CHAPTER XXXV. RETURN TO THE ALLIED ARMY—LETTERS FROM ENGLAND.
“King Henry. How now! what news? Why com’st
thou in such haste?
King Henry VI.
“Juliet. O, for a falconer’s voice.
To lure this tassel-gentle back again!”
Romeo and Juliet.
The absolute authority exercised by the Partida leaders over the Spanish population, was apparent in the readiness with which their orders were obeyed—and of this, the independent style in which we had lived at free quarters for the last week, would have been a sufficient guarantee. Not contented with the demolition of his supper and the occupation of the state apartments, we found that “mine host” had been laid under farther requisitions, and obliged to remount the Frenchman and Mark Antony, whose horses were sent back by two villagers to the mountains.’ To a casual inquiry that I made touching the safe delivery of the animals, the guerilla, who accompanied us, replied with a stare expressive of surprise that a doubt should be entertained upon the subject; and then pointing significantly to his neck, he led us to clearly understand, that nothing insures punctuality and despatch like an occasional application of the halter.
In the course of an hour’s ride we fell in with the party we expected, and our guide delivered us over to their safe keeping, That night we were entertained at the expense of an alcade, who loaded us with civilities, and would listen to no hint of ours touching remuneration in the morning. The extent of his hospitality, and the anxiety he evinced to anticipate our wants, drew forth from me a flattering eulogium. As I proceeded, the guerilla leader merely shrugged his shoulders—-and then privately assured me, that this generous functionary was one of the greatest scoundrels in the province, and that he was more than suspected of intriguing with the French. “He fancies that he blinds us—no matter—we know him well—all I shall say, my friend, is—that for the horse you ride, I would not have my neck in the same insecurity.”
As he spoke, we gained the crest of a hill which commanded an extensive view of the flatter country that lay beneath, and from a small wood, at a league’s distance in our front, we perceived the smoke of a large fire curling upwards. The partida pointed to the spot, and told us that there a picket of light German cwalry was bivouaced, and therefore, that his escort was no longer necessary—then bade us a friendly farewell—and in half an hour the fosterer and I found ourselves once more within the allied outposts.
On announcing myself to the officer in command as the bearer of a private despatch for Lord Wellington, I was furnished with a fresh horse and the escort of a couple of dragoons—and leaving the Empecinado’s present to the care of the fosterer, I immediately rode off to reach head-quarters at Frenada.
As I passed through the different cantonments, I fancied a general activity prevailed among the soldiers, which formed a striking contrast to the quiet and repose in which, a week before, I had left the allied camp. On the roads I had frequently encountered convoys moving in various directions, and the commissariat department seemed to be particularly on the alert. With an Irish officer, who was riding in the same direction, I entered into conversation for a few minutes, while I and my escort breathed our horses over a rough road that rendered a quicker movement dangerous; and from him I ascertained that the allied army was in perfect readiness, and it was the general opinion that “Lord Wellington had mischief in his head!” As he spoke, wheeling round a bending of the road, we came suddenly in sight of another that crossed it at right angles; and at a quarter of a mile’s distance, observed a staff-officer, followed by an orderly dragoon, riding towards the point of junction at a pace which led me to infer that, like myself, he was the bearer of despatches. “Talk of the devil,” exclaimed my loving countryman—“may the Lord forgive me for saying so!—but that’s himself!” The hint was quite sufficient—I spurred my horse, cantered safely over as rugged a causeway as man could meet with—reached the cross-roads—and halted at the point of junction, before the allied commander gained it.
On perceiving me pull up, Lord Wellington reined his horse in, and a brief colloquy ensued.
“Your name?”
“O’Halloran.”
“Whence come you?”
“From the Empecinado.”
“Where is he?”
“Heaven only knows.
“Your business?”
“To deliver a French despatch.”
“Are you aware of the contents?”
“No—we could not read it;” and I placed the packet in his hand. At one rapid glance his eye ran over the secret characters—
“Ha! I have the key,” he muttered; then placing the document in his coat pocket, he desired me to ride on, report myself at head quarters, wait there for further orders, gave his horse the reins—and thus ended an interview that had barely occupied a minute.
I remembered the marked politeness which he had lavished upon Peter Crotty, and marvelled that his lordship had not the civility to even bid “good morning” to a gentleman, who had risked a broken neck to carry him a sheet-full of hieroglyphics.
I obeyed the order; and intending to hold myself, in readiness, in the event of his lordship requiring any further information respecting the singular manner in which the intercepted despatch had been obtained and confided to me, was seeking some place wherein I might deposit my person in the interim, when whom should I stumble on in the street, but the fortunate object of the Great Captain’s hospitality—Lieutenant Crotty!
