The departure of my friend was soon followed by that of the boats. The
treasure was then placed in security for the night, in charge of two
sentries; and Captain Rattler politely offered me accommodation in his
quarters, as well as stable-room for Sancho. We accordingly started
together, I leading the pony; when one of the soldiers stepped up, and,
saluting in due form, took hold of the bridle. “Well,” said I, “just
lead him to the stable, will you?”
“Yes, sir,” said he smartly; “and take care on him too, sir. Git across
him, sir, if you’ve no objections, sir. Got a bullet in my leg, sir.”
Suiting the action to the word, and not waiting for leave, he then
mounted the pony, or, as he had more graphically described the process,
“got across” him. That is, laying hold with both hands, he took a
spring, and brought the pit of his stomach upon the saddle; then,
wriggling forwards, got one leg over, dug his heels into Sancho’s side
before he was well in his seat, and started off at a trot, his legs
dangling, and the stirrups too. As he mounted and rode away, I noticed a
hard, droll sort of leer, on the weather-beaten countenances of his
comrades. Jones, it soon became apparent, was both the wag and the butt
of the whole escort.
The corporal, meanwhile, was receiving his instructions from Captain
Rattler. “Fraser of the 42d?” said the captain. “Oh, very well. You will
see to the whole party. We haven’t another corporal in the escort. Turn
them out to-morrow in good time; and be sure to have them here by eight
o’clock, when we load the mules.”
While the captain and I were seated at our tea, Jones entered without
knocking, twitched his forelock, and with a savage look made a plunge at
my boots, and walked away with them. Jones, it was clear, had made up
his mind to be my personal attendant, as long as I and he marched in
company. That being the case, I here beg leave to give you his
character,—though I fear it would not gain him admittance into your
service.
Jones went among his comrades by the name of Taffy, and certainly was
not wronged by the legend, which says “Taffy was a thief.” Take a trait.
On the march, he stole a Dutch cheese, sold it me for a dollar, and ate
it himself. He was conversable, and couldn’t keep his own counsel: _e.
g._ not satisfied with realising both dollar and cheese, he
ostentatiously pleaded guilty to the original theft, walking by the side
of my pony. Jones was no raw recruit:—had served in the Peninsula, if
his word was to be trusted, through five successive campaigns; got his
wound at Pampeluna, and was now returning from hospital to join his
regiment. In active service, he had acquired all the good and bad
qualities of an old campaigner; united with which were some of both
sorts, that were properly his own. His oddities he did not attempt to
hide, though they constantly exposed him to the jeers of his comrades.
He was susceptible, touchy, testy—not quarrelsome. Felt ridicule very
acutely; if laughed at, complained bitterly—expostulated—but was not to
be laughed out of his own ways. He was somewhat undersized; a smart,
wiry, hard-featured light-infantry man: had, to an excess, that wriggle
in his gait, which was imparted to our foot-soldiers by the awkward set
of their accoutrements—straightening their back, stretching their neck,
fixing their head, projecting their chin, and throwing all the action,
in walking, into their loins, thighs, and shoulders. His first
appearance was by no means a letter of recommendation. He carried the
gallows in his countenance,—in short, had that sort of look which helps
to get “oudacious” boys a “larrupping;” desperate, dogged, abject, and
impudent at the same time. He was capable of any sort of atrocity:—you
might turn him by a word. Had a perpetual wolf—yet didn’t care much for
eating, when he could get drink. Never refused a tumbler of wine—but
preferred something short. His tact was considerable. He soon found out
just what I disliked, and what I liked—accommodated his likings to mine.
With a constant eye to self, was my intensely devoted humble servant.
Never resisted—always gave up a point at once, when he couldn’t carry
it—yet often contrived to have his own way. Much preferred riding to
walking: seldom suffered a day to pass, without finding more than one
opportunity to “get across” Sancho in the course of the march. If I was
off, he was on. Took an amazing liking to “the pony,”—and sold his corn.
Hated the French, but not so much as he hated our own horse-soldiers.
Jones, often offended, was never saucy. Took a jobation as a matter of
course. Looked savage at the moment; the next, was larking with the
muleteers. The muleteers took to him amazingly. For endless neglects and
trespasses, he had one plea, always ready—“Got a bullet in my leg, sir.”
Next morning, just as we had done breakfast, Corporal Fraser entered to
announce the men ready, the mules arrived, and all prepared for loading.
The captain and I proceeded to the spot, and the loading commenced.
