The next morning, one of the surgeons brought a basketful of fruit
to Terence.
"There is a young woman outside, colonel," he said, with a slight
smile, "who was crying so bitterly that I was really obliged to
bring this fruit up to you. She said you would know who she was,
and was heartbroken that she could not be allowed to come up to
nurse you. She said that she had heard, from one of your men, of
your wound. I told her that it was quite impossible that any
civilian should enter the hospital, but said that I would take her
fruit up and, if she would come every day at five o'clock in the
afternoon, when we went off duty for an hour, I would tell her how
you were going on."
"She used to sell fruit to the prisoners here," Terence said, "and
it was entirely by her aid that I effected my escape, last year;
and she got a muleteer, to whom she is engaged, to take me down
from here to Cadiz. I bought her a present when we entered the town
and, the other day, told her I hoped to dance at her wedding before
long. However, that engagement will not come off. My dancing days
are over."
The surgeon felt his pulse.
"There is very little fever," he said. "So far you are going on
marvellously; but you must not be disappointed if you get a sharp
turn, presently. You can hardly expect to get through a wound like
this without having a touch, and perhaps a severe one, of fever."
"Is there any harm in my eating fruit?"
"I would not eat any, but you can drink some of the juice, mixed
with water. I hope we shall have everything comfortable by tonight;
of course, we are all in the rough, at present. Although many of
the doctors of the town have been helping us, I don't think there
is one medical officer in the army who has taken off his coat since
the wounded began to come in, yesterday morning."
That night Terence's wound became very painful. Inflammation,
accompanied of course with fever, set in and, for a fortnight, he
was very ill. At the end of that time matters began to mend, and
the wound soon assumed a healthy appearance. An operation had been
performed, and the projecting bone cut off.
There were dire sufferings in Salamanca. Six thousand wounded had
to be cared for, the French prisoners and their guards fed; and the
army had no organization to meet so great a strain. Numbers of
lives that might have been saved, by care and proper attention,
were lost; and the spirit of discontent and insubordination, which
had its origin in the excesses committed in the sack of the
fortresses, rapidly increased.
The news from the front, after a time, seemed more satisfactory.
Clausel had been hotly pursued. Had the king with his army joined
him, as he might have done, he would have been in a position to
again attack the enemy with greatly superior numbers; but Joseph
hesitated, and delayed until it was no longer possible. The British
army crossed the mountains, and the king was obliged to retire from
Madrid and evacuate the capital; which was entered by Wellington on
the 25th of August.
Early in September, the chief surgeon said to Terence:
"There is a convoy of sick going down, at the end of the week. I
think that it would be best for you to go with them. In the first
place, the air of this town is not favourable for recoveries. In
some of the hospitals a large number of men have been carried off
by the fever, which so often breaks out when the conditions are
bad. In the next place, I am privately informed, by the governor,
that he has received orders from the general to send all who are
capable of bearing the journey across the frontier, as soon as
possible. Another battle may be fought, at any moment. The
reinforcements that have come from England are nothing like
sufficient to replace the gaps in the army.
"The French generals are collecting their forces, and it is certain
that Wellington will not be able to withstand their combination
and, if he should be compelled to retreat, it is all important that
he should not be hampered by the necessity of carrying off huge
convoys of wounded. The difficulties of transport are already
enormous; and it is, therefore, for many reasons desirable that all
who are sufficiently convalescent to march, and all for whom
transport can be provided, should start without delay."
"I should be very glad, Doctor. I have not seemed to gain strength,
for the last week or ten days; but I believe that, if I were in the
open air, I should gain ground rapidly."
Nita had been allowed to come up several times to see Terence,
since his convalescence began; and the last time she had called had
told him that Garcia had returned, being altogether dissatisfied
with the feeble proceedings of the guerilla chief. She came up that
afternoon, soon after the doctor left, and he told her the news
that he had received. The next day she told Terence that Garcia had
arranged with her father for his waggon and two bullocks, and that
he himself would drive it to Lisbon, if necessary.
