Tough yarns, vol. 2 (of 2)

The young urchins were taking their last five minutes of play on the beautiful village green at S——, in Devonshire, previous to returning to the school-room for the afternoon, and in the midst of them stood a tall but aged man, who appeared to be regulating the game with all the accuracy of a thorough tactician. I stood watching the interesting group of children (of all ages) whose actions were guided by the tall old man, and witnessed their parting when the sonorous bell called them from their sports. They assembled round the aged mentor, and in a broad Irish accent he bade them mind their “larning,” and be good “childer.”

I entered into conversation with the veteran, and found he was a pensioner on the army, who had also a little property to live upon in the village of S——, which had been left him by an officer whose life he had preserved at the battle of Talavera. Having an hour or two to spare, I requested to hear something of his history, and with the garrulity natural to old age, he readily complied with my request. We seated ourselves, on a rustic bench beneath a giant sycamore, and he began by telling me—but I cannot do better than give it in his own language.

“Faith, but your honour’s mighty condescending,” he exclaimed, “to listen to the chathering of ould Pat. Fifty years have marched off under General Time since I first shouldered the firelock, and now I am daily expecting the route (for my billet is nearly expired) to assemble for the grand review before the sarcher of all hearts. Och, many’s the time and oft I’ve wished for some kind friend that I might spake a word to and unburthen my sinful spirit; for when I’ve stood sentry all alone by myself in the dark nights in Ameriky and Spain, and in dare little Ireland too, I’ve thought, ‘Arrah Paddy, but you are a great big blaggard, so you are, for running away from your ould mother that’s dead and gone, without so much as seeing her dacently laid under the turf. If she had been alive, it would have broke her heart, so it would, to think how her own beautiful Paddy should desart her in time of need, and not stop to see her waked.’ But ’twas the dthrink, your honour, ’twas the murthering dthrink, and bad manners to Sarjent Linstock for that same; he laughed at poor Pat, and marched us off without bate of drum, saying that ‘She would never wake again;’ for I must be after telling you that there was a recruiting party came down to the fair, so they picked me out as the most likely lad on the sod; and indeed your honour, there wasn’t many in those days, though I say it meself, that dared tread upon my greatcoat, or call my shtick a rascal. But, as I said before, it was the dthrink, and then they chated me by slipping the king’s countenance into my fob when I knew nothing about it at all, at all; but they swore I had ’listed willingly, and had taken the picture meself. Och, by my conscience, didn’t I get into a thundering rage, sure!—not that I minded sarving his Majesty, heaven bless the heart of his soul, that’s in t’other world! but I thought it was not trateing me handsome, your honour, to trap me into it. But I found it was of no use to complain; so I went to bid poor mother good bye, and she’d just breath enough left to tell me not to disgrace the country that gave me birth. ‘Arrah Paddy, (says she,) my own dare Paddy, that I loved so tinderly, and used to get the but—but—but-buthermilk and pra-pratees for!’ Oh, sir, ’tis a big shame to see a sodger cry; but when I think of the dare soul and the buthermilk, how can I help it? ‘Niver dishonour your cloth, Paddy, (says she,) nor the king you sarve, nor the father that begot you. Fight in a just cause, and when the vanquished cry for quarter, unlock the heart and spare the hand. Protect the innocent, and do your duty like a man.’

“Then there was poor Norah, your honour. Och, hone, but I thought it would have broken my heart entirely, to see how the tears chased each other down her pale face! ‘And why will ye lave me, Paddy, (says she) all alone by meself? Oh, look at our cottage and the peat-stack—where will you find the likes of it in another country, Paddy? Then there’s the bit of a bog yonder for the pigs and the geese, and your own dare Norah, and the pratee garden. Oh, why will you go, Paddy, and lave me all alone by meself?’ And then, your honour, I put my arms round her neck, (for I couldn’t spake a word,) and my tears fell trickling on a bosom that looked like twin roses moistened with dew. Oh, I niver felt before nor since as I did at that same moment! But then Mr. Sarjent must have his say, divel twist him to the right about round the rim of the moon,—God forgive me that I should have unchristian feelings tow’rds the vilest of his creatures; ‘Come, come, young man, (says he) fall into the ranks and march; you’ll soon find prettier girls to lead a wild-goose chase!’ Bad manners to him for that same, to try and make my own dare Norah believe that her Pat would iver cease to love her as his own heart’s blood; so I up and tould him I didn’t like to be made game of. ‘Well, well, (says he) I suppose an honest sodger may have a kiss.’—‘Arrah, dress back to the rear, (says I) Mr. Sarjent, for by me soul, if you lay but one of your thieving-hooks upon a digit of her corporal substance, faith! but I’ll brake me arm across your face, so I will.’ Well, your honour, and so he persisted in that same, and cotch’d hould of her gown. Oh, ’twas more than Irish blood could brook, and ‘Lay there jewel!’ says I, stretching him along upon mother earth before he could cry ‘whack!’ and then they put iron mittens on me, and tore my swate love away. I thought me brain would have turned, and so they took me before ould Justice Ballymagfoglem, and poor Pat was committed for a rogue and a vagabond, and marched off for Cork under a military guard; and put into jail.

