“If I begin the battery once again,
I will not leave the half-achieved Harfleur,
Till in her ashes she lie buried.”
King Henry V.
The exultation of the French garrison at the reported victories which had crowned the efforts of Soult for the relief of Pampeluna was but a short-lived triumph—for an attempt vauntingly commenced, and certainly very gallantly carried out, had been signally defeated.
Picton, followed closely by Soult, had retreated through the valley of the Zuberi before day-break. On nearing Pampeluna, the English general found that the fourth division had already passed Villalba; the garrison of Pampeluna had sallied and spiked a battery—the blockading Spaniards were in terrible confusion—and every thing bore the appearance of disaster. With a stern hardihood, which formed the best point in Picton’s military character, he determined at once to turn and offer battle to the pursuers—and accordingly, formed in battle order upon the ridges of Miguel, Escova, and Christoval; thus masking the fortress he came to relieve from Soult’s view as he issued from the valley of the Zuberi.
The French marshal felt little doubt that the object of his previous efforts was now about to be realized. Within two leagues of Pampeluna he followed a retiring army, and in another hour would be in communication with that fortress. What, then, was his surprise, when on emerging from the valley, he found the third division and Morillo’s Spaniards in position on the bold and rocky chain rising in front of Huarte, and Cole more immediately advanced, in possession of the heights near Zabaldica which command the Huarte road? Hastily he adopted and executed a bold movement to form a line of battle; but, while that was in progress, another and a greater actor appeared suddenly upon the stage; and when he came, the tide of Soult’s fortune turned, and defeat followed in his footsteps.
On quitting the Bastan on the 27th, Lord Wellington learned at Ostiz, that Picton had retired on Pampeluna, and, riding at speed to Sauroren, he perceived Clausel’s divisions in full march, and with an eagle-glance discovered from the direction taken by the French columns, that the allied movement through the Lanz must certainly be intercepted. There was not a moment to be lost; an order was despatched that the troops should move bodily by the right towards Oricain, a village nearly in the rear of the mountain position taken up by Sir Lowry Cole.
In issuing this hurried order, one of war’s romantic incidents occurred. The despatch was written on the parapet of the bridge; and as the staff-officer who carried it, rode out of one extremity of the village, the French cavalry galloped in at the other; while the allied commander dashed quickly up the hill, and joined the allied troops who held it. His appearance was sudden, unexpected, and electrical. A Portuguese battalion raised an exulting cheer—the name of Wellington! passed from regiment to regiment, accompanied by a thundering huzza; while, by a strange coincidence, Soult was at the moment so immediately in front, that the rival commanders were pointed out distinctly to each other. The evening passed without any striking effort. Soult examined the allied position under the fire of his light troops—a thunder-storm ended the skirmish, and both sides determined on a trial of skill and strength to-morrow.
The 28th, a day ever memorable in peninsular history, found both sides prepared for action. Soult, intending to crush the left of the fourth division, and ignorant of the march of the sixth, made dispositions to enable him to attack Cole’s left and front together, while Reille, at the same time, should carry the height held by the Spaniards and the British 40th. The former effort turned out a fatal experiment; and the blow intended to crush the allied brigade before it could be assisted met with a tremendous counter-stroke. “Striving to encompass the left of the allies, the French were themselves encompassed.” Suddenly a Portuguese brigade appeared upon their right; the sixth division showed itself as unexpectedly in front; the fourth turned fiercely on their left; and, scourged at the same time by a front and flanking fire, the French columns were driven back, men falling fast on both sides; for the French fought desperately, but in vain.
The struggle for the mountain produced still bloodier combats. A hermita crowned the height, and the chapel was held by a regiment of Portuguese Caçadores. Against it a column issued from Sauroren, and, heedless of a sweeping fire that fell upon it with deadly violence, as in close order it steadily pushed up the hill, the ridge was crowned, and the Caçadores obliged to abandon the hermita. But Ross’s brigade were at hand, and with a headlong charge the heights were cleared, and the chapel recovered with the bayonet. A second time the French rallied, advanced, and were repulsed—but other columns were coming into action. The right flank of Ross’s brigade became exposed—for a Portuguese battalion gave way—a heavy column of the enemy pressed on, and the British regiments retired for a time, but was only to return more fiercely to the attack. “Charge succeeded charge, and each side yielded and recovered by turns.” At that moment, Byng’s brigade rapidly advanced; while two noble regiments of Anson’s—the 27th and 48th—rushed from the centre, bore down everything before them, and the French were literally pushed down the heights by close and murderous fighting, which Wellington termed “bludgeon work.” On the hill occupied the 40th and Spaniards, Reille’s attack had failed for, although the regiment of El Pravia gwe way, flanked by a Portuguese battalion, the 40th held its ground immovably. Four times the French topped the height—four times they were pushed down by the bayonet; each charge heralded by a cheer, and each repulse bloodier than the preceding one; until, at last, strength and spirit equally exhausted, they refused to follow their officers and gave up the trial in despair.
