ADJUTANT-GENERAL’S OFFICE.
May 15.
Sir,—On the receipt of this order you are directed, having previously
resigned your command to the officer next in seniority, to
repair to headquarters at Fueutes d’Onoro, there to report yourself
under arrest.
I have the honor to be your obedient servant,
GEORGE HOPETON,
Military Secretary.
“What the devil can this mean?” said I to myself, as I read the lines over again and again. “What have I done lately, or what have I left undone to involve me in this scrape? Ah!” thought I, “to be sure, it can be nothing else. Lord Wellington did recognize me that unlucky morning, and has determined not to let me pass unpunished. How unfortunate. Scarcely twenty-four hours have elapsed since fortune seemed to smile upon me from every side, and now the very destiny I most dreaded stares me fully in the face.” A reprimand, or the sentence of a court-martial, I shrank from with a coward’s fear. It mattered comparatively little from what source arising, the injury to my pride as a man and my spirit as a soldier would be almost the same.
“This is the letter, sir,” said the orderly, presenting me with a packet, the address of which was in Power’s hand-writing. Eagerly tearing it open, I sought for something which might explain my unhappy position. It bore the same date as the official letter, and ran thus:—
My Dear Charley,—I joined yesterday, just in time to enjoy the
heartiest laugh I have had since our meeting. If notoriety can gratify
you, by Jove, you have it; for Charles O’Malley and his man Mickey
Free are bywords in every mess from Villa Formosa to the rear-guard.
As it’s only fair you should participate a little in the fun you’ve
originated, let me explain the cause. Your inimitable man Mike, to
whom it appears you intrusted the report of killed and wounded for
the adjutant-general, having just at that moment accomplished a
letter to his friends at home, substituted his correspondence for your
returns, and doubtless, sent the list of the casualties as very
interesting information to his sweetheart in Ireland. If such be the
case, I hope and trust she has taken the blunder in better part than
old Colbourn, who swears he’ll bring you to a court-martial, under
Heaven knows what charges. In fact, his passion has known no bounds
since the event; and a fit of jaundice has given his face a kind of
neutral tint between green and yellow, like nothing I know of except
the facings of the “dirty half-hundred.” [2]
2 [ For the information of my unmilitary readers, I may remark that this sobriquet was applied to the 50th Regiment.]
As Mr. Free’s letter may be as great a curiosity to you as it has
been to us, I enclose you a copy of it, which Hopeton obtained for
me. It certainly places the estimable Mike in a strong light as a
despatch-writer. The occasional interruption to the current of the
letter, you will perceive, arises from Mike having used the pen of a
comrade, writing being, doubtless, an accomplishment forgotten in
the haste of preparing Mr. Free for the world; and the amanuensis
has, in more than one instance, committed to paper more than was
meant by the author:—
Mrs. M’Gra,—Tear an’ ages, sure I need not be treating he
way. Now, just say Mrs. Mary—ay, that’ll do—Mrs. Mary, it’s may be
surprised you’ll be to be reading a letter from your humble servant,
sitting on the top of the Alps,—arrah, may be it’s not the Alps; but
sure she’ll never know,—fornent the whole French army, with Bony
himself and all his jinnerals—God be between us and harm—ready to
murther every mother’s son of us, av they were able, Molly darlin’;
but, with the blessing of Providence, and Lord Wellington and Mister
Charles, we’ll bate them yet, as we bate them afore.
My lips is wathering at the thought o’ the plunder. I often
of Tim Riley, that was hanged for sheep-stealing; he’d be worth his
weight in gold here.
Mr. Charles is now a captain—devil a less—and myself might be
somethin’ that same, but ye see I was always of a bashful n
and recommended the master in my place. “He’s mighty young, Mister
Charles is,” says my Lord Wellington to me,—“He’s mighty young, Mr.
Free.” “He is, my lord,” says I; “he’s young, as you obsarve, but
he’s as much divilment in him as many that might be his father.”
“That’s somethin’, Mr. Free,” says my lord; “ye say he comes from a
good stock?” “The rale sort, my lord,” says I; “an ould, ancient
family, that’s spent every sixpence they had in treating their
neighbors. My father lived near him for years,”—you see, Molly, I
said that to season the discourse. “We’ll make him a captain,” says
my lord; “but, Mr. Free, could we do nothing for you?” “Nothing, at
present, my lord. When my friends comes into power,” says I, “they’ll
think of me. There’s many a little thing to give away in Ireland, and
they often find it mighty hard to find a man for lord-lieutenant; and
if that same, or a tide-waiter’s place was vacant—” “Just tell me,”
says my lord. “It’s what I’ll do,” says I. “And now, wishing you
happy dreams, I’ll take my lave.” Just so, Molly, it’s hand and glove
we are. A pleasant face, agreeable manners seasoned with natural
modesty, and a good pair of legs, them’s the gifts to push a man’s
way in the world. And even with the ladies—but sure I am forgetting,
my master was proposed for, and your humble servant too, by two
illigant creatures in Lisbon; but it wouldn’t do, Molly, it’s higher
nor that we’ll be looking,—rale princesses, the devil a less. Tell
Kitty Hannigan I hope she’s well; she was a disarving young
in her situation in life. Shusey Dogherty, at the cross road—
I don’t forget the name—was a good-looking slip too; give her my
affectionate salutations, as we say in the Portuguese. I hope I’ll be
able to bear the inclementuous nature of your climate when I go back;
but I can’t expect to stay long—for Lord Wellington can’t do without
me. We play duets on the guitar together every evening. The master is
shouting for a blanket, so no more at present from,
Your very affectionate friend,
MICKEY FREE.
P. S.—I don’t write this myself, for the Spanish tongue p
out o’ the habit of English. Tell Father Rush, if he’d study the
Portuguese, I’d use my interest for him with the Bishop of Toledo.
It’s a country he’d like—no regular stations, but promiscuous eating
and drinking, and as pretty girls as ever confessed their sins.
My poor Charley, I think I am looking at you. I think I can
see the struggle between indignation, and laughter, which every line
of this letter inflicts upon you. Get back as quickly as you can, and
we’ll try if Crawfurd won’t pull you through the business. In any
case, expect no sympathy; and if you feel disposed to be angry with
all who laugh at you, you had better publish a challenge in the next
general order. George Scott, of, the Greys, bids me say, that if
you’re hard up for cash, he’ll give you a couple of hundred for
Mickey Free. I told him I thought you’d accept it, as your uncle
has the breed of those fellows upon his estate, and might have no
objection to weed his stud. Hammersley’s gone back with the Dashwoods;
but I don’t think you need fear anything in that quarter.
At the same time, if you wish for success, make a bold push for the
peerage and half-a-dozen decorations, for Miss Lucy is most decidedly
gone wild about military distinction. As for me, my affairs go on
well: I’ve had half-a-dozen quarrels with Inez, but we parted good
friends, and my bad Portuguese has got me out of all difficulties with
papa, who pressed me tolerably close as to fortune. I shall want
your assistance in this matter yet. If parchments will satisfy him, I
think I could get up a qualification; but somehow the matter must
be done, for I’m resolved to have his daughter.
The orderly is starting, so no more till we meet.
Yours ever, FRED POWER.
“Godwin,” said I, as I closed the letter, “I find myself in a scrape at headquarters; you are to take the command of the detachment, for I must set out at once.”