CHAPTER XXXVI. CONFESSIONS OF MAJOR FITZMAURICE.
“Say I love ‘many’—well, dear soul, I do;
Rut the bright object of my heart is ‘one
I love a thousand flowers, of every hue,
For all are beautiful, though similar none;
I love a thousand stars, for all are bright,
And with their radiant beauty cheer the sight.
..........I have, as thy sweet lips complain,
On many a lip of ruby banqueted.-’
Triojias Wade.
I have ever been romantic. At twelve I wrote poetry—for by that name my grandmother was pleased to designate my melodies—and at sixteen was regularly in love. In two years more, I left “England, home, and beauty,” “to seek the “bubble reputation.” Need I say what agony that parting with the fair one caused? How convulsively Clara sobbed, and how awfully I swore in return, when I received from her hand a ringlet—hue, sunny—binding, violet-coloured silk—which was duly deposited over the fourth rib—left side—with a solemn adjuration, that there the said ringlet should abide and dwell until the heart it covered had ceased to beat, and the lungs adjacent should exercise their expiring functions, in murmuring warm but feeble prayers for the happiness of the donor.
At nineteen I carried the colours of the —th into action at Salamanca, but I lament to say, that the honour of carrying them out was reserved for another gentleman of the sword.
“There’s a d—d ill-looking tirailleur, covering me dead,” observed a brother ensign, to whom “the king’s banner” had been entrusted.
“I’m devilish, glad to hear it,” I responded, “for I thought the scoundrel was levelling at myself.” *
* True anecdote.
My supposition was, unfortunately, correct; for before I had done speaking, a bullet broke the colour-staff, passed through the arm that held it, and took temporary possession of my person exactly opposite the spot, where the gage d’amour of my absent Clara had been deposited. I dropped—two rear-rank men picked me up instanter—and, though the action was particularly hot at the moment, they insisted on bearing me from the field. The anxiety which these worthy men expressed for the safety of their officer was astonishing, and I think they would have never halted until we had been out of range of the Cadiz mortar, had the same mortar been in battery at Salamanca.
“Where the devil are ye going with the lad?” exclaimed an eighty-eighth man, who was hobbling on as fast as a wounded leg would allow him, to try, as he termed it, to overtake his “darling Faugh-a-ballaghs.”
“To obtain medical assistance,” responded both my Samaritans.
“Then ye had better return,” said the Ranger. “Devil a doctor’s within a mile of you, except an assistant surgeon, who is lying under yon wall in mortal alarm.”
My humane friends at once decided upon employing the gentleman lying under the wall, and I was accordingly committed to his care. “Faint the din of battle bray’d,” and the doctor recovered his self-possession as the roll of musquetry became feebler and more distant—the ball was extracted—I was removed to the house of a gentleman immediately beside—confided to the tender mercies of any who would undertake them; while my deliverers—the greatest cowards who had ever been inflicted on a fighting regiment—considering the plundering had commenced, set out to try what industry would acquire; and, as I verily believe, the assistant surgeon “bore them company.”
Upon my conscience, into a nicer family circle an Irish ensign never contrived to drop himself. The senhor was a steady, sober, respectable gentleman, who went regularly to mass, and never drank in the morning. His lady managed him, the farm, and the domain—rent of the latter not excessive—and the daughter—oh, murder! three years have passed, and as yet I have never managed to forget Agatha’s foot and ancle! But then her eyes—St. Senanus could have never stood a second glance; her teeth would have put a foxhound’s to the blush; and, as the old song goes,—
“Her hair was as flick as the devil.”
Well, she nursed me—her mother offering at matins and vespers a prayer for my recovery and conversion, and her father spending the morning in asking after news, and putting the evening in, by giving me the result of his inquiries.
A fortnight passed—and as one wound healed, another opened. Agatha was ignorant of French, I innocent of Spanish. “With the exception of a monk or two in Salamanca, not a soul (out of the army) spoke Irish; and hence, poor girl! from a neglected education, we were rather puzzled to explain the rapid growth of mutual affection. In time we might have succeeded—but one fine morning in August, a field officer, accompanied by a staff surgeon, dropped into a neighbouring village where some sixty lazy vagabonds were malingering. Of course, they were all ordered to their regiments, and I, with a senior officer, desired to look after the scoundrels.
“Agatha!” I said, as I held her to my bosom the morning that I marched, “Agatha, would that I could remain in this sweet thraldom to eternity.—Curse that bugle! I wish to God the fellow had been shot through the lungs instead of the arm—Agatha!—”
Here sobs broke in—
“Pat, Pat. Do you really regret to leave me? and will you—”
“Return in a month, and make ye Mrs. Patrick Fitzmaurice.”
She flung herself upon my breast—placed a little billet in my hand—inquired how many days in England we reckoned for September; when a gruff voice exclaimed behind, “Mr. Fitzmaurice, Major Oldham is waiting to see the detachment march off, and if you’re not at his elbow in a pig’s whisper, why, he swore by the eternal frost! he’ll report you to the general to-morrow morning.”
“Agatha, my own Agatha!”
“Pat, my darling Pat!”
A long, last, kiss (vide the Corsair, for a particular account of a kiss of this description) succeeded—“Fall in, men,” said the sergeant, and in another minute poor Agatha was on the sofa, and I in the street.
“Agatha!” I exclaimed, as I passed the window whence, “like Nioobe, all tears,” she watched the detachment move off, “Agatha, on that festival you named, expect me.”
“And that’s Tib’s eve,” * said an incredulous scoundrel, who overheard the promise—The bugler played Paddy Carey—an angle of the street intervened.—It was the last I saw of Agatha.
* An Irish festival, which is said to fall “neither before
nor after Christmas.”
When we halted for the night, I took the little packet from my breast and examined its contents. It contained a billet that professed eternal constancy, and a tress of glossy hair, black as the raven’s wing.