The 29th passed quietly—both sides required rest—and to each some time was necessary to get their dispersed brigades again together. Not a shot was interchanged that day; but never did a more ominous tranquillity forerun the hurricane of war. It was now evident that all idea of re-entering Spain must be abandoned. The front displayed by Lord Wellington was not to be forced; and the French cavalry and artillery—only encumbrances in a mountain-country—were ordered to fall back and retire to the Bidassao. While waiting for D’Erlon to come up, Soult received intelligence which induced him to change his original plans, and he determined to throw himself between the allies and the valley of the Bastan, thus securing a close communication with the French frontier, and falling back on his reserves, while, by a bold and well-combined movement, he might fortunately effect one great object of his advance into the passes of the Pyrenees,—the relief of San Sebastian.
Although unhappily non-combatant, still the operations of the contending armies which, day after day were severely engaged, or placed in the immediate presence of each other, to us were of absorbing interest. The first reports that reached the fortress were sadly disheartening; but on the fourth morning, a striking alteration was visible on the countenance of our friend Cammaran, when he called to announce “tidings from the host.” His mercurial temperament, yesterday in the very ascendant of fever heat, had sank almost to zero, and it was very amusing to observe the ingenuity with which, while admitting stubborn facts, he still endeavoured to apply palliatives to his disappointment—
“Ah—sacre! what a country to operate in! Legs were of no use among those accursed Pyrenees,—men should have wings. What splendid combinations were those of the Emperor’s lieutenant! Only for broken roads, ruined bridges, infernal gullies, and inaccessible mountains, the Duc’s movement would have been a march of victory. He would have been at Vittoria on the 16th.”
“Pshaw!” I said, breaking in on the detail with a laugh—“He would never be contented to stop there. Why not push for Madrid at once?”
“Ah, you smile,” my friend replied Cammaran, with a sigh. “But, peste! the d——d fogs confused the general movements. One division went astray—another was obliged to halt—columns marching over precipices could not keep time. Ah! those accidents saved my Lord Wellington; the delay enabled him to collect his scattered corps, and when the Marshal cleared those infernal valleys and defiles with scarcely half the corps d’armée disposable, there—Sacre Dieu! was your general in front of Pampeluna with all his divisions up and in position!”—
“And honest Jack Soult discovered that all his magnificent combinations and previous success, had ended in his catching a Tartar!—Ah! Cammaran, I feel for you, my poor friend. But out with it at once—or I’ll compassionately do it for you. The upshot is, you have got a confounded thrashing”—
“No—no—no;” exclaimed the Voltigeur. “The plan of operations is only changed—”
“And the Emperor’s lieutenant has postponed the birth-day entertainment; and, in place of resting on the Zodorra, he will be over the Bidassao in a day or two. Well, I can feel for you. But custom reconciles people to contingencies; and latterly you have been so regularly beaten that it is a novelty no longer.”
The Voltigeur smiled, shrugged his shoulders, pleaded duty in excuse for a brief visit, and hurried away—I suspect to avoid my badinage, which, at the time, was anything but agreeable.
Indeed, judging from the scanty information I received, the deductions I had drawn of ulterior consequences proved correct. As yet the French Marshal had only witnessed the complete miscarriage of all he had designed and hoped for: but now, the penalty of the failure was about to be exacted.
In pursuance of his altered plans, on entering the valley of Ulzema, where he overtook D’Erlon, who had already reached it at the head of five divisions, and with a sixth (Martinier’s) in his rear, the French. Marshal instantly determined to crush the corps under Sir Rowland Hill posted on the ridge of Buenza. All was in his favour—the allies were scarcely half his strength, and the left of their position was vulnerable. The attack was fiercely made, as fiercely repulsed, and every effort against the allied flanks was unsuccessful. Finally, numbers enabled the French marshal to turn the position: but Hill steadily retired on Equaros, and there, joined by Campbell’s Portuguese brigade and Morillo’s Spaniards, he again boldly stood his ground and offered battle. But Soult declined an action—and, contented with having gained the Isurzun road, he determined to force his way to San Sebastian; but it was decreed that, like Pampeluna, the fortress on the Urumea should be abandoned to its fate.
Wellington had penetrated the designs of his able opponent, and, with characteristic decision, prepared to meet them with a counterstroke. With him, to decide and execute were synonymous; and in the second conflict at Sauroren, the intended blow was hewily delivered. It will be enough to say that, in the conflicts which ensued, the French were completely beaten. On the allied side the loss of men was heavy in killed and wounded, amounting to eighteen hundred. On the French it was enormous—two divisions—those of Maucune and Couroux were almost destroyed—the general disorganization was complete—Foy cut off from the main body altogether—three-thousand men were prisoners—and nearly as many more rendered hors de combat. It was not the severe losses he had sustained which alone embarrassed the French commander. The allies everywhere were gathering around him in strength—his troops were overmarched and dispirited—his position untenable—all idea of advancing on San Sebastian abandoned—and the only door open for retreat was to gain the pass of Dona Maria, and by forced marches fall back on San Estevan. Accordingly, at midnight, his troops were put in motion to reach this dangerous defile, and thence, by ascending or descending the Bidassao, regain the French frontier. How painful this retrogressive movement must have been, may well be fancied. Now “the leader of a broken host,” and smarting the more keenly from defeat, because he had too presumptuously affirmed a certainty of success, and assured his troops of victory.