“A few days afterwards and the transports were going to sail; so they trotted me down to the beach, and there I found a great many more like meself. Well, just as I was stepping into the boat, I heard the swate voice of my own dear Norah, and so I stepped back again. ‘Jump into the boat! you mutinous rascal,’ says the sarjent. ‘Rascal yourself, (says I) Mr. Sarjent; do you think his honoured majesty, God bless him! would refuse me one last embrace from the dare cratur I’d broke the bit o’ gold with? Arrah, be aisey now, and paws off,’ for they began to handle me again, your honour. ‘Let the poor fellow alone!’ said the midshipmite of the boat; ‘let him alone to spake to the girl.’—‘God bless you! young jontleman (says I) for that same. May your father niver have to sorrow over your mother’s son!’

“And so poor Norah came to me; but I couldn’t throw my arms round her neck now, your honour, for the bracelets they had clapped upon my wrists; but she stooped down and got between them, and we were folded to each other’s hearts. Oh, sir, I feel it at this moment, and hope you won’t think the worse of poor Pat for the dthrop in his eye. Well, we were obliged to part; ‘Oh Paddy, (says she) niver, niver forget your country or your Norah!’—and bad luck to me, your honour, if ever I did—and she waved her apron till I saw her out of sight, and then I could have laid down and died. ‘Niver forget your country or your Norah!’ were her last words; and they have ever been engraven on my heart, by the same token that Corporal Flannagan, who had received a ’varsity edecation where he was brought up to run arrands and clane shoes, composed the beautifullest song,—oh! your honour, it would do your heart good to hear it. Faith, and it’s here I’ve got it, along with the bit of broken gold and a lock of my own darling’s hair, all black and shining,—oh! they’re a rich treasure to poor Pat. My hair was like it once, but now my head is silvered over with the snow of age; but my heart is as warm as iver, and melts with tenderness, spite of the frost of adversity that has so often nipped it. Would your honour like to rade that same? or shall I rade it to you? Oh, I can repeat it by heart, for sure it is always laying next to it.

“There, your honour, what do you think of that for a composition? oh sure, it’s a sublimity. ‘Can Paddy forget you? ah never!’ But to make the long of the short of it and go on with my story; I was sent on board a transport, and the next day we sailed with the rest for the West Injees, and all the passage out I was drilled morning, noon, and night, till I was as thin as a pratee dibble,—marching and countermarching between two guns on the deck, that wer’n’t more nor six feet asunder; and what with the sea-sickness, and the drilling, and the six-upon-four,⁠[9] I was almost done up by the time we got to Jemakee, where they make niggers of the poor blacks.

“Och! your honour, but that was the place for the yellow faver and the land crabs, and may-be I didn’t get a long spell in the hospital, that made me as thin as a ramrod and as wake as ten-water grog. But I got over that bout; though many’s the brave sodger I’ve seen hearty and well at sunset—talking about home and the darlins—and a loathsome corpse before morning, and buried by day-break. By me conscience, death gives but little more warning there than he does in the field of battle. Yet I got used to the place at last, and there I was made a corporal, and should have been contint but for the thoughts of my poor Norah.

“Well, many years after this, the regiment was ordered to the River Plate, and so we landed in Maldonado Bay and took the Island of Goretta. Oh, your honour, it made my heart ache to see the poor souls lie bleeding on the ground, and to be obliged to stick my bayonet into the breast of a fellow-cratur! But I thought of my ould mother’s advice, sure,—‘Do your duty like a man.’ After this, we sailed up to Monte Video, and I shall niver forget to remember that same, when we stormed the breach over a scaling ladder of dead bodies that came tumbling down upon us as fast as we could get up. By and by, somebody fetches me the terriblest poke of the sconce; it made the light dance in my eyes like sparks from a skyrocket, and who should it be but my old friend Sarjent Linstock, sure, as dead as a red herring, your honour. ‘Long life to you, jewel! (says I) for taking yourself out of the way so dacently;’ but my heart smote me as soon as I had said it. ‘Shame to you, Paddy, (thought I) to rejoice in the downfall of any man; you don’t know how soon it may be your own turn,’ and it struck me all of a heap entirely, so I stood stock still. ‘On, on, my brave fellows!’ roared somebody in the rear, giving me a prick behind with the bayonet; it made me jump like a billy-goat, and so I rushed on, headed by our brave captain, and we entered the town.