Corporal Fraser made himself universally useful; I soon discovered that,
in him, we had an acquisition. Leaving the superintendence, for a
moment, to the captain and him, I stepped back to the billet, for the
purpose of stowing, in my already overcharged portmanteau, a lot of
loose dollars, part of my own ready cash, which I found a drag. Just as
I had piled them on the table, to the number of forty, and was forcing
them in amongst shirts, shaving materials, and portable dictionaries,
who should enter but the captain? “Ah!” said he, “don’t trouble
yourself; you haven’t room. You’ll ruin your things. Here; my
portmanteau is open.” So saying, he laid hands on the dollars, counted
thirty, and whipped them into his box. “Thirty,” said he—“there, they’ll
go safe. Remember. Thirty.” It was done in the twinkling of an eye.
“Rather cool,” thought I; “but of course it’s all right.”
We returned together. A few of the soldiers were placed as sentries. The
rest had piled their arms, and stood waiting about, ready to fall in and
march when the mules were loaded. Something out of the usual course was
evidently going on: the men were all on a broad grin. I walked into a
sort of court-yard, and at once discovered the cause of the general
mirth. On a money-box sat Jones, and before him stood a goat. “Purty
creatur!” said Jones. “Purty thing—isn’t she, sir?” He held out a bit of
biscuit. She playfully made a show of butting, advanced, and took
it—“It’s mine, sir,” said he: “follows me about like a dog, sir.”
“No wonder,” said I, “so long as the biscuit lasts.”
“No, sir; ’tisn’t that, sir,” replied Jones. “It’s ’cause I speaks to
her as goats understands, sir; same as we speaks to ’em in the
Principality, sir. Only see, sir.”
Jones then knelt down, put his nose close to nanny’s, and, with a
coaxing voice and a most affectionate look, gave utterance to a few low
guttural sounds, in a language to me unknown. Nanny rose on her hind
legs, and again made play with her head; then, just as I expected to see
Jones punched and prostrate, arched her neck gracefully on one side,
descended on her fore-feet, stepped back, cut a caper, ran up to Jones
again in a butting attitude, and, instead of knocking him over, put her
nose close to his, and uttered a short bleat. “There, sir,” said Jones;
“see that, sir?—understands me every word, sir.” It certainly did look
very much as if nanny understood Welch.
“Well, what did you say to her?”
“Why, I said this, sir. ‘Nanny,’ says I, ‘we’re off directly instant,’
says I; ‘and you must come along with us,’ says I; ‘and I’ll milk you
morning and evening,’ says I. ‘And then the cappn, and this here
hommerble jeddleham what’s present,’ says I, ‘won’t never not want milk
for their tea,’ says I, ‘nor yet for their breakfast nayther,’ says I.”
“Well, and what does nanny say?” asked I, almost laughing at this stroke
of generalship.
“Please, sir,” replied Jones, “she says she’s quite agreeable, sir; that
is, if you are, sir. That’s what she says, sir.”
“Oh, very well.” Had Jones and I been better acquainted, I might have
felt it needful to ask first, how nanny had passed into his possession.
“Thank yer honour,” said Jones, springing on his feet. “That’s jest the
very thing as I was a-going to aast yer honour. Much obleeged to yer
honour. Purty creatur! Nothing to her, a day’s march, sir. Won’t mind it
the least in the world, sir. Come in quite fresh, sir.” As I was walking
out of the yard, Jones ran after me,—“Please, sir, if the cappn makes
any objections, when he siz nanny coming on along with us, sir, please
just tell him she’s a nanny, sir; that is, I means to say, a femmel,
sir, and giz milk, sir. Then he won’t have nothing to say against her,
sir.”
Nanny did actually accompany our march to headquarters; and not only
gave us milk, regularly twice a-day, but on one occasion rendered us a
far more important service. She became the pet of the men, and soon
knocked up an acquaintance with the pony. Sancho and nanny travelled
side by side; except that nanny’s line of march was now and then
excursive; on which occasions the pony expressed his uneasiness by
turning his head to look, with an impatient snort. Nanny was certainly
not undeserving of Jones’s commendations of her beauty. Not one of that
homebred race, of vulgar aspect, ungainly form, and short, coarse coat,
so common both in this country and abroad—a race that lose all their
sprightliness when they cease to be kids, and become full-grown
goats;—in form she resembled the antelope; her step was that of goats
that haunt the precipice, the pinnacle, and the glacier; elegance was in
all her movements; and her hair, fine, flowing, and luxuriant—in colour
a beautiful light orange-tawny, softening into an amber yellow, pale and
delicate—with its snow-white fringe almost sweeping the ground. A dainty
hussy, too, was Miss Nanny. She had her luxuries, and scorned to browse
on common grass: culled her tidbits by the road-side, as she trotted
along—a nibble here, and a nibble there; was partial to biscuit broken
small, and wouldn’t refuse a crumb of cheese. Didn’t care for bread,
except when she could steal it—her only vice—off the table before
dinner; an object which she easily effected, by raising herself on her
hind-legs. At the end of the march, as Jones had predicted, she always
came in as fresh as she started; and proved it, wherever we were, by
commencing an immediate perambulation of the house and premises, in
search of anything she could pick up. This sometimes brought her into
odd positions, and gave us trouble.
