breakfast, he returned, came into my room and requested me to look out
of the window at a purchase which he had made for twenty dollars. I
looked out: it was a miserable donkey which he had that moment bought
from a Portuguese. On its back was strapped an old saddle, with a still
more veteran valise attached to it, while a pair of boots, balanced
by a striped blue handkerchief full of sundry articles of provision,
hung across the animal’s neck. With perfect good humour the adventurer
philosophized on the poverty of his stud and baggage, giving me several
appropriate quotations. We then sat down, and after eating a hearty
breakfast of chocolate, eggs, and cold beef, he took his leave of me,
mounted the ass, and proceeded slowly on the road to Irun, where the
regiment to which he had his introduction was stationed.
I heard no more of the Volunteer until the day on which our troops
crossed the Bidassoa--about three weeks after his departure from
Renteria. It was in the evening, and about a mile from Irun, on the
high road. He was walking in custody of the Provost Marshal--had on a
red _coatee_, torn and bemudded--his head without its proper covering,
and his whole aspect that of a madman. He recognized me in a moment,
and my presence seemed to calm the rage which burnt within him,--to
the no small delight of the Provost, who evidently had been very much
troubled in the management of his charge. A part of the dialogue which
passed between us I will try to recollect:--
_Myself._ What have you been doing?
_Volunteer._ Doing? I have been doing thankless work. I am disgusted
with the service, Sir. A man of mind or genius has no business in it.
_Myself._ Bless me! what can all this mean?
_Provost._ The gentleman has been playing the very devil in front, Sir,
and the General has ordered me to see that he goes to the rear.
_Volunteer._ Ay, playing the devil, Captain Provost. I wanted to
prevent _them_ from playing the devil; that stupid Colonel of mine
knows no more of military tactics than a horse. Now mark you, Sir--the
column of subdivisions was ordered to change its direction on a
moveable pivot: “Left shoulders forward” was given instead of “_right
shoulders forward_,” and I of course--thinking for the best--cried out
to the Captain of the company I belonged to, that he was wrong; when he
ordered me out of the ranks. I wouldn’t be treated so; therefore went
up to the Colonel to speak with him on the subject, when the French
began to fire grape shot in amongst us. The regiment halted before
crossing the river, while the shot was coming thicker and thicker; so
I was determined to tell my mind--for a good commanding officer would
have moved his men a little under cover,--and I called out to the
Colonel to advance, or to move by an _oblique echelon_ to the left, in
order to get the men under a high bank. What d’ye think, Sir?--he said
he’d order me to be flogged if I did not immediately go to the rear!
The column at this moment received a shower of shot which knocked some
down; so, in the confusion of eight or ten of the men near the river,
I was thrown off the bank--souse in the water, and was carried down
luckily to the ford, or I should have been lost. I scrambled out--look
how wet I am--and went back to the regiment, when the Colonel sent
me to be flogged by the Provost: and if the General, God bless him!
had not fortunately been riding by, I should have been disgracefully
punished; but he asked what the matter was, and then sent me to the
rear in charge of this gentleman.
_Myself._ Really, I think you acted very imprudently by interfering
with the command.
_Provost._ Lord bless you, Sir; he threw the men into the greatest
ferment and confusion.
_Volunteer._ I’ll tell you, Sir, that they are all ignorant
fellows--all, Sir. I did every thing for the best, and this is the way
I was treated: the fact of the matter is, the service is disgusting,
and I will immediately return to England.
_Myself._ Where is your cap?
_Volunteer._ It was shot off my head a little before I was thrown into
the Bidassoa.
* * * * *
I now prepared to part from my quondam acquaintance, for the day was
advancing, and I had yet two leagues to go; so I recommended him to
call at my late quarters at Renteria, where he would be hospitably
received by the owner of the house: he thanked me, and relaxing into
a smile as he nearly squeezed my hand off, he emphatically exclaimed,
“I have this, at least, to consolate me:--I have stood the fire of the
foe, and swam in the stream that waters Fontarabia: with the poet I may
exclaim.
‘Certe ego transilui positas ter in ordine flammas,
Virgaque rorales _laurea misit aquas_.’”
Thus we parted, and resumed our opposite marches--I for the front, and
the volunteer, with his escort, for Renteria.
THE HALF-PAY CAPTAIN.
“’Tis of little import, Corporal. A gallant soldier’s memory
will flourish, though humble turf be osier-bound upon his grave.
The tears of his country will moisten it.”
COLMAN.