"They are fine bullocks, sir," she said, "and there is no fear of
their breaking down. Last night I was talking to one of your
sergeants, who comes to me every day for news of you. He says that
he and about forty of your men are going down with the convoy. All
are able to walk. It is so difficult to get carts that only
officers who cannot walk are to be taken, this time."
"It is very good of Garcia and your father, Nita, but I should
manage just as well as the others."
"That may be, senor, but it is better to have a friend with you who
knows the country. There may be difficulty in getting provisions,
and they say that there is a good deal of plundering along the
roads; for troops that have lately come up have behaved so badly
that the peasants declare they will have revenge, and treat them as
enemies if they have the opportunity. Altogether, it is as well to
have a friend with you."
Terence told the surgeon next morning what had been arranged, and
said:
"So we shall have room for one more, Doctor. Is Major Bull well
enough to go with me? He could travel in my waggon, which is sure
to be large enough for two to lie in, comfortably."
"Certainly he can. He is making a slow recovery, and I should be
glad to send him away, only I have no room for him. If he goes with
you, I can send another officer down, also, in the place you would
have had."
Accordingly, on the Saturday morning the convoy started. Bull and
Terence met for the first time, since the day of the battle; as the
former had been removed to another room, after the operation. He
was extremely weak, still, and had to be carried down and placed in
the waggon by the side of Terence. Garcia had been greatly affected
at the latter's appearance.
"I should scarce have known you again, senor."
"I am pulled down a bit, Garcia, but by the time we get to our
journey's end, you will see that I shall be a very different man.
How comfortable you have made the waggon!"
"I have done what I could, senor. At the bottom are six sacks of
corn, for it may be that forage will run short. Then I have filled
it with hay, and there are enough rugs to lie on, and to cover you
well over at night; and down among the sacks is a good-sized box
with some good wine, two hams of Nita's father's curing, and a
stock of sausages, and other things for the journey."
Nita came to say goodbye, and wept unrestrainedly at the parting.
She and Garcia had opened the little box, and found in it fifty
sovereigns; and had agreed to be married, as soon as Garcia
returned from his journey. As the train of thirty waggons--of which
ten contained provisions for use on the road--issued from the
gates, they were joined by the convalescents, four hundred in
number. All able to do so carried their arms, the muskets of the
remainder being placed on the provision waggons.
"Have you heard from the regiment, Bull?" Terence asked, after they
had talked over their time in hospital, and their comrades who had
fallen.
"No, sir. There is no one I should expect to write to me."
"I had a letter from Ryan, yesterday," Terence said. "He tells me
that they have had no fighting since we left. They form only one
battalion now, and he says the state of things in Madrid is
dreadful. The people are dying of hunger, and the British officers
have subscribed and started soup kitchens; and that he, with the
other Portuguese regiments, were to march the next day, with three
British divisions and the cavalry, to join General Clinton, who was
falling back before Clausel."
"'We all miss you horribly, Terence. Herrara does his best, but he
has not the influence over the men that you had. If we have to fall
back into Portugal again, which seems to me quite possible, for
little more than 20,000 men are fit to carry arms, I fancy that
there won't be a great many left round the colours by the spring.
"'Upon my word, I can hardly blame them, Terence. More than half of
those who originally joined have fallen and, no doubt, the poor
fellows think that they have done more than their share towards
defending their country.'"
By very short marches, the convoy made its way to the frontier. The
British convalescents remained at Guarda, the Portuguese marched
for Pinhel, and the carts with the wounded officers continued their
journey to Lisbon. The distance travelled had been over two hundred
and fifty miles and, including halts, they had taken five weeks to
perform it. Terence gained strength greatly during the journey, and
Bull had so far recovered that he was able to get out and walk,
sometimes, by the side of the waggon.
Garcia had been indefatigable in his efforts for their comfort.
Every day he formed an arbour over their waggon, with freshly-cut
boughs brought in by the soldiers of the regiment; and this kept
off the rays of the sun, and the flies. At the villages at which
they stopped, most of the wounded were accommodated in the houses;
but Terence and Bull preferred to sleep in the waggon, the hay
being always freshly shaken out for them, in the evening. The
supplies they carried were most useful in eking out the rations,
and Garcia proved himself an excellent cook. Altogether, the
journey had been a pleasant one.
