“Will you play brag?” she continued.
I shook my head.
“So much the better. That old tabby, in black velvet, would cheat her father; and she, in the blue turban, rob a church. They play into each other’s hands—client first, divide afterwards; they would do you brown’ to a moral in half an hour.”’
“Oh! Flora, Flora,” exclaimed her companion; “how can you say such horrid things?”
“Because they’re true,” returned the young lady: then turning to me, she continued, “Come away into the corner, and we’ll have a quiet hit. D’Arey, go find the back-gammon table, settle the men, and snuff the candles; it’s the only thing you’re good for.”
A sheep-faced young gentleman instantly obeyed the order; and Miss Flora Maginnis and I sate down tete-a-tete.
If ever there were two beings who differed from each other wide as the antipodes themselves, they were Flora aforesaid, and my absent mistress. I had endeavoured to imagine what “a clipper” was, according to the parlance of O’Boyle; but my fancy sketch fell infinitely short of the original. An hour glided pleasantly away; and when supper was announced, Miss Flora and I proceeded to the table, mutually pleased with each other.
I had written to Lucy immediately on my arrival at head quarters, and for several days awaited an answer to my epistle with all the impatience of a lover. At last, the long-expected letter came; and my heart throbbed wildly when I read the post-mark; I pressed the billet to my lips, muttered that quotation from Pope, which insinuates that letters were invented in hewen, and broke the seal. The “Dear Sir” commencement gave me a chill; and the conclusion, “Your’s, sincerely,” froze me to an icicle. Indeed, a colder composition never met a lover’s eye. It expressed gratitude for my sentiments of affection; spoke of the barrier that family and fortune interposed between us—followed that blow up with a disquisition on prudence and “proper pride”—declined all continuation of correspondence as irregular—and concluded with a belief, on her part, that “it would be better for both that the past should be forgotten.”
As I perused the letter, I found the colour waning on my cheek. Was this her constancy?—were these her sentiments? She who I thought had warmly reciprocated my love—she, whose whole heart I fancied mine for ever! Unconsciously my hand approached my breast; and ere I reached the cold conclusion of the letter, that ringlet, which a few minutes since a diamond would not have purchased, was torn from my bosom, and committed with that heartless billet which dispelled my dreams of lore, to the secret drawer, where brown and black lay quietly reposing. Fool that I was! I never suspected that a proud poor father had dictated every line. The hand was Lucy’s; but had I looked attentively at the paper, I would have discovered that it was blistered with her tears. Alas! that fact I never knew for years, and not until Lucy was another’s!
Every body knows, that the best preparatory state of mind a man can find himself in for falling in love with the first woman that he meets, is immediately after he has been piqued by the falsehood or indifference of another. My introduction to Miss Maginnis was therefore effected in the very nick of time—she seemed a godsend direct from Cupid.—Romeo-like, I changed from Rosalind to Juliet—commenced active operations against the heart of Flora, and fancied I could love her. We rode, and walked, and danced—ran one round over Breafy course—I was beaten by a neck; and on the following Sunday, Flora annihilated the devotions of half the congregation, by appearing at church in a lancer-cap, obtained “per mail” from Dublin, and, even by her enemies, pronounced “a little love.”
In this state of affairs an event occurred that brought matters to a crisis. A day never passed in which notes were not interchanged between me and Flora; and one fine morning, her maid was ushered in, and proved the bearer of a billet. As I fortunately preserved our correspondence, I can favour you, gentlemen, with faithful transcripts.
“Dear Pat,
“I hear you were drunk last night, and, in getting home found the street too narrow. What a humbug, to pass yourself upon people for a milk-sop! My aunt Packer will be married thirty years next Thursday; and as she annually recalls the memory of that misfortune, she gives, on the evening of that disastrous day, her customary hop. Will you drive me over? If you don’t, I’ll get across in the Parson’s rumble, and you may go to —————” There was here a hiatus in the manuscript; but a fancy sketch of “a gentleman in black,” with his tail under his arm, enabled me to guess my destination. To this affectionate appeal I thus responded:—
“Dear Flo.
“As you permit me to make a choice between ‘the place below’ and your aunt’s ball, I’ll choose the latter. Set me down your man! I’ll pick you up at eight, ‘and no mistake.’”