Where are we? Oh, loading the money for our start from Oyarzun. Just as
I was coming out of the court-yard, a soldier entered it, with a look of
execration, muttering. Didn’t at all like appearances, when I got into
the road. All the men looked sulky; the muleteers, perfectly vicious.
The loading was going on, but without method, and not by any means with
despatch. Of all the party, the only man that didn’t show ill blood was
Corporal Fraser. He was doing his best, but looked serious, and somewhat
nonplussed. The cause of all was soon apparent. The captain, for some
reason or other, had worked himself into a perfect fury, to which he was
giving expression in a regular stream of abuse and imprecations;
discharging it indiscriminately on the muleteers and the escort, in
Portuguese, Spanish, and English, as though he had rifled and ransacked
the vocabularies for every bullying and blasphemous expression in the
three languages. He had already got matters into a little bit of a
mess—was ordering, counter-ordering—bothering the whole party out of
their wits—in short, obstructing everything, and thereby indefinitely
delaying our departure. This particularly enraged the muleteers: for you
must know, first, they take the packing upon themselves, understand
their business, and like to be let alone at it; secondly, they have a
notion that nothing ruins their mules like keeping a beast standing,
when once he has got his load on his back; and some of the first loaded
were a couple of hours in this predicament, before we got off. We
started at last, and passed through Oyarzun in no very military order:
soldiers, mules, and muleteers, all jumbled together, like beef, pork,
onions, and mutton-chops, in a Saturday’s pie. Fraser’s smartness saved
us more than once from a jam, as we threaded the narrow street; and at
length we emerged on the high road to St Jean de Luz.
Although, in our transition to French from Spanish ground, we mounted
not to the regions of perpetual snows, we did certainly pass over some
very high ground, both before and after crossing the Bidassoa; and our
second elevation gave us a splendid prospect of the fertile plains of
France. “Shan’t want for nothing to eat, sir,” said Jones, “when we gits
down there, sir. Shocking bad country, Spain, for poor soldiers, sir.
Starvation country, I calls it, sir. Nothing but lean ration beef, as
tough as hides, sir; and couldn’t always get that, sir. Dreadful hard
work up these hills, sir. Got a bullet in my leg, sir.”
Beyond Irun, we passed over an irregular eminence, which had been the
scene of a sharp conflict with the enemy. Nothing, however, now
indicated the field of combat, save a few dead horses, that lay
scattered on the bare side of a hill. “What are those smaller animals,”
said I to Jones, “lying about there, among the horses? Can’t be goats,
can they?”
“Thim’s dogs, sir,” said Jones. “They goes and gits a good blowout off
the horses, sir; then they crawls a little way off, and lies down a bit,
jest to choe the quid, sir; and then they goes back again, and takes
another pull, sir. That’s jest how three or four on us did at Vittoria,
sir, when we come upon the Frinch Ginneral’s dinner, sir, which he
hadn’t time to stop and eat sir. Please sir, it’s not correct, what the
men jeers me about the goats where I comes from, sir. Niver see’d nobody
a-riding of a goat in the Principality, sir; nayther man, nor yet woman,
sir; no, nor a babby nayther, sir; let alone a clergyman, sir.”
Perhaps, my dear reader, as this is our first day on the road, I may as
well give you here a description of our regular order of march; that is,
so far as we marched in any order at all. We had eighty mules, then, in
twenty strings, of four mules each. The muzzle of the second mule was
connected with the _albarda_ (or pack-saddle) of the first, by a thong
of leather. The third mule was attached to the second in like manner,
and the fourth to the third. Each of these strings of mules had its own
muleteer—twenty muleteers in all. The twenty were divided into two
parties of ten; and over each of these ten was a sort of
master-muleteer, called a Capataz. Of the four mules in each string,
three carried money, and the fourth carried nothing but his _albarda_.
We had thus twenty unloaded mules, and sixty charged with treasure: that
is, fifty-eight with dollars, and two with doubloons. Now, as each mule
carried two boxes, and each box contained two bags of a thousand, I
think you will find, reckoning the dollar at only 4s. 6d. (the value at
which it was issued to the troops,) and reckoning sixteen dollars to the
doubloon, that we were marching to headquarters to the tune of
eighty-one thousand pounds sterling. If, however, you prefer calculating
the dollar at what it was then and there worth in buying bills on
England—say from 6s. 6d. to 7s. 6d.—why then, of course, the value of
our load comes to so much the more. What a catch for a Frenchman—one of
our mules!
