THE HALF-PAY CAPTAIN.
“’Tis of little import, Corporal. A gallant soldier’s memory
will flourish, though humble turf be osier-bound upon his grave.
The tears of his country will moisten it.”
Colman.
On a cold and snowy night, in the winter of 1823, I was passing through the Strand, on my way home from a formal dinner-party, when I stepped into one of those houses of entertainment which abound in that semi-fashionable neighbourhood which skirts the occidental line of aristocratic demarcation—Charing Cross. Although this house had assumed the dignified appellation of tavern, the only claim it possessed to such distinction, was the display of a few mutton-chops, a plate of mutton kidneys, and two fine heads of celery, in the window. Nor was it what is termed “a public-house”— “Where ’bacco-pipes, and clumsy pots of beer
Regale the crowd:”
but might be said to have fixed its intrinsic rank midway between the two. It possessed a neat and comfortable parlour for public use, and, although perfumed by tobacco, and moistened by homely ale, neither vulgar “pipe” nor clumsy “pot” disgraced it—the segar, in its “naked beauty,” and the brightly polished pewter-vessel, there repelled the rabble, and imparted their cheering pleasures to respectable visitors. The evening paper was there—and so was the “Times,” to read both of which, as well as to escape a heavy fall of snow, I opened the parlour-door, took a seat at an agreeable distance from a fine blazing fire, and was soon accommodated with the newspaper, together with a cup of smoking-hot brandy and water.
There were five persons in the parlour, each at a separate table, but all conversing freely together on that never-ending and purely English topic—the weather. One of them, however, but seldom spoke, and then it was when addressed by others of the company: he seemed by his air, and the formation of a threadbare and well-brushed blue frock coat, to belong to the army, and I at once set him down as one of “the cloth.”
“Waiter, give me a Welsh-rabbit,” said this gentleman, in a mild voice to the attendant of the room, and then took up the newspaper, which he continued to peruse until his supper was brought in.
While he was reading, I had an opportunity of observing him closely: he was bald, except on the sides of the head, and there the thin hair was grey: his face was thin, his cheeks rather hollow, and his large and expressive eyes overshadowed by strongly marked brows: his figure was tall, but wasted; and from the oppressed and hurried way in which he breathed, it was evident that his health was broken. The whole of his dress was extremely clean, but almost worn out. I could perceive that his boots, on which the strong blaze of the fire fell, were in no state to guard the invalid who wore them from the dangerous effects of the melting snow, over which he must tread on his return home. When I thought of this, and considered that it might cause his death, or at least encrease his illness, I sincerely pitied his situation. I felt as if I had already learnt his history, and beheld in him the ruins of a genuine military gentleman.
On addressing my conversation occasionally to him, I found that he was by no means so reserved as at first I imagined; and in a short time we fell into a lively and an interesting chat. I politely asked him if he would take a little brandy and water; but he excused himself, although pressed, by saying that his health would not permit him to drink more than half a pint of porter: this, he said, he took usually in the evening. “Wine,” said he, “is too expensive in London, or I should certainly prefer it.” I immediately requested the waiter to bring some wine; but of this the gentleman also refused to partake—and in such a manner that I felt I should have wounded his feelings by pressing my request farther.
We were now undisturbed by general observations; for when the others in the room perceived we were not at all disposed to join them in chat, they continued to discuss the topics of the day without interrupting us. We conversed for about two hours, and I was never more delighted than by his conversation. Military affairs was the subject: we had both served in the Peninsula, and consequently talked of many mutual acquaintances, living and dead: this made us so far familiar, that he gave me an outline of his professional life.
