CHAPTER XXXVI. CONFESSIONS OF MAJOR FITZMAURICE.

“Say I love ‘many’--well, dear soul, I do;

Rut the bright object of my heart is ‘one

I love a thousand flowers, of every hue,

For all are beautiful, though similar none;

I love a thousand stars, for all are bright,

And with their radiant beauty cheer the sight.

..........I have, as thy sweet lips complain,

On many a lip of ruby banqueted.-’

Triojias Wade.

|I have ever been romantic. At twelve I wrote poetry--for by that name

my grandmother was pleased to designate my melodies--and at sixteen

was regularly in love. In two years more, I left “England, home, and

beauty,” “to seek the “bubble reputation.” Need I say what agony that

parting with the fair one caused? How convulsively Clara sobbed, and how

awfully I swore in return, when I received from her hand a ringlet--hue,

sunny--binding, violet-coloured silk--which was duly deposited over the

fourth rib--left side--with a solemn adjuration, that there the said

ringlet should abide and dwell until the heart it covered had ceased to

beat, and the lungs adjacent should exercise their expiring functions,

in murmuring warm but feeble prayers for the happiness of the donor.

At nineteen I carried the colours of the --th into action at Salamanca,

but I lament to say, that the honour of carrying them _out_ was reserved

for another gentleman of the sword.

“There’s a d--d ill-looking tirailleur, covering me dead,” observed a

brother ensign, to whom “the king’s banner” had been entrusted.

“I’m devilish, glad to hear it,” I responded, “for I thought the

scoundrel was levelling at myself.” *

* True anecdote.

My supposition was, unfortunately, correct; for before I had done

speaking, a bullet broke the colour-staff, passed through the arm that

held it, and took temporary possession of my person exactly opposite the

spot, where the _gage d’amour_ of my absent Clara had been deposited.

I dropped--two rear-rank men picked me up instanter--and, though the

action was particularly hot at the moment, they insisted on bearing me

from the field. The anxiety which these worthy men expressed for the

safety of their officer was astonishing, and I think they would have

never halted until we had been out of range of the Cadiz mortar, had the

same mortar been in battery at Salamanca.

“Where the devil are ye going with the lad?” exclaimed an eighty-eighth

man, who was hobbling on as fast as a wounded leg would allow him, to

try, as he termed it, to overtake his “darling Faugh-a-ballaghs.”

“To obtain medical assistance,” responded both my Samaritans.

“Then ye had better return,” said the Ranger. “Devil a doctor’s within a

mile of you, except an assistant surgeon, who is lying under yon wall in

mortal alarm.”

My humane friends at once decided upon employing the gentleman lying

under the wall, and I was accordingly committed to his care. “Faint the

din of battle bray’d,” and the doctor recovered his self-possession as

the roll of musquetry became feebler and more distant--the ball was

extracted--I was removed to the house of a gentleman immediately

beside--confided to the tender mercies of any who would undertake them;

while my deliverers--the greatest cowards who had ever been inflicted on

a fighting regiment--considering the plundering had commenced, set

out to try what industry would acquire; and, as I verily believe, the

assistant surgeon “bore them company.”

Upon my conscience, into a nicer family circle an Irish ensign never

contrived to drop himself. The senhor was a steady, sober, respectable

gentleman, who went regularly to mass, and never drank in the morning.

His lady managed him, the farm, and the domain--rent of the latter not

excessive--and the daughter--oh, murder! three years have passed, and as

yet I have never managed to forget Agatha’s foot and ancle! But then

her eyes--St. Senanus could have never stood a second glance; her teeth

would have put a foxhound’s to the blush; and, as the old song goes,--

“Her hair was as flick as the devil.”

Well, she nursed me--her mother offering at matins and vespers a prayer

for my recovery and conversion, and her father spending the morning in

asking after news, and putting the evening in, by giving me the result

of his inquiries.

A fortnight passed--and as one wound healed, another opened. Agatha was

ignorant of French, I innocent of Spanish. “With the exception of a

monk or two in Salamanca, not a soul (out of the army) spoke Irish; and

hence, poor girl! from a neglected education, we were rather puzzled

to explain the rapid growth of mutual affection. In time we might have

succeeded--but one fine morning in August, a field officer, accompanied

by a staff surgeon, dropped into a neighbouring village where some sixty

lazy vagabonds were malingering. Of course, they were all ordered to

their regiments, and I, with a senior officer, desired to look after the

scoundrels.

“Agatha!” I said, as I held her to my bosom the morning that I

marched, “Agatha, would that I could remain in this sweet thraldom to

eternity.--Curse that bugle! I wish to God the fellow had been shot

through the lungs instead of the arm--Agatha!--”

Here sobs broke in--

“Pat, Pat. Do you really regret to leave me? and will you--”

“Return in a month, and make ye Mrs. Patrick Fitzmaurice.”

She flung herself upon my breast--placed a little billet in my

hand--inquired how many days in England we reckoned for September;

when a gruff voice exclaimed behind, “Mr. Fitzmaurice, Major Oldham is

waiting to see the detachment march off, and if you’re not at his elbow

in a pig’s whisper, why, he swore by the eternal frost! he’ll report you

to the general to-morrow morning.”

“Agatha, my own Agatha!”

“Pat, my darling Pat!”

A long, last, kiss (vide the Corsair, for a particular account of a kiss

of this description) succeeded--“Fall in, men,” said the sergeant, and

in another minute poor Agatha was on the sofa, and I in the street.

“Agatha!” I exclaimed, as I passed the window whence, “like Nioobe, all

tears,” she watched the detachment move off, “Agatha, on that festival

you named, expect me.”

“And that’s Tib’s eve,” * said an incredulous scoundrel, who overheard

the promise--The bugler played Paddy Carey--an angle of the street

intervened.--It was the last I saw of Agatha.

* An Irish festival, which is said to fall “neither before

nor after Christmas.”

When we halted for the night, I took the little packet from my breast

and examined its contents. It contained a billet that professed eternal

constancy, and a tress of glossy hair, black as the raven’s wing.

“Yes, Agatha, this memorial of our love shall rest beside that heart

which is all thine own. But softly, Mr. Fitzmaurice! Is there not

already a tenant in possession? Pshaw! Poor Clara! What fools boys are!

Ha, ha, ha! and I _really_ did fancy I was in love? One cannot help

laughing at the recollection. Let me see--light brown--Well, the hair

is pretty hair enough--but, shafts of Cupid! to compare brown with

black!--the very thought is high treason in love’s calendar. Still will

I preserve a memorial of thee, my sweet _blonde_--and therefore,

sunny ringlet, I’ll commit thee to--my wilting desk!” The transfer was

effected, and the tress of glossy black promoted to the secret pocket

of the jacket, in front of fourth rib--left side--_vice_ light brown,

“placed on the retired list.”

A year rolled over--the anniversary of my birth came round. It was

a sweet October evening, and I stole out from the crowded hall of my

father’s mansion to meet my gentle Lucy. All around was so calm, so

quiet, and so lovely, that the coldest heart would own its influence,

and even a professed woman-hater, for once renounce his heresy, and

“plead for pardon.” And who was Lucy? The sweetest girl in Roscommon!

Her father was the village curate, not passing rich on forty pounds a

year but half starved with a wife and six children upon a hundred. Lucy

was the eldest child, and when I left England three years before, she

had promised to grow up particularly handsome. I returned--we met by

accident--for her father’s circumstances were too humble, and his spirit

too high, to allow him to maintain terms of intimacy with my family. It

was in one of those sweet green hint’s, bounded by hawthorn hedges and

overspread with apple trees, whose boughs bent under the load they bore,

that I saw her for the first time after my return. If ever rustic-beauty

was calculated to ruin a man’s peace, it was such as Lucy Delmer’s. A

lovelier dice I never looked at--but it was its expression that did

the mischief. The deep blue eye, that turned on the ground from man’s

approval the cheek, which one whispered word reddened to the very brow;

those lips, which Suckling poetized and Cupid might have sworn by--but

why dwell on the loveliness of Lucy Delmer? I came, I saw--reversed the

proverb--and was conquered.

The locality of my father’s house was exceedingly remote, and so was the

parsonage--and hence, though Lucy had numbered seventeen summers, the

tale of love had never yet been heard. No wonder, then, that to my

ardent suit her young heart was not indifferent. She did not tell me

so--but, without much difficulty, I guessed the secret.

She was punctual to the hour.--The lane was made for lovers--so

sweet--so unfrequented.

“Ten thousand thanks, my sweetest Lucy, I feared this lonely spot might

have alarmed you, and made you change your resolutions.”

“Oh no; with your protection, what had I to fear? But why were you so

desirous to see me? I know there is a dinner party at the hall!”

“It is my birth-day, Lucy--and before my last one, we carried Badajoz,

by assault. From a soldier I purchased this chain, and have kept it as

a memorial of that eventful passage in my nameless history.” I threw it

round her neck: “And now, my sweet Lucy, the spoil of war becomes the

bond of love.”

“Dear Pat,” said the blushing girl, in reply; “would that I had some

token to offer in return;--I am poor----------”

“Rich, beyond Potosi,” I exclaimed; “ay, and throw El Dorado into the

bargain. These nut-brown tresses would manacle Dan Cupid if he came on

earth, and replace Berenice’s in hewen afterwards. Give me one lock!

“Hush--I hear footsteps.--Farewell, dear--_dear_ Pat.”

“Adieu--dearest, _dearest_ Lucy.”

We separated. A villanous whistle was perpetrated at a short distance.

It was a herd-boy of my father’s--and as he passed me in the lane, I

rewarded his melody with a thundering box, that changed “Nora Crina”

into “a lament” that might have been heard a mile off.

That night, when I retired I found a letter on my table, and broke the

seal. Lucy’s fair hand had indited the billet--and within was enclosed a

lock of “nut-brown” hair, which Mr. Truefit of the Burlington Arcade (I

forget the number) would have knelt to and worshipped incontinently.

“Lucy--my loved Lucy.” I I exclaimed; “little did I fancy, that from

thee love’s influence was to be learned for the first time.--_The

first?_--Easy--Lieutenant Fitzmaurice, Saints and angels!’tis the

festival of the blessed Agatha--the very evening you promised, a year

ago, to return to----. Ah! Pat--Pat--What have you to say for yourself?”

What a special-pleader love makes man! In ten minutes, I had ascertained

to my own perfect satisfaction, that in Agatha’s case I had jumbled up

gratitude with friendship, merely made a mistake, and called the mixture

by a wrong name. It was quite certain that ny feeling for Agatha was

only brotherly after all--and that night the secret drawer of of’

writing-ease contained a second treasure; for the jet-black tress was

safely deposited beside the brown one.

This my third _liason_ was short, but very ardent, while it lasted. Mr.

Delmer discovered that we met--instituted inquiries--and learned the

secret of our love. Well aware that an alliance with one whose only

dower was innocence and beauty, would be objectionable to a family

aristocratic in every feeling like mine, he delicately hinted the state

of affairs to Sir Edward Fitzmaurice, and removed his daughter to the

house of a distant relative. I had written for renewed leave of absence,

as the original term had expired--and to my surprise received a refusal,

point blank, from Colonel Markham, accompanied with a peremptory order

to rejoin. The truth was, my loving father had written privately to the

commander, and told him that I meditated matrimony with the daughter

of a curate; and to that holy estate, the Colonel being an inveterate

enemy, he readily became a consenting party to disturb our course of

love.

For a week after I rejoined at Gort, I rejected invitations to tea, left

the mess sober, and refused to be comforted. By night, Lucy’s ringlet

lay underneath my pillow--and by day, rested on a breast within which,

as I religiously believed, the image of the loved one was enshrined

to eternity. This extraordinary change on my part, excited a general

inquiry--some opining that I had rats in the garret, and would require a

gentle restraint and antiphlogistic regimen--while others asserted that

I was about to turn Methodist, and were anxious to know whether I had

attended field preachings, or been heard to swear since my return. Still

my melancholy remained unabated, and I levanted before the third pint

of wine--a proceeding in a corps of sharp drinkers, considered totally

unregimental. Various were the surmises as to the ruinous results

which this unhappy alteration in my habits must occasion. The

assistant-surgeon suspected I might drop into a decline; and the

red-nosed major added, that I would drop into Pandemonium afterwards.

At this period an event occurred that formed another epoch in my

history. The captain of grenadiers, a pleasant gentleman, remarkable for

taciturnity and an honesty of purpose that would warrant your drinking

with him in the dark, in retiring from the mess-room to his lodgings

in the town, with three bottles of Page’s port under his belt and in

Christian charity with all men, forgetting that an open cellar lay

directly in his route, popped in head foremost, and was found an hour

afterwards by the relief, dead as Julius Cæsar. By this deplorable event

I got the step and the company together.

The day after the accident, Captain O’Boyle came into my room to offer

his congratulations. He lamented the loss the regiment had sustained. It

would be many a day before the fellow of the departed could be found--a

man who never bothered people with argument, confined himself to “yes

and no,” and would as soon forge a bill, as pass the bottle without

filling honestly. However, the Lord’s will be done! It would have been

all the better if he had taken the senior major. He, Peter O’Boyle,

would have got the step, and the removal of a toast-and-water man would

have been a happy deliverance. “Now I think of it, Pat,” he continued,

“I had a long chat with Miss Maginnis about you, at that tea party with

the French name, which her mother gave the night before Bob Purcel

broke his neck. D------d dangerous to lewe cellars open with a drinking

regiment in town, and men obliged to stagger home after dinner to their

cribs. Well, you must know that Flora Maginnis is “a regular clipper.”

