinned them on Turner's
right sleeve, in the form of V's; he then drew his sword, made the
fellow kneel down, and with a tone of martial command, cried out,
‘Rise, Sergeant Turner, in the name of St. George and the Dragon.’
“The thing was done—the shilling given—and the new ‘Sergeant,’ as
conceited as a Colonel's pug, took his station in the ranks of the
party. When the gulls asked for watches and money, seeing that Peters
and I got both, the Sergeant said he had given two-and-twenty away that
day, but that he had just sent up to the barracks for six-and-twenty
more, as well as two hundred pounds in money. We ‘had done the trick,’
as they say, and brought in eighteen as able-bodied boobies as any in
Hampshire. But what do you think we did the day after? We employed a
gipsy fellow to sit in a tent all day, with a fur cap and a false beard
on him, to tell fortunes in favour of us.”
“Hoo the deel's that?” demanded M'Fadgen.
“Why, I'll tell you. We got the tent from the store—an old marquee—and
we instructed the gipsy to tell every fellow who he saw was likely to
suit, that his fortune lay in a red coat; that he was to be a high
officer in a marching regiment, and to marry a General's daughter—with
a hundred other things; such as—that he was born to be a great man,
and that he had it in his countenance. To the young women he would
say, that either their brothers or their sweethearts were to be great
generals in the army, and that they themselves were to be officers'
ladies. The simple girls would run directly to their sweethearts, and
tell what they had heard of future greatness; and it was ten to one
but the booby who heard it, went first and got drunk; then, half gin
half joy, entered the road to glory by a silver ticket in the shape of
a shilling. It is not always that you can humbug the Irish and Scotch
so: if they are not previously inclined to enlist, scarcely any thing
will make them do so; indeed the Irish very often humbug the _sergeant_
out of a skinful of drink, and then hop off, without even _touching_
the silver trap. They are easier enlisted, from their poverty; but not
half so easily humbugged as my countrymen, the worthy John Bulls.”
“By dad, Jack,” observed Mulligan, “_you're_ no fool, at all events. I
wonder how the devil they ever caught you.”
“My own will,” replied Jack. “I was educated well; my parents died
when I was but young. I ran away, and went on the stage, where I
starved a couple of years; and having got acquainted with a sergeant in
Portsmouth, I learnt the nature of the service. I examined a soldier's
life thoroughly; and, on mature consideration, gave it the preference
to that of a wanderer without profession or trade. I knew that if I did
my duty I could be happy, and I entered determined to do it. I _have_
done it, and I _am_ happy—perhaps more so than many men in trade, who
call themselves rich.”
“Jock Andrews, ye speak your sentiments like a good sodger, and I hope
afore long that ye'll have the stripes. Indeed I think yir mark'd oot
for it. I agree with ye, there is nae sort o' common life where a man
is so weel off as a sodger wha does his duty; but he _must_ do his
duty, mind ye. He has got his comfortable hame with his comrades, his
breakfast of brochan[18], or tea, or coffee—his dinner o' gude boiled or
roast beef, with potatoes—a clean table-cloth, an' a knife and fork;
his bed foond him; his claithes foond him; his hospital in sickness,
and his barrack-room in health; an' after a' this, a trifle in his
pouch to keep the De'il out. He has na bill to pay—not a baubee. What
mair does he want? Show me the workin' man o' ony trade wha can say
that he has got mair, an' stands clean oot o' debt.”
“Not one in England,” replied Andrews.
“An' I'm sure you won't find one in Ireland,” observed O'Callaghan.
“This is while the sodger is employed in the three kingdoms; but look
at him abroad. There he has a' found him, an' o' th' best the country
can afford, for twa pence an' a baubee ilka day; the remainder he has
to spen'—at least he can coont on saxpence a-day clean out o' a', an'
just to do as he likes wi'.”
“By the powers, Serjeant!” exclaimed private Mulligan, “if I had fifty
brothers an' sisthers, I'd make them all list directly, so I would; and
I wouldn't exchange my situation now with any mechanic at two guineas
a-week, who works like a pack-hors, and afther all, in rags and in
dirt—not a testher[19] to bless himself with. It's only lazy, hulking,
ill-tempered fellows, that dislike a sodger's life; they don't like to
be ordthered, nor to be clane and dacent; an' so they get kicked about
like an owld hat, as they desarve: but let a man do his juty as a man,
an' he will find himself respected an' happy; no body dar say _ill you
done it_, but all things will go smooth, and he'll be as comfortable
an' as snug as a bug in a rug.”
“Well done, Mulligan! Bravo! bravo!” roared out all the guard; and an
applauding laugh from every listener produced an agreeable effect upon
the face of the worthy private, who, no doubt, would have resumed his
subject, but that the hour for relieving the posts was arrived—and this
put an end to the _confab_.
FOOTNOTES:
[18] Oatmeal porridge.
[19] An Irish appellation for sixpence.
THE BISCUIT.
—— T'would disarm
The spectre Death, had he the substantial power to harm.
_Byron._