“Arrah!—murder—is it you?” was Peter’s opening inquiry.
I assured him of my identity.
“And who would have expected to meet ye here?” continued Peter; “and what the divil druv ye back?”
“Why—I returned on an errand similar to your own on the morning of that auspicious day when I had the pleasure of first making your acquaintance.”
“And what was that?” demanded Mr. Crotty—“for upon my conscience I forget it.”
“Nothing more, than to transact a little private business with Lord Wellington.”
“Have ye met him yet?” inquired Peter.
“Merely on the road; I expect, however, to be favoured with an evening interview.”
“Ah, then,” responded Mr. Crotty, “a pleasanter gentleman ye never met. I hadn’t time to finish my story; for I remember that ould bothering divil of a Colonel called me off. Well—when I rose to come away, he, that’s Lord Wellington, says to me, ‘Arrah, Peter, won’t ye sit a little longer?’ ‘Bad manners to me,’ says I, ‘but it’s more than I dare do.’ ‘What a pity ye’r in such hurry,’ says he, ‘I suppose, however, it can’t be helped at present; but the next time ye come, Peter, put ye’r best breeches into your portmantle, and stop with us as long as ye can.’”
“And is his lordship generally so hospitable and polite to every body that drops in with a message?”
“Oh, then, upon my sowl! he’s not. And if I swore it on a bag full of bibles, there’s some of the divils here that wouldn’t believe me. For one, there’s Major Fitzmaurice—and, Holy Mary! now that I mind it—hasn’t he a whole bundle of letters for you! and he’s in the town too.—Well, I’m not bothered with letter-writin, and that’s a comfort. What would they have to tell me from home, but that rack rents would be their ruin—and what could I say in favour of this villanous country, where, if a man at times happens to have a dollar in his pocket, he couldn’t get a drop to wet his whistle, although it was dry as a lime-burner’s wig, because the people have neither change nor daceney. But—see—there’s the man I spoke about—and now, may the Lord bless ye, if it’s possible.” So saying, and pointing out Major Fitzmaurice, Peter bolted round a corner, as he termed it, “for a rason he had of his own.”
In Major Fitzmaurice, I easily recognised the kind personage who had shared his tent with me on mv first appearance in cantonments.
Like Peter Crotty, he also expressed much surprise at seeing me again, when, as it might have been supposed, I was en route to Valencia.
“I have a packet of letters for you,” he said; “and in hope that I might meet with somebody bound for the east of Spain, I have carried them in my pocket. How fortunate to have dropped upon you! I came in to dine with some friends on the staff who are quartered in Frenada; and, if you have no better engagement, you shall join them with me, and in the evening we will return to the old shop. There it stands as formerly—the same mattrass and bullock-trunk—and ‘ceade millia fealteagh.’ Talking of trunks—I saw Peter Crotty leave you. He has put a finish to his celebrated visit to Lord Wellington. Did he tell you of ‘the portmantle,’ as he calls it, and his ‘best breeches’ into the bargain?”
“All these important facts were faithfully narrated to me.”
“Then come along—I’ll give you your despatches when I find my great coat; and by the time you have perused them, dinner will be ready.”
I found, on opening the packet, four letters addressed to me, and two to the fosterer. Mine were respectively written by my parents, my uncle, and my mistress—and, may Heaven forgive me! love left duty in the back-ground, and Isidora’s was the first seal broken.
I could scarcely believe that the letter I perused was hers. Not a year since I met her a timid and retiring girl—she had never mingled with society—to her, man was strange—she blushed when addressed—and if she answered,
“Back recoiled, she knew not why,
E’en at the sound herself had made.”
But now, girlish apprehension had given place to woman’s firmness, and with gentle but modest sincerity, she repeated her assurances of attachment, told me how much pain my absence caused, and urged me, “if I loved her,” to return.