“Yes, Agatha, this memorial of our love shall rest beside that heart which is all thine own. But softly, Mr. Fitzmaurice! Is there not already a tenant in possession? Pshaw! Poor Clara! What fools boys are! Ha, ha, ha! and I really did fancy I was in love? One cannot help laughing at the recollection. Let me see—light brown—Well, the hair is pretty hair enough—but, shafts of Cupid! to compare brown with black!—the very thought is high treason in love’s calendar. Still will I preserve a memorial of thee, my sweet blonde—and therefore, sunny ringlet, I’ll commit thee to—my wilting desk!” The transfer was effected, and the tress of glossy black promoted to the secret pocket of the jacket, in front of fourth rib—left side—vice light brown, “placed on the retired list.”
A year rolled over—the anniversary of my birth came round. It was a sweet October evening, and I stole out from the crowded hall of my father’s mansion to meet my gentle Lucy. All around was so calm, so quiet, and so lovely, that the coldest heart would own its influence, and even a professed woman-hater, for once renounce his heresy, and “plead for pardon.” And who was Lucy? The sweetest girl in Roscommon! Her father was the village curate, not passing rich on forty pounds a year but half starved with a wife and six children upon a hundred. Lucy was the eldest child, and when I left England three years before, she had promised to grow up particularly handsome. I returned—we met by accident—for her father’s circumstances were too humble, and his spirit too high, to allow him to maintain terms of intimacy with my family. It was in one of those sweet green hint’s, bounded by hawthorn hedges and overspread with apple trees, whose boughs bent under the load they bore, that I saw her for the first time after my return. If ever rustic-beauty was calculated to ruin a man’s peace, it was such as Lucy Delmer’s. A lovelier dice I never looked at—but it was its expression that did the mischief. The deep blue eye, that turned on the ground from man’s approval the cheek, which one whispered word reddened to the very brow; those lips, which Suckling poetized and Cupid might have sworn by—but why dwell on the loveliness of Lucy Delmer? I came, I saw—reversed the proverb—and was conquered.
The locality of my father’s house was exceedingly remote, and so was the parsonage—and hence, though Lucy had numbered seventeen summers, the tale of love had never yet been heard. No wonder, then, that to my ardent suit her young heart was not indifferent. She did not tell me so—but, without much difficulty, I guessed the secret.
She was punctual to the hour.—The lane was made for lovers—so sweet—so unfrequented.
“Ten thousand thanks, my sweetest Lucy, I feared this lonely spot might have alarmed you, and made you change your resolutions.”
“Oh no; with your protection, what had I to fear? But why were you so desirous to see me? I know there is a dinner party at the hall!”
“It is my birth-day, Lucy—and before my last one, we carried Badajoz, by assault. From a soldier I purchased this chain, and have kept it as a memorial of that eventful passage in my nameless history.” I threw it round her neck: “And now, my sweet Lucy, the spoil of war becomes the bond of love.”
“Dear Pat,” said the blushing girl, in reply; “would that I had some token to offer in return;—I am poor—————”
“Rich, beyond Potosi,” I exclaimed; “ay, and throw El Dorado into the bargain. These nut-brown tresses would manacle Dan Cupid if he came on earth, and replace Berenice’s in hewen afterwards. Give me one lock!
“Hush—I hear footsteps.—Farewell, dear—dear Pat.”
“Adieu—dearest, dearest Lucy.”
We separated. A villanous whistle was perpetrated at a short distance. It was a herd-boy of my father’s—and as he passed me in the lane, I rewarded his melody with a thundering box, that changed “Nora Crina” into “a lament” that might have been heard a mile off.
That night, when I retired I found a letter on my table, and broke the seal. Lucy’s fair hand had indited the billet—and within was enclosed a lock of “nut-brown” hair, which Mr. Truefit of the Burlington Arcade (I forget the number) would have knelt to and worshipped incontinently.
“Lucy—my loved Lucy.” I I exclaimed; “little did I fancy, that from thee love’s influence was to be learned for the first time.—The first?—Easy—Lieutenant Fitzmaurice, Saints and angels! ’tis the festival of the blessed Agatha—the very evening you promised, a year ago, to return to——. Ah! Pat—Pat—What have you to say for yourself?”
What a special-pleader love makes man! In ten minutes, I had ascertained to my own perfect satisfaction, that in Agatha’s case I had jumbled up gratitude with friendship, merely made a mistake, and called the mixture by a wrong name. It was quite certain that ny feeling for Agatha was only brotherly after all—and that night the secret drawer of of’ writing-ease contained a second treasure; for the jet-black tress was safely deposited beside the brown one.
This my third liason was short, but very ardent, while it lasted. Mr. Delmer discovered that we met—instituted inquiries—and learned the secret of our love. Well aware that an alliance with one whose only dower was innocence and beauty, would be objectionable to a family aristocratic in every feeling like mine, he delicately hinted the state of affairs to Sir Edward Fitzmaurice, and removed his daughter to the house of a distant relative. I had written for renewed leave of absence, as the original term had expired—and to my surprise received a refusal, point blank, from Colonel Markham, accompanied with a peremptory order to rejoin. The truth was, my loving father had written privately to the commander, and told him that I meditated matrimony with the daughter of a curate; and to that holy estate, the Colonel being an inveterate enemy, he readily became a consenting party to disturb our course of love.
For a week after I rejoined at Gort, I rejected invitations to tea, left the mess sober, and refused to be comforted. By night, Lucy’s ringlet lay underneath my pillow—and by day, rested on a breast within which, as I religiously believed, the image of the loved one was enshrined to eternity. This extraordinary change on my part, excited a general inquiry—some opining that I had rats in the garret, and would require a gentle restraint and antiphlogistic regimen—while others asserted that I was about to turn Methodist, and were anxious to know whether I had attended field preachings, or been heard to swear since my return. Still my melancholy remained unabated, and I levanted before the third pint of wine—a proceeding in a corps of sharp drinkers, considered totally unregimental. Various were the surmises as to the ruinous results which this unhappy alteration in my habits must occasion. The assistant-surgeon suspected I might drop into a decline; and the red-nosed major added, that I would drop into Pandemonium afterwards.