Nothing could be more critical than Soult’s position; and while Wellington supposed that he intended entering the Bastan by the pass of Villate, the French marshal was too close to Buenza to hazard a retreat by the valley of the Lanz. Indeed, his situation was so dangerous, that a less determined commander might have despaired. His only means of egress from these mountains was by a long and perilous defile leading to an Alpine bridge, and both were overlooked by towering precipices; while, from holding a shorter and easier line of march, the chances were considerable that Wellington would anticipate his movements, and reach Elizondo—Graham seize Yanzi before he could arrive there—Hill fall on his flanks and rear, if obliged, as he should be in these events, to take the route of Zagaramundi—and, in the end, even if he fought his way to Urdax, he might find that position preoccupied, and his retreat finally intercepted. Fortune averted the great calamity; but still safety was to be purchased at a heavy sacrifice.
As he had dreaded, Soult’s rear-guard was overtaken near Lizasso—was attacked—defeated—and saved only by a fog which opportunely covered a hurried retreat. At Elizondo a large convoy with its guard was captured; but the crowning misfortune was impending, when, ignorant of Lord Wellington’s proximity, Soult halted in the valley of San Estevan. Behind the ridges which overlook the town four allied divisions were halted—the seventh held the mountain of Dona Maria—the light, with a Spanish division, were in hasty march to seize the passes at Vera and Echallar.—Byng had reached Maya, and Hill was moving on Almandon. Every arrangement to enclose the retreating army was complete, and never, in military calculations, was the destruction of an enemy more certain, than that which awaited Soult. Unconscious of his danger, the French marshal gave no indications of alarm. With him, there was no appearances to excite suspicion,—no watch-fire indicated the presence of an enemy—no scouting-party was seen upon the heights. Two hours more, and the fate of the Emperor’s lieutenant would have been sealed, when one of those trifling incidents occurred, which in war will render the most studied and scientific efforts unwailing, and extricate from perilous results, those who have dared too much, but to whom despair is happily a stranger. Possibly, in the varied fortunes of a life “crowded with events,” never did accident tax the Great Captain’s philosophy more severely.
Unseen himself, Wellington with an eagle’s glance watched from a height the progress of his combinations. The quarry in the valley rested in false security, even when the falcon on the rock was pluming his feathers and preparing for a fatal stoop. A few French horsemen carelessly patroled the hollow, and although a hundred eyes were turned upon them, they saw nothing which could betray the presence of an enemy or excite alarm. At that moment three plunderers crossed their path. They were seized, carried off; presently the alarm was beaten, and in a few minutes the French columns were under arms and in full retreat: and “Thus,” to quote Napier’s words, “the disobedience of these plundering knaves, unworthy of the name of soldiers, deprived our consummate commander of the most splendid success, and saved another from the most terrible disaster.”
Although its total déroute was narrowly werted, no army suffered for a time more severely than the retiring columns of the French. Cumbered with baggage, embarrassed with the transport of the wounded, confined to a strait and difficult mountain-road, no wonder that the whole mass of fighting and disabled men were occasionally in terrible confusion. The light troops of the fourth division appeared upon their right flank, and, moving by a parallel line, maintained a teasing fusilade. The bridge leading to that of Yanzi was strongly occupied by a battalion of Spanish sharp-shooters. D’Erlon, profiting by the inaction of Longa and Bareenas, forced the pass; but Reille was not so fortunate. The light division, by an unequalled exertion, crossed forty miles of mountain-country by one incessant march; and they had already crowned the summit of the precipice which overhangs the pass to Yanzi at the perilous moment when Reille’s exhausted column was struggling through the “deep defile.” Never was a worn-out enemy placed in a more terrible position. On one side, a deep river with rugged banks; on the other, an inaccessible precipice, topped by an enemy secure from everything but the uncertain effect of vertical fire. The scene which ensued was frightful. Disabled men were thrown down, deserted, and ridden over. The feeble return to the British musquetry produced no reaction. The bridge of Yanzi could not be forced; and night came opportunely, permitting the harassed column to escape by the road of Echallar, leaving, however, the wounded and the baggage to the victors.
The last struggle was at hand. Soult, with an indomitable courage which even in defeat established his military superiority, by powerful and personal exertions, rallied his broken troops, and once more formed in order of battle on the Puerto of Echallar, with Clausel’s diminished corps in advance on a contiguous height. But that stand gave but a breathing-time. Two British divisions were already pushed on to re-occupy Roncesvalles and Alduides—Byng was at Fadax, Hill on the Col de Maya—and the light, fourth, and seventh divisions in hand, and ready to fall on.
The affairs which followed were very singular, and mark the moral effect which success and disaster exercise upon the best soldiers in their turn. The light division was pointed on Santa Barbara to turn the right of the enemy, the fourth were desired to make a front attack by Echallar, and the seventh moved from Sumbilla to operate against Soult’s left. Outmarching the supporting columns, Harness brigade, boldly assailed the strong ridges occupied by Clausel’s division: and, with a daring courage worthy of the good fortune which crowned it, actually drove from its mountain-position a corps of four-fold numbers to his own. It is true that Clausel’s troops had been beaten, overmarched, and dispirited. Already they had been thrice bloodily defeated; but that six thousand tried and gallant soldiers should be forced from a rugged height by a brigade not exceeding sixteen hundred bayonets, is an anomaly in war which seems difficult to resolve to common causes.