My lady mother, of course, claimed next precedency. Her letter was dated from London—for thither she had proceeded, as it appeared, accompanied by her honoured lord. It breathed the warmest wishes of maternal anxiety for my safety—hoped, as I was ill a Catholic country, that I occasionally attended mass; hinted that my father became more intolerant, since the priest had cursed Mark Antony for his truant conduct to Biddy Toole—wondered what had brought them, meaning my father and herself, to England—and on this point, she seemed at a dead loss even to imagine what the object of their singular migration would prove to be. It had been suddenly occasioned by the receipt of a letter; and whether the poor dear Colonel was come over to speculate in the stocks, or raise a regiment—which latter might God forbid! the thing was equally mysterious. She had been introduced to a Mr. Hartley and his daughter—English Catholics, and the nicest people in the world. Would to Heaven, she continued, that, instead of following a horrible profession, in which body and soul were equally endangered, I would marry Miss Hartley—and, avoiding the dear Colonel’s example, settle down for life with the general complement of legs and arms. There was an extensive repetition of affectionate rigmarole in prayers and wishes; but the gist lay, lady-like, in the Postscript.
“Remember the gospel I bound round your neck. Preserve it—but open it only in extremity.”
Mr. Hartley’s epistle was purely diplomatic, and couched in such general terms, that while they conveyed a meaning clearly, had the letter fallen into the hands of my grandfather’s confessor, I question whether the Jesuit himself could have unravelled it. All, as he led me to understand, went prosperously. My parents were on the spot, and perfectly unconscious of the action of the drama. He, Mr. Hartley, wished me to return as quickly as I could with proper respect to character. He concluded with one comprehensive sentence—“The cards play favourably—the crisis is at hand.”
Had I expected to glean any information from my father’s despatch, I should have been grievously disappointed. He had come to London, as he admitted, “the Lord knew why.” The mysterious present of 500L. had reached him in annual course, and the letter which enclosed it, conveyed a wish to visit the metropolis, that he deemed prudent to obey. To a Mr. Hartley, he had been especially recommended as a person deeply engaged in some secret proceedings, which might prove of important advantage to his family and himself. As yet, Mr. H. had not explained what these proceedings were; but, as he had assured him, the Colonel, that I was cognisant of all, and that in a few days himself should be fully informed on the subject, he had, for delicate reasons, forbore to press an explanation. The rest of the letter was rambling and unimportant. It detailed the cursing of Mark Antony, and his own feud consequently, with the priest—a disquisition upon out-post duty—attack in close columns, and movements by echelons. It then proceeded to state, that as Mr. Hartley had assured him that my stay on the Peninsula would be short, and my speedy retirement from the army a certainty, he, the Colonel, would recommend me, as I had lost my staff appointment, to decline going to the east of Spain, retire from the Twenty-seventh, and continue with Lord Wellington’s army as a volunteer. I should thus see more service and sharp fighting—in my case a great desideratum. Acting independently, I might have frequent opportunities of distinguishing myself, which otherwise would only come in regimental routine. Every one expected that the next would be a splendid campaign. For his own part, he had hoped to have slipped over for a few months when the army took the field, but the bare hint at the intention sent my mother into hysterics. Here was a parenthesis about “weakness of women.” The whole concluded in his observing that, if I had luck, many opportunities might present themselves; but breaches, field-works, and defended bridges, were especially recommended for me to try my hand upon. The Lord might even send “a forlorn hope” in the way—that would be a happy chance—but then “people must not be too sanguine.”
Indeed, more ingenious instructions forgetting a man securely shot, were never penned by an affectionate parent. The means were so easy and comprehensive, that I could have half persuaded myself that Mr. Clifford’s steward and confessor had been of the number of counsellors whom the worthy Colonel had called in.
I had just completed the perusal of my varied correspondence, when my friend the Major called for me, and announced that dinner was waiting. I accompanied him to another apartment, where I found half a dozen gentlemen, whose “trade was war,” congregated around a table less remarkable for correctness of appointment than solidity of fore. None give and receive a wanner welcome than soldiers upon service—I met a kind reception from all; and the meal and the evening passed pleasantly. There are few places where more singular characters are encountered than at a mess-table. We had one short gentleman, whose happiness consisted in the belief that he was always uncomfortable and superlatively wretched; and hence his conversation, from cock-crow to curfew, was an eternal jeremiade about dead mules and stolen bullock-trunks, tough beef and damp linen, with “all the ills that flesh is heir to.” He had been wounded in one action, and in the next charged and overthrown by a drunken dragoon, who, in the melee, mistook him for a Frenchman. In short, from friends and enemies, in common, he had received abominable treatment; and latterly, had narrowly escaped being poisoned, by drinking wine from a store-cask, in which, after an undisturbed possession of a week, the mortal remains of a drowned drummer had been unexpectedly discovered. On this evening, he feelingly related a recent atrocity perpetrated by an Irish batman, who had burned the only boot in his possession, in which an angry corn could obtain repose. He ended the lament with the customary finale to all his grievances; namely, an individual inquiry of, “What the devil drove him to this infernal country at all?”