Punctual to the hour, I called on the appointed night. Flora was true as a clock, and deposited her person and effects safely in the dog-cart. My horses were fast steppers; and in an hour and sixteen minutes, we reached my aunt Packer’s. I am thus particular about time, for I backed myself against it, three to one—in kisses. Certainly I gave Flora sporting odds. She lost, as a gentlewoman should lose, came like a trump “to book,” and met her engagements honourably.
As we approached “my Aunt Packer’s” domicile, we found that “more hibernico” the parish had risen “en masse,” to have a peep at the festive throng. With some difficulty I took my drag pretty safely through the crowd, removing only one toe in the transit—and having deposited Miss Flora in the hall, while she “regulated her curls, and repaired damages” generally, I fought my way to the assistance of my servant, who was making vain but desperate efforts to obtain standing room for the cattle in certain ruinous buildings denominated stables, which were crammed with a pleasing variety of quadrupeds; but by bribing one car-driver, and bullying another, who had spilled me the night before into a wet ditch, I induced them to remove their prads to some place else, and thus make room for mine. This exploit having been achieved, I entered “the merrie hall,” to claim my partner, who had intimated that she should await there my return, and honour me by making her grand entré on my arm.
She was ready for action when I reappeared; and as we passed through the mob of “tinints’ daughters,” who choaked the hall and staircase, nothing could be more complimentary than the remarks—That’s Miss Flora herself,” observed a redshank. * “Isn’t she the girl, after all?”
“And that’s her sweetheart, I suppose, beside her.—Ogh! but they’ll make a cliver couple,” rejoined a second.
“Is the match all settled?” inquired an elderly gentlewoman. “It’s all as one, and just as sure as if the priest had on the vestment,” was the reply.
To me, of course, these remarks were particularly flattering; but still to the matrimonial conclusion, I did not respond “Amen!”
On ascending to the state apartment we found the company formally collected; and in the doorway observed a little man, very corpulent, and blessed with an efflorescent nose that would have brought eternal disgrace upon a water-drinker. He was dressed in a green coat with brass buttons, a speckled vest, and inexpressibles that once had been nankeen. I particularly noticed the tie of his white neckcloth. The bow was voluminous, and the muslin that encircled his throat affixed so loosely, that it was apparent the wearer had determined that his powers of deglutition should receive no interruption.
“That’s Uncle Dick,” observed my fair companion; “no wonder that Aunty’s so proud of her bargain.”
“How’r ye, Flo?” said Mr. Packer.
“Morrow! Dick,” was the dutiful return. “Who’s that wid ye? Mr. Fitzmaurice, I suppose.”
“What a guess you made! If you go on this way, you’ll be tried for witchcraft at last,” said Miss Flora.
“Mr. Fitzmaurice, ye’r welcome—glad to see ye in Ballymaccragh. Fine night—but could drive over the bog. Maybe ye’d step down to the wee back parlour, and have a glass of naagus, or a drop of the other,—naked, or in company.”
“A glass of naagus, or a drop of the other—naked or in company,” responded Dick’s affectionate niece, mimicking her respected relation like an echo; “do you think Captain Fitzmaurice drove thirteen miles to drink hot scalteeine? One would suppose you kept a potheine house.”
“But I wanted to introduce him to the naabors.”
“The naabors!” returned the young lady, mimicking Uncle Dick to the life. “And a blessed lot the neighbours are! Kelly, and Brophy, and Kinsella,—a parcel of savages, who only know when whisky’s over-proof, and a bullock fit for market. But, Dick, why don’t you take heart when you are in Athlone, and treat yourself to a new pair of fye-for-shames? And look at his cravat!” so saying, she caught the ample bow, and whisked it round, until it met the spot where the hangman would have placed it. “Now, be off, Dick; keep yourself and naabors out of my sight for the evening, and I’ll settle sixpence a-day on you for life!”
I think our introduction to “my aunt” was about as affectionate and reverential; and I began to comprehend the meaning of the word “clipper.” No matter; she was the finest animal in the collection; and what was it to me, if she denounced the scarlet turban of the lady hostess, and traced its importation to the same ship that, thirteen years before, had wafted Uncle Dick’s unmentionables from China? We laughed at the company and ourselves, flirted, danced three sets before supper, two ditto after it,—passed every thing, next morning, on the road—and I popped her down at her papa’s, at half-past seven—she to dream of marriage, and I of God knows what.