The last affair was that of Ivantelly. On that strong mountain the French rear-guard had taken its stand, and although evening had set in, the soldiers fasted two days, and a mist obscured the heights, the light troops mounted the rugged front and drove the enemy from that, the last ridge, which, in the course of nine days’ operations, had been assailed or defended.
In the course of those sanguinary and continued combats, known by the general designation of the Battles of the Pyrenees, the Allies lost seven thousand hors de combat. The French casualties were infinitely greater; and a moderate estimate, framed from the most impartial statements, raises it to the fatal amount of fifteen thousand men.
It was with feelings of unqualified delight I listened to Cammaran’s doleful admission that Soult was over the Bidassao, and the battering guns, which, under an alarm, had been embarked at Passages, had been again re-landed, and the siege was to commence again. Sufficient proof of this intention was quickly manifested, for the trenches were repaired, San Bartolomeo armed anew, and the convent of Antigua furnished with heavy guns to sweep the beach and bay, if necessary.
Whatever might have been the feelings of the governor and his garrison when the tidings of Soult’s failure were confirmed, still, like gallant soldiers, they showed no lack of confidence in themselves, but redoubled, their exertions to increase all the means within their power of defence, and repel the second assault as effectually as they had repulsed the former one. On the anniversary of the Emperor’s birth, the inhabitants of the city and the troops who invested it, were apprised of the event by frequent salvos of artillery; and when night came, the castle exhibited a splendid illumination, surmounted by a brilliant legend, “Vive Napoleon le grand!” visible distinctly at the distance of a league.
On the 19th, the long-expected siege-train arrived from England, and on the 22nd, fifteen heavy guns were placed in battery. On the 23rd another train was landed. On the 25th all the batteries were armed and reported ready to commence their fire; and on the 26th fifty-seven pieces opened with a thundering crash, and in one unabated roar played on the devoted city, until darkness rendered the practice uncertain and ended this deafening cannonade.
The result of the siege was what might have been anticipated, when Wellington, with adequate means, had issued his order that the place should fall. On the morning of the 31st the assault was delivered, and after a long, bloody, and doubtful struggle, the fortress was carried.
Would that with the fall of that well-defended city the sad detail of “siege and slaughter” closed! “At Ciudad Rodrigo intoxication and plunder had been the principal object; at Badajoz, lust and murder were joined to rapine and drunkenness; but at San Sebastian the direst, the most revolting cruelty was added to the catalogue of crimes.” * Thank God! from witnessing that horrid scene, the fosterer and I were exempted. In accordance with Mark Antony’s advice, I had determined to give General Key “leg-bail” and on the night of the 27th, Dame Fortune behaving towards us like a real gentlewoman, we contrived to get clear of San Sebastian before our friends the besiegers could manage to get in.
But that event, in this my hurried but “eventful history,” requires another chapter.
“Arthur. Mercy on me!
Methinks, nobody should be sad but I; .
* * * By my Christendom,
So I were out of prison, and kept sheep,
I would be as merry as the day is long.”
King John.
Nearly a month had passed—a month of dreary captivity. It is true there was not a prisoner within the walls of San Sebastian who had less reason to complain, but still I felt myself a prisoner. Cammaran. as far as means allowed, anticipated every want. I was under no surveillance—the city was open to me—I wandered where I pleased—and every sentry I passed saluted me. The voltigeur was a general favourite,—the story of his deliverance had been told in the garrison, and even with more romance than had attended it; and every French soldier we passed pointed out the fosterer and myself as the preservers of a gallant comrade. If we met a group of officers, the moniteur, the cigar-case, or the snuff-box were hospitably presented to me; and could Mark Antony have drank “pottle deep,” he had only to turn into a French guard-house, and every flask it contained would have been placed at his disposal.
Such were my relations with the enemy; but the bearing of my host was sometimes hard to understand. It was professedly kind; but the manner was forced, and repulsive. His habits were retired—no overture to intimacy had been made—beyond the detached portion of his mansion where I had been located at the first, the rest of his domicile was to me a terra incognita. Of his establishment I had never seen but two—a particularly dark-visaged youth, with a cutthroat cast of countenance, and a woman of seventy who was deaf, or pretended to be deaf. Still, our wants wire carefully attended to, and at times Senhor Francisco asked after my health in a tone of voice that would lead a person to imagine the man was sincere in the inquiry.
“Upon my conscience,” observed the fosterer, as he presented himself one morning at my bed-side, “I have a fancy this house isn’t over good. If banshees played upon the fiddle, I would swear that I heard one these three last nights in the garden that we see behind the window of my room. Arrah—do you think the place was formerly a madhouse? Except Newgate—and, blessed be God, I can only spake of it from description, the devil a such a place for locks and bolts I was ever in before. Has the ould gentleman, do ye think, much money? Every window barred up like a watchhouse—but they would require, for all that, to be looked over, for I have managed to remove two of mine,—and if I live till to-night, I’ll have a walk in the garden.”
“No—no—Mark; that will never do. We must not intrude upon Don Francisco. He may have some secret to conceal.”
“Troth! and ye’r right,” returned the fosterer. “May be he has a private still at work, or does a little in the coining. But, faith, no matter—I’ll have a peep to-night. But if he’s forging notes, or making bad dollars, what can he want with the music?”
“Music!” I repeated.
“Yes; I hear a guitar every night, and two nights ago saw something very like a ghost—”
“Or rather very like your grandmother”—and I burst into a loud laugh.
