CHAPTER XXVI. MY UNCLE’S STORY CONTINUED.
“Gent.—Help!—help!—O, help!
Edgar. “What kind of help?
Albany. Speak, man.
Edgar. What means that bloody knife?
Gent. ‘Tis hot!—it smokes!—
It came even from the heart of—
Albany. Who, man?—speak!
Gent. Your lady, sir—your lady!”
King Lear.
The city of Quito was brilliantly illuminated; it was the anniversary of its patron saint, and, in honour of their holy founder, the convent and church of the Ursulines presented a spectacle of dazzling splendour. The latter was lighted with a thousand tapers, and the great altar was ornamented with all the monastic treasures which a devotee delights to view. Crucifixes and sacred vessels, in gold and silver, and of surpassing beauty, were liberally exhibited; while relics, in jewelled cabinets, were on this, the high festival of Saint Ursula, brought from their hallowed shrines, to delight the eyes and gladden the hearts of the faithful. A long array of dignified ecclesiastics, in gorgeous robes, filed in procession through the lofty aisles, while censors blazed, and the pealing organ thundered forth its “jubilate.’” Within a large extent round the city, all that was noble, wealthy, or religious, on this her glorious anniversary, were assembled to do honour to their fwourite saint,—while salvos of artillery from the ramparts, and the rolling fire of feu de joie, rose at times above the choral swell, adding to a religious pageant, the anomalous associations which a battle-field and “heady fight” would give. To complete the effect of this splendid spectacle, the proud, the brwe, the beautiful, followed humbly in procession after monk and nun—the men bearing perfumed tapers of coloured wax—while the women strewed flowers as they moved along before the blessed relics of their sainted patroness.
Leaning against a pillar of the two, two personages of very different appearance, viewed the procession with that interest it was so well calculated to excite. One, from his quiet air and sober dress, seemed a man engaged in some peaceful avocation; he might have been a notary, a doctor, or a trader. The other, a young, tall, and handsome cavalier, was richly attired in a fanciful costume; rapier and poignard were in an embroidered belt; rings of costly workmanship glittered on his fingers, and a jewel of exquisite brilliancy sparkled from the looping of his richly-plumed hat. As the procession moved slowly on, the gay stranger might hwe been overheard addressing his more sober companion, to inquire who the actors in the passing scene might be; and while he bent his head in differently as every succeeding relic passed, and bishop and mitred abbot, one after another, defiled before him, the irreligious stranger never asked their names.
“Yon stately man in the rich cope and alb is the holy prior of San Augustin;—he exorcises devils——”
The gay foreigner impatiently interrupted his soberer companion. “Hang the fat prior!—we have no devils to be exorcised.”
“And see, yonder thin black priest—he is the canon of San Roque,—the best preacher that ever mounted pulpit.”
“There leave him, my good friend,—I hate the drowsy race. Ha!—Who is that noble-looking person in the green uniform faced with gold?”
“That is General Paez. Saints and angels!—here comes the archbishop of ————”
“Never mind the archbishop. Who is the silver-headed veteran with the hat and scarlet plume?”
“Oh, that is Admiral Cordova. But the Dominican who bears the banner——”
Again the irreligious foreigner broke in. “Confound them both! bearer and banner. Look, man!”—as another, and the fairest portion of the procession, walked slowly past the pillar, strewing flowers as they moved along. “Ay,” said the stranger, “that sylph-like girl, with blue eyes, is worth all the monks and cardinals who ever said an ave, or carried a blessed candle. But see!—mark you that lovely girl in silvered satin?—she with the ebon locks, and downcast eyes. How beautiful is that air—the easy movement of her walk—the grace with which each flower drops from her hand! I must not, dare not look.”
“‘Twere better not,” remarked the soberer of the twain; “she is for the last time in worldly company: in another week she enters the convent of Saint Agatha, and she will be professed immediately.”
“Professed!” exclaimed his companion,—“what means that? But see—the procession halts!” and at the moment, the beautiful religieuse stopped at the base of the very pillar against which the gay stranger had taken his position.
“Who is that sweet girl?” said the latter, impatiently.
The sudden halting of the long array caused the fair flower-bearer to look up, and her eyes encountered those of the stranger which were turned upon her in breathless admiration. The beautiful devotee coloured to the brows, and again her eyes dropped upon the tesselated pavement. It was probably from agitation that a small bouquet, composed of the most delicate flowers which a tropic clime produces, fell unconsciously from her hand, when, unperceived by any but the lovely religieuse and his own companion, the stranger picked it up, pressed it for a moment with ardour to his lips, and then carefully deposited the floral treasure in his bosom. Again the procession moved, the beauteous devotee exchanged a passing glance; and if it were intended to reprove the boldness of the daring adventurer, or express sorrow at the loss of her fragrant bouquet, neither feeling was conveyed, for the look was the sweetest one imaginable.
“Now by every saint upon the calendar, and the list is longer than the muster-bill of a line-of-battle ship, it’s all over with me—I’m lost—destroyed—undone. Who is that angel in woman’s form? Speak!” exclaimed the stranger, passionately.
“The loveliest girl in Grenada,” returned his companion.
“Pshaw! tell me not what I know already—but her name? her family? Come, out with all you know, man.”
“It’s a long story,” replied the civilian.
“No matter,” returned his friend, “tell me anything connected with that charming devotee, and I’ll listen although the tale lasted to eternity.”
“Captain,” replied the other,—and he whispered the title by which he addressed him softly in his gay companion’s ear,—“‘ware love!—Cupid himself would find no welcome on board a vessel called the Flambeau.”
“Out with the story!” exclaimed the stranger; “or I’ll break through the procession, and ask it of the sweet girl herself.”
“Well,” said the civilian, with a smile, “to keep you clear of the Inquisition for an insult to a fwourite saint like blessed Agatha, I will tell you all I know. Sit down upon this marble pediment, and we can speak without any one hearing us. Marked you the greyheaded commander, dressed in a blue uniform, with two crosses at his breast?”
“To be sure I did: the worn-out admiral who bore a candle in the crowd.”
“Well, the taper is fitter than the sword for the hand of age to carry; no doubt, many a day since, the old gentleman has been laid up in ordinary.”
“He would be anything but flattered could he but overhear our conversation,” continued the companion of the gay stranger. “In ordinary! Not he, faith!—It is barely six months ago since he married the——”
“Widow of some gouty general,” exclaimed the other, impatiently. “Pshaw!—no more of him.”
“He married,” responded the civilian, “no widow of a gouty general, but Inez de Liomana.”
“An antiquated virgin,” said the stranger, with a smile; “of high family, holy life, and on the wrong side of sixty.”
“Never did a man guess wider of the mark: she was one of the prettiest girls in the province, and on the right side of seventeen,” observed the civilian.
“But what the devil does it interest me,” exclaimed the stranger, “whether an old gentleman exhibits his dotage, by committing matrimony, or any other similar absurdity? I don’t want to know anything about his wife.”
“But you wish me to favour you with full particulars touching his lovely daughter.”
“His daughter!” said the stranger: “Is yonder peerless beauty indeed that old man’s child?”
“His only child. She pays the penalty of an act of dotage, for the old fool’s marriage consigns her to a convent.”
“Monstrous!” ejaculated the stranger: “What! bury beauty like her’s within a living grave! By Heaven! I’ll escalade the convent walls myself, and liberate that lovely victim; ay, though I perished by the hands of the Inquisition for the sacrilege! But why, if the old man played the fool, should she, poor girl, be immured for it?”
“To gratify the selfish vanity of a weak old dupe. Inez was the orphan daughter of a poor knight of San Iago; and on her father’s death, without friends or fortune, she was destined to take the veil. Educated at the same convent with the heiress of the admiral, she came to visit her young companion before the vows should be pronounced, that would sever her for ever from society. The old man saw her, and, struck with her beauty, fancied that he loved. He told his tale of folly. Inez detested the seclusion which awaited her. A splendid home—a life of luxury—the name of wife—a lover—coupled with a title, were offered and accepted. Inez is vain and ostentatious, and a sudden rise from humble orphanage, has almost turned her brain. She indulges in every extravagance, and the doting admiral, they say, yields to every solicitation, no matter how expensive; and thus a fortune, sufficient to support the rank and establishment of a grandee, has been found inadequate to meet the profusion his silly marriage has entailed; and to gratify the extravagance of his youthful consort, the old dupe has determined that his only child shall be sacrificed, to enable him to meet the extra demands made upon his purse, by the capricious girl whom he has been weak enough to marry. And now, Captain Ramirez, you know as much as I do of every thing connected with the lovely religieuse.”