It was two o’clock before I toddled into the mess-room. Others had been nearly as late as I; for the little snub-nosed major and Captain O’Boyle were just concluding their breakfast, when I joined them, and ordered mine.
“Cursed nuisance country routs,” growled the short commander;—“horse kicked by a vicious mule—kettle not boiled after supper—rheumatism left hip—and lost three rubbers at whist, and five pound ten at lammy.”
“Egad! for my part, major, I was delighted with Mother Packer, and my Uncle Dick.”
“Many true words said in jest; I’ll bet five pound he’s your uncle in a month—and no mistake.”
“My uncle?” I returned, with a stare.
“Ay—double the bet, too;—d—d quick promotion yours—Captain, first week in the month—Benedict, two gazettes afterwards.”
“Upon my soul, I do not comprehend you. Pray, my dear major, what are you driving at?”
“Driving at?—aye, last night’s drive settled all. When do ye come to the scratch? All friends here;—no use in humbug.
“Why, what the devil do you mean?”
“Mean—get your neck into the halter—slow march up the aisle—she looks down, and you delighted—Parson reads ‘love, honour, and obey, clerk cries ‘amen,’—kiss your bride—chariot and four—white favours—boys shout—door shuts, and away ye go! That’s the time of day!”
“A graphic picture, major. But who are to be the dramatis personae?”
“Who? yourself to be sure; aided and abetted by Flo Maginnis.”
“I marry! My dear major, when have I been pronounced insane?”
“Insane—no—no—parson says it’s an honourable estate—bound to take his word. But I wish to God you would get your worthy uncle to put a few slates upon the stable—horse running at the nose, this morning, as if he had the glanders—Air, excellent thing but, d—n me, half the roof off, too much. I’ll just toddle down to the postoffice—coach by this time in”—and Major Belcher took himself off.
Of course, when he was gone, I requested Captain O’Boyle to tell me what he had been hinting at; and I had the agreeable satisfaction to learn that my immediate union with Miss Maginniswas pronounced certain. Aunt Packer, on being assured by him, the captain, that I was not a confirmed drunkard, as she had heard formerly, observed that “Flora had got out of bed with her right foot foremost, the morning that she met me,” insinuating thereby, that Flora had been in luck; and, after our departure, Mr. Packer, in a neat and complimentary speech, had proposed our health and happiness, with an other, on his part, to bet five pounds that he would be a grand-uncle within the twelve month.—“But here’s the serjeant, with the letters. Any news, Jones?”
“Nothing,” responded the serjeant, “but a draft of a captain, two subalterns, and sixty rank and file, for first battalion—off immediately—transports waiting at Cork.”
This unexpected intelligence changed the current of our conversation. O’Boyde went out to ascertain what names were first upon the roaster—and I retired to my barrack-room, to inquire whether I was really on the eve of matrimony, or not.
I had been for above an hour in a state of dreamy confusion, when a light tap was heard at the door. I announced myself at home—and in came Sibby Callaghan.
“Ah! pretty one—is it you? Come here—give me a couple of kisses first, and then tell me how your mistress is.”
“Be quiet, captain. Oh! murder—if Miss Flora only knew it. Feaks—joking apart, it’s a shame and scandal, and you going to be married in a week or two.”
“Married! Sibby.—Who the devil put that folly in your head?”
“Oh, I know it all. Isn’t Mr. Dominick, the master’s brother, and Tom, and Peter Blake, and their sister Emily, and Julia Dwyer—they call her Julia, but her right name’s Judy—ay, faith, and a dozen more blood relations—arn’t they all written for? But I must run down to Miss Byan’s, the milliner; and maybe you’ll have an answer for this note ready for me, at my return.” And off went Sibby Callaghan.
In desperate trepidation I broke the fair one’s billet, and an auburn ringlet, silky and glistening, fell from its envelope upon the table.
“Dearest Pat,
“That lock of hair you turned around your finger when you stole a parting kiss, this morning—‘Will you for my sake keep it?”
“Curse upon parting kisses,” I muttered.
“I have written to that beast Brophy, to whom my father gave some encouragement, to say that, like a dead heat, the match was off. Would you wish to see the letter, before I send it?”
“Come up for coffee. We’ll have a quiet chat—and, like a dear good boy, go to roost early.
“Thine,
“Flora.”
“Oh!—it’s all over.” I muttered. Was ever man run into matrimony so ridiculously? What’s to be done? Knock again,—“come in.”—And in slided Captain O’Boyle.