You wouldn’t match her in the province--takes a country side as the Lord

has made it--never cranes a fence--thinks no more of four-feet, coped

and dashed, than you would--sweet girl--no humbug about her--worst of

it, no fortune--old Denis not worth a ghost--six hundred a-year--spends

twelve. Well, as I was saying--‘O’Boyle,’ says she, ‘what the devil sort

of a spoon is that chap Fitzmaurice?’”

“Heavens and earth!” I mentally soliloquized, “what would my gentle Lucy

say, to hear her beloved Pat denominated ‘a devil of a spoon!’”

“‘The fellow,’ says she, ‘can neither ride nor drink, I hear; what is

he good for? I wish to God he had broke his neck instead of that poor

dummy, Bob Purcell.’”

“Egad, Pat, I took your part like a true friend, and stuck to you like a

brick.”

“‘By my oath,’ says I, ‘Miss Flora, you were, never more mistaken in

your life. It would do your heart good to see him seated on the saddle.

Why, he brought Marmaluke in, a beautiful second at Knockcroghary, and

only he rode over a blind beggarman and broke his back, he’d have won

the cup in a common canter. Then, as to head--I never saw him fairly on

the carpet but twice. He’ll take off his two bottles without trouble,

and troop the guard after it, steady as the serjeant-major.’”

“‘And where the devil does the fellow hide himself?’ says she. ‘Dick,

ye’ll deliver a friendly message for me. Tell him I’ll run him one round

of the course for a new bonnet, weight for age,--and say, if he does

not trot out to mama’s _soirée_--ay--that’s the name she called it--next

Sunday, I’ll go myself to his cursed den, and draw him like a badger. If

I don’t, may I never get a husband!’ There’s no use refusing, Pat, for

she swore, d----n her if she wouldn’t.”

“Oh, my gentle Lucy!” I ejaculated, “no oath would fall from, thy sweet

lips but the murmured vow of eternal constancy!”

“Eternal what?” responded Captain O’Boyle, who had but partially

overheard my rhapsody--“If it’s Lucy Dogherty ye mean, I wish ye had

been at the brag-table with her last Monday evening, when Mrs. Middleton

laid down three natural aces,--Lord--she swore like a trooper. But

you’ll go to the _soirée_, as they call ‘tea and turn out’ in this town,

or Flora Maginnis will drop into your den, with a ‘God save all here.’

What will I say about a round of the course? Pon my sowl! it’s worth

yir while to lose a bonnet, just to see how beautifully she sticks upon

the pig-skin--‘ye’ll come, won’t ye, and I’ll call for ye.”

“I suppose I may as well go with a good grace,” I replied--“your friend,

Miss Flora, being a lady, ‘not to be refused,’ as ‘the fancy, call it.”

“That’s right. Give us a glass of water, with a sketch of spirits

thro’ it. I wonder what the divil tempts me to eat broiled bacon in the

morning!”

Captain O’Boyle’s request being complied with, he bolted the diluted

alcohol, and presently took himself off.

On the appointed night, he called and conducted me to the Sunday

_soiree_ of “Mother Maginnis,” as the mama of Miss Flora was familiarly

termed at the mess. Why this maternal appellation had been conferred

upon the lady, I could never exactly learn--but by that _soubriquet_

she had been known for half-a-score years successively to every marching

regiment. We found the company already assembled. Some played brag,

some played loo, but Captain O’Boyle led me direct to the piano, where,

encircled by a crowd of red-coats,’two ladies were playing a duet; and,

on its termination, in due form he presented me to Miss Flora.

She was indubitably a fine animal--a handsome face, a splendid figure,

and the most magnificent head of auburn hair imaginable. On Captain

O’Boyle announcing me as “his friend, Captain Fitzmaurice,” Miss Flora

made a rapid inspection of my outer man from top to toe, and then, as if

satisfied with the survey, she gave me a hand, white as alabaster, which

I took respectfully in mine.

“How are you, Pat?--Isn’t it _Pat_ they call ye?” said the lady. “Why

the devil don’t ye shake my hand?--you take it as gingerly in yours, as

if ye had hold of a hot poker. What do ye ride? Can you manage twelve

stone without wasting, and on a ten-pound saddle?”

“What a question at first sight?” I mentally ejaculated. “Ah! Lucy, my

absent love, were thou and I together, ours would be a softer theme than

ten-pound saddles!”

[Illustration: 0389]

“Will you play brag?” she continued.

I shook my head.

“So much the better. That old tabby, in black velvet, would cheat her

father; and she, in the blue turban, rob a church. They play into each

other’s hands--client first, divide afterwards; they would do you brown’

to a moral in half an hour.”’

“Oh! Flora, Flora,” exclaimed her companion; “how can you say such

horrid things?”

“Because they’re true,” returned the young lady: then turning to me,

she continued, “Come away into the corner, and we’ll have a quiet hit.

D’Arey, go find the back-gammon table, settle the men, and snuff the

candles; it’s the only thing you’re good for.”

A sheep-faced young gentleman instantly obeyed the order; and Miss Flora

Maginnis and I sate down _tete-a-tete_.

If ever there were two beings who differed from each other wide as the

antipodes themselves, they were Flora aforesaid, and my absent mistress.

I had endeavoured to imagine what “a clipper” was, according to the

parlance of O’Boyle; but my fancy sketch fell infinitely short of the

original. An hour glided pleasantly away; and when supper was announced,

Miss Flora and I proceeded to the table, mutually pleased with each

other.

I had written to Lucy immediately on my arrival at head quarters, and

for several days awaited an answer to my epistle with all the impatience

of a lover. At last, the long-expected letter came; and my heart

throbbed wildly when I read the post-mark; I pressed the billet to my

lips, muttered that quotation from Pope, which insinuates that letters

were invented in hewen, and broke the seal. The “Dear Sir” commencement

gave me a chill; and the conclusion, “Your’s, sincerely,” froze me to

an icicle. Indeed, a colder composition never met a lover’s eye. It

expressed gratitude for my sentiments of affection; spoke of the barrier

that family and fortune interposed between us--followed that blow

up with a disquisition on prudence and “proper pride”--declined all

continuation of correspondence as irregular--and concluded with a

belief, on her part, that “it would be better for both that the past

should be forgotten.”

As I perused the letter, I found the colour waning on my cheek. Was this

her constancy?--were these her sentiments? She who I thought had warmly

reciprocated my love--she, whose whole heart I fancied mine for ever!

Unconsciously my hand approached my breast; and ere I reached the cold

conclusion of the letter, that ringlet, which a few minutes since a

diamond would not have purchased, was torn from my bosom, and committed

with that heartless billet which dispelled my dreams of lore, to the

secret drawer, where brown and black lay quietly reposing. Fool that I

was! I never suspected that a proud poor father had dictated every line.

The hand was Lucy’s; but had I looked attentively at the paper, I would

have discovered that it was blistered with her tears. Alas! that fact I

never knew for years, and not until Lucy was another’s!

Every body knows, that the best preparatory state of mind a man can find

himself in for falling in love with the first woman that he meets, is

immediately after he has been piqued by the falsehood or indifference

of another. My introduction to Miss Maginnis was therefore effected

in the very nick of time--she seemed a godsend direct from

Cupid.--Romeo-like, I changed from Rosalind to Juliet--commenced active

operations against the heart of Flora, and fancied I could love her. We

rode, and walked, and danced--ran one round over Breafy course--I was

beaten by a neck; and on the following Sunday, Flora annihilated

the devotions of half the congregation, by appearing at church in a

lancer-cap, obtained “per mail” from Dublin, and, even by her enemies,

pronounced “a little love.”

In this state of affairs an event occurred that brought matters to a

crisis. A day never passed in which notes were not interchanged between

me and Flora; and one fine morning, her maid was ushered in, and proved

the bearer of a billet. As I fortunately preserved our correspondence, I

can favour you, gentlemen, with faithful transcripts.

“Dear Pat,

“I hear you were drunk last night, and, in getting home found the street

too narrow. What a humbug, to pass yourself upon people for a milk-sop!

My aunt Packer will be married thirty years next Thursday; and as

she annually recalls the memory of that misfortune, she gives, on the

evening of that disastrous day, her customary hop. Will you drive me

over? If you don’t, I’ll get across in the Parson’s rumble, and you may

go to ----------” There was here a _hiatus_ in the manuscript; but a

fancy sketch of “a gentleman in black,” with his tail under his arm,

enabled me to guess my destination. To this affectionate appeal I thus

responded:--

“Dear Flo.

“As you permit me to make a choice between ‘the place below’ and your

aunt’s ball, I’ll choose the latter. Set me down your man! I’ll pick you

up at eight, ‘and no mistake.’”

Punctual to the hour, I called on the appointed night. Flora was true as

a clock, and deposited her person and effects safely in the dog-cart.

My horses were fast steppers; and in an hour and sixteen minutes, we

reached my aunt Packer’s. I am thus particular about _time_, for I

backed myself against it, three to one--in kisses. Certainly I gave

Flora sporting odds. She lost, as a gentlewoman should lose, came like a

trump “to book,” and met her engagements honourably.

As we approached “my Aunt Packer’s” domicile, we found that “_more

hibernico_” the parish had risen “_en masse_,” to have a peep at the

festive throng. With some difficulty I took my drag pretty safely

through the crowd, removing only one toe in the transit--and having

deposited Miss Flora in the hall, while she “regulated her curls, and

repaired damages” generally, I fought my way to the assistance of my

servant, who was making vain but desperate efforts to obtain standing

room for the cattle in certain ruinous buildings denominated stables,

which were crammed with a pleasing variety of quadrupeds; but by bribing

one car-driver, and bullying another, who had spilled me the night

before into a wet ditch, I induced them to remove their prads to some

place else, and thus make room for mine. This exploit having been

achieved, I entered “the merrie hall,” to claim my partner, who had

intimated that she should await there my return, and honour me by making

her grand _entré_ on my arm.

She was ready for action when I reappeared; and as we passed through the

mob of “tinints’ daughters,” who choaked the hall and staircase,

nothing could be more complimentary than the remarks--That’s Miss Flora

herself,” observed a redshank. * “Isn’t she the girl, after all?”

* Redshank--a term applied in the kingdom of Connaught to

young ladies who dispense with shoes and stockings.

“And that’s her sweetheart, I suppose, beside her.--Ogh! but they’ll

make a cliver couple,” rejoined a second.

“Is the match all settled?” inquired an elderly gentlewoman. “It’s all

as one, and just as sure as if the priest had on the vestment,” was the

reply.

To me, of course, these remarks were particularly flattering; but still

to the matrimonial conclusion, I did not respond “Amen!”

On ascending to the state apartment we found the company formally

collected; and in the doorway observed a little man, very corpulent,

and blessed with an efflorescent nose that would have brought eternal

disgrace upon a water-drinker. He was dressed in a green coat with brass

buttons, a speckled vest, and inexpressibles that once had been nankeen.

I particularly noticed the tie of his white neckcloth. The bow was

voluminous, and the muslin that encircled his throat affixed so loosely,

that it was apparent the wearer had determined that his powers of

deglutition should receive no interruption.

“That’s Uncle Dick,” observed my fair companion; “no wonder that Aunty’s

so proud of her bargain.”

“How’r ye, Flo?” said Mr. Packer.

“Morrow! Dick,” was the dutiful return. “Who’s that wid ye? Mr.

Fitzmaurice, I suppose.”

“What a guess you made! If you go on this way, you’ll be tried for

witchcraft at last,” said Miss Flora.

“Mr. Fitzmaurice, ye’r welcome--glad to see ye in Ballymaccragh.

Fine night--but could drive over the bog. Maybe ye’d step down to

the wee back parlour, and have a glass of naagus, or a drop of the

other,--naked, or in company.”

“A glass of naagus, or a drop of the other--naked or in company,”

responded Dick’s affectionate niece, mimicking her respected relation

like an echo; “do you think Captain Fitzmaurice drove thirteen miles to

drink hot _scalteeine?_ One would suppose you kept a potheine house.”

“But I wanted to introduce him to the naabors.”

“The naabors!” returned the young lady, mimicking Uncle Dick to the

life. “And a blessed lot the neighbours are! Kelly, and Brophy, and

Kinsella,--a parcel of savages, who only know when whisky’s over-proof,

and a bullock fit for market. But, Dick, why don’t you take heart when

you are in Athlone, and treat yourself to a new pair of fye-for-shames?

And look at his cravat!” so saying, she caught the ample bow, and

whisked it round, until it met the spot where the hangman would have

placed it. “Now, be off, Dick; keep yourself and _naabors_ out of my

sight for the evening, and I’ll settle sixpence a-day on you for life!”

I think our introduction to “my aunt” was about as affectionate

and reverential; and I began to comprehend the meaning of the word

“clipper.” No matter; she was the finest animal in the collection;

and what was it to me, if she denounced the scarlet turban of the lady

hostess, and traced its importation to the same ship that, thirteen

years before, had wafted Uncle Dick’s unmentionables from China? We

laughed at the company and ourselves, flirted, danced three sets before

supper, two _ditto_ after it,--passed every thing, next morning, on the

road--and I popped her down at her papa’s, at half-past seven--she to

dream of marriage, and I of God knows what.

It was two o’clock before I toddled into the mess-room. Others had been

nearly as late as I; for the little snub-nosed major and Captain O’Boyle

were just concluding their breakfast, when I joined them, and ordered

mine.

“Cursed nuisance country routs,” growled the short commander;--“horse

kicked by a vicious mule--kettle not boiled after supper--rheumatism

left hip--and lost three rubbers at whist, and five pound ten at

_lammy_.”