“By Heaven!” returned the stranger, passionately, “friend Sanchez, I will know more, or the fault shall not be mine. But see—the procession is about to move. Whither will these fat drones steer to now? Stand fast; they’ll pass again. I would not lose the chance of another angel-glance of yon dark eye, for this brilliant in my hat; and the water is the purest in Grenada.”
“And what would you give me, could I procure you an interview? Ay, captain, stare not so incredulously; an interview!—not exactly tête-à-tête; but in the presence only of a youthful step-dame, and myself, your very humble servant,” said the civilian, with a smile.
“Give!” exclaimed the stranger; “change your query, Signor Sanchez, and rather inquire, what would I not give. Pshaw! the thing’s impossible.”
“Would you wager one hundred dollars on the event?” inquired the Captain’s companion.
“No,” returned the stranger; “but I’ll bet you three to one, and in hundreds too.”
“Done,” was the brief reply.
“And done. The wager’s made. Prepare your money, Master Sanchez. Were it but for exciting false hopes, every dollar shall be exacted, whether they be begged, borrowed, or stolen. But, saints and angels! here she comes.”
Again the long array filed past in solemn mardi; and a less devout spectator could not have been discovered in the crowded assemblage than Captain Ramirez. The archbishop of Moldivia glided on in stately dignity; and the stranger regarded the haughty prelate with as little veneration as the neophyte who waved a perfumed censer in his rear. On came the thin black canon of San Roque; and the ablest preacher in the province elicited no more notice. In fact, two objects engrossed the gallant captain’s attention—one was the old admiral with the yellow taper; and the other that lovely devotee, his daughter.
She passed the pillar closely as before. To the stranger, the crowded procession contained a single object, and his ardent gaze sought that one only in the throng. She came; for a moment she raised her soft and speaking eyes,—they met those of the stranger. He took the flowers from his bosom—pressed them to his lips. The fair devotee observed the act; and the glance that answered it, would not induce a lover to despair.
“Now,” said Captain Ramirez, as the ceremony ended, and the numerous spectators issued from the church, “if ever man were fairly ruined, I am he. Friend Sanchez, how gladly would I tell thee out three hundred dollars!”
“Indeed!” said the civilian; “I’m happy to assure you, that that pleasure is reserved for to-morrow.”
“‘Would I dare think it so,” said the captain, with a sigh; “but how is it to be done? Are we to pick locks, scale walls, commit-murder, or—”
“Heaven forbid!” returned Signor Sanchez; “we will effect it by no felonious means, or I shall agree to forego the benefit of the wager. Rest assured, that the entry into the admiral’s domicile shall be peacefully achieved. Come, supper will be waiting; we will finish afterwards a flask or two to the health of the peerless Camilla; and, it by the hour of siesta to-morrow, I have not lightened your purse by three hundred pieces, why, worthy captain, then write Juan Sanchez down a very ass.”
Morning came. The gay stranger was early a-foot; for, were the truth told, the sweet religieuse had spoiled the captain’s sleep. Presently his host joined him. The morning meal was discussed; and the stranger reminded Signor Sanchez that he had net forgotten the wager made on the preceding evening.
“I should be sorry if you had, noble captain, for it would be to me the loss of a sum in sterling silver, that we traders do not every day realize so easily.”
“Well, my friend, when is the trial to come off?” was the inquiry.
“The bet shall be speedily decided; and, in one hour hence, the pocket of one of us will be lighter than it is at present: I could give a shrewd guess, Captain Ramirez, which of them it will be.”
Half the time wore away, when the essay was to be made; and the stranger became momentarily more impatient.
“I fancy you may prepare,” said the civilian, “for your interview with Camilla.”
“What preparations are necessary?” inquired the stranger; “my hat and sword are on the table.”
“Where they shall peaceably await our return. You must adopt a more respectable appearance. Doth these gay trappings; and, for the occasion, pass as my assistant. There is a modest-looking dress at your service, in the next room; and when you have put it on, the box you are to carry will be ready.”
In a few minutes the change of costume was completed. Don Juan Sanchez set out for the admiral’s residence, with a jewel-case under his arm, and Captain Ramirez, attired like a sober citizen’s attendant, followed dutifully with another, largely stocked with artificial flowers, and divers other articles which interest the fair sex. They reached Don Manuel’s residence, in the Plaza; and the moment Sanchez and his assistant presented themselves, they were freely admitted, and conducted to a waiting-room, until their arrival should be formally announced to the consort of the commander.
“Captain,” said the civilian, in a whisper, “how many dollars would you give to be off? Your wager’s lost. Well, take some from me, and I promise you a glorious opportunity. I am the bearer of an emerald necklace—the young wife will be sufficiently occupied in its examination: and could you not, in the interim, dispose of some of your wares to the old man’s daughter?”
“Egad, I’ll try. But, honest Sanchez, I fear I can manage the retail business but indifferently. I’m in the wholesale line, you know. Here comes the lady’s page.”
A richly-dressed negro-boy summoned the civilian and his companion to the presence of Dona Inez. They found her in a magnificent apartment, resting in luxurious indolence upon a splendid couch, while the lovely devotee was arranging some beautiful flowers in a crystal vase, in another corner of the chamber. Sanchez bowed with deferential humility to the haughty beauty; a civility she scarcely returned; and then, advancing to the sofa, he presented a casket, with its brilliant contents, for the inspection of the lofty Doha.
In a moment the attention of the consort of the admiral was enthralled with the jewellery that this costly casket presented, and frequent exclamations of her admiration told how ardently she responded to the commendations of the merchant, as he pointed out the beauty of every gem.
“Pedro,” said the civilian, “show that box of mine to yonder lady. Flowers, merely, your excellenza; fit only for young ladies about to be professed.”
The companion of Juan Sanchez instantly obeyed the order of his superior; and, crossing the apartment, disclosed the treasure’s of his box.
“The flowers are pretty,” said the beautiful Camilla with a sigh, “but I do not require any. They tell me there are enough in the garden of the convent. Heigh-ho!”
“That wreath, lady, is reckoned beautiful,”—and the companion of Juan Sanchez selected what lie considered the most valuable of the collection. “Would you deign to accept—no, no, I mean, would you oblige me by buying it?”
The fair Camilla gracefully declined the purchase.
“Or that—or this one; any—all.” There never was a more importunate flower-dealer.
“My friend,” replied the lady, gently, “indeed there is nothing here that I require. You mistake me; I am destined for a life that forbids all mortal luxuries. Show these things—and, indeed, some of them are very beautiful—to yonder lady, my father’s—” she paused, the name was not a pleasant one to pronounce—“she will probably buy them. I do not need them; and if I did—but no—down, down, proud heart—” and she turned aside to hide a tear.
“Nay, lady, accept them; and, in return, repay me with your prayers.”
The intended novice waved her hand, and moved a step or two.
“Stay, lady; stay for one moment. I have a flower here, an empress could not purchase; let me, pray let me, show it you.”
“Indeed!” said the fair girl, as she turned round.
“It is too precious to entrust within this casket, and therefore I enshrine it here.”
As he spoke, the stranger took from his bosom a bunch of flowers, and placed them in Camilla’s hand. Instantly a burning blush rose to her very brows. A few rapid sentences fell from the stranger’s lips; a billet was placed softly in no unwilling hand; when the entrance of the admiral disturbed the course ot love and traffic in which the civilian, and his excellent companion, were so busily engaged.
“I dare not ask him for so much money to-day,” said Dona Inez, in a whisper; “but promise me to keep the jewels until Friday, and then come here.”
The obsequious merchant gave the necessary pledge, and, followed by his attendant, he made an “humble obeisance,” and quitted the mansion of Don Manuel de Cordova.