“Oh—I knew you would make fun of me. Well—no matter. She was the height of Serjeant Antony, and he’s six-feet-six without his shoes—and as white as your own shirt—not, in truth, that that’s anything remarkable, for worse washerwomen than we meet with here you could hardly find if you were on the look-out for a fortnight. But there’s no use in talking. There’s a tall white woman parades the garden; and if I live till the old Don is fast asleep, I’ll be through the window, if I break my neck.”
I confess, that although I could not listen without a smile, to Mark Antony’s description of the lady-like spectre that honoured the garden with her presence, and then and there discoursed “most eloquent music;” I felt, notwithstanding, a more than common curiosity on the subject,—and while I reprobated the fosterer’s removal of the bars which obstructed his communication with the spot she haunted, as an act but slightly removed from burglary itself, still my scruples were easily overcome when he proposed that I should keep watch with him that night. The retreat was beaten in the fortress—supper-hour came—the host, as usual, presented himself, to make inquiry whether aught was wanted that had not been already provided—and then, after wishing us “Good night,” we saw him secure his gate, and retire to that portion of his premises, from which, with all the jealous reserve observed in an Eastern harem, we had been, as we were pleased to call it, inhospitably excluded.
“Well,” said Mark Antony, “I suppose the man intends to be civil, but he has the quarest way of showing it. Although it’s his own wine we’re drinking, the divil a drop he would ever take in company. Give me that Empecinado, after all! God forgive me! I did’nt value him at the time, as I should have done. What, though he had an offhand way of shooting Frenchmen and hanging justices of the peace, the moment the job was over he was as pleasant a gentleman as ever stretched a boot under mahogany, But as to this dark-looking divil—why, we’re here well on to a month, and he was never the person to say, ‘Mister O’Toole, have ye a mouth upon ye?’”
An hour passed—we finished a second flask of the surly Spaniard’s montilano—and the fosterer proposed, that while we apparently retired for the night we should extinguish the lamps, and then commence our vigil.
It was accordingly done—and, gliding into Mark Antony’s dormitory, we began our “watch and ward.”
An unbroken stillness permitted the slightest sound to be heard distinctly; and we therefore conversed in whispers. The contrast that night in San Sebastian presented to the day, was singularly imposing. The deafening roar of the allied batteries had ceased, and the city was wrapt in a calm but ominous tranquillity. Too distant from the breaches, we did not hear the working-parties, who sedulously employed the hours of darkness in erecting new defences, and restoring others which the daily fire of the besiegers had destroyed. Another hour passed—no guitar was heard—no sprite “wicked or charitable,’’ flitted past the casement. We heard the reliefs go round—the sentries changed—and all again was silent.
“All—Mark!—Mark!” I whispered in the fosterer’s ear—“The senhor’s montilano has been uppermost in your brain, I fancy, on these same night* when this musical apparition was afoot. Are you sure that your imaginary guitar was anything but wind whistling through the window?”
“By all the crosses in a highlandman’s kilt, the music I heard,” returned the fosterer; “but whether it was a guitar or a fiddle I’ll not take on me to swear. Stop—hush!—Holy Mary! If that’s not music, the divil an ear has Mark Antony!”
The fosterer was right. It was the distant tinkle of a stringed instrument—and at times I fancied that I heard voices talking in suppressed tones, and in the direction of that part of the building which senhor La Pablos had reserved so exclusively to himself.
“Now, Hector,” said the fosterer, “maybe you’ll call me drunk after this? What’s to be done? ‘Pon my conscience, I think Mister Pablos is anything but neighbourly, with his tea-party every evening, and not say to people who have done him the honour to take up their quarters in his house, Mr. O’Halloran, will you, and that young gentleman along with you, meaning myself, step over, in the family way, and take share of what we have?”
“Why, then, upon my soul, I think it is, Mark!” was my reply.
“Then I may as well take the loose bars out?” said the fosterer, suiting the action to the word—and before I could put in a feeble remonstrance, he established an aperture in the casement, through which any one of slighter dimensions than a common-councilman could easily slip out. “Hush!—the guitar again!”
“Ay—and by Saint Patrick! some company to listen to it!—Oh! the divil a one of me will remain longer without hwing a peep at the party, if I can.”—And as he spoke, the fosterer popped through the casement, and—I lament to make the confession—next moment I was after him.
We found ourselves in a small garden thickly planted with shrubs and fruit-trees, and encompassed by a lofty wall; several narrow walks intersected it, and the termination of one was bounded by a wing of the Spaniard’s domicile. Through a chink in the shutters, a stream of light escaped; and thither the fosterer moved silently, I bringing up the rear.
There was no doubt that from this apartment the voices and the music had proceeded which we heard in the fosterer’s dormitory. I peeped in. A party was grouped about a table covered with game, fruit, and wine—and a lamp, suspended from the centre of the ceiling, enabled us to examine the company.