“Egad! for my part, major, I was delighted with Mother Packer, and my

Uncle Dick.”

“Many true words said in jest; I’ll bet five pound he’s your uncle in a

month--and no mistake.”

“My uncle?” I returned, with a stare.

“Ay--double the bet, too;--d--d quick promotion yours--Captain, first

week in the month--Benedict, two gazettes afterwards.”

“Upon my soul, I do not comprehend you. Pray, my dear major, what are

you driving at?”

“Driving at?--aye, last night’s drive settled all. When do ye come to

the scratch? All friends here;--no use in humbug.

“Why, what the devil do you mean?”

“Mean--get your neck into the halter--slow march up the aisle--she looks

down, and you delighted--Parson reads ‘love, honour, and obey, _clerk

cries_ ‘amen,’--kiss your bride--chariot and four--white favours--boys

shout--door shuts, and away ye go! That’s the time of day!”

“A graphic picture, major. But who are to be the _dramatis personae?_”

“Who? yourself to be sure; aided and abetted by Flo Maginnis.”

“I marry! My dear major, _when_ have I been pronounced insane?”

“Insane--no--no--parson says it’s an honourable estate--bound to take

his word. But I wish to God you would get your worthy uncle to put a few

slates upon the stable--horse running at the nose, this morning, as if

he had the glanders--Air, excellent thing but, d--n me, half the roof

off, too much. I’ll just toddle down to the postoffice--coach by this

time in”--and Major Belcher took himself off.

Of course, when he was gone, I requested Captain O’Boyle to tell me what

he had been hinting at; and I had the agreeable satisfaction to learn

that my immediate union with Miss Maginniswas pronounced certain. Aunt

Packer, on being assured by him, the captain, that I was not a confirmed

drunkard, as she had heard formerly, observed that “Flora had got out

of bed with her right foot foremost, the morning that she met me,”

insinuating thereby, that Flora had been in luck; and, after our

departure, Mr. Packer, in a neat and complimentary speech, had proposed

our health and happiness, with an other, on his part, to bet five pounds

that he would be a grand-uncle within the twelve month.--“But here’s the

serjeant, with the letters. Any news, Jones?”

“Nothing,” responded the serjeant, “but a draft of a captain,

two subalterns, and sixty rank and file, for first battalion--off

immediately--transports waiting at Cork.”

This unexpected intelligence changed the current of our conversation.

O’Boyde went out to ascertain what names were first upon the

roaster--and I retired to my barrack-room, to inquire whether I was

really on the eve of matrimony, or not.

I had been for above an hour in a state of dreamy confusion, when a

light tap was heard at the door. I announced myself at home--and in came

Sibby Callaghan.

“Ah! pretty one--is it you? Come here--give me a couple of kisses first,

and then tell me how your mistress is.”

“Be quiet, captain. Oh! murder--if Miss Flora only knew it.

Feaks--joking apart, it’s a shame and scandal, and you going to be

married in a week or two.”

“Married! Sibby.--Who the devil put that folly in your head?”

“Oh, I know it all. Isn’t Mr. Dominick, the master’s brother, and Tom,

and Peter Blake, and their sister Emily, and Julia Dwyer--they call

her Julia, but her right name’s Judy--ay, faith, and a dozen more blood

relations--arn’t they all written for? But I must run down to Miss

Byan’s, the milliner; and maybe you’ll have an answer for this note

ready for me, at my return.” And off went Sibby Callaghan.

In desperate trepidation I broke the fair one’s billet, and an auburn

ringlet, silky and glistening, fell from its envelope upon the table.

“Dearest Pat,

“That lock of hair you turned around your finger when you stole a

parting kiss, this morning--‘Will you for my sake keep it?”

“Curse upon parting kisses,” I muttered.

“I have written to that beast Brophy, to whom my father gave some

encouragement, to say that, like a dead heat, the match was off. Would

you wish to see the letter, before I send it?”

“Come up for coffee. We’ll have a quiet chat--and, like a dear good boy,

go to roost early.

“Thine,

“Flora.”

“Oh!--it’s all over.” I muttered. Was ever man run into matrimony so

ridiculously? What’s to be done? Knock again,--“come in.”--And in slided

Captain O’Boyle.

“What the devil’s wrong with you?” was his opening address, “have ye

seen a ghost--or received a call from the sub-sheriff? or”--

“Worse--worse,” I responded, with a sigh. “I’ll be married, whether I

will or not. Nothing can save me.”

“Oh--I expected it,” returned the captain. “Then, of course, you’ll

leave the regiment, and poor Phipps has no chance of getting you to take

his turn for the Peninsula?”

“No chance!” I exclaimed; “I’m ready in half an hour. Aye, that’s

an opening for escape. But stop; I must answer a note. There’s

cherry-brandy in the cupboard,--take a glass, O’Boyle, and hand me

another, merely to keep you in countenance. So here goes--listen!

“‘Dearest Flo,

“‘I shall ever treasure the dear ringlet you have given me, and, no

matter where I am, shall look upon it as love’s talisman.’”

“Stop!” exclaimed Captain O’Boyle,--“what the devil’s a talisman?”

“Oh--hang it! no matter.” It’s I don’t know what myself--but a word,

very commonly introduced into tender correspondence.

“‘As to that beast Brophy, as you properly term him, I feel some

delicacy in offering an opinion. Were I he, I should at once accept your

proposition, and declare ‘off by mutual consent.’

“‘If possible, I shall be with you for coffee, and attend to your advice

religiously.

“‘Dear Flo,

“‘Always yours,

“‘Pat.’”

I had scarcely sealed my billet when love’s messenger announced herself.

The presence of Captain O’Boyle precluded any converse between me and

the spider-brusher; and after receiving her despatch, Sibby Callaghan

disappeared.

It was at once decided that I should levant that very evening, leaving

the detachment to the care of the subalterns, whom it was arranged I

should join in Cork. Captain O’Boyle discharged my accounts in town; my

servant packed my traps; and I had stepped down to take a little air in

the barrack-yard, when once more Sibby Callaghan presented herself. She

placed a billet in my hand; I squeezed hers in return--whispered I would

send an answer when evening parade was over--and broke the seal.

“My dearest Pat,

“Have I misunderstood you? Then is my peace of mind gone for ever! Oh

no--I won’t believe it. You would not win a virgin heart, and throw it

idly from you! Rest assured, idol of my soul! that there is no bliss in

life comparable to wedded happiness.

“Yours, and yours only,

“‘Flora.’”

I wrote an immediate reply:--

“My dearest Flo,

“I am certain your estimate of connubial fidelity is correct; but at

present, you must excuse me from trying the experiment.

“Always and affectionately,

“Pat.”

“D--n it,” said Captain O’Boyle, “you must be clean out of the town,

before Flo gets that choker. The whole gang will be collected in the

evening. But, Lord! she wouldn’t wait for any assistance, but beat up

your quarters at once. There’s only a serjeant’s guard at the gate, and

that would never keep her out.”

What is valour to discretion? Captain O’Boyle’s were the words of

wisdom, and I profited by them accordingly. A chaise and four were slyly

introduced through the back entrance to the barrack--the gates closed

for half an hour--and before Flora received my note, I had left Gort six

miles behind, and set pursuit at defiance.

Would you believe it? until I reached head-quarters here, I felt

particularly uncomfortable. Conscience upbraided me; and I fancied the

probability of an ill-regulated but too ardent temperament like Flora’s

being forced into the commission of some desperate act; and when I

unclosed my secret depository, I looked at the auburn ringlet, and

breathed a fervent prayer that Heaven would enable the poor girl to bear

up against her visitation. As it resulted, I had disquieted myself in

vain--for three week’s ago, I received a Roscommon Journal, with “P.

O’B.” written upon the corner of the envelope. I looked it over rapidly;

and one paragraph at once set my heart at rest.

“At Cloonflin church, by the Reverend Doctor Dowdell, Ignatius Brophy,

Esquire, of Curnafin, to the elegant and accomplished Flora Maginnis,

only daughter and heiress of Dennis Maginnis, of Ballybawn, County of

Roscommon, and Ballynamudda, County of Mayo.” It was regularly recorded

who gave the bride away, and also the route they took to spend the

honey-moon; but I’ll not be too particular.

As the gallant major ended, a servant entered and whispered in the

president’s ear.

“You are wanted,” he said, turning to me. “You will be sure to find us

here on your return.”

I rose and left the room; and outside, found an orderly waiting in the

street, to say that Lord Wellington wished to see Lieutenant O’Halloran

immediately.

CHAPTER XXXVII. MY INTERVIEW WITH LOUD WELLINGTON AND FURTHER

PARTICULARS TOUCHING PETER CROTTY.

_Falstaff_. “Men of all sorts take a pride to gird at me. The brain of

this foolish-compounded clay, man, is not able to vent any thing that

tends to laughter, more than I invent, or is invented on me: I am not

only witty in myself, but the cause that wit is in other men.”--King

Henry IV.

|Although the evening was well advanced, all within and without the

quarters of the Commander-in-chief indicated a business-like activity,

and gave a silent earnest that an important crisis was at hand. Three

dragoons, the bearers of as many despatches, were riding on to their

stables--while a couple of orderlies lounged backwards and forwards in

front of the building; but excepting the sentries at the door, there was

nothing about the residence of Lord Wellington that would distinguish it

from the quarters of a general of brigade. On my name being announced, I

was conducted into a large room on the ground floor, where at one table

several noncommissioned officers were employed in transcribing official

documents--and at another, two engineers were measuring distances on a

large map, from which they were making, what appeared to me, a skeleton

draft of the great features of the country. In a few minutes an

aid-tie-camp came in, and informed me that his lordship was now engaged,

but that he would be happy to receive me presently--politely invited me

to take a seat--and then left me to myself.

I never found an establishment that so little realized the glowing

picture which Peter Crotty had so fancifully sketched. From his report,

one would have imagined that head-quarters had been the selected home

of social pleasure, with “Laughter holding both his sides,” and Bacchus

aiding and assisting. I found it a very different concern; and had the

domicile belonged to La Trappe, business could not have been carried on

more quietly than it was. The serjeants seldom raised their heads from

the table--the engineers conversed in whispers--and the place was as

silent as the clerk’s office of a solicitor, with the head partner in

bad temper in the room.

Still I fancied that there might be a secret symposium unapproached by

the _profanum vulgus_, and to which none but the elect, with a favoured

few like Peter Crotty, gained an entrance. Yet it was marvellous how

well they managed matters in the house. No sound of distant merriment

fell upon the ear--no explosion followed “the jest which set the

table in a roar.” The walls must be confoundedly thick, or the company

singularly prudent--you could have heard a cat cross the floor--and yet

not an outburst of “tipsey jollity” was audible.

While lost in vague surmises as to the causes which might have

occasioned this strange alteration in his lordship’s style of living

since Peter Crotty had favoured him with a call, a servant opened the

door, and requested Lieutenant O’Halloran to follow him. We crossed

over to an opposite apartment--the attendant announced my name--and

I found myself in the presence of him afterwards surnamed, the “Iron

Duke.”

I never was more surprised than at the general appearance of my lord’s

“great chamber.” Neither bottle nor glass were to be seen--the cards

eluded discovery--and I could detect nothing in “the sporting line”

except one solitary chess-board. The apartment contained not one article

that could have been dispensed with. The table was over-spread with

papers--and at one end, an aid-de-camp copied letters--at another, a

private secretary wrote from the dictation of the Commander-in-chief.

“Sit down, Mr. O’llalloran,” said his lordship--“we have deciphered

your despatch--and the information it contains is very valuable. May I

inquire under what circumstances the packet fell into Juan Diez’ hands?”

I briefly narrated the particulars.

“It is genuine, no doubt; indeed it bears the stamp; but documents have

been occasionally fabricated, which have misled people who did not take

pains to test their authenticity. You appear to have had a good deal of

adventure during your _séjour_ with the Empecinado. They say that Don

Juan is an off-handed gentleman at times--hangs a man first, and makes

inquiries afterwards--ha?--Is it so?”

“‘As far as I can judge, my lord,” I replied, “such is his general

practice. I found him a very excellent friend; but he’s the last man in

Spain whom I should wish to make an enemy.”

I saw that his lordship was interested in the details of my recent

adventures, which pictured strikingly the wild and ferocious style of

war which the partidas carried on. Once or twice he was pleased to

pay me a compliment; and he expressed unqualified satisfaction at

Mark Antony’s bold and successful intervention to save the condemned

voltigeur. Half an hour slipped away, coffee was brought in, and I was

about to take my leave, when, turning round, as if a thought had struck

him suddenly, Lord Wellington observed--

“I had a comrade of your name,--whether now dead or living I know not.

We served together in the Low Countries, and both commanded regiments

during the retreat. At Tuyl he particularly distinguished himself”--

“And on the occasion,” I added, “lost an arm.”

“The same;--is he related to you?”

“He is my father,” I replied.

“Then, Mr. O’Halloran, you are the son of a good and gallant soldier, he

retired from the service I presume?”

“Twenty years ago, my Lord. But he is still in heart the same. Were it

not for my mother’s influence, I am persuaded that, one-armed as he is,

he would have been with your lordship before now.”

“I wish he was,--and, maimed as he is, I will freely take him, and give

in exchange half-a-dozen gentlemen of his own rank, and with the usual

assortment of limbs.--I am pretty certain I should be a-gainer by the

bargain.”

Fearful of intruding upon his time, I bade Lord Wellington

goodnight,--received a courteous return--and hastened back to the

company I had quitted, highly flattered with the reception I had met

with, although neither offered a glass of wine, pressed to play cards,

nor even desired, when I came again, “to bring my portmantle.”