At this period an event occurred that formed another epoch in my history. The captain of grenadiers, a pleasant gentleman, remarkable for taciturnity and an honesty of purpose that would warrant your drinking with him in the dark, in retiring from the mess-room to his lodgings in the town, with three bottles of Page’s port under his belt and in Christian charity with all men, forgetting that an open cellar lay directly in his route, popped in head foremost, and was found an hour afterwards by the relief, dead as Julius Cæsar. By this deplorable event I got the step and the company together.
The day after the accident, Captain O’Boyle came into my room to offer his congratulations. He lamented the loss the regiment had sustained. It would be many a day before the fellow of the departed could be found—a man who never bothered people with argument, confined himself to “yes and no,” and would as soon forge a bill, as pass the bottle without filling honestly. However, the Lord’s will be done! It would have been all the better if he had taken the senior major. He, Peter O’Boyle, would have got the step, and the removal of a toast-and-water man would have been a happy deliverance. “Now I think of it, Pat,” he continued, “I had a long chat with Miss Maginnis about you, at that tea party with the French name, which her mother gave the night before Bob Purcel broke his neck. D———d dangerous to lewe cellars open with a drinking regiment in town, and men obliged to stagger home after dinner to their cribs. Well, you must know that Flora Maginnis is “a regular clipper.” You wouldn’t match her in the province—takes a country side as the Lord has made it—never cranes a fence—thinks no more of four-feet, coped and dashed, than you would—sweet girl—no humbug about her—worst of it, no fortune—old Denis not worth a ghost—six hundred a-year—spends twelve. Well, as I was saying—‘O’Boyle,’ says she, ‘what the devil sort of a spoon is that chap Fitzmaurice?’”
“Heavens and earth!” I mentally soliloquized, “what would my gentle Lucy say, to hear her beloved Pat denominated ‘a devil of a spoon!’”
“‘The fellow,’ says she, ‘can neither ride nor drink, I hear; what is he good for? I wish to God he had broke his neck instead of that poor dummy, Bob Purcell.’”
“Egad, Pat, I took your part like a true friend, and stuck to you like a brick.”
“‘By my oath,’ says I, ‘Miss Flora, you were, never more mistaken in your life. It would do your heart good to see him seated on the saddle. Why, he brought Marmaluke in, a beautiful second at Knockcroghary, and only he rode over a blind beggarman and broke his back, he’d have won the cup in a common canter. Then, as to head—I never saw him fairly on the carpet but twice. He’ll take off his two bottles without trouble, and troop the guard after it, steady as the serjeant-major.’”
“‘And where the devil does the fellow hide himself?’ says she. ‘Dick, ye’ll deliver a friendly message for me. Tell him I’ll run him one round of the course for a new bonnet, weight for age,—and say, if he does not trot out to mama’s soirée—ay—that’s the name she called it—next Sunday, I’ll go myself to his cursed den, and draw him like a badger. If I don’t, may I never get a husband!’ There’s no use refusing, Pat, for she swore, d——n her if she wouldn’t.”
“Oh, my gentle Lucy!” I ejaculated, “no oath would fall from, thy sweet lips but the murmured vow of eternal constancy!”
“Eternal what?” responded Captain O’Boyle, who had but partially overheard my rhapsody—“If it’s Lucy Dogherty ye mean, I wish ye had been at the brag-table with her last Monday evening, when Mrs. Middleton laid down three natural aces,—Lord—she swore like a trooper. But you’ll go to the soirée, as they call ‘tea and turn out’ in this town, or Flora Maginnis will drop into your den, with a ‘God save all here.’ What will I say about a round of the course? Pon my sowl! it’s worth yir while to lose a bonnet, just to see how beautifully she sticks upon the pig-skin—‘ye’ll come, won’t ye, and I’ll call for ye.”
“I suppose I may as well go with a good grace,” I replied—“your friend, Miss Flora, being a lady, ‘not to be refused,’ as ‘the fancy, call it.”
“That’s right. Give us a glass of water, with a sketch of spirits thro’ it. I wonder what the divil tempts me to eat broiled bacon in the morning!”
Captain O’Boyle’s request being complied with, he bolted the diluted alcohol, and presently took himself off.
On the appointed night, he called and conducted me to the Sunday soiree of “Mother Maginnis,” as the mama of Miss Flora was familiarly termed at the mess. Why this maternal appellation had been conferred upon the lady, I could never exactly learn—but by that soubriquet she had been known for half-a-score years successively to every marching regiment. We found the company already assembled. Some played brag, some played loo, but Captain O’Boyle led me direct to the piano, where, encircled by a crowd of red-coats, ’two ladies were playing a duet; and, on its termination, in due form he presented me to Miss Flora.
She was indubitably a fine animal—a handsome face, a splendid figure, and the most magnificent head of auburn hair imaginable. On Captain O’Boyle announcing me as “his friend, Captain Fitzmaurice,” Miss Flora made a rapid inspection of my outer man from top to toe, and then, as if satisfied with the survey, she gave me a hand, white as alabaster, which I took respectfully in mine.
“How are you, Pat?—Isn’t it Pat they call ye?” said the lady. “Why the devil don’t ye shake my hand?—you take it as gingerly in yours, as if ye had hold of a hot poker. What do ye ride? Can you manage twelve stone without wasting, and on a ten-pound saddle?”
“What a question at first sight?” I mentally ejaculated. “Ah! Lucy, my absent love, were thou and I together, ours would be a softer theme than ten-pound saddles!”
[Original]
“Will you play brag?” she continued.
I shook my head.
“So much the better. That old tabby, in black velvet, would cheat her father; and she, in the blue turban, rob a church. They play into each other’s hands—client first, divide afterwards; they would do you brown’ to a moral in half an hour.”’
“Oh! Flora, Flora,” exclaimed her companion; “how can you say such horrid things?”
“Because they’re true,” returned the young lady: then turning to me, she continued, “Come away into the corner, and we’ll have a quiet hit. D’Arey, go find the back-gammon table, settle the men, and snuff the candles; it’s the only thing you’re good for.”
A sheep-faced young gentleman instantly obeyed the order; and Miss Flora Maginnis and I sate down tete-a-tete.
