CHAPTER XXI.
PATRICK’S DAY IN THE PENINSULA.
The réveil had not yet sounded, when I felt my shoulder shaken gently as I lay wrapped up in my cloak beneath a prickly pear-tree.
“Lieutenant O’Malley, sir; a letter, sir; a bit of a note, your honor,” said a voice that bespoke the bearer and myself were countrymen. I opened it, and with difficulty, by the uncertain light, read as follows:—
Dear Charley,—As Lord Wellington, like a good Irishman as
he is, wouldn’t spoil Patrick’s Day by marching, we’ve got a little
dinner at our quarters to celebrate the holy times, as my uncle would
call it. Maurice, Phil Grady, and some regular trumps will all come,
so don’t disappoint us. I’ve been making punch all night, and
Casey, who has a knack at pastry, has made a goose-pie as big as a
portmanteau. Sharp seven, after parade. The second battalion of
the Fusiliers are quartered at Melanté, and we are next them. Bring
any of yours worth their liquor. Power is, I know, absent with the
staff; perhaps the Scotch doctor would come; try him. Carry over
a little mustard with you, if there be such in your parts.
Yours,
D. O’SHAUGHNESSY.
Patrick’s day, and raining like blazes.
Seeing that the bearer expected an answer, I scrawled the words, “I’m there,” with my pencil on the back of the note, and again turned myself round to sleep. My slumbers were, however, soon interrupted once more; for the bugles of the light infantry and the hoarse trumpet of the cavalry sounded the call, and I found to my surprise that, though halted, we were by no means destined to a day of idleness. Dragoons were already mounted, carrying orders hither and thither, and staff-officers were galloping right and left. A general order commanded an inspection of the troops, and within less than an hour from daybreak the whole army was drawn up under arms. A thin, drizzling rain continued to fall during the early part of the day, but the sun gradually dispelled the heavy vapor; and as the bright verdure glittered in its beams, sending up all the perfumes of a southern clime, I thought I had never seen a more lovely morning. The staff were stationed upon a little knoll beside the river, round the base of which the troops defiled, at first in orderly, then in quick time, the bands playing and the colors flying. In the same brigade with us the Eighty-eighth came, and as they neared the commander-in-chief, their quick-step was suddenly stopped, and after a pause of a few seconds, the band struck up “St. Patrick’s Day;” the notes were caught up by the other Irish regiments, and amidst one prolonged cheer from the whole line, the gallant fellows moved past.
The grenadier company were drawn up beside the road, and I was not long in detecting my friend O’Shaughnessy, who wore a tremendous shamrock in his shako.
“Left face, wheel! Quick march! Don’t forget the mustard!” said the bold major; and a loud roar of laughing from my brother officers followed him off the ground. I soon explained the injunction, and having invited some three or four to accompany me to the dinner, waited with all patience for the conclusion of the parade.
The sun was setting as I mounted, and joined by Hampden, Baker, the doctor, and another, set out for O’Shaughnessy’s quarters. As we rode along, we were continually falling in with others bent upon the same errand as ourselves, and ere we arrived at Melanté our party was some thirty strong; and truly a most extraordinary procession did we form. Few of the invited came without some contribution to the general stock; and while a staff-officer flourished a ham, a smart hussar might be seen with a plucked turkey, trussed for roasting; most carried bottles, as the consumption of fluid was likely to be considerable; and one fat old major jogged along on a broken-winded pony, with a basket of potatoes on his arm. Good fellowship was the order of the day, and certainly a more jovial squadron seldom was met together than ours. As we turned the angle of a rising ground, a hearty cheer greeted us, and we beheld in front of an old ordnance marquee a party of some fifty fellows engaged in all the pleasing duties of the cuisine. Maurice, conspicuous above all, with a white apron and a ladle in his hand, was running hither and thither, advising, admonishing, instructing, and occasionally imprecating. Ceasing for a second his functions, he gave us a cheer and a yell like that of an Indian savage, and then resumed his duties beside a huge boiler, which, from the frequency of his explorations into its contents, we judged to be punch.
“Charley, my son, I’ve a place for you; don’t forget. Where’s my learned brother?—haven’t you brought him with you? Ah, Doctor, how goes it?”