That night I returned with Major Fitzmaurice, and took up my old

quarters in his tent; and as we smoked a cigar and discussed some brandy

and water, I gave him an account of my interview at head quarters.

“Your reception, my dear O’Halloran,” said the major, “though not so

friendly as Mr. Crotty’s, was still very flattering indeed. What a

revolution his Lordship’s habits have undergone within one brief month!

He seems to have booked himself against cards, and abandoned brandy and

water altogether. It would also appear that, finding “villanous company

would be the spoil of him,” he has exchanged his old acquaintances for

a lot of less sporting characters. And yet how the world may be led

astray. There are people who would persuade you that Picton never

touched pasteboard in his life, and that Packenham would as soon

take poison, as “brandy without.” Ah--Peter, Peter, thou hast no

parallel,--the brain to fabricate such a lie--and the brass to enable

thee to give it utterance! Well--we’ll put him on the gridiron tomorrow,

and if he bears the scorching, why he deserves the first company that

falls.”

Next morning, the fosterer and my charger arrived safely; and, with

Major Fitzmaurice, I consumed the day in wandering over the cantonments.

Unpractised as I was in military affairs, I could not but observe the

striking contrast which the Peninsular regiments presented to that

raw soldiery, whom I had been accustomed to look at, before I quitted

England. Here, the unfaded uniformity of dress was wanting; not two

jackets were of one shade; trowsers were patched with any colour

the wearer could procure; and, provided his shoes were good, his

appointments clean, and his musket in efficient order, the other

externals of the soldier were but little regarded. But it was when under

arms that the superiority of that unequalled army was observable. The

ease with which it moved--the precision of every evolution--the

facility with which a brigade manoeuvred, correctly as it were a single

regiment--while an air of confidence was traceable on very face, and

the whole looked like men who had made the trial--established, and felt

their superiority.

It was late when we returned; the dinner-drum had beat, and we found our

rough but happy circle already united around the table.

Our homely fare was speedily discussed, and the evening carouse began.

There is no society on earth like that collected in a mess-room, or one

in which men unbend with such security, and where the tone or temper

of every individual is imperatively required to accommodate its

peculiarities to the occasion, and harmonize with all around. Hence, in

military communities, badinage never becomes coarse, argument captious,

nor language vulgar and offensive. On the present occasion, my

unexpected return was warmly welcomed, and all seemed to take a

brotherly interest in my recent deliverance.

“Upon my conscience,” observed Peter Crotty, “ye had the luck of

thousands, after all, Mr. O’Halloran. As to that fellow with the hard

name, and black wized complexion, though he made ye a present of a

stolen horse, in my mind, he’s little better than a common highwayman.

Did ye see my Lord last night?”

“Oh yes,” I replied, carelessly. “Was he in good humour?” said Peter.

“Excellent!” was the reply.

“And asked you to sit down?”

“He did--most civilly.”

“Was there any drink going?”

“Nothing but coffee.”

“Well, I wonder at it!” said Peter, with a shake of the head.

“Not at all. Probably his lordship had been a little too liberal the

night before,” observed the major.

“Any company wid his lordship?”

“None, Peter,” responded the major. “An aid-de-camp told Mr. O’Halloran,

that the card-parties had been postponed until your new breeches arrived

from England.”

“I heard another story,” observed Captain Fenwick. “They say--God knows

whether it be true or false--that Sir Thomas Picton got a bad dollar in

change the night Crotty got drunk at head-quarters--and Peter being the

only suspicious person in the room, they have, of course, left it at his

door.”

Mr. Crotty appeared a little fidgetty; but still continued to show

fight.

“I regret to hear the last statement made by Captain Fenwick,” returned

Major Fitzmauriee.--“Any inconvenience arising from the non-arrival

of Peter’s inexpressibles, would have been but a private concern--but

passing bad dollars is a more serious affair, compromising, as it does,

the honour of an old and distinguished regiment. If the report be true,

that Peter palmed off base money upon Sir Thomas Picton, why, he’s

nothing better than what the swell-mob call ‘a smasher’--and the offence

is additionally aggravated, because that, under a conviction he was

playing with respectable men, Sir Thomas thought it unnecessary to ring

the dollar on the table, as if he were in a silver hell.--But where are

you going? I know you are on duty--but, hang it, Peter, you need not

visit your guards this half-hour. Oh, Peter, I’m sorry to say, this

evasion on your part looks very like guilt--and if you don’t clear the

matter up satisfactorily in the morning, I’ll apply for a regimental

inquiry.”

“He’s off!” said a lieutenant of light infantry. “Of all Peter’s flights

of fancy, that jollification at head-quarters will prove the most

fatal.” Turning to me he continued:--

“Peter Crotty, Mr. O’llalloran, is one of the best men on earth; and all

he requires is, to meet with a true believer. Don’t be alarmed at some

of his revelations--he’s not so truculent as at times he represents

himself. For example: he’s pleased to make frequent mention, when he has

dipped into the second bottle or fourth tumbler, as the case may be, ‘of

having once pursued an unfortunate author on the banks of the Suir for

a whole summer’s day, and despatched him with the thirteenth shot.

Of course, on his own showing, you would write him down a determined

murderer.--Not at all. I believe the most rascally scribbler that ever

blotted paper, might live to four score, and Peter never volunteer to

be his executioner. The fact is, that in the pleasant part of Tipperary

which witnessed the nativity of our friend, it is customary, when a

couple of t’s come together, to change the second into an h, and hence

it was an _otter_, and not an _author_, that he put to death.”

“And I will bear testimony,” said Captain Fenwick, “to Peter’s

gallantry. When I was knocked down at Podrigo, and lay at the foot

of the great breach, I saw honest Peter crown it--and with some dozen

hair-brained devils, like himself, he fought on the summit, hand to

hand. The French, when the lesser breach was carried, gave way--the town

was won--and Peter, with a fortunate few, gained the streets without

sustaining personal injury. Two days afterwards he visited me in

hospital, bitterly lamenting the total loss of a skirt, which had been

bodily removed by a bayonet thrust. ‘Bad luck to him for an unlucky

thief!’ was Peter’s indignant observation. ‘He tattered the only jacket

that I had; and though the tailor has been on the look-out ever since,

the devil a skirt he can fall upon that will match it!’”

“Gentlemen,” observed the assistant-surgeon, “you have borne an

honourable testimony to my excellent friend and countryman, Mr. Crotty,

as a person of lively imagination, and a stout soldier besides. I beg

to complete the merited eulogium, by assuring you that Peter is a good

catholic into the bargain. Captain Fenwick noticed his conduct during

the assault--and I accidentally witnessed his Christian temperament,

immediately before the division moved into the trenches on that glorious

and bloody evening. With three others, Peter and I held a ruinous

apartment of an old farm-house in joint tenancy, and my corner was

divided from the rest, by a blanket suspended from a line. When the

division was under arms, I discovered that I had left some instruments

behind which might possibly be required, returned consequently, to the

house, and while hunting for them behind the blanket, I heard Peter

Crotty open the outer door and come in. He, too, was in search of

something he had forgotten--and in a false assurance that he was

perfectly alone, he commenced ‘thinking aloud,’ and I kept quiet.

“‘Holy Mary!’ he ejaculated, ‘you have the best interest in heaven, and

that every body knows. If I had as good at the Horse Guards, I would

be a colonel in a fortnight. Oh, bad luck attend ye, Tim Doyle’--and he

kept rummaging through an old bullock-trunk.

“‘There’s no finding anything after ye, you drunken sweep! Well, blessed

Virgin, this is likely to be a bloody night; and the Lord, of course,

will take his dealing trick out of the regiment,--glory to him--nobody

can complain of it. But, sweet Lady--all I wish is, that it won’t be as

it was at Badajoz, in funeral order, but just let him take them fairly

as they stand. There’s three field-officers with the regiment, and we

can easily spare one of them;--a couple of captains, ye know, would

never be missed out of the number--and as to the subalterns, why let him

have his own way about them. Oh, murder! there go the taps. If I live to

come back, Tim Doyle, I wouldn’t be in your jacket for a new thirteen.’

* Again the drum ruffled--Peter shut down the trunk-lid, slammed the

door after him, and hurried off to join his company--making his final

exit in muttering a prayer to the Virgin, and an imprecation upon Tim

Doyle.”

* Anglice--a shilling.

Early next morning. I was agreeably surprised at receiving an order from

Lord Wellington to attend him that afternoon. I rode over accordingly;

and once more found myself in the presence of him who had been destined

to restore the tarnished glory of the British arms, and after a

brilliant career of conquest, terminate a doubtful struggle by a

crowning victory. I found him immured in business--and yet the details

of his bureau seemed to go on as orderly and methodically as the

arrangements of a merchant’s counting-house. On seeing me, he beckoned

me to come forward.

I think I have been able to meet your wishes, Mr. O’Halloran.

Take this note to General R------. As yours is only to be a short

sojourn, he has kindly offered to make room for you on his staff. No

thanks--and waving his hand, the interview ended.

Delighted at my good fortune, I rode off to the head-quarters of the

fourth division--presented my credentials--was introduced to one of

the most gallant soldiers that ever commanded a brigade--and made

the acquaintance of the best fellow upon earth--his aid-de-camp, Tom

F-------

CHAPTER XXXVIII. OPENING OF THE CAMPAIGN--BATTLE OF VITTORIA.

_King Henry_. “Yet, God before, tell him we will come on,

Though France himself, and such another neighbour,

Stand in our way.

If we may pass, we will; if we be hinder’d,

We shall your tawny ground with your red blood

Discolour.”

King Henry V.

|Many a summer has passed away since the spring of manhood saw me on

the Agueda--and the sear of middle age finds me recalling the brief but

brilliant reminiscences of that “crowded hour of glorious strife” which

followed. Time has sprinkled my hair with “wisdom’s silver”--the

blood, which once the slightest impulse hurried from the heart, flows

temperately--“wild youth’s past”--and I now look back with painful

pleasure to one brief era of a life, for which, could it be lived again,

I would cheerfully forego years of calm and spiritless enjoyment.

Is not this an ungrateful declaration of thine, Mr. O’Halloran? With

every human blessing that can render existence happy, hast thou not been

munificently gifted? Thou hast never known the stringent pressure of

necessity--thou hast not felt the withering agony of unrequited love--no

false friend has abused thy confidence--no lovely woman “stooped

to folly,” and made thee blush for her inconstancy. Hast thou not a

home?--the pledge of holy love has lisped upon thy knee--the smiles

of beauty which never beamed upon another, have brightened at thy

presence. What wouldst thou more? Upon my conscience, Mr. Hector

O’Halloran, thou art a most unreasonable Irish gentleman.

I said, that I looked^ back upon this epoch of my life with “painful

pleasure.”--Well, that association of opposites he who has passed the

meridian of existence can easily understand; for in the story of a

life, pain and pleasure are generally found close companions. The pulse

quickens when Vittoria, Sanroren, and San Sebastian pass in “shadowy

review”--but the heart sickens when I recall the memory of him, at whose

side I witnessed the enthusiastic heroism of that noble brigade, to

whom he so often pointed out the path to victory. In long and cherished

remembrance will that honoured name be held. To a lion’s heart he united

a woman’s gentleness--the soldier followed him through love--his rivals

admired and praised him. Why did he not die in the blaze of battle,

where the noblest soldiers upon earth contended for a doubtful

victory?--Why did not his glorious spirit wing its flight “from

cumbring clay,” in that wild mountain pass, in which it gained its

immortally?--Why, on “red Waterloo” did he not find a lifting grave?

Alas! it was otherwise appointed and one of the noblest soldiers whom

Britain ever claimed, perished by an ignoble hand. *

The middle of May found the allies, in perfect unity of purpose and

admirable efficiency, ready to open the campaign, and orders had been

already transmitted to General Murray and the Spanish commanders on

the eastern coast, to commence initial operations. Gradually, and in

a manner not to occasion alarm in the French cantonments; the allied

divisions were concentrated and advanced, and the supporting Spanish

corps were put in march to co-operate. Bad weather, heavy rains, and an

accident to the pontoon-train, delayed the opening of the campaign.

It was but for a few days. On the 16th, Graham threw his infantry and

artillery across the Douero: Hill moved forward to Bejar; and on the

22d, Lord Wellington marched with his right wing towards the Tonnes; and

the practicability of the noblest conception that ever a great military

genius matured, was now to be proven. “A grand design,” and grandly

it was executed! For high in heart and strong of hand, Wellington’s

veterans marched to the encounter; the glories of twelve victories

played about their bayonets; and he, the leader, so proud and confident,

that in passing the stream which marks the frontier of Spain, he rose in

his stirrups, and waving his hand, cried out--“Farewell, Portugal!” **

* It was said--I know not with what accuracy--that Major-

General Ross was shot by a sneaking scoundrel ambushed in a

tree.

** Napier.

To oppose the fiery movements of the allied general, the enemy should

have been combined, and in readiness; but they were equally unprepared

and unsuspicious that an advance would be attempted. Napoleon’s orders

to concentrate on the Tonnes, had been fatally neglected; and no

preparation had yet commenced to evacuate the capital, if such a step

should become necessary. Joseph was at issue with his generals; the

latter on bad terms with each other; and, strange as it might appear,

in a country laid open to unmerciful contributions, subordinate officers

were acquiring wealth, while the king was without a guinea, and his

major-general (Jourdan) actually subsisting upon credit. Every commander

seemed to think and act for himself. Joseph issued orders, but none

obeyed them--some general asserted that Lord Wellington would attempt to

turn the French right;--others declaring that he would march direct

on Madrid. One would have it that the north would be his field of

operation,--another maintained that it would be the south, and in

concert with Sir John Murray. All were referring to what might be the

future, when the initial movements were already made; and Wellington was

over the Esla, before, it was known in the enemies’ cantonments that a

division had been even put in march!