Supposing us, then, to march in due order, the mules proceed in single
file, each string of four attended by its own muleteer. Of the soldiers,
some precede the line of march, others follow it, and others, again,
march at intervals on the flanks: and so we walk on at mules’ pace,
which is steady and uniform, convenient for marching, and gets over the
ground at a very satisfactory rate; so that we cover our sixteen or
twenty miles a-day with tolerable facility, going straight on from end
to end. But we don’t always get on so pleasantly. If, not keeping the
single file, one string of mules comes up abreast of that next in
advance, then there is a thronging, which soon leads to confusion. Or if
the load of one of your mules gets wrong, then there is a stoppage.
Those in the rear come crowding up, and are brought to a halt; those in
advance walk on. Thus a division takes place, your line is broken, and
your cavalcade of mules (“bad English!”—It’s good Portuguese,) no longer
kept well together as it ought to be, becomes extended over an undue
length of road, and cannot be looked after and kept regular. Should you
ever march with such a convoy, you will soon make the discovery that
order, though excellent in theory, is not always reducible to practice.
It won’t at all mend the matter, if you happen to have such a commander
as ours was: a battered dandy of forty, a military _roué_, who carried
in his countenance the marks of rough weather and hard drinking—for his
face was not only bronzed by the elements, but pimpled with brandy—and
whose continual language, all through the march from starting to
halting, was just nothing but one stream of oaths, vituperations, and
contradictory orders. And yet this same officer, I make no doubt, had we
been placed in a position of real danger, would have conducted himself
with coolness, energy, and judgment. As it was, he started us in
confusion, and kept us in it all day. The muleteers, who set out in
ill-temper, hadn’t one chance given them of recovering their amiability.
The soldiers first walked along in dogged silence—then, finding what
sort of a gentleman they had to deal with, began to take things easy,
joked among themselves, talked loud, and, when he commanded them with an
oath to hold their tongues, all but laughed in his face. Discipline was
gone. One fellow, a Yorkshire lad, almost amused me with his provoking
insolence. He was a red-faced chap with flaxen hair, white eyebrows, and
a merry but malevolent eye;—could look, in a moment, either impudent or
sedate—just kept himself steady under the captain’s immediate
inspection; the moment it was off him, recommenced his antics—was clown,
harlequin, and scaramouch, all in one—cut the double-shuffle, winked,
twisted his mouth, broke out singing, and was dumb in a moment; cracked
jokes, raised a roar, made believe to quarrel, kicked up every devisable
sort of row. At length he deliberately disobeyed orders, and the captain
put him under arrest; in other words, he was deprived of his musket.
Whispered audibly, “It was just what he wanted; now one of the mules
could shoulder arms”—set half-a-dozen fellows laughing. Yet this man
afterwards, when we were differently commanded, was as well-conducted as
any soldier of the escort.
We at length reached St Jean de Luz, after a long, and, to me, very
anxious march—the more so as it was my first. Towards our journey’s end,
the question was uppermost in my thoughts, “Is it thus we are to march,
when the road is insecure?” Marching as we did now, far from being
prepared to meet Marshal Soult, I should have felt it far from agreeable
to meet another distinguished commander that shall be nameless. There
certainly were periods, during the day, when a few resolute assailants
might easily have driven off part of our convoy, money and all; nay,
when one or other of our own muleteers, had they been so disposed, might
have slipped down one of the cross-roads with his string of mules, and
made his escape among the hills. These uneasy reflections brought to my
mind the advice given me at Passages by Mr Q—; and I resolved to wait on
the commandant immediately on my arrival, in the hope of effecting some
more satisfactory arrangement for our subsequent progress.
We reached a large house assigned to our department on the outskirts of
St Jean de Luz, stowed the treasure in safety under a guard, and
dismissed the rest of the men to their quarters; Jones only excepted,
who remained in charge of the pony. Captain Rattler took his leave, with
a polite “_Au revoir._” Having seen the moneyboxes all right, secured
accommodation for the mules and muleteers, and ascertained that dinner
would be ready in half-an-hour, I stepped on at once to the
commandant’s, and found him in his office.
“I have waited on you, sir, to announce my arrival from Oyarzun, with a
convoy of treasure for headquarters.”
“Oh yes; Mr Y—, I presume. Mr Y—, pray take a chair. Happy to see you,
Mr Y—, especially on such an occasion. If you arrive safe, I trust we
shall all get a little of it; for it’s what we’re all in want of. Can I
render you any assistance, Mr Y—?”
“Should feel much obliged, sir, if you could increase the strength of
our escort. For eighty mules, twenty men will hardly be sufficient.”
“Why, no; certainly not, Mr Y—, if you don’t happen to find the country
quiet. Well, what sort of an addition would you like to have?”
