others, which men chronicle as the most important of their lives--an
interview with a great man. In my case, it was a _very_ great man.
To be sure, he didn't speak to me. But what does that signify? I
spoke to him. On arriving with the treasure at the office of our
own department, I was directed to go forthwith and report myself at
the office of the Quartermaster-General. I went, and found it in a
very humble mansion. On entering the passage, found a door to the
right, where I was desired to go in. Saw a long table by the window,
with two or three officers writing. Before the fire stood ANOTHER.
He was drenched with rain; all in a steam, like a hot potato; lost
in thought; looked awful; a middle-aged and remarkably well-built
man, with a striking--nay, more than striking--with a _particular_
expression of countenance; such a face as I had never seen before;
a very keen eye--the eagle's, that can look at the sun, would have
quailed before his; and oh, what a beak! I felt rather at a loss. No
one did me the honour to notice my _entrée_. No one took any notice;
no one vouchsafed me a look! I stood, for a moment, in silence.
As all the others were hard at work, and one was doing nothing, I
of course concluded that he was the Head of the Department; and,
with crude atrocity, addressed him--though with a queer kind of
feeling, which I myself didn't exactly understand--"Are you the
Quartermaster-General, sir?"
No reply on his part--no look, no movement of the head, no change of
countenance! He merely raised his arm, and pointed to the table. By
that act alone he indicated a consciousness of being spoken to; and
had he, the next moment, been called upon to describe the speaker,
why, I firmly believe he couldn't have done it. I then turned towards
the table. One of the writers rose from his seat in silence, walked
me out into the passage, made an inquiry or two, and walked in again.
The next day I was once more on the march, riding side by side with a
brother clerk. "There he is!" said he. I now beheld, on horseback--a
regular centaur, part of his horse--that same distinguished
individual whom, the day before, I had so unceremoniously addressed,
as he stood reeking before the fire, while great guns were banging
right and left, the troops advancing, and he at the best of all
possible points to direct and control the vast machinery that he had
set in motion.
Life at headquarters proved to be much what I had anticipated. In
attending the movements of the army, we officials had sometimes very
little work; sometimes, especially when the troops remained a few
days stationary, a great deal. While they moved from day to day,
we seldom had much to do but to follow them, and make ourselves as
comfortable as we could at the end of the day's march. The military
movements from Aire to Toulouse were curious. From Aire we went
right down to the south, as far as Tarbes and Vic Bigorre--a course
which almost brought us back again to the Spanish frontier and the
foot of the Pyrenees; then up again to the Garonne and Toulouse.
A sailor would have called it tacking. Of course, one could not
follow even an advancing and victorious army without undergoing some
hardships. On one occasion, after much previous fatigue, in passing
a wild and mountainous district, we were suddenly overtaken by a
snow-storm. While nodding on Sancho's back from sheer exhaustion,
I was caked on the left, from head to foot, with snow, which first
began to melt with the warmth of the body, then froze hard with the
keenness of the wind. The next moment the sun blazed forth, to the
right, with scorching heat. Thus roasted on one side, and frozen on
the other, I dozed and nodded on, with just sufficient consciousness
to form virtuous resolutions of knocking off the snow, but without
sufficient energy to carry them into effect. After all, though, a
civilian following the army, supplied pretty regularly with rations
for himself, pony, and servant--tolerably sure, too, of a good
billet at night, and generally provided with a few dollars, easily
convertible into francs--has no business to talk of hardships. The
real hardships of a campaign fall on the marching officers and
privates. What they endure is past conception. Gingham and I were
much together, and carried out our plan of campaigning in company
as far as circumstances would allow. At headquarters, also, I fell
in again with my old acquaintance and fellow-voyager, Mr Commissary
Capsicum, who gloried in giving good dinners. He was never better
pleased than when I accepted his invitations, but always gave me a
good blowing-up if I dined with Gingham in preference.
Amongst all my reminiscences of campaigning, none are more vividly
impressed upon my mind, than the reminiscence of a campaigning
appetite, which I am persuaded is altogether extraordinary, and a
thing _per se_. Did you ever visit Cintra? Now there's the Cintra
appetite, and a very good one it is, too. This, also, has its
distinguishing feature--namely, that on the one hand, while you are
riding about (or, if a sensible person, going on foot, exploring,
climbing, scrambling) amongst rocks, and peaks, and splendid scenery,
the pleasing idea of the dinner that will be ready for you, on
returning to your hotel, blends itself, by a gentle amalgamation,
with every discovery, with every prospect; and while, on the other
hand, the said dinner is actually on the table before you, and under
discussion, the splendid scenes you have been witnessing, like
dissolving views, pass in procession before your mind. Thus your
dinners are romantic, while your rambles are appetising.