On a cold and snowy night, in the winter of 1823, I was passing
through the Strand, on my way home from a formal dinner-party, when
I stepped into one of those houses of entertainment which abound in
that semi-fashionable neighbourhood which skirts the occidental line
of aristocratic demarcation--Charing Cross. Although this house had
assumed the dignified appellation of _tavern_, the only claim it
possessed to such distinction, was the display of a few mutton-chops, a
plate of mutton kidneys, and two fine heads of celery, in the window.
Nor was it what is termed “a _public-house_”--
“Where ’bacco-pipes, and clumsy pots of beer
Regale the crowd:”
but might be said to have fixed its intrinsic rank midway between the
two. It possessed a neat and comfortable parlour for public use, and,
although perfumed by tobacco, and moistened by homely ale, neither
vulgar “pipe” nor clumsy “pot” disgraced it--the segar, in its “naked
beauty,” and the brightly polished pewter-vessel, there repelled the
rabble, and imparted their cheering pleasures to respectable visitors.
The evening paper was there--and so was the “_Times_,” to read both
of which, as well as to escape a heavy fall of snow, I opened the
parlour-door, took a seat at an agreeable distance from a fine blazing
fire, and was soon accommodated with the newspaper, together with a cup
of smoking-hot brandy and water.
There were five persons in the parlour, each at a separate table, but
all conversing freely together on that never-ending and purely English
topic--the weather. One of them, however, but seldom spoke, and then
it was when addressed by others of the company: he seemed by his air,
and the formation of a threadbare and well-brushed blue frock coat, to
belong to the army, and I at once set him down as one of “the cloth.”
“Waiter, give me a Welsh-rabbit,” said this gentleman, in a mild voice
to the attendant of the room, and then took up the newspaper, which he
continued to peruse until his supper was brought in.
While he was reading, I had an opportunity of observing him closely:
he was bald, except on the sides of the head, and there the thin hair
was grey: his face was thin, his cheeks rather hollow, and his large
and expressive eyes overshadowed by strongly marked brows: his figure
was tall, but wasted; and from the oppressed and hurried way in which
he breathed, it was evident that his health was broken. The whole of
his dress was extremely clean, but almost worn out. I could perceive
that his boots, on which the strong blaze of the fire fell, were in no
state to guard the invalid who wore them from the dangerous effects of
the melting snow, over which he must tread on his return home. When I
thought of this, and considered that it might cause his death, or at
least encrease his illness, I sincerely pitied his situation. I felt as
if I had already learnt his history, and beheld in him the ruins of a
genuine military gentleman.
On addressing my conversation occasionally to him, I found that he was
by no means so reserved as at first I imagined; and in a short time we
fell into a lively and an interesting chat. I politely asked him if he
would take a little brandy and water; but he excused himself, although
pressed, by saying that his health would not permit him to drink more
than half a pint of porter: this, he said, he took usually in the
evening. “Wine,” said he, “is too expensive in London, or I should
certainly prefer it.” I immediately requested the waiter to bring some
wine; but of this the gentleman also refused to partake--and in such a
manner that I felt I should have wounded his feelings by pressing my
request farther.
We were now undisturbed by general observations; for when the others in
the room perceived we were not at all disposed to join them in chat,
they continued to discuss the topics of the day without interrupting
us. We conversed for about two hours, and I was never more delighted
than by his conversation. Military affairs was the subject: we had
both served in the Peninsula, and consequently talked of many mutual
acquaintances, living and dead: this made us so far familiar, that he
gave me an outline of his professional life.