Friday came. Again the visit was repeated: other brilliants had been added, in the interim, to the rich display that Juan Sanchez had previously exhibited; and the stranger’s flowers had been replaced with others of rarer kinds, and more exquisite fragrance. No wonder, therefore, that both collections were examined with an increased interest; and, in the wife and daughter of the admiral, that each found an ardent admirer. At the especial request of the former lady, the final selection of jewellery was postponed until the following Monday. Camilla was then to spend that her last day with the world; for the next day was to witness her private reception into the convent of Saint Agatha, to prepare herself for the formalities of an immediate profession.
Monday came, and the diamond-merchant presented himself punctually at Don Manuel’s door. He was alone, and his friend the flower-dealer no longer accompanied him. He knocked, but admission was refused; and the porter informed him, that his lady declined that day receiving any visitors. There was a strange confusion visible through the whole of the admiral’s establishment; and servants hurried to and fro, with an anxiety apparent in their looks, like that of men to whom some surprising occurrence had been recently made known. In a few hours, the cause of this commotion was whispered over the city, and created universal astonishment. The admiral’s fair daughter, Camilla, who in a few days was to have become the betrothed of Heaven, had, on the preceding night, eloped from her father’s mansion, and not a trace of the beautiful fugitive eould be discovered. The day passed, and no tidings were heard of the lost one: and the most extensive inquiries produced but little information. It was ascertained that a fishing-canoe had observed a felucca cross the bar, and, at an unusual time of tide, stand out to sea—and a stranger, whose brilliant appearance occasioned a sensation in the city, had suddenly departed from the hotel where he lodged, accompanied by his black domestic. Months succeeded days—Camilla was never heard of; and many and marvellous were the surmises as to the means and manner, by which the lovely daughter of Don Manuel de Cordova had been so mysteriously spirited away.
Three years slipped away. Don Manuel de Cordova was gathered to his fathers; and after the briefest period of mourning, which a decent respect to the memory of one who had bequeathed her his whole fortune, would allow, the young relict had bestowed her widowed hand on a wild and dissipated grandee. Of the lost Camilla no tidings were ever heard, and her strange disappearance remained as much a mystery as it was on the morning after it occurred.
Another event had caused immense joy along the coast. A celebrated rover, which for years had infested the neighbouring seas, had been driven on shore and destroyed by an English cruiser. Indeed it was full time that the Flambeau’s predatory career should be terminated. While she had continued under the command of a person who called himself Ramirez, her spoliations were restricted to what is considered allowable to vessels occupied in free trading, and no acts of violence had ever been permitted. But for some unknown cause that captain had mysteriously disappeared, and under his successor, the rover became a regular pirate; and, from the extent of her depredations, her destruction became indispensable. In effecting this, most of her lawless crew had fallen, and the remainder were driven into the woods, where, as it was hoped and expected, they would be speedily arrested and brought to that justice which so long they had managed to evade.
In one of those sweet glades which are found occasionally in the pathless forests of the south, aud show, amid the interminable extent of dank weeds and underwood by which they are environed, like an oasis in the desert, the summer residence of a wealthy planter had been erected. The front verandah of the building opened on a piece of open land, which stretched its green and velvet-looking surface gently downwards, until it rested on the bank of one of those deep inlets which debouch into the mighty rivers that intersect the southern portion of America; while the rear of this romantic retreat was overhung by woods composed of the noblest trees the earth produces, and in every variety of tint and foliage. The house itself was of slight construction, and designed only for temporary habitation; for, like other proprietors of opulence, the owner possessed a splendid mansion in a seaport some fifty leagues lower down the river; a place better suited, both from comfort and society, to form a permanent residence; and his visits to this distant estate were merely for the purpose of superintending a numerous gang of negroes engaged in felling hard woods, and in enjoying the amusements of hunting and shooting, which boundless forests and prairies abundantly afforded. All in and about this rustic abode evidenced both wealth and taste, and presented every elegance and luxury that was adapted to a tropic climate.
It was a warm and lovely night; the musquito curtains were closed, and in a very elegant saloon the owner of this sporting-lodge and his family might hwe been discovered.
A sweeter scene of domestic repose could never hwe been selected by a painter than the group within exhibited. A man, stout, handsome, and in the flower of life, had his dark eyes fixed, with pride mingled with affection, upon a female younger than himself by at least a dozen years. Nothing could be lovelier than the beautiful countenance he looked upon, as hanging over a sleeping child that rested in her lap, a mother’s looks of love were bent upon her slumbering treasure. Behind the lady’s chair, a tall finely-proportioned negro was standing with a silver salver, on which were fruits and wine; while a beautiful Chilleno girl waited at her mistress’ side, to receive her sleeping charge. Presently the infant was committed to its nurse’s arms. The negro placed his refreshments on the table, and, with the fair Chilleno, immediately quitted the apartment, leaving the planter and his lovely wife to the society of each other.
The lady rose and looked out from the lattice on the lawn, and as she crossed the chamber the grace of her figure was displayed. It boasted no longer the airy elegance of girlish symmetry: the flower was in its bloom—the form exhibited womanly maturity; and it was apparent that her’s was that endearing situation, which doubly claims a husband’s tenderest care.
Evening had changed to midnight; not a breath of wind rustled the lewes, or rippled the glassy surface of the river. All were asleep but the guilty; and yet, at that lone hour, a group of men were circled round a fire beside a sandy cove, on which a boat was drawn ashore. They were all armed; and while some were preparing supper, others kept a vigilant look out. They had the air and appearance of wild and desperate men; and their conversation, maintained in that low tone which evinces suspicion, confirmed their lawless character.
“What an infernal accident,” said one of the rovers, “to run her smack upon a sunken rock, and lose the vessel after boasting that he knew every creek and cove from Chiloe to Cape Francisco.”
“He’ll never lose another,” observed a second scoundrel, coolly. “But Gaspard is over ready with his pistol. Before the schooner’s copper had scraped the coral a second time, Diego was dead as a mackarel. Poor devil!—the skipper allowed no time for explanations.”
“Ay, and the captain was right,” observed a truculent ruffian, whose features were scarcely visible from the matted covering of coal-black hair, which hid them from chin to forehead. “I’m half sorry, too, that we lost the blundering fool—he didn’t mean it after all. There’s but a handful of the old Flambeaus left, and one now-a-days can’t trust to strangers.”
“What a lucky craft that old Flambeau was,” said the first speaker: “her equal for success, in Captain Ramirez’ time, was never known. And then he kept all so nicely out of trouble; and though men grumbled at him now and then, why, in the long-run, he proved a wise-one. He valued no flag but one; and a yard of British bunting was a vessel’s full security. If we met an English trader short of water, why he supplied it freely; were provisions wanted, he put us on short allowance, and divided to the last biscuit with the starving crew. Well, the first ship—French, Dutch, or Spaniard, Portuguese or Dane—we met with afterwards, he made up the loss—ay, and helped himself to a double quantity, because he had succoured the distressed. Well, the foreigner probably complained to the first broad pennant, when he reached a harbour, when in dropped a disabled ship to tell that in her distress she had got all she wanted from the Flambeau. Had the gallant Ramirez remained, the finest schooner that ever crossed the line would be as she used to be, breasting the waters like a sea-gull. See what fell out: Gaspard couldn’t stand temptation, but must fall foul of a rich Jamaica-man,—and in a month a clipper sloop is dispatched to regularly run us down; and sticks to us like a bloodhound, until, like our namesake, we were regularly extinguished. Ah! poor Flambeau!”
“It’s all true. We never knew the old captain’s loss, till after we had got a new one; and many’s the time Gaspard has heard that told him, when he didn’t like it. But where has he wandered to? He’s full an hour away.”
“He’s not lost, however; for see, he comes along the cove.” Of all that lawless company, assembled round a midnight fire, the new comer looked the greatest ruffian.
“How now,” he said, assuming an air and tone of command, “is supper ready yet? There’s no great cooking required, Master Sambo,” said he, addressing a mulatto who appeared to be the cook; “scanty fare at present, lads—fish, fish, fish! No matter; better luck again. Come, let’s have it as it is. Step to the boat, Soto, and bring us that runlet of Hollands. Curses on that stupid scoundrel, who, with plenty of sea room and smooth water, lost a vessel so foolishly!”