None, save a military reader, can estimate this wonderful and successful

operation. A part of Sir Thomas Graham’s corps traversed a distance

of more than two hundred miles, its route running through the Tras as

Montes, the wildest district imaginable. Over a rugged surface--hitherto

unknown to any save the shepherd or muleteer--forty thousand men, with

artillery, and all the equipages of war, were passed and placed in

safety on the further banks of a river unopposed--not a French general

believing that even a cloud was collected, when the tempest had already

burst!

Merely waiting one day at Toro, to unite his left with the Gallician

army, and enable the rear of his own divisions to close up, the allied

general pushed rapidly for the Carion, his own troops beautifully in

hand, and either flank protected by Spanish regulars and partidas.

Too late, Joseph Buonaparte felt the danger of his position;--when the

danger was discovered, it was irremediable; for with the certain stride

of victory Wellington marched forward. The Pisuerga and the Arlanzan

were passed, to use the language of an historian, “easily as if they

contained no water”--and Burgos, that once had foiled his efforts,

perished by the same hands which formerly had held it so successfully.

Thus far Lord Wellington’s rapid advance had been attended with splendid

success; but bolder operations, and followed by more brilliant results,

remained behind. On the 13th, masked by his own cavalry, and a swarm of

Spanish partidas, he suddenly marched by his left, to turn the

sources of the Ebro, place his army between that river and the Reynosa

mountains, and cut the enemy from the sea. It was a bold and judicious,

but difficult and precarious, attempt; and one from which a nervous

commander would have recoiled. The line of march ran through a mountain

country, whose features were singularly rugged. The valleys were deep;

gullies and ravines constantly presented themselves; and the roads,

narrow and broken, were unsuited for the transport of field equipage and

artillery. Still Lord Wellington persevered; and, nobly seconded by his

gallant followers, every obstacle was overcome. When the ordinary means

of moving forward the artillery were found impracticable, the guns were

dismounted, and lowered or swayed over precipices which threatened to

bar their farther progress. On went the Anglo-Portuguese divisions, in

ceaseless march; and, after six days of incessant exertion, the allied

columns issued from their mountain routes, and entered the deep valley

of Vittoria.

As yet I had never been fairly under fire; our march from the Esla

to the Zadora had been one of manouvre, Lord Wellington turning

every position with admirable skill; and the slight collisions which

occasionally resulted, occurring always between the light troops. One

irregular but dashing affair, on the preceding day, had taken place

unexpectedly, between a part of the light division and Maranzin’s

brigade, at the entrance of the valley of the Boveda, in which the

French were severely handled, and narrowly escaped with the loss of

their baggage, and five hundred men.

We reached Espigo, after a very long march, late in the evening of the

18th; and early next morning, moved on to Bayas, in the hope of forcing

that pass, and cutting off the armies of the south, and centre. But

Beille had taken a strong position, with the army of Portugal, to cover

their passage through the defile of La Puebla. We were directed to

attack in front, while the light division turned their position. A brief

affair ensued, during which the armies of the south and centre threaded

the defile, and came into line behind the Zadora. That object gained,

Reille fell back, and crossed the river, and we bivouacked for that

night upon the Bayas.

It was apparent to all that a great and decisive battle was at hand;

King Joseph, with his immense pares and ambulances, was still in front

of Vittoria; and although two huge convoys were ready for France, and

one had been already despatched, still the quantity of baggage that

remained was enormous, and the number of carriages almost incredible.

The whole of his miserable Court had followed the steps of the royal

fugitive. Traitors to their country, they had no mercy to expect; and in

flight alone, was safety. The immense quantity of military stores--the

accumulated mass of private plunder, collected for years before, and now

heaped together in the confusion of a hurried retreat--the encumbrance

of a numerous body of nobles and civilians,--all these tended to render

Joseph’s position the more embarrassing.

If he retreated without a battle, all must be lost. He

vacillated--valuable time slipped away--and at last he determined to

“stand the hazard of the die;” and accordingly, took a position in front

of Vittoria.

On the evening of the 20th, we received intelligence that the French

were resolved to accept battle the next day; and it was ascertained that

they were busily engaged in fortifying the ground that Marshal Jourdan

had selected. I was now on the eve of my first field; and a feeling of

anxiety and restlessness kept me waking, while two or three veterans,

who were huddled into the same tent, slept so soundly that I envied

them. At day-break the camp was in a bustle. The third, fourth, seventh,

and light divisions, which formed the infantry of the centre, got

speedily under arms; and, accompanied by a powerful artillery, and the

whole of the heavy cavalry, we crossed the ridges behind which we

had pitched our tents, and over a rugged and difficult surface, moved

stoutly and steadily towards the points marked for our separate attacks.

We took a position in front of the bridge of Nanclares, covered from

the enemy’s fire by broken ground and underwood, and there awaited the

movements of the third and seventh divisions, whom rougher ground and a

greater distance had hitherto prevented from getting up.

About ten o’clock the action began, by General Hill seizing the village

of Puebla, and Morillo attacking the heights that domineered it. A

doubtful and protracted struggle for the possession of the latter

ensued. The French supported Maranzin, who held it; and Sir Rowland

detached Colonel Cadogan, with two battalions, to sustain the Spaniards.

Fresh troops, from time to time, came into action. Villatte’s division

were drawn from the centre, to maintain the heights. Hill reinforced the

assailants; the contest still was doubtful; but Sir Rowland ended it by

crossing the Zadora, pushing through the defile of Puebla, and carrying

the village of Subijana de Alwa.

Three hours had passed; and amid the intervals of the fire at Subijana,

a distant cannonade was faintly heard upon our left, and indicated that

Graham was up, and coming into action. The light division had already

crossed the bridge of Très Puentes; one brigade of the third had forced

that of Mendoza, and another, with the seventh division, forded the

river, and attacked the French right, in front of Margarita. We were

desired now to advance; and, passing the bridge of Nan-clares, were

followed by the heavy cavalry, who, forming on our right in squadrons,

connected us with Sir Rowland’s left.

Already, fearing that he should be turned on both flanks, Joseph had

issued orders to retreat; and, covered by a cloud of skirmishers, and

under a tremendous fire of fifty pieces of artillery, he retired his

columns on Gomecha, where his reserve was posted. Now the battle was at

his height; the third division carried the village of Arinez, the 52d

stormed Margarita; and the 87th seized Hermandad. But the last struggle

was yet to come. Reille still maintained himself on the Upper Zadora,

and, with eighty pieces of artillery in full and rapid play, the wreck

of the armies of the south and centre were enabled to fall back, and

make their last stand, between the villages of Ali and Armantia.

For a moment the storm of artillery arrested the onward progress of the

allies. The battle raged furiously; but the struggle was fated to be

short. Cole ordered the fourth division to advance. On rushed its

noble battalions, untamed by a terrible cannonade and a heavy and

well-supported musketry. The heights on the left of those occupied by

the French were carried, and the doubtful conflict ended in a total

route.

Throughout the day I had been busily employed. I occasionally carried

orders; and the steadiness with which my noble horse faced fire,

attested the value of the Empecinado’s present. I had procured at

Frenada a very respectable animal, on which to mount Mark Antony; and,

to do him justice, the fosterer seemed to follow like a shadow where I

went. Just as we crowned the height, General R-------- who was leading

the column, beckoned to me, and I was directly at his side.

“Gallop back. Tell ---------- to launch the cavalry boldly--see!--

the French infantry are mobbed, and running!”

I had half wheeled round to convey the order, when, suddenly, my gallant

charger gave a convulsive shudder, and sank under me. I sprang from the

saddle before he had time to roll over, and called on the fosterer to

dismount--made one step to take his horse, and execute the order, when

a sharp stroke smote me on the head. All around became confused--memory

fled--and for a time I recollected nothing but indistinctly.

When I did recover, I found myself under a small knoll, which sheltered

us from ranging shots: the fosterer on one side, a twentieth grenadier

on the other; and my excellent and valued friend Peter Grotty, seated on

a dead horse, _vis-à-vis_, and giving orders for my resuscitation.

CHAPTER XXXIX. SAN SEBASTIAN.

“But, hark! that hewy sound breaks in once more,

As if the clouds its echo would repeat;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

Arm! arm! it is--it is--the cannon’s opening roar!”

Childe Harold.

|To the buzz of voices round me I had been fully conscious for the

last five minutes; but the first words I understood distinctly, was an

earnest inquiry, on the part of Lieutenant Crotty, regarding the safety

of what he termed “the stolen horse;” and great was his sorrow on

learning that the charger was defunct.

“Blessed Bridget!” he exclaimed; “what a pity! Worth two hundred, if he

was worth a taaster. * Well--it only shows that old swin’s true--What

comes over the old lad’s back, whisks away under his belly. But I would

like to know what the divil killed the rider? I’ve groped him all over,

and sorra scratch I can find upon him but this clip upon the head, and

many a worse I’ve got often at a hurling match. As he’s dead, however--”

* Anglice,--Tester, a sixpence.

“I am not dead, Peter!” I muttered.

“Then, upon my sowl I’m glad to hear it from such good authority!”

returned Mr. Crotty. “Give him another taste out of the canteen! If

there’s life in a man, brandy’s the thing to find it out. Here we

are--safe and comfortable against every thing but shells;--I thought I

heard the whiz of one of them a while ago--may the curse o’ God light

upon their inventor! You must know 1 have a mortal dread of them--and

I’ll tell ye why.--The day before Salamanca, when Marmont and my Lord

were watching each other like two pickpockets, the column halted, to let

the men cook dinner, if they had any to cook. Well--I had none,--so I

set out on the ramble, to see if luck would stand my friend--and who

should I find behind a big rock, and eating cold pork, but Pat Dogherty

and Charley Blake, of the ould “rough and readies,”--the 13th. “Peter!”

says Charley, “didye get ye’r dinner yet?” “Divil a pick!” says I; “and,

what’s more, I wish somebody would tell me where it’s to come from?”

“Draw a chair,” says he, jokin’, “and take share of the pork.”

“Arrah, niver say it again,” says I, so down I pops upon the grass, and,

feaks, made a beautiful dinner of it. Well--out came the canteens, in

coorse; and we begins drinkin’--when bang goes two or three guns from

the hill opposite us, on which the French were marchin’.

“What’s that?” says Charley. “Nothing,” says Pat Dogherty, “only that

thief Marmont is bent upon some roguery; and just wants, by kickin’ up

a row, to draw off the old lad’s attention--manin, ye see, Lord

Wellington.”

“Blessed be God! we’re as safe here as if we were in

Kilmainham Gaol,” says I, looking up at the rock that was between us

and the French. “If Marmont batters away till he rises the price of

gunpowder, he’ll do us no harm.” Well, Pat Dogherty stepped round,

to see what the firing was about--and Charley Blake had lifted the

canteen:--“Here’s the pope!” says he, taking a pull of the spirits; and

giving the health of his reverence out o’ compliment to me, because he

thought I was a Catholic. As he said the words, down drops an eight-inch

shell between us. “Murder!” says I, rowlin’ myself down the hill, like

a butter-firkin. “What’s that?” says Charley, who was always a stupid

divil, and never could bear to be interrupted in his drink. Och! before

I could make him sensible, bang went the shell! and when Pat and I got

up, we found Charley as dead as a mackarel; and dinner, drink, and Pat

Dogherty’s new cloak-case, blown regularly to the divil! No wonder I

hate the whiz of them---- “Well, how do ye find yerself?”

[Illustration: 0411]

“Oh--pretty well; but a confounded dizziness of the head annoys me.”

“Well,--take another drop. Look round, Mark--isn’t that the name ye

answer to? Turn a man or two over, and you’ll find a fresh canteen, for

this one’s empty.”

Indeed, there was no great difficulty in obtaining a liberal supply;

for the hollow that Peter Crotty had selected as uniting safety with

comfort, was thickly studded with dead and dying men: and there was

scarcely a corpse, particularly a Frenchman’s, from which a canteen was

not obtainable.

In the mean time, the roar of battle gradually subsided into a

spattering fire of musketry, interspersed by the booming of heavy guns,

as the horse artillery hung upon the French rear, and cannonaded the

dense masses of broken soldiery who hurried off in the direction of

Salvatierra. But, lightened of their anus, and covered by their cavalry

who still showed a steady front, they reached Metaueo, closely followed;

there night ended the pursuit, and the victors and the vanquished

claimed that season for repose which previous fatigue had rendered so

desirable to both.

There is no defeat on record, in which a beaten army lost so much and

lost so little, contradictory as the statement may appear. The

whole _materiel_ of war, the entire park of artillery, with stores,

ammunition, trophies, treasure, and the most enormous collection of

plunder that ever an invading army attempted to carry from the country

it had for years despoiled, fell into the hands of the victors, or

rather into those of the degraded wretches who followed them,--while in

men the French loss scarcely exceeded that of the conquerors.

Before we had been an hour on the field, we were picked up, stowed

away in a French calech, from which a _danseuse_ on King Joseph’s

establishment had been ejected--and carried through the wreck of the

enemy’s plunder and military stores, into a city it had only vacated

at midday. Mr. Crotty’s wound was not very important, as the ball had

passed clean through the thigh, and the hemorrhage been stopped by

a proper ligature. Mine was a more serious accident, and gave me

considerable annoyance for several weeks after it occurred. It is true

that I had much reason to be thankful, if I would only put faith in the

report of my medical attendant; for he demonstrated, clear as an axiom,

that had the ball struck me the eighteenth part of an inch in “fuller

front,” it would have popped through the “os frontis” to a moral, and I

should have been then “past praying for.”

