THE SENTINEL.
When o’er the camp the midnight moonlight beams,
And soldiers’ eyes are seal’d in happy slumber,
The wakeful sentinel his watch proclaims,
And silence sweetly swells the echoing number:
Oh! then to Heaven his eyes he turns,
And murmurs with a glowing sigh,
“Angels bright that dwell above,
Tell my country, tell my love,
For them—for them I watch, for them I’ll die!”
And, as the foe’s night-fires before him play,
His bosom swells with flames still stronger burning;
He gazes on them—wishes for the day,
With glory and the fight once more returning!
Oh! then to Heaven his eyes he turns,
And murmurs with a glowing sigh,
“Angels bright that dwell above,
Tell my country, tell my love,
For them—for them I’ll fight, for them I’ll die!”
And should he, in the battle’s raging heat,
With valiant heart and arm the foe confounding;
Oh! should the hero then his death-wound meet,
And Victory his glorious knell be sounding,
Again to Heaven his eyes he turns,
And murmurs with his life’s last sigh,
“Angels bright that dwell above,
Tell my country, tell my love,
For them—for them I fought, for them I die!”
This, sung in admirable style by the manly voice of Jack Andrews, had a powerful effect upon the listeners, for the air was of a romantically martial character, composed during the best days of Napoleon’s glory, when chivalric enthusiasm infused itself into every shade of French imagination. There was not a man of the guard who had not served in the Peninsula during the brightest period of England’s military grandeur, when she stood opposed to Napoleon’s greatest heroes; and from a recollection of the scenes of that time, awakened by the song, there arose a feeling in every breast around the humble hearth of Ballycraggen Guard-house, which commanders might have envied, and philosophers admired. It brought all back to the romance of war; it placed them in situations familiar to their fancy; it touched the most delightful chord of the soldier’s heart, and every tongue became eloquent upon the source of its sensations. There is no sign in Nature’s mnemonics like music: it is a talisman of power. Moore has beautifully expressed this in poetry, but not so effectually as the following lines, attributed to the unfortunate Ensign Dermody.
To him whose heart is dark with shades of care,
How sweet’s the melody it loved to hear
In days gone by! Yet bitter is the strain:
Oh! ’tis a mingling of delight with pain;
For, though the hand of Time well-nigh efface
Each blur and furrow—each deforming trace,
Which stern Adversity’s harsh hand design’d
To spoil the lively landscape of the mind,
Some passing sound, some melancholy lay,
The favour’d pleasure of some former day,
Falls on his soul; and, as the listener hears,
Forth comes the magic stream of memory’s tears,
Which, dropping on the picture, bright again
Enlivens alike each beauty and each stain,
Casting a varnish of so mix’d a dye
That (by its gloss) ’twill please yet pain the eye!
Bob the sergeant spoke more than any one else on the subject of the song;—“That’s a ’nation good thing, Jack,” said he; “it puts me in mind of many a one of my night-guards when I was a private. D—me but it made me think I was on the side of a hill on the advanced-posts, stuck behind a tree, or the corner of a rock, watching the enemy in the moonshine of a fine summer’s night, just as I was immediately before the first battle Sir Arthur ever fought in Portugal. I think I’m there now: it was at Roliça. I was on sentry that night, on a hill, close to the enemy. It was as fine and as calm a night as ever was seen. The French were posted thick upon the heights in front of us—infernal steep and craggy precipices, where it was almost impossible to come at them. There was I about three hundred yards in front of them. On this advanced-post I was the sentry, and was just leaning against an old windmill, looking out at the French vidette, who was stuck on horseback, like the statue at Charing Cross, right out upon a high rock, at the top of a hill. The moon was rising behind him, and I could see the figure of the fellow and his horse just like one of those black shadows they cut out in card. The whole country round was one of the most beautiful pictures in the world. Down under my eyes was a little wood of lightish-coloured trees, (cork, I believe,) a small stream at the end of it: all along, to the distance of about two miles, I could see different old convents, and houses beset with orange and olive-trees; and the moonlight threw such a beautiful colouring over them that I could not help feeling melancholy.—You may smile, lads, but I was a young man then, and only a few days in a foreign country: I could almost smell the sea-air; for we were only three miles from the beach, along which we had been so lately sailing: I had not been many weeks away from a comfortable home—father, mother, sweetheart and all: I was then standing between two great armies, ready to start upon each other: and I did not know but the next day would see my first fight and my last hour. I’ll leave it to any man here, who ever was in any thing like such a situation, to say, whether it is not calculated to make an impression on the feelings.”