“At Passages, sir, we had a guard of Germans; so steady and
well-conducted, I should be very glad to have some more like them. As to
number, I would leave that to you, sir.”
“Sorry to say we have no Germans going up at present, Mr Y—.”
“Well, sir, we have with us a Scotch corporal, decidedly the steadiest
man in our party. Perhaps you could give me some Scotsmen.”
“My dear sir, I’d go with you myself, if I could, with the greatest
pleasure. Unfortunately, though, we have no Scotch regiment in the
place. Suppose I could give you—say twenty or thirty men, heavy
cavalry.”
“Well, sir, I think cavalry, joined with our infantry, would be the best
escort we could have.”
“Very good, sir. Well, now you’ll want an officer to command them.”
“Why, sir, the truth is, I wished to consult you on that subject. The
present commander of our party is Captain Rattler.”
“Your present? Say your late. He’s off.”
“He was with me within the last half-hour, sir. Said nothing about
leaving.”
“Well, I don’t know anything about that. All I know is this—he was here
just before you; got his route changed. By this time, I should think,
he’s on his way to St Jean Pied de Port. Very well, Mr Y—. Load
to-morrow, and start with your present escort. At what hour may I expect
you to pass here, in your way through the town?”
“Probably about ten o’clock, sir.”
“Very well, Mr Y—. Then, to-morrow morning, by ten o’clock, I’ll have
your additional escort here in readiness for you. As to the officer
that’s to command the party, we’ll talk about that when we meet. Let me
see. I hardly know how to settle it. At present, I have only one that’s
going to join, and he’s young—your junior, I should say, by three or
four years; has never seen service—a cornet, fresh from England. Well,
if you can’t have another, you know, you must have him. Very well, Mr
Y—; to-morrow morning, if you please, at ten o’clock.”
I withdrew, satisfied with the result of my visit, not at all sorry to
have got rid of the captain by his own act, and without any complaint on
my part—a little surprised, however, at the precipitancy of his retreat,
especially after his last words, “_Au revoir._” Suddenly a thought came
plump—“My thirty dollars! The caitiff! he’s off, and I am once more a
victim!”
It didn’t turn out quite so bad as it looked, though. On my return to
our office, I was met by Jones, who, with a face of famine, announced
“dinner ready,” and handed me the following letter:—
“ST JEAN DE LUZ, _March 1814_.
“Dear Sir—As unexpected circumstances have induced me to alter my route,
I adopt this hurried method of wishing you a safe and pleasant journey
to headquarters. It would have afforded me much gratification to
accompany you, or at any rate to have said farewell in person. You will,
however, I am sure, pardon the little omission, as I am compelled to
start without delay.
“I have thirty dollars belonging to you in my portmanteau. _They are_
_safe._ I was about to forward them by the bearer of this, but, not
feeling entire confidence in such a mode of conveyance, I beg to
enclose you an order on England for the amount. Believe me to remain,
dear sir, faithfully yours,
“R. RATTLER.
“P.S.—Excuse haste.
G. Y—, Esq.,
Army Pay Department, St Jean de Luz.”
“_Au revoir!_” Never, from that time forward, have I and the captain
met. Sly rogue! His _modus operandi_, how dashing, yet how cool! To say
nothing of his walking off with my dollars in his box, and thus securing
a little hard cash at my expense, when cash was so scarce, how civilly
he took leave of me at the door of our office! Thence he must have cut
away direct to the commandant’s, resolved to be off forthwith—in plain
English, to bolt! “Excuse haste!” And then in the morning, too, at
Oyarzun, how smartly he whipped up my dollars, stowed them in his own
portmanteau without asking my leave, and locked them up before my eyes.
“_Au revoir!_” Yes; “_they are safe!_”
Well, the less said about my dinner, that day, the better. In the course
of the afternoon, though, Miss Nanny-goat thought fit to indulge herself
in a bit of a spree. She walked, in search of varieties, into an old
gentleman’s garden. Jones pursued—wanted to milk her for tea. The
proprietor followed; I joined the chase. Nanny, for the fun of the
thing, sprang on the wall, walked up the roof of the summer-house, ran
along the ridge, pedestalled herself on the gable-end which rose in a
peak, and there stood, looking down on us in defiance, her four little
feet gathered up within the compass of a crown-piece. Jones called,
coaxed, spoke Welsh, held out successively cabbage-leaf, lettuce-leaf,
vine-leaf, all in vain. “Ah!” said the old Frenchman; and, toddling off
to his geraniums, culled a scarlet cluster of aromatic flowers. That was
irresistible. One jump brought Nanny down upon the wall, another landed
her easy on the ground. Before you could say Jack Robinson, she was
nibbling the nosegay out of the Frenchman’s hand. Next morning he loaded
us, when we took leave, with a blushing bouquet of geraniums—shed tears,
poor old gentleman, when Nanny departed—put his arms round her neck—a
true Frenchman—and, _hi oculi viderunt_, kissed her.
