Coachy pulled up.
"Unlimber!" thundered the chief; and, aided by his man, obeyed his own
orders.
"Load!" and "Fire!" followed in rapid succession.
I saw and smelt that they used real powder. This over, the horses were made
fast again, John, bestrode his nag, the General clambered on to his brazen
seat and down they came at a tearing pace directly towards us. Luckily I
had read "Charles O'Malley," and knew how to behave in such cases. I jumped
from the wagon, and, tying my handkerchief to the ferule of my umbrella,
advanced, waving it and shouting, "A flag of truce!" The General ordered a
halt and despatched himself to the flag. As he approached I beheld a stout,
middle-aged, good natured looking man, dressed in the graceless costume of
Uncle Sam's army; but I must say that he wore it with more grace than most
of the Regulars I have seen. Our soldiers look unbecomingly in their
clothes,--there is no denying it,--a good deal like _sups_ in a procession
at the Bowery. A New-York policeman sports pretty much the same dress in
much better style. You hardly ever see an officer or private, least of all
the officer, with the _air militaire_. I also noticed with pleasure that
the General had not on his head that melodramatic black felt,
feather-bedecked hat, which some fantastic Secretary of War must have
imagined in a dream, after seeing "Fra Diavolo" at the opera, or Wallack in
Massaroni. In place of this abomination, a cap covered with glazed leather
surmounted his martial brow. When we met, I lowered my umbrella and offered
my card, with the office pasteboard. He took them with great gravity, read
the names, and requested me to fall back to the rear and await orders. Then
rejoining his gun, he was driven slowly towards the house,--my peaceful
_ambulance_ following at a respectful distance. When I reached the door,
the six-pounder had disappeared behind a clump of evergreens, and the
General stood waiting to receive me. His manner was affable.
"How d'ye do, Mr. Shyster? Glad to see you, Sir. Walk into the library,
Sir."
I complied, and while the General was absent, engaged in carrying out some
hospitable suggestions for my refreshment, I examined the room. It was
large, and handsomely furnished. I looked into the bookcases: the shelves
were filled with works on War, from Cæsar's Commentaries down to Louis
Napoleon on Rifled Cannon. In one corner stood a suit of armor; in another
a stand of firearms; between them a star of bayonets. On the mantelpiece I
perceived a model of a small field-piece in brass and oak, and, what
interested me more, a cigarbox. I raised the lid; the box was half full of
highly creditable-looking cigars. My soul expanded with the thought of a
probable offer of at least one.
"None of your Flor de Connecticuts," I thought, "from the Vuelta Abajo of
New-Windsor, but the genuine Simon Puros."
A second glance at the inside of the lid caused grave doubts to depress my
spirits. I beheld there, in place of the usual ill-executed lithograph with
its _fábricas_ and its _calles_, three small portraits. The middle one was
the General in full uniform; I recognized him easily; the other two were no
doubt his aides-de-camp;--all evidently photographs; they were so ugly. I
dropped the lid in disappointment, and turned to the side-table. On it lay
a handsome sword in an open box lined with silk. Over it hung, framed and
glazed, the speech of the committee appointed by his fellow-soldiers of the
county to present the sword to the General, together with the General's
"neat and appropriate" answer and acceptance.
I began to be a little astonished. I certainly did not expect anything of
this sort. Our old man called him General, to be sure; but General means
nothing, in the rural districts, but a certain amount of wealth and
respectability. It has taken the place of Squire. But here was I with a man
who took his title _au sérieux_. What with the uniform, the cannon, and the
coachman, I began to feel like an ambassador to a potentate with a standing
army.
Here the General reappeared, bearing in his august hands a decanter and a
pitcher. After due refreshment, I produced my papers, made the necessary
explanations, and executed my commission so much to his satisfaction that
he invited me cordially to dine and spend the night, instead of taking the
evening-train down. I accepted, of course,--such chances seldom fell into
my way,--and was shown into a nice little bedroom, in which I was expected
to dress for dinner. Dress, indeed! I had on my best, and did not come to
stay. Novel-heroes manage to remain weeks without apparent luggage; but a
modern attorney's clerk, however moderate may be his toilette-tackle, finds
it inconvenient to be separated from it. However, I did what I
could,--washed my hands, settled the bow of my neck-tie, smoothed my hair
with my fingers, and thought, as I descended to the drawing-room, of the
travelling Frenchman, who, after a night spent in a diligence, wiped out
his eyes with his handkerchief, put on a paper false collar, and
exclaimed,--"_Me voici propre!_"
The General, in a fatigue-dress, presented me to Mrs. Van Bummel, a
good-looking woman of pleasant dimensions,--to Miss Bellona Van Bummel, who
evidently thought me beneath her notice,--and to the Reverend Moses Wether,
whose mild face, white cravat, and straight-cut collar proclaimed him. As I
came in, his Reverence attempted to slip meekly out, but was stopped
energetically by the General.