“He paid for his mistake upon the spot: you’re clear with him, captain,” growled another ruffian.
“Ay, were he my brother, he should have fared no better. But, come, my lads, eat, drink, and bless the saints afterwards, for giving you the commander you have.”
“I wish,” said another rover, “we could rather persuade them to mend our fare a little. Nothing but river fish—one worse than another, and the best not fit for a nigger’s banyan day. I fancy we’ll fare still worse; the vessel gone, and not a chance of getting another! What the devil could have brought us here? Toiling at the oars for a hundred miles up a river, where nothing could be met with but timber rafting down the stream. Pish! a pretty way to lose a schooner. I say, what drove us here?”
“Silence!” said the captain; “and I’ll tell you.”
“I wish you would,” returned the other, in a mutinous tone.
“Revenge!” was the stern reply; “revenge and plunder!”
“Revenge sounds well enough,” returned the former speaker, “and plunder better still. But on whom have we any cause of vengeance, fifty leagues from ocean? ‘Who are we to find here, among mango trees and cockatoos? And as to plunder, there’s nothing to be picked up but drift wood; and there’s a chance—-a raft floating down the river, and only a brace of niggers guarding it!” and the fellow laughed in derision.
“Peace,” roared the captain, sternly. “Pass the runlet; and at its third round, I’ll tell you why we came.”
“Is Dutch courage required to-night, captain, that we must be drunk, or half-seas over, before you tell us what brought us here?”
“By Heaven! Juan, you will drive me further than I wish,” and the captain laid his hand upon a pistol.
“Hold! hold!” exclaimed half-a-dozen voices; “no more of that to-night. No use in mincing matters; the schooner’s sunk, and what are we to do?—keep here, and rob fishing canoes, as we did to-night, to furnish out a rascally existence? or seek the bush at once, and band ourselves with nigger runaways? Captain, it won’t do.”
“Hear me, men,” exclaimed the captain, passionately. “‘Tis true the vessel’s gone: well, that’s no fault of mine; but for the plan—revenge and plunder. Don’t they sound well together?”
“Ay; let’s hear it,” said a rover.
“You all remember Ramirez?”
“Ay, ay,” was generally responded.
“You thought him—”
An outbreak from the band prevented the captain from finishing the sentence.
“Ramirez,” said the man whose face was ensconced in hair, “was the best commander that I—and I’m twelve years in the free trade—ever sailed under; ay, or ever will.”
“In action, cool as a cucumber,” rejoined a second.
“And,” added a third, “in real danger, fierce as a wild cat; and with all his wits about him, too.”
“Night nor day, I never saw him disguised in liquor,” observed another, who was so particularly drunk, that he could barely articulate. “You might trust him with uncounted gold—”
“And to his ship’s company,” added a sixth, winding up the eulogium, “he was true as needle to the north.”
“Well, comrades,” said the captain, moodily, “I’ll allow that Ramirez was a good commander, an able seaman, stout leader, capital hand at a pinch, slept always with his starboard eye open; but he was—” and he paused.
“What?” cried a dozen voices.
“The falsest villain that ever betrayed a gallant crew!”
“No, no, no,” was repeated by a dozen voices.
“I’ll give you proof positive. He disappeared; but none of you could tell, or even guess, the wealth he carried with him. None suspected him; for all of you thought him a nonesuch. Well, what was he all along? why, nothing more nor less than a hired spy. He gave the cruisers secret information of all that passed in every port we entered as free traders; and, in return, they never looked after him. Well, he got blown on the coast at last; and, when he could no longer carry on the game, he left the Flambeau to her fate. And how long after he had deserted ship and comrades was it before the British bull-dogs were let loose upon the sweetest schooner that ever swam the sea?”
“Ay, ay, captain,” observed a rover, “that’s all well enough; but recollect, that in the time of Captain Ramirez, men never walked the plank; nor did he, like a common ass, make free with English bunting, and put his hand upon the lion’s mane. If a doubtful sail appeared in the gulph, why an English merchantman would run under the Flambeau’s stern for protection; and, there’s no use talking, Captain Ramirez stood so high with every skipper in these seas, that, d——n me, were he sentenced to be hanged, I think they’d hardly get men enough in a whole ship’s company, to man the fall that sent him to the fore-yard. No, no; he never intentionally left the schooner. Poor dear soul!—he was murdered, and that’s my opinion.”
A dozen voices answered in a willing affirmative.
“Dolts and madmen!” shouted the captain; “he lives! ay, lives! Why stare ye thus, like fools?—Ay, lives in luxury and splendour: the richest planter in the province; the highest among the high; and all bought by what?—falsehood, and deep, deep treachery!”
“Impossible!” exclaimed the rovers.
“True, by the light of heaven!” returned the pirate chief. “He lives; ay, and is sleeping at his ease—wealth around him, and beauty in his arms—not half a league from the very spot I stand on.”
“Captain Ramirez alive, and wealthy, and within cannon-shot?”
“If Captain Ramirez be not, there’s one that will answer just as well, although he has dropped a former title, and taken the plainer one of Hartley.”
“Come, captain, no riddles, if you please; we’re plain seamen, and can only understand a plain story. If Ramirez is alive, and as you have described him, why, all you said against him must be true. Men neither come back from the grwe, nor do they pick up doubloons in the woods, like hiccory nuts. If your tale be true, Ramirez is a traitor and a rogue; and, were there no other hand to do the job, I’d row a hundred leagues for the mere pleasure of cutting the throat of scoundrel that sold us all.”
“Juan, the right pluck is in thee still,” returned Gaspard, with a smile of demoniac satisfaction. “What say ye all, lads?”
“Why, that he who wouldn’t do as honest Juan says, has no manhood in him,” responded a rover.
“Come, pass the good liquor round, and then for booty and revenge!” From hand to hand the runlet passed, until the contents were drained to the very bottom. Maddened by ardent spirits, burning under the belief of having been betrayed, and excited by the hope of plunder, the ferocious band prepared for violence and bloodshed. Their arms were examined; the simple plan of attack explained by the ruffian leader, who had already reconnoitred the dwelling of his intended victim; the boat was carefully drawn up, and hidden in the tall reeds which fringed the river’s bank; water carried from the stream, and flung on the red embers of the fire; and, in Indian files, one after another, the ruffians took a narrow path cut through the tangled underwood, and followed their truculent commander.
Did no eye, save that which looks alike on innocence and guilt, observe them? Yes; the slwe, whose canoe they had despoiled, directed by the fire, had traced the marauders, and, concealed in the thick brushwood, overheard their plans of murder. While making their final preparations, the negro glided through the coppice like a snake, and ran, at headlong speed, to alarm his devoted master. He reached the dwelling safely; but it was to alarm, and not to save!
The planter’s country-house was wrapped in night and silence; the lights were extinguished, and the inmates buried in deep repose. From the lord to the serf, all felt the influence of that peaceful hour; and in the woods where he had toiled all day, the negro slept in his wigwam as soundly as his master; for, as the Indian adage goes,
The lightest heart has ever the heaviest eye-lid.”
At that still hour, a dusky figure stole underneath the verandah of the planter’s house, and sought a window in the rear. Twice, he tapped gently on the lattice; the third time, the sound was sharper—and it was heard and answered. To a person within, the negro communicated some intelligence, and the next moment a door was cautiously unclosed, and the late visitor admitted.
Whatever the tidings were, which this untimely messenger had brought, they seemed to have created an unusual sensation. From window to window lights flashed rapidly, and human figures flitted to and fro. But the alarm as speedily subsided; the lights disappeared; and darkness, denser apparently than before, returned; and the ominous silence that succeeded, rendered the recent hurry the more remarkable.
The interval of this singular repose was brief—it was but a treacherous calm. Armed men issued quietly from the cover of the woods, and, halting at a little distance from the sleeping house, they held a rapid consultation. Presently, dividing into two bodies, they approached the planter’s dwelling. One moved stealthily to the front—the other as cautiously stole round the rear. The marauders calculated upon effecting a surprise, but the negro fisherman had warned the inmates of their danger; and on the first attempt to force an entrance, a double discharge from a lower-lattice stretched two of the assailants on the ground; while, in the rear, the attack proved equally disastrous.