The morning after our arrival at St Jean de Luz, I rose betimes,
breakfasted, and descended into the road to superintend the loading of
the mules—a much more expeditious process without the captain’s aid than
with it. We got off with the convoy in good time, and soon reached the
commandant’s. In that part of the town the street widened into a sort of
“place;” and there, drawn up and awaiting our arrival, I had the
pleasure of discovering a party of dragoons, in number four-and-twenty.
Being fresh from winter-quarters, they had turned out in capital order;
presentable, as to dress and accoutrements, at a Windsor review; their
horses, too, in good condition, though rather undersized for the men,
none of them being English. At the door of the commandant’s office stood
two horses, held by a groom, both of them serviceable, and rather showy
animals, apparently recent arrivals from home. I alighted, and ascended
to the office.
“Punctual to your time,” said the commandant. “This, Mr Y—, is the
officer who will command your party—the Hon. Mr Chesterfield.” Did the
introduction in due form.
In the military undress of his regiment—viz. cap with tassel and gold
band, said cap hiding one side of the head and face, and leaving the
other bare, long greatcoat, redundant in frogs, belt and sabre, enormous
boots, and formidable spurs—I saw before me a youth of eighteen, slight
in form, elegant in manner, who quietly returned my salutation, and,
shortly after, walked down stairs and mounted. “I have explained to Mr
C. the nature of the duty,” said the colonel. “He is quite fresh from
England; but he seems to have no nonsense about him; and, at any rate, I
trust you will find the change for the better. Well, Mr Y—, we mustn’t
keep the mules standing; so I now wish you a pleasant journey.”
“Thank you, sir. Much obliged to you for this arrangement. Good morning,
sir.”
It soon became apparent, as we proceeded on our march, that matters were
greatly mended since the day before. Our new commander said little; but,
young as he was, seemed to know what he was about; and all went on much
to my satisfaction. He never interfered needlessly; and his directions,
when given, were much to the purpose. Managed the cavalry himself, and
the infantry through Corporal Fraser. Things began to grow right of
their own accord, and a great load was taken off my mind. The men,
finding they were now _commanded_, were orderly and well-conducted. Even
our jolly Yorkshireman behaved himself—that is, with the exception of an
occasional caper or grimace when he felt himself safe. Nothing more was
said about his arrest. Consequently he had to carry his musket through
the rest of the march; for, seeing what kind of a person he now had to
deal with, he was too wise to try over again the game of the day before.
The muleteers, too, recovered their good-humour. Muleteers are like live
lobsters—very tractable, if you know how to handle them. The delays were
now few. And though, with such a mixture of men and mules, we could not
keep perfect order, if anything got wrong, it was soon set right.
We reached at length that point in our march where a lane struck off to
the left, from the high road which we were following, and which led
direct to Bayonne. Our route, with official brevity, assigned Bayonne as
our halting-place for the night. But as Bayonne happened just then to be
occupied by the French, we proposed directing our course toward the
headquarters of Sir John Hope, who commanded the besieging army. The
aforesaid lane to the left soon brought us out on a heathy eminence,
covered with fieldworks completed or in progress, and affording us a
splendid view of the beleaguered city, of the river Adour, and of the
bridge of boats thrown across it near the sea. Headquarters were at a
small hamlet, on the right or opposite bank of the river.
Yes, we saw that famous bridge. The Duke was always great in passing
rivers. Witness his services in India. Witness the Douro, the Bidassoa,
the Nivelle, the Nive, and now the Adour. Sufficient attention, perhaps,
has not been directed to this subject. Take two feats out of the number,
and view them together—the passage of the Adour, and the passage of the
Bidassoa: both original ideas; both ideas that no mere tactician would
have conceived or brought to bear; and both vindicating their claim to a
distinguished record, by taking an able, gallant, and vigilant opponent
by surprise. Who, but the Duke, would have dreamed of passing the
Bidassoa at its mouth, without a bridge? Who, but the Duke, would have
dreamed of passing the Adour at its mouth, by such a bridge as we now
beheld? One thing is clear: _Soult_ did not dream of either one passage
or the other. Obs. 1.—The execution, in each case, was off-hand,
dashing, and daring. The preparation, in both, was deliberate, mature,
and secret. Obs. 2.—The distinguishing excellence of the Duke’s strategy
did not, however, consist in the mere exploit of throwing an army across
a wide and rapid stream, in the face of an enemy assembled in
force—though this, in itself, is among the most difficult operations of
war; but in the combined, extensive, and successful movements which
uniformly attended the achievement. In short, the subject claims a
distinct volume. All the Duke’s passages of rivers, effected in the face
of the enemy, should be brought into one view, and studied together.