Three weeks elapsed--the painful effects occasioned by the contusion

gradually subsided, and within a month I was perfectly convalescent. As

to Peter Crotty, his disabled member was speedily restored--and, at the

end of a fortnight, he could have danced the _pater-o-pee_. One thing

occasioned some surprise. Lord ‘Wellington, in the excitement of his

victory, forgot to make personal inquiries after his old partner’s state

of health,--and although his hospitality embraced the _elite_ of his

prisoners, and even the captured ladies were guests at his table during

his brief sojourn at Vittoria, by some unaccountable oversight, a cover

for Peter Crotty was forgotten--and if an invitation had been sent him

for a quiet rubber at head quarters, unfortunately, it never reached its

destination. Crotty, however, ascribed this apparent forgetfulness to

its true cause--a press of business--and on one occasion, when we nearly

ran against his lordship in the street, Peter bolted round the corner,

feeling, very properly, that greetings in the market-place consumed

valuable time, and between old friends were quite unnecessary.

The subsequent operations after the victory of the 21st of June, though

not very important in themselves, proved the forerunners of great

events. Soult came from Germany, by Napoleon’s order, to assume the

chief command and rally the beaten armies. Joseph Buonaparte’s royal

puppetism ended, and he retired into France--and Wellington followed

up his victory by advancing to the Pyrenees, blockading Pampeluna, and

regularly investing San Sebastian.

At Vittoria the mixed character of which an army is composed, was

strikingly exhibited. Never, in the history of modern warfare, did

defeat tempt the cupidity of the soldier with more extensive or more

valuable booty,--and, to use the words of the historian, “the fighting

troops marched upon gold and silver without stooping to pick it up.”

But to others, the display of wealth was too trying for their moral

endurance to withstand--the onward step of victory was stayed for filthy

plunder, and, to the eternal disgrace of the delinquents, it was

known that some officers, forgetting caste and honour, shared in “the

disgraceful gain.” The evil consequences were so mischievous, as in some

degree to paralyse the subsequent operations, and rob Vittoria of what

would have otherwise been its grand results. The soldiers, instead of

preparing food, and resting themselves after the battle, dispersed in

the night to plunder, and were so fatigued, that when the rain came on

next day, they were incapable of marching, and the allied army had more

stragglers than the beaten one. Eighteen days after the Victory, twelve

thousand five hundred men, chiefly British, were absent, most of them

marauding in the mountains. *

* Wellington Despatches.

No wonder, then, that the promptest means were used to thin the

hospitals of the sick and wounded, and forward the convalescent to their

regiments. Peter Crotty had been declared “ready for action and with

some fifty privates and non-commissioned officers pronounced food for

gunpowder” again. I determined to keep him company,--and on the morning

of the 18th of July, we quitted Vittoria, a month after we had entered

it, and took the route to rejoin the fourth division in the Pyrenees. We

reached Leyra on the 22d, and then learned that San Sebastian had been

sufficiently battered to warrant an assault--and, as it was generally

believed, the attempt would be made next day.

Here was a noble opening for young ambition. Within a sharp ride of a

beleaguered city--and it, too, on the very point of being carried by

assault! Why, my father was a very prophet--and the glorious contingency

he had only regarded with the eye of hope, was absolutely thrown by

fortune in my way. I was also a free agent--and while Peter Crotty, “a

man under authority,” of necessity, headed towards the mountains with

“his charge of foot,” I had only to turn to the sea--and if I pleased,

gain laurels in the breach, or there get “a quietus.” I consulted the

fosterer--and he at once declared that it would not only be shameful but

sinful, to let slip an opportunity of the kind, “for the Lord only knew

when such luck would fall in our way again!”

Peter Crotty was taken into the number of our counsellors--and he

confirmed Mark Antony’s reasoning to the very letter--accompanied by a

long jeremiade at being prohibited by duty from engaging in an agreeable

excursion. He, Peter, would never forget Badajoz--Lord! what fun there

was after it--he did not particularise the fun that was _at_ it, nor

detail the pleasant accompaniments of men being blown up by the company.

He, Peter, had been wounded, and resided afterwards at a widow’s

house--a friendlier little woman he never met with,--she was better to

him than a bad step-mother--they went regularly to mass--and he, Peter,

was happy as the day was long. Indeed, he had great doubts about the

propriety of marrying her at once--but her husband, not having “gone to

glory,” but to Mexico, although he had not written for six months,

still the devil, meaning the husband aforesaid--might be alive after

all.--“Oh! blessed Mary 1 what fun you’ll have!” concluded Peter. “You

may rob a church, murder a bishop, and bad luck to the inquiry, good nor

bad, afterwards.”

Pleasure thus unexpectedly presented, and accompanied with such

brilliant advantages, was not to be declined; and as I had recovered my

lost horse, and procured a stout mule for the fosterer, we took the

road to glory--namely, the cross one running through Gozueta to San

Sebastian.

The defeat at Vittoria rendered the maintenance of this ancient fortress

an object of great importance to the French. Hitherto the place had been

greatly neglected, and even a part of its artillery removed. Instant

orders, however, were issued by Joseph Buonaparte to restore the works,

replace the guns, and render it, as far as possible, defensible. A

garrison under General Key was hastily thrown in--and that of Gueteria,

after blowing up that place, reinforced it--stores and provisions were

sent by sea from France--whither, also, an enormous influx of Spanish

and French refugees, who had sought safety in the city, were directed

to repair--and with a brave garrison--and better still--a determined

governor, San Sebastian prepared, by a vigorous and, as it was expected,

a successful defence, to emulate those of Rodrigo, Badajoz, and Burgos,

which had conferred so much honour on their respective commandants.

The investing army, amounting to about ten thousand men, was composed

chiefly of the fifth division, and two Portuguese brigades,--General

Graham commanded in chief--General Oswald _en second_--and Colonel

Dickson directed the siege artillery, amounting to forty pieces of

different descriptions, but all of heavy calibre.

On the night of the 10th, operations actively commenced. On the morning

of the 17th, a strong outwork called San Bartolomeo, with the adjacent

suburb of San Martin, were carried by assault--and on the 20th, the

whole of the batteries commenced breaching at once, without having

first ruined the defences--a departure from established practice which

afterwards occasioned a galling failure, attended with a hewy loss of

gallant men.

It was the evening of the 23d, when I and my foster brother topped a

rising ground, which commanded a more immediate view of the beleaguered

city, and the investing army which encompassed it. For fifteen miles the

booming of hewy artillery gave us full assurance, that, if our intent

was “up to the breach!” we were still in excellent time. The thunder of

the British batteries seemed to redouble as we neared the fortress--and

while the fire of the besieged was slack and feeble, compared with

that of the assailants; the roar from the Chofre batteries was

continuous--and the practice so beautiful and correct, that a new breach

on the right of the main one, had been formed by that day’s fire, and

the wall for thirty yards exhibited a perfect ruin.

It was a sight which, suddenly presented to an eye inexperienced in the

“circumstance of war,” would never fade from memory. The sun was nearly

setting--but there was no lack of light to induce the besiegers

to silence the fire of their guns. The mortar battery, erected the

preceding day to destroy the defences, and ruin a stockade which

insulated the high curtain on the land front, had set the houses in the

immediate vicinity of the great breach in flames; and, as they spread

rapidly, the safety of the town from that wild element appeared as much

endangered, as from the impending outburst of human violence. Although

in immediate expectation of the assault, this calamity did not abate

the confidence of the gallant old man who commanded; but for a day,

and under an erroneous belief that the burning houses would isolate the

breach if carried, the fearful trial was postponed. All was ready to

deliver the assault--the storming parties were in the trenches--but on

the morning, the fire still raged with such unconquered violence, that

it was dreaded it would prove as formidable to the assailants, as it had

been found embarrassing to the assailed--and consequently the storm

was delayed, a circumstance, it was said, that abated the ardour of

the troops, and tended much to produce the unfortunate failure which

occurred next morning.

That awful pause--the day of the 24th, was not like the calm which

precedes the tempest. The batteries on the Chofre sand-hills opened

again, and a whirlwind of heavy shot enlarged the ruins at the breaches,

and, as it was hoped, injured the defences materially. The fire of the

garrison was nearly silenced--and while the means of aggression

were evidently reduced, they laboured diligently to render those of

resistance formidable and efficient. A cavalier that commanded the

curtain was armed with field pieces--and every point, whether of the

castle or the hill, which looked upon the breach or its approaches, was

furnished with heavier artillery. The _fausse brave_ beneath which

the storming parties must advance, was lined with shells and other

destructive missiles, to be rolled down upon the assailants as they

advanced along its base--while every house within musket range was

loop-holed, and the breach carefully retrenched; but even had it been

crowned successfully, still a sheer descent of fifteen feet remained

before the assailants could reach a street composed entirely of burning

houses.

In war, there are wonderful accidents which lead frequently to failure

or defeat--and from fortuitous circumstances, great results arise. In

carrying a parallel across the Isthmus to reach the land defences, the

working party broke through the water-course of a ruined aqueduct.

An engineer boldly crept into the dark and narrow drain--explored it

carefully--and at the end of two hundred and thirty yards, found himself

separated from the counterscarp only by a door, and directly in face of

the right demi-bastion of the horn-work. Here fortune had befriended

the besiegers, and supplied them with an admirable mine. The engineers

formed a globe of compression at the extremity, and loaded it with

an enormous charge of powder--and though this dangerous operation was

effected under the feet of the French sentries, none took alarm, and the

work was silently and effectually completed.

The plan of attack was to assault the greater and lesser breaches

together, when the spring of the mine, formed in the head of the

aqueduct, should give the signal. It was expected that the explosion

there would fill the ditch of the horn-work with rubbish--and in the

confusion and surprise, the Portuguese might possibly escalade at that

point, and effect a lodgement in the place. The Royals were directed

against the great breach, supported by the ninth regiment--and the

thirty-eighth were ordered to carry the smaller one. An _elite_

detachment, formed of the three light companies of these regiments,

attended by an engineer and ladder party, were designed to have

escaladed the high curtain, while the breaches were assaulted, and clear

the enemy from it with the bayonet; and to this party, Mark Antony and I

attached ourselves.

Soon after midnight, the storming parties with the columns of attack

entered the trenches--and within three hundred yards of the breaches,

waited impatiently for sun-rise, when it had been arranged that the

assault was to be given.

There is no use in concealing it--that interval of two hours was the

most anxious passage of my history. I felt that, as it on the hazard

of a die, life or death depended. Darkness and silence prevailed--the

latter only broken by the thunder of the breaching batteries, which

were kept in full play upon the breaches and defences. Many an anxious

inquiry was made to know “how time went,”--many an eager look was cast

eastward to watch for early dawn--but hundreds were fated never to

witness the rising of another sun. While it was still dark, the globe of

compression formed in the head of the aqueduct was fired. The storming

parties rushed forward from the trenches--and the work of death began.

The explosion of the mine was unfortunately not heard at the Chofre

batteries, and the guns, instead of ceasing, continued in full play upon

the place. Hence, the assailants as they advanced, were scourged by a

double fire, and suffered more from the grape of their own batteries

than the enemy’s cannonade. The narrow slip of ground by which the

stormers approached the breaches, contracted between the river on

one side, and the retaining wall of the horn-work on the other, was

embarrassed with rocks and pools of water, and consequently, the

movement of the column became disorderly. Under a withering fire, the

breach was gained--up flew the leading officers--a few gallant soldiers

followed--but the supports moved slowly--the troops came straggling to

the breach--and instead of mounting to the assistance of the gallant few

who had already crowned the ruins, the greater portion of the assailants

stopped at the bottom, and interchanged musketry with the French who

lined the ramparts, and kept up a deadly fusilade on the disordered mass

below. The towers of Los Hornos and Mesquitas opened a hewy flanking

fire; and from the St. Elmo and the Mirador, grape fell in torrents

upon the broken column--the Castle threw shells with great

precision--grenades were flung from the ramparts--a stream of fire

issued from the loop-holed houses--while flames raging behind the

breach, seemed to forbid approach, even had offensive means been

unemployed.

Still though the men fell by fifties, their officers endeavoured to

rally them and crown the breach anew; but every moment the chances of

success became more desperate. The regiments got intermixed, and that

terrible confusion of troops mobbed in a narrow space between the breach

and the Urumea, became irretrievable. At that moment the remnant of our

light companies pushed through the disordered column, and Campbell, its

chivalrous leader, followed by a daring few, gained the summit. Mid-way

up, my foster-brother fell--while I, with a dozen or two, a second

time reached the rampart. We held it but a moment. Under the storm of

musketry all went down; and there were but two or three standing, when a

bullet stretched me beside those with whom “life had ended.”

It was the final effort; the remnant of the assailants hurried off, the

regiments mobbed together, to seek shelter in the trenches; marking,

unhappily and too plainly, the lines of the advance and retreat with the

bodies of the dead and dying. The French fire ceased; and although the

British batteries opened with redoubled violence on the enemy’s defences

to cover the retirement of the shattered columns, several of the gallant

defenders of the breach braved the storm, to remove the wounded within

the town, and save them from the indiscriminating destruction which the

British artillery poured alike on friend and foe.