He had entered the army as ensign in 1790, and had served in both the East and West Indies, Holland, and the Peninsula—obtained his Lieutenancy by chance, and his company by purchase. At the close of the last war he was placed on half-pay; in which state he remained: nor could he succeed in obtaining a return to full pay, notwithstanding his long services: this, however, was owing to the great reductions made in the army after the war. He was a native of Bath,—the son of a clergyman whose interest in the church was considerable at the time he became an Ensign; and he assured me, that had he taken his father’s advice and embraced the profession of the church instead of the army he would have been a rich man—not a poor pensioner with a ruined constitution, and without hopes of better days in this world: “But,” said he, “I was fond of gaiety—the fine uniform of the army caught my young mind, and pleased a beautiful and interesting young lady whom I afterwards married; so I gave up the reality for the shadow:” these were his expressions. His wife died in the West Indies, and left him two daughters: they grew up: both married officers in the army: one went to Sierra Leone and died: the other went to Madras; but whether alive or dead he did not know, not having heard from her for eleven months. All his relations were extinct. “I returned,” said he, “from Waterloo, where I was slightly wounded, and on going down to Bath met my father’s funeral—the only relation I had had then on earth except my daughter, who is in India.” He was placed on half-pay, by the reduction of the battalion in which he was effective. He possessed about four hundred pounds in cash; and this, with his income of seven shillings per day, promised fairly to place him above necessity. He remained in London perhaps more from a wish to be on the spot with the head-quarter people, than from any preference he had to an overgrown, noisy, expensive, metropolis; where, without wealth or friends, life is solitude of the worst description. He thought he possessed a better chance of being re-employed in the service, and so obtain a majority by staying near the Commander-in-chief, to watch the progress of military affairs. But year passed after year, in the same dull expectation, and he found himself as far removed from his hopes in 1823 as he was in 1817. His four hundred pounds he lodged in the hands of a mock army agent, who, from day to day, and month to month, promised him an exchange with some individual, with whom, perhaps, the impostor never had communicated. This mock agent at length failed, and ran away; leaving the poor Captain with nothing but his seven shillings a-day: and not only did he take with him his client’s four hundred pounds, but his last quarter’s half-pay, which the knave drew the day before he departed.[15]
This took place about six weeks before the evening I met the Captain. I immediately offered to introduce him to an army agent, who would advance him the amount of his following quarter’s half-pay. This offer he not only willingly accepted, but cordially thanked me for it; indeed, it had the greatest effect upon his spirits—he became quite another man—his countenance lost much of its melancholy; and it appeared he had previously much reason to be depressed; for he frankly informed me, that Greenwood’s had refused to advance money, and therefore, for the last six weeks, he had been obliged to have recourse to raising money by pawning his clothes. I hesitated not a moment in offering him the loan of what change I then had in my pocket, but he declined to take it; nor could I press him to the acceptance of it. He thanked me gratefully, and promised to meet me at the house we were then in, on the following day at two o’clock, for the purpose of going together to the agent. He paid for his welsh-rabbit and his half-pint of porter, cordially shook hands with me, and we parted. Poor fellow! as he feebly walked out into the fast falling snow, so thinly clad, I heartily wished that Heaven had thrown a cloak over his shoulders.
I was true to my appointment next day; but the Captain was not. I waited an hour, and then left word for him with the waiter that I would come in the evening—and would remain until ten o’clock. I could not think what was the reason of the officer not meeting me, when it was upon a matter of so much importance to him. I went at night, according to what I told the waiter, but he was not there. I called next night,—he was not there. I now concluded that sickness, or perhaps death, was the cause; and regretted much that I had neither left with him my address, nor the name of the agent to whom I promised to introduce him; neither had I got his card,—certain of meeting at the appointed time and place, we both overlooked the necessity of interchanging addresses.
What I am now about to describe, my readers will say is more of the romantic than the real: I must confess it looks more like the imaginative occurrence of a novel, than of actual life; but, at the same time, can assure them, that it is not romance—not imagination,—but fact.
Three weeks had passed away, and I had totally given up the idea of meeting again this unfortunate gentleman. I had frequently gone to the house where we had met, but without finding him. I left my address with the waiter, to deliver, should he see him; but my card was never removed from the rack in the bar, where the waiter had placed it.