Five men were seated round the board, which was also graced by the presence of two personages of the softer sex. I never saw a party collected at a supper table whose appearances and pursuits were evidently so opposite. A burly monk sat directly in front of the treacherous fissure in the window-shutter. He was of no ascetic order; but a Christian man, on whom good fare was not thrown away; and, even if the lamp went out by accident, one on whose honour you could place reliance, and drink with in the dark. Two others of the party wore the costume, and had the general air, of Spanish traders. The fourth was a man of wild and formidable exterior; his arms, his dress, his bearing, all betrayed that his was no peaceable profession—and Mark Antony hinted, in a whisper, “that if the Empecinado had a brother in the world the dark gentleman with the pistols was the person, and no mistake.” The fifth was an English seaman—at least his costume and carriage would infer it. He seemed a fine athletic man, and, though his back was turned to the casement, the fosterer observed in an under-tone, that the sailor would thrash the company collectively.
In years and appearance the females were still more dissimilar than the men. One well advanced in life was tall, slight, deeply pockmarked, and generally forbidding. The other—she sate beside the priest—had scarcely numbered twenty summers, and on a lovelier face, a finer form, the eyes of two interloping Irishmen never peeped through a split in a window-shutter. “Och! murder!” ejaculated Mark Antony, sotto voce—“That’s the Ghost—and is’nt she a darling?”
One seat was unoccupied. To whom did it appertain? Our host, no doubt, and wherefore was he absent?
“What an ould troublesome thief he is!” whispered Mark Antony, pointing to the vacant chair. “Where the divil do ye think he’s scouting to? when every body’s asleep or better employed, as they are within. I only wish that we were of the company—Isn’t it a comfort to see his reverence set such an elegant example? How beautifully he raises his elbow—that’s what I call honour bright! No skylights, and he fills to the top every time the bottle passes him.”
“Hush! I thought I heard something move behind us.”’
“Well, upon my soul, I fancied, myself, that I heard a rustle in the bushes,” returned the fosterer—“If old surly is on the ramble, and drop upon us unawares, what a pretty figure we should cut!”
“Come, Mark, let us return to our old quarters; we risk the unpleasant consequences attendant on discovery, without any object to be found—”
“See—the sailor rises!—and the sooner we’re off the better. May God bless that pretty face of her’s—if I could not stop here all night to look at it; but, come along.”
We retired as quietly as we had advanced—the fosterer leading the retreat. No sound occasioned alarm—no ghost of Patagonian proportions crossed our path. We reached the lattice through which we had invaded Don Francisco’s garden. Mark Antony pepped his head and shoulders through the aperture; but never did a man withdraw both more rapidly. A dark-visaged Spaniard pointed a pistol from within, while, without, a person immediately at our elbow, in a low, but peremptory voice, ordered us “to stand.” The tones were perfectly familiar; indeed, there was no doubt touching the identity of the speaker, for Senhor La Pablos stepped from behind one of the thick shrubs.
“So, gentlemen,” he commenced, while every word came hissing ironically from between his teeth—“Methought it was only Englishmen who were forced upon my unwilling hospitality. I was mistaken, it would seem, and appearances favoured the deception. I believed my house; was occupied by men of honour; but I have harboured French spies, it would appear.”
“Oh—stop—Mister Pablos, if you plase,” exclaimed the fosterer, “divil a bigger mistake ye ever made in yer life. Arrah—what puts that into yer head?”
“I judge men not by their assertions, but their acts,” returned the Spaniard coldly—
“Senhor,” I said, addressing the angry host, “you certainly have reason to question the motives of our midnight intrusion; but I declare, upon the honour of a British officer, it was entirely a silly trespass—one that I cannot justify, but one from which, towards you, no mischief was designed. Let it be overlooked, and I promise, that while we remain beneath your roof, we will confine ourselves to whatever portion of your premises it may be your pleasure to restrain us.”
“Captain O’llalloran,” returned the Spaniard, coldly, “whatever your intentions may have been, your conduct warrants me to draw very different conclusions than the motives you have been pleased to assign. The safety of myself—-my family—those who are connected with me—all require me to guard against treachery. True, it has rarely come concealed beneath an English uniform—and, I am half persuaded, you harboured no evil against me and mine; but you came here under a suspicious introduction. I am a devoted man, and now completely in your power. You have seen too much—and yet too little. In one brief sentence I speak your doom—a stern necessity compels me to be severe—cruel—if it please ye better. One course alone remains to be pursued; I must secure myself, my friends, my wife.”
“That’s her I took for the ghost,” said the fosterer, apart—“and the divil a foot I would have put into the garden but for the same lady.”
“Hush! Proceed, sir,” I answered.
“Nothing can make us safe, but death or deportation. Walk with me, sirs. ‘Twere idle to remonstrate here, or to refuse obedience to my order”—and, with the perfect confidence that he had made no statement which he could not effectually support, the Spaniard stalked on, and the fosterer and I followed.
“Well—Mr. O’Toole,” I said, as, like two convicted culprits, we sullenly retraced our steps. “A pretty kettle of fish you have made of it!”
“Oh!”—groaned the fosterer—“the game’s up. The curse of Cromwell light upon the country! Is’nt it hard that a man can’t slip out of a window to take a little air without having his throat cut?”
As he spoke we reached the extremity of the garden. La Pablos unclosed a door. We entered the same chamber where, two or three minutes since, we had witnessed a scene of social comfort. There the remnant of the supper stood—but the company were gone, and their places had been filled by personages of a very different, and a very dangerous exterior.
