“Indeed, Major, some illness?”
“No, I was quite well; but—Lord, how thirsty it makes me to think of it; my throat is absolutely parched—I was near being hanged!”
“Hanged!”
“Yes. Upon my life it’s true,—very horrible, ain’t it? It had a great effect upon my nervous system; and they never thought of any little pension to me as a recompense for my sufferings.”
“And who was barbarous enough to think of such a thing, Major?”
“Sir Arthur Wellesley himself,—none other, Charley?”
“Oh, it was a mistake, Major, or a joke.”
“It was devilish near being a practical one, though. I’ll tell you how it occurred. After the battle of Vimeira, the brigade to which I was attached had their headquarters at San Pietro, a large convent where all the church plate for miles around was stored up for safety. A sergeant’s guard was accordingly stationed over the refectory, and every precaution taken to prevent pillage, Sir Arthur himself having given particular orders on the subject. Well, somehow,—I never could find out how,—but in leaving the place, all the wagons of our brigade had got some trifling articles of small value scattered, as it might be, among their stores,—gold cups, silver candlesticks, Virgin Marys, ivory crucifixes, saints’ eyes set in topazes, and martyrs’ toes in silver filagree, and a hundred other similar things.
“One of these confounded bullock-cars broke down just at the angle of the road where the commander-in-chief was standing with his staff to watch the troops defile, and out rolled, among bread rations and salt beef, a whole avalanche of precious relics and church ornaments. Every one stood aghast! Never was there such a misfortune. No one endeavored to repair the mishap, but all looked on in terrified amazement as to what was to follow.
“‘Who has the command of this detachment?’ shouted out Sir Arthur, in a voice that made more than one of us tremble.