It happened at this time that I changed my lodgings to Villiers-street, Strand. Here I engaged a tolerably well-furnished pair of parlours, and was reading at my fire, the second night after I took possession of them, when my landlord—a little fat clerk to a brewer—opened the hall-door for somebody who had knocked. I heard his voice increasing to a pitch of anger, which awakened my curiosity; so I laid down my book and listened.
“You cannot be taking up my room for nothing, in this way, Sir; I must pay my rent, and I shall be paid by my lodgers. I gave you warning a fortnight ago, when I saw you had no money; and so now you must quit, willy nilly.”
“But, Sir,” replied a voice, in a subdued tone, “I have not been able to leave my bed, in order to look for lodgings, until to-day; and I hope you will not oblige me to quit your room to-night.”
“You may go to the room, if you wish,” replied the landlord, “because I know the law don’t allow me to lock it up—and a bad law it is; but if you do go, you will have to sleep without a bed; for I have removed my furniture. The short and the long of the matter is, Sir, you owe me two pounds; and I’ll forgive you the debt, if you only go away to-night: that’s what I call fair and charitable.”
“To-night!” returned a voice, “I cannot go; I was scarcely able to crawl down to the Strand, to look after a gentleman, who promised to recommend me to where I may get money; and now I am quite exhausted.”
“Exhausted! nonsense,” exclaimed the landlord’s wife, who now ran up from the kitchen; “we can’t be troubled with such people, and lose our rent, too.—Parcel of poor devils of half-pay officers, coming to London, here, to eat us up. One word for all; I will not be humbugged out of my lodgings.”
A thought struck me—it might be the poor Captain. I opened the door—it was he! There he stood in the hall, leaning upon a stick—almost sinking with weakness. He recognised me directly, and as he put out his hand to meet mine, I could see his eyes filled with tears, which he laboured to suppress. I brought him into my room—gave him a chair at the fire—and left him to himself a few minutes, in order that he might compose his feelings; for to have talked to him on the brutality of the landlord then would have wounded him still deeper. I chose, therefore, rather to affect ignorance of it; and while I remained out of the room, took an opportunity of addressing the landlord upon his conduct, and promised to be answerable for the Captain’s rent, which operated a marvellous change in his demeanour towards the poor sufferer whom he had but a moment before treated so harshly.
I returned to my room and made a glass of negus for my guest, affecting in my manners a degree of hilarity which was at vast variance with my real feelings. The Captain was too weak to sit up long; he had been confined to his bed ever since the night he had first seen me, owing to a cold he caught on his return to his lodgings, and, therefore, could not come to his appointment: he had frequently requested his landlord to oblige him by going to the house where we were to have met, and to speak to me, whom he described; but this as well as other favours was denied. All his money was gone, and he had tottered down that night as a last resource, to see me.
I exerted myself to make him happy: the landlady brought him a basin of gruel, of which he partook: his bed was prepared, and—what was never done before for him—warmed with her pan by her own hands. Every thing was attention, and my grateful friend was made as comfortable as one suffering under a consuming disease could be. He remained in bed from this night; and I could see that every day he became more feeble: the doctor who attended him informed me that his lungs were diseased, and that his case was out of the pale of remedy. I did every thing I could for him; and he felt great relief, he said, from my company; for I always kept conversation free from melancholy.
About a week after this last confinement of the Captain to his bed, the landlord offered to have warm curtains put up; this was desirable, and as they were already in the house, he sent for an upholsterer to hang them. I was sitting by the bed of the invalid when this upholsterer came in, along with the landlord, carrying the curtains. The Captain regarded him attentively; then whispering he said to me, “I think I know that man: ask him what is his name.” I did so, and the upholsterer answered that his name was Thomas Hanson. I beckoned to him, and he approached the bed. The Captain then fixed his eyes upon him, and in a weak voice said, “Tom, do you not know me?”