Then, again, there's the nautical appetite, which comes on you like
a giant, when you have mastered the qualms of the first few days at
sea. The nautical appetite, also, has its peculiar feature, which is
this--that the intervals of time between one meal and another appear
so awfully long. That's because you've nothing to do. But--
The campaigning appetite, I say, differing from both these, has
also its characteristic proper to itself--namely, that there never
is a moment when you are unprepared to eat; the instant you have
done, you are ready to begin again. You sit down, at headquarters,
to a breakfast where the table groans with various and abundant
provender--tea, coffee, chocolate, bread, eggs, cold meat, ham,
tongue, sausages sublimed with garlic, enormous rashers of bacon,
beefsteaks, not to name knick-knackeries innumerable, and something
short as a calker. You do ample justice--oh, haven't you made a
famous breakfast? and in half-an-hour you are ready for another! If,
having stowed away breakfast for two, you happen to pop in upon a
friend who is taking his, you join him as a matter of course. And,
my dear madam, what makes it so peculiar in my case is, I was always
such a very small eater. The only exception to this perpetuity of a
campaigning appetite, is when something extraordinary is going on in
front--a battle, or what looks just like it, a skirmish. Then, for a
while, you forget that you are hungry. The stomach is still equally
in a state of preparation to receive and digest food. But, for the
nonce, you ignore the fact; the wolf lies dormant. Oh, how savage
he wakes up, though, when the fighting is over, and you all at once
remember that you haven't dined. In short, with plenty always at
command, with no real want unsupplied, I never suffered so much from
hunger as when campaigning, and I never ate so often. Your only plan
is this: Whenever the opportunity presents itself, _take in stock_.
Breakfast, as if you had no prospect of a dinner; dine, as if you had
not breakfasted.
Generally, then, at headquarters, I fared as Gingham fared; and to
say that is to say enough. But it was not always so. His engagements,
or my duties, sometimes made a separation; and then I learned my
loss. Once, when I was so circumstanced, my servant came home with
disconsolate looks and a melancholy report: "To day, no beefy,
senhor." At that moment, I could have eaten my gloves! Went with him
myself; was politely received by a gentleman in a blue apron with a
steel dangling in front. "What, no beef to-day?"
"Oh yes, bless your heart. Plenty, sir."
"Well, here's the order. Let's have some, then. Where is it?"
"There it is, sir."
"Don't see any. Where?"
"Why, it's in that 'ere pen, sir. Only you jest look in through the
gateway. Wherry find beastesses, I calls 'em. In two hours we shall
begin to kill."
He pointed to a large stone enclosure, in which stood a captive herd
of horned cattle. An anxious bullock rested his chin upon the wall,
and, breathing a misty sigh, with melancholy countenance looked full
in mine!
At another time I had been riding on in front, and was coming home at
a rambling pace through lanes and by-paths, when suddenly the wolf
returned--I was appallingly hungry--must eat or faint. Contrived
to ride on to a lone cottage--tapped at the door. It was opened by
a very respectable quiet-looking man; old gentleman, I ought to
say, for such he was, both in aspect and manners. His garb, indeed,
was homely; but his air was superior, his address manly and simple
with a certain finish, and his carriage perfectly upright. He
courteously invited me to enter; the door led at once into a large
room, which was in fact the whole ground-floor of the cottage. A
little preliminary chat sufficed to inform him what I was, and me
what he was--namely, an old soldier, who had got his discharge, and
was living in retirement. No one came to attend on him; a regular
old campaigner, he did for himself. I soon came to the point--was in
a state of inanition--would pay with alacrity for anything eatable,
even bread. "No, no," said he, "wait a while, _mon enfant_, I shall
soon have the pleasure of setting before you a superb repast. It
will diversify my existence! Ah! I shall experience an emotion!" He
immediately unhooked from the wall an old iron frying-pan, as black
inside as out--the only cooking utensil that graced his menage;
poured in water, and set it on the fire to simmer. He then took down
from the shelf a large brown bowl, and brought out from under the
table a goodly loaf of coarse but excellent bread, part of which he
cut into the bowl, and sprinkled with a little salt. Then, walking
out into his garden, he pulled a leek, and collected two or three
kinds of herbs, all which he added to the water, with something
that resembled the fat of bacon, though not so solid. When all was
scalding hot, he doused it into the bowl upon the bread, then handed
me a pewter spoon, and begged me to use no ceremony. Hunger is indeed
the best sauce; and, homely as was the fare, I never made a heartier
meal.