For a minute I was unconscious of what was passing; and when memory

returned, I was in the act of being turned over by a French soldier, who

found, that from hwing fallen on my face, my present position was not

exactly favourable for his intended operations. I looked wildly round;

several men in blue uniforms were examining the fallen soldiers, who

lay thickly on the summit of the breach as lewes in autumn. Different

objects influenced the examination: some were seeking plunder--others,

on a nobler errand, were separating the wounded from the dead, to remove

the former out of fire, and obtain for them surgical assistance. As the

grenadier rolled me over, an officer stepped forward and inquired if I

were “living or dead?” The voice was perfectly familiar; with my cuff I

wiped away the blood, which, trickling from my forehead, had partially

prevented me from looking at the speaker before. “Is that Cammaran?” I

muttered, as I caught a glance of his well-remembered features.

[Illustration: 0418]

“Ha!” exclaimed the Frenchman,--“‘my name! Sacre!--who have we here?

Baise his head, Antoine. By heaven!--the very man on earth I would shed

my heart’s blood to save!” Next moment he was kneeling at my side--and

held me gently in his arms, until I was lifted by four soldiers from the

ground, and removed carefully from the breach and out of the range of

fire.

“Are you much hurt, my friend?” inquired the gallant Frenchman. “And

where is your companion, my brave deliverer?”

“Alas!” I replied, “I fear that he is lost to me. He fell half way up

the breach--and--”

‘Ere my reply was given, Cammaran, after directing the party to bear

me to a neighbouring church which the French had converted into an

hospital, rushed to the breach again. Calling on a soldier to follow,

he descended the ruins of the broken wall, and, among a heap of dead and

dying, commenced looking for the object of his search. It was a daring,

an almost desperate attempt; for, irritated at the failure of the

storming parties, every gun in battery was madly turned against the

breach and curtain, and showers of round and grape-shot splintered

against the unbroken masonry, or knocked the rubbish wildly about,

occasioning double danger to all within its reach. Undismayed, the

gallant Frenchman persevered; and to his unfeigned delight, in a man who

had raised himself upon one elbow and was gazing despondingly around, he

recognised the person he risked so much danger to discover--his former

camarado--the fosterer.

With the assistance of the grenadier who accompanied him, Mark Antony

was carried safely from the breach; and in a few minutes after my

wounds had been carefully dressed, I had the happiness to find my foster

brother placed on a mattress beside my own, and hear the French surgeon,

on a hasty examination, announce to Captain Cammaran the gratifying

intelligence, that Mark Antony was “not past praying for” yet, but, with

moderate good luck, might still survive, to do “the state some service,”

and figure in another breach.

CHAPTER XL. CAPTIVITY.

“Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice;

Their tongues prefer strange orisons on high;

Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies;

The shouts are France, Spain, Albion--Victory!”

Childe Harold.

|Day broke through the stained windows of the church; and the cannonade,

so fierce and incessant when I was being carried from the breach, died

suddenly away and not a gun was heard. I inquired what might have caused

this extraordinary silence, and learned from an hospital-assistant that

an hour’s truce had been agreed on between the besiegers and besieged,

to permit the wounded to be succoured, and allow helpless wretches who

would otherwise have been drowned by the rising of the Urumea, to

be carried beyond the influence of the tide, and taken either to the

trenches or the town. On this work of mercy Cammaran was absent; and, as

Mark Antony and myself were sufficiently recovered to converse, we

began to make mutual inquiries touching our present position and future

prospects.

“Upon my conscience,” observed the fosterer, “now that we have made the

experiment, I can’t say that I can either discover the advantages your

honoured father held out by letter, or the fun Mr. Crotty described by

‘word of mouth,’ as attendin’ these same sieges and assaults. To my

mind Vittoria was the thing;--beautiful day-light;--your enemy decently

before ye--if a man dropped, his comrades stepped over him as if they

were treading upon eggs, and he was removed to the rear with every

civility, to find a full flask on every body he turned over, if he only

had the luck to be settled in a decent neighbourhood. Here--if this be

fun, may the Lord deliver us from such fun in future! We are stuck down

for two hours shivering in a ditch. Whiz! goes a mine--‘That’s our

mine, and the signal,’ says one engineer--‘The divil welcome the news!’

says a second--and off we go blundering in the dark, the Lord knows

where. Before we’re well in motion, bang goes another explosion! ‘That’s

the enemy’s says another--and not a doubt about that, for up go the

forlorn hope, body and bones. ‘Push on, lads,’ cry the officers;--one

falls over a d-----d rock, another souses into a pool of water; on one

side the French are firing like the divil--on the other, and I suppose,

out of personal respect, our own batteries consider it a compliment to

knock us over by the dozen. Well, we top the breach at last--and a

beautiful prospect it is!--In front, a jump of twenty feet into a

blazing house, or you’r shot down right and left, like crows in a

wheatfield. “Arrah!” said Mark Antony, “if your father wrote every day

in the week, not forgettin’ Sunday, the divil a such a night of pleasure

will I put in if I can help it. But, Mister Hector, what do ye suppose

they’ll do with us?”

“Why, possibly, keep us here for half our lives, and send us into France

to put in the remainder of them pleasantly.”

“Ah, then, if they do,” said the fosterer, “they’r cuter * than they

think. By all that’s beautiful!” and Mark flourished his sounder arm

over the blanket,--“I’ll be off in a fortnight.”

Anglice,--more cunning.

“No, not so soon,” said a voice--laughingly; and Cammaran stepped from

behind a wooden screen which had hidden him while approaching. At the

same moment a salvo of artillery thundered from the Chofre battery--the

guns of San Sebastian replied. The truce had expired--and the game of

death had recommenced.

“So end civilities,” said the Frenchman; “still it is comfortable to

know, that the calls of humanity have been attended to. I have applied

for what you call in England ‘a billet’--that is, the commandant’s

permission to reside during your convalesence in a private house,

instead of being exposed, as you would be otherwise, to the

inconvenience of a crowded hospital. For this indulgence I have given my

_parole_, and that leaves you at liberty to visit any part of the city

within the _enceinte_ of the place when you are able to walk abroad.

I know that my good friend here, even if leg and arm were not _hors

de combat_ as they are, would scarcely run away, when that act would

compromise my honour.”

“Oh--by this book;” exclaimed the fosterer, raising himself upon his

elbow--“we’re fairly ruined, Hector _avourneeine!_ Here we’re regularly

on the langle. Arrah--Mister Cammaran, dear, I know ye meant it for the

best--but, why the divil did ye make a bargain of the kind? De ye

think ye could get dacently out of it? Och--if we were only back in

the country we were in, when we first became acquainted with that

Empecinado, as they call him--it was no sayin’ what luck might turn up

still. This moment, going to be hanged--the next, drinking as if ye were

at a priest’s funeral. ‘Turn him out to be shot,’ was the order one

minute--while, ‘turn him for brandy and water,’ was the next. One minute

you wern’t master of a _scultogue_--the next ye were riding in the

saddle of a French marshal. Of all the inns I ever stopped at, I never

met any where they pay scores as they do in Spain. You go to bed in

peace and quietness, and you’re bundled out before you’re well asleep,

to be told, that you must light your way through a yard-full of hussars,

and swim a river afterwards that would give a water-dog rheumatism for

life. You stop at the next public house, and receive all manner of

civility. Of course, you’re expected to pay up. Not at all: one black

look from an ill-visaged gentleman who accompanies you; and the account

is rubbed off the slate in a jiffy. Excepting there was over much

shooting and hanging--a pleasanter excursion I never would desire--but,

may the Lord forgive us! we were not sufficiently thankful at the time.”

“Well,--my dear friend,” said Captain Cammaran, with a smile. “My

engagement is only binding while you are invalided. When perfectly

recovered, my parole is easily recalled--and I have no doubt you will

be very comfortable in La Mota. Plenty of fresh air--and free liberty to

seek any corner you may fancy, as the least unlikely for a shell to

drop upon. In the mean time, I recommend you to accept the billet I have

obtained--and by the way, in the house of a Spaniard in worse odour with

the old commandant than Don Francisco La Pablos, you could hardly have

been established. But I have already ordered apartments to be prepared,

and will see that every attention shall be paid to you. This place will

be presently intolerable, and the sooner you remove to your new quarters

all the better.”

The last remark was unhappily correct. The church filled rapidly with

the wounded. Every minute fresh sufferers were brought in--and the

scene of butchery--merciful and necessary--which commenced, was to us,

particularly disgusting. It was wonderful how differently men submitted

to sad alternatives,--death or amputation. One, an officer of faultless

symmetry, sternly rejected the advice of his kind attendants. “Nothing

but the removal of the fractured limb can save you--you will die,

otherwise,” said the French surgeon. “Well--be it so,” returned the

sufferer calmly, “death is preferable to deformity. Lose no time with

me--you may be serviceable to my poor comrade.” Immediately beside him,

a young lad was stretched--I should say he was not nineteen---a

fine, florid, healthy looking Englishman. His wound had been a severe

contusion--and a passing observation of the French surgeons, announced

that his was a hopeless case. And yet, death visited him in mercy. He

appeared to undergo no pain--and in fancy, conversed with a “darling

mother” and his “little sister,” as he termed them--babbled about green

fields and expired with a smile upon his lips, under the firm belief

that he had returned to the home he loved, and was re-united to those

dear objects whom he idolized.

I never felt myself more relieved, than when a French fatigue-party

came, to remove, me on a stretcher. Weak from loss of blood--dispirited

at the painful recollection that I was now about to undergo

imprisonment, to whose duration none could name the limit--every thing

around was calculated to increase those feelings of despondency. The

gloomy building seemed desecrated by the purposes it had been turned

to--and where the faithful had worshipped, the penitent had told the

tale of sin and shame, and been forgiven--where love had been hallowed

by holy rite, and supplications for the soul’s weal of the departed

had arisen--in that the temple of peace, war’s horrid consequences were

exhibited--and, in all the terrible variety which attends on death by

violence, many a spirit was escaping from its mortal coil.

The house where I was about to take up my residence was situated

close to the harbour, and, being at a distance from the breaches, was

consequently, out of the fire of the besiegers. As we passed through the

streets, I could not but remark the melancholy and deserted appearance

that all around presented. The shops were unopened--the private

dwellings jealously closed up--and the terrified inhabitants seemed not

yet satisfied that the assault had failed, and danger was over for the

present. When we reached the domicile of La Pablos, we found that

our arrival had been duly announced. We were admitted into a narrow

court-yard--and at the door of his mansion, the owner was waiting to

receive us.

The appearance of my future host was not particularly prepossessing.

Although stricken in years, his carriage was lofty and unbroken--and the

expression of his countenance seemed that of a proud and daring spirit,

obliged to bend for a time to circumstances, and stoop to a thraldom

from which it secretly recoiled.

The Spaniard showed the way in--and I was placed on a comfortable bed,

in an apartment very clean, but very plainly furnished. At the opposite

side of the hall, a room had been provided for Mark Antony--for whose

transit to these his new quarters, after I had been safely deposited,

the stretcher and fatigue party were despatched.

“I will send you some linen--and that is more than many of our people

could afford. In turn of duty, the escort of the convoy which marched

for France on the 19th fell to my lot--and bitterly I lamented that

I was not fated to witness the defeat, which we all considered as so

certainly attendant on Lord Wellington’s advance upon Vittoria. The

thing seems incomprehensible--and even yet we regard the king’s disaster

almost as a dream. Well--let it pass--_c’est fortune de guerre_. The

Emperor’s lieutenant is in the Pyrenees--and now, my Lord Wellington,

look sharp!”

“Might not that cautionary hint, my dear Cammaran, be equally

serviceable to your friend, the Duke of Dalmatia?” I replied, with a

smile.

“No--no. From secret intelligence which has reached the fortress, a

very few days will end your leader’s visionary prospects. What! enter

France--carry the war over the frontier, and pollute the sacred soil!

The thunderbolt is charged--and the hand is already present that will

hurl it. But I must go. Duty will engage me the whole day, but in the

evening I will visit you.”--Then turning to our host, Cammaran commended

me and my companion to his especial attention.

“Let nothing in this case be wanted, Senhor--you stand already not

very favourably with the Governor. Adieu, for a time, my friend”--and

pressing my hand, the Frenchman took his departure.

I never saw a countenance on which scorn, hatred, and revenge, seemed

struggling for mastery, until I noticed that of Don Francisco. When

the door of the court-yard closed, he poured forth a torrent of

anathemas--then turning to me, his features instantly relaxed--and

approaching my couch he took my hand in his.

“Stranger, you are welcome. The name of Englishman I respect--and the

Spaniard is an ingrate who does not. If my manner in receiving you was

not as warm as it might have been, ascribe it to the true cause--the

pestilential presence of yonder foreigner. The sight of these insolent

oppressors turns my blood to gall--their very language is discord to my

ears--I hate them with all a Spaniard’s hatred. But why display impotent

rage in words?--‘Tis womanly--yet still, while the hand dares not

strike a blow, the tongue finds some relief in venting the feelings of a

surcharged breast--a maddened brain--in curses.”

I looked at La Pablos. His features were convulsed with passion. I had

heard that many severities had been exercised by the French during the

Peninsular conflict--and I concluded that Don Francisco had been one

of the unhappy Spaniards who had suffered from the oppression of

the invaders. The arrival of the fosterer, for that time, ended our

conversation--the host quitting me to attend to this his second guest,

and minister to the wants of Mark Antony.