“No, Sir,” was the reply.
“Ah!” returned the Captain, “I am now so altered that nobody knows me;” and then burst into a flood of tears.
The man gazed on the sufferer intensely: he turned to me in evident embarrassment, and whispered, “I don’t recollect the gentleman, indeed, Sir.”
A short pause took place, and the Captain wiped his eyes with his handkerchief.
“Were you not in the **th regiment while they served in Spain?” said he.
“Yes, Sir; I served with them there, and since they came home too. I have been pensioned, and now, thank God! I’m in a good way of business, on my own account. I assure you, Sir, I do not recollect your face.”
“No, no!” rejoined the Captain, “my face and all—all are changed. I’m very unlike the Captain now, Tom, that led you up the hill at Talavera, and saved your life at Salamanca.”
Hanson changed colour—he looked closer—he recognized him—then fell on his knees by the bed and seizing his old Captain’s hand, wept like a child. I hurried out of the room, for I could not bear the scene.
Hanson never left the bed of the dying officer one hour at a time. However, the poor fellow died next day; and the last sad office of closing his eyes was performed by this faithful and humane soldier; nay, more—from his purse came the expenses of the funeral—his own hands made the coffin—and no mourner ever followed the beloved dead to the grave with a sincerer sorrow, than Hanson did his poor Captain.
MESS-TABLE CHAT.
No. IV.
(A SKETCH FOR THE “MEDICOS.”)
“There were four-and-twenty Doctors all of a row.”
Old Song.
Scene.—The mess-room, of the Medical Staff at Chatham. A couple of dozen Doctors at dinner; all in blue uniform,—red collar and cuffs, no epaulettes. Guests, consisting of a retired Major, and a Captain of Infantry on full pay. Attendants, &c. &c.
Staff Surgeon Ward. This goose is as good a subject as ever I cut up:—Doctor Adipose, shall I send you a superior extremity?[16]
Dr. Adipose. Thank you, Mr. Ward. I’ll take one—au—hau—, with a slice of the breast; and, as your hand is in, you may as well let me have the—au—Pope’s nose.
Staff Surgeon Ward. There,—there,—there, Doctor—there you are; there is the delicious os coccygis for you.
Dr. Adipose. Thank you, au—hau—, thank you, my dear friend—very good, indeed.
Dr. Kyle. Permit me to send you some sauce.
Dr. Adipose. Thank you, Doctor, au—hau—, very good, very good; it looks a perfect Kitchener,—au—hau, very good, indeed.
Hospital Assistant Lintly. Mr. President, a little soup.
President. Eh! what! soup again, Lintly?
Hospital Assistant Lintly. Yes, Sir, if you please.
President. There, there. De’il a word I’ll say aboot yer taste, mon; gin ye had supped as much sargery soup as me, ye’d tak to soolids.
Dr. Kyle. Ah, Mr. President, you were too long in the Peninsula to recover your taste for soup.
President. True, Doctor! Hey—de ye remember when you and I war hospital mates togither at Belem, when the sargeryman wad han’ us up twa smoking tins o’ broth, to see if it war fit for the sick; an’ then we wad hae anither twa, to see if it war fit for the wounded; an’ then twa mere to see if we liked it oorsels,—ha! ha! ha! Doctor, we war jolly hospital mates, then. Ecod! I never swallowed a mouthfu’ o’ soup sin’ I was promoted.
Dr. Kyle. I was never an hospital mate, Mr. President; “Hospital Assistant to the Forces,” was my first appointment in the department.
President. Aweel, it’s a’ the self-same thing. When I first entered—noo sax-an’-twenty years—we had mates, an’ nae assistants at a’.
Dr. Kyle. You are perfectly right, there; the service had no assistants at that time, sure enough.