Somewhat recruited in strength, I rose to take leave, having first
requested my brave old entertainer to accept payment, which he
declared impossible. However, I had now been long enough on Gallic
ground to understand the _idiom_, so laid my "legal tender" on the
table, and said farewell, with many thanks. He tottled with me to the
door; then, suddenly stopped me, and looked earnestly in my face,
as if he had something very particular to communicate. What was he
going to say? He begged to assure me I had laid him under an infinite
obligation. Again he arrested my progress, with the door in his
hand. Hoped I would honour his menage with a second visit. Admired
the brave English, and lamented that he had never had the pleasure
of meeting them professionally. "_Peut-être encore! Mais hélas! nous
sommes les f--s!_" Halted me a third time outside. "His cottage
was mine, with all that it contained." He had marched through half
Europe, and was a simple-hearted, civil, old Frenchman.
There was one circumstance, though, not a little to the advantage of
those who dined with Gingham or Capsicum; and this was, that there
arose between these two worthies an amicable rivalry on this very
affair of giving dinners. The contest, in fact, had its origin a year
before, on our voyage from Falmouth to Lisbon, when Capsicum brewed a
bowl of punch, and Gingham brewed a better. Capsicum could not brook
the idea that any man should brew punch, or give dinners, equal to
his. The style of the two entertainers was different. Capsicum's
dinners were more profuse, Gingham's more _recherchés_. Gingham, in
fact, had all the appliances of the table in greater perfection. He
had plate enough for a handsome dinner--mind, I don't mean to say a
state dinner--of eight or ten. His whole dinner-service, too, was
handsome, elegant; wines, the choicest that money could command; all
the little etceteras excellent--coffee, for instance; such coffee
as you could not get elsewhere in France, where they are too apt to
make a mess of it. I don't think much of French coffee, except such
as you get here and there at private houses. Gingham's coffee was a
pure, genial, high-flavoured decoction. Ah! you tasted the berry.
As summer came on, Gingham intended ices. And good fish, till we
arrived at Bordeaux, being next to unattainable, he had organised a
plan for procuring salmon in ice from England. Capsicum, on the other
hand, had resources which Gingham had not. He could always command
the best cut of the best commissariat beef; and this advantage told
with stunning effect when he gave a spread. He had other advantages
in foraging, and he knew how to turn them to account. In short, the
characteristic of his dinners was abundance; and, with the guests who
partook of them on actual service, this would generally secure the
preference.
Many dinners might I describe--and, oh! describe _con amore_--both
Capsicum's and Gingham's. But I select one in particular, which
was signalised by a hoax. I abstain from entering into the general
subject of hoaxes, as hoaxes were practised at headquarters. He
that would do justice to it must also treat of shaves. Let us
confine ourselves, for the present, to a particular branch of the
subject--namely, the dinner hoax. The dinner hoax was twofold.
Was it a time of scarcity, when ration beef was all that could be
got? Then the hoax was, to create a persuasion in the mind of the
unfortunate hoaxee that something else was coming. "Major, a little
more _bouillie_?" "No, I thank you. I'm keeping a corner for the
turkey." Hoaxee hears that. He also will keep a corner for the
turkey--plays with the beef. Next _entrée_ is--the cheese! Was it,
on the other hand, a season of abundance? Then the hoax, equally
unfeeling, assumed an opposite character. "Sorry, gentlemen, we're
so badly off now," says the host, with a wink seen by all at table,
hoaxee excepted; "hope you'll contrive, for once, to make a dinner on
soldier's fare." Hoaxee pitches into the beef--stows away a double
ration--is pressed and helped, pressed and helped, till he positively
declines another mouthful--then enter the roast pig. Unhappy hoaxee!
He has dined!