“What the devil’s wrong with you?” was his opening address, “have ye seen a ghost—or received a call from the sub-sheriff? or”—
“Worse—worse,” I responded, with a sigh. “I’ll be married, whether I will or not. Nothing can save me.”
“Oh—I expected it,” returned the captain. “Then, of course, you’ll leave the regiment, and poor Phipps has no chance of getting you to take his turn for the Peninsula?”
“No chance!” I exclaimed; “I’m ready in half an hour. Aye, that’s an opening for escape. But stop; I must answer a note. There’s cherry-brandy in the cupboard,—take a glass, O’Boyle, and hand me another, merely to keep you in countenance. So here goes—listen!
“‘Dearest Flo,
“‘I shall ever treasure the dear ringlet you have given me, and, no matter where I am, shall look upon it as love’s talisman.’”
“Stop!” exclaimed Captain O’Boyle,—“what the devil’s a talisman?”
“Oh—hang it! no matter.” It’s I don’t know what myself—but a word, very commonly introduced into tender correspondence.
“‘As to that beast Brophy, as you properly term him, I feel some delicacy in offering an opinion. Were I he, I should at once accept your proposition, and declare ‘off by mutual consent.’
“‘If possible, I shall be with you for coffee, and attend to your advice religiously.
“‘Dear Flo,
“‘Always yours,
“‘Pat.’”
I had scarcely sealed my billet when love’s messenger announced herself. The presence of Captain O’Boyle precluded any converse between me and the spider-brusher; and after receiving her despatch, Sibby Callaghan disappeared.
It was at once decided that I should levant that very evening, leaving the detachment to the care of the subalterns, whom it was arranged I should join in Cork. Captain O’Boyle discharged my accounts in town; my servant packed my traps; and I had stepped down to take a little air in the barrack-yard, when once more Sibby Callaghan presented herself. She placed a billet in my hand; I squeezed hers in return—whispered I would send an answer when evening parade was over—and broke the seal.
“My dearest Pat,
“Have I misunderstood you? Then is my peace of mind gone for ever! Oh no—I won’t believe it. You would not win a virgin heart, and throw it idly from you! Rest assured, idol of my soul! that there is no bliss in life comparable to wedded happiness.
“Yours, and yours only,
“‘Flora.’”
I wrote an immediate reply:—
“My dearest Flo,
“I am certain your estimate of connubial fidelity is correct; but at present, you must excuse me from trying the experiment.
“Always and affectionately,
“Pat.”
“D—n it,” said Captain O’Boyle, “you must be clean out of the town, before Flo gets that choker. The whole gang will be collected in the evening. But, Lord! she wouldn’t wait for any assistance, but beat up your quarters at once. There’s only a serjeant’s guard at the gate, and that would never keep her out.”
What is valour to discretion? Captain O’Boyle’s were the words of wisdom, and I profited by them accordingly. A chaise and four were slyly introduced through the back entrance to the barrack—the gates closed for half an hour—and before Flora received my note, I had left Gort six miles behind, and set pursuit at defiance.
Would you believe it? until I reached head-quarters here, I felt particularly uncomfortable. Conscience upbraided me; and I fancied the probability of an ill-regulated but too ardent temperament like Flora’s being forced into the commission of some desperate act; and when I unclosed my secret depository, I looked at the auburn ringlet, and breathed a fervent prayer that Heaven would enable the poor girl to bear up against her visitation. As it resulted, I had disquieted myself in vain—for three week’s ago, I received a Roscommon Journal, with “P. O’B.” written upon the corner of the envelope. I looked it over rapidly; and one paragraph at once set my heart at rest.
“At Cloonflin church, by the Reverend Doctor Dowdell, Ignatius Brophy, Esquire, of Curnafin, to the elegant and accomplished Flora Maginnis, only daughter and heiress of Dennis Maginnis, of Ballybawn, County of Roscommon, and Ballynamudda, County of Mayo.” It was regularly recorded who gave the bride away, and also the route they took to spend the honey-moon; but I’ll not be too particular.
As the gallant major ended, a servant entered and whispered in the president’s ear.
“You are wanted,” he said, turning to me. “You will be sure to find us here on your return.”
I rose and left the room; and outside, found an orderly waiting in the street, to say that Lord Wellington wished to see Lieutenant O’Halloran immediately.