If ever there were two beings who differed from each other wide as the antipodes themselves, they were Flora aforesaid, and my absent mistress. I had endeavoured to imagine what “a clipper” was, according to the parlance of O’Boyle; but my fancy sketch fell infinitely short of the original. An hour glided pleasantly away; and when supper was announced, Miss Flora and I proceeded to the table, mutually pleased with each other.
I had written to Lucy immediately on my arrival at head quarters, and for several days awaited an answer to my epistle with all the impatience of a lover. At last, the long-expected letter came; and my heart throbbed wildly when I read the post-mark; I pressed the billet to my lips, muttered that quotation from Pope, which insinuates that letters were invented in hewen, and broke the seal. The “Dear Sir” commencement gave me a chill; and the conclusion, “Your’s, sincerely,” froze me to an icicle. Indeed, a colder composition never met a lover’s eye. It expressed gratitude for my sentiments of affection; spoke of the barrier that family and fortune interposed between us—followed that blow up with a disquisition on prudence and “proper pride”—declined all continuation of correspondence as irregular—and concluded with a belief, on her part, that “it would be better for both that the past should be forgotten.”
As I perused the letter, I found the colour waning on my cheek. Was this her constancy?—were these her sentiments? She who I thought had warmly reciprocated my love—she, whose whole heart I fancied mine for ever! Unconsciously my hand approached my breast; and ere I reached the cold conclusion of the letter, that ringlet, which a few minutes since a diamond would not have purchased, was torn from my bosom, and committed with that heartless billet which dispelled my dreams of lore, to the secret drawer, where brown and black lay quietly reposing. Fool that I was! I never suspected that a proud poor father had dictated every line. The hand was Lucy’s; but had I looked attentively at the paper, I would have discovered that it was blistered with her tears. Alas! that fact I never knew for years, and not until Lucy was another’s!
Every body knows, that the best preparatory state of mind a man can find himself in for falling in love with the first woman that he meets, is immediately after he has been piqued by the falsehood or indifference of another. My introduction to Miss Maginnis was therefore effected in the very nick of time—she seemed a godsend direct from Cupid.—Romeo-like, I changed from Rosalind to Juliet—commenced active operations against the heart of Flora, and fancied I could love her. We rode, and walked, and danced—ran one round over Breafy course—I was beaten by a neck; and on the following Sunday, Flora annihilated the devotions of half the congregation, by appearing at church in a lancer-cap, obtained “per mail” from Dublin, and, even by her enemies, pronounced “a little love.”
In this state of affairs an event occurred that brought matters to a crisis. A day never passed in which notes were not interchanged between me and Flora; and one fine morning, her maid was ushered in, and proved the bearer of a billet. As I fortunately preserved our correspondence, I can favour you, gentlemen, with faithful transcripts.
“Dear Pat,
“I hear you were drunk last night, and, in getting home found the street too narrow. What a humbug, to pass yourself upon people for a milk-sop! My aunt Packer will be married thirty years next Thursday; and as she annually recalls the memory of that misfortune, she gives, on the evening of that disastrous day, her customary hop. Will you drive me over? If you don’t, I’ll get across in the Parson’s rumble, and you may go to —————” There was here a hiatus in the manuscript; but a fancy sketch of “a gentleman in black,” with his tail under his arm, enabled me to guess my destination. To this affectionate appeal I thus responded:—
“Dear Flo.
“As you permit me to make a choice between ‘the place below’ and your aunt’s ball, I’ll choose the latter. Set me down your man! I’ll pick you up at eight, ‘and no mistake.’”
Punctual to the hour, I called on the appointed night. Flora was true as a clock, and deposited her person and effects safely in the dog-cart. My horses were fast steppers; and in an hour and sixteen minutes, we reached my aunt Packer’s. I am thus particular about time, for I backed myself against it, three to one—in kisses. Certainly I gave Flora sporting odds. She lost, as a gentlewoman should lose, came like a trump “to book,” and met her engagements honourably.
As we approached “my Aunt Packer’s” domicile, we found that “more hibernico” the parish had risen “en masse,” to have a peep at the festive throng. With some difficulty I took my drag pretty safely through the crowd, removing only one toe in the transit—and having deposited Miss Flora in the hall, while she “regulated her curls, and repaired damages” generally, I fought my way to the assistance of my servant, who was making vain but desperate efforts to obtain standing room for the cattle in certain ruinous buildings denominated stables, which were crammed with a pleasing variety of quadrupeds; but by bribing one car-driver, and bullying another, who had spilled me the night before into a wet ditch, I induced them to remove their prads to some place else, and thus make room for mine. This exploit having been achieved, I entered “the merrie hall,” to claim my partner, who had intimated that she should await there my return, and honour me by making her grand entré on my arm.
She was ready for action when I reappeared; and as we passed through the mob of “tinints’ daughters,” who choaked the hall and staircase, nothing could be more complimentary than the remarks—That’s Miss Flora herself,” observed a redshank. * “Isn’t she the girl, after all?”
* Redshank—a term applied in the kingdom of Connaught to
young ladies who dispense with shoes and stockings.
“And that’s her sweetheart, I suppose, beside her.—Ogh! but they’ll make a cliver couple,” rejoined a second.
“Is the match all settled?” inquired an elderly gentlewoman. “It’s all as one, and just as sure as if the priest had on the vestment,” was the reply.
To me, of course, these remarks were particularly flattering; but still to the matrimonial conclusion, I did not respond “Amen!”
On ascending to the state apartment we found the company formally collected; and in the doorway observed a little man, very corpulent, and blessed with an efflorescent nose that would have brought eternal disgrace upon a water-drinker. He was dressed in a green coat with brass buttons, a speckled vest, and inexpressibles that once had been nankeen. I particularly noticed the tie of his white neckcloth. The bow was voluminous, and the muslin that encircled his throat affixed so loosely, that it was apparent the wearer had determined that his powers of deglutition should receive no interruption.
“That’s Uncle Dick,” observed my fair companion; “no wonder that Aunty’s so proud of her bargain.”
“How’r ye, Flo?” said Mr. Packer.
“Morrow! Dick,” was the dutiful return. “Who’s that wid ye? Mr. Fitzmaurice, I suppose.”
“What a guess you made! If you go on this way, you’ll be tried for witchcraft at last,” said Miss Flora.
