“Well, many years after this, the regiment was ordered to th_Tough yarns, vol. 2 (of 2)

Plate, and so we landed in Maldonado Bay and took the Island of

Goretta. Oh, your honour, it made my heart ache to see the poor souls

lie bleeding on the ground, and to be obliged to stick my bayonet into

the breast of a fellow-cratur! But I thought of my ould mother’s

advice, sure,--‘Do your duty like a man.’ After this, we sailed up

to Monte Video, and I shall niver forget to remember that same, when

we stormed the breach over a scaling ladder of dead bodies that came

tumbling down upon us as fast as we could get up. By and by, somebody

fetches me the terriblest poke of the sconce; it made the light dance

in my eyes like sparks from a skyrocket, and who should it be but my

old friend Sarjent Linstock, sure, as dead as a red herring, your

honour. ‘Long life to you, jewel! (says I) for taking yourself out of

the way so dacently;’ but my heart smote me as soon as I had said it.

‘Shame to you, Paddy, (thought I) to rejoice in the downfall of any

man; you don’t know how soon it may be your own turn,’ and it struck

me all of a heap entirely, so I stood stock still. ‘On, on, my brave

fellows!’ roared somebody in the rear, giving me a prick behind with

the bayonet; it made me jump like a billy-goat, and so I rushed on,

headed by our brave captain, and we entered the town.

“Well, there was a comical fellow of the name of Taylor[10] (he was a

sailor commanding a private brig of war) advanced with us, having a

bag of Union-Jacks over his shoulder to hoist upon the batteries. When

we got into the great square ould Elio, the governor, stood ready with

his troops to receive us; so we charged, and Taylor running on, knocked

the ould fellow down with the bag of Jacks, and after that, och! but it

was all dickey with them.

“‘Arrah, Paddy, what booty have you got?’ says Corporal Blacketer.

‘Sorrow the scurragh,’ says I. ‘Och, hone to your heart, look here!’

says he; and so, your honour, he turns round upon his back, and puts

his hand into his haversack, and pulls out a little silver image, that

I knew at first glance was St. Peter. ‘Oh, you tief o-the-world, (says

I,) what, rob a church?’--‘No, no, (says the corporal,) I had it from

an honest priest, to redeem his _corpas-any-mule-he_ from danger. And

see here, (opening his cartouche-box and showing another,) and here,

(tapping his knapsack that bulked out,) see here! I’ve got all the

saints in the calendar dacently buckled up; faith, here’s enough to

make an almanack.’

“But what plased me most was, the good cheer we met with after our long

voyage. I’ll engage we wasn’t long getting the camp-kettles to work.

Oh, there was beef and mutton for picking up, and turkeys and chickens

enough to stock all the _uphoulsterers_ in the united kingdom. Oh, your

honour, didn’t we live like fighting cocks, sure?”

At this moment, an elderly female called to the veteran from the door

of a snug little cottage, mantled with evergreens and surrounded by a

garden neatly laid out, and kept in the most exact order.

“Faith! (said he) but my baccy’s ready; and will your honour condescend

to walk into the cabin, to rest yees a little while?”

I told him my engagements would not at that moment permit me; but as I

should remain some time in the neighbourhood, I would most certainly

visit him once more before I quitted that part of the country.

“I hope no offence,” said he, “but I should be proud to do meself the

honour of your acquaintance, so I would; and if you could make it

convenient to give poor Pat a call now and then, ’twould cause joy to

dance in his heart, and pleasure would stretch out the wrinkles in his

withered countenance. Long life to your honour, and may God bless you!”

The veteran rose from his seat, gave his hand a military flourish

to his hat, and marched off in ordinary time to his cottage; whilst

I pursued my way to the residence of a friend, reflecting on the

vicissitudes of life.

A few days after this adventure, I again visited the spot; and on

advancing to the village green, I observed my friend Pat with some

twenty little urchins drawn up in a line, each with a broomstick or

mop-handle, going through the various evolutions of the drill-ground.

He was in the first position for facing to the right; and the

youngsters, with mouths and eyes wide open, were watching the motion.

Though seventy winters had spent their storms upon his head, he stood

erect and firm, and at that moment would have been a fine study for an

artist. “To the right face!” said he, and the motion brought him full

in my front; his hand was flourished to his hat in an instant, and from

a countenance expressive of command, it changed to one of the most

lively pleasure. “Oh, joy to the hour that I see your honour again!