“Well, there was a comical fellow of the name of Taylor⁠[10] (he was a sailor commanding a private brig of war) advanced with us, having a bag of Union-Jacks over his shoulder to hoist upon the batteries. When we got into the great square ould Elio, the governor, stood ready with his troops to receive us; so we charged, and Taylor running on, knocked the ould fellow down with the bag of Jacks, and after that, och! but it was all dickey with them.

“ ‘Arrah, Paddy, what booty have you got?’ says Corporal Blacketer. ‘Sorrow the scurragh,’ says I. ‘Och, hone to your heart, look here!’ says he; and so, your honour, he turns round upon his back, and puts his hand into his haversack, and pulls out a little silver image, that I knew at first glance was St. Peter. ‘Oh, you tief o-the-world, (says I,) what, rob a church?’—‘No, no, (says the corporal,) I had it from an honest priest, to redeem his corpas-any-mule-he from danger. And see here, (opening his cartouche-box and showing another,) and here, (tapping his knapsack that bulked out,) see here! I’ve got all the saints in the calendar dacently buckled up; faith, here’s enough to make an almanack.’

“But what plased me most was, the good cheer we met with after our long voyage. I’ll engage we wasn’t long getting the camp-kettles to work. Oh, there was beef and mutton for picking up, and turkeys and chickens enough to stock all the uphoulsterers in the united kingdom. Oh, your honour, didn’t we live like fighting cocks, sure?”

At this moment, an elderly female called to the veteran from the door of a snug little cottage, mantled with evergreens and surrounded by a garden neatly laid out, and kept in the most exact order.

“Faith! (said he) but my baccy’s ready; and will your honour condescend to walk into the cabin, to rest yees a little while?”

I told him my engagements would not at that moment permit me; but as I should remain some time in the neighbourhood, I would most certainly visit him once more before I quitted that part of the country.

“I hope no offence,” said he, “but I should be proud to do meself the honour of your acquaintance, so I would; and if you could make it convenient to give poor Pat a call now and then, ’twould cause joy to dance in his heart, and pleasure would stretch out the wrinkles in his withered countenance. Long life to your honour, and may God bless you!”

The veteran rose from his seat, gave his hand a military flourish to his hat, and marched off in ordinary time to his cottage; whilst I pursued my way to the residence of a friend, reflecting on the vicissitudes of life.

A few days after this adventure, I again visited the spot; and on advancing to the village green, I observed my friend Pat with some twenty little urchins drawn up in a line, each with a broomstick or mop-handle, going through the various evolutions of the drill-ground. He was in the first position for facing to the right; and the youngsters, with mouths and eyes wide open, were watching the motion.

Though seventy winters had spent their storms upon his head, he stood erect and firm, and at that moment would have been a fine study for an artist. “To the right face!” said he, and the motion brought him full in my front; his hand was flourished to his hat in an instant, and from a countenance expressive of command, it changed to one of the most lively pleasure. “Oh, joy to the hour that I see your honour again! Faith! but delight is bateing the roll upon the drum of my heart, and every swate sensation is answering to the muster.”

The children, no longer under control, were charging each other in front and rear, which annoying the veteran, he exclaimed, “Arrah be aisey, and don’t be after making such a hubaboo. Double quick time, march!” and off they started, as wild as young colts. “Are any of these your own?” inquired I. “Oh no, your honour,” he replied mournfully; “when the turf covers poor ould Pat, his lamp will be clane put out. But see at yon gossoon; oh, it makes my heart ache to look at him, for he has never a friend in the world, nor in Ireland eather, save and beside myself, your honour. Sure, isn’t he a darling of a boy, by token that he’s the very image of my own dare Norah. Come here, Casey, und spake to the gentleman; don’t stand rubbing your pate there.”