“Oh, by my sowl! and that it is, sargeant,” replied private Mulligan; “particularly when you are not a long time at the work.”
“Well,” continued the sergeant, “it was at that old windmill I heard the song of ‘The Sentinel’ first, from one of the enemy, who was sitting with four or five others on the top of one of the heights; and when he was done, a crowd of our fellows, about two or three hundred yards from me, gave him three rounds of applause. The night was so still, that you could hear the cocking of a musket half a mile off, and the song went most melodiously. God knows whether the poor fellow ever sang another song! for the next day there was no singing, but plenty of dancing, to the tune of ‘over the hills and far away,’ and I rather think we made the French pay the piper.”
“Bluranouns! tell us how it was, sargeant,” exclaimed Mulligan, with an anxious smile, and a chuckling twist of his hands. The sergeant was not sorry to have such a favour asked of him, and he did not lose a moment in complying with the request, which now became general.
“After I was relieved that night, I lay down in my guard-coat on some Indian-corn straw, behind a wall or sort of pent-house, where our advanced piquet was, and I slept a couple of hours; after which Tom Singleton and I smoked a little while, out of a short stump of a pipe, which Tom brought with him from England, and warmed our gobs with a drop out of the canteen. It was broad daylight, and we got up to look out at the heights over the wall; for the officer of the piquet was very busy with his spy-glass reconnoitring, and we knew we were soon to begin a little bit of business with the Mounseers.
“Every body thought Sir Arthur would not let us be long before we should be ordered to be ready,—for he looked like a sharp one. We had not been many minutes leaning over the wall, when we saw the blue fellows moving along the height immediately in front of us, as if to take up a position on their own extreme left; and, presently, four or five officers—I suppose the General and his staff—appeared where the vidette was posted, and planted an eagle-flag on the highest point of the hill; after which all drew their swords, took off their hats, and saluted it. Thinks I, ‘Sir Arthur will pay his addresses to that same flag before long.’ The French General took damned good care to place the eagle on the top of a rock, where the boys could not scale her nest very easily.
“The piquet was very soon after relieved; and when we had been with the bivouac of our regiment about a couple of hours, we were all ordered out under arms, along with the other regiments of the brigade. ‘Ho, ho!’ says I to my comrade, ‘there will be something going on very quickly, you may depend upon it.’ We stood behind a line of loose trees and bushes quite covered from the enemy’s view. I could see that other brigades were also under arms, at about a quarter of a mile off; in short, between every opening of either walls, or woods, or houses, upon each plain and little open hill within view, I could see the red coats either drawn up like ourselves, or moving along at quick time with their arms and accoutrements glistening like glass. All the army seemed on the alert—several pieces of artillery passed us down the road towards the front, and Sir Arthur himself was galloping about with his staff giving directions. He once stopped behind a small house along with General Crawford, who commanded us, and showed him a large map, as if pointing out something very important; after which our General came back to where the brigade was, under the trees, and talked for ten minutes or so to Colonel Lake, our commanding officer, (God rest his soul, he was not long alive after that!) I could see by the men’s faces and their manners, that they expected something which was strange to them; but still they were joking and laughing: the officers were uncommonly pleasant, particularly the young ones. It was a most delightful morning—only a little too hot; but we were under the trees, and tolerably well shaded from the effects of the sun. A Portuguese muleteer just then came out from a sandy narrow lane, with a pannier full of grapes and oranges, and the men at the flank of the regiment where I was, were helping themselves to the welcome fruit, which they purchased for little or nothing, when an Aid-de-camp came galloping down the road behind where we were formed, and spoke a few words to General Crawford; then galloped away again. We were helping ourselves to the grapes and oranges, which, with our bread, made a good breakfast, when the word was given “attention,” and the feast was at an end. The whole of the brigade instantly formed into close column, and we moved out towards the front, still covered by the wood, and were joined by three other brigades, all forming into one solid column. As we marched on, there was not a word spoken, except an occasional command from the officers. We knew not what was to be expected; but guessed, from seeing a brigade of artillery not far on our right, ready at their guns, silent and waiting the word. There seemed to be scarcely a breeze or a fly to disturb the silence of that fine summer’s day, and the business upon which all were engaged:—an awful silence it was—nothing to be heard but the soft tread of our feet, as we moved over the heath, and the grass, and the sand.