Faith! but delight is bateing the roll upon the drum of my heart, and

every swate sensation is answering to the muster.”

The children, no longer under control, were charging each other in

front and rear, which annoying the veteran, he exclaimed, “Arrah be

aisey, and don’t be after making such a hubaboo. Double quick time,

march!” and off they started, as wild as young colts. “Are any of these

your own?” inquired I. “Oh no, your honour,” he replied mournfully;

“when the turf covers poor ould Pat, his lamp will be clane put out.

But see at yon gossoon; oh, it makes my heart ache to look at him, for

he has never a friend in the world, nor in Ireland eather, save and

beside myself, your honour. Sure, isn’t he a darling of a boy, by token

that he’s the very image of my own dare Norah. Come here, Casey, und

spake to the gentleman; don’t stand rubbing your pate there.”

A fine healthy lad with long flaxen curls approached, and took hold

of my hand; but this did not altogether agree with the old soldier’s

ideas of etiquette, and he continued addressing the youth, “Run off,

you ragged rascal, and let his honour alone. Don’t stand grubbing with

your ten toes, like a pig in a pratee garden. Faith, but he’s off; and

now perhaps your honour would like to know a little more of my history?

But first I’ll go back to the end, and tell you straight forward in a

circuitous manner, that we mayn’t set out in a round about way.

“Sure and wasn’t it at Monte Video that you left me last? And faith,

I might have staid there till death, and longer, but they ordered

me up for Boney’s Airs; and och, hone, but we suffered severely at

that place, marching up to our middles in water without rations and

without rest for three days. And then the assault,--bad luck to the

divil!--didn’t we charge into the town with our bagnets, and nothing

but our hammers in the locks? and that, too, where every house was a

battery in itself, and we had no enemy to meet on plain ground? By

the powers of Moll Kelly, but they knocked us down like bastes in a

slaughter-house, and divil a rap could we give ’em again. Only think,

your honour, of straight streets crossing each other at right angles,

so that a nine-pounder at the end of one street was a defence for the

whole; and then they pulled down a part of the cathedral, so that

nothing might stop the shot.

“Oh, that was a terrible consarn, so it was, and many brave fellows

lost their billet; for these Spaniards had an ugly knack of knocking

the wounded on the head after they were kilt. Sure, wasn’t I one of the

party that stormed the Pizzelaro del Tow-row, where the bulls fight?

and didn’t we make a big bull of it? for how could we get at ’em,

your honour, seeing there was not even the spoke of a ladder by way of

staircase? Ah, then poor Pat tumbled down with a wound I got in the

breast, and then I thought of dare little Ireland and Norah; and so I

struggled to get up again, but all was of no use; so I fainted with the

loss of blood, and there I lay, spachless and comical entirely.

“Well, when I woke, I heard a soft swate voice spaking to me in broken

English--it was just like Norah’s, your honour; and so I opened my

daylights to take a peep at the angel, for I thought it was her own

dare self come in a phantomical manner to cheer my weary spirit, about

to quit this world of trouble, only I couldn’t make out the brogue;

but not a soul did I see, saving and except a young officer in the

uniform of a Spanish hussar kneeling by my side and feeling my pulse,

which was now bateing the dead march. The creature started when I

showed my peepers, and the cap flew from its head. Oh, I shall never

forget to remember that same, for it was a woman, your honour, and her

long auburn locks came clustering down her forehead, and she looked

like the commander-in-chief of the cherry-bums. Oh, she was beauty’s

queen, and a countryman of my own; for though French by birth, she was

married to a son of the sod. Long life to her, whether she’s dead or

alive, for her kindness to poor Pat! for didn’t she have me carried

by the viceroy’s sarvants to snug quarters, where my wound was dressed

and the ball distracted? Faith, and she did, your honour, and many

more besides me; for after the battle--having a regard for the brave

sodger, and knowing that many lay bleeding on the ground--she put on

the regimentals of a captain of hussars, as one of General Liniers’

aids-de-camp, and rode through the scenes of carnage to stop the

murderers’ hands.[11] Oh, wasn’t she a darling of a soul? Ax General

Beresford, your honour, for he knew her very well, by token--but that’s

none of my business to notice; only ’twas whispered as soft as a peal

of bells, that they found his image in wax-work, all alive and kicking,

your honour.