Such a work, properly executed, would merit a place in every military
library. However, don’t think I’m going to inflict on you a detailed
description of the oft-described bridge which we had now to pass.
Suffice it to say, the bridge consisted of small vessels, moored side by
side, all across the river. These vessels answered the purpose of piers;
that is, they supported the gangway of planks, which formed the passage
across.
It may be deemed extraordinary, that this idea of floating piers has not
been more generally adopted. But I suppose the real objection is an
inconvenience, to which the method is unavoidably liable, and which we
experienced on the present occasion, in passing with our mules and
moneyboxes; namely, the variation of the bridge’s altitude, with the
rise and fall of the water. This, in the Adour, at spring-tides, is
fourteen feet. You must know, the river was now low. The consequence
was, that the level of the bridge was considerably beneath the level of
the banks on each side; while its two extremities were two boarded
slopes, connecting the higher level with the lower. It was a ticklish
business, passing these two slopes with our mules four in a string—one
of them light, three loaded. In going _down_-hill, to get on the bridge,
the mules managed admirably—let them alone for that. Seeing that this
part of the process was proceeding satisfactorily, I left an injunction
with Senhor Roque, the chief Capataz, not to send on the mules too
fast—for this might have led to a jam, which would probably have
consigned some of our boxes to the bottom of the Adour—and pushed on for
the opposite bank, to be ready to superintend the ascent. This was the
real bother, the going _up_-hill. In coming to the rise, which was
somewhat abrupt, the first mule of the first string stumbled and fell.
The muleteer got him on his legs again—his load happily not
unshipped—and, taking him by the head, was about to lead him up. But
this, it was clear, wouldn’t do. The beast had sense to see it wouldn’t,
and declined moving. It might have answered very well for a single mule;
but was no security for the ascent of the other three, that followed in
the same category; and, unless all ascended together, we were undone.
Under these circumstances, the leading mule, not choosing to compromise
himself, refused the ascent. Meanwhile, the other strings of mules came
crowding up; and we should soon have had them all of a heap, shouldering
one another into the water. It was a nervous moment. I shouted to the
muleteer, “_Anda para detraz, homem, e falla_”—(Old fellow, go behind,
and speak to them.) “Si, si, Senhor,” said he, catching the idea at
once, and promptly adopting it. The moment the mules heard, behind them,
the well-known “_árre_” of their driver, they bolted simultaneously;
and, scrambling up like cats, soon reached the summit of the slope, and
stood on _terra firma_. Thus, though they could not have done it
walking, they did it with a run. The other muleteers, as they came up in
succession, adopted the same expedient each with his own team; and thus
we effected the passage of the Adour, without either jam, crowding,
confusion, or capsize.
Before we go any further, though, I must let you into the use of that
magical word “_árre_,” which, on the present occasion, effected so much
in our favour. It is the word used by drivers to their beasts, to set
them off, or increase their speed. Please to pronounce it with a
lengthened rattling of the _r_—ár-r-r-r-r-r-r-re. Only remember this:
pronounce it ever so correctly, you yourself can never do anything with
it: for, if twenty persons sing out ár-r-r-r-r-r-r-re, neither horse,
mule, nor donkey will move the faster, till they hear the
ár-r-r-r-r-r-r-re of their own driver. This they distinguish among a
hundred, and bolt forthwith. The knowledge of this singular fact in
animal psychology tends greatly to enliven an Almada or Cintra
donkey-party. Upon an occasion of this kind, my friend John G—, being
the longest fellow of the party, thought fit to appropriate the tallest
donkey. This was deemed a usurpation, and, as such, meriting
castigation. A hint was therefore given to the driver of his (John’s)
donkey. John was suffered to get one foot quietly into the stirrup; but,
before he had got the other over the Albarda, ár-r-r-r-r-r-r-re was
heard behind; away went the donkey through the village of Almada; and
away went John, one hand holding by the Albarda, the other by an ear—one
toe in the stirrup, the other now hopping along the ground, now
describing circles aloft, in vain attempts to get across. John, how
unjustly I need not say, imputes the Almada exhibition to my
contrivance, and bides his time. Presently we enter a sandy lane—John
warns me I shall be in the dust ere we get out of it—advises to take
feet out of stirrups. Advice followed, in defiance. Again the cry is
heard, ár-r-r-r-r-r-r-re; but now in a different key. This time, it is
my driver. Donkey bolts—away we go—ár-r-r-r-r-r-r-re is heard once
more—donkey can gallop no faster, so begins to kick. I stoop forward—hug
him round the neck; both donkey and rider are soon rolling in the dust.