We were now halted—still in the wood; but within half-shot of the heights; and the French guns were not idle whenever any of our forces were to be seen; but we were completely covered. Two other brigades now joined us, and the whole of us were formed into one close column. A finer body of fellows never stood together. We did not halt many minutes; and during these few minutes the General officers and staff were very busy—riding up and down the column, and giving orders, as coolly and as calmly as if they were in the barrack-yard; but their countenances were expressive of a seriousness, which I never saw upon a parade—they seemed as if they were not now playing soldiers, but on the point of going to work like good ones. Our Colonel now addressed us in a short but striking manner. He hoped we would show that the regiment was worthy its name. I think his eye met every one of ours. I never saw a man say so much by his looks in my life:—we all knew what he meant, and although we could not speak our mind, we showed it by our faces. I know the tears came into my eyes, and I did not know why; for I could have jumped into a mortar’s mouth at the time, and taken a mile’s ride on a shell; but the fact is, it was the brotherly kindness Colonel Lake felt for us, and the pride he took in the old 29th, which affected me.”
“Oh, faith!” said Mulligan, “It’s not always grief nor sorrow that makes a body’s eyes wathery, sargeant.”
“Well, the moment all was ready, there was nothing but a dead silence. Every man—Generals and all—were in their places. A minute or two would take the column out from the wood, and then ‘ware hawk’ from the guns on the heights. ‘Steady, men,’—‘Forward!’ The curtain was soon up. Bang went the artillery of the French—right into our column, as it poured out from the wood; and rattle went our artillery on the right also, to support us. We moved on steady towards the bed of a stream (quite dry) that winded up the hill: it was about as broad as this room; and so steep that we must have bent a good deal to have got up it: through this passage we were to go and make our way up to the French fellows. On we moved for about three hundred yards under the fire, without being much injured; at all events, it did not make a great difference in our column, although I stood upon three or four poor fellows as I advanced, who had fallen. I could see on my left, at a good distance, a large body of our troops moving on also; and this gave us still more confidence. We were getting vexed from the fire above by the time we got to the passage up the hill, and our fellows began to swear vengeance against the Mounseers. If we could have got up in any numbers at once, I really think we would have eaten the damned rascals; but we were obliged to go—not more than four or five abreast; and had to stumble our way over lumps of stones as big as the big drum. Our orders were to get up as fast as possible, and form above as soon as we had made good our ground. We scarcely lost a man killed or wounded in going up the hill through the crags and stones, until we came nearly to the top. Here the way was a little wider, and our Colonel formed us up in a pretty fair sort of way, giving us the word to advance at double-quick time; when out comes a volley from a green mound of earth in front of us and right in the middle of the way. This mound was covered with bushes, and from behind these the firing came: it was by a set of riflemen who were posted there in ambush: but when they fired they ran like devils back—every one of them, except a few that fell on their faces; for we gave them a volley that knocked them over in good style. Several of my comrades dropped at this point, and our poor Colonel too. He laid himself up against the side of the bank, and although scarcely able to breathe, smiled, and pointed with his sword to go on. We never stopped, but mounted like tigers to the top, although half a regiment let slap at us from the opening. Oh! if they had only stood till we could have got our bayonets into them! but they ran off to about a hundred yards distance, and in a few moments our regiment and two others were up and formed as compactly as you please, when we received another volley from the French, at both sides and in front—thick as hail. Many of our men fell, but we closed up, and did not miss them. ‘Let us at them,’ was heard from many mouths. Vexed and impatient, we soon had the word ‘Charge!’ The French were in full line, and so were we: they advanced to meet us like men,—damned beardy, tall, raw-boned grenadiers, with long grey frock-coats and red-worsted epaulettes. On we went; and when within about ten yards of them, we all gave a yell,—‘Hurrah!’ and Oh, Christ!—We dashed at them,—they huzza’d as well as ourselves; but in a moment every English bayonet was bloody to the hilt. Over they went; and the rear-rank of the French, although they stood a little, and did some execution, was soon settled. We butted them when we were tired sticking them. I broke my musket by a blow I made at a fellow, and missed him; but I jumped at his throat, although he was a tall man, and pulled him right down; however, there I left him, and ran after my regiment; for he lost his musket, and must have been taken prisoner by the troops advancing into the field. The French, now at our right and left, opened a fire on us, which knocked many a poor fellow off the hooks, and we fell back to the main-body of our troops; for we were only treating the enemy with a few steel lozenges, while the remainder of the column was getting up the hill; and how they got up so soon I cannot imagine. I did not think we were five minutes at work in all, when I turns and sees the whole column formed in line, and the right of it pelting away, volley after volley, at the French, who now showed an immense front. It was a sort of even ground enough, but covered with grape stumps, and loaded with bunches; however the grape-shot was of more consequence to me, so I never minded touching the grape fruit. There was nothing done for half an hour but banging away with the musketry and a few of the French guns; but while this was going on, our men were getting up the hill, and forming in our rear as fast as possible. Men were dropping, both French and English, quick enough, I assure you; and we were longing for another charge, to put an end to the peppering. This we were soon indulged with. ‘Steady, my lads,’ was the cry from the officers, ‘another taste of the bayonet.’ The French formed a strong first line, and their battalions in the rear were forming into a second. ‘Now, men,’ says a General who rode behind our first line, ‘keep steady, and do your duty.’—‘Charge!’ was the word:—in a moment we were not forty yards from the enemy.—‘Hurrah!’—Oh such a shout as we gave! But it was answered by the French every bit as loud; and they did not flinch. At them we went, like devils again; and down they went like twigs. They found it was no use trying it,—they were knocked about; and although they did as much as men could do, they were obliged to start about (those that were not down) and make the best of their way off. We halted and loaded, as steady as rocks—most of our gun-barrels were streaming with blood, which wetted the powder as it went in. I’m sure that was my case; for when we gave them a volley, I know my musket did not go off, so I threw it away, and took up another from one of our poor fellows, who lay on his face behind us, with his head knocked all to pieces. I’m certain it was Jem Ellis, by a ring on his finger; but you didn’t know Jem, poor fellow! that ring was given to him by a sweet little girl the day we embarked, and he intended to marry her if God spared his life; but unfortunately he met his fate with a cannon-ball. Well, after this second charge, we expected an attack from the French cavalry; and they certainly came upon our right; but made no impression. Just as we halted, after scattering the line of the enemy, their General came galloping in amongst his men, roaring out to them to rally; it was General Laborde; and at that moment, a battalion on my left poured in a round upon them; but still they formed up in good style: one of the balls hit the General: he alighted, and sat down beside a bank: we could see the surgeons tying up the wound. There was not much harm done him, for he mounted again and rode away along the line. At this time we were getting pretty well used to the business, and the men stood as quiet as logs, wiping their faces, and damning the French; yet the firing continued as brisk as ever; and although our first engagement, we went on just as if we were at a review: whenever a poor fellow dropped, we closed up, and kept our front complete. In a moment I sees, left and right of the field, at about half a mile distant, our red boys moving in towards us: they had got round on the enemy’s flanks—the sight was glorious. We now got the word for another charge, and went to it as confident of success as if we were going to upset a parcel of skittles; but we had much harder work; for the French rather stunned us with a volley just as we approached: however we closed up, and pegged away, right and left, huzzaing and roaring like madmen. Away they ran, and