On arriving at Lisbon, they were taken to the principal hospital.
Here the few who would be fit for service again were admitted,
while the rest were ordered to be taken down, at once, to a
hospital transport lying in the river. At the landing place they
said goodbye to Garcia, who refused firmly any remuneration for his
services, or for the hire of the waggon; and then Terence was
lifted into a boat and, with several other wounded, was taken on
board the transport.
The surgeon came at once to examine him.
"Do you wish to be taken below, colonel?" he asked Terence.
"Certainly not," Terence said. "I can sit up here, and can enjoy
myself as much as ever I could; and the air from the sea will do
more for me than any tonics you can give me, Doctor."
He was placed in a comfortable deck chair, and Bull had another
beside him. There were many officers already on board, and Terence
presently perceived, in one who was stumping about on a wooden leg,
a figure he recognized. He was passing on without recognition, when
Terence exclaimed:
"Why, O'Grady, is it yourself?"
"Terence O'Connor, by the powers!" O'Grady shouted. "Sure, I didn't
know you at first. It is meself, true enough, or what there is left
of me. It is glad I am to see you, though in a poor plight. The
news came to me that you had lost a leg. There was, at first, no
one in the hospital knew where you were, and I was not able to move
about, meself, to make inquiries; and when I found out, before I
came away, they said you were very bad, and that even if I could
get to you--which I could not, for I had not been fitted with a new
leg, then--I should not be able to see you.
"It is just like my luck. I was hit by one of the first shots
fired, and lost all the fun of the fight."
"Where were you hit, O'Grady?"
"Right in the shin. Faith, I went down so sudden that I thought I
had trod in a hole; and I was making a scramble to get up again,
when young Dawson said:
"'Lie still, O'Grady, they have shot the foot off ye.'
"And so they had, and divil a bit could I find where it had gone
to. As I was about the first man hit, they carried me off the field
at once, and put me in a waggon and, as soon as it was full, I was
taken down to Salamanca. I only stopped there three weeks, and I
have been here now more than two months, and my leg is all right
again. But I am a lop-sided creature, though it is lucky that it is
my left arm and leg that have gone. I was always a good hopper,
when I was a boy; so that, if this wooden thing breaks, I think I
should be able to get about pretty well."
"This is Major Bull, O'Grady. Don't you know him?"
"Faith, I did not know him; but now you tell me who it is, I
recognize him. How are you, major?"
"I am getting on, Captain O'Grady."
"Major," O'Grady corrected. "I got my step at Salamanca; both our
majors were killed. So I shall get a dacent pension: a major's
pension, and so much for a leg and arm. That is not so bad, you
know."
"Well, I have no reason to grumble," Bull said. "If I had been with
my old regiment and got this hurt, a shilling a day would have been
the outside. Now I shall get lieutenant's pension, and so much for
my arm and shoulder."
"I have no doubt you will get another step, Bull. After the way the
regiment suffered, and with poor Macwitty killed, and you and I
both badly wounded, they are sure to give you your step," and
indeed when, on their arrival, they saw the Gazette, they found
that both had been promoted.
"I suppose it is all for the best," O'Grady said. "At any rate, I
shall be able to drink dacent whisky for the rest of me life, and
not have to be fretting meself with Spanish spirit; though I don't
say there was no virtue in it, when you couldn't get anything
better."
Three days later, the vessel sailed for England. At Plymouth
Terence, O'Grady, and several other of the Irish officers left her;
Bull promising Terence that, when he was quite restored to health,
he would come and pay him a visit.
Terence and his companion sailed the next day for Dublin. O'Grady
had no relations whom he was particularly anxious to see and
therefore, at Terence's earnest invitation, he took a place with
him in a coach--to leave in three days, as both had to buy civilian
clothes, and to report themselves at headquarters.
"What are you going to do about a leg, Terence?"
"I can do nothing, at present. My stump is a great deal too tender,
still, for me to bear anything of that sort. But I will buy a pair
of crutches."