“Mr. Fitzmaurice, ye’r welcome—glad to see ye in Ballymaccragh. Fine night—but could drive over the bog. Maybe ye’d step down to the wee back parlour, and have a glass of naagus, or a drop of the other,—naked, or in company.”
“A glass of naagus, or a drop of the other—naked or in company,” responded Dick’s affectionate niece, mimicking her respected relation like an echo; “do you think Captain Fitzmaurice drove thirteen miles to drink hot scalteeine? One would suppose you kept a potheine house.”
“But I wanted to introduce him to the naabors.”
“The naabors!” returned the young lady, mimicking Uncle Dick to the life. “And a blessed lot the neighbours are! Kelly, and Brophy, and Kinsella,—a parcel of savages, who only know when whisky’s over-proof, and a bullock fit for market. But, Dick, why don’t you take heart when you are in Athlone, and treat yourself to a new pair of fye-for-shames? And look at his cravat!” so saying, she caught the ample bow, and whisked it round, until it met the spot where the hangman would have placed it. “Now, be off, Dick; keep yourself and naabors out of my sight for the evening, and I’ll settle sixpence a-day on you for life!”
I think our introduction to “my aunt” was about as affectionate and reverential; and I began to comprehend the meaning of the word “clipper.” No matter; she was the finest animal in the collection; and what was it to me, if she denounced the scarlet turban of the lady hostess, and traced its importation to the same ship that, thirteen years before, had wafted Uncle Dick’s unmentionables from China? We laughed at the company and ourselves, flirted, danced three sets before supper, two ditto after it,—passed every thing, next morning, on the road—and I popped her down at her papa’s, at half-past seven—she to dream of marriage, and I of God knows what.
It was two o’clock before I toddled into the mess-room. Others had been nearly as late as I; for the little snub-nosed major and Captain O’Boyle were just concluding their breakfast, when I joined them, and ordered mine.
“Cursed nuisance country routs,” growled the short commander;—“horse kicked by a vicious mule—kettle not boiled after supper—rheumatism left hip—and lost three rubbers at whist, and five pound ten at lammy.”
“Egad! for my part, major, I was delighted with Mother Packer, and my Uncle Dick.”
“Many true words said in jest; I’ll bet five pound he’s your uncle in a month—and no mistake.”
“My uncle?” I returned, with a stare.
“Ay—double the bet, too;—d—d quick promotion yours—Captain, first week in the month—Benedict, two gazettes afterwards.”
“Upon my soul, I do not comprehend you. Pray, my dear major, what are you driving at?”
“Driving at?—aye, last night’s drive settled all. When do ye come to the scratch? All friends here;—no use in humbug.
“Why, what the devil do you mean?”
“Mean—get your neck into the halter—slow march up the aisle—she looks down, and you delighted—Parson reads ‘love, honour, and obey, clerk cries ‘amen,’—kiss your bride—chariot and four—white favours—boys shout—door shuts, and away ye go! That’s the time of day!”
“A graphic picture, major. But who are to be the dramatis personae?”
“Who? yourself to be sure; aided and abetted by Flo Maginnis.”
“I marry! My dear major, when have I been pronounced insane?”
“Insane—no—no—parson says it’s an honourable estate—bound to take his word. But I wish to God you would get your worthy uncle to put a few slates upon the stable—horse running at the nose, this morning, as if he had the glanders—Air, excellent thing but, d—n me, half the roof off, too much. I’ll just toddle down to the postoffice—coach by this time in”—and Major Belcher took himself off.
Of course, when he was gone, I requested Captain O’Boyle to tell me what he had been hinting at; and I had the agreeable satisfaction to learn that my immediate union with Miss Maginniswas pronounced certain. Aunt Packer, on being assured by him, the captain, that I was not a confirmed drunkard, as she had heard formerly, observed that “Flora had got out of bed with her right foot foremost, the morning that she met me,” insinuating thereby, that Flora had been in luck; and, after our departure, Mr. Packer, in a neat and complimentary speech, had proposed our health and happiness, with an other, on his part, to bet five pounds that he would be a grand-uncle within the twelve month.—“But here’s the serjeant, with the letters. Any news, Jones?”
“Nothing,” responded the serjeant, “but a draft of a captain, two subalterns, and sixty rank and file, for first battalion—off immediately—transports waiting at Cork.”
This unexpected intelligence changed the current of our conversation. O’Boyde went out to ascertain what names were first upon the roaster—and I retired to my barrack-room, to inquire whether I was really on the eve of matrimony, or not.
I had been for above an hour in a state of dreamy confusion, when a light tap was heard at the door. I announced myself at home—and in came Sibby Callaghan.
“Ah! pretty one—is it you? Come here—give me a couple of kisses first, and then tell me how your mistress is.”
“Be quiet, captain. Oh! murder—if Miss Flora only knew it. Feaks—joking apart, it’s a shame and scandal, and you going to be married in a week or two.”
“Married! Sibby.—Who the devil put that folly in your head?”
“Oh, I know it all. Isn’t Mr. Dominick, the master’s brother, and Tom, and Peter Blake, and their sister Emily, and Julia Dwyer—they call her Julia, but her right name’s Judy—ay, faith, and a dozen more blood relations—arn’t they all written for? But I must run down to Miss Byan’s, the milliner; and maybe you’ll have an answer for this note ready for me, at my return.” And off went Sibby Callaghan.
In desperate trepidation I broke the fair one’s billet, and an auburn ringlet, silky and glistening, fell from its envelope upon the table.
“Dearest Pat,
“That lock of hair you turned around your finger when you stole a parting kiss, this morning—‘Will you for my sake keep it?”
“Curse upon parting kisses,” I muttered.
“I have written to that beast Brophy, to whom my father gave some encouragement, to say that, like a dead heat, the match was off. Would you wish to see the letter, before I send it?”
“Come up for coffee. We’ll have a quiet chat—and, like a dear good boy, go to roost early.
“Thine,
“Flora.”
“Oh!—it’s all over.” I muttered. Was ever man run into matrimony so ridiculously? What’s to be done? Knock again,—“come in.”—And in slided Captain O’Boyle.