we after them, until we were ordered to form up again: I was just falling in, when I felt my right leg very heavy and numbed like, and rather difficult to move; I put down my hand to my ankle, and found my stocking soaked with blood, but I felt no pain. In a few moments, by George! I could not move my leg at all; so I very reluctantly sat down under a rising bank, pulled off my shoe, and was obliged to cut off my stocking: I was hit, sure enough, right through the fleshy part of my leg, and I felt it now impossible to move. There was a general shout down on the right, and I could see our battalions advancing in double-quick time; the staff galloping about everywhere; and a brigade of artillery of ours blazing away like hell-fire at the enemy. Several regiments passed by me in columns and in high spirits; so that I knew the French were retiring: I gave them three cheers as they passed,[2] in which I was joined by my wounded comrades, lying about, and several of the lads threw us canteens of rum and wine, which were very acceptable. I gave a poor French fellow a drop out of one of them, and I do think it saved his life; he shook hands with me, and said something in French, I suppose to thank me: he looked like a ghost before he took it, and after he lay down a bit, his face got its natural colour, and he seemed much stronger. Here we all lay until near seven o’clock in the evening; the field covered up and down with wounded, dying and dead. I lost sight of the troops in about an hour after I fell; but I had no doubt they settled the matter very soon, for the artillery could not be heard in a short time after the advance. I talked as well as I could to the poor French grenadier beside me, and we seemed happy to speak together, although not understanding much what each other said, except by signs. About six o’clock I sees a Portuguese fellow, with a great slouched hat, poking about amongst the dead, and rifling them of money, watches, clothes, and whatever he could get. A French officer who lay upon a sort of rise was attacked by this fellow: the officer was a powerful man, and resisted being robbed, although he could not stand up. I had no idea what the rascal of a Portuguese meant to do; when I saw him hit the officer with an immense pole, on the head, and the unfortunate man fell flat. There was an English sergeant of the 91st regiment near me, severely wounded, and says I to him, ‘Sergeant, do you see that?’ ‘I do,’ says he. ‘Have you a musket near you?’ says I. ‘Yes, here is one,’ says he. ‘Then keep it, and load,’ says I, ‘for I’ll knock that fellow over with mine.’ The sergeant loaded while lying down, having got a cartridge from a pouch of a dead man near him:—‘Are you ready?’ says I. ‘Yes.’ ‘Then if I miss him, and he should come up to us, wait till he is close—then make sure of him.’ The Portuguese had now left the Frenchman, and was engaged at a dead English officer: he was stooping down. I raised myself up, and leaned my musket on the French grenadier’s shoulder to take good aim—I covered my mark, and fired:—the rascal jumped two feet off the ground, roared out ‘Ai! Jesus!’ and dropped like a cock on his face. He did not lift his long-pole again, I warrant you.
“In a very short time after this, a detachment arrived on the ground, to take away the wounded, and the surgeons had us removed into a house where there was plenty of straw—French, English, and all together. From the men who took us off the field, I learned that the enemy were completely beaten, and retired, leaving their artillery behind.
“This was the very first brush our troops had under Sir Arthur, and for beginners, I never saw better boys in my life. In about five days after this, they had another trial, at the battle of Vimiera; and I wish I had not been wounded so soon, or I should have had a finger in the pie.
“This was before you came to our regiment, Sergeant—wasn’t it?” said Jack Andrews.
“Yes,” replied the sergeant, “I was drafted into this corps two years after that battle.”
“It was a right good shot you made at the Portuguese scoundrel?” said Mulligan; “By the powers o’ Moll Kelly, you sarved him right; an’ if it was my case, I’d just a’ done the self same thing. The rascals used to follow the army, whenever there was a likelihood of a battle, an’ not only rob, but murdther the wounded. The Spaniards were no betther;—ay, an’ what’s worse than all that, some of our own army’s women, at the battle of Vittoria, were seen doin’ the same thing. Several of them were caught in the act by the provost, an’ flogged well, though they were women,—an’ the devil’s cure to them for it.”