It might hwe been expected, that, astounded at a sanguinary and unexpected repulse, the villains would have abandoned their design. But, desperate men, they brought with them desperate means, and, at the order of their leader, they flung lighted combustibles into the thatch which covered the edifice; and retiring for shelter behind the nearest trees, maintained a fusilade upon the house, and waited with demoniac patience the rapid progress of fire—their terrible auxiliary.
In a few minutes the roof was in a blaze, and the upper story, constructed entirely of wood-work, caught fire. Coolly the murderous ruffians watched the flames as they enveloped the edifice from front to rear; and assured of the result, they watched the crisis with fiendish pleasure.
It came:—all—above, below—the building was sheeted in fire. Suddenly, the negroes broke out from the blazing pile, and rushed towards the woods for safety. Two male slaves were instantly shot down—the others effected their escape.
“Now, lads, look sharp,” roared the demon leader of the gang; “the traitor will bolt immediately. No mercy for Ramirez!”
The words were scarcely uttered before a white man, only half-dressed, and bearing a female in his arms, sprang from the burning ruins, followed closely by a tall powerful negro, with a bundle grasped by his left arm, and a cutlas flaming in his right hand. The leader dashed past the trees where the murderers had taken their stand, at headlong speed, apparently as little embarrassed with the female form he carried, as if his burden were an infant. The negro kept directly in his master’s rear. A yell arose: half a dozen shots were discharged—but not a bullet found its mark.
“By Heaven! the villain will escape us!” roared the pirate-captain, rushing from his concealment in pursuit. Another of the gang had already crossed his path, but the fugitive discharged a pistol, and shot the assailant dead. The occurrence caused a moment’s delay. It was a fatal one: for Gaspard overtook his intended victim, and struck fiercely at him with a dagger. It missed the heart it aimed at, but found a sheath in the bosom of her whom the fugitive supported; and before a surer blow could be delivered, with one trenchant sweep the negro’s cutlass cleft the villain to the chin. The wood was gained—the fugitive believing that he held a living body in his arms! Alas! that precious burden was only a breathless corpse!
That was the last effort of the murderers. A gang of wood-cutters, alarmed by the blaze and firing, had hurried to their master’s domicile, while the murderous crew, eight in number, retreated to the woods; and for that time, darkness and a tangled copse concealed them.
They tell me that for an hour I gazed on the loved one in stupid indifference. I can believe it well: the blow was stunning. Not a slave ventured to approach me; for even their dull natures respected the berewement this terrible calamity had brought on. Gradually Dominique placed himself before me, holding my infant in his right arm; for the left that clasped it when we broke from the burning pile, had been wounded by a random bullet.
“What would you, Dominique?” I inquired, in tones of deep despondency.
“Vengeance!” exclaimed the negro, in a voice of thunder. “Leave to woman’s hands the duties owing to the dead, and let us together hunt down the murderers. Vengeance! vengeance!”
The voice of my faithful follower changed at once the current of my thoughts. I raised myself, looked proudly round, and called for food and wine. I ate bread—‘twas a form; I drank wine—that was reality. I seized my rifle, dagger, pistols; Dominique armed the hardiest of my slaves; and, before the sun rose, we set out to visit blood for blood.
I was absent for three days and nights. I started warmly on the death-chase, and never was one more keenly followed up. I seemed insensible to fatigue—heat, hunger, thirst were disregarded. Of five-and-twenty vigorous axe-men, accustomed from infancy to forest-life, by the second evening eighteen were worn out, and unable to proceed; and yet I and Dominique—and he with a wounded arm—pursued the traces of the murderers with unabated ardour. I ate not, slept not, but drank brandy and shed blood. Seven of the eight had already perished; but that eighth one lived; and without that ruffian’s life, my vengeance was incomplete. On we went once more, and the human hunt continued.
We found the wretch, at last, stretched beneath a tree—worn down, impassive, unresisting. I drew a pistol from my belt—looked at the doomed one for a moment. Three had fallen, resisting, by my hand: as many more by Dominique’s.
“No,” I said, as I replaced the weapon; “desire the slaves to string that felon up; thou and I, my friend, cannot stoop to be his executioners!”
I returned—witnessed the obsequies of my wife. That scene was too much for one already excited by maddening influences; my senses wandered—and memory deserts me.
Along, long gloomy epoch follows—ten years; long, long years! Mine was a melancholy state of being; for they neither could call me mad, nor yet pronounce me sane. My child was placed in a neighbouring convent: she grew—was happy; and became, as the nuns averred, the favourite pensionnaire of a dozen. I saw her seldom; for when I did, the striking likeness between her and her angel-mother for days unsettled reason. Meanwhile, worldly events went prosperously; and, Heaven knows, without the slightest wish to increase possessions already more than enough to defray every desire and want, still wealth flowed in upon me; and, in the list of rich Chilian proprietors, my name stood high.
There was one period of the year when my reason was invariably disturbed; the anniversary of Camilla’s murder. The whole of the events attendant on that frightful tragedy came back to memory; and the scene was vivid to the imagination as if it were really being again enacted. All was before my eyes—darkness and fire; slaughter; the death chase; the funeral; and then insanity closed the fearful drama. The domestics were always prepared for this awful season; and Dominique remained with me like my shadow.
It chanced that a week before this sad anniversary, an English botanist passed a country-house, where I was for the time residing, and, stopping with me as a guest, he observed the gloom and depression of my manner. Having delicately inquired the cause, and made himself master of all the circumstances connected with the appalling visitation which I expected in another week, he asked permission to remain. This was granted,—and, directing his attention to the peculiar symptoms of my disease, he at once pronounced it curable. This bold assertion startled my household, who, for ten years, had witnessed the annual return of my insanity, and always accompanied, as it was, with unabated violence. But he seemed confident; and I felt a secret assurance that, through the instrumentality of this man’s skill, Heaven’s mercy was about to be extended to me, and that blest gift, reason, would be eventually restored. I placed myself, and all upon my establishment, during the approaching period of my mental aberration, under the absolute direction of the stranger.
I was not deceived; and the result proved that I had calculated soundly on the ability and experience of my unknown visitor. Dreading that it might increase my excitement, the Chilleno doctors had inhibited the visits of my child. The Englishman adopted a different course: Isidora was sent for from the convent, and she ministered to a mind diseased and the soft influence of filial love, like the melody of David’s harp, effected a gentle cure, and soothed into tranquillity a spirit for so many years perturbed.
By the stranger’s advice, I determined to quit the country, and return to my native land. I disposed of my estates, transmitted my fortune safely to England; and, with a dearer treasure far, my gentle Isidora, sailed for the island-home of freedom, and landed on my native shores, after having been a wanderer and alien for one-and-twenty years.
A long absence had rendered European manners strange; and, for a time, I felt myself unequal to the novel task which a return to England had imposed, that of mingling in society. For two years, Isidora and I wandered through every portion of the British islands, for the Continent was then closed against the traveller. Time, change of scene, and the constant presence of my darling child, effected a mental cure, and verified the assurances given me in South America by my able physician, that my recovery would be permanent. I wished at least to have the semblance of a home, although the very name recalled my past calamities; and, in order that I might fall back, when wearied with the world, on a retirement congenial to my fancy, I purchased that wild retreat in which our first acquaintance was so singularly formed. Thither, I have occasionally retired to enjoy solitude and my child’s society. Ours, indeed, seemed stolen visits on the world,—and we both felt that calm pleasure only to be estimated by those who hwe lived for each other and alone, when, like wild birds to their nest, we sought and found the peaceful seclusion which our mountain home afforded.
Your visit, Hector, rekindled feelings long suppressed, and spurred me to exertions that, probably, under other circumstances, I should hwe wanted nerve to undertake. Strange as it may appear, for several years I watched your progress into manhood. The first impressions when we met were favourable; and a more extended acquaintance has corroborated them. For your sake, and for Isidora’s, I have sacrificed my own yearnings after solitude, and come upon the stage of life anew. My existence is unknown; my errand unsuspected. Should I succeed in my present objects, a noble inheritance shall be restored to the rightful heir; and should I fail, I have a consolation left, in feeling that I have fortune’s gifts at my disposal, and amply sufficient, so far as wealth can confer peace and independence, to ensure both to my children. You mark the term—Can he to whom Isidora’s happiness is to be confided be aught but a son to me?”