“What the devil’s wrong with you?” was his opening address, “have ye seen a ghost—or received a call from the sub-sheriff? or”—
“Worse—worse,” I responded, with a sigh. “I’ll be married, whether I will or not. Nothing can save me.”
“Oh—I expected it,” returned the captain. “Then, of course, you’ll leave the regiment, and poor Phipps has no chance of getting you to take his turn for the Peninsula?”
“No chance!” I exclaimed; “I’m ready in half an hour. Aye, that’s an opening for escape. But stop; I must answer a note. There’s cherry-brandy in the cupboard,—take a glass, O’Boyle, and hand me another, merely to keep you in countenance. So here goes—listen!
“‘Dearest Flo,
“‘I shall ever treasure the dear ringlet you have given me, and, no matter where I am, shall look upon it as love’s talisman.’”
“Stop!” exclaimed Captain O’Boyle,—“what the devil’s a talisman?”
“Oh—hang it! no matter.” It’s I don’t know what myself—but a word, very commonly introduced into tender correspondence.
“‘As to that beast Brophy, as you properly term him, I feel some delicacy in offering an opinion. Were I he, I should at once accept your proposition, and declare ‘off by mutual consent.’
“‘If possible, I shall be with you for coffee, and attend to your advice religiously.
“‘Dear Flo,
“‘Always yours,
“‘Pat.’”
I had scarcely sealed my billet when love’s messenger announced herself. The presence of Captain O’Boyle precluded any converse between me and the spider-brusher; and after receiving her despatch, Sibby Callaghan disappeared.
It was at once decided that I should levant that very evening, leaving the detachment to the care of the subalterns, whom it was arranged I should join in Cork. Captain O’Boyle discharged my accounts in town; my servant packed my traps; and I had stepped down to take a little air in the barrack-yard, when once more Sibby Callaghan presented herself. She placed a billet in my hand; I squeezed hers in return—whispered I would send an answer when evening parade was over—and broke the seal.
“My dearest Pat,
“Have I misunderstood you? Then is my peace of mind gone for ever! Oh no—I won’t believe it. You would not win a virgin heart, and throw it idly from you! Rest assured, idol of my soul! that there is no bliss in life comparable to wedded happiness.
“Yours, and yours only,
“‘Flora.’”
I wrote an immediate reply:—
“My dearest Flo,
“I am certain your estimate of connubial fidelity is correct; but at present, you must excuse me from trying the experiment.
“Always and affectionately,
“Pat.”
“D—n it,” said Captain O’Boyle, “you must be clean out of the town, before Flo gets that choker. The whole gang will be collected in the evening. But, Lord! she wouldn’t wait for any assistance, but beat up your quarters at once. There’s only a serjeant’s guard at the gate, and that would never keep her out.”
What is valour to discretion? Captain O’Boyle’s were the words of wisdom, and I profited by them accordingly. A chaise and four were slyly introduced through the back entrance to the barrack—the gates closed for half an hour—and before Flora received my note, I had left Gort six miles behind, and set pursuit at defiance.
Would you believe it? until I reached head-quarters here, I felt particularly uncomfortable. Conscience upbraided me; and I fancied the probability of an ill-regulated but too ardent temperament like Flora’s being forced into the commission of some desperate act; and when I unclosed my secret depository, I looked at the auburn ringlet, and breathed a fervent prayer that Heaven would enable the poor girl to bear up against her visitation. As it resulted, I had disquieted myself in vain—for three week’s ago, I received a Roscommon Journal, with “P. O’B.” written upon the corner of the envelope. I looked it over rapidly; and one paragraph at once set my heart at rest.
“At Cloonflin church, by the Reverend Doctor Dowdell, Ignatius Brophy, Esquire, of Curnafin, to the elegant and accomplished Flora Maginnis, only daughter and heiress of Dennis Maginnis, of Ballybawn, County of Roscommon, and Ballynamudda, County of Mayo.” It was regularly recorded who gave the bride away, and also the route they took to spend the honey-moon; but I’ll not be too particular.
As the gallant major ended, a servant entered and whispered in the president’s ear.
“You are wanted,” he said, turning to me. “You will be sure to find us here on your return.”
I rose and left the room; and outside, found an orderly waiting in the street, to say that Lord Wellington wished to see Lieutenant O’Halloran immediately.
CHAPTER XXXVII. MY INTERVIEW WITH LOUD WELLINGTON AND FURTHER PARTICULARS TOUCHING PETER CROTTY.
Falstaff. “Men of all sorts take a pride to gird at me. The brain of this foolish-compounded clay, man, is not able to vent any thing that tends to laughter, more than I invent, or is invented on me: I am not only witty in myself, but the cause that wit is in other men.”—King Henry IV.
Although the evening was well advanced, all within and without the quarters of the Commander-in-chief indicated a business-like activity, and gave a silent earnest that an important crisis was at hand. Three dragoons, the bearers of as many despatches, were riding on to their stables—while a couple of orderlies lounged backwards and forwards in front of the building; but excepting the sentries at the door, there was nothing about the residence of Lord Wellington that would distinguish it from the quarters of a general of brigade. On my name being announced, I was conducted into a large room on the ground floor, where at one table several noncommissioned officers were employed in transcribing official documents—and at another, two engineers were measuring distances on a large map, from which they were making, what appeared to me, a skeleton draft of the great features of the country. In a few minutes an aid-tie-camp came in, and informed me that his lordship was now engaged, but that he would be happy to receive me presently—politely invited me to take a seat—and then left me to myself.
I never found an establishment that so little realized the glowing picture which Peter Crotty had so fancifully sketched. From his report, one would have imagined that head-quarters had been the selected home of social pleasure, with “Laughter holding both his sides,” and Bacchus aiding and assisting. I found it a very different concern; and had the domicile belonged to La Trappe, business could not have been carried on more quietly than it was. The serjeants seldom raised their heads from the table—the engineers conversed in whispers—and the place was as silent as the clerk’s office of a solicitor, with the head partner in bad temper in the room.