A fine healthy lad with long flaxen curls approached, and took hold of my hand; but this did not altogether agree with the old soldier’s ideas of etiquette, and he continued addressing the youth, “Run off, you ragged rascal, and let his honour alone. Don’t stand grubbing with your ten toes, like a pig in a pratee garden. Faith, but he’s off; and now perhaps your honour would like to know a little more of my history? But first I’ll go back to the end, and tell you straight forward in a circuitous manner, that we mayn’t set out in a round about way.

“Sure and wasn’t it at Monte Video that you left me last? And faith, I might have staid there till death, and longer, but they ordered me up for Boney’s Airs; and och, hone, but we suffered severely at that place, marching up to our middles in water without rations and without rest for three days. And then the assault,—bad luck to the divil!—didn’t we charge into the town with our bagnets, and nothing but our hammers in the locks? and that, too, where every house was a battery in itself, and we had no enemy to meet on plain ground? By the powers of Moll Kelly, but they knocked us down like bastes in a slaughter-house, and divil a rap could we give ’em again. Only think, your honour, of straight streets crossing each other at right angles, so that a nine-pounder at the end of one street was a defence for the whole; and then they pulled down a part of the cathedral, so that nothing might stop the shot.

“Oh, that was a terrible consarn, so it was, and many brave fellows lost their billet; for these Spaniards had an ugly knack of knocking the wounded on the head after they were kilt. Sure, wasn’t I one of the party that stormed the Pizzelaro del Tow-row, where the bulls fight? and didn’t we make a big bull of it? for how could we get at ’em, your honour, seeing there was not even the spoke of a ladder by way of staircase? Ah, then poor Pat tumbled down with a wound I got in the breast, and then I thought of dare little Ireland and Norah; and so I struggled to get up again, but all was of no use; so I fainted with the loss of blood, and there I lay, spachless and comical entirely.

“Well, when I woke, I heard a soft swate voice spaking to me in broken English—it was just like Norah’s, your honour; and so I opened my daylights to take a peep at the angel, for I thought it was her own dare self come in a phantomical manner to cheer my weary spirit, about to quit this world of trouble, only I couldn’t make out the brogue; but not a soul did I see, saving and except a young officer in the uniform of a Spanish hussar kneeling by my side and feeling my pulse, which was now bateing the dead march. The creature started when I showed my peepers, and the cap flew from its head. Oh, I shall never forget to remember that same, for it was a woman, your honour, and her long auburn locks came clustering down her forehead, and she looked like the commander-in-chief of the cherry-bums. Oh, she was beauty’s queen, and a countryman of my own; for though French by birth, she was married to a son of the sod. Long life to her, whether she’s dead or alive, for her kindness to poor Pat! for didn’t she have me carried by the viceroy’s sarvants to snug quarters, where my wound was dressed and the ball distracted? Faith, and she did, your honour, and many more besides me; for after the battle—having a regard for the brave sodger, and knowing that many lay bleeding on the ground—she put on the regimentals of a captain of hussars, as one of General Liniers’ aids-de-camp, and rode through the scenes of carnage to stop the murderers’ hands.⁠[11] Oh, wasn’t she a darling of a soul? Ax General Beresford, your honour, for he knew her very well, by token—but that’s none of my business to notice; only ’twas whispered as soft as a peal of bells, that they found his image in wax-work, all alive and kicking, your honour.

“But the worst of it was the loss of our colours, that hung dangling in the church of San Nicholas, where the brave Sir Samuel Auchmuty had suffered so much, and was compelled to surrender; but that was a sad job to make the most of it, and all through the treachery and cowardice of Whitelocke, bad luck to his powthered fiz-hog. But the colours, your honour, oh, didn’t they stick in my gizzard, sure? and so I spoke a word or two about it to my ould comrade, Corporal Blacketer. ‘What’s to be done,’ says he. ‘Arrah, dacently walk off with them,’ says I. ‘How’s that?’ says he. So seeing he had no liking to the matter, I was obliged to close my chather-box, and soon after we sailed down the river.

“Well, about two years afterwards, an ill wind blow’d me there again, and I couldn’t help going to take a sly peep. Oh, didn’t I get into a big rage, sure, when they struck like a blight upon my eyes? ‘Oh Paddy, (says I) twig ’em, and take shame to yourself for not dislodging them from their height;’ and so it bothered me night and day, your honour, that I couldn’t slape a wink, nor ever cease to think of it while waking.