This was, indeed, the first thing done on landing, Terence finding
it inconvenient in the extreme to have to be carried whenever he
wanted to move, even a few yards. He had written home two or three
times from the hospital, telling them how he was getting on; for he
knew that when his name appeared among the list of dangerously
wounded, his father and cousin would be in a state of great anxiety
until they received news of him; and as soon as they had taken
their places in the coach he dropped them a line, saying when they
might expect him.
They had met with contrary winds on their voyage home, but the
three weeks at sea had done great things for Terence and, except
for the pinned-up trousers leg, he looked almost himself again.
"Be jabers, Terence," O'Grady said, as the coach drove into
Athlone, "one might think that it was only yesterday that we went
away. There are the old shops, and the same people standing at
their doors to see the coach come in; and I think I could swear
even to that cock, standing at the gate leading into the stables.
What games we had here. Who would have thought that, when we came
back, you would be my senior officer!"
When fifteen miles beyond Athlone there was a hail, and the coach
suddenly stopped. O'Grady looked out of the window.
"It's your father, Terence, and the prettiest girl I have seen
since we left the ould country."
He opened the door and got out.
"Hooroo, major! Here we are, safe and sound. We didn't expect to
meet you for another eight miles."
Major O'Connor was hurrying to the door, but the girl was there
before him.
"Welcome home, Terence! Welcome home!" she exclaimed, smiling
through her tears, as she leaned into the coach and held out both
her hands to him, and then drew aside to make room for his father.
"Welcome home, Terence!" the latter said, as he wrung his hand. "I
did not think it would have been like this, but it might have been
worse."
"A great deal worse, father. Now, will you and the guard help me
out? This is the most difficult business I have to do."
It was with some difficulty he was got out of the coach. As soon as
he had steadied himself on his crutches, Mary came up again, threw
her arms round his neck, and kissed him.
"We are cousins, you know, Terence," she said, "and as your arms
are occupied, I have to take the initiative."
She was half laughing and half crying.
The guard hurried to get the portmanteaus out of the boot. As soon
as he had placed them in the road he shouted to the coachman, and
climbed up on to his post as the vehicle drove on; the passengers
on the roof giving hearty cheers for the two disabled officers. By
this time, the major was heartily shaking hands with O'Grady.
"I saw in the Gazette that you were hit again, O'Grady."
"Yes. I left one little memento of meself in Portugal, and it was
only right that I should lave another in Spain. It has been
worrying me a good deal, because I should have liked to have
brought them home to be buried in the same grave with me, so as to
have everything handy together. How they are ever to be collected
when the time comes bothers me entirely, when I can't even point
out where they are to be found."
"You have not lost your good spirits anyhow, O'Grady."
"I never shall, I hope, O'Connor; and even if I had been inclined
to, Terence would have brought them back again."
As they stood chatting, a manservant had placed the portmanteaus on
the box of a pretty open carriage, drawn by two horses.
"This is our state carriage, Terence, though we don't use it very
often for, when I go about by myself, I ride. Mary has a pony
carriage, and drives herself about.
"You remember Pat Cassidy, don't you?"
"Of course I do, now I look at him," Terence said. "It's your old
soldier servant," and he shook hands with the man. "He did not come
home with you, did he, father?"
"No, he was badly wounded at Talavera, and invalided home. They
thought that he would not be fit for service again, and so
discharged him; and he found his way here, and glad enough I was to
have him."
Aided by his father and O'Grady, Terence took his place in the
carriage. His father seated himself by his side, while Mary and
O'Grady had the opposite seat.
"There is one advantage in losing legs," O'Grady said. "We can stow
away much more comfortably in a carriage. Is this the nearest point
to your place?"
"Yes. It is four miles nearer than Ballyhovey, so we thought that
we might as well meet you here, and more comfortably than meeting
you in the town. It was Mary's suggestion. I think she would not
have liked to have kissed Terence in the public street."
"Nonsense, uncle!" Mary said indignantly. "Of course I should have
kissed him, anywhere. Are we not cousins? And didn't he save me
from being shut up in a nunnery, all my life?"
"All right, Mary, it is quite right that you should kiss him;
still, I should say that it was pleasanter to do so when you had
not a couple of score of loafers looking on, who would not know
that he was your cousin, and had saved you from a convent."