“But the worst of it was the loss of our colours, that hung dangling in

the church of San Nicholas, where the brave Sir Samuel Auchmuty had

suffered so much, and was compelled to surrender; but that was a sad

job to make the most of it, and all through the treachery and cowardice

of Whitelocke, bad luck to his powthered fiz-hog. But the colours, your

honour, oh, didn’t they stick in my gizzard, sure? and so I spoke a

word or two about it to my ould comrade, Corporal Blacketer. ‘What’s to

be done,’ says he. ‘Arrah, dacently walk off with them,’ says I. ‘How’s

that?’ says he. So seeing he had no liking to the matter, I was obliged

to close my chather-box, and soon after we sailed down the river.

“Well, about two years afterwards, an ill wind blow’d me there again,

and I couldn’t help going to take a sly peep. Oh, didn’t I get into a

big rage, sure, when they struck like a blight upon my eyes? ‘Oh Paddy,

(says I) twig ’em, and take shame to yourself for not dislodging them

from their height;’ and so it bothered me night and day, your honour,

that I couldn’t slape a wink, nor ever cease to think of it while

waking.

“Well, one evening Jerry Driscoll and meself were ashore, taking a sup

of the cratur. Jerry was a broth of a boy, and knew that two and two

made five when his own ugly mug was shoved in to balance the account.

He was a blue jacket, your honour, belonging to a sloop of war. ‘Arrah

Jerry, (says I) shall we do the thing?’--‘Faith and we will, (says he)

and the more by token that they have stuck the bunting up!’ as indeed

they had, your honour, with R. M. B. on it, for Royal Marine Battalion.

So when night came, off we set with a long rope and got safe into the

middle of the centre of the church, and clapped ourselves in ambush

clane out of sight where nobody could see us.

“About midnight, ‘Now Jerry, (says I) you must mount a reev-o; only

take care the rope does not get round your neck.’ Well, just as we were

going to begin, we heard the most terriblest noise; and what should it

be but one of the padres, who had been sipping the supernaculum and

fallen asleep in the sentry-box--arrah, the confessional-box, I mane.

Bad manners to him for stretching his daylights and prying into honest

men’s affairs. Oh! your honour, he roared like a pope’s bull, and out

he came as big as three moderate sized aldermen. ‘Arrah, be aisey,’

says Jerry, giving him a thump in his rotunda, which would have held a

cathedral, ‘can’t you behave yourself, jewel?’ Thump went Jerry again,

till his coporation sounded like a big drum, or a Chinese gong. The

sentry peeped in at the church-door; Jerry twigged him and cotched the

friar round the neck, and down they rolled together, both roaring with

all their might.--‘Arrah, Jerry, (says I) don’t you mane to get up?’

‘Oh, the murthering rascal, (says he) don’t you see how he’s using

me;’ and indeed, your honour, the padre was belaboring him entirely

with both his fists. I ran to assist, but a sarjent entered with the

guard.

“‘What’s the matter here?’ says the sarjent,--for he was a countryman,

your honour, that had deserted from Whitelocke’s army.--‘Oh, by my

conscience, (says Jerry) but that same fellow is a thumping rogue, so

he is.’--‘Be aisey,’ says the sarjent; and so he speaks to the padre

in broken Spanish, and tells him to get up; but he couldn’t do that

thing till the sodgers lever’d him up with their firelocks. And then

he tells them a long story about his being asleep, and dreaming that

somebody was trying to steal the Virgin Mary, and that San Nicholas

tweaked his noise, and that he woke and cotched us at it. ‘Do you hear

that?’ says the sarjent. ‘Faith and I do,’ says Jerry; ‘but sorrow the

silly-bull do I understand at all, at all. All I know of the matter is,

that we were passing by and heard the poor jontleman hollaing; so we

ran in, and thinking he’d got the cramp in the stomach, I rubbed his

_eminence_ a little; when the ungrateful fellow knocked me down, and

threw himself on the top of the outside of me, and I’m almost mumm’d to

a jammy--arrah, no, jumm’d to a mammy--och, botheration, it’s jamm’d to

a mummy I mane.’--‘But what’s that rope?’ said the sarjent, pointing

to it. ‘Oh, the sinner,’ says Jerry, ‘and sure he was going to hang

himself, but didn’t like it; faith, but it’s all plain enough now, Mr.