"How is this? Mr. Wether, you know you cannot leave, Sir."
"But, my dear General, I only dropped in for a few moments; and really I
have so much to do!"
"I am sorry, Sir," rejoined the General, sternly, "but you cannot be
excused. You accepted the position of Chaplain to the Regiment. You
neglected to attend the last two reviews. You were condemned by a Court
Martial, over which I presided, to twenty-four hours' arrest, which you
must now submit to."
"But, my dear General," feebly expostulated the man of prayer, "you know I
thought the nomination a mere pleasantry; I had no idea you were serious,
or I should never have listened to the proposition."
"Can't help that, Sir. You accepted the commission, you neglected your
duty, and you must take the consequences."
Just then, as the poor perplexed parson was about to make another attempt
for liberty, a side-door swung open; a well-built, comely servant-girl,
dressed like Jenny Lind in the "Fille du Régiment," appeared. Bringing the
back of her hand to her forehead, she said,--
"General, dinner is ready."
Van Bummel muttered something about "joining our mess," and led the way to
the banqueting-hall. I was too hungry to be particular about names, and did
ample justice to an excellent spread and well-selected tap,--carefully
avoiding eating with my knife or putting salt upon the table-cloth, which I
had often heard was never done by the aristocracy. As I kept my eyes upon
the others and imitated them to the best of my ability, I hope I did not
disgrace Nassau Street.
The evening passed quickly and agreeably. I played chess with the reverend
prisoner. The man of war read steadily folio history of Marlborough's
campaigns, making occasional references to maps and plans. As the clock
struck nine, an explosion on the lawn made the windows rattle again. I
jumped to my feet, but, seeing that the rest of the company looked
surprised at my vivacity, I sat down, guessing that the six-pounder and the
coachman had something to do with it.
"Don't be alarmed, Sir," said the General, "it's only gun-fire. We retire
about this time."
I took the hint, requested to be shown to my room, undressed, jumped into a
camp bedstead, and tried to sleep. Impossible!--the novelty of my day's
experiences, the beauty of the night, (for the full moon was shining into
the windows,) or perhaps a cup of strong coffee I had swallowed without
milk after dinner because the others took it, kept me awake. Finding sleep
out of the question, I got up and dressed myself. My chamber was on the
ground-floor, and opened upon the lawn. I stepped quietly out into the hazy
moonlight, lighted a cigar, and walked towards the river. It was a
remarkably fine evening, certainly, but a very damp one. Heavy dew dripped
from the trees. I found, as my weed grew shorter, that my fondness for the
romantic in Nature waned, and slowly retraced my steps to the house,
muttering to myself some of Edgar Poe's ghostly lines:--
"I stand beneath the mystic moon;
An opiate vapor, dewey, dim
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain-top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley."
I was about entering, when a figure advanced suddenly from behind a pillar
of the veranda, holding a something in its hand which glittered in the
moonlight, and which rattled as it dropped from the perpendicular to the
horizontal, pointing at me.
"Who goes there?" said the apparition, in a hoarse voice. "Stand, and give
the countersign!"
I recognized the voice of the soldier-servant of the morning. There he was
again, that indefatigable coachman, doing duty as sentinel with a musket in
his hands. Not knowing what else to say, I replied,--
"It is I, a friend!"
My good grammar was thrown away upon the brute.
"The countersign," he repeated.
"Pooh, pooh!" said I, "I do not know anything about the countersign. I am
Mr. Shyster, who came up this morning, when you and the General were doing
light-artillery practice on the lawn. Please let me go to my room."
But the brute stood immovable. As I advanced, I heard him cock his musket.
"Good God!" thought I, "this is no joke, after all. This stupid stable-man
may have loaded his musket. What if it should go off? If I retreat, I must
camp out,--no joke at this season;--rheumatism and a loss of salary, to say
the least. This will never do."