"You are looking well, father," Terence said, to turn the
conversation.
"Never was better in my life, lad, except that I am obliged to be
careful with my leg; but after all, it may be that, though it
seemed hard to me at the time, it is as well that I left the
regiment when I did. Quite half the officers have been killed,
since then. Vimiera accounted for some of them. Major Harrison went
there, and gave me my step. Talavera made several more vacancies,
and Salamanca cost us ten officers, including poor O'Driscoll. I am
lucky to have come off as well as I did. It did not seem a very
cheerful lookout, at first; but since this young woman arrived, and
took possession of me, I am as happy and contented as a man can
be."
"I deny altogether having taken possession of you, uncle. I let you
have your way very much, and only interfere for your own good."
"You will have another patient to look after now, dear, and to fuss
over."
"I will do my best," she said softly, leaning forward and putting
her hand on that of Terence. "I know that it will be terribly dull
for you, at first--after being constantly on the move for the last
five years, and always full of excitement and adventure--to have to
keep quiet and do nothing."
"I shall get on very well," he said. "Just as first, of course, I
shall not be able to get about very much, but I shall soon learn to
use my crutches; and I hope, before very long, to get a leg of some
sort; and I don't see why I should not be able to ride again, after
a bit. If I cannot do it any other way, I must take to a side
saddle. I can have a leg made specially for riding, with a crook at
the knee."
Mary laughed, while the tears came in her eyes.
"Why, bless me, Mary," he went on, "the loss of a leg is nothing,
when you are accustomed to it. I shall be able, as I have said, to
ride, drive, shoot, fish, and all sorts of things. The only thing
that I shall be cut off from, as far as I can see, is dancing; but
as I have never had a chance of dancing, since the last ball the
regiment gave at Athlone, the loss will not be a very grievous one.
"Look at O'Grady. There he is, much worse off than I am, as he has
no one to make any particular fuss about him. He is getting on
capitally and, indeed, stumped about the deck so much, coming home,
that the captain begged him to have a pad of leather put on to the
bottom of his leg, to save the decks. O'Grady is a philosopher, and
I shall try to follow his example."
"Why should one bother oneself, Miss O'Connor, when bothering won't
help? When the war is over, I shall buy Tim Doolan, my soldier
servant, out. He is a vile, drunken villain; but I understand him,
and he understands me, and he blubbered so, when he carried me off
the field, that I had to promise him that, if a French bullet did
not carry him off, I would send for him when the war was over.
"'You know you can't do without me, yer honour,' the scoundrel
said.
"'I can do better without you than with you, Tim,' says I. 'Ye are
always getting me into trouble, with your drunken ways. Ye would
have been flogged a dozen times, if I hadn't screened you. Take up
your musket and join your regiment. You rascal, you are smelling of
drink now, and divil a drop, except water, is there in me flask.'
"'I did it for your own good,' says he. 'Ye know that spirits
always heats your blood, and water would be the best for you, when
the fighting began; so I just sacrificed meself.
"'For,' says I to meself, 'if ye get fighting a little wild, Tim,
it don't matter a bit; but the captain will have to keep cool, so
it is best that you should drink up the spirits, and fill the flask
up with water to quench his thirst.'"
"'Be off, ye black villain,' I said, 'or I will strike you.'"
"'You will never be able to do without me, Captain,' says he,
picking up his musket; and with that he trudged away and, for aught
I know, he never came out of the battle alive."
The others laughed.
"They were always quarrelling, Mary," Terence said. "But I agree
with Tim that his master will find it very hard to do without him,
especially about one o'clock in the morning."
"I am ashamed of you, Terence," O'Grady said, earnestly; "taking
away me character, when I have come down here as your guest."
"It is too bad, O'Grady," Major O'Connor said, "but you know
Terence was always conspicuous for his want of respect towards his
elders."
"He was that same, O'Connor. I did me best for the boy, but there
are some on whom education and example are clean thrown away."
"You are looking pale, cousin Terence," Mary said.
"Am I? My leg is hurting me a bit. Ireland is a great country, but
its by-roads are not the best in the world, and this jolting shakes
me up a bit."