“Well, one evening Jerry Driscoll and meself were ashore, taking a sup of the cratur. Jerry was a broth of a boy, and knew that two and two made five when his own ugly mug was shoved in to balance the account. He was a blue jacket, your honour, belonging to a sloop of war. ‘Arrah Jerry, (says I) shall we do the thing?’—‘Faith and we will, (says he) and the more by token that they have stuck the bunting up!’ as indeed they had, your honour, with R. M. B. on it, for Royal Marine Battalion. So when night came, off we set with a long rope and got safe into the middle of the centre of the church, and clapped ourselves in ambush clane out of sight where nobody could see us.

“About midnight, ‘Now Jerry, (says I) you must mount a reev-o; only take care the rope does not get round your neck.’ Well, just as we were going to begin, we heard the most terriblest noise; and what should it be but one of the padres, who had been sipping the supernaculum and fallen asleep in the sentry-box—arrah, the confessional-box, I mane. Bad manners to him for stretching his daylights and prying into honest men’s affairs. Oh! your honour, he roared like a pope’s bull, and out he came as big as three moderate sized aldermen. ‘Arrah, be aisey,’ says Jerry, giving him a thump in his rotunda, which would have held a cathedral, ‘can’t you behave yourself, jewel?’ Thump went Jerry again, till his coporation sounded like a big drum, or a Chinese gong. The sentry peeped in at the church-door; Jerry twigged him and cotched the friar round the neck, and down they rolled together, both roaring with all their might.—‘Arrah, Jerry, (says I) don’t you mane to get up?’ ‘Oh, the murthering rascal, (says he) don’t you see how he’s using me;’ and indeed, your honour, the padre was belaboring him entirely with both his fists. I ran to assist, but a sarjent entered with the guard.

“ ‘What’s the matter here?’ says the sarjent,—for he was a countryman, your honour, that had deserted from Whitelocke’s army.—‘Oh, by my conscience, (says Jerry) but that same fellow is a thumping rogue, so he is.’—‘Be aisey,’ says the sarjent; and so he speaks to the padre in broken Spanish, and tells him to get up; but he couldn’t do that thing till the sodgers lever’d him up with their firelocks. And then he tells them a long story about his being asleep, and dreaming that somebody was trying to steal the Virgin Mary, and that San Nicholas tweaked his noise, and that he woke and cotched us at it. ‘Do you hear that?’ says the sarjent. ‘Faith and I do,’ says Jerry; ‘but sorrow the silly-bull do I understand at all, at all. All I know of the matter is, that we were passing by and heard the poor jontleman hollaing; so we ran in, and thinking he’d got the cramp in the stomach, I rubbed his eminence a little; when the ungrateful fellow knocked me down, and threw himself on the top of the outside of me, and I’m almost mumm’d to a jammy—arrah, no, jumm’d to a mammy—och, botheration, it’s jamm’d to a mummy I mane.’—‘But what’s that rope?’ said the sarjent, pointing to it. ‘Oh, the sinner,’ says Jerry, ‘and sure he was going to hang himself, but didn’t like it; faith, but it’s all plain enough now, Mr. Sarjent, and by the powers we’ve saved his life.’

“However, your honour, they marched us off to the guard-house, Jerry and I; and there we staid till morning light, like the babes in the wood, our hearts bateing the tattoo all the time, fer we’d no great relish to the mines for life. But, joy betide the friar; he made it all out to be a miracle, and so we were released for the honour of San Nicholas, in spite of the thwacks he got in his corporation, that would have held a whole bench of bishops; and so the colours hang there till this time, your honour, unless they’ve taken them down since.⁠[12] Happy enough were we to get out of that, and they said the friar would be cannonized; but Jerry swore they should ram him into a mortar, or marry him to the gunner’s daughter, before he would go colour-staleing again, with a vengeance to it.”

I left the old man with a promise of visiting him again; and in a few months afterwards, being in the same part of the country, I strolled towards his usual resort—the village green. There was no busy hum of voices—no cheering laugh, or infantile prattle; the grass grew as luxuriant as ever, but the children were listlessly scattered about, as if they had lost the common tie which once had bound them together:—the veteran was no more. In a corner of the churchyard, below a time-shattered elm, was a turf-raised mound, and beneath it lay the mouldering remains of poor Pat. It was a lonely spot, and the villagers took delight in keeping it clear from weeds. A few wild flowers blossomed around, and some rustic had carved a rude memorial on a slab of wood. There were guns and swords neatly cut at the top, and underneath was cyphered a plain P. M. Below these letters appeared this simple elegy,—

It was enough, and its language spoke more closely to the heart than all the pompous eulogies which deck the monumental urn, or sculptured tomb. It was indeed a soldier’s grave, and a sailor’s tear was shed upon it.

THE END.