It was hard to define their appearance. Their garb was that of mariners; in all besides, they looked banditti. My impression was not singular,—for the fosterer, in a whisper, declared that, “compared with these villains, the guerillas were regular gentlemen.” All were armed—and I should say, there was not a member of this respectable community, who, like Friar Tuck, would hesitate on resorting to the “carnal weapon,” were it needed.
Our trial was shorter, even, than a drum-head court martial. Senhor Francisco stated the offence, and then simply inquired what the safety of the commonwealth demanded. The twelve judges were never so unanimous. In the multitude of counsellors there was but one opinion—and that, though differently expressed, resolved itself into one pithy adage, namely—that “dead men tell no tales.”
From the apparent character of those around me, I certainly considered that I should be defunct to a moral before morning; but Mark Antony boldly demurred to the sentence: and put forward the reasons why death and execution should be stayed; but as the fosterer’s plea involved a confused story about ghosts and music, I question whether it would have carried an overwhelming conviction of our innocence to the dread tribunal before whom we stood. As it turned out, however, we were not on the verge of death, but, happily, on the eve of deliverance—and in a brief space, the colour of our fortunes changed.
While the senhor was listening, and with marked incredulity, to the fosterer’s defence, a noise was heard without, and the personage who bore the appearance of an English seaman, but who, from his position at the table had eluded our former espionage, burst suddenly into the apartment.
“What the devil is all this I hear about spies, and land-loupers?” he exclaimed. “Are these the chaps?—Egad—this here one,” and he pointed to me, “looks too honest to play traitor. But, what!—Do my eyes deceive me?—why, dash my buttons—it can’t be possible—but it is—an old messmate by heaven! What, Mark—am I so changed, that William Rawlings is forgotten?”
It was indeed the brother of the fosterer’s mistress; and the next moment, like Homer’s heroes, their hands were locked together, and the pleasure of an unexpected meeting, was expressed in sea parlance on the one part, and an eloquent admixture of English and Irish on the other, which must have been perfectly unintelligible to the auditory, as I could but partially comprehend it.
With the host, a brief conversation put matters in excellent train. As regarded felonious designs, we received an honourable acquittal; and better far, the welcome assurance was made, that before two suns rose, if luck were on our side, we should be clear of the fortress and free as the ocean-bird itself.
We returned to our own apartments, accompanied by William Rawlings. The senhor was full of mystery and business; and, I presume, the gentlemen of the spado school were equally engaged; and, consequently, from the sailor we learned the particulars not only of our host’s domestic relations, but, what was of more importance, the means and the probability of effecting an immediate escape.
Senhor La Pablos, it appeared, was a contrabandista, and did business on a most extensive scale. His principles were neither considered particularly nice, nor was he a patriot of the purest water; albeit, he hated the French with an intensity which Dr. Johnson himself would have admired. The senhor’s antipathy to the invaders, arose rather from private than from public considerations. He had acquired much wealth as honestly as smugglers generally do, and, year after year, the invading commanders laid him under heavy contributions, and obliged him to disgorge extensively. Senhor La Pablos had also been blessed with a very young and a very pretty help-mate; and on a short excursion to the frontier in the course of business, on his return he received the unwelcome intelligence that the lady of his love had levanted the second day after he had bidden her a tender, but as he, “good easy man,” believed, only a temporary adieu. He had replaced her loss as speedily as it could be effected—and as the successor of the lost one was equally fair, and might prove, “alas! for womankind” equally frail, he secluded her as much as possible from common gaze; and, certainly, he had never intended that we, during our brief sojourn in his hospitable mansion, should have been introduced to the family circle. “But now for more important matters,” said the sailor; “it would waste time to tell you by what course of events I got connected with these contrabandistas, and shut up for the last month in this confounded fortress. I think escape tolerably secure—but could we but command one hundred dollars, it were certain. These Spanish smugglers are cold, calculating scoundrels—every movement is made for a mercenary object—but if they receive the consideration for their services, they are proverbially faithful, even to death itself, in a punctual performance of what they have undertaken.”
“How unfortunate!” I exclaimed. “Thrice the sum required is lying with my baggage outside, and all I am at present master of is this valueless ring, and a holy keepsake from my lady mother. Would your friends, Rawlings, deal in relics of marvellous value? for I doubt not that this I bear upon me is such.”
The sailor smiled.
“They are true Catholics, I have no doubt; but I fancy they would prefer plain silver after all.”
“Blessed Mary!” said the fosterer, “I wonder where the old lady got this charm,” for I had drawn my mother’s amulet from my bosom. “She told you,” he continued, “never to open it.”
“Oh, no, Mark, I was directed when necessity pressed me, to use a free discretion.”
“Why, then,” returned the fosterer, “we will never be in a greater mess, Mark. Open it, Hector, dear! Not that I believe in charms, although I remember an old man at home that would cure cows when they were fairly given over by the smith.”
“Well, Mark, your curiosity shall be gratified.” I opened the silken envelope, unfolded a sealed paper—no relic was there—but, what answered our present necessities far better—an English bank note for fifty pounds.
“Ah—long life to her ladyship!—wasn’t she considerate?” exclaimed Mark Antony. “Talk of relics—isn’t that a beautiful one!”
“But will it answer our purposes, Rawlings?” I inquired.