"How stupid I was not to think of it!" she said and, rising in her
seat, told Cassidy to drive at a walk.
They were now only half a mile from the house.
"You will hardly know the old place again, Terence," his father
said.
"And a very good thing too, father, for a more tumble-down old
shanty I never was in."
"It was the abode of our race, Terence."
"Well, then, it says mighty little for our race, father."
"Ah! But it did not fall into the state you saw it in till my
father died, a year after I got my commission."
"I won't blame them, then; but, at any rate, I am glad I am coming
home to a house and not to a ruin.
"Ah, that is more like a home!" he said, as a turn of the road
brought them in sight of the building. "You have done wonders,
Mary. That is a house fit for any Irish gentleman to live in."
"It has been altered so that it can be added to, Terence; but, at
any rate, it is comfortable. As it was before, it made one feel
rheumatic to look at it."
On arriving at the house, Terence refused all assistance.
"I am going to be independent, as far as I can," he said and,
slipping down from the seat into the bottom of the chaise, he was
able to put his foot on to the ground and, by the aid of his
crutches, to get out and enter the house unaided.
"That is the old parlour, I think," he said, glancing into one of
the rooms.
"Yes. It is your father's snuggery, now. There is scarcely any
alteration there, and he can mess about as he likes with his guns
and fishing tackle and swords.
"This is the dining room, now."
And she led the way along a wide passage to the new part of the
house, where a bright fire was blazing in a handsome and
well-furnished room. An invalid's chair had been placed by the
fire, and opposite it was a large, cosy armchair.
"That is for your use, Major O'Grady," she said. "Now, Terence, you
are to lay yourself up in that chair. I will bring a small table to
your side, and put your dinner there."
"I will lie down until the dinner is ready, Mary. But I am
perfectly capable of sitting at the table. I did so the last week
before leaving the ship."
"You shall do that tomorrow. You may say what you like, but I can
see that you are very tired and, for today, you will take it easy.
I am going to be your nurse, and I can assure you that you will
have to obey orders. You have been in independent command quite
long enough."
"It is of no use, Terence; you must do as you are told," his father
said. "The only way to get on with this young woman is to let her
have her own way. I have given up opposing her, long ago; and you
will have to do the same."
Terence did not find it unpleasant to be nursed and looked after,
and even to obey peremptory orders.
A month later, Mary came into the room quietly, one afternoon, when
he was sitting and looking into the fire; as his father and O'Grady
had driven over to Killnally. Absorbed in his own thoughts, he did
not hear her enter.
Thinking that he was asleep, she paused at the door. A moment later
she heard a deep sigh. She came forward at once.
"What are you sighing about, Terence? Your leg is not hurting you,
is it?"
"No, dear, it has pretty well given up hurting me."
"What were you sighing about, then?"
He was silent for a minute, and then said:
"Well you see, one cannot help sighing a little at the thought that
one is laid up, a useless man, when one is scarce twenty-one."
"You have done your work, Terence. You have made a name for
yourself, when others are just leaving college and thinking of
choosing a profession. You have done more, in five years, than most
men achieve in all their lifetime.
"This is the first time I have heard you grumble. I know it is
hard, but what has specially upset you, today?"
"I suppose I am a little out of sorts," he said. "I was thinking,
perhaps, how different it might have been, if it hadn't been for
that unlucky shell."
"You mean that you might have gone on to Burgos, and fallen in the
assault there; or shared in that dreadful retreat to the frontier
again."
"No. I was not thinking of Spain, nor even of the army. I was
thinking of here."
"But you said, over and over again, Terence, that you will be able
to ride, and drive, and get about like other people, in time."
"Yes, dear. In many respects it will be the same, but not in one
respect."
Then he broke off.
"I am an ungrateful brute. I have everything to make me happy--a
comfortable home, a good father, and a dear little sister to nurse
me."
"What did I tell you, sir," she said, after a pause, "when I said
goodbye to you at Coimbra? That I would rather be your cousin. You
were quite hurt, and I said that you were a silly boy, and would
understand better, some day."
"I have understood, since," he said, "and was glad that you were
not my sister; but now, you see, things have altogether changed,
and I must be content with sistership."