“Now,” says John, as he trots exulting by, “you and I are quits.” “Yes,”
says Frank Woodbridge, passing at a canter; “one Johnny has avenged the
other.” _Mem._—As, in an English donkey-race, no one rides his own
donkey, and the donkey last in wins; so, in those Almada donkey-parties,
each paid another man’s driver, no man paid his own. That driver got
most whose donkey spilt his rider oftenest.
To proceed. All our party having passed the bridge, I was viewing with
some satisfaction the train of mules, as they walked off from the river
towards the hamlet, cheerily switching their tails—the animals’ usual
practice after accomplishing any extraordinary _tour de force_—when I
noticed, not far from the bridge-head, in a long military frock-coat,
quietly eyeing me with folded arms, a stately officer of the engineers.
Who, do you think?—who, but my fellow-passenger from England a year
before, Captain Gabion? We exchanged greetings with mutual cordiality.
“Much obliged to you, Mr Y—,” said he; “you have saved me some trouble.”
“Happy to hear it, sir: don’t exactly understand how, though.”
“Why, the fact is,” replied the Captain, “I was here waiting to see the
convoy safe over—if needful, to render assistance. But really you got
them so handily up the bank, I had no occasion to interfere. Famous
plan, that, of sending them up with a run: shan’t soon forget it. That
ár-r-r-r-r-r-r-re starts them capitally,—acts like a brad-awl.”
“Were you not on the bridge just now, towards the other side of the
river, sir?”
“Yes, yes; but I saw you were getting them on well; so I came over to
this end, to see how you would get them off.”
“What I most feared,” said I, “was their crowding up, in passing the
bridge.”
“No, no,” said the captain, “no danger of that. Had I seen the least
tendency to confusion, I should have passed a command by signal.
Effectual means would then have been taken at once, to keep back those
coming on, till those in front were clear. Well, what do you think of
our bridge?”
“I was thinking how I could destroy it—that is, if I was General
Thouvenot, shut up in Bayonne with thirteen or fourteen thousand men.
That’s what I began to think of, as soon as I saw it; and that’s what
I’ve been thinking of ever since.”
“Destroy it?” said the Captain; “destroy the bridge? Come, that’s a good
one. Destroy it, indeed! I should like just to know, now, how you would
go to work to do that. Why, Thouvenot did come down and attack, on our
first arrival here; got well pounded, though. Don’t think it very
probable he’ll try that again.”
“Now, it’s too late, perhaps. Besides, he committed two great mistakes;
he attacked with an insufficient force, and he came down only on one
side of the river. If, instead, when the bridge was first thrown over,
he had come down on both sides, and that with adequate—”
“Going up with the treasure to headquarters, Mr Y—?”
“That’s our destination, sir. This afternoon, though, we halt where we
are.”
“What, halt here?” said the Captain. “Let me look at your route.”
“Our route says Bayonne, sir; but of course we came here.”
“Yes, yes; very right; exactly; just so. Sorry to say, though, Mr Y—, I
fear you’ll find no accommodation where you are. Every house, every
cottage, every shed, is as full as it can cram. If it was only yourself,
pony, and goat, I would give you accommodation most willingly. I sleep
on a deal table. Would give you half with pleasure. But such a lot of
you—about seventy bipeds, I guess, and more than a hundred
quadrupeds—why, where could we put you all?”
“Well, then,” said I, “we must make a bivouac of it, I suppose.”
“Bivouac? Nonsense!—bivouac! How would those fine fellows stand a
bivouac, I wonder, with their white gloves and horsehair plumes?
Besides, it’s beginning to rain. Bet you a dollar, it rains all night.
Besides that, where would you put your money? If General Thouvenot
should take your advice, ‘come down on both sides,’ and find your boxes
ranged along that bank by the road-side—and that’s the only place to put
them I know of—a pretty catch he’d make of it. No, no, Mr Y—; your only
plan is to go on. Follow the lane till it brings you back into the high
road above Bayonne. You will then soon find a village, which will afford
you accommodation for the night.”
“Very well, sir. I suppose, then, the sooner we move the better. Will
you have the goodness, though, to put me in the way of getting the men
their rations?”
“Oh yes,” said the Captain; “yes, yes: I’ll set all that straight for
you, in no time. I see you’re rather a young campaigner; and the officer
of your escort, I suspect, is younger still. You can’t stay here
to-night, that’s certain. Better see the General, though, before you
move on; just report yourself, you know, and hear what he says about it.
Step on to his quarters, that small house with a white front, and I’ll
be after you directly.”
I turned to remount; but what had become of Sancho? Two minutes before,
I held his bridle in my hand. Now, he was nowhere to be seen. At length,
in the distance, I caught sight of Jones’ legs, dangling from the pony’s
side, as he trotted off towards the houses, with Nanny cantering after
him.
THE GREEN HAND.
A “SHORT” YARN.