“Hush—I think the sentry has challenged. Here comes Callaghan,” said the Sergeant, listening: and the word “Halt!” outside, convinced him that he was right in his conjecture.
The Corporal, with four men as cold as the weather without, now entered the guard-house, and joined their comrades at the fire. They brought with them a stranger, an exciseman, whose face was somewhat disfigured; and the Corporal informed the Sergeant, that some countrymen, who kept a private still, had attacked him, and would perhaps have killed him but for the guard who were within call. “Captain Jones met us,” said Callaghan, “an’ desired me to conduct this man safe to the guard-house; an’ said that he would send the ordtherly officer down to you with further ordthers. The man is supposed to be very active about private stills here; an’ this is the way they have rewarded him.—Pon my sowl, Sir, you got a hell of a dthrubbing.”
“I think I did,” returned the exciseman; “but I’ll make them pay for that through the nose, please the pigs.”
The orderly officer now entered the guard-room, and directed the Sergeant to take three men of the guard, and to conduct the exciseman safely home across the mountain; for which the latter returned thanks. The party set out immediately, and the orderly officer returned to his quarters; while Corporal Callaghan took a snooze in the Sergeant’s chair, during his absence.
ABSENT WITHOUT LEAVE;
OR,
GONE TO SEA IN A COACH.
Ay; now we see it,
And there’s the coach!——
Southey.
In many, if not in most, of the regiments of our army, there is to be found a sort of officer who is a privileged oddity,—who takes liberties with all his brethren of the mess with impunity, and who pockets every thing short of a blow with the best possible humour. In general, the individuals of this description are designated in the mess-room vocabulary, “Good-tempered Old Stagers,” and “Old Stickers,” meaning thereby, that they can “go” at the bottle, and “stick” at the table till “all’s blue.”
One of these, a Quartermaster of infantry, with a nose of the genuine Bardolph complexion, a rosy and eternal smile, a short figure, and a big head, having dined with a party of brother officers at the Three Cups, Harwich—the day on which his regiment marched into the barracks of that town—was in the best possible spirits: so much so, that he gave the bottle no rest until about eleven o’clock; and became “glorious,” just as the company broke up—right or wrong he would go along with three of the youngest subalterns to ramble by the sea-side in the moonshine, having been “so long i’ the sun.” They permitted him reluctantly; perhaps, indeed, because they could not prevent him; but when the party got down to the place where passengers and goods are usually embarked, the Quartermaster became totally overpowered, and sank senseless into a snore. The officers whom he accompanied could not think of carrying his corpus back to the inn; nor were there any persons near whom they could employ for the purpose: one of them, therefore, opened the door of a private carriage which stood near, “unshipped” from the wheels—ready for embarkation, and in a moment the sleeper was bundled into it, where he was left to his repose with the door fast shut upon him.
Next morning at daybreak (about three o’clock) the coach, with its contents, was put on board the Hamburg packet, and stowed away at the very bottom of the hold: in half an hour after this, the vessel put to sea.
For the whole of the day the packet had a brisk breeze, and at midnight was a good hundred miles away from Harwich: a dead calm set in. It was a beautiful night in July, and the passengers were not all gone to bed: some walked the deck, and others sat below at cards—every thing was silent, except the rattling of the ropes as the ship yielded to the smooth and gentle swell of the sleeping North Sea. About this time, the Quartermaster, it is supposed, awoke; at least he had not been heard before to utter his complaints, probably from the bustle consequent on the managing of the vessel in a stiff breeze. However, it was at this time that his cracked and buried voice first fell upon the ears of the crew; and for about twenty minutes the panic it created is indescribable. The whist company in the cabin, at first thought it was one of the sailors in a chest, and called the captain; who declared he had been that minute examining into the cause of the unearthly sounds, and had mustered his crew, all of whom were on deck, as much astonished as he was—nay, more so, for one of them, a Welshman, felt convinced that the voice proceeded from the speaking trumpet of the ghost of David Jones, his former shipmate, “who had died in ill will with him.”