Still I fancied that there might be a secret symposium unapproached by the profanum vulgus, and to which none but the elect, with a favoured few like Peter Crotty, gained an entrance. Yet it was marvellous how well they managed matters in the house. No sound of distant merriment fell upon the ear—no explosion followed “the jest which set the table in a roar.” The walls must be confoundedly thick, or the company singularly prudent—you could have heard a cat cross the floor—and yet not an outburst of “tipsey jollity” was audible.
While lost in vague surmises as to the causes which might have occasioned this strange alteration in his lordship’s style of living since Peter Crotty had favoured him with a call, a servant opened the door, and requested Lieutenant O’Halloran to follow him. We crossed over to an opposite apartment—the attendant announced my name—and I found myself in the presence of him afterwards surnamed, the “Iron Duke.”
I never was more surprised than at the general appearance of my lord’s “great chamber.” Neither bottle nor glass were to be seen—the cards eluded discovery—and I could detect nothing in “the sporting line” except one solitary chess-board. The apartment contained not one article that could have been dispensed with. The table was over-spread with papers—and at one end, an aid-de-camp copied letters—at another, a private secretary wrote from the dictation of the Commander-in-chief.
“Sit down, Mr. O’llalloran,” said his lordship—“we have deciphered your despatch—and the information it contains is very valuable. May I inquire under what circumstances the packet fell into Juan Diez’ hands?”
I briefly narrated the particulars.
“It is genuine, no doubt; indeed it bears the stamp; but documents have been occasionally fabricated, which have misled people who did not take pains to test their authenticity. You appear to have had a good deal of adventure during your séjour with the Empecinado. They say that Don Juan is an off-handed gentleman at times—hangs a man first, and makes inquiries afterwards—ha?—Is it so?”
“‘As far as I can judge, my lord,” I replied, “such is his general practice. I found him a very excellent friend; but he’s the last man in Spain whom I should wish to make an enemy.”
I saw that his lordship was interested in the details of my recent adventures, which pictured strikingly the wild and ferocious style of war which the partidas carried on. Once or twice he was pleased to pay me a compliment; and he expressed unqualified satisfaction at Mark Antony’s bold and successful intervention to save the condemned voltigeur. Half an hour slipped away, coffee was brought in, and I was about to take my leave, when, turning round, as if a thought had struck him suddenly, Lord Wellington observed—
“I had a comrade of your name,—whether now dead or living I know not. We served together in the Low Countries, and both commanded regiments during the retreat. At Tuyl he particularly distinguished himself”—
“And on the occasion,” I added, “lost an arm.”
“The same;—is he related to you?”
“He is my father,” I replied.
“Then, Mr. O’Halloran, you are the son of a good and gallant soldier, he retired from the service I presume?”
“Twenty years ago, my Lord. But he is still in heart the same. Were it not for my mother’s influence, I am persuaded that, one-armed as he is, he would have been with your lordship before now.”
“I wish he was,—and, maimed as he is, I will freely take him, and give in exchange half-a-dozen gentlemen of his own rank, and with the usual assortment of limbs.—I am pretty certain I should be a-gainer by the bargain.”
Fearful of intruding upon his time, I bade Lord Wellington goodnight,—received a courteous return—and hastened back to the company I had quitted, highly flattered with the reception I had met with, although neither offered a glass of wine, pressed to play cards, nor even desired, when I came again, “to bring my portmantle.”
That night I returned with Major Fitzmaurice, and took up my old quarters in his tent; and as we smoked a cigar and discussed some brandy and water, I gave him an account of my interview at head quarters.
“Your reception, my dear O’Halloran,” said the major, “though not so friendly as Mr. Crotty’s, was still very flattering indeed. What a revolution his Lordship’s habits have undergone within one brief month! He seems to have booked himself against cards, and abandoned brandy and water altogether. It would also appear that, finding “villanous company would be the spoil of him,” he has exchanged his old acquaintances for a lot of less sporting characters. And yet how the world may be led astray. There are people who would persuade you that Picton never touched pasteboard in his life, and that Packenham would as soon take poison, as “brandy without.” Ah—Peter, Peter, thou hast no parallel,—the brain to fabricate such a lie—and the brass to enable thee to give it utterance! Well—we’ll put him on the gridiron tomorrow, and if he bears the scorching, why he deserves the first company that falls.”
Next morning, the fosterer and my charger arrived safely; and, with Major Fitzmaurice, I consumed the day in wandering over the cantonments. Unpractised as I was in military affairs, I could not but observe the striking contrast which the Peninsular regiments presented to that raw soldiery, whom I had been accustomed to look at, before I quitted England. Here, the unfaded uniformity of dress was wanting; not two jackets were of one shade; trowsers were patched with any colour the wearer could procure; and, provided his shoes were good, his appointments clean, and his musket in efficient order, the other externals of the soldier were but little regarded. But it was when under arms that the superiority of that unequalled army was observable. The ease with which it moved—the precision of every evolution—the facility with which a brigade manoeuvred, correctly as it were a single regiment—while an air of confidence was traceable on very face, and the whole looked like men who had made the trial—established, and felt their superiority.
It was late when we returned; the dinner-drum had beat, and we found our rough but happy circle already united around the table.
Our homely fare was speedily discussed, and the evening carouse began. There is no society on earth like that collected in a mess-room, or one in which men unbend with such security, and where the tone or temper of every individual is imperatively required to accommodate its peculiarities to the occasion, and harmonize with all around. Hence, in military communities, badinage never becomes coarse, argument captious, nor language vulgar and offensive. On the present occasion, my unexpected return was warmly welcomed, and all seemed to take a brotherly interest in my recent deliverance.
“Upon my conscience,” observed Peter Crotty, “ye had the luck of thousands, after all, Mr. O’Halloran. As to that fellow with the hard name, and black wized complexion, though he made ye a present of a stolen horse, in my mind, he’s little better than a common highwayman. Did ye see my Lord last night?”
“Oh yes,” I replied, carelessly. “Was he in good humour?” said Peter.
“Excellent!” was the reply.
“And asked you to sit down?”
“He did—most civilly.”
“Was there any drink going?”
“Nothing but coffee.”
“Well, I wonder at it!” said Peter, with a shake of the head.
