I shall spare my readers the recital of my friend, which, however, more full and explanatory of past events, contained in reality little more than Mickey Free had already told me. In fine, he informed me that our army, by a succession of retreating movements, had deserted the northern provinces, and now occupied the intrenched lines of Torres Vedras. That Massena, with a powerful force, was still in march, reinforcements daily pouring in upon him, and every expectation pointing to the probability that he would attempt to storm our position.
“The wise-heads,” remarked Power, “talk of our speedy embarkation, the sanguine and the hot-brained rave of a great victory and the retreat of Massena; but I was up at headquarters last week with despatches, and saw Lord Wellington myself.”
“Well, what did you make out? Did he drop any hint of his own views?”
“Faith, I can’t say he did. He asked me some questions about the troops just landed; he spoke a little of the commissary department, damned the blankets, said that green forage was bad food for the artillery horses, sent me an English paper to read about the O. P. riots, and said the harriers would throw off about six o’clock, and that he hoped to see me at dinner.”
I could not restrain a laugh at Power’s catalogue of his lordship’s topics. “So,” said I, “he at least does not take any gloomy views of our present situation.”
“Who can tell what he thinks? He’s ready to fight if fighting will do anything, and to retreat, if that be better. But that he’ll sleep an hour less, or drink a glass of claret more—come what will of it—I’ll believe from no man living.
“We’ve lost one gallant thing in any case, Charley,” resumed Power. “Busaco was, I’m told, a glorious day, and our people were in the heat of it. So that, if we do leave the Peninsula now, that will be a confounded chagrin. Not for you, my poor fellow, for you could not stir; but I was so cursed foolish to take the staff appointment,—thus one folly ever entails another.”
There was a tone of bitterness in which these words were uttered that left no doubt upon my mind some arrière pensée remained lurking behind them. My eyes met his; he bit his lip, and coloring deeply, rose from the chair, and walked towards the window.
The chance allusion of my man Mike flashed upon me at the moment, and I dared not trust myself to break silence. I now thought I could trace in my friend’s manner less of that gay and careless buoyancy which ever marked him. There was a tone, it seemed, of more grave and sombre character, and even when he jested, the smile his features bore was not his usual frank and happy one, and speedily gave way to an expression I had never before remarked. Our silence which had now lasted for some minutes was becoming embarrassing; that strange consciousness that, to a certain extent, we were reading each other’s thoughts, made us both cautious of breaking it; and when at length, turning abruptly round, he asked, “When I hoped to be up and about again?” I felt my heart relieved from I knew not well what load of doubt and difficulty that oppressed it. We chatted on for some little time longer, the news of Lisbon, and the daily gossip finishing our topics.
“Plenty of gayety, Charley, dinners and balls to no end! so get well, my boy, and make the most of it.”