Dr. Adipose. (wiping his chin.) You are too severe, Kyle; au—hau—; you are, indeed, hau—; I’ll trouble you for a cut out of the thick end of that haunch of mutton; it looks delicious; au—hau—, good indeed—very good.
Dr. Kyle. I’ll send you a slice, Doctor, that will digest on its first contact with the gastric fluid;—there, Sir, there.
Dr. Adipose. Hau—, very good. I haven’t seen such a haunch as that since the last annual dinner of the society for the benefit of the widows of our department; that was delicious, too.
Capt. Beamish. Oh, you have a society, then, for the widows of your department, Doctor?
Dr. Adipose. Yes, yes; I’ll tell you all about it, by-and-by.—A little currant jelly, Thomas.
Dr. Kyle. Yes, Captain, to the laudable exertions of Sir James M’Grigor we are indebted for a valuable fund,—sufficient to protect our widows and our orphans, if it please God to leave them without other means.—Mr. Lintly, do you take mutton? Oh! Sir, it is a vast advantage.
Major Oldfield. ’Pon my honour, I am very happy to see such improvements in your department. When I entered the service, now fifty years ago, there was no department at all. A surgeon was something like our present military parson; he used to go about in plain clothes, or with a black coat and a military cocked hat: his pay was bad; and as to his assistant, he was a sort of lob-lolly-boy; but now, how different! Ah! the Duke, Heaven rest his soul! was the first who improved your department, Gentlemen, as well as every other belonging to the army.
Dr. Adipose. Major—au—I’ll trouble you for a little of the harrico—hau: It looks very well—au—very well, indeed.
Vice-President. Splint, shall I send you a little pig?
Mr. Splint. Indeed it is a thing Mrs. Splint is very fond of; and if you like, I’ll send my servant up to you to-morrow for it.
Vice-President. For what!
Mr. Splint. Why the little pig you mentioned.
Dr. Adipose. Poo—oo—au—ha! ha! ha!
[A general laugh—more at the expense of Dr. Adipose than the little pig.]
Vice-President. Why, my dear Sir, I asked you to take a little of this roast pig.
Mr. Splint. Oh dear!—I beg your pardon.
Dr. Adipose. Very good—very good joke indeed—hau. Well, I think as you mentioned it, I’ll taste the little pig—a leetle bit, Mr. President. Devilish good joke—thank you, that will do.
Vice-President. Yes, Major, the Duke was our best friend; it was he who first raised the pay of the surgeons, and thus made the situation more worthy to be filled by men of education. Sir James M’Grigor, and Sir William Franklin, have completed what the Duke began, and now, thanks to those gentlemen, our department is not only happily organized, and its rank sustained, but we can furnish in the field, men of genuine professional education; not tyros of the pestle, but scientifically bred surgeons, who can whip off your legs while you’d be saying “Jack Robison.”—A glass of wine, Major.
Major. With great pleasure.
Dr. Adipose. Mr. Vice, I’ll taste that wild duck—hau—it looks well—and squeeze a lemon on it:—but first we’ll take a glass of wine—hau.
Capt. Beamish. I’m not so long as the Major in the service, by twenty years, and even in my time the military surgeons were in general inferior to what they are now, both in education and respectability.
Mr. Ward. The peninsular war required a vast deal of surgeons, and therefore, a number of young unqualified men, of necessity were sent out to Portugal; but since that, Sir, this very Chatham hospital has been established; and it bids fair to become a school for military surgeons.
Dr. Kyle. By-the-by, it would not be a bad thing to follow Buonaparte’s plan of educating medical men for the army. The Parliament might vote money for worse purposes than promoting the health and comfort of the soldiers in providing a military-medical school.—This I really believe. Then, in case of necessity, we should not be forced to receive indifferently educated surgeons into the service.—Chatham would be the very place for it. We have already a splendid anatomical museum, a good library, and an extensive hospital. All wanting now, is permission to receive young men as pupils or cadets, who would be supported by government until fit to join the army:—Something like the Artillery-school at Woolwich. Then the well-qualified officers of the department, who are now receiving half-pay for nothing, might have here something to do in lecturing as professors.