Four days passed away--I had sufficiently recovered to be enabled to

leave my room; and, leaning on the arm of a French soldier, who was

daily in attendance on me by a special order from the Governor, I walked

for a short distance every morning on the ramparts which overlooked the

bay. My wound, though severe at the time that I received it, was one

that healed rapidly--the bullet having slanted from the rib it struck

against, and instead of taking what would have been otherwise a mortal

direction, it inflicted a painful, but fortunately what proved a

superficial injury, The fosterer was also convalescent--the ball had

passed through his thigh without injuring the bone in its transit--his

arm healed rapidly--and in a few days more the learned leach who

attended us, announced that Mark Antony would be, as the fosterer termed

it himself, “right upon his pins again.”

So far we had reason for self-gratulation--and as far as kindness from

the host, and constant attentions on the part of Cammaran would go,

we had no reason to complain of our captivity. But other circumstances

allayed the satisfaction we should otherwise have felt--for every day

the prospect of deliverance became more distant, and matters assumed a

gloomier aspect.

Lord Wellington, on hearing of the miscarriage at San Sebastian, came

down from the covering army to ascertain the causes of the failure, and,

as it was reported, to adopt immediate means to remedy the disaster, and

make himself master of the place. But, alas! our hopes that the speedy

capture of the city would restore us to liberty again, ended on the

morning of the 27th. Overnight, the batteries had been disarmed and

the guns removed to Passages--the siege was turned into a blockade--and

taking advantage of the confusion, the garrison sallied from the

horn-work, surprised the soldiers in the trenches, and carried back more

than two hundred prisoners. Rumour also was busy on the wing. It was

said that Soult had already taken the offensive--that the allied forces

in advance, had been attacked, defeated, and driven back--and an order,

directing Sir Thomas Graham to march on the Bidassoa with all his

disposable troops, confirmed the unwelcome news.

The intelligence that Napoleon’s lieutenant had actually commenced

operations to relieve Pampeluna and San Sebastian, and afterwards

celebrate his maker’s birth-day in Vittoria, was perfectly correct.

On the same morning and hour, while we had made our sanguinary and

unsuccessful attempt upon the fortress, Soult commenced his daring

operations, by driving in the pickets and scaling the pass of Altobisco.

Although desperately outnumbered, the allies held their mountain

position most obstinately--and for hours the combat raged with unabated

fury, among wild and Alpine heights five thousand feet above the level

of the sea. This protracted defence allowed time for others of the

allied brigades to come, while a dense fog prevented the French

marshal from executing the general attack he intended to have made with

overwhelming numbers. Cole held his position with comparatively little

loss--and when night came, finding his right turned at Orbaiceta, he

cleverly retreated during the darkness, carrying ten thousand men safely

through mountain passes, which rendered a regressive movement in

the face of thirty thousand French bayonets a delicate and dangerous

attempt. The position of Roncesvalles was consequently abandoned--and

the first great effort from which Soult had expected far different

results, left him with the allied brigades still like lions in the

passes, and seven leagues of Alpine country interposed between him and

Pampeluna, the grand object of his operations.

On the morning of the 26th, the French marshal resumed the offensive.

A day of occasional combats and severe marching, while the English

generals slowly and steadily fell back, produced no greater results

than those attendant upon yesterday. Night came--and Soult, with altered

convictions as to the probability of eventual success, waited for

morning to try his fortunes in the field anew.

The third trial was certainly more propitious. The Aretesque and Maya

passes were attacked in great force, and, aided by a partial

surprise, the French were enabled to drive the pickets back upon their

supports,--and eventually, but after the most desperate fighting, the

allied position was won. Four Portuguese guns were captured--and the

French, elevated by this success, pressed the reduced battalions, who

still retired, but slowly and sullenly, blocking up each ridge or pass

they defended with the bodies of the dead and dying. At six o’clock,

completely worn out with fatigue, their numbers reduced to a third,

their ammunition almost expended, the rocky heights of Atchiola were

about to be abandoned--but at the moment, a brigade of the seventh

division came opportunely up--the battle was sternly renewed, and the

French forced to retire from the disputed mountain, and occupy the pass

of Maya which they had won so dearly. In these sanguinary and protracted

combats, Soult, with an expenditure of fifteen hundred men, gained a few

miles of mountain and four disabled guns--a miserable trophy for such a

waste of blood.

Nothing could surpass the triumph of the garrison when the intelligence

of the marshal’s advance was confirmed--and the affairs of these three

days mountain warfare were grossly mistated. Roncesvalles and Linzoain

were described as brilliant actions--glorious to the arms of France;

while Maya was exaggerated into a crowning victory.

But the hours of Soult’s temporary success were numbered. On his return

from San Sebastian, Wellington heard of the French attack on the evening

of the 27th, and hurrying forward to San Estevan, which he reached the

morning of the 28th--there ascertained the true position of affairs.

His plans were formed with his accustomed rapidity and decision--and

he determined to concentrate in front of Pampeluna, and retreat by the

valley of the Lanz.

In the meantime, the fortress profiting by the cessation of the

investment, received ample supplies of stores and ammunition by sea

from France, and in return transmitted back the sick and wounded,

thus getting relieved of the most troublesome incumbrance with which

a beleaguered city is incommoded. New defences were planned

and executed--former damages repaired--the works were generally

strengthened--the magazines stored with powder and provisions--and

San Sebastian was, in this interval, rendered stronger than when the

besiegers first broke ground.

All these events to me held out a melancholy prospect. It was already

intimated that on the first favourable opportunity the prisoners would

be forwarded to France--and in that case, captivity and the war would

be coeval. A yearning after home momentarily increased. Isidora was ever

present--and I cursed the hour that, for the bauble, fame, I had quitted

the land of liberty and love. Mark Antony bore thraldom even more

impatiently than I. He cursed France, Spain, and Portugal in a

breath--read a letter from the rat-catcher once a day--and another, I

fancy from the lady of his love, “every minute i’ th’ hour.”

“What the devil are we to do, Mark?” I inquired, after we had groaned in

unison until both were weary of complaining.

“Do!” exclaimed the fosterer, “Give the thieves leg-bail, and ‘cut our

lucky’ the first opportunity.”

There was wisdom in Mark Antony’s advice, and I determined to follow it.

CHAPTER XLI. BATTLES OP THE PYRENEES.

“If I begin the battery once again,

I will not leave the half-achieved Harfleur,

Till in her ashes she lie buried.”

King Henry V.

|The exultation of the French garrison at the reported victories which

had crowned the efforts of Soult for the relief of Pampeluna was but a

short-lived triumph--for an attempt vauntingly commenced, and certainly

very gallantly carried out, had been signally defeated.

Picton, followed closely by Soult, had retreated through the valley of

the Zuberi before day-break. On nearing Pampeluna, the English general

found that the fourth division had already passed Villalba; the garrison

of Pampeluna had sallied and spiked a battery--the blockading Spaniards

were in terrible confusion--and every thing bore the appearance of

disaster. With a stern hardihood, which formed the best point in

Picton’s military character, he determined at once to turn and offer

battle to the pursuers--and accordingly, formed in battle order upon the

ridges of Miguel, Escova, and Christoval; thus masking the fortress he

came to relieve from Soult’s view as he issued from the valley of the

Zuberi.

The French marshal felt little doubt that the object of his previous

efforts was now about to be realized. Within two leagues of

Pampeluna he followed a retiring army, and in another hour would be in

communication with that fortress. What, then, was his surprise, when

on emerging from the valley, he found the third division and Morillo’s

Spaniards in position on the bold and rocky chain rising in front of

Huarte, and Cole more immediately advanced, in possession of the heights

near Zabaldica which command the Huarte road? Hastily he adopted and

executed a bold movement to form a line of battle; but, while that was

in progress, another and a greater actor appeared suddenly upon the

stage; and when he came, the tide of Soult’s fortune turned, and defeat

followed in his footsteps.

On quitting the Bastan on the 27th, Lord Wellington learned at Ostiz,

that Picton had retired on Pampeluna, and, riding at speed to Sauroren,

he perceived Clausel’s divisions in full march, and with an eagle-glance

discovered from the direction taken by the French columns, that the

allied movement through the Lanz must certainly be intercepted. There

was not a moment to be lost; an order was despatched that the troops

should move bodily by the right towards Oricain, a village nearly in the

rear of the mountain position taken up by Sir Lowry Cole.

In issuing this hurried order, one of war’s romantic incidents occurred.

The despatch was written on the parapet of the bridge; and as the

staff-officer who carried it, rode out of one extremity of the village,

the French cavalry galloped in at the other; while the allied commander

dashed quickly up the hill, and joined the allied troops who held it.

His appearance was sudden, unexpected, and electrical. A Portuguese

battalion raised an exulting cheer--the name of _Wellington!_ passed

from regiment to regiment, accompanied by a thundering huzza; while, by

a strange coincidence, Soult was at the moment so immediately in front,

that the rival commanders were pointed out distinctly to each other. The

evening passed without any striking effort. Soult examined the allied

position under the fire of his light troops--a thunder-storm ended the

skirmish, and both sides determined on a trial of skill and strength

to-morrow.

The 28th, a day ever memorable in peninsular history, found both sides

prepared for action. Soult, intending to crush the left of the fourth

division, and ignorant of the march of the sixth, made dispositions to

enable him to attack Cole’s left and front together, while Reille, at

the same time, should carry the height held by the Spaniards and the

British 40th. The former effort turned out a fatal experiment; and the

blow intended to crush the allied brigade before it could be assisted

met with a tremendous counter-stroke. “Striving to encompass the left

of the allies, the French were themselves encompassed.” Suddenly a

Portuguese brigade appeared upon their right; the sixth division showed

itself as unexpectedly in front; the fourth turned fiercely on their

left; and, scourged at the same time by a front and flanking fire, the

French columns were driven back, men falling fast on both sides; for the

French fought desperately, but in vain.

The struggle for the mountain produced still bloodier combats. A hermita

crowned the height, and the chapel was held by a regiment of Portuguese

Caçadores. Against it a column issued from Sauroren, and, heedless of a

sweeping fire that fell upon it with deadly violence, as in close order

it steadily pushed up the hill, the ridge was crowned, and the Caçadores

obliged to abandon the hermita. But Ross’s brigade were at hand,

and with a headlong charge the heights were cleared, and the chapel

recovered with the bayonet. A second time the French rallied, advanced,

and were repulsed--but other columns were coming into action. The right

flank of Ross’s brigade became exposed--for a Portuguese battalion gave

way--a heavy column of the enemy pressed on, and the British regiments

retired for a time, but was only to return more fiercely to the attack.

“Charge succeeded charge, and each side yielded and recovered by

turns.” At that moment, Byng’s brigade rapidly advanced; while two noble

regiments of Anson’s--the 27th and 48th--rushed from the centre, bore

down everything before them, and the French were literally pushed down

the heights by close and murderous fighting, which Wellington termed

“bludgeon work.” On the hill occupied the 40th and Spaniards, Reille’s

attack had failed for, although the regiment of El Pravia gwe way,

flanked by a Portuguese battalion, the 40th held its ground immovably.

Four times the French topped the height--four times they were pushed

down by the bayonet; each charge heralded by a cheer, and each repulse

bloodier than the preceding one; until, at last, strength and spirit

equally exhausted, they refused to follow their officers and gave up the

trial in despair.

The 29th passed quietly--both sides required rest--and to each some time

was necessary to get their dispersed brigades again together. Not a shot

was interchanged that day; but never did a more ominous tranquillity

forerun the hurricane of war. It was now evident that all idea of

re-entering Spain must be abandoned. The front displayed by

Lord Wellington was not to be forced; and the French cavalry and

artillery--only encumbrances in a mountain-country--were ordered to fall

back and retire to the Bidassao. While waiting for D’Erlon to come up,

Soult received intelligence which induced him to change his original

plans, and he determined to throw himself between the allies and the

valley of the Bastan, thus securing a close communication with the

French frontier, and falling back on his reserves, while, by a bold and

well-combined movement, he might fortunately effect one great object

of his advance into the passes of the Pyrenees,--the relief of San

Sebastian.

Although unhappily non-combatant, still the operations of the contending

armies which, day after day were severely engaged, or placed in the

immediate presence of each other, to us were of absorbing interest. The

first reports that reached the fortress were sadly disheartening; but on

the fourth morning, a striking alteration was visible on the countenance

of our friend Cammaran, when he called to announce “tidings from the

host.” His mercurial temperament, yesterday in the very ascendant of

fever heat, had sank almost to zero, and it was very amusing to observe

the ingenuity with which, while admitting stubborn facts, he still

endeavoured to apply palliatives to his disappointment--

“Ah--sacre! what a country to operate in! Legs were of no use among

those accursed Pyrenees,--men should have wings. What splendid

combinations were those of the Emperor’s lieutenant! Only for broken

roads, ruined bridges, infernal gullies, and inaccessible mountains, the

Duc’s movement would have been a march of victory. He would have been at

Vittoria on the 16th.”

“Pshaw!” I said, breaking in on the detail with a laugh--“He would never

be contented to stop there. Why not push for Madrid at once?”

“Ah, you smile,” my friend replied Cammaran, with a sigh. “But, peste!

the d----d fogs confused the general movements. One division went

astray--another was obliged to halt--columns marching over precipices

could not keep time. Ah! those accidents saved my Lord Wellington; the

delay enabled him to collect his scattered corps, and when the Marshal

cleared those infernal valleys and defiles with scarcely half the _corps

d’armée_ disposable, there--Sacre Dieu! was your general in front of

Pampeluna with all his divisions up and in position!”--

“And honest Jack Soult discovered that all his magnificent combinations

and previous success, had ended in his catching a Tartar!--Ah! Cammaran,

I feel for you, my poor friend. But out with it at once--or I’ll

compassionately do it for you. The upshot is, you have got a confounded

thrashing”--