Falstaff. “Men of all sorts take a pride to gird at me. The brain of this foolish-compounded clay, man, is not able to vent any thing that tends to laughter, more than I invent, or is invented on me: I am not only witty in myself, but the cause that wit is in other men.”—King Henry IV.
Although the evening was well advanced, all within and without the quarters of the Commander-in-chief indicated a business-like activity, and gave a silent earnest that an important crisis was at hand. Three dragoons, the bearers of as many despatches, were riding on to their stables—while a couple of orderlies lounged backwards and forwards in front of the building; but excepting the sentries at the door, there was nothing about the residence of Lord Wellington that would distinguish it from the quarters of a general of brigade. On my name being announced, I was conducted into a large room on the ground floor, where at one table several noncommissioned officers were employed in transcribing official documents—and at another, two engineers were measuring distances on a large map, from which they were making, what appeared to me, a skeleton draft of the great features of the country. In a few minutes an aid-tie-camp came in, and informed me that his lordship was now engaged, but that he would be happy to receive me presently—politely invited me to take a seat—and then left me to myself.
I never found an establishment that so little realized the glowing picture which Peter Crotty had so fancifully sketched. From his report, one would have imagined that head-quarters had been the selected home of social pleasure, with “Laughter holding both his sides,” and Bacchus aiding and assisting. I found it a very different concern; and had the domicile belonged to La Trappe, business could not have been carried on more quietly than it was. The serjeants seldom raised their heads from the table—the engineers conversed in whispers—and the place was as silent as the clerk’s office of a solicitor, with the head partner in bad temper in the room.
Still I fancied that there might be a secret symposium unapproached by the profanum vulgus, and to which none but the elect, with a favoured few like Peter Crotty, gained an entrance. Yet it was marvellous how well they managed matters in the house. No sound of distant merriment fell upon the ear—no explosion followed “the jest which set the table in a roar.” The walls must be confoundedly thick, or the company singularly prudent—you could have heard a cat cross the floor—and yet not an outburst of “tipsey jollity” was audible.
While lost in vague surmises as to the causes which might have occasioned this strange alteration in his lordship’s style of living since Peter Crotty had favoured him with a call, a servant opened the door, and requested Lieutenant O’Halloran to follow him. We crossed over to an opposite apartment—the attendant announced my name—and I found myself in the presence of him afterwards surnamed, the “Iron Duke.”
I never was more surprised than at the general appearance of my lord’s “great chamber.” Neither bottle nor glass were to be seen—the cards eluded discovery—and I could detect nothing in “the sporting line” except one solitary chess-board. The apartment contained not one article that could have been dispensed with. The table was over-spread with papers—and at one end, an aid-de-camp copied letters—at another, a private secretary wrote from the dictation of the Commander-in-chief.
“Sit down, Mr. O’llalloran,” said his lordship—“we have deciphered your despatch—and the information it contains is very valuable. May I inquire under what circumstances the packet fell into Juan Diez’ hands?”
I briefly narrated the particulars.
“It is genuine, no doubt; indeed it bears the stamp; but documents have been occasionally fabricated, which have misled people who did not take pains to test their authenticity. You appear to have had a good deal of adventure during your séjour with the Empecinado. They say that Don Juan is an off-handed gentleman at times—hangs a man first, and makes inquiries afterwards—ha?—Is it so?”
“‘As far as I can judge, my lord,” I replied, “such is his general practice. I found him a very excellent friend; but he’s the last man in Spain whom I should wish to make an enemy.”
I saw that his lordship was interested in the details of my recent adventures, which pictured strikingly the wild and ferocious style of war which the partidas carried on. Once or twice he was pleased to pay me a compliment; and he expressed unqualified satisfaction at Mark Antony’s bold and successful intervention to save the condemned voltigeur. Half an hour slipped away, coffee was brought in, and I was about to take my leave, when, turning round, as if a thought had struck him suddenly, Lord Wellington observed—
“I had a comrade of your name,—whether now dead or living I know not. We served together in the Low Countries, and both commanded regiments during the retreat. At Tuyl he particularly distinguished himself”—
“And on the occasion,” I added, “lost an arm.”
“The same;—is he related to you?”
“He is my father,” I replied.
“Then, Mr. O’Halloran, you are the son of a good and gallant soldier, he retired from the service I presume?”