President. Hoot! if ya’d apply to parelament for sic a thing, ya’d ha’ Masther Joey Hume at wark wi’ his hammer an’ tongs:—he’d cry oot “sae muckle for lodging—sae muckle for poorridge—an’ sae muckle for pooltices,” till he’d run up a bill for the hoose that wad beat the Docthor’s Bill clane oot an’ oot.
Dr. Kyle. But Sir James and Mr. Hume are both Aberdeen men, are they not? There might be something done that way.
President. Nae, that wad do naething; Sir James has a lang heed o’ his ain, an’ if it war to be done at a’, he’d nae consult the calculator aboot it.
Dr. Adipose. Very true, Mr. President, hau—I’ll thank you for another custard, au—just to finish this apple-pie.
President. First we’ll take a drap o’ wine, Docthor; ya’r takin’ reed, so there’s the decanter.
Major Oldfield. I really think the plan is good; for this reason:—when men expend a considerable sum on medical education, they look to a return; and the success of private practice is far more tempting than the army-surgeon’s; therefore professional education might be provided for them at a moderate expense, and as a security, they might be bound to remain a certain number of years in the army.
Capt. Beamish. I remember a joke which passed current at the expense of the young surgeons when I was at Lisbon:—a ship was hailed, in passing up the Tagus, to learn what she had on board, and the Master answered “horses and hospital mates, for the use of the army.”
Vice President. Very true: there were many such jokes played off upon them; and this was owing, in a great measure, to the want of such an establishment as this at Chatham. Then, a set of young raw Scotch or Irish pupils would come up to London, pass their examinations, and be ordered forthwith out to Portugal. Unacquainted with military etiquette and the usages of officers, it is not to be wondered that they were in general laughed at. I myself have seen one of the medical juniors—then a dispenser of medicines, but now Apothecary to the Forces—dressed in a brown ill-made surtout coat, blue trowsers ending at the calf of the leg, pepper-and-salt coloured worsted stockings, and shoes; the whole surmounted by a cocked hat, and straight black feather: in one hand he carried his sword, and in the other an umbrella!
[A laugh from all the mess, particularly convulsive in Dr. Adipose.
President. It’s vary deeferent noo; look at us a’ here fra’ top to bottom—there’s nae irreg’larity in oor appearance—nae gaudy gewgaws aboot us, but neat an’ military to a degree: oor uniform is noo blue an’ reed ye see—then it was reed an’ black. Here, when a young man joins us, he learns not only his duty, but the mode o’ appearing like a proper meelitary surgeon, an’ joins a regiment ready made, as it were: it was far deeferent during the peninsular war. I can assure ya gentlemen, the present Airmy Meedical Board deserve the highest praise—an’ something more substantial too, for the establishment o’ this valuable heed-quarters, I may call it, o’ the Meedical Department; an’, wi’ yir leave, I’ll noo drink their health in a bumper; [all rise] I’ll gi’ ya, gentlemen, Sir James M’Grigor, an’ Sir William Franklin, the regenerators o’ the Meedical Department.
[drunk with three times three.
Assist. Staff Surg. Leech. The only thing I see unpleasant in our situation, is that we are not promoted fast enough.
[a laugh.
President. There is something in that: Misther Leech there, has been in the sarvice—hoo long noo, Leech?
Assist. Surg. Leech. About eight years on active service abroad, and nearly eight more on half-pay.
President. Ha! that’s a long time. I remember when I enthered the sarvice, an assistant-surgeon seldom remained withoot promotion for mere nor three years, and some got it in as many months. But this can hardly be helped noo, fra’ the encreased numbers. Hooever, it wad be an improvement in the Department, if the juniors were mere quickly promoted; and also a greater number o’ gude places for the seniors to look up to.