“Not at all. Probably his lordship had been a little too liberal the night before,” observed the major.
“Any company wid his lordship?”
“None, Peter,” responded the major. “An aid-de-camp told Mr. O’Halloran, that the card-parties had been postponed until your new breeches arrived from England.”
“I heard another story,” observed Captain Fenwick. “They say—God knows whether it be true or false—that Sir Thomas Picton got a bad dollar in change the night Crotty got drunk at head-quarters—and Peter being the only suspicious person in the room, they have, of course, left it at his door.”
Mr. Crotty appeared a little fidgetty; but still continued to show fight.
“I regret to hear the last statement made by Captain Fenwick,” returned Major Fitzmauriee.—“Any inconvenience arising from the non-arrival of Peter’s inexpressibles, would have been but a private concern—but passing bad dollars is a more serious affair, compromising, as it does, the honour of an old and distinguished regiment. If the report be true, that Peter palmed off base money upon Sir Thomas Picton, why, he’s nothing better than what the swell-mob call ‘a smasher’—and the offence is additionally aggravated, because that, under a conviction he was playing with respectable men, Sir Thomas thought it unnecessary to ring the dollar on the table, as if he were in a silver hell.—But where are you going? I know you are on duty—but, hang it, Peter, you need not visit your guards this half-hour. Oh, Peter, I’m sorry to say, this evasion on your part looks very like guilt—and if you don’t clear the matter up satisfactorily in the morning, I’ll apply for a regimental inquiry.”
“He’s off!” said a lieutenant of light infantry. “Of all Peter’s flights of fancy, that jollification at head-quarters will prove the most fatal.” Turning to me he continued:—
“Peter Crotty, Mr. O’llalloran, is one of the best men on earth; and all he requires is, to meet with a true believer. Don’t be alarmed at some of his revelations—he’s not so truculent as at times he represents himself. For example: he’s pleased to make frequent mention, when he has dipped into the second bottle or fourth tumbler, as the case may be, ‘of having once pursued an unfortunate author on the banks of the Suir for a whole summer’s day, and despatched him with the thirteenth shot. Of course, on his own showing, you would write him down a determined murderer.—Not at all. I believe the most rascally scribbler that ever blotted paper, might live to four score, and Peter never volunteer to be his executioner. The fact is, that in the pleasant part of Tipperary which witnessed the nativity of our friend, it is customary, when a couple of t’s come together, to change the second into an h, and hence it was an otter, and not an author, that he put to death.”
“And I will bear testimony,” said Captain Fenwick, “to Peter’s gallantry. When I was knocked down at Podrigo, and lay at the foot of the great breach, I saw honest Peter crown it—and with some dozen hair-brained devils, like himself, he fought on the summit, hand to hand. The French, when the lesser breach was carried, gave way—the town was won—and Peter, with a fortunate few, gained the streets without sustaining personal injury. Two days afterwards he visited me in hospital, bitterly lamenting the total loss of a skirt, which had been bodily removed by a bayonet thrust. ‘Bad luck to him for an unlucky thief!’ was Peter’s indignant observation. ‘He tattered the only jacket that I had; and though the tailor has been on the look-out ever since, the devil a skirt he can fall upon that will match it!’”
“Gentlemen,” observed the assistant-surgeon, “you have borne an honourable testimony to my excellent friend and countryman, Mr. Crotty, as a person of lively imagination, and a stout soldier besides. I beg to complete the merited eulogium, by assuring you that Peter is a good catholic into the bargain. Captain Fenwick noticed his conduct during the assault—and I accidentally witnessed his Christian temperament, immediately before the division moved into the trenches on that glorious and bloody evening. With three others, Peter and I held a ruinous apartment of an old farm-house in joint tenancy, and my corner was divided from the rest, by a blanket suspended from a line. When the division was under arms, I discovered that I had left some instruments behind which might possibly be required, returned consequently, to the house, and while hunting for them behind the blanket, I heard Peter Crotty open the outer door and come in. He, too, was in search of something he had forgotten—and in a false assurance that he was perfectly alone, he commenced ‘thinking aloud,’ and I kept quiet.
“‘Holy Mary!’ he ejaculated, ‘you have the best interest in heaven, and that every body knows. If I had as good at the Horse Guards, I would be a colonel in a fortnight. Oh, bad luck attend ye, Tim Doyle’—and he kept rummaging through an old bullock-trunk.
“‘There’s no finding anything after ye, you drunken sweep! Well, blessed Virgin, this is likely to be a bloody night; and the Lord, of course, will take his dealing trick out of the regiment,—glory to him—nobody can complain of it. But, sweet Lady—all I wish is, that it won’t be as it was at Badajoz, in funeral order, but just let him take them fairly as they stand. There’s three field-officers with the regiment, and we can easily spare one of them;—a couple of captains, ye know, would never be missed out of the number—and as to the subalterns, why let him have his own way about them. Oh, murder! there go the taps. If I live to come back, Tim Doyle, I wouldn’t be in your jacket for a new thirteen.’ * Again the drum ruffled—Peter shut down the trunk-lid, slammed the door after him, and hurried off to join his company—making his final exit in muttering a prayer to the Virgin, and an imprecation upon Tim Doyle.”
* Anglice—a shilling.
Early next morning. I was agreeably surprised at receiving an order from Lord Wellington to attend him that afternoon. I rode over accordingly; and once more found myself in the presence of him who had been destined to restore the tarnished glory of the British arms, and after a brilliant career of conquest, terminate a doubtful struggle by a crowning victory. I found him immured in business—and yet the details of his bureau seemed to go on as orderly and methodically as the arrangements of a merchant’s counting-house. On seeing me, he beckoned me to come forward.
I think I have been able to meet your wishes, Mr. O’Halloran.
Take this note to General R———. As yours is only to be a short sojourn, he has kindly offered to make room for you on his staff. No thanks—and waving his hand, the interview ended.
Delighted at my good fortune, I rode off to the head-quarters of the fourth division—presented my credentials—was introduced to one of the most gallant soldiers that ever commanded a brigade—and made the acquaintance of the best fellow upon earth—his aid-de-camp, Tom F———-