“Twenty years ago, my Lord. But he is still in heart the same. Were it not for my mother’s influence, I am persuaded that, one-armed as he is, he would have been with your lordship before now.”
“I wish he was,—and, maimed as he is, I will freely take him, and give in exchange half-a-dozen gentlemen of his own rank, and with the usual assortment of limbs.—I am pretty certain I should be a-gainer by the bargain.”
Fearful of intruding upon his time, I bade Lord Wellington goodnight,—received a courteous return—and hastened back to the company I had quitted, highly flattered with the reception I had met with, although neither offered a glass of wine, pressed to play cards, nor even desired, when I came again, “to bring my portmantle.”
That night I returned with Major Fitzmaurice, and took up my old quarters in his tent; and as we smoked a cigar and discussed some brandy and water, I gave him an account of my interview at head quarters.
“Your reception, my dear O’Halloran,” said the major, “though not so friendly as Mr. Crotty’s, was still very flattering indeed. What a revolution his Lordship’s habits have undergone within one brief month! He seems to have booked himself against cards, and abandoned brandy and water altogether. It would also appear that, finding “villanous company would be the spoil of him,” he has exchanged his old acquaintances for a lot of less sporting characters. And yet how the world may be led astray. There are people who would persuade you that Picton never touched pasteboard in his life, and that Packenham would as soon take poison, as “brandy without.” Ah—Peter, Peter, thou hast no parallel,—the brain to fabricate such a lie—and the brass to enable thee to give it utterance! Well—we’ll put him on the gridiron tomorrow, and if he bears the scorching, why he deserves the first company that falls.”
Next morning, the fosterer and my charger arrived safely; and, with Major Fitzmaurice, I consumed the day in wandering over the cantonments. Unpractised as I was in military affairs, I could not but observe the striking contrast which the Peninsular regiments presented to that raw soldiery, whom I had been accustomed to look at, before I quitted England. Here, the unfaded uniformity of dress was wanting; not two jackets were of one shade; trowsers were patched with any colour the wearer could procure; and, provided his shoes were good, his appointments clean, and his musket in efficient order, the other externals of the soldier were but little regarded. But it was when under arms that the superiority of that unequalled army was observable. The ease with which it moved—the precision of every evolution—the facility with which a brigade manoeuvred, correctly as it were a single regiment—while an air of confidence was traceable on very face, and the whole looked like men who had made the trial—established, and felt their superiority.
It was late when we returned; the dinner-drum had beat, and we found our rough but happy circle already united around the table.
Our homely fare was speedily discussed, and the evening carouse began. There is no society on earth like that collected in a mess-room, or one in which men unbend with such security, and where the tone or temper of every individual is imperatively required to accommodate its peculiarities to the occasion, and harmonize with all around. Hence, in military communities, badinage never becomes coarse, argument captious, nor language vulgar and offensive. On the present occasion, my unexpected return was warmly welcomed, and all seemed to take a brotherly interest in my recent deliverance.
“Upon my conscience,” observed Peter Crotty, “ye had the luck of thousands, after all, Mr. O’Halloran. As to that fellow with the hard name, and black wized complexion, though he made ye a present of a stolen horse, in my mind, he’s little better than a common highwayman. Did ye see my Lord last night?”
“Oh yes,” I replied, carelessly. “Was he in good humour?” said Peter.
“Excellent!” was the reply.
“And asked you to sit down?”
“He did—most civilly.”
“Was there any drink going?”
“Nothing but coffee.”
“Well, I wonder at it!” said Peter, with a shake of the head.
“Not at all. Probably his lordship had been a little too liberal the night before,” observed the major.
“Any company wid his lordship?”
“None, Peter,” responded the major. “An aid-de-camp told Mr. O’Halloran, that the card-parties had been postponed until your new breeches arrived from England.”
“I heard another story,” observed Captain Fenwick. “They say—God knows whether it be true or false—that Sir Thomas Picton got a bad dollar in change the night Crotty got drunk at head-quarters—and Peter being the only suspicious person in the room, they have, of course, left it at his door.”
Mr. Crotty appeared a little fidgetty; but still continued to show fight.