Dr. Adipose. Right, Mr. President, hau—take care of the seniors.—I’ll thank you for the nuts.
[a laugh.
Vice President. There are not enough of high places certainly. The situation of Inspector of Hospitals, is all that the surgeon can fairly look to; and of these there are not many. Now what is that worth?—about 700l. a year. This, mind you, is the utmost a man can look to, unless it be the directorship of the Department; and that is but one place of worth—all this after twenty or thirty years of troublesome service:—there lies the disadvantages of the profession. If a surgeon be but commonly attentive, and fairly qualified, he will soon be worth more than twice seven hundred a year in civil practice: nay, an apothecary, who sticks up a blue bottle at the corner of a narrow lane in London, will soon make as good an income as the Inspector of Hospitals.
President. True enough: there ought to be at least half a doozen gude births, o’ a thoosand a year, by way o’ rewards for auld and meretorious meedical oofficers; an’ the young ones ought to run up a leettle faster. What d’ye think of the sinecures given to the Irish Medical Board:—the present Surgeon-general, an’ Physeecian-general, an’ several o’ the Inspecthors, enjoy their full pay an’ allooances, yet were never in the army at a.’ (murmurs of disapprobation from all the Mess) Yes, gentlemen, ’tis fac’ as deeth:—hey! I wish the Duke may just tak’ it into his head to examine it.
Dr. Adipose. Au—hau—that’s the man for cutting up the Doctors—hau—I’ll take the olives and that orange, Mr. Ward—hau—thank you.
Dr. Kyle. What our worthy President says is just. Those situations in Ireland were given to rich civil practitioners—I believe by one of the Viceroys: now, really, if Viceroys choose to reward their medical friends with good incomes, they should not take the money out of the pockets of those officers who have been living like gipsies on the mountains—enduring every privation to watch over the lives of our gallant soldiers; or perhaps wasting their health and life in the pestilential air of tropical hospitals. There are but few good places in the Department, and surely they should not be given to wealthy practitioners, who do not belong to the army. Cheyne, Crampton, Peel—all worth at least two or three thousand a year each by their practice—take three of our best places from us; yet, until their present appointment, never had anything whatever to do with the army.
Mr. Ward. Yes; Crampton, I believe, was an hospital mate for five or six months; and, I remember, he did duty in the camp which was on the Curragh of Kildare.
Dr. Kyle. Vast service, indeed! (a laugh.)
Dr. Adipose. Gentlemen, I’ll give you a toast—hau:—I’ll give you—Mr. Abernethy and the digestive organs.
[A roar of laughter follows the corpulent gentleman’s toast.
President. Why—Adipose—what the deel maks you toast the digeestive organs?
Dr. Adipose. Because they are our best friends—hau—and the particular supporters of our worthy brother Abernethy.
(applause.)
Major Oldfield. Gentlemen, I’m sorry my health requires me to leave you. There was a time when I could drink with the best of you: but I am seventy-six years of age, and that I hope will be my excuse for quitting so early this pleasant mess-table. Allow me, before I go, to say that it gives me the greatest satisfaction to see the hospital staff thus consolidated: many attempts were made, during the long time I served in the army, to establish a regular mess in this department, but all failed. I give you joy, therefore, gentlemen, on the attainment of the object now: and I trust you will not receive it as flattery when an old officer tells you, that for forty years in the service, he never had the honour of dining at a mess where there was more military regularity and more enlightened members. Permit me now, Mr. President, to drink “Prosperity to the Medical Officers of the Army—the soldiers’ best friends in the day of sorrow.”[17]
(great applause.)
The Major now departed—several of the members of the mess, who were on duty, also retired to the hospital, and the remainder sat in pleasant conversation until eleven o’clock, when they partook of deviled turkey, specially prepared by Doctor Adipose; and having washed it down with a few glasses of claret, broke up for the night.
NIGHTS IN THE GUARD-HOUSE.