He had entered the army as ensign in 1790, and had served in both
the East and West Indies, Holland, and the Peninsula--obtained his
Lieutenancy by chance, and his company by purchase. At the close of the
last war he was placed on half-pay; in which state he remained: nor
could he succeed in obtaining a return to full pay, notwithstanding
his long services: this, however, was owing to the great reductions
made in the army after the war. He was a native of Bath,--the son of
a clergyman whose interest in the church was considerable at the time
he became an Ensign; and he assured me, that had he taken his father’s
advice and embraced the profession of the church instead of the army
he would have been a rich man--not a poor pensioner with a ruined
constitution, and without hopes of better days in this world: “But,”
said he, “I was fond of gaiety--the fine uniform of the army caught my
young mind, and pleased a beautiful and interesting young lady whom I
afterwards married; so I gave up the reality for the shadow:” these
were his expressions. His wife died in the West Indies, and left him
two daughters: they grew up: both married officers in the army: one
went to Sierra Leone and died: the other went to Madras; but whether
alive or dead he did not know, not having heard from her for eleven
months. All his relations were extinct. “I returned,” said he, “from
Waterloo, where I was slightly wounded, and on going down to Bath
met my father’s funeral--the only relation I had had then on earth
except my daughter, who is in India.” He was placed on half-pay, by
the reduction of the battalion in which he was effective. He possessed
about four hundred pounds in cash; and this, with his income of seven
shillings per day, promised fairly to place him above necessity. He
remained in London perhaps more from a wish to be on the spot with the
head-quarter people, than from any preference he had to an overgrown,
noisy, expensive, metropolis; where, without wealth or friends, life
is solitude of the worst description. He thought he possessed a better
chance of being re-employed in the service, and so obtain a majority by
staying near the Commander-in-chief, to watch the progress of military
affairs. But year passed after year, in the same dull expectation,
and he found himself as far removed from his hopes in 1823 as he was
in 1817. His four hundred pounds he lodged in the hands of a mock
army agent, who, from day to day, and month to month, promised him an
exchange with some individual, with whom, perhaps, the impostor never
had communicated. This mock agent at length failed, and ran away;
leaving the poor Captain with nothing but his seven shillings a-day:
and not only did he take with him his client’s four hundred pounds, but
his last quarter’s half-pay, which the knave drew the day before he
departed.[15]
This took place about six weeks before the evening I met the Captain.
I immediately offered to introduce him to an army agent, who would
advance him the amount of his following quarter’s half-pay. This
offer he not only willingly accepted, but cordially thanked me for
it; indeed, it had the greatest effect upon his spirits--he became
quite another man--his countenance lost much of its melancholy; and
it appeared he had previously much reason to be depressed; for he
frankly informed me, that Greenwood’s had refused to advance money, and
therefore, for the last six weeks, he had been obliged to have recourse
to raising money by pawning his clothes. I hesitated not a moment in
offering him the loan of what change I then had in my pocket, but he
declined to take it; nor could I press him to the acceptance of it. He
thanked me gratefully, and promised to meet me at the house we were
then in, on the following day at two o’clock, for the purpose of going
together to the agent. He paid for his welsh-rabbit and his half-pint
of porter, cordially shook hands with me, and we parted. Poor fellow!
as he feebly walked out into the fast falling snow, so thinly clad, I
heartily wished that Heaven had thrown a cloak over his shoulders.
I was true to my appointment next day; but the Captain was not. I
waited an hour, and then left word for him with the waiter that I
would come in the evening--and would remain until ten o’clock. I could
not think what was the reason of the officer not meeting me, when
it was upon a matter of so much importance to him. I went at night,
according to what I told the waiter, but he was not there. I called
next night,--he was not there. I now concluded that sickness, or
perhaps death, was the cause; and regretted much that I had neither
left with him my address, nor the name of the agent to whom I promised
to introduce him; neither had I got his card,--certain of meeting at
the appointed time and place, we both overlooked the necessity of
interchanging addresses.
What I am now about to describe, my readers will say is more of
the romantic than the real: I must confess it looks more like
the imaginative occurrence of a novel, than of actual life; but,
at the same time, can assure them, that it is not romance--not
imagination,--but fact.
Three weeks had passed away, and I had totally given up the idea of
meeting again this unfortunate gentleman. I had frequently gone to the
house where we had met, but without finding him. I left my address
with the waiter, to deliver, should he see him; but my card was never
removed from the rack in the bar, where the waiter had placed it.
It happened at this time that I changed my lodgings to Villiers-street,
Strand. Here I engaged a tolerably well-furnished pair of parlours,
and was reading at my fire, the second night after I took possession
of them, when my landlord--a little fat clerk to a brewer--opened the
hall-door for somebody who had knocked. I heard his voice increasing to
a pitch of anger, which awakened my curiosity; so I laid down my book
and listened.
“You cannot be taking up my room for nothing, in this way, Sir; I must
pay my rent, and I _shall_ be paid by my lodgers. I gave you warning a
fortnight ago, when I saw you had no money; and so now you must quit,
_willy nilly_.”
“But, Sir,” replied a voice, in a subdued tone, “I have not been able
to leave my bed, in order to look for lodgings, until to-day; and I
hope you will not oblige me to quit your room to-night.”
“You may go to the room, if you wish,” replied the landlord, “because
I know the _law_ don’t allow me to lock it up--and a bad law it is;
but if you do go, you will have to sleep without a bed; for I have
removed my furniture. The short and the long of the matter is, Sir, you
owe me two pounds; and I’ll forgive you the debt, if you only go away
to-night: that’s what I call fair and charitable.”