The object of the hoax at Capsicum's was an individual of a
particular class. You must know, the home authorities had got a
notion, that, amongst the departments attached to the Peninsular
army, abuses of all kinds were rife, and required to be looked
after. For this purpose, they occasionally sent out some intelligent
individual, whose business was to see and report. Sometimes he came
for the avowed purpose. It was to a talented character of this kind
that the greatest man amongst us--who was as good at a joke as he
was at polishing the French--gave the name of "Argus." Sometimes the
individual's object was merely suspected; partly betrayed, perhaps,
by his own homebred simplicity, which was no proof against the
penetration of old campaigners. In either case, as will easily be
understood, such a person was no favourite, and was deemed a fair
subject for a hoax.
I was walking down a lane towards Capsicum's quarters, when I was
overtaken by a gentleman on horseback, who was evidently a fresh
arrival from England. Everything about him looked new, a regular
London outfit. You'd have said he came direct from Piccadilly in a
bandbox. His manner, moreover, announced him to be somebody; he was
evidently a very great man. "Pray, sir," said he, "can you inform me
the way to Mr Capsicum's?"
"I am going that way myself, sir. I shall be happy to show you the
road, as it has one or two turnings."
"Much obleeged, sir. I am going there by invitation to dinner."
"So am I, sir."
"Understand his dinners are capital, sir," said the newly-arrived,
somewhat softening.
"Few equal to them at headquarters, sir. He is very great in that
line; takes a pleasure in it."
"Really, sir, I'm not sorry to hear it," said he, still more
mollified; "for, to tell you the truth, I'm not yet quite at home
here; no more is my servant. I've been forced to rough it; and have
sometimes come off with short commons."
Other conversation followed, and led to the mention of my own
official rank, in the humble capacity of a departmental clerk. A
great change took place when the gentleman heard this. He became
dignified, absent, and monosyllabic. When we arrived at Capsicum's,
as there was no one in attendance, I thought it devolved on me to
perform the rites of hospitality, and stepped up to take charge of
his horse. He handed me the bridle, and walked at once into the
house, without waiting to look, or say, "Much obleeged to you."
The guests, including Pledget, Gingham, the new comer, and myself,
amounted to seven. I saw at once that the recent arrival was not
very affectionately viewed by Capsicum, who betrayed his feelings by
his manner. This, amongst his particulars, was off-hand, easy, and
jocular. But towards his newly arrived guest, he was all courtesy
and high etiquette. In fact, that gentleman came out professedly
to serve, but unfortunately was regarded as a spy. His Christian
name was William; a surname was found to fit it; and, ere he left
Capsicum's premises, he was dubbed "William Tell." Delighted
with the prospect of a dinner such as he had not seen since he
disembarked at Santander, with red face and red hair, large in form,
and coarse-featured, a burly, bull-necked, bullet-headed man with
goggling eyes, his air more confident than genteel; in manners,
laboriously free and easy; ostentatiously dressed, and smiling with
agreeable anticipations, at one time he twiddled with his forefinger
an enormous bunch of seals, at another he complacently boxed his
right fist into his open left. The hands then amalgamated, and the
punch subsided in a bland and complacent rub.
The cloth was already laid--at headquarters you must manage as
you can--in the room where the company met. Mr Barnacles glanced
approvingly at the preparations. Ever see a man's eye glisten,
when you told him of some generous deed? So glistened the eye of
Barnacles, while it glanced at the plates, glasses, bottles, knives
and forks, spoons, tumblers, and saltcellars, which in goodly order
graced Capsicum's hospitable board.
We sat down; I, under a mandate growled by Capsicum, at the lower
end of the table as Vice. Proposed mischief twinkled in the corner
of Capsicum's eye. First, as a matter of course, came the soup and
_bouillie_.
"Mr Capsicum," said a brother commissary, "I know it's not genteel
to be helped twice to soup; but I'll trouble you for a little more."
This was move the first, in the game of hoax.
"Quite right, quite right," said Capsicum. "No market in these
country places. Sorry, gentlemen, there's so little variety just
now." The speakers exchanged winks. The game was now fairly opened; a
hoax had already commenced, and Barnacles was the destined victim.
"Well," said another commissary, "I can always make a good dinner off
beef."
Barnacles, it was clear, had now received the desired impression.