The girl looked in the fire, and then said, in a low voice:
"Why, Terence?"
"You know why," he said. "I have had no one to think of but you,
for the last four years. Your letters were the great pleasures of
my life. I thought over and over again of those last words of
yours, and I had some hope that, when I came back, I might say to
you:
"'Dear Mary, I am grateful, indeed, that you are my cousin, and not
my sister. A sister is a very dear relation, but there is one
dearer still.'
"Don't be afraid, dear; I am not going to say so now. Of course,
that is over, and I hope that I shall come, in time, to be content
to think of you as a sister."
"You are very foolish, Terence," she said, almost with a laugh, "as
foolish as you were at Coimbra. Do you think that I should have
said what I did, then, if I had not meant it? Did you not save me,
at the risk of your life, from what would have been worse than
death? Have you not been my hero, ever since? Have you not been the
centre of our thoughts here, the great topic of our conversation?
Have not your father and I been as proud as peacocks, when we read
of your rapid promotion, and the notices of your gallant conduct?
And do you think that it would make any difference to me, if you
had come back with both your legs and arms shot off?
"No, dear. I am just as dissatisfied with the relationship you
propose as I was three years ago, and it must be either cousin
or--" and she stopped.
She was standing up beside him, now.
"Or wife," he said, taking up her hand. "Is it possible you mean
wife?"
Her face was a sufficient answer, and he drew her down to him.
"You silly boy!" she said, five minutes afterwards. "Of course, I
thought of it all along. I never made any secret of it to your
father. I told him that our escape was like a fairy tale, and that
it must have the same ending: 'and they married, and lived happy
ever after.' He would never have let me have my way with the house,
had I not confided in him. He said that I could spend my money as I
pleased, on myself, but that not one penny should be laid out on
his house; and I was obliged to tell him.
"I am afraid I blushed furiously, as I did so, but I had to say:
"'Don't you see, Uncle?'--of course, I always called him uncle,
from the first, though he is only a cousin--'I have quite made up
my mind that it will be my house, some day; and the money may just
as well be laid out on it now, to make it comfortable; instead of
waiting till that time comes.'"
"What did my father say?"
"Oh, he said all sorts of nonsense, just the sort of thing that you
Irishmen always do say! That he had hoped, perhaps, it might be so,
from the moment he got your letter; and that the moment he saw me
he felt sure that it would be so, for it must be, if you had any
eyes in your head."
When Major O'Connor came home he was greatly pleased, but he took
the news as a matter of course.
"Faith," he said, "I would have disinherited the boy, if he had
been such a fool as not to appreciate you, Mary."
O'Grady was loud in his congratulations.
"It is just like your luck, Terence," he said. "Luck is everything.
Here am I, a battered hero, who has lost an arm and a foot in the
service of me country, and divil a girl has thrown herself upon me
neck. Here are you, a mere gossoon, fifteen years my junior in the
service, mentioned a score of times in despatches, promoted over my
head; and now you have won one of the prettiest creatures in
Ireland and, what is a good deal more to the point, though you may
not think of it at present, with a handsome fortune of her own. In
faith, there is no understanding the ways of Providence."
A week afterwards the whole party went up to Dublin, as Terence and
O'Grady had to go before a medical board. A fortnight later a
notice appeared, in the Gazette, that Lieutenant Colonel Terence
O'Connor had retired from the service, on half pay, with the rank
of colonel.
The marriage did not take place for another six months, by which
time Terence had thrown away his crutches and had taken to an
artificial leg--so well constructed that, were it not for a certain
stiffness in his walk, his loss would not have been suspected by a
casual observer. For three months previous to the event, a number
of men had been employed in building a small but pretty house, some
quarter of a mile from the mansion, intended for the occupation of
Majors O'Connor and O'Grady.
"It will be better, in every way, Terence," his father insisted,
when his son and Mary remonstrated against their thus proposing to
leave them. "O'Grady and I have been comrades for twenty years, and
we shall feel more at home, in bachelor quarters, than here. I can
run in three or four times a day, if I like, and I expect I shall
be as much here as over there; whereas if I lived here, I should
often be feeling myself in the way, though I know that you would
never say so. It is better for young people to be together and,
maybe some day, the house will be none too large for you."