“To-night!” returned a voice, “I cannot go; I was scarcely able to
crawl down to the Strand, to look after a gentleman, who promised to
recommend me to where I may get money; and now I am quite exhausted.”
“Exhausted! nonsense,” exclaimed the landlord’s wife, who now ran up
from the kitchen; “we can’t be troubled with such people, and lose
our rent, too.--Parcel of poor devils of half-pay officers, coming to
London, here, to eat us up. One word for all; I will not be humbugged
out of my lodgings.”
A thought struck me--it might be the poor Captain. I opened the
door--it _was_ he! There he stood in the hall, leaning upon a
stick--almost sinking with weakness. He recognised me directly, and
as he put out his hand to meet mine, I could see his eyes filled with
tears, which he laboured to suppress. I brought him into my room--gave
him a chair at the fire--and left him to himself a few minutes, in
order that he might compose his feelings; for to have talked to him
on the brutality of the landlord then would have wounded him still
deeper. I chose, therefore, rather to affect ignorance of it; and
while I remained out of the room, took an opportunity of addressing
the landlord upon his conduct, and promised to be answerable for the
Captain’s rent, which operated a marvellous change in his demeanour
towards the poor sufferer whom he had but a moment before treated so
harshly.
I returned to my room and made a glass of negus for my guest, affecting
in my manners a degree of hilarity which was at vast variance with my
real feelings. The Captain was too weak to sit up long; he had been
confined to his bed ever since the night he had first seen me, owing to
a cold he caught on his return to his lodgings, and, therefore, could
not come to his appointment: he had frequently requested his landlord
to oblige him by going to the house where we were to have met, and to
speak to me, whom he described; but this as well as other favours was
denied. All his money was gone, and he had tottered down that night as
a last resource, to see me.
I exerted myself to make him happy: the landlady brought him a basin of
gruel, of which he partook: his bed was prepared, and--what was never
done before for him--warmed with her pan by her own hands. Every thing
was attention, and my grateful friend was made as comfortable as one
suffering under a consuming disease could be. He remained in bed from
this night; and I could see that every day he became more feeble: the
doctor who attended him informed me that his lungs were diseased, and
that his case was out of the pale of remedy. I did every thing I could
for him; and he felt great relief, he said, from my company; for I
always kept conversation free from melancholy.
About a week after this last confinement of the Captain to his bed, the
landlord offered to have warm curtains put up; this was desirable, and
as they were already in the house, he sent for an upholsterer to hang
them. I was sitting by the bed of the invalid when this upholsterer
came in, along with the landlord, carrying the curtains. The Captain
regarded him attentively; then whispering he said to me, “I think I
know that man: ask him what is his name.” I did so, and the upholsterer
answered that his name was Thomas Hanson. I beckoned to him, and he
approached the bed. The Captain then fixed his eyes upon him, and in a
weak voice said, “Tom, do you not know me?”
“No, Sir,” was the reply.
“Ah!” returned the Captain, “I am now so altered that nobody knows me;”
and then burst into a flood of tears.
The man gazed on the sufferer intensely: he turned to me in evident
embarrassment, and whispered, “I don’t recollect the gentleman, indeed,
Sir.”
A short pause took place, and the Captain wiped his eyes with his
handkerchief.
“Were you not in the **th regiment while they served in Spain?” said he.
“Yes, Sir; I served with them there, and since they came home too. I
have been pensioned, and now, thank God! I’m in a good way of business,
on my own account. I assure you, Sir, I do not recollect your face.”
“No, no!” rejoined the Captain, “my face and all--all are changed. I’m
very unlike the Captain now, Tom, that led you up the hill at Talavera,
and saved your life at Salamanca.”
Hanson changed colour--he looked closer--he recognized him--then fell
on his knees by the bed and seizing his old Captain’s hand, wept like a
child. I hurried out of the room, for I could not bear the scene.
Hanson never left the bed of the dying officer one hour at a time.
However, the poor fellow died next day; and the last sad office of
closing his eyes was performed by this faithful and humane soldier;
nay, more--from his purse came the expenses of the funeral--his own
hands made the coffin--and no mourner ever followed the beloved dead to
the grave with a sincerer sorrow, than Hanson did his poor Captain.
MESS-TABLE CHAT.
No. IV.
(A SKETCH FOR THE “MEDICOS.”)
“There were four-and-twenty Doctors all of a row.”
OLD SONG.