Beef, he fully understood, was to be the staple of our dinner; and he
accordingly stowed with beef. In fact, he did wonders; cleared plate
after plate of boiled beef. At length, having stowed till he could
stow no more, he sat back in his chair pompously and complacently. A
mild perspiration bedewed his forehead; and the damask of his cheeks
had given place to a rosy suffusion of the whole countenance. The
fingers of his two hands were interlaced over his stomach, while his
thumbs stood erect, meeting in a point.
"Mr Barnacles, I beg ten thousand pardons. Pray give me leave to send
you a little more beef."
"Much obleeged, sir; not a morsel more. Never made a better dinner in
my life."
"Sure you won't, Mr Barnacles? Just a shave from this end, with a
morsel of fat."
"Thank you, sir, kindly--I couldn't. Must beg you to excuse me. Much
obleeged. Not a morsel more."--Table cleared.
Fresh plates! more knives and forks! Now it was, in reality, that
the dinner began;--enormous sirloin, spitting with volcanic heat;
roast fowls, that would have softened the hardest heart; elegant
hind-quarter of mutton; pretty little fillet of veal; tongue, ham,
boiled turkey, &c.
Behold, a new feature in the game! Barnacles wasn't beat yet. In
the attempt to hoax Barnacles, allowance had not been made for his
gastronomic powers, and previous privations. Never mind. The more
sport.
"Mr Barnacles, a slice of the sirloin. Upper cut, or under cut?"
Barnacles, at the sight of the good things before him, contrary to
all calculation sat up with renewed vigour, and paused ere he replied.
"Why, if I do take anything more, I think it must be a small slice of
this mutton."
Barnacles helped himself. A small slice! Why, if he didn't cut away
into the hind quarter, slice after slice, till he had sunk a regular
well. Then spooned out the gravy.
"Give Mr Barnacles the currant jelly. Mr Gingham, we owe that to you."
"Plenty more at your service, sir," said Gingham; "got three or four
dozen jars. Always bring some when I visit headquarters. Got it in
Berkley Square."
Barnacles now sets to again, fresh as when he began. What powers!
what capacity! what deglutition! In fact, it was not only the stomach
of Barnacles that needed filling. And that's why you see carnivorous
cadaverous men perform such extraordinary feats with knife and fork.
Not their stomach merely, their system is hungry. So it was now
with Barnacles; and his meal was on a commensurate scale. He was
redressing the balance of his constitution--compensating previous
inanition. When a man, accustomed to full feeding, has been a few
days without it, it isn't the mere filling of his stomach that will
satisfy his appetite.
Gingham caught the eye of one of the guests--slightly raised his
glass--bowed.
"Oh yace," replied a squeaking voice; "now sall I trink you go
t'hell!"
I started. When, when, had I heard that voice before? My eye, for
the first time, took a particular view of the speaker. He was a
diminutive personage, his complexion a sodden white, with unwholesome
patches of red; forehead enormous and mis-shapen; bumps prominent and
misplaced; large spectacles, no eyes, upper part of nose wanting,
a notch where there should have been a bridge; lower limb of nose
broad and sunken, as if squashed down between two puffy cheeks, which
bagged on each side; between nose and mouth a space incredible;
in fact, a huge upper lip was the most prominent feature of the
face; for mustaches, a few detached and very coarse black bristles,
pointing opposite ways like a cat's whiskers--each particular bristle
standing alone, and individually discernible from its insertion to
its extremity; mouth, long and sinuous; lips, viciously twisted out;
chin, emaciated. Again he spoke, as Gingham drank to him: "You go t'
hell!" Where _could_ I have heard that voice? Why, wasn't it at the
ferry, among the Frenchmen that opposed our passage? No, no, that
can't be; it's impossible.--"Who's that?" I whispered Gingham.
"A man of science, sir; a Russian--Mr Wowski, an ardent botanist.
Wished to examine the flora of the South of France; brought out
letters of recommendation; joined the army, and follows its
movements. You'll like his acquaintance vastly." Then louder--"Mr
Wowski, my friend, Mr Y--; your junior, but a promising naturalist.
Hope at an early day you'll meet him to dinner at my quarters."
"Mr Barnacles, shall I have the pleasure?--some turkey, sir?"
By this time Mr Barnacles seemed again to feel that he had dined.
"The least possible shave," said Mr Barnacles. "I really have made a
most capital dinner."
I helped him to a good plateful, which he cleared off.--All removed.