Sarjent, and by the powers we’ve saved his life.’

“However, your honour, they marched us off to the guard-house, Jerry

and I; and there we staid till morning light, like the babes in the

wood, our hearts bateing the tattoo all the time, fer we’d no great

relish to the mines for life. But, joy betide the friar; he made it

all out to be a miracle, and so we were released for the honour of San

Nicholas, in spite of the thwacks he got in his corporation, that would

have held a whole bench of bishops; and so the colours hang there till

this time, your honour, unless they’ve taken them down since.[12] Happy

enough were we to get out of that, and they said the friar would be

_cannonized_; but Jerry swore they should ram him into a _mortar_, or

marry him to the gunner’s daughter, before he would go colour-staleing

again, with a vengeance to it.”

I left the old man with a promise of visiting him again; and in a few

months afterwards, being in the same part of the country, I strolled

towards his usual resort--the village green. There was no busy hum

of voices--no cheering laugh, or infantile prattle; the grass grew

as luxuriant as ever, but the children were listlessly scattered

about, as if they had lost the common tie which once had bound them

together:--the veteran was no more. In a corner of the churchyard,

below a time-shattered elm, was a turf-raised mound, and beneath it

lay the mouldering remains of poor Pat. It was a lonely spot, and the

villagers took delight in keeping it clear from weeds. A few wild

flowers blossomed around, and some rustic had carved a rude memorial on

a slab of wood. There were guns and swords neatly cut at the top, and

underneath was cyphered a plain P. M. Below these letters appeared this

simple elegy,--

A Soldier’s Grave.

It was enough, and its language spoke more closely to the heart than

all the pompous eulogies which deck the monumental urn, or sculptured

tomb. It was indeed a soldier’s grave, and a sailor’s tear was shed

upon it.

FOOTNOTES

[9] Six men upon four men’s allowance of provision.

[10] This anecdote of Taylor, I have since found to be correct. He

commanded a small brig, and was commissioned by the Spaniards; so that

when the English fleet first anchored off Monte Video, he was under

Spanish colours, having brought in the most daring manner a cargo

of cattle for the city, which, being closely invested, was short of

provisions. These cattle he landed in a small sandy bay, but payment

for them was refused. That night he came out in his boat (a beautiful

Deal galley) clandestinely to the English admiral, and offered his

services as a pilot, and also to bring off the cattle that was landed,

provided he had a strong party from the ships to assist him. His offer

was accepted, and he accomplished the undertaking. After the cessation

of hostilities, he settled at Buenos Ayres, and acted as a pilot for

the River Plate; but on the declaration of independence and the war

between Buenos Ayres and Monte Video, he was appointed to command the

squadron of the former. Since then, he joined Lord Cochrane, when

admiral of the Brazilian navy, and commanded a Brazilian frigate. He

is, I believe, still in existence, and holds high rank at Rio Janeiro.

[11] I have since ascertained the accuracy of poor Pat’s statement. The

lady was Madame O’Gorman, a native of the Mauritius, and married to

Captain O’Gorman, brother to the great counsellor of that name. She was

a remarkably fine woman, and possessed great influence over Liniers,

the viceroy. Bold and daring in her manners, and of an intrepid

disposition, she attended the viceroy during the battle habited in the

dress of an officer of hussars; and after the failure of the attack,

she rode through the town, at the imminent risk of her life, to protect

the wounded. Her brother was in the Spanish service, and was one of the

officers present when Sir Samuel Auchmuty surrendered his sword.

[12] This too I have found to be correct. They had not been taken down

a short time since, and the Spaniards were extremely proud of the

trophies. The damage done by the British artillery to the churches and

steeples was promptly repaired; but the spots where the shot struck

were painted black, and in some instances the shot themselves were left

remaining in the walls. The Spaniards execrated the name of Whitelocke,

and expressed great disgust whenever it was mentioned. As a set-off

against this, a friend informs me that, in several houses at Buenos

Ayres, he saw framed upon the walls the series of British engravings of

the Battle of Trafalgar, Death of Nelson, &c.

THE END.

“Well, many years after this, the regiment was ordered to the River