“I regret to hear the last statement made by Captain Fenwick,” returned Major Fitzmauriee.—“Any inconvenience arising from the non-arrival of Peter’s inexpressibles, would have been but a private concern—but passing bad dollars is a more serious affair, compromising, as it does, the honour of an old and distinguished regiment. If the report be true, that Peter palmed off base money upon Sir Thomas Picton, why, he’s nothing better than what the swell-mob call ‘a smasher’—and the offence is additionally aggravated, because that, under a conviction he was playing with respectable men, Sir Thomas thought it unnecessary to ring the dollar on the table, as if he were in a silver hell.—But where are you going? I know you are on duty—but, hang it, Peter, you need not visit your guards this half-hour. Oh, Peter, I’m sorry to say, this evasion on your part looks very like guilt—and if you don’t clear the matter up satisfactorily in the morning, I’ll apply for a regimental inquiry.”
“He’s off!” said a lieutenant of light infantry. “Of all Peter’s flights of fancy, that jollification at head-quarters will prove the most fatal.” Turning to me he continued:—
“Peter Crotty, Mr. O’llalloran, is one of the best men on earth; and all he requires is, to meet with a true believer. Don’t be alarmed at some of his revelations—he’s not so truculent as at times he represents himself. For example: he’s pleased to make frequent mention, when he has dipped into the second bottle or fourth tumbler, as the case may be, ‘of having once pursued an unfortunate author on the banks of the Suir for a whole summer’s day, and despatched him with the thirteenth shot. Of course, on his own showing, you would write him down a determined murderer.—Not at all. I believe the most rascally scribbler that ever blotted paper, might live to four score, and Peter never volunteer to be his executioner. The fact is, that in the pleasant part of Tipperary which witnessed the nativity of our friend, it is customary, when a couple of t’s come together, to change the second into an h, and hence it was an otter, and not an author, that he put to death.”
“And I will bear testimony,” said Captain Fenwick, “to Peter’s gallantry. When I was knocked down at Podrigo, and lay at the foot of the great breach, I saw honest Peter crown it—and with some dozen hair-brained devils, like himself, he fought on the summit, hand to hand. The French, when the lesser breach was carried, gave way—the town was won—and Peter, with a fortunate few, gained the streets without sustaining personal injury. Two days afterwards he visited me in hospital, bitterly lamenting the total loss of a skirt, which had been bodily removed by a bayonet thrust. ‘Bad luck to him for an unlucky thief!’ was Peter’s indignant observation. ‘He tattered the only jacket that I had; and though the tailor has been on the look-out ever since, the devil a skirt he can fall upon that will match it!’”
“Gentlemen,” observed the assistant-surgeon, “you have borne an honourable testimony to my excellent friend and countryman, Mr. Crotty, as a person of lively imagination, and a stout soldier besides. I beg to complete the merited eulogium, by assuring you that Peter is a good catholic into the bargain. Captain Fenwick noticed his conduct during the assault—and I accidentally witnessed his Christian temperament, immediately before the division moved into the trenches on that glorious and bloody evening. With three others, Peter and I held a ruinous apartment of an old farm-house in joint tenancy, and my corner was divided from the rest, by a blanket suspended from a line. When the division was under arms, I discovered that I had left some instruments behind which might possibly be required, returned consequently, to the house, and while hunting for them behind the blanket, I heard Peter Crotty open the outer door and come in. He, too, was in search of something he had forgotten—and in a false assurance that he was perfectly alone, he commenced ‘thinking aloud,’ and I kept quiet.
“‘Holy Mary!’ he ejaculated, ‘you have the best interest in heaven, and that every body knows. If I had as good at the Horse Guards, I would be a colonel in a fortnight. Oh, bad luck attend ye, Tim Doyle’—and he kept rummaging through an old bullock-trunk.
“‘There’s no finding anything after ye, you drunken sweep! Well, blessed Virgin, this is likely to be a bloody night; and the Lord, of course, will take his dealing trick out of the regiment,—glory to him—nobody can complain of it. But, sweet Lady—all I wish is, that it won’t be as it was at Badajoz, in funeral order, but just let him take them fairly as they stand. There’s three field-officers with the regiment, and we can easily spare one of them;—a couple of captains, ye know, would never be missed out of the number—and as to the subalterns, why let him have his own way about them. Oh, murder! there go the taps. If I live to come back, Tim Doyle, I wouldn’t be in your jacket for a new thirteen.’ * Again the drum ruffled—Peter shut down the trunk-lid, slammed the door after him, and hurried off to join his company—making his final exit in muttering a prayer to the Virgin, and an imprecation upon Tim Doyle.”