No. VI.
“That’s the worst of the army,” said Private Andrews to Sergeant Dobson, as he rose to open the guard-house door—“that’s the worst of it: we are scarcely well acquainted with the inhabitants of a town in which we are quartered, when the route comes, and off we go; perhaps never to see again people that we would wish to spend our lives with.”
“Very true,” replied the Sergeant; “I have often felt that, and so have you; but I think there is something about our leaving Ballycraggen which touches your feelings, Andrews, a little more than the leaving of any former quarters in which I have seen you.”
“Why, to tell you the truth, I do not like to quit that poor girl, Sergeant; she is a good, kind-hearted creature,” returned Private Andrews, lifting the latch for the purpose of seeing who it was that engaged the sentry in conversation.
The door was opened, and in a few moments an aged man appeared at the threshold, exclaiming “Soldiers, I am glad to see you—blessings upon you! It is a cold and a bleak night: I have yet four miles to go: will you give me a seat at your fire? I am a man of threescore and twelve years of age, and before now my shoulder has borne a brown bess in the service.”
“Come in, come in, my old fellow!” was the answer from every man of the guard. The stranger’s venerable appearance was a carte blanche: he was not only admitted to the guard-house, but the old oak chair was resigned to him by honest Sergeant Dobson—no small compliment, considering the comfort and importance which it always afforded to the Sergeant of the Guard.
The old man who was thus simultaneously honoured, was that sort of personage which a romantic poet would think his fortune made in getting a sight of; and in describing him would immortalize himself,—provided he were a true poet: the white beard would demand a dozen stanzas:—the Ossianic vapour of the morn curling in the breeze—the snow upon the skirts of a towering mountain—the surf whitening the base of the cloud-capped sea-rock—these, and a thousand other comparisons, would be called in to paint it. The bald and expanded forehead would be likened to the most polished work of ivory-turners; the eye add a new star to the heavens; and the figure of the man be handed down to sculptors as a model for the venerable grandeur of humanity!
Now, as I am writing plain prose, I will say without metaphor, that he was a tall man of seventy-two years of age, with a long and silky white beard; a good-natured countenance, and as sound and healthy to all appearances as Corporal O’Callaghan; who, in point of age, might have been almost his grandson, and who took up his position beside him at the fire, the moment the old man sat down.
“What the divil makes you wear your beard?” said the Corporal; “couldn’t you borrow a razor anywhere once a week?”
“I have worn my beard,” replied the stranger, “for these many, many years. It is an old friend, and tells me a history. It was never cut since the mutiny of the Nore.”
“What! are you a sailor?” demanded the Sergeant.
“No, young man, I belonged to the Royal Marines.”
“O, by the powers! he’s one o’ the red boys afther all,” exclaimed the Corporal: “give us your fist.—God! you’re very cowld: will you take a—” here O’Callaghan whispered something to the stranger, and then went to a recess in the guard-room, where there was a bottle—in short, nothing that could be done by the guard to show their respect for the old soldier, was neglected: the consequence was, that he became very communicative, and related not only the history of the mutiny of the Nore, but gave them a description of his own adventures subsequent to that affair. There is no use in making a secret of the matter—a bottle of potyeen whisky was dispatched, and the party enjoyed themselves by the fire in listening to the veteran’s stories with the greatest attention for a couple of hours: during which time the rain pattered, and the wind blew, unheeded by the group. He told them he had enlisted when a boy, and had served as a marine in several engagements. He was entrapped into the mutiny of the Nore; but the only part which he took in the proceedings, was writing out in a fair hand several papers for the mutineers—and this he declared he did for no other purpose than to indulge his own vanity, in displaying his fine writing, upon which he had highly valued himself. He was tried after the surrender of the mutineers, and transported for life to Van Diemen’s Land. Amongst the stories with which he amused the guard, the most interesting was the following, in which he himself was a principal actor.