The record of an eventful life was ended; and I bound those documents together, the perusal of which had occasioned an intense but painful interest. It was long past midnight. At day-light it was necessary that I should be stirring; and I retired to bed, to snatch a few hours of repose.
I was still asleep when a gentle touch upon the shoulder dispelled my uneasy slumbers, and the faithful follower of my uncle’s fortunes told me it was time to dress, and that the camarados of my intended voyage and campaigns were afoot, and waiting in the court-yard. Indeed, the ratcatcher’s presence was intimated already—for in perfect indifference as to what might be the complexion of our future fortune, Shemus Rhua was croning an Irish ditty. I dressed by candlelight, descended to the eating-room, and there found “mine honoured uncle.” Alas—Isidora was not there to say farewell. She slept, poor girl, little dreaming that we had already parted; and that many a month and stormy passage in a soldier’s life must wear away, before I should be permitted to return and claim her plighted hand.
“Hector,” said my uncle, with a sigh, as he received the papers he had entrusted to me, and immediately committed them to the fire, “you are now in full possession of every secret of my life. ‘Tis done—the disclosure is made—and I have nothing either to communicate or conceal. No more of this; the clock chimes,—and our hour of parting hurries on. I am going to deprive you of a follower, provided you can dispense with the services of Captain Macgreal, and that he is willing to transfer his allegiance to me. Pray step down; and if the ratcatcher has no particular objection, let me have his valuable assistance till you return. ‘Strange fortunes produce strange bedfellows,’ a proverb says; and singular positions require as singular agents. Odd as it may appear, in the tangled web I shall have to unravel, I may be beholden for success to that wild woman who seems devoted to your interests, or this wandering personage, who appeal’s equally attached, and willing to follow where you lead.”
A brief communication with Shemus Rhua effected my uncle’s wish; and the ratcatcher placed his services at the disposal of Mr. Hartley. Sooth to say, the captain’s previous experience of a martial life had left no craving in his breast after “the bubble reputation.”
Nothing could be more picturesque than the departure of the fleet from Portsmouth; and years afterwards, memory recalled the poet’s description, and I could have imagined that Byron had been a fellow-passenger. The morning was brilliant. The signal gun was answered. All were immediately under way.
“I ween, a full fair sight;
When the fresh breeze was fair as breeze can be,
The white sail set, the gallant frigate tight,
Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right,
The glorious main expanding o’er the bow,
The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight,
The dullest sailor wearing bravely now;
So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow.”
Shall I confess the truth? Never did an Irish cadet start for a scene of glory with less enthusiasm. In the retirement of my father’s house, every newspaper that arrived had brought with it fresh details of British victory,—and I longed, like another Norval, “to follow to the field” any honest gentleman who would hwe taken the trouble to show me the shortest way of getting a quietus—miscalled, the road to glory. A few months had, however, wrought a marvellous alteration; and but for the shame of the thing, I verily believe, I should hwe exchanged with some Captain Bailey of the day, and, without requiring “the difference,” forsworn the trade of arms, excepting the bloodless duty appertaining to country quarters.
Now I was regularly committed. The dullest spirit would catch a noble impulse. The fields of Roliça, Busaco, and Salamanca rose in glorious recollection; another feeling succeeded the regret attendant on a first separation from the object of a first love; and, before the second sun went down, I should hwe scorned an ignoble return, until “with war’s red honours on my crest,” I could hwe proudly claimed my affianced one. Speedily the true mercurial temperament of the Green island returned. I joined the reckless merriment of all around: we drank, and laughed, and sang. Nothing could be more prosperous than the voyage.
“On, on the vessel flies; the land is gone,
And winds are rude in Biscay’s sleepless bay.
‘Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon,
New shores descried make every bosom gay;
And Cintra’s mountain greets them on their way;
And Tagus dashing onward to the deep,
His fabled golden tribute bent to pay;
And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap,
And steer ‘twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics reap.”
On the sixth evening we disembarked at Belem; and with my foster brother, Mark Antony O’Toole, I sprang from the frigate’s launch, and, for the first time, set foot on that scene of British glory—the Peninsula.
CHAPTER XXVII. I JOIN THE CANTONMENTS OF THE ALLIED ARMY—LIEUTENANT CROTTY’S INTERVIEW WITH LORD WELLINGTON.
“Sir James. Surely you exaggerate a little?
Papillon. Yes—yes, this interview will sink him.
Young Wilding. True to the letter, upon my honour.”
“Why he will tell you more lies in an hour than all the circulating libraries put together will publish in a year.”—The Liar.
I had scarcely landed when I received the unwelcome intelligence that General —————, to whose staff I had been appointed, had been wounded on the retreat from Burgos, and in consequence obliged to resign his command, and return to England invalided. I felt the disappointment severely—but as the corps that I had previously exchanged into was at Valencia, with the Anglo-Sicilian army there collected, much as I should have desired “to follow to the field” the victor of Salamanca, I determined to join my regiment without delay, and “flesh my maiden sword” the ensuing campaign, under the colours of the old and honourable Twenty-seventh. Ignorant of the route by which I could cross the country to the eastern coast of Spain, and anxious to see that gallant army under whose conquering banners I had anticipated a glorious opening to my career in arms, after a three days’ sojourn in Lisbon, I left that city of filth and splendour in company with half a dozen officers en route to join their respective battalions—some, in return from leave—and others, like myself, to smell powder for the first time. A captain of an Irish regiment was of the party. He was a gay, honest-hearted, blundering countryman; and from the graphic sketches D’Arcy gwe me on the road of all attached to the battalion I was about to join, from the junior Ensign of sixteen, to the old stiff-backed Colonel of sixty, I became so familiar with the corps, that I almost fancied at first sight I could have placed my hand on every head, and identified the individual—and, on the evening when we entered the encampment of the regiment, I felt perfectly at home, and entered the rude mess-room as much at ease, as if, after a temporary absence, I was merely returning to join some old acquaintances.
It was a memorable epoch in the military history of Britain, when, early in the second week of February, 1813, I found myself in the cantonments of the fourth division on the banks of the Agueda. Like all sublunary affairs, war has its season of repose; and those mighty masses of armed men, who but a few months before had stood in threatening array in presence of each other, were separated by mutual consent to recover their losses and fatigues, and prepare for renewed exertions. Each had selected that portion of the country best adapted for obtaining supplies and reinforcements. The allied infantry were cantoned generally on the Agueda and Douro—with their cavalry in the valley of the Moudego, and round Moncorbo. One Spanish corps passed the winter in Gallicia, a second in Estremadura, and a third garrisoned Ciudad Rodrigo. Of the French armies, the head quarters of the northern was at Valladolid; the southern at Toledo; and those of the centre, including King Joseph and his guards, were established at Segovia. In military circumstances, the rival armies found themselves, at the end of the preceding autumn, in a position similar to that of men who have fought a battle in which neither have come off conqueror. Both had sustained enormous losses without countervailing advantages; and each required its casualties to be replaced, and its discipline restored. At the opening of the campaign, fortune went as heavily against the enemy, as it did against the allies at the close. From the 18th of July, when the French passed the Douro, until they recrossed it on the 30th, their loss might have been set down at fifteen thousand men, and the allies at about a third of that number. While, from the time when Lord Wellington broke ground before Burgos, until he halted on the banks of the Huebra, in retreat, chiefly from drunkenness and military irregularity, eight thousand of the allies were rendered hors de combat.
No wonder therefore that to both armies, winter presented a seasonable period of repose, and that both willingly accepted it. Nearly one third of his army were in hospital, and hence Lord Wellington deemed that rest for it was indispensable. Nor could his opponents avail themselves of this weakness, and continue active operations, for the French supplies were insecure, and their bases of operation disturbed by Partida bands, which were every where swarming on their flanks and in their rear. Indeed each army dreaded that the other would resume hostilities; and when a report prevailed that Soult, who was upon the Upper Tonnes, meditated an invasion of Portugal by the valley of the Tagus, and Wellington had, accordingly, removed the boat bridges at Almarez and Arzobispo, the French, equally afraid that the allies might cross the river, destroyed all means of passage at other points which the English general had overlooked as unnecessary.