“Hallo—o—o—o—o!”—“Murder!”—“Murder!” now rose upon all ears, as if the voice were at the bottom of the sea. The Welshman fell upon his knees, and begged forgiveness of his injured and departed friend, David Jones: the rest of the crew caught a slight tinge of his fears, and paced about in couples to and fro; some declaring the voice was below the rudder, and others that it was at the mast-head. The passengers, one and all, hurried on deck; in short, none on board, not even the Captain and the oldest seaman, were free from alarm: for they had searched every habitable place in the vessel without discovering the cause of their terrors, and the hold, it was evident, could not have contained an extra rat, it was so crammed with luggage, &c. “Let me out, you d——d rascals! let me out—let me out, I say!” screamed the voice with increased vigour. These exclamations the Welshman declared were addressed to devils, that were tormenting his deceased enemy David; and he uttered a fervent prayer for the peace of the wandering and unhappy soul: but a different idea was awakened in the mind of the Captain by the words “Let me out,” “There is somebody packed up in the hold,” exclaimed he; and instantly ordering the men to follow him down, all began to remove the upper layer of articles; which being done, the voice became louder and more distinct.
“Where are you?” bawled the Captain.
“I’m here in a coach, d——n you!” answered the Quartermaster.
The mystery was now solved, and the Welshman made easy; but no one could imagine how a human being could have got into the carriage. However, satisfaction on this point was not to be waited for; so the men fell to work, and after about half an hour’s hard exertion, succeeded in disincumbering the vehicle. They then proceeded to unpack the Quartermaster, whose astonishment amounted almost to madness, when he found that he had not only been confined in a coach, but in a ship, and that the said ship was then in the middle of the German Ocean!
It was impossible to put back to Harwich, so no remedy was left the little fat gentleman but to proceed to the end of the voyage, and to take a passage back from Hamburg as soon as possible. This was bad enough; but his hopes of an early return were almost destroyed by the setting in of adverse winds, which kept the vessel beating about in a most bile-brewing and stomach-stirring ocean, for ten days and nights; during which time, when not sea-sick, the Quartermaster was employed in profoundly meditating how he could have got into the coach; and even after having taken the opinion of the captain, the crew, and all the passengers, upon the matter, he felt himself as much in the dark as ever. The last thing he could recollect of “the land he had left,” was that he dined and wined at the “Three Cups,”—what followed was chaos.
But the worst of the affair, decidedly, was that the day on which he had been put to sea was the 22d of the month, and as it was impossible for him to make his appearance with his regiment on the 24th, he knew he must, as a matter of course, be reported “Absent without leave” at head quarters, and that he would most probably be superseded. This reflection was even worse than the weather to the Quartermaster, though the rough sea had already almost “brought his heart up.” However, he had great hopes of being able to join his regiment on the 10th of the following month—the next return-day—and, by due application, he thought he might contrive to prevent supersession. Ten days of this time was, however, consumed before he set a foot upon the German shore, and then only half of his excursion was over: all his hopes rested upon a quick passage back to Harwich. This, however, the Fates denied him; for having drawn on the agent—got the cash—engaged his passage to England—laid in sea-stock, and all things necessary—the packet, just as she was leaving Hamburg, was run foul of by a five-hundred-ton ship, and so much injured that she was obliged to put back, and the unfortunate Quartermaster was thus compelled to wait a fortnight for another opportunity of returning to England. He not only was delayed beyond the 10th (return-day) but beyond the following 24th, and when he did arrive, he found that he had been not only superseded by the Commander-in-chief, but considered dead by all his friends and relations!
However, on personally applying for reinstatement, he obtained it, and once more joined his old corps at Harwich, where he many a night amused the mess with the recital of his trip to sea in the coach; which was always given with most effect when he was half-seas-over.