Early next morning. I was agreeably surprised at receiving an order from Lord Wellington to attend him that afternoon. I rode over accordingly; and once more found myself in the presence of him who had been destined to restore the tarnished glory of the British arms, and after a brilliant career of conquest, terminate a doubtful struggle by a crowning victory. I found him immured in business—and yet the details of his bureau seemed to go on as orderly and methodically as the arrangements of a merchant’s counting-house. On seeing me, he beckoned me to come forward.
I think I have been able to meet your wishes, Mr. O’Halloran.
Take this note to General R———. As yours is only to be a short sojourn, he has kindly offered to make room for you on his staff. No thanks—and waving his hand, the interview ended.
Delighted at my good fortune, I rode off to the head-quarters of the fourth division—presented my credentials—was introduced to one of the most gallant soldiers that ever commanded a brigade—and made the acquaintance of the best fellow upon earth—his aid-de-camp, Tom F———-
King Henry. “Yet, God before, tell him we will come on,
Though France himself, and such another neighbour,
Stand in our way.
If we may pass, we will; if we be hinder’d,
We shall your tawny ground with your red blood
Discolour.”
King Henry V.
Many a summer has passed away since the spring of manhood saw me on the Agueda—and the sear of middle age finds me recalling the brief but brilliant reminiscences of that “crowded hour of glorious strife” which followed. Time has sprinkled my hair with “wisdom’s silver”—the blood, which once the slightest impulse hurried from the heart, flows temperately—“wild youth’s past”—and I now look back with painful pleasure to one brief era of a life, for which, could it be lived again, I would cheerfully forego years of calm and spiritless enjoyment.
Is not this an ungrateful declaration of thine, Mr. O’Halloran? With every human blessing that can render existence happy, hast thou not been munificently gifted? Thou hast never known the stringent pressure of necessity—thou hast not felt the withering agony of unrequited love—no false friend has abused thy confidence—no lovely woman “stooped to folly,” and made thee blush for her inconstancy. Hast thou not a home?—the pledge of holy love has lisped upon thy knee—the smiles of beauty which never beamed upon another, have brightened at thy presence. What wouldst thou more? Upon my conscience, Mr. Hector O’Halloran, thou art a most unreasonable Irish gentleman.
I said, that I looked^ back upon this epoch of my life with “painful pleasure.”—Well, that association of opposites he who has passed the meridian of existence can easily understand; for in the story of a life, pain and pleasure are generally found close companions. The pulse quickens when Vittoria, Sanroren, and San Sebastian pass in “shadowy review”—but the heart sickens when I recall the memory of him, at whose side I witnessed the enthusiastic heroism of that noble brigade, to whom he so often pointed out the path to victory. In long and cherished remembrance will that honoured name be held. To a lion’s heart he united a woman’s gentleness—the soldier followed him through love—his rivals admired and praised him. Why did he not die in the blaze of battle, where the noblest soldiers upon earth contended for a doubtful victory?—Why did not his glorious spirit wing its flight “from cumbring clay,” in that wild mountain pass, in which it gained its immortally?—Why, on “red Waterloo” did he not find a lifting grave? Alas! it was otherwise appointed and one of the noblest soldiers whom Britain ever claimed, perished by an ignoble hand. *
The middle of May found the allies, in perfect unity of purpose and admirable efficiency, ready to open the campaign, and orders had been already transmitted to General Murray and the Spanish commanders on the eastern coast, to commence initial operations. Gradually, and in a manner not to occasion alarm in the French cantonments; the allied divisions were concentrated and advanced, and the supporting Spanish corps were put in march to co-operate. Bad weather, heavy rains, and an accident to the pontoon-train, delayed the opening of the campaign. It was but for a few days. On the 16th, Graham threw his infantry and artillery across the Douero: Hill moved forward to Bejar; and on the 22d, Lord Wellington marched with his right wing towards the Tonnes; and the practicability of the noblest conception that ever a great military genius matured, was now to be proven. “A grand design,” and grandly it was executed! For high in heart and strong of hand, Wellington’s veterans marched to the encounter; the glories of twelve victories played about their bayonets; and he, the leader, so proud and confident, that in passing the stream which marks the frontier of Spain, he rose in his stirrups, and waving his hand, cried out—“Farewell, Portugal!” **