Such was the military position of the allies in the field—one that, abroad, rendered the question of ulterior success an uncertainty; while at home, the failure before Burgos renewed loud expressions of discontent, which the brilliant opening of the late campaign had partially subdued. England was divided into two great sections; one party advocating the necessity of continuing the Spanish war, and another decrying it as a ruinous experiment. What Salamanca had effected in establishing the policy of maintaining the struggle on the Peninsula, the retreat to the Agueda had undone; and the balance of public opinion respecting the expediency of abandoning the contest in Spain was restored. “The ministerial party had expected far too much, and consequently their disappointment was proportionate: the opposition had raised the wolf-cry until the country had ceased to dread it; and they caught desperately at what proved a last pretext, to reiterate their denunciations, and abuse him who conducted, and those who planned the war. Ministers were denounced for continuing the contest, and for starving it—Lord Wellington both for inactivity and for rashness—for doing too little and too much” *—for wasting time at Madrid, and for attempting a siege with means so inadequate, that nothing but an enormous expenditure of blood could possibly obtain success.
* Maxwell’s Life of Wellington,
But to the clamour of party and the calumny of faction, he, since happily surnamed “The Iron Duke,” turned an indifferent ear; and the same proud feeling that on the heights of Guinaldo had sustained him, when a less assured courage might have faltered, enabled him now to regard the malice of political opponents with contempt; and, perfectly undisturbed, to direct the energies of a master-mind to the completion of those great means by which alone a great end could be accomplished. Profiting by past experience, the internal economy of the army underwent a sweeping reformation. Abuses were sought for, detected, and removed—every hospital was cleared of men who feigned illness to evade duty—and from every depot idlers were driven back to the columns they had abandoned. Supplies came liberally from England, proving the illimitable resources of the island-home of freedom; and the great captain of the age was thus enabled to organize the most splendid force that ever took the field—one, so perfect in every arm, as to warrant its constructor, years afterwards, when the greater number of those gallant spirits who had composed it were sleeping in the grave, to make the proud and proven boast—that “with that army which had crossed the Pyrenees, he could do any thing and go any where.” No wonder that brilliant era of his life is still readied in cherished remembrance by the old Peninsular; and as, deed after deed, he details the conquering career of that matchless host, with which he crossed the Agueda to halt only on the banks of the Garonne, he may raise his head with military pride, and exclaim, “Pars fui!”
Of two hundred thousand men under the direct command of Lord Wellington, the Anglo-Portuguese, amounting nearly to seventy-five thousand bayonets and sabres, were the flower. From the first moment of the Peninsular contest, the British infantry had established its superiority; and now the cwalry and artillery were superb. Every thing required for field service had been skilfully provided. A fine pontoon train accompanied the army, and ambulances were provided for the accommodation of the sick and wounded. Other means to increase his comforts were also afforded to the soldier; and, for the first time, tents were supplied for shelter in the field, while the cumbrous camp-kettle was replaced with others of smaller size, and lighter material, as better adapted for all the purposes of campaigning.
During the suspension of active operations on both sides, and while the French and Allied armies were quiet in their respective cantonments, that restless enemy, the Partida bands, were busily employed. Longa, in the vicinity of Burgos, was actively engaged in harassing the marauding parties of the enemy, interrupting their communications, and surprising their detached posts; while Hina, in Arragon and Navarre, carried on a desultory warfare with equal success. Another less celebrated but not less active leader was “the Friar,” (El Frayle,) who, with a numerous band admirably organized, kept Valencia in confusion. Indeed, the Guerillas had now become as formidable in numbers as they had ever been audacious in their mode of warfare. No longer confining their operations to the cutting off of foraging parties and the interception of convoys, they fell upon strong detachments, and almost invariably with success; until at last no courier could pass the roads, nor even a battalion of seven hundred men move from one garrison to another, without the protection of an escort. Such was the military attitude of Spain when I joined the fourth division.
In a dilapidated farm-house I found my future companions in arms seated at a comfortable dinner, although a stranger looking mess room was never occupied by gentlemen of the sword. It had been the grand apartment of the dwelling of a farm proprietor; the house was generally in ruins, but this wing had been judiciously selected for the symposia of the gallant Twentieth, inasmuch as the roof was nearly weather-fast. The table was a collection of old doors placed upon temporary supporters; and as every member of the body politic furnished his own conveniency of sitting at “the board,” the especial method of accommodation depended on the ability or fancy of the individual. Some, in superior luxury, had deposited their persons on a camp-stool, while others were contented with a block of wood, a basket, or a broken arm chest. The table appointments were not unique, for every person found his own; and nothing was held in common property save the viands and the wine.
But a lighter-hearted community than the gallant Twentieth could not have been discovered. The hardships of the retreat to the Huebra were still in vivid recollection; and now, anticipating similar privations, but attended by more glorious results, the present was their only care; and over the head of the master of the revels the apposite motto “Carpe diem!” had been inscribed with a burnt cork. Heralded by my loving countryman, I was introduced in terms of commendation that brought the colour to my cheek. I received, consequently, a warm and soldierly reception; and before I retired to a shake-down offered me for the night in the tent of the junior major, I called every man by an abbreviated name—or, at least, as many of the batch as a memory, slightly obfuscated, could manage to remember.
“Upon my sowl!” observed a short and snub-nosed captain, with an accent redolent of “the far west,” “that’s dacent wine; and the divil that brings it should be encouraged.—Here’s your health, O’Halloran; and in return you’ll call me Philbin, if you plase;—and now that the owld colonel’s gone, may I live to see you senior captain of the regiment, and then I know who’ll command it,—and that’s myself.”
To this delicate and disinterested compliment, I replied in suitable terms.
“And what the devil keeps Peter Crotty?” inquired a second.
Ignorant of the occasion of his absence, I inquired the causes from my quondam friend, and learned that the absent gentleman had gone up to head-quarters with certain regimental returns; and that his reappearance had been eagerly expected, to ascertain what reliance might be placed in the rumoured intelligence that an earlier commencement of field operations might be looked for than the season could be supposed to warrant. Peter Crotty, however, did not appear; an hour passed—the said Peter was cursed and envied according to the mood of the individual; it being universally resolved, that he, Peter, had popped into some hospitable cantonary, and got drunk for the honour of the service.
“Lord! what a congregation of lies Peter will have to get rid of in the morning,” said the captain of grenadiers.
“I beg your pardon—he’ll deliver himself of the cargo in a shorter time—for that’s his cough, for a hundred!” responded a light-bob.
The lieutenant’s ear was correct; for in a few moments the denounced absentee modestly presented himself.
Had our meeting been in Kanischatka, I should have claimed Peter for a countryman at first sight. He was a stout, well-timbered fellow, of soldierly setting-up, and, as far as appearance went, perfectly content with himself, and at peace with all the world. To say that he was drunk, would not be true; to assert him sober, might have raised a controverted question: but leave it to the most charitable, and they would freely admit that Peter Crotty, in Connemara parlance, “had been looking at somebody drinking.”
“Arrrah, astore!” observed Mr. Philbin; “may the divil be your welcome! Here have we been waiting these six hours, expecting a little news—while you, no doubt, have visited every wine-house between our quarters and Frenada. By this book!” and Captain Philbin raised a horn drinking-vessel devoutly to his lips, “I’ve a mind to report you in the morning to Sir Lowry.”
“Never listen to him, Peter,” observed the grenadier; “you must be thirsty after your long ride.—Put that down your neck first, give us some fresh intelligence afterwards, and stick as close to the truth as you can conveniently.” And he presented to the new-comer a nondescript tin vessel, filled to the brim with wine.
Peter Crotty had really been thirsty; for he turned down the cup to the very bottom.
“Arrah—what kept ye, Peter?” inquired the first speaker.
“What kept me?—Why, business, and Lord Wellington.”
“Nonsense!”—
“It’s true. Divil a one of me could get away, good nor bad?”