“I imagine, my dear Neville, the gentleman you name had an active agency in driving us all here—if men would only speak the truth,” observed Major Fitzmaurice. “I fancy he was close at your elbow, Richards, before you quitted London.”
“At my elbow, certainly,” replied the hussar. “Had I kept that quiet, I should have been still doing duty at the Horse-guards.”
“And may I inquire, my young friend, what might have formed the immediate inducement of your favouring us with a visit?” continued the Major, addressing a volunteer upon his right—“Did you shake the elbow—teach tradesmen book-keeping—shoot a friend who differed with you in opinion?—or—”
“None of these delinquencies have I committed. I am suffering for the sins of another,” was the reply.
“What a pity!” said Fitzmaurice; “and your friend, the sinner, pays the penalty by proxy—very convenient for him but rather hard on you. Would you oblige us with particulars?”
“‘Tis a short story,” said the volunteer, with a smile;—“An accursed cousin of mine paid some delicate attentions to the wife of his next-door neighbour; and, unfortunately, I was acquainted with the proceedings. ‘A d—d good-natured friend’ informed the little doctor, that his lady and my kinsman were fitting him for a state of beatitude, and ‘the injured husband’ commenced legal proceedings, to recover compensation for the loss he had sustained. Loss! To get rid of a regular virago, who lalopped him three days in the week, and made him miserable for the other four. Had the doctor possessed a spark of generosity, he would have given my wicked kinsman a service of plate, devil as he was! Well, though every body knew the truth, it was necessary to lug me in, as evidence, to prove it. ‘If you appear,’ said the defendant, ‘you’ll be my ruin, Tom;’—‘If you don’t, I’m done brown,’ said the doctor,—but to make all right, I’ll get an ne exeat regno.’ Here I was in a regular fix—between my cousin and the chancellor—the devil and the deep sea.’ I had no alternative but to bolt at once, and come here, hurry-scurry, like a sheep-stealer.”
“‘Well, there is one thing certain,—the devil was at the bottom of your business. And pray, may I inquire why you, Sir, sought this refugium peccatorum?” said Fitzmauriee, to a pale gentleman nearly opposite.
The person addressed “looked unutterable things,” and sighed profoundly.
“Ah—I see it. Nothing transportable,—not even suspicion of debt?”
The pallid gentleman shook his head.
“Then your sufferings are sentimental. Come—make a clean breast, and you’ll sleep all the sounder.”
“‘Twas woman’s falsehood,” returned the “pale lover.”
“Oh—indeed!”
“Yes—Julia, false as thou wert, this widowed heart shall never own another image than thine own.”
“But who was Julia, and what did she do?” inquired the Major, with provoking insensibility.
“Who was she?” returned the desponding Lieutenant,—“that secret shall perish with me.”
“Well—no matter; but what the devil did she do? Had she a kick in her gallop?—or—”
“No,” said the bereaved gentleman; “I loved, and wooed, and won her,—as I fondly fancied. I urged my suit, and pressed her to name the day that should seal our mutual happiness;—I would have wedded her—but, alas! she left me for another. That, Sir,—ay—that fatal visitation, made me the wanderer and the outcast that I am.”
“Bless me,” replied the Major, “how heavily you took it! Now, is it not funny enough, that an occurrence, opposite as the antipodes, actually bundled me into the Peninsula a second time?”
“Indeed! my dear Major,”’ I replied.
“True, sir;—the ease was desperate—and nothing but expatriation could have saved me from the bonds of Hymen. The lady would not be denied; and to escape connubial captivity, I levanted at an hour’s notice.”
“Were the inquiry not impertinent, nor one that would painfully recall the past and probe the breast too deeply, I should feel curious to learn the particulars,” I observed.
“Faith, my dear fellow, I have been, as you properly suspect, the victim of a too sensitive heart, and have suffered accordingly. But here goes to make a clear confession, and give you the leading incidents of my amatory adventures. I omit, of course, skirmishes of love with femmes de chambre, dress-makers, gentlewomen wayfaring in stage-coaches, or encountered gipsying a mile or two from Islington or the Elephant,—appertaining to the corps de ballet, or met with at a conventicle in the afternoon—sheltering in July, under a portico, from a shower, or lost in November, in a fog. I shall pass over all diurnal notices in The Times, beginning with ‘should this meet the eye,’ and affairs transacted by the agency of twopenny postage. But why detain you? Fill, gentlemen—I fear you’ll find the story very long, and, what is worse, very melancholy and affecting.”