“Senhor La Pablos would tell you not; but you will see how soon he will discover more dollars than we require, and take his chance. But no time must be lost—‘tis past midnight;—and within three hours we must succeed or fail. Get ready. When the time comes for the trial, minutes may crown or mar it,” he said—left us to ourselves:—and while the fosterer made up a change of linen, I sate down, and conveyed, my parting adieus to my friend the voltigeur.
Rawlings was not long away. He returned, having completed every arrangement, as he said,—and the following night was named as that on which we should make the attempt that would ensure our liberty, or rivet our fetters if we failed. The fosterer and I retired, but not to sleep; and we were early afoot, and waiting for some more intelligence from the honest sailor regarding our nocturnal enterprise, when the captain of voltigeurs, as was his custom, dropped in to make his morning inquiries.
“Am I to congratulate or condole?” said Captain Cammaran, when he made his morning call. “You are pronounced fit for service by the surgeon; my parole consequently has expired—and no doubt you will be required in a day or two to interchange it for your own.”
“I won’t give it,” I returned.
‘“You are wrong, my friend,” replied the voltigeur: “nothing can result from your refusal but personal annoyance. You will be sent into La Mota, and, I regret to say, there the prisoners are miserably inconvenienced. Think of it well, O’Halloran; escape from the fortress is nearly hopeless; why, then, add to the desaremens of captivity? Courage!—an application has already been made in your fwour: why not, at least, wait patiently until an answer is returned by the minister of war?”
“My dear Cammaran,” I replied, “the reasons why I should not be patient are manifold. In the first place. I am in love, and wish to return home; in the second place, I am sick of San Sebastian, and very weary of contemplating the surly features of my host Senhor La Pablos, agreeably diversified, it is true, with an occasional visit from an old Leonora, deaf as a door-post, and the attentions of an interesting male attendant, who, if he be not hanged within a twelvemonth, why I’ll forswear physiognomy for ever.”
“Oh! indeed, and you’ll have no occasion,” observed Mark Antony: “the gallows is written in his face, and, as they say in Connaught,—Master Pedro is sure ‘to spoil a market.’”
“Bah! my good friend, I have a remedy for all,” returned Cammaran; “one poison neutralizes another—you must find another mistress: and if you are tired of your quarters, why we can look out for others which may prove more agreeable.”
I shook my head.
“Well—well—don’t refuse rashly. Tell them you will consider it for a day or two—and trust to the soldier’s best dependence,—you call it, happily, in English,—‘the chapter of accidents.’ Farewell!—I will call early to-morrow.”
“And the birds will be flown,” added the fosterer, as Cammaran closed the door and bade us, as we then believed, “a last good morrow.”
I never felt so impatiently as on that last day when I remained a prisoner in San Sebastian. The sun went gloomily to the ocean, the sea began to rise and break upon the beach, and with the evening as it closed, the weather became worse, and a very skyey appearance heralded a coming storm. Darkness came—the lamps were lighted—the ill-favoured attendant laid supper on the table, uncorked a flask of wine, and, as he always did, vanished without making a remark.
“I never will have anything but a poor opinion of that Senhor Pablos,” observed the fosterer; “he’s an inhospitable divil, or on the last night he had the honour of entertaining two gentlemen, he would have had the common manners to have introduced them to his wife, and taken a dock an durris with them afterwards. No matter—here’s luck!—and who knows where we’ll drink the same toast to-morrow evening?”
“It were, indeed, difficult to say, Mark. But, hark!—footsteps are in the court-yard.‘Tis unusual. But, see!—the door opens. Is it possible? Why, Cammaran! This is a late hour for a visit.”
“It is,” said the voltigeur; “but I have a presentiment that you and I are about to part.”
I felt the blood mount to my cheeks. Were then our plans known, and our intended escape discovered?
“What mean ye, my friend?” I returned, assuming an air of indifference. “No, no,” I continued evasively. “Warmly as, through your kindness, I may have been recommended to the War-Minister’s consideration, I must not hope the application will prove successful.”
“You mistake me. It is another chance that probably may end our acquaintance. I am on duty to-night.”
“And so are we,” observed the fosterer, in Irish.
“The fact is, we are going to try a sortie. The general has most handsomely put the detachment under my command. If I succeed, I shall gain promotion—and if Fortune favour me, I’ll sweep your works extensively before I re-enter the fortress. Well, these things are not effected without broken heads—and I have come to have a parting glass with two friends I estimate so dearly.”
The occasion of the visit relieved me from desperate alarm. The Frenchman sate for an hour and then took his leave, to make the necessary arrangements for the intended sortie, which was ordered to commence at two o’clock.
Before the voltigeur had cleared the court-yard, Rawlings, attended by La Pablos, presented themselves by a private door which communicated with the garden. The sailor’s looks told that affairs went prosperously.
“All is ready for our attempt. The French sally before daybreak—and in the noise and confusion on the land-side, we shall be enabled to lower ourselves from the curtain, and gain the beach. All depends upon ourselves—and for the fidelity of our associates, Senhor La Pablos holds himself responsible. You must shift your rigging, however—and here come your traps.”
The ill-visaged attendant brought me two suits of clothes of such anomalous cut and composition, as left it impossible to say for which element they had been especially intended. The host and sailor drank to the success of the expedition—the bell from the tower of San Sebastian beat twelve—the fosterer told each stroke—and then put up a pious supplication to Heaven, that this might be the last time he would ever count the same!