“Any thing wrong in the returns?” inquired the grenadier.
“Oh, sorra thing; for he gave us the height of applause.”
“Did the aide-de-camp tell you so?” asked a listener.
“What aide-de-camp?—Don’t I tell ye it was himself?” observed Lieutenant Crotty.
“Himself? Arrah—the divil an eye ye laid upon him, unless ye happened to see him lighting off his horse,” observed Captain Philbin.
Peter Crotty answered this remark by a look of silent contempt.
“He’s in for it,” whispered my next neighbour, softly. “I’ll back him for a regular rigmarole of lies against any man in the Peninsula. But we must humour him.——“Well, Peter, and was his lordship commonly civil?”
“A pleasanter-spoken man I never was in company with,” was the reply.
“And he did seem pleased with our morning-state?—The aide-decamp told you that?”
“Not at all; it was his lordship. ‘Crotty,’ says he—”
“Oh!” whispered my friend the major, “that’s conclusive.—All’s right when Peter uses the present personal.”
“Ay! ‘Crotty,’ says he,”—observed another, “But you have had a long ride; so before you begin a longer story, take the cobwebs from your throat.”
Again the tin cup was replenished—once more Peter Crotty refreshed himself; and then to a very attentive auditory he commenced the detail of a recent interview with the “great captain.”
“Well, you see, I only got the returns from the orderly room at twelve; and as I had ten miles to ride, off the mule and myself jogged immediately. Nothing particular occurred on the road, barrin’ I met Soames and Hamilton, and—
“Oh, d—n Soames and Hamilton!” exclaimed two or three voices together.
“Well, we had a drop of wine, and on I pushed without delay,—except half an hour with the Eighty-eighth; and we had a sort of a lunch of an over-driven bullock, the rump-steak,—by-the-by, it was cut off the fore-part of the shoulder, and as hard as the divil’s horn.—We had a throw of rum-and-water afterwards—”
“For one, read three,” observed another of the audience.
“Well, I reached Frenada—rode up to the door—gave my mule to an orderly—stept into the ante-room, and handed in the returns—”
“And, as the evening was wet, I suppose they allowed you to sit down,” said Captain Philbin.
Lieutenant Crotty turned a wrathful look upon the speaker, and then continued his narrative.
“The door was open, and every word that passed within I heard plainly.”
“‘Arrah! what’s that?’ said his lordship.
“‘The morning-strength of the Twentieth, my lord,’ replied the aide-de-camp.
“‘Divil welcome the bearer!’ says the general. ‘Isn’t it cruel hard, that a man can’t have a little pace and quiet, without this eternal botheration? Tell the fellow to come to the door; and ask him who he is.’ “Be gogstay! I made bold to answer, ‘It’s me, Lieutenant Crotty—plase your lordship.’”
“‘Crotty!—Crotty!’ says he; ‘Is it Peter Crotty, of the Twentieth?’”
[Original]
“‘The same, my lord,’ says I.
“‘Arrah, then,’ replies the general, ‘I wouldn’t for a thirty-shillin note ye had gone home, without my seeing ye. Peter, step in and be off’, and shut the doer after ye,’ says he to the aide-de-camp; ‘I’m not at home, if any one inquires this evening. And now, Grotty dear, draw a camp-stool, and bring your heels to an anchor.—Ned, says he, for they called one another by their names; ‘hand Mr. Crotty a glass. And now, Peter, raise y’er elbow a trifle, and fill fair. Is there any news astir:’
“‘Nothing,’ says I, ‘unless your lordship has it.’
“‘Had ye anything to ate on the road?’ says he. ‘We could get ye a broiled bone in half a jiffy.’
‘Too much trouble,’ says I, ‘my lord; I took a bit with the Eighty-eighth, as I was coming along.’
“‘Oh! bad luck to the same lads, Sir Thomas Picton,’ says he.
“‘They’re makin’ an ould man of me, the thieves! The divil himself—Christ pardon us! wouldn’t keep them tolerably reg’lar.’
“He didn’t say ‘Christ pardon us!’ Peter.”
“He did,” returned the narrator. “Do you think that he stopped to pick and choose his words in the company of friends?”
“Well, go on Peter.” *
“All this time, Sir Thomas, and General Paekenham, never said a word; but, like a priest after confessions, they lathered away at the drinking.”
“‘Did you hear lately from y’er family:’ says his lordship to me.
“‘Arrah! the devil a scrape I had from Ireland these nine months,’ says I.
“‘I see what y’er lookin’ at,’ says he, as he caught me throwin’ a sheep’s eye over at a card-table in the corner—‘are you for a rubber, Peter, to help us to put in the evening?’
“‘Feaks! my lord,’ says I, ‘I’d be afeard, as I’m rather out of practice.’
“‘Make it five an’ ten,’ says he; ‘y’er the divil at that, no doubt, as the boy said his mother was at the praying. Come, Ned,’ says he, ‘down with y’er dust, and we’ll cut for who’ll have Peter Grotty; and by my soul, up comes a red knave. ‘By the powers of pewter, Peter, ye’er my own!’ says my lord.
“‘Oh, then, y’er welcome to him, if he was better,’ says Sir Thomas. And he seemed cross at losing me.
“Well—my Lord desired Ned Packenham to make us a tumbler each—and down we sit;—myself as stiff as a new-made quartermaster, although, if God’s truth was told, I hadn’t a skurrick in my pocket to mark the game with.
“‘Here’s luck!’ says his lordship, finishin’ his tumbler at a pull. I forgot to mention, that Sir Thomas stuck to the sherry, and Ned Packenham helped himself to a sketch of brandy in the bottom of a glass, and took it nate, without water.
“Well, I cuts a black deuce, so the dale was mine; and up turns the ace of hearts afterwards. His lordship winked his left eye when he saw it. ‘Be the powers,’ says his lordship, ‘your mother must have been in’ the yeomen, or she’d never have had such a son! Many a Sunday ye play’d cards upon a tombstone instead of goin’ to mass; God forgive ye for the same, Peter!”’
“Colonel Burn wants Lieutenant Crotty immediately,” said a mess waiter from the door.
“Oh, holy Mary!—I forgot to report myself!—and, may be, I won’t catch it from the ould lad?” exclaimed the partner of Lord Wellington, as he sprang from the barrel he was seated on, and hounded after the messenger in desperate alarm, while a roar of laughter accompanied his hurried exit. A dock an durris, for we were all Scotch and Irish intermixed, passed from hand to hand, for the departure of Lieutenant Crotty appeared to be the signal for a general dispersion; and I accompanied the hospitable friend who had offered me a sleeping corner in his tent.
Presently, the cantonments became quiet, and light after light disappeared. Within musket range, five thousand men were sleeping, and yet not a sound was heard but the measured step of “the relief” as it went its rounds, or the loud challenge of the sentry, answered by a whispered countersign. To me, this seemed the opening of a new epoch in my life. I now felt myself a soldier. The camp was to be my future home; and, stretched around me, lay the victors of many a field, with whom, side by side, I was to view, for the first time, the flash of “red artillery.” My couch was fern, my pillow a bullock trunk; and, wrapped in my cloak, I sought the balmy visit of the drowsy god, but sought it vainly. A feverish excitement had banished sleep, and I could not but envy the profoundness of my companion’s repose, whose heavy breathing, a minute after the brief petition of “God bless us!” had passed his lips, told how sound were his slumbers. I dosed at last—dreamed of siege and battle-field, while gentler thoughts floated at times among these martial visions, and love and war were singularly blended. Day dawned, a bugle sounded, the drums beat the réveillée, and instantly the camp, hitherto so silent, was all life and bustle, like an alarmed bee-hive, as the startled soldiery issued from tent and hovel. In a few minutes each regiment formed on its respective parade; and the fourth division was reported under arms, as a horseman, attended by an orderly dragoon, galloped along the front of the cantonment. On reaching the flank of the line, he reined up his horse and rode slowly past, directing an eagle glance at every regiment that composed the division. The drums rolled, arms were presented, and I had no difficulty in recognising in the plainly-dressed stranger, one who had already divided the attention of the world with the great Napoleon—the victor of Assaye—the hero of Salamanca—Lord Wellington!