SCENE.--_The mess-room, of the Medical Staff at Chatham. A
couple of dozen Doctors at dinner; all in blue uniform,--red collar
and cuffs, no epaulettes. Guests, consisting of a retired Major,
and a Captain of Infantry on full pay. Attendants, &c. &c._
_Staff Surgeon Ward._ This goose is as good a _subject_ as ever I _cut
up_:--Doctor Adipose, shall I send you a _superior extremity_?[16]
_Dr. Adipose._ Thank you, Mr. Ward. I’ll take one--au--hau--, with a
slice of the breast; and, as your hand is in, you may as well let me
have the--au--Pope’s nose.
_Staff Surgeon Ward._ There,--there,--there, Doctor--there you are;
there is the delicious _os coccygis_ for you.
_Dr. Adipose._ Thank you, au--hau--, thank you, my dear friend--very
good, indeed.
_Dr. Kyle._ Permit me to send you some sauce.
_Dr. Adipose._ Thank you, Doctor, au--hau--, very good, very good; it
looks a perfect Kitchener,--au--hau, very good, indeed.
_Hospital Assistant Lintly._ Mr. President, a little soup.
_President._ Eh! what! soup again, Lintly?
_Hospital Assistant Lintly._ Yes, Sir, if you please.
_President._ There, there. De’il a word I’ll say aboot yer taste, mon;
gin ye had supped as much sargery soup as me, ye’d tak to soolids.
_Dr. Kyle._ Ah, Mr. President, you were too long in the Peninsula to
recover your taste for soup.
_President._ True, Doctor! Hey--de ye remember when you and I war
hospital mates togither at Belem, when the sargeryman wad han’ us up
twa smoking tins o’ broth, to see if it war fit for the sick; an’ then
we wad hae anither twa, to see if it war fit for the wounded; an’ then
twa mere to see if we liked it oorsels,--ha! ha! ha! Doctor, we war
jolly hospital mates, then. Ecod! I never swallowed a mouthfu’ o’ soup
sin’ I was promoted.
_Dr. Kyle._ I was never an hospital _mate_, Mr. President; “_Hospital
Assistant to the Forces_,” was _my_ first appointment in the department.
_President._ Aweel, it’s a’ the self-same thing. When I first
entered--noo sax-an’-twenty years--we had mates, an’ nae assistants at
a’.
_Dr. Kyle._ You are perfectly right, there; the service had no
_assistants_ at that time, sure enough.
_Dr. Adipose._ (_wiping his chin._) You are too severe, Kyle;
au--hau--; you are, indeed, hau--; I’ll trouble you for a cut out of
the thick end of that haunch of mutton; it looks delicious; au--hau--,
good indeed--very good.
_Dr. Kyle._ I’ll send you a slice, Doctor, that will digest on its
first contact with the gastric fluid;--there, Sir, there.
_Dr. Adipose._ Hau--, very good. I haven’t seen such a haunch as that
since the last annual dinner of the society for the benefit of the
widows of our department; that _was_ delicious, too.
_Capt. Beamish._ Oh, you _have_ a society, then, for the widows of your
department, Doctor?
_Dr. Adipose._ Yes, yes; I’ll tell you all about it, by-and-by.--A
little currant jelly, Thomas.
_Dr. Kyle._ Yes, Captain, to the laudable exertions of Sir James
M’Grigor we are indebted for a valuable fund,--sufficient to protect
our widows and our orphans, if it please God to leave them without
other means.--Mr. Lintly, do you take mutton? Oh! Sir, it is a vast
advantage.
_Major Oldfield._ ’Pon my honour, I am very happy to see such
improvements in your department. When I entered the service, now fifty
years ago, there was no department at all. A surgeon was something like
our present military parson; he used to go about in plain clothes, or
with a black coat and a military cocked hat: his pay was bad; and as to
his assistant, he was a sort of lob-lolly-boy; but now, how different!
Ah! the Duke, Heaven rest his soul! was the first who improved _your_
department, Gentlemen, as well as every other belonging to the army.
_Dr. Adipose._ Major--au--I’ll trouble you for a little of the
harrico--hau: It looks very well--au--very well, indeed.
_Vice-President._ Splint, shall I send you a little pig?
_Mr. Splint._ Indeed it is a thing Mrs. Splint is very fond of; and if
you like, I’ll send my servant up to you to-morrow for it.
_Vice-President._ For what!
_Mr. Splint._ Why the little pig you mentioned.
_Dr. Adipose._ Poo--oo--au--ha! ha! ha!
[_A general laugh--more at the expense of Dr. Adipose than the
little pig._]
_Vice-President._ Why, my dear Sir, I asked you to take a little of
_this_ roast pig.
_Mr. Splint._ Oh dear!--I beg your pardon.