The house was finished by the time the wedding took place, and the
two officers moved into it. The wedding was attended by all the
tenants, and half the country round; and it was agreed that the
bride's jewels were the most magnificent that had ever been seen in
that part of Ireland, though some objected that diamonds, alone,
would have been more suitable for the occasion than the emeralds.
Terence, on his return, had heard from his father that his Uncle,
Tim M'Manus, had called very soon after the major had returned to
his old home. He had been very friendly, and had been evidently
mollified by Terence's name appearing in general orders; but his
opinion that he would end his career by a rope had been in no way
shaken. He had, however, continued to pay occasional visits; and
the rapid rise of the scapegrace, and his frequent mention in
despatches, were evidently a source of much gratification to him;
and it was not long after his return that his uncle again came
over.
"We will let bygones be bygones, Terence," he said, as he shook
hands with him. "You have turned out a credit to your mother's
name, and I am proud of you; and I hold my head high when I say
Colonel Terence O'Connor, who was always playing mischief with the
French, is my great nephew, and the good M'Manus blood shines out
clearly in him."
There was no one who played a more conspicuous part at the wedding
than Uncle Tim. At his own request, he proposed the health of the
bride and bridegroom.
"I take no small credit to myself," he said, "that Colonel Terence
O'Connor is the hero of this occasion. Never was there a boy whose
destiny was so marked as his, and it is many a time I predicted
that it was not either by flood, or fire, or quietly in his bed
that he would die. If, when the regiment was ordered abroad, I had
offered him a home, I firmly believe that my prediction would be
verified before now; but I closed my doors to him, and the
consequence was that he expended his devilment upon the French; and
it is a deal better for him that it is only a leg that he has lost,
which is a much less serious matter than having his neck unduly
stretched. Therefore, ladies and gentlemen, I can say with pride
that I have had no small share in this matter, and it is glad I am
that, when I go, I can leave my money behind me, feeling that it
won't all go to the dogs before I have been twelve months in my
grave."
Another old friend was present at the wedding. Bull had made a slow
recovery, and had been some time before he regained his strength.
When he was gazetted out of the service, he secured a step in rank,
and retired as a major. In after years he made frequent visits to
Terence; to whom, as he always declared, he owed it that, instead
of being turned adrift on a nominal pension, he was now able to
live in comfort and ease.
When, four months later, Tim M'Manus was thrown out of his trap
when driving home late at night, and broke his neck, it was found
that he had left the whole of his property to Terence and, as the
rents of his estate amounted to 600 pounds a year, no inconsiderable
proportion of which had, for many years past, been accumulating, the
legacy placed Terence in a leading position among the gentry of Mayo.
For very many years the house was one of the most popular in the
county. It had been found necessary to make additions to it, and it
had now attained the dignity of a mansion. The three officers
followed, with the most intense interest, the bulletins and
despatches from the war and, on the day when the allies entered
Paris, the services of Tim Doolan, who had been invalided home a
year after the return of his master, and had been discharged as
unfit for further service, were called into requisition, for the
first time since his return, to assist his master back to the
house.
O'Grady, however, explained most earnestly to Mary O'Connor, the
next day, that it was not the whisky at all, at all, but his wooden
leg that had got out of order, and would not carry him straight.
Dick Ryan went through the war unscathed and, after Waterloo,
retired from the service with the rank of lieutenant colonel;
married, and settled at Athlone; and the closest intimacy, and very
frequent intercourse, were maintained between him and his comrades
of the Mayo Fusiliers.
Terence, in time, quite ceased to feel the loss of his leg; and was
able to join in all field sports, becoming in time master of the
hounds, and one of the most popular sportsmen in the county. His
wife always declared that his wound was the most fortunate thing
that ever happened to him for, had it not been for that, he would
most likely have fallen in some of the later battles in the
Peninsula.
"It is a good thing to have luck," she said, "and Terence had
plenty of it. But it does not do to tempt fortune too far. The
pitcher that goes too often to the well gets broken, in the end."
End of Project Gutenberg